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CHAPTER XXXVII
THE RETURN OF LEFTY
The work of patching up his team and whipping it into shape had kept Lefty Locke busy pretty nearly every minute of his time while awake, since the beginning of the training season. With that task before him, and knowing how little attention he could spare for Janet, he had raised no objections when she had asked to accompany Mrs. Vanderpool and Virginia on the California trip. While he was not foolish enough to believe that the reconstructed team could become a pennant contender that season, he did have hopes of finishing in the first division, which, under the circumstances, would be a triumph indeed.
He had found Janet’s letters interesting enough, but his concentration on other matters had prevented him from giving them much thought once they were read through. She had told him of the rumor that Bailey Weegman, having been lucky in escaping prosecution for his part in the conspiracy, had started some sort of mail-order business and was said to be taking in money “hand over fist.”
Far more interesting, however, although almost as quickly forgotten, was the gossip about Virginia and Franklin Parlmee. Having returned from his hasty and fruitless voyage across the pond, Parlmee had felt not only injured but outraged by the treatment he had received. It was impossible for Virginia honestly to deny that she had been led to distrust him–and by Weegman! That cut the deepest. She had kept him ignorant of the fact that she had returned home, thus allowing him to go rushing off to Europe in an attempt to find her. That had been his sole purpose; he had been in no way concerned with Garrity in a scheme to wrest the control of the Blue Stockings from Collier. It was true that, having come into a limited inheritance, he had purchased two or three small lots of the club’s stock. His judgment had told him that the price to which it had dropped made it a good investment. Garrity had been anxious to get hold of that stock. He had pursued Parlmee and endeavored to buy the certificates at a price that would have permitted the holder of them to realize a good profit. But what Garrity had wanted so badly Parlmee had considered still more valuable, and he had refused to part with a single share.
A sense of injury on one side and shame and false pride on the other had prevented complete reconciliation between Parlmee and Virginia. But Janet wrote that Miss Collier was not happy, although she made a brave pretense of being so. Once or twice Janet had detected her alone, crying.
Lefty had practically forgotten about these things until, on that second day of battle with the Wolves, only a few minutes before the game was to begin, he looked toward the club owner’s box, occupied as he knew by Virginia and Janet, and made the discovery that Franklin Parlmee was likewise there. The southpaw stood still in his tracks, and stared, smiling; for he saw that Parlmee and Virginia were chatting and laughing, while Janet watched them with an expression of complete satisfaction and pleasure.
“Patched it up at last, thank goodness!” muttered Locke. “I think I’ll keep away until after this game is over. Plenty of time to congratulate them then.”
He had been warming up, as usual, but to-day it was observed that he did so alone with Brick King. Many of those who took note of this were led to speculate. Jack Stillman saw it, and smiled wisely to himself.
A crowd, bigger than that of the previous day, had turned out. The Blue Stockings’ unexpected opening victory over the Wolves was the cause. Perhaps that had been no more than a flash in the pan, but the fans wanted to see for themselves. Deep down in the hearts of most of them was a sprouting hope that it presaged something more.
Practice was over. The home team was spreading out on the field and making ready. Scrappy Betts, first man up for the visitors, was swinging two bats, prepared to drop one of them and advance to the plate. The announcer lifted his megaphone, and, sitting forward on the edges of their seats, the crowd strained their ears to catch the names of the battery men. “Who’s going to pitch for us?” was the question they had been asking.
Through the megaphone came the usual hoarse bellow. For an instant it seemed to strike the great gathering dumb. Then a wild yell of astonishment and delight went up. Everywhere in the stands and on the bleachers fans turned to their neighbors and shouted:
“Locke! It’s Lefty! Good old Lefty! Yow! Ye-ee!”
They rose as one person and roared at him in a mighty chorus when he walked out to the mound. If he believed in himself, if he had the courage to go in there against Frazer’s hungry Wolves, they believed in him.
The umpire adjusted his wind pad. Betts dropped one bat and came forward, pausing a moment a few feet from the plate while Locke sent two or three across to get the range. That good left arm swung free and unrestrained, without a single sign to indicate that there had ever been anything the matter with it. Smiling, the southpaw nodded to Betts as King pulled on the wire cage.
“You can patch up crockery, Lefty, old man,” said Scrappy as he stepped into the box, “but you never can make it as good as new.” Then, having tried to work the portsider to the limit, he finally whaled out a safety. “I knew it!” he cried from first. “Bluff won’t mend a busted wing, old boy!”
Whether or not Locke was nervous, he passed the next man.
The cheering of the crowd died away. Disappointment and apprehension brought silence, save for the confident chattering of the Wolf coachers and the attempted encouragement of the players behind the southpaw. Hope began to sicken and wilt.
