Lefty felt a hot rush of anger stir within him. Two such errors are enough to try the temper of any pitcher, especially when he is working his hardest. The inning should have ended minutes before, and now the bases were full, and Zack Schaeffer was swaggering to the pan, a confident grin on his face.
The sight of him cooled Locke as swiftly and completely as it had done once before that day. He shifted the ball in his fingers, taking his time. He hoped to fan this fellow.
Suddenly he pitched, and the ball shot upward with a little jump, rising over the Texan’s bat as he struck.
“Strike!” droned the umpire.
“That’s the stuff!” cried Ogan from first. “Got him swinging like a garden gate, Lefty.”
Schaeffer set his teeth, and the flesh seemed to harden over his jaws. His eyes gleamed.
As before, Lefty took his time. When at length he poised himself on his right foot, flung back his arm, and brought it forward with a whiplike motion, the sphere came humming over with speed which almost made the air smoke.
Schaeffer struck again. This time he missed, as before, but even as he swung he let go his hold on the bat, which went spinning through the air straight at Locke.
“Look out!” cried Fargo.