Chapter XXX: The Atlanta Tigers

The days which followed were so full that Lefty had little time in which to trouble over the coolness of Janet. As the end of the training season loomed in sight, Kennedy worked his squad harder and harder. The mornings were devoted to all sorts of intricacies having to do with “inside” baseball. Each afternoon saw a hotly contested game between the Regulars and Yannigans, now lengthened to full nine innings. There were long runs to and from the park, bathing, massaging; and the result of it all was that the men slowly but surely shaped into the pink of condition. Those who had been overweight found themselves getting back to normal, while the few who needed it gained the coveted pounds under this wholesome, healthy routine.

The men, one and all, ran faster, batted harder, and threw with more confidence and accuracy. The members of the pitching staff had worked out that first inevitable soreness, and were beginning to put on steam. Best of all was the growing sense of efficiency――the delight in doing without effort something which had, a short time before, been so laborious.

There was one feature of this period which was not so pleasant to the thoughtfully inclined. Scarcely a day passed that did not see the squad diminished by one or more members. It is not so bad when a recruit departs. He is young, and life lies before him; another chance will come if he is worth his salt. But the case of an old-timer who has failed to stay with fast company is rather tragic. He has outlived his usefulness. It is the beginning of the end. He will go swiftly down the ladder he, perhaps, climbed laboriously, to end in the oblivion of the bushes whence he emerged so short a time before.

Happily, this season, there were no especially trying instances of this sort. Herman Brosk, the veteran center fielder, realizing that the inevitable had come, spared Kennedy the performance of a distasteful duty by stepping down and out of his own accord. But he was known to have saved his earnings with German thrift, and to be the possessor of a profitable farm in the Middle West. Spider Grant’s case was harder, but even he had hopes that a year of care and treatment would put him in shape again. As for Jack Daly, the old third baseman, Kennedy simply benched him, trusting to carry him through the season as a pinch hitter.

Of the new men, Ogan was retained at first, Tap Palsifer at third, while Congreve showed such signs of developing into an exceptional hitter that he was taken on. The fate of Red McLean, Tetlow, and Lane still hung in the balance. The remaining recruits were all shipped to minor leagues, where they would have a year in which to become better fitted for fast company.

On the pitching staff, Temple and Nelson Savage were the only youngsters retained. The former showed indications of becoming a fair, all-round twirler of the sort who might never be spectacular, but could always be depended on. As for Savage, his general work improved constantly; but it was his cleverness with the spitball which attracted general attention and admiration.

Lefty could detect no signs of threatened backsliding in the Westerner’s manner. There was a slight restlessness to be noticed at times, and one evening he disappeared from the hotel, returning very late. Aside from these trifling instances he continued to be the same pleasant, likable chap, friendly with all, but particularly devoted to the southpaw, and intensely keen about his progress on the diamond.

The game with the Atlanta Tigers was looked forward to with interest by every man in the squad. The first contest with an outside team always is an event in training camp, but this particular crowd of Southern professionals had a reputation for unusual ability, and a hot go was predicted.

When they arrived at the hotel just in time for dinner on the day of the game, their appearance seemed to proclaim them real ball players. Bronzed of face, keen and alert of expression, snappy in movement, they bore themselves with an air of quiet assurance which narrowly escaped being cocky.

“Some bunch, that!” commented Dalton, a little later, as he and Lefty stood watching the visitors indulging in gingery practice.

“They should be,” rejoined Locke. “I understand they’ve won every game to date. We ought to take a fall out of them.”

“Hope so. I’d feel a lot more sure, though, if you were going to be in the box instead of Nels. He’s been showing form lately, but you can’t tell how he’d stand being hammered.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.” The southpaw’s tone was confident. “His head’s screwed on all right. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll make an even better showing against this crowd than he has in practice. He’s the sort of a fellow who does his best when pushed to it. Well, there they go. We take the field.”

As Savage walked out to the mound Locke could not help contrasting his demeanor with what it had been on that day when the “vanishing ball” had so startled and bewildered the portsider. He was juggling his glove and smiling over some joke Dalton had made in passing, and seemed utterly devoid of nervousness. He had been cool before, but that was the sneering nonchalance of one who did not care, as different from his manner now as day is different from night. Locke had a sudden conviction that the game would produce no such semihypnotic tricks as the busher had worked off before. Those had been part and parcel of that other detestable personality. The Savage who stood there, a smile lingering on his lips, but with eyes keenly sizing up the batter taking his place at the pan, was incapable of such wretched artifices. He would pitch straight ball, and win or lose on his ability as a legitimate twirler.

Unless two teams have played against each other before, the first inning of a game is likely to prove something of a lottery. Neither pitcher has had a chance of getting a line on the opposing batters. A few fortunate twirlers seem possessed of a sort of sixth sense, almost like intuition, but this is generally no more than an unusually keen observation, coupled with long experience in facing an infinite variety of batters.

Savage had undergone no very lengthy experience. His first delivery was a tentative teaser at which Olds, the big outfielder, failed to nibble. His second was also wide; then something in the batter’s attitude seemed to tell him that a high, close ball might be difficult for him to meet.

It was a wrong guess. Olds rapped the horsehide with unexpected ease, pushing a warm grounder into right field. He sought to draw a hasty throw by romping over first and turning toward second, but Rufe Hyland was wise, and winged a perfect heave to Lewis, who covered the hassock.

Big as he was, and apparently unwieldy, Olds proved astonishingly fast. Taking a deceptively small lead off the sack, he went down, nevertheless, like a flash on the first ball handed up to Moore, the Tiger first baseman.

Evidently expecting such a move, the latter swung at the ball without trying to hit it, his sole intention being to bother the catcher. Dirk Nelson caught the ball in perfect throwing position, and got it off to second with a sharp, short-arm throw.

But the runner covered ground so fast and made such a perfect “fall-away” slide that it was impossible to tell whether he touched the sack first or was tagged successfully. It seemed simultaneous, and he was declared safe.

“Some start,” remarked Lefty, who sat on the bench with Pink Dillon. “You wouldn’t think that big fellow could get over the ground like that, would you?”

“No. I hope it don’t rattle Nels.”

His fears were short-lived, for Savage showed no trace of annoyance, even. Toeing the slab, he carried the ball to his mouth, covered with both hands. There was an upward and backward motion of his head, and suddenly the captain of the Tigers shouted:

“Look out for the spitter, Irish!”

The admonition was to no purpose. The ball, whizzing from Savage’s fingers, took a sharp shoot toward the ground as if actually dodging the bat!

“Strik-ah!” announced the umpire.

Savage repeated the performance, but this time his shoot carried the sphere a shade wide. At least, that was how it evidently appeared to the umpire, an official belonging to the visiting team.

When Savage had handed up two more balls he found himself compelled to put the horsehide over. Behind his hands he pretended to make ready to throw the spitter again, but, instead of moistening the ball, he wiped it as dry as possible on his glove, and delivered a straight smoker for the inside corner.

Moore seemed almost to anticipate what was coming, for to all appearances he thrust out his bat and held it so loosely in his fingers that the ball almost knocked it from his hands. In this manner he dropped a bunt in front of the plate, and was off toward first.

On the alert, Olds was away like a shot toward third. But Savage had not been caught napping, for the moment the ball left his fingers he was chasing it in. Snatching it up, he whirled to throw, realized that it was too late to catch Olds, and, without a perceptible loss of motion, spun on around, sending the sphere to first. It sped past Moore’s shoulder, and Ogan had it with the runner ten feet away.

But the sacrifice had been successful. The Tigers had a man on third, with only one out. Their chance to score seemed good.