“Bah!” retorted Elgin. “What did he get into it for? Any pitcher who knows his business would never let the bases fill with two out, the way he did.”
“Wow-wow!” barked the cub backstop. “I s’pose it’s his fault that Walker dropped that fly and Sandy muffed a grounder that any kid should have nailed. Whew! Did you see that? That fellow had better be careful. One of these days he’ll bean a batter and put him out of business. Sore as a crab, I reckon, at being fanned.”
Schaeffer was certainly vicious. Twice Monte Harris had barely escaped balls sent straight at him. He was no quitter, but he had a notion of his own value in the Big League, and did not relish being put out of business by a wild busher who had lost his temper. Having protested to the umpire without avail, he reached for a wide outcurve, popped a weak fly into the diamond, and retired to the bench.
“That gink is going to get his one of these days,” he remarked to Brennan. “Why don’t you make him behave, Jim?”
The manager made no reply, but, rising to his feet, walked slowly toward the plate. He had not taken half a dozen steps when the accident happened. Dolly Walker had stepped into the box, and apparently Schaeffer sized him up for easy meat. He promptly launched one of his cannon-ball whistlers at him, and the fielder was either too slow or too obstinate to get out of the way.
There was a sickening thud; a smothered sound, half groan, half cry. Half a dozen men leaped forward to catch the swaying figure, from whose nerveless fingers the bat had slipped. No one was quick enough. It was the startled backstop of the Texans who thrust out his arms instinctively, and then stood helplessly holding the limp body and staring down at the white face resting against his chest protector. All could see that the man was seriously hurt.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE SPIKING OF SCHAEFFER
Instantly the whole field was in an uproar. The Hornets, fighting mad, invaded the diamond in a body. Schaeffer, his face white as that of the unconscious man, half turned as if to run. Then he straightened up and faced the music.
“It—wasn’t my fault,” he stammered. “He was out of his box. He couldn’t get away from my inshoot.”