Lefty o' the Big League

by Burt L. Standish

The Hornets had the field, and it was up to their pitcher to keep the heavy hitters, who would almost certainly head their opponents’ batting list, from doing too much damage before he had discovered the strength and weakness of each man, and could govern himself accordingly.

Lefty knew that Fargo would help him out to the best of his ability, but even the experienced backstop could not be counted on to gauge accurately the batting capabilities of men he had never set eyes on before. There was nothing to do but proceed cautiously, sounding the batters as best he could and relying on his support to take care of the hits.

The first man up was “Cinch” Brown, one of the Texan outfielders, a tall, rangy fellow with a hawklike nose and a pair of keen, dark eyes which seemed to miss nothing. For a second the southpaw hesitated, trying to fathom just what sort of a ball would be “meat” to this Southerner.

Something—intuition, perhaps—gave Lefty the notion that a low, straight one, close to the knees, would be less palatable than any other, and his judgment was strengthened when Fargo crouched behind the pan and made a signal beneath his huge mitt.

Without delay, the southpaw put it over, straight, swift, and cutting the near corner just above the batter’s knees—and Brown lashed it out as if he preferred that kind of a ball to any other.

But for the fast fielding of Bill Hagin, the hit would have been good for two cushions. The Big League man, however, got after the ball in splendid style, and made a running, one-handed stop, which prevented the sphere from getting away into the remote distance of center field.

“That’s the stuff, Cinch!” came in a harsh voice from a little to the left of the plate. “That’s the way to start her off. This kid’s easy fruit. We’ll have him going. Smash it out, Bull; you can do it.”

There was an odd, unpleasant quality to the voice which made Lefty dislike it intuitively. He cast a swift, curious glance in that direction, and saw, as he had surmised, that it came from the notorious Zack Schaeffer. The Texan twirler stood with his hands on his hips, his powerful legs spread wide apart. When his eyes met Lefty’s, a slight sneer curved his full red lips, and, with an unpleasant laugh, he turned to say something to the man near him.

That sort of thing did not bother the southpaw in the least. With an inward determination to settle Schaeffer’s hash if he possibly could when the latter came to the bat, he turned his attention to Bull Kenny, the backstop of the Broncs.

The latter looked dangerous as he squared himself at the plate, poising his bat over his shoulder. He was a big, square-jawed, heavily built fellow, and wielded a massive club. Ordinarily Locke would have looked for a bunt, but it was evident from the way he held himself that Kenny had no intention of sacrificing.