The southpaw ducked just in time to let the bat pass over him. When he straightened up, he stood for an instant, his eyes fixed on Schaeffer’s face with an expression in them which showed a little of the contempt that filled him.
“Beg pardon,” mumbled the batter. “Accident.”
Lefty knew the Texan lied. To be sure, a man sometimes throws his bat in striking, but almost never straight out into the diamond. Besides, Schaeffer did not have the least appearance of regret, unless it was regret that the stick had missed its mark.
Locke made no comment, however. After the man had recovered his bat, the southpaw stood for a moment, ball in hand, looking fixedly at him. When he finally pitched, he used a delivery which seemed to promise a swift one, but instead it was the slowest sort of a slow ball. In spite of everything he could do, Schaeffer struck too soon.
As the umpire’s voice sounded in his ears, a snarl broke from the Texan’s lips. For an instant it seemed almost that he meant to launch his bat again straight at Locke’s head. Perhaps he might have done so had it not been for the warning clutch of Gash Benkard’s fingers on his shoulder. Then, with a furious motion, he cast the stick to the ground, and walked out to the slab.
“Looks devilish, don’t he?” commented Whalen, on the bench. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he picked a fight with Locke after the game.”
“Wish he would!” growled Bert Elgin.
He had been growing more and more disgruntled as the game progressed. The first ten minutes had filled him with satisfaction at the apparently poor showing made by his rival, but as the latter improved Elgin’s temper became more and more unrestrainable.
“You seem to have it in for him,” Whalen remarked pointedly. “Strikes me he got out of that hole pretty neat.”