The backstop then signaled for a fast straight ball, indicating with one hand that it was to cross the batter’s shoulders. It was straight enough, but woefully lacking in speed, and Carl Siegrist promptly hit it on the trademark and dusted to first.
Had this been a championship game, the rangy infielder, who had hit well over three hundred for several seasons, would have made it good for two bags, or even three. Siegrist, like all the other old men, did not believe in straining himself unduly, however. He took things easy, and camped on the initial sack.
“Rotten!” snapped Ogan, from first. “What in Sam Hill’s the matter with you, Locke?”
“Yes,” chimed in Tom Burley, at short; “this isn’t croquet. Wake up.”
“Let’s have a little of that smoke you had up your sleeve the other day,” added the third baseman.
Lefty made no reply to these remarks. He was watching Brennan’s face as the manager left the plate to take up his position behind the pitcher. Brennan looked anything but pleased, and, though he made no remark, Locke fancied he knew what was passing through his mind.
The next batter drew two balls in succession, and then created a momentary respite for Lefty by flying out to center field. His successor, however, smashed the first pitched ball over the infield, and romped down the line amid a howl of delight from the regulars, whose interest in the game was warming up.
Instantly a gatling fire of sarcasm was turned on Lefty by his teammates. Ogan raced into the diamond and caught the pitcher’s arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed fiercely. “Are you trying to throw the game away?”