Chapter XXXII: The Break

Whether or not old Jack was right in his prediction――it was probable that he was, since he had few superiors in the subtle art of sizing up a ball player――Buck Liddell certainly showed no immediate signs of slumping. He kept up his extraordinary pace, varying speed, curves, and slow balls in a manner which proved that he possessed exceptional judgment. In the last half of the second only three men faced him; in the third inning, but four. The Blue Stocking batters, piqued by his steadiness, put forth their best efforts to hit him effectively, but in vain.

Savage was equally successful in preventing further scoring on the part of the visitors, though his methods were quite different. He made no attempt, apparently, to try for Liddell’s strike-out record, preferring to rely on the support of the men back of him. Each inning saw one or more hits made off him, and the bases were populated most of the time. He was chary of the spitball――that most trying delivery in a pitcher’s repertoire. He used few curves――not nearly so many as his companions knew him to command. It might have been noticed, however, that he varied these with such skill that the effect, though seemingly so infinitely inferior to Liddell’s performance, was practically on a par with it. Always at the crucial moment he stiffened, putting forth all the skill he possessed, using spitter or speed or curve, as the occasion demanded.

In the first half of the fifth, with only one out, the Tigers had men on first and second. It was evident that the batter would try to sacrifice, and Locke rather expected Savage to keep the ball high and close in an effort to prevent this. To his surprise the Westerner lobbed over a low one which could not have suited a stickman better if it had been made to order. As in the first inning, however, he followed the pitch through, and was almost on the plate when the batter sent the sphere rolling slowly along the third-base line. Pouncing on it with amazing swiftness, Savage snapped it to third for a force-out. Without an instant’s hesitation, Palsifer lined it down to second, beating the runner from first by a foot, and retiring the side in a twinkling.

Kennedy, who stood a few feet away, wheeled toward Lefty. “There’s a bit of headwork,” he said.

Tap, the infielder, loped in from his position, grinning widely over the successful double play.

“Was that turn put up between you and Savage?” the manager asked him.

“Sure!” chuckled Palsifer. “He tipped me off to stick by the base next time a bunt was expected. It worked, didn’t it?”

“It did!” The manager turned to Locke again. “He uses his head. He’s been using it right along. You’ve seen how he’s been sparing himself and depending on his support. That’s what fielders draw their salaries for――to stop balls that are hit at ’em. This boy’s got the right idea. He’s not wearing himself out like that fellow yonder.” He indicated Liddell, strolling across the diamond. “He’s not giving away all he’s got in the first couple of innings. He’s holding back a trick or two for a pinch. That’s the sort of a man I like to handle, and the sort I can make something of.”

Lefty had rarely heard the old manager express himself so warmly over a recruit, and the southpaw was more than pleased by the fact that Savage was making good. After his intervention in the Westerner’s behalf he felt more or less responsible, and it was agreeable to realize that his judgment had not been wrong.

During the last of the fifth Liddell showed signs of growing unsteadiness, which increased when he was hit by the first two men up. He managed to pull himself together in time to prevent an avalanche of runs, but during the lapse the score was tied, and the entire Blue Stocking contingent felt that it was only a question of another inning or so before the final blow-up.

McCormick, of the Tigers, opened the sixth inning with a single, but the lead he took off first was much less than it would have been earlier in the game. Savage had shown dangerous speed and accuracy in throwing to bases, and the visitors were becoming cautious.

Sam Vogt, the clever little Southern shortstop, was handy at laying down bunts; but Savage kept the first two balls high and close and Vogt found himself in a hole before he knew it.

“That’s the stuff, Nels!” cried Dalton. “You’ve got this chicken cold!”

Savage smiled. Suddenly his whole frame stiffened as if stricken by some strange paralysis. Seconds passed, and still he stood quite motionless, a perfect picture of arrested action, eyes set, the healthy color draining from his face.

As he stared at him in astonishment Lefty felt a sudden premonitory tightening of the throat, and his heart began to beat more rapidly. Then Larry Dalton broke the spell.

“Come alive, old man,” he sang out amiably, “and take this victim into camp.”

Savage shivered slightly. The next instant, with a little shake of his shoulders, he sent the sphere straight over the center of the pan with only moderate speed.

It was the sort of ball the rawest of recruits might have pitched, and Vogt fell on it with violent delight, smashing out a hot two-bagger. McCormick reached third, and might have scored but for the fast fielding of Max Duoro.

“Well, what do you know about that?” muttered Kennedy, penthouse brows coming together above his big nose.

Lefty made no answer. His eyes were riveted on his friend’s face. He was conscious of a sickening sense of apprehension stealing over him. Had it come? Could it be possible that the man out there was fated to undergo that horrible transformation again, and at the very height of his triumph?