A chorus of similar reproaches were hurled at Hagin from all sides, mingled with eager queries about Elgin’s other good points, and calls for a more detailed description of the bout.
Buck Fargo alone sat unmoved and apparently incurious, a look of incredulity on his face. He was thinking of that night in the Palace Theater when Elgin had slipped away, leaving Lefty to face the wrathy mob alone. He remembered, also, the story Jack Stillman had told him of the beating Locke had started to give his college mate three years before at Princeton, and he smiled a wide, disbelieving smile as he listened to Hagin’s vivid description of the cub pitcher’s prowess with his fists.
But when, later in the day, Monte Harris and Carl Siegrist backed up the statement, and even Nolan himself admitted sourly that “the kid wasn’t so worse,” Fargo grew puzzled.
“Something queer about this,” he thought. “Looks like I’d have to do a little investigating on my own hook.”
All morning he was preoccupied and thoughtful, only arousing himself when Brennan’s eye was upon him, and even then quite lacking in his usual joshing repartee. Once or twice he noticed with a sort of absent approbation that Lefty was showing some steam and curves in the work-out with other pitchers; but aside from that he paid little attention to anything.
During dinner his abstraction continued, but afterward, on the way back to the field, he might have been observed suddenly to slap one thigh with his hand, and mutter something under his breath. After that he was the old Buck Fargo again.
The daily practice game now took place in the afternoon, leaving the morning for batting practice, throwing, running, and various other exercises. Ogan, the captain of the cubs, put Redmond, a fairly promising young twirler, into the box, but at the end of the second inning withdrew him, and substituted Bert Elgin.
The latter seemed to be in fine form, and started off by fanning Cy Russell. The second man up flied out to center field, and then Fargo came to the bat. Elgin’s first delivery just missed the outside corner of the plate. He then put over a straight, swift one, and Fargo, seemingly “playing the game,” let it pass. The cub pitcher then wound himself up for the elusive curve which was one of his pet specialties.
The ball whirled toward the pan, apparently heading straight at the batter. Fargo took a quick step back, then lunged forward. The next instant he dropped his bat with an exclamation of anger and pain as the sphere struck his arm with a dull impact.
His face contorted, the big backstop trotted toward first, rubbing the injured member, and shooting at Elgin some extremely vivid and forceful comments out of the corner of his mouth.