Chapter XXXV: The Last Straw

It was the shock of having his hopes dashed so utterly and completely that made Locke oblivious for a moment to Savage’s insolence. But swiftly the sting of the uncalled-for insult brought the color flaming into his face, and made him leap forward in mingled anger and sorrow.

“Savage! Savage!” he called sharply. But the busher did not heed him.

A touch on his arm cut off further action abruptly. Glancing round, he found Kennedy beside him.

“Get busy and warm up,” ordered the manager briefly.

Locke hesitated an instant, his eyes searching the older man’s face. The manager was evidently in no mood for conversation. He wheeled and marched over to the coaching line, leaving the pitcher to hunt up a glove, root out Babe Torrey, the change catcher, and proceed to a retired spot.

Their unexpected success in the first half of the inning seemed to put new heart into the Tigers. Though Liddell’s successor was hit several times, fine support prevented those hits from being effective. As the visitors trotted in from the field, Lefty loped over to where Kennedy was standing.

“Want me now?” he asked.

The manager shook his head. “Not just yet. I’m going to give this bird one more chance. Buzz around. You may have to go in any time.”

The manager was evidently bitterly disappointed over the behavior of the man he had lauded so highly a little while before, and was probably hoping against hope that he would pull up before the final smash. But the person going out to the mound now held nothing in common with the Savage who had pitched so brilliantly up to the previous innings. They were as unlike as two different beings.

Lefty moved back and continued his warming up with Torrey, pausing at intervals to follow the progress of events on the diamond. He had worked conscientiously while the Blue Stockings were at bat to put his pegging arm into condition, but now his efforts became desultory and intermittent, serving no more than to ward off any possible chill. He kept the ball in motion between himself and Torrey, but it was a mechanical sort of business which showed how absorbed he was in watching Savage.

The change in the latter had become more striking. He seemed to have thrown aside the efforts he had previously made to conceal his condition, and lapsed into the man Locke had known and detested in the early days of training. He strolled into the box, his lips curling with that old air of insolent condescension, as if he had little or no interest in the proceeding, and was only there in the performance of a not very highly regarded duty.

Locke tried to tell himself that his growing irritation, threatening to become anger he could not bridle, was unjust to the busher’s other――and, he believed, normal――self which he had liked so well; but it was all to no purpose. The evil personality of Savage was so strong, so dominant, above all so antagonistic, that the southpaw presently forgot everything save the intense dislike it raised within him.

McKnight, the first batter up, opened the inning with a single off the second ball delivered by the Westerner. Alec Wurts, who followed, seemed to have no difficulty whatever in picking out one that suited him, dumping it into the diamond. He took his medicine at first, while McKnight advanced to second.

“That’s the game!” called McCormick from the coaching line. “This guy’s all in, boys! We’ll have the blanket on him in two shakes.”

Earlier in the day Savage had shown remarkable skill in preventing bunts, or else had used them to his own advantage. The contrast presented by his careless, slipshod work now was too striking to escape general notice, and Locke was not surprised to see Larry Dalton hurry across the diamond and touch Savage on the arm. The portsider was too far away to hear what was said, but he saw the busher roughly shake off Larry’s hand and snap out something which brought an angry sparkle to the captain’s eyes and a tart rejoinder from his lips.

The reprimand evidently had little effect. Within two minutes Kent, who had replaced Buck Liddell, reached first on a single. McKnight was stopped at third; but, with only one out and the crack hitters coming up, things looked more than encouraging for the visiting team.

“Might as well hand ’em the game, and be done with it!” was the disgusted comment of Babe Torrey, scarcely audible above the racket made by various Tiger coaches. “Why the deuce don’t Jack take him out?”

Lefty shrugged his shoulders. He had been keeping an eye on Kennedy, but the manager had not even glanced in his direction.

When Olds squared himself at the rubber, alert and fairly quivering with eagerness, Lefty and the change catcher, with one accord, abandoned their languid tossing of the ball, and faced the diamond. Both felt that the next few seconds would see something doing.

“He’ll knock the coating off the pill unless that fellow takes a brace,” muttered Torrey.

Locke had little hope that the brace would come. Savage’s expression of careless insolence was unaltered. One might have supposed him a bored spectator, for all the interest he showed. How any sane human being could make such an exhibition was beyond comprehension.

Not only were the first two balls pitched wide of the plate, but the third almost escaped Dirk Nelson’s clutches, and made him mutter under his breath as he saw Kent scampering to second, with the sack already safely purloined.

Then came a pause――a curious, tense pause. Watching Savage, Lefty had an odd feeling that the man was aware all at once that he had gone too far. He flashed a single swift glance around the diamond, and moistened his lips. When he faced the batter again, it was with a determined shake of the shoulders and a quick jerk at the visor of his cap that brought it down over his eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Savage kicked away an imaginary pebble, but without glancing downward. Like a statue, he stood poised, leaning forward slightly. For no single instant did his intent gaze leave the batter’s face.

Suddenly Lefty realized what was coming. “He’s going to try the vanishing-ball stunt!” he said under his breath.

Would it work this time? The southpaw felt his pulse quicken; his eyes began to smart with the intensity of his stare. Would the man never pitch? Slowly――very slowly――the arm drew back, paused, and at last shot forward, projecting the sphere straight over the heart of the pan.

Before the ball had reached the plate Lefty knew the attempt had failed. The bat came round with every ounce of the big man’s muscle behind it. There was that sharp, ringing crack which sends a thrill through every fan, and the horsehide soared out over the infield――on, on, climbing higher and higher.

Duoro and Joe Welsh both whirled and raced toward the fence. The diamond instantly resounded with the shouts of coachers urging on the circling base runners. The Blue Stocking infielders stood dejectedly, hands on hips, following with their eyes the progress of that little dot of gray.

It was falling now. Faster and faster it dropped in a wide arc which would carry it well beyond the laboring fielders. At last it vanished beyond the fence. The voice of Jack Kennedy promptly sounded above the racket made by the jubilating Tigers:

“Get off the field! Yes, I mean _you_――bonehead! Don’t lose any time about it! Locke, get busy!”

As Lefty passed the manager, Kennedy’s angry voice, pitched in a much lower key, followed him:

“Hope to thunder you’re satisfied with your experiment!”

Old Jack rarely lost his temper, nor was he the sort to taunt a man because of mistakes. He did both now, and Lefty could not blame him.