Cool and unruffled, Brick King smiled. “An accidental hit and a pass won’t count in the result to-day,” he said. “Show Kipper the ball in your hand. He won’t see it again.”
Kipper whiffed three times without making as much as a foul tip. The crowd began to wake up again.
Herman Brock sauntered out. Frazer had given him Bob Courtney’s position in the batting order, the “clean-up” place. No man knew Herman better than Lefty, and the efforts of the German were quite as futile as those of Kipper.
The crowd was cheering again as Brock retired disgustedly. Confidence had been restored suddenly.
“Oh, you Lefty!” was the cry. “You’re there!”
Locke easily forced the following batter to pop to the infield. He had settled into his stride. If he could keep it up, the shouting throng knew he had indeed “come back” as strong as ever. Already they were telling one another what that meant. With three first-string pitchers like Lefty and Jones and Savage, the team would have a fighting chance. The principal question was whether the southpaw could “go the distance.”
Not only did Lefty make it, but as the game progressed he seemed to take it more and more easily. The desperate Wolves could not get at him effectively. He certainly had everything he had ever possessed; some claimed that he had more. His arm showed no sign of weakening. But he used his head quite as much as his arm. With the support of a catcher who also had brains, and who worked with him perfectly, he made the snarling, snapping Wolves appear about as dangerous as tame rabbits. Before the ninth inning was reached he knew that in Brick King he had found the one catcher with whom he could do the best work of his career.
The Blue Stockings won by a score of two to nothing. What fortune the season brought them in their fight for the pennant is told in the following volume of the Big League Series, which is entitled, “Guarding the Keystone Sack.”
The moment it was over Locke made a dash for the clubhouse, getting away from the furiously rejoicing fans who came pouring down upon the field. Jones was there ahead of him. As he panted in, Lefty saw the man of mystery standing in a peculiar attitude not far from the closed door of Charles Collier’s office. He seemed to be listening. Involuntarily the southpaw paused and listened himself.
From beyond the door came the sound of voices. He heard a man speaking, and then, suddenly, another man who appeared to be both excited and distressed. Then he saw Jones spring like a panther toward that door and hurl it open. Astonished, Lefty quickly followed Jones into the office.
They burst in upon four persons. Two of them, who looked like plain-clothes officers, seemed to have a third in charge. This man was desperately and wildly appealing to Charles Collier. It was Bailey Weegman.
“It’s an outrage, I tell you!” Weegman was crying. “It’s a lie! I haven’t used the mails to defraud. I learned an hour ago that officers were after me on that charge, and I hurried to you, Mr. Collier. They followed me here. You must help me! I served you–”
“You served me a crooked turn,” interrupted Collier coldly. “You have your nerve to come to me!”
Locke’s eyes were on Jones. The man’s face was aflame with triumph and joy and fathomless satisfaction. He flung out his hand, his finger pointing like a pistol at Weegman.
“Hanson Gilmore!” he cried in a terrible voice.
The mute had spoken! Frozen with amazement, Lefty saw Weegman twist round, saw a light of terror come into his eyes, saw him cower and cringe, pale as death and shaking like an aspen.
“You swore away my liberty, you dog!” the voice of Jones rang through the room. “You were the scoundrel who conceived the Central Yucatan Rubber Company, and profited by it! When the prison doors closed upon me I swore I’d never speak again until every dollar you had taken from the victims of that concern was paid back–until you were brought to book for your crime. I’ve kept that vow. I’ve searched for you, determined to bring you to justice somehow. Now you have brought justice upon yourself.”
Crouching like a creature stung by the pitiless lashing of a whip, the accused wretch appealed chokingly to the officers who had arrested him: “Don’t let him touch me! Look at his eyes! He’s mad! Keep him off! Take me away!”
“Yes, take him away,” said Jones. “And if he doesn’t get a prison sentence for this last piece of work, I’ll keep after him until he’s punished for his other crimes.”
“Take him away!” said Charles Collier, with a wave of his hand.
Tottering weakly, the rascal who had met retribution at last was led out.
The rejoicing players were stripping for their showers. Locke and Jones appeared among them.
“Boys,” said Lefty, “let me introduce Martin Bowman, whom you have hitherto known as Jones. For reasons of his own, he made a vow never to speak until a certain thing should happen. Happily, events now make it possible for him to talk.”
“For which I am very thankful,” said Martin Bowman quietly.
They stared at him in limitless astonishment. At last Spider Grant said:
“Well, this game to-day was enough to make a deaf-and-dumb man talk!”
Eph, the colored rubber, touched Locke on the arm.
“Yo’ wife and a pahty o’ frien’s am outside, sah,” he said. “Dey said as how dey’d wait fo’ you.”
“Tell them I’ll join them as soon as possible,” directed Lefty.
