Chapter XXXI: Two Runs Behind

“That’s the game!” cried McCormick, the visiting captain. “Get into it, Rick. Here’s where we pull in a little old run or two. On your toes, Irish.”

It was an excellent opportunity for a squeeze play, and as Allaire hurried to the plate the infielders closed in, ready to go after the ball the instant it was dumped into the diamond.

Savage, evidently believing that the squeeze would be attempted, handed up a shoot, high and close. Allaire made a foul, and Olds was fully halfway down the line before he could pull himself up and turn back to the sack.

Returning to third, Olds edged off toward the plate, knees bent, every muscle tense.

Savage flashed a glance at him, then got into position to pitch. He did not start to deliver the ball, however, but, suddenly stepping toward third, whipped it to Palsifer.

Three times Savage drove Olds back to the cushion, but when again he pitched, the runner stretched his legs for the plate. Unfortunately for him, Allaire simply popped a little fly into the pitcher’s hands, and Savage, taking his time, threw it to third for a double.

The abrupt termination of the inning brought a grim smile to the lips of Jack Kennedy, who, resting on one knee, with arms doubled under his chest in a characteristic attitude, had been watching the progress of the game. To him the result of the contest was of no importance whatever. It was simply an opportunity to size up his players. Savage had done nothing extraordinary, but he had kept his head and used it, and that satisfied the manager for the present.

Buck Liddell, the slender, wiry, rather handsome pitcher for the Tigers, bore himself in a confident manner, with just a trace of self-consciousness. His wavy blond hair, worn rather long, had a way of trailing down now and then over his forehead, to be tossed back by a jerk of his head, or swept aside with a quick movement of his hand.

“Reckon he’s some bear with the Atlanta dames,” chuckled Joe Welsh, as he stepped to the plate.

“Regular matinée idol,” agreed Kid Lewis, swinging a couple of bats.

Liddell nonchalantly sent a couple of sizzlers across to the first baseman while the catcher was adjusting his mask and wind pad. They fairly smoked, denoting that he had speed, at least. A moment later he toed the slab, swung his arm in a wide sweep, balanced himself on one foot for an instant, and shot over one which Welsh missed by inches.

The next had a hop on it and the batter fouled. Another foul followed and the Big Leaguer recovered himself, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead. When Liddell made ready to pitch again he went through the movements which seemed to indicate great speed. But suddenly, following those movements, he sent in a ball that seemed to drag and hang in the air. Welsh, who a month later would have called it a cinch, was fooled like any youngster, and struck too soon.

“You’re out!” said the umpire.

“What’s he got, Joe?” asked Lewis in passing.

“Mostly speed and a change of pace. Look out for that.”

Lewis made a bid for a hit off the second ball pitched to him. It was a snappy grounder, hugging the sod, but the shortstop made a splendid one-handed stop, whipping the ball to first for a put-out.

Rufe Hyland did better, dropping a fly over the infield, and romping to first with ease. With the first ball pitched to Dalton, Rufe was off down the base line. Thanks to a high throw on the part of the backstop, he made the sack; and his teammates began to root for a run, urging Dalton to smash out one of the two-baggers which had been his speciality during the previous season.

But Laughing Larry had not regained his batting form of six months before. The best he could do was to lift out a long fly which the opposing left fielder secured without any great expenditure of effort; and the Tigers romped in, pleased by the manner in which they had held down the famous Blue Stockings.

The latter did not seem to be seriously disturbed at the way things were going. There was a lot of josh and banter as they spread out on the diamond. They remembered that they had been in training for little more than two weeks, whereas their opponents, bushers though they were, had been playing the game much longer. They knew that a few weeks hence they would be able easily to beat a team twice as good as this one.

But when, in the second inning, through a series of fielding errors, combined with a strong hitting streak on the part of the Tigers, the latter managed to push two men across the rubber, the pride of the Blue Stockings began to be touched.

“It’s up to us to wake up,” Dalton remarked, with his infectious grin. “Reckon we’ve been taking things too easy. Oh, you’re all right, kid,” he added, catching Savage’s eye. “You’ve got the goods. It’s the rest of us dubs that have been loafing on hits and pegging wild. Suppose we try a dash of pepper.” His gaze shifted around the circle, coming to rest for an instant on the face of Jack Kennedy, who stood within hearing distance. “I guess it won’t hurt anybody, to perk up a mite and show this crowd that we’re not all down with the Charley horse.”

The manager nodded. “Get after their pitcher the moment he lets up,” was his advice. “He won’t last nine innings. He’s putting every blamed thing he’s got on the ball now, and it’s going to wear him out before long.”