Chapter XXXVI: Breaking a Batting Streak

With that trained sense of observation which Big League players develop to its highest point of efficiency, Locke had noted the strength and weakness of each Tiger batter, even while his mind was more or less occupied with a study of Nels Savage. Now, to begin with, he forced Moore to foul twice in rapid succession.

With two strikes and no balls declared, the portsider did his best to lead the Tiger batter into reaching. But Moore, evidently having a good eye, was not to be fooled, and three balls were called.

“Take a walk, Irish!” urged McCormick.

Lefty had no intention of walking anybody. He sent over a swift inshoot, which, observation had told him, was as distasteful as any ball to this really exceptional hitter. Moore was ready for it this time, unfortunately, and he cracked out a grounder that Lewis reached with difficulty. It seemed to scorch Lewis’ fingers, and he fumbled. When he recovered the slippery sphere, his throw was so hurried that it pulled Ogan off the sack, giving Moore “a life.”

Instantly the Tiger coaches opened up. But their racket affected the southpaw not a particle. Cool and undisturbed, he continued his work in the box, luring Allaire in to swinging at the first ball over――an elusive curve.

But the hitting germ seemed to be coursing in the veins of the Tigers. With two and three called on him, the batter finally forced Lefty to put the ball over, then lifted it into left field.

It looked as if Joe Welsh had a good chance to get the fly and Moore hesitated on the line, part way down from first, ready to duck back to the bag in time to prevent a double play.

Welsh seemed to stumble a bit just as he was reaching for the sphere. He dropped it.

Moore got away for second like a flash. Welsh made a swift recovery of the ball and lined it unerringly into Dalton’s hands, but the runner beat it to the “anchorage.” Still Lefty was undisturbed. Not even when Dalton missed stopping a hot liner by what seemed the fraction of an inch, and the bases were filled, did Locke show a sign of worry or irritation. But his jaw hardened a little, and that characteristic expression of stubborn determination his team-mates knew so well came into his face.

He was working with deliberation, and, though he did not seem to watch the bases, the Tigers swiftly learned that it was extremely hazardous to take much of a lead. It puzzled them not a little, for they could detect no signals between catcher and pitcher. They were up against one of the minor phases of inside ball. The infield’s code of signals was well-nigh perfect, and impossible of detection by ordinary outside players.

The first ball to McCormick was a trifle wide. Lefty caught it on the return and seemed about to pitch, but, instead, without the slightest warning, whirled, and threw to second, where Dalton had been edging in. Allaire dived back barely in time, after which he took a smaller lead.

Locke’s next pitched ball was a queer little wobbler, lacking speed though delivered with a snap that seemed to promise smoke. The batter saw that it would come over, but his impatience to hit seemed to overbalance his judgment. He struck too soon, popping a little fly which Locke caught without moving from his tracks. Like a flash, he put the ball over to third; but Moore, warned by Allaire’s narrow escape, had remained in the vicinity of the cushion, and managed to get back in time.

“That’s the way to stop ’em, old man!” called Dalton encouragingly. “Take this rube into camp.”

Sam Vogt was no mean hitter. Lefty had sized him up as one of the most dangerous on the visiting team, for the reason that he had a fine eye, a powerful swing, and few weaknesses.

One of the latter, however, was an evident distaste for a dead slow ball, and that was the sort first handed up by the portsider. Waiting with steady nerves, Vogt saw that it would not cross the plate, and declined to go after it.

He swung at the next one, however――a sharp drop which he simply fouled.

“Give him another like that,” urged McCormick. “He’ll take the peeling off it!”

Lefty smiled good-humoredly, and whipped over a high smoker. It proved to be too high, however, and there was some joyous cackling from the coachers. When Locke followed this up by still another wide one they felt that the famous southpaw had been much overrated, and jubilated loudly.

“Take one, Sam!” advised the captain. “Let him force a run.”

Lefty’s judgment told him that the batter would follow instructions unless he saw that the ball was certain to come over the center of the pan. He consequently laid one carefully over the inside corner, and Vogt let it pass.

“Strike――two!” called the umpire.

There came a momentary pause, hushed and tense. A second later the ball came hissing from Locke’s fingers with a burning speed surpassing anything he had yet known. It took a sharp hop just before it reached the pan, and Vogt’s bat slashed empty air.

Lefty had stopped a dangerous batting streak and prevented further scoring.