Lefty o' the bush

by Burt L. Standish

To tell the truth, Bernsteine, although usually phlegmatic and unemotional, was worried; for he, also, hit left-handed, and he had begun to believe that the Kingsbridge twirler was a terror to batters who stood at the plate in that manner. His worriment was justified; Locke got him, also.

The uproar of the crowd drowned the remarks of one Michael Riley, manager of the Bancrofts; and this may have spared the nerves of any sensitive person in his immediate vicinity. “Hey, Lisotte,” he snarled at the shortstop, who was the next in line, “bunt the ball. D’ye hear? Bunt, an’ try to beat it out. You bat wrong, too, and ye can’t hit him fair. He’s got the Injun sign on you off-side sluggers.”

Lisotte did his best, but the first ball he bunted rolled foul, and the next he tried for, being close and high, was missed completely. Fearing to try another bunt, he finally swung after one that came slanting over, and missed that also.

The best stickers of the Bullies had faced Locke in two innings, and not one had obtained as much as a scratch single off him; realizing which, the local crowd had spasms of many sorts. With faith completely restored, the Kingsbridgers were telling one another exultantly that, at last, the man had been found to hold the hated enemy in check. Visions of the Northern League pennant waving over their grand stand at the finish of the season already danced before their eyes.

The Bancrofters, although saying that the game was young, and pretending their confidence was as great as ever, were really suffering the qualms of apprehension, all the more intense and disturbing because of the early elation they had felt.

When Kingsbridge’s Italian right fielder, Tony Anastace, opened the second for the locals with a clean safety, this rejoicing on one side and apprehension on the other was redoubled.

But Jack Hinkey popped to the infield, Anastace was slaughtered trying to purloin second, and Fred Lace lifted a high foul back of third for Wop Grady to smother, squaring things up with not a count for either side.

Although Locke, feeling that he had the confidence of his teammates at last, seemed to take it easier, a measly scratch single was all Bancroft could find him for in the third; and, with Hoover hitting a two-minute clip in the last of the same inning, even the least astute spectator understood that it was practically certain to be a pitchers’ battle right through to the finish.

With the passing of the innings, and the failure of his teammates to score, Hoover steadily became more savage in the box. At times, under cover of the shouting of the crowd, he insulted the batters with venomous, blood-tingling words.