Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager. Standish Burt L.
and his dark eyes were swift and keen and shrewd. His black hair was graying on the temples. His coat and trousers, of extravagant cut, were made from pronounced black-and-white-striped material. His fancy waistcoat, buttoned with a single button at the bottom, was adorned with large orange-colored figures. His silk socks were red, his four-in-hand necktie was purple, and the band that encircled the straw hat cocked rakishly upon his head was green. He was smoking a cigar and pouring a steady flow of words into the ear of Bailey Weegman, who made a pretense of not noticing Locke.
“Yes, mate,” he was saying, “old man Breckenridge was the most painfully inconsiderate batter I ever had the misfortune to pitch against. Smoke, curves, twisters, slow balls, low balls, and high balls–they all looked alike to him. Now I have a preference; I prefer a high ball, Scotch and carbonic. But it made no difference to Breck; when he put his fifty-five-ounce ash wand against the pill, said pill made a pilgrimage–it journeyed right away to some land distant and remote and unknown, and it did not stay upon the order of its going. When it came right down to slugging, compared with old Breck your Home-run Bakers and Honus Wagners and Napoleon Lajoies are puny and faded shines. And he always seemed able to make connections when he desired; if he rambled forth to the dish yearning for a hit, there was no known method by which the most astute and talented pitcher could prevent him from hitting.”
“Quite a wonder, I must admit!” laughed Weegman, in high amusement. “Rather strange the Big Leagues didn’t get hold of such a marvelous batsman, isn’t it?”
“Oh, he was on the roster of some Class A team at various times, but he had one drawback that finally sent him away to the remote and uncharted bushes: ‘Charley horse’ had him in its invidious grip. A spavined snail could beat Breck making the circuit of the sacks, and cross the pan pulled up. Yet, with this handicap, the noble old slugger held the record for home runs in the Tall Grass League. Naturally I had heart failure and Angie Pectoris every time I was compelled to face him on the slab. Likewise, naturally I began meditating with great vigor upon a scheme to circumvent the old terror, and at last my colossal brain concocted a plan that led me to chortle with joy.”
“I am deeply interested and curious,” declared Weegman, as the narrator paused, puffing complacently at his weed. “Go on.”
Locke had stopped near at hand, and was listening. Others were hovering about, their ears open, their faces wreathed in smiles.
“It was a simple matter of scientific knowledge and a little skulduggery,” pursued the story-teller obligingly. “I possessed the knowledge, and I bribed the bat boy of old Breck’s team to perform the skulduggery. I sent to the factory and had some special baseballs manufactured for me, and in the heart of each ball was hidden a tiny but powerful magnet. Then I secretly furnished the rascally bat boy with a specially prepared steel rod that would violently repel any magnet that chanced to wander around into the immediate vicinity of the rod. I instructed the boy to bore Breck’s pet bat surreptitiously when the shades of night had fallen, insert the steel rod, and then craftily plug the hole. And may I never sail the briny deep again if that little scoundrel didn’t carry out my instructions with the skill of a cutthroat, or a diplomat, even! Nature intended him for higher things. If he isn’t hanged some day it won’t be his fault.
“Well, the next time old Breck brought his team to play against us upon our field, I used the magnetized baseballs. I was doing the hurling and in the very first inning the old swatter came up with the sacks charged and two out. He smiled a smile of pity as he bent his baleful glance upon me. ‘You'd better walk me, Walter,’ says he, ‘and force a run; for if you put the spheroid over I’m going to give it a long ride.’ I returned his smile with one of the most magnanimous contempt. ‘Don't blow up, old boy,’ says I. ‘With the exception of your batting, you’re all in; and I’ve a notion that your batting eye is becoming dim and hazy. Let’s see you hit this.’ Then I passed him a slow, straight one right over the middle of the rubber. He took a mighty swing at it, meaning to slam it over into the next county. Well, mate, may I be keelhauled if that ball didn’t dodge the bat like a scared rabbit! Mind you, I hadn’t put a thing on it, but the repulsion of that deneoutronized steel rod hidden in the bat forced the ball to take the handsomest drop you ever beheld, and the violence with which old Breck smote the vacant ozone caused him to spin round and concuss upon the ground when he sat down. It was a tremendous shock to his nervous system, and it filled me with unbounded jubilance; for I knew I had him at my mercy, literally in the hollow of my hand.
