Kitobni o'qish: «Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant»

CHAPTER I
Panthers or Bears?

The defeat in the opening game of the final series of the season between the Panthers and Bears had been a hard blow to the championship hopes of the Bears, and its effect was evident in the demeanor of the players and those associated with them. It was the second week in September. Since early in May the Blues, the Panthers and the Bears, conceded to be the three strongest teams in the league, had struggled day by day almost upon even terms, first one team leading by a narrow margin, then another, until the interest of the country was centered upon the battle for supremacy.

Then, with the Blues holding the lead by the narrowest of margins, Maloney, their premier pitcher, strained his arm, and the Blues, in despair, battled the harder only to overtax the strength of the remaining pitchers, so that the team dropped rapidly into third place, still hoping against hope to get their crippled pitching staff back into condition for the finish.

It seemed that the four-game series between the Bears and Panthers probably would prove the crisis of the year's efforts, and decide the question of supremacy. On the eve of the commencement of that series the Bear hopes had received a shock. Carson, the heaviest batter, the speediest base runner and one of the most brilliant outfielders in the league, had fractured a leg in sliding to a base, and was crippled so seriously that all hope of his recovery in time to play again that year was abandoned.

Until the day the news that Carson could not play again during the season became public, the Bears had been favorites, but with their hardest batter crippled, and Holleran, the substitute, known to be weak against curve pitching, their hope seemed destroyed. Manager William Clancy, of the Bears, his kindly, weather-beaten face wearing a troubled expression, in place of his customary cheerful grin, was investigating. The defeat of the Bears in the first game with the Panthers had revealed to all the vital weakness of the holders of the championship, and Clancy, as he sat nibbling the end of his penholder in the writing room of the hotel, faced a discouraging situation.

Across the table from him a slender girl, attired in a close-fitting street gown, was writing rapidly, covering many sheets of hotel stationery with tall, angular hieroglyphics as she detailed to her dearest friend at home the exciting events of the day.

"Betty," said Manager Clancy, looking up, "if you and Ellen are ever going to get ready you'll have to start."

"I'm ready now, Mr. Clancy," the girl responded brightly, lifting her head until she revealed the perfect curve of her firm chin, and smiled, "I left Mother Clancy in the rooms sewing on some buttons. She will be ready soon."

At that moment a slender youth, easy in movement, almost graceful in his confident carriage, entered the hotel lobby. Something in his bearing gave evidence that he was accustomed to association with persons of refinement. His closely cropped, curling hair, sandy to the point of redness, attracted attention to his well-formed head, set well upon a pair of shoulders so wide as to give him the appearance of strength, in spite of the slenderness of his waist and the lightness of his body. His face was freckled and the uplift of his nose added to the friendly impression created by his blue eyes. His clothes were almost threadbare and his shoes were worn, but his linen was clean and his appearance neat. The youth hesitated, glancing from group to group of the players, as if trying to decide which one to approach.

"Silent" Swanson, the giant shortstop, who had earned his nickname because he was the noisiest player on the field, was standing talking with "Noisy" Norton, the second baseman, so called because he seldom spoke either on or off the field, and Adonis Williams, the star left-handed pitcher of the team. The newcomer's eyes fell upon this group, and his face lighted as he observed that Williams's hair was only a shade darker than his own. As if deciding quickly, he walked toward the group.

"You are Williams, are you not?" he inquired easily, smiling in a friendly manner.

"That's my name, but most people add a mister to it," responded Williams sneeringly.

The red-headed youth flushed and the smile died out of his eyes.

"I beg pardon, Mister Williams," he said, quietly; "I was seeking Manager Clancy. Perhaps you can tell me where to find him?"

"It isn't very hard to find Clancy," responded Williams. "We can't lose him."

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to point him out to me. I never have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Clancy."

Neither of them had observed that Swanson and Norton had drawn aside to permit the girl who had been in the writing room to pass on her way to the elevator. Evidently she overheard the youth's inquiry, for she hesitated just as Williams laughed in an ugly manner and said:

"If you don't know him you'd better peddle yourself somewhere else. He won't be in a mood to talk to hoboes to-night."

Before the slender youth could speak, the girl stepped forward and said quietly:

"Pardon me, but I overheard you inquiring for Manager Clancy. He is in the writing room."

