Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked across the field, leaving Elgin glaring after him in speechless rage.
For a moment or two Lefty was conscious of an unpleasant feeling, more like a bad taste in the mouth than anything else. He had not really expected any fulsome expressions of gratitude from Bert Elgin. He was quite sincere in not wishing the man to feel indebted to him in the slightest. And yet, inconsequentially enough, when it was all over he could not help wondering how any one could be so lacking in a sense of decency. At least the fellow could have kept his mouth shut, if nothing else.
The whole matter was swept swiftly out of his mind, however. Brennan, still somewhat peevish at his lack of success in reaching the bottom of the riot affair, was decidedly short of temper, and he started the day’s practice with a rush and vim which kept everybody on the jump.
“Get a hustle on you, Locke!” he snapped, as Lefty approached at a dogtrot. “I want to see what some of the cubs can do with a stick,” he went on, in a lower tone. “Get out there and loosen up a bit; a little smoke, you know. You was full enough of it yesterday.”
Lefty caught the ball with outward calm, but as he turned and walked out to the pitcher’s box he groaned to himself. He had been hoping that he might be spared this to-day, for he had a bruise on his left shoulder as big as a silver dollar, and his whole upper body was stiff and sore from last night’s experience.
There was nothing to do but grin and bear it, however, unless he wanted to rouse Brennan’s suspicions. While the cub batters were being gathered in, he tried warming up a little, but had no more than sent two balls over before he was brought up sharply by the manager’s roar:
“Stop that, and get down to business!”
The first delivery went so high that the cub backstop had difficulty in pulling it down. The second was equally erratic. Lefty flashed a swift glance at the stocky manager, whose face was set in a fierce scowl, and decided that he would have to take a brace at any cost.
With an effort which sent a stinging twinge of pain through his bruised shoulder, he whipped over a speedy straight one, which the batter missed, following it by a drop that was quite as deceptive. Brennan’s scowl relaxed slightly, but more than once during the succeeding twenty minutes it deepened again; for Lefty managed to intersperse wild pitches with good ones in a manner which could not help being exasperating to one who knew nothing of the cause.
“That’ll do!” growled the manager, at length. “You’re a winner, you are! What’s the matter with you to-day?”