“Take it from me, ’tain’t wise to be so cocksure. I’ve been watching their new pitcher warm up. He’s a southpaw.”
“And a green one from the scrub pastures somewhere. The boys will send him to the stable in about three innin’s.”
“Perhaps. But I walked over in range while he was limbering his flinger, and he’s got a few good benders, not to mention some speed. You don’t want to forget that we’ve got five left-hand batters, and a southpaw that can really pitch may bother ’em some. I reckon that’s just why they’ve raked in this feller Locke.”
“Don’t you b’lieve it. Just spoke to Hutch about him, and Hutch don’t know no more’n you or me. Old Cope signed Locke and the most of the team, and he’d never figger on a lefty worryin’ us because we’ve got so many left-hand hitters.”
“That,” persisted Dyke, “don’t alter the conditions any. This Locke stopped Fryeburg after they blanketed Deever, and Kingsbridge wants this game to-day—bad. I’ve heard some of the Bridgers talkin’, and they’re plenty confident, thinking they’ve got a wiz in this southpaw kid.
“To-morrow’s Sunday, and Hoover can rest,” he added. “He’s hard as nails, and you won’t hurt him, even if you have to use him again Monday. Always play the game safe when you can—that’s my motto. I’ll take chances, all right, if I have to, but I’ve never yet let my conscience fret me into ducking a bet on a sure thing. Hoover is the Kinks’ hoodoo, and it ought to be pretty safe with him handing ’em.”
“Safe,” gurgled Riley, highly amused. “I should guess yes. They think they’ve got some players, but, with Hutchinson furnishin’ only four out of the ’leven men they have, as he told me, and Cope diggin’ up the rest, most of ’em holdovers from last year, it’s a joke.
“Why, I let old Cope have Pat Deever, though he thinks he got Deever away from me. Just as I was about to close with Pat, I got it straight that he’d put his wing on the blink for fair, and, by pretendin’ I was hot after Deever all the time, I helped him make a fancy deal with Cope.
“Pat was batted out by the Brownies after fooling ’em along to the seventh with a slow ball that made him sweat drops of blood ev’ry time he boosted it over the pan; but he’s foxy, and he’ll manage to hang on by bluffing ’em that his arm’ll come round soon, see if he don’t,” added Riley. “The only pitcher they’ve got is Skillings, and even he’s frappéd his wing, pitchin’ the drop all the time, which he has to, as he’s a mark when he lets up on it.”
“You’re manager,” said Fancy, “and I’m not trying to show you; but I hope you’ll play safe by sending Hoover out to start with. If it proves so easy, you can pull him out when you see the game is clinched.”