Her brown eyes flashed with anger, her lips were set tight and her sun-browned cheeks flushed as she passed quickly on toward the elevator, not waiting to respond to the thanks of the slender youth, who had removed his hat quickly to utter his gratitude. Then, turning toward Williams, who stood flushed and angry, his blue eyes narrowed and he said:

"Just for that, I'll kick you on the shins in the club house and dare you to fight."

"What? You will, huh?" spluttered the astounded pitcher.

He would have said more, but before he could recover, the newcomer, smiling oddly, turned and walked toward the writing room and held out his hand to the famous Clancy, for six years leader of the Bears.

The slender youth stood with extended hand while Manager Clancy gazed up from his writing.

"Mr. Clancy?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes. Sit down," responded Clancy, his intention of rebuffing the intruder changing as he saw the smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I read in the evening papers," replied the youth, still smiling easily, "that Carson broke a leg, and that, to win the pennant, you must find an outfielder who can hit."

"Perhaps you also read that I'd like to find a diamond about the size of my head," responded Clancy, sarcastically.

"The paper also said that you might switch Pardridge from third base to the outfield if you could find a hard-hitting infielder."

"Possibly the paper also said that if I found the diamond I'd move my gold mine to make room for it." Clancy restrained himself from further comment, feeling uncertain because of the quiet confidence of his visitor.

There was a pause, the veteran manager studying his caller and the slender youth sat smiling as if expecting Clancy to resume the conversation.

"Well?" said Clancy, glancing at his half-finished letter as if to hint that his time was entirely too valuable to be wasted discussing academic impossibilities with entire strangers.

"Well," replied the visitor, smiling, "I'm it."

"You're what?" asked the astonished manager.

"The third baseman who can hit."

"When shall I move the gold mine?" Clancy's voice was dangerously quiet.

"To-morrow, if you like."

Clancy sat gazing at his visitor as if undecided as to whether he should explode in wrath, laugh at some joke too deep for him, or believe the slender youth was in earnest.

"Say, kid," he said slowly after studying the youth for a moment, "I admire your nerve, anyhow. If you have half the confidence on a ball field that you have off it, you'll be a wonder. Where did you ever play ball?"

A troubled expression came over the boy's face.

"Mr. Clancy," he said, quietly, "if you take me you'll have to do it without asking questions. I can play ball, and it's up to me to make good at something. All I ask is a chance to prove to you I can play. It will not cost you a cent to find out."

"Done anything?" Clancy asked, sharply.

"Criminal? No," responded the boy, flushing.

"Ever signed a professional contract?"

"No."

Clancy studied him as if trying to decide what to do. Then, raising his voice, he called:

"Oh, Sec. Come here a minute."

A tall man, his hair gray, his face wearing a frown of perpetual worry, came from the hotel lobby.

"Mr. Tabor," said Clancy, without rising, "this is Mr. Jimmie McCarthy, who is to have a try-out with us at third base. Room him with the players. You aren't stopping anywhere else, are you?"

The last question was directed to the surprised youth.

"No – I'm broke," answered the youth, flushing quickly.

"I'll fix you up in a moment," said the secretary in friendly tones as he shook hands with the youth. "Wait until I finish settling up with the baggage man."

The secretary hastened from the room, and the boy turned impulsively to the manager.

"Mr. Clancy," he said in a tone of gratitude, "I want to thank you – I don't know how. I was broke – ball playing is about all I'm good at. How did you know I didn't want to use my own name?"

"I figured you might want to forget it for a time, anyhow," said Clancy. "McCarthy is a good name and it fits your eyes."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," said the boy impetuously. "I'll make good for you. I've failed trying to make a living. Baseball is the only thing they taught me at college that I'm good at, and when I read that you needed a third baseman I" —

"College man, eh?" asked Clancy quickly. "Well, I won't hold that against you or tip it off. Don't thank me. If you make good I'll be the one to give thanks."

The youth turned to follow the secretary as if to hide a little mist that came into his eyes, and he left Manager Clancy gazing thoughtfully after him and nibbling the end of his penholder.

"It would be a miracle," said Clancy to himself. "But I've got a hunch it will come true. He's bred right – tell it from his looks. He's game, light on his feet; good shoulders, and – and – and a pair of eyes."

CHAPTER II
A Miracle Called McCarthy

Thirty thousand persons, banked in the great grandstands and massed upon the field seats, roared with increasing excitement as from every direction solid streams of humanity poured toward the park to witness the second game of the series between the Bears and the Panthers.

