The second effort was not much of an improvement, and a howl of derision greeted it; for there is nothing a crowd of old baseball men enjoy more than having fun with a green cub.
The sound had a curious effect upon Lefty. Before the echoes of that jeering chorus died away he had regained his grip. He realized that they were doing their best to rattle him and cause him to make an exhibition of himself, and his jaw squared resolutely.
“I’ll fool ’em!” he muttered. “I’ll show him something.”
He caught the ball easily, his eyes fixed on Fargo’s grinning face. The big catcher stood negligently swinging his bat, and when he saw the sphere coming apparently straight toward him with speed, he dodged back precipitously, only to behold it shoot gracefully in and cut a corner of the plate.
“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “Accidents will happen. You’ve really got a curve, have you? Let’s have another one like that, if you can do it.”
Lefty could and did, and the batter sent the horsehide soaring over the fence. Obedient to instructions, he tossed aside his bat, and began trotting leisurely around the bases. Halfway between first and second he paused for a moment. “You’ll learn, bub,” he chuckled. “Some time next fall mebbe we’ll make a pitcher out of you.” Then he resumed his placid way about the diamond, while a new ball was produced, and Locke faced the second batter.
Lefty did not try any more curves, for he had suddenly realized that this was batting practice, not an exhibition of pitching. He continued to find the plate with a fair degree of accuracy, however, and one after another the three other players smashed out the sphere with joyous enthusiasm, forgetting in the delight of batting to continue their baiting of the new pitcher.
Not so Buck Fargo. He enjoyed batting quite as much, as his companions, but he also dearly loved to get a cub’s goat.
“Where’s your curves, bub?” he taunted, as he took up his bat for the second time. “Can’t you give us something interesting, or was they accidents, like I thought?”