“He rose painfully, chagrined and annoyed, but still confident. ‘Give me another like that, you little wart!’ he ordered savagely, ‘and I’ll knock the peeling off it.’ Beaming, I retorted: ‘You couldn’t knock the peeling off a prune. Here’s what you called for.’ And I threw him another slow, straight one.
“Excuse these few tears; the memory of that hallowed occasion makes me cry for joy. He did it again, concussing still more shockingly when he sat down. It was simply an utter impossibility for him to hit that magnetized ball with his doctored bat. But, of course, he didn’t know what the matter was; he thought I was fooling him with some sort of a new drop I had discovered. The fact that I was passing him the merry cachinnation peeved him vastly. When he got upon his pins and squared away for the third attempt, his face was the most fearsome I ever have gazed upon. He shook his big bat at me. ‘One more,’ he raged; ‘give me one more, and drop flat on your face the moment you pitch the ball, or I’ll drive it straight through the meridian of your anatomy!’
“Let me tell you now, mate, that Breck was a gentleman, and that was the first and only time I ever knew him to lose his temper. Under the circumstances, he was excusable. I put all my nerve-shattering steam into the next pitch, and, instead of dropping, the ball hopped over his bat when he smote at it. I had fanned the mighty Breckenridge, and the wondering crowd lifted their voices in hosannas. Yet I know they regarded it in the nature of an accident, and not until I had whiffed him three times more in the same game did either Breck or the spectators arrive at the conviction that I had something on him.
“After that,” said the narrator, as if in conclusion, “I had him eating out of my hand right up to the final and decisive game of the season.”
Weegman begged the fanciful romancer to tell what happened in the last game.
“Oh, we won,” was the assurance; “but we never would have if Breck had been wise the last time he came to bat. It was in the ninth inning, with the score three to two in our favor, two down, and runners on second and third. Knowing it was Breck’s turn to hit, I was confident we had the game sewed up. But the confidence oozed out of me all of a sudden when I saw the big fellow paw the clubs over to select a bat other than his own. Clammy perspiration started forth from every pore of my body. With any other swat stick beside his own, I knew he was practically sure to drive any ball I could pitch him over the fence. The agony of apprehension which I endured at that moment gave me my first gray hairs.
“Although I did not know it at the time, it chanced that Breck had selected the bat of another player who had had it bored and loaded with an ordinary steel rod. This, you can clearly understand, made it more than doubly certain that he would hit the magnetized ball, which would be attracted instead of repelled. Had I known this, I shouldn’t have had the heart to pitch at all.
“As the noble warrior stood up to the pan, I considered what I could pitch him. Curves could not fool him, and he literally ate speed. Therefore, without hope, I tossed him up a slow one. Now it chanced that the old boy had decided to try a surprise, having become disheartened by his efforts to slug; he had resolved to attempt to bunt, knowing such a move would be unexpected. So he merely stuck out his bat as the sphere came sailing over. The magnet was attracted by the steel rod, and the ball just jumped at the bat, against which it struck–and stuck! I hope never to tell the truth again, mate, if I’m not stating a simple, unadulterated, unvarnished fact. The moment the ball touched the bat it stuck fast to it as if nailed there. Breck was so astonished that he stood in his tracks staring at the ball like a man turned to stone. I was likewise paralyzed for an extemporaneous fraction of time, but my ready wit quickly availed me. Bounding forward, I wrenched the ball from the bat and tagged old Breck with it, appealing to the umpire for judgment. There was only one thing his umps could do. He had seen the batter attempt to bunt, had seen bat and ball meet, and