The batting practice of the teams had ended and the Bears trotted out upon the field.

"Who is that red-head practicing at third?" inquired "Chucky" Rice, the veteran reporter of the Panthers.

"Name is McCarthy, a busher Clancy picked up somewhere. He is to have a trial this fall – after the pennant fight is over," said Koerner, of the Globe, who traveled with the Bears.

"Looks sweet on ground balls," commented Rice, watching the slender, graceful athlete, who was occupying Pardridge's place at third base. "Where did Clancy find him, Tech?"

The question was addressed to "Technicalities" Feehan, the odd little reporter who had traveled with the Bears for twenty years.

"I have not been informed," responded Feehan, adjusting his glasses and watching McCarthy closely. "He came to the hotel last night and asked for a try-out. Did you see him hit?"

"Yes," replied Rice. "Hits right-handed and he cracked two on the nose. Will he play?"

"Clancy hardly will take a chance with him at this stage," replied Koerner.

McCarthy tossed his glove to the veteran third baseman and ran toward the plate to bat grounders to the infielders. He was not aware of the fact, but Clancy had been watching him keenly during the entire practice and had asked Kennedy, the star catcher, to keep an eye on the recruit and report how he liked his actions.

"Handles himself like a ball player," commented the catcher. "He hit a curve ball {22} with a snap swing that had a lot of drive in it and he gets the ball away like a flash when it hits his hands."

"He takes things easily," said the manager. "I haven't seen him fight a ball yet. Blocks it down and recovers in plenty of time. If this game didn't mean so much" —

The game went against the Bears from the start, the break of the luck seeming always to favor the Panthers. Twice, with runners perched on second and third, Holleran had hit feeble grounders to the infield, one resulting in a runner being caught at the home plate and one in an easy out at first that finished an inning in which the Bears had threatened to amass a half dozen runs.

The seventh inning started with the Panthers leading 3 to 1, and the Bears seemingly beaten beyond hope of recovery. An error, followed quickly by a base on balls and a successful sacrifice bunt put Bear runners on second and third bases with but one out and Holleran coming to the bat. Clancy signaled him, and an instant later Umpire Maxwell announced:

"McCarthy batting for Holleran. McCarthy will play third base, Pardridge in left field."

McCarthy came to the batter's box quickly, swinging a long, light bat. He let a fast ball cut across the plate just at his shoulders and only glanced inquiringly at the umpire when it was called a strike. The next one was a quick-breaking curve, seemingly coming straight at him. He stepped slightly forward, snapped the long bat against the ball and drove it down the left field foul line; two runners sprinted across the plate, and the score was tied.

"That auburn baby can hit them curves," commented Rice. "He certainly called the turn and waded into that one."

The game went into the ninth, then the tenth, the pitchers working harder and harder and the teams batting behind them without a break to bring the victory that meant so much to them.

Jimmy McCarthy was the first batter for the Bears. From an unknown recruit he had become the sensation of the game, and thousands were asking who he was. Twice he had hit Cooke's fast "hook curve," and hit it hard, and Cooke, remembering, shook his head as his catcher signaled for another curve. The recruit watched him, and, with a sudden jerk of his belt, he stepped into position. The first ball was fast and across his shoulders, as Cooke had placed it twice before. This time instead of taking the first strike McCarthy met the ball squarely and drove it on the line over the first baseman's head. He turned first base, going at top speed, although already McKeever, the Panther's right fielder, known as one of the greatest throwers in the league, was in position to field the ball.

The roar that arose from the crowd was chopped short as McCarthy sprinted for second base. An instant of tense uncertainty was followed by a swelling murmur of protest, disappointment and rage.

From the dust cloud just commencing to settle around second base two forms were emerging, and, as the dust drifted away, the crowd had a glimpse of a tableau. Tommy Meegher, second baseman of the Panthers, was disentangling his stocky form from the knot of arms and legs, and arising from the prostrate body of McCarthy, whose desperate slide had turned a base hit into a two-bagger. Stooping over them, his hands outspread, signifying that the runner had reached the base in safety, was Randy Ransom, crouching, in order better to see under the dust cloud raised by the hurtling bodies of the players.

A salvo of grudging applause greeted McCarthy as he arose and brushed the dust from his gray striped traveling uniform, an outburst that was followed by a frenzied spasm of enthusiasm from the Bear followers.

