There on the field, envied by his teammates, Mysterious Jones used Locke’s fountain pen to place his signature–A. B. Jones was the name he wrote–upon the contract that bound him to the Blue Stockings. What the initials stood for not even Wiley knew. For a moment the mute seemed to hesitate, but the Marine Marvel urged him on, and the deed was done.
“If you cater to his little giddyocyncracies,” said the sailor, “you’ll find him a pearl beyond price. Unless you’re afraid Skully may return and mar your pleasure, you may sit on the bench with us and watch him toy with the local bric-a-brac. It is bound to be a painfully one-sided affair.”
“Skullen,” laughed Lefty, “has ceased to cause me special apprehension. The contract is signed now.”
So Locke sat on the bench and watched his new pitcher perform. When he walked to the mound, Jones seemed, if possible, more somber and tragic than usual, and he certainly had his speed with him. Yet neither the ominous appearance of the mute nor his blinding smoke was sufficient to faze the Vienna batters, who cracked him for three clean singles in the last half of the opening inning, and then failed to score because of foolish base running.
“He seems to be rather hittable to-day,” observed Locke. “What’s the matter, Wiley? This Vienna bunch doesn’t look particularly good to me; just a lot of amateurs who never saw real players, I should say.”
“That’s it; that’s what ails them, for one thing,” replied the manager of the Wind Jammers. “They have accumulated together no special knowledge of Simon poor baseball talent, and so they don’t know enough to be scared. Even the great Mathewson has confessed that the worst bumping he ever collided with was handed out by a bunch of bushers who stood up to the dish, shut their blinkers when he pitched, and swung blind at the pill. These lobsters don’t realize that Jonesy’s fast one would pass right through a batter without pausing perceptibly if it should hit him, and so they toddle forth without qualms, whatever they are, and take a slam at the globule. Next round I’ll have to get out there on the turf and warn them; I’ll put the fear of death into their hearts. Get them to quaking and they won’t touch the horsehide.”
But such a program didn’t suit Locke. “If all Jones has is his speed and the fear it inspires, he won’t travel far in fast company. You ought to know that, Wiley. Big League batters will knock the cover off the fast one unless a pitcher puts something else on it. Sit still once, to please me, and let’s see what Jones can do without the assistance of your chatter.”
“It’s hardly a square deal,” objected the Marine Marvel. “The jinx has been keeping company with us ever since we struck Fernandon. From that occasion up to the present date, Anno Domino, we haven’t won a single consecutive game. Such bad luck has hurt my feelings; it has grieved me to the innermost abscess of my soul.”
“Do you mean to say that these country teams have been trimming you, with Jones in the box?”
“Alas and alack! I can’t deny it unless I resort to fabrication, which I never do. The Euray Browns tapped Jonesy for seventeen heart-breaking bingles, and the Pikeville Greyhounds lacerated his delivery even more painfully. My own brilliant work in the box has been sadly insufficient to stem, the tide of disaster.”