“Only one down!” cried Fargo. “Show this bunch of panhandlers what you can do when you try, Red.”
Pollock stepped briskly to the plate, waited for a ball which looked good to him, and smashed it out for a single.
Hagin, fleet as the wind, had been held at second. When Tom Burley came up, determined to atone for his fielding error, the runner took advantage of the catcher’s fumble of the first pitch, pilfering third for all of the backstop’s quick recovery and fine throw to the sack.
Burley evidently wanted to bunt, but Schaeffer kept the ball too high, finally forcing the batter into popping a weak infield fly, which was smothered with ease.
“It’s up to you, old man,” Fargo said, in a low tone, as Lefty passed him. “We’ve got to tie up the score, anyhow.”
As Lefty faced the Texas twirler, the latter’s lip curled in that irritating sneer, and he promptly returned to his tactics of trying to get the batter’s nerve. Unfortunately for him, Locke did not rattle. He ducked a couple of whizzers sent straight at him, and then, when Schaeffer handed up his famous inshoot, he lashed a sharp grounder into the diamond, which smacked the pitcher squarely on the instep.
There was a roar of pain, followed by a volley of furious language from Schaeffer. Then, recovering himself, he dove after the ball, secured it, and lined it home.
It is probable that he had lost his head for an instant. Had he remembered that two men were out, he might have thrown to first and stopped the score; for he could have caught Lefty. Apparently he seemed to think that the only way to stop it was to put the ball to the plate.
Bill Hagin had not been napping, however. At the first crack of leather meeting wood, he shot like a rocket toward home, slid feet foremost, and Kenny got the ball on him only when his spikes were shining above the platter.