In his rage Schaeffer poured forth a volley of blackguarding language which got the umpire after him, and he might have been put out of the game had not his backstop hustled out into the diamond and grabbed him by the arm.
“Don’t be a fool, Zack!” he snapped. “Keep your trap shut, or you’ll be canned. Can you go ahead with the game?”
The twirler, managing to choke down his wrath, limped around the slab a few times, and then toed the rubber again. He was still furious, however, and Al Ogan landed on the first ball for a line-drive over the head of the shortstop. But for a phenomenal catch by Cinch Brown the Hornets might have scored more tallies.
As Lefty came in from the field, he passed close to the disgruntled pitcher, and if looks could kill he would have been finished then and there.
“I’ll get you yet, you swelled-headed squirt!” Schaeffer hissed. “Wait, that’s all—just wait!”
Locke smiled blandly. “Quit your beefing,” he advised. “You’re making everybody tired.”
CHAPTER XXXI
ONCE TOO OFTEN
The Hornets were in high spirits as they took the field. To be sure, the score was no more than tied, but the expedition with which those two runs had been made was most encouraging. The sudden and effective brace Locke had taken in the last inning removed, in a measure, the fears some of his teammates had entertained concerning his ability to handle the situation; and, as they scattered to their places on the field, they urged him to “go in and eat ’em up.”
Apparently that was just what Lefty meant to do. The first batter seemed unable to connect fairly with any of the balls passed up to him, and he finally hoisted a foul back of the pan, which Fargo smothered without difficulty.