“By Jove!” he breathed, when he had finished. “He’s got him at last! I knew that cur Elgin was responsible, and this proves it.”
He half rose from his seat, only to drop back into it again as he realized the impossibility of reaching Brennan now.
“Afterward will do as well,” he muttered. “If this doesn’t blow the scoundrel clean out of water, I’m a lobster!”
CHAPTER XLIII
THE LUCKY SEVENTH
Unconscious of the gathering storm, Bert Elgin continued his fine work. Inning after inning he held the visitors down, rising to his highest pitch of excellence in the fifth by striking out the opposing batters in one, two, three order.
His rival was equally successful so far as results went, but his methods were not as spectacular. He seemed not to exert himself until forced to the wall, and then, as likely as not, his manner of getting out of the hole was such that the bulk of spectators put it down to luck or the wonderful support back of him.
Thus it was that, while the metropolitan fans were howling themselves hoarse with praises for Elgin, the Blue Stockings’ supporters could never be quite sure that the southpaw was not on the verge of “blowing up,” and their rooting was more for the team as a body than for the man on the slab.
There were a few in the vast crowd, more observant than their neighbors, who realized the truth. Elgin was clever, to be sure, but little by little they saw how much of his success on the mound was due to the knowledge and experience of his fellow players.
Buck Fargo was a born backstop. Absolutely perfect in the mechanical side of his position, he was able to give his whole attention to the batter and, therefore, seemed to possess, almost uncannily, the power of sensing the sort of ball which would be, at any particular moment, most distasteful. Happily for Elgin, the pitcher had the sense to follow his catcher’s signals implicitly.