On the Bears' bench Manager Clancy grinned for the first time in three days.

"I believe that kid will do," he said to Kennedy. "He called the turn on that fast ball, just met it, and turned first on his stride. He slid under Meegher clean. Lay one down now," he added, addressing the order to Norton.

The skill of Noisy Norton as a sacrifice hitter was well known to the spectators in the stands, but better known to the tense, anxious infielders of the Panthers, who crouched, watching his every motion as he came to the batter's position. Norton stepped into position, shortened his hold upon the bat and glanced quickly around the infield as if noting the position of each man. Suddenly he started, as if in surprise, and glanced toward the Bears' bench. Manager Clancy nodded his head affirmatively and again Norton crouched, shortening his grip upon the bat still more, and slowly churned the inoffensive air with it. The Panther infielders, alert to detect the plan of attack to be tried by the Bears, had caught the rapid exchange of glances, and they crept a step or two closer to the batter, poising ready to leap forward to field any ball pushed toward them from Norton's bat.

The plan of assault to be tried seemed clear to the thousands of spectators. It appeared certain that a sacrifice bunt was to be attempted; that the third baseman of the Panthers was to pretend to field the ball, but that, instead, he would return to third base the moment Norton bunted, permitting Cooke, the pitcher, to try to reach the ball in time to throw to third to catch McCarthy there instead of throwing to first to retire Norton.

Cooke pitched fast and straight over the plate, intending to make Norton push the ball back to him, or into the air for a fly out. Norton, however, struck viciously, but without making an effort to hit the ball, swinging his bat in order to handicap the catcher in his effort to catch the ball and make a throw. McCarthy had started at full speed the instant Cooke had commenced to wind up to pitch the ball, and was in full flight toward third base. Before Nixon's throw, delayed and hampered by Norton's tactics in striking, reached third, McCarthy slid behind the base, his feet outstretched to hook the bag as he threw his body outward to prevent Randall, the third baseman, from exercising his deadly skill in blocking runners away from the base.

A moment later Norton drove a long fly to the outfield, and McCarthy, waiting until it was caught, sprinted across the plate with what proved to be the winning run.

"Crossed – and by a busher," lamented Kincaid, of the Panthers, as the teams started off the field after the finish of the game, walking slowly because of the press of humanity overflowing from the stands.

"What do you think of that kid, Slats?" inquired Manager Clancy, as they walked together toward the club house.

"He's a ball player, if he don't swell," responded Hartman, laconically. "He pulled that steal of third wise. He figured we wouldn't expect a busher to try to steal at that stage – and we didn't. He's a wise head for a kid."

"Looks good to me," replied Clancy. "He slipped Norton a signal not to hit, but to let him steal – and I almost fell off the bench when I saw it. I expected him to toss the game away."

"Where'd you get him?" demanded Hartman.

"He wished himself onto me," grinned Clancy. "He told me he could play ball and I believed him."

A swarm of reporters descended upon the headquarters of the visiting team, striving to discover something of the history of the slender, red-haired youngster whose coming had revived the waning pennant hopes of the Bears. McCarthy was not to be found. He had slipped away after dinner without telling anyone his plans. The reporters descended upon Manager Clancy, demanding information concerning his find.

"It's a secret, boys," responded Clancy to their insistent questions. "He is nom de plume and habeas corpus. The only place I ever heard of him playing ball was in Cognito."

"Suppress the comedy and ease us the legit," pleaded Riley, who wrote theatricals when he was not inventing English in the interest of baseball. "I can't find any record that will fit him."

"Boys," said the veteran manager, growing serious, "I don't know a thing more about him than you do. I don't know where he ever played; it never was in organized ball, or I would know where he comes from and who he is. He strolled in here last night, told me he could play ball and wanted a chance to show me that he could."

"That was considerable demonstration to-day," commented Rice. "How do you know he's square?"

"By looking at him," replied Clancy steadily. "If I needed any more evidence, he was offered $500 to sign a Panther contract after to-day's game and told them he'd stick to me – and we haven't even talked about salary."

"What'll we call him?" asked one reporter.

"Say," replied Clancy, enthusiastically, "I dreamed last night that I had found a pot of gold wrapped up in a million-dollar bill, with a diamond as big as my hand on top of it. Call him Kohinoor."

So Kohinoor McCarthy sprang into fame in a day as the mystery of the league.