CHAPTER XXVIII
A BAD BEGINNING
As the Broncs spread out on the field for preliminary practice, their opponents looked them over with undisguised interest. They saw nine husky, sunbrowned fellows, quick, lithe, and snappy in their movements, who scooped up grounders, smothered flies, and lined the ball from one to another without any bungling, hesitation or wooden headwork. They had been playing all winter in the Southern States, and certainly showed the fact in their efficiency and teamwork. They were not really Texans, although posing as such, but, instead, players gathered from various parts of the country.
“Looks like a pretty swift crowd,” Al Ogan remarked to Lefty. “If any one should ask me, I’d say we had our work cut out for us.”
Locke smiled faintly.
“I reckon we can handle them,” he returned. “With Fargo and Pollock in the infield and Hagin at center, I’m not worrying. Each one of those men hit over three hundred last season.”
“Exactly,” the cub captain said significantly, “but that was last season. Their averages have been pretty punk this spring. I’m not so sure that the team is strengthened a whole lot by running them in at the last minute.”
“Personally, I’m mighty glad to have Fargo behind the pan,” said Lefty. “Whalen isn’t bad, but there’s not another backstop in the country who can teach Buck anything. Well, there goes the umpire. It’s up to us to show these bucking broncs that they’re not the whole shooting match.”
Though he spoke confidently, Lefty did not feel quite as nonchalant and undisturbed as he pretended to be.