Lefty o' the Bush E-Book

Burt L. Standish

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Kingsbridge had taken the field for practice, the visitors having warmed up already. The Northern League, a genuine “bush” organization, had opened two days earlier in Bancroft and Fryeburg, but this was to be the first game of the season in Kingsbridge, a hustling, crude, though ambitious pulp-mill town.
As it was Saturday afternoon, when the mills closed down at three o’clock, there was certain to be a big crowd in attendance, double assurance of which could be seen in the rapidly filling grand stand and bleachers, and the steady stream of humanity pouring in through the gates.
 
As Riley approached, a lean, sallow man, with a hawk-beak nose, rose from the home bench and nodded, holding out a bony hand, which, cold as a dead fish, was almost smothered in the pudgy paw put forth to meet it.

Leseprobe

LEFTY O’ THE BUSH

SPIKES FIRST, LOCKE SLID.

LEFTY O’ THE BUSH

BY

BURT L. STANDISH

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385744649

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I

Out in the Bush

II

Under Cover

III

The Man to Pitch

IV

The Parson’s Daughter

V

A Bad Beginning

VI

“Take Him Out!”

VII

Himself Again

VIII

Steadying Down

IX

Some Pitching!

X

A Pitchers’ Battle

XI

On the Raw Edge

XII

The “Squeeze Play”

XIII

The Last Strike-Out

XIV

After the Game

XV

Man to Man

XVI

Benton King Awakens

XVII

Father and Daughter

XVIII

The Green-Eyed Monster

XIX

The Agitation in Bancroft

XX

Men of Conscience!

XXI

A Secret Meeting

XXII

Riley Shoots His Bolt

XXIII

Lefty’s Fickle Memory

XXIV

A Matter of Veracity

XXV

The Test and the Denial

XXVI

Was It a Bluff?

XXVII

The Item in the News

XXVIII

The Gage Flung Down

XXIX

The Frame-Up

XXX

The Letter in the Desk

XXXI

Tom, Tommy and Janet

XXXII

The Initials

XXXIII

King Aroused

XXXIV

Given the Lie

XXXV

The Photograph

XXXVI

Crumbled Castles

XXXVII

The Bell Boy

XXXVIII

“And Did Not Understand”

XXXIX

Bancroft Comes to Conquer

XL

Pinwheel Murtel

XLI

Gone Wrong

XLII

A Sudden Shift

XLIII

A Game Worth Winning

XLIV

Facing His Accusers

XLV

The Forgery

XLVI

Cleared Up

LEFTY O’ THE BUSH

CHAPTER IOUT IN THE BUSH

A

fter running his eye over the Kingsbridge batting order, Mike Riley, manager of the Bancroft “Bullies,” rolled the black cigar well into the corner of his mouth, lifted himself ponderously to his feet, and walked across toward the bench of the home team.

Kingsbridge had taken the field for practice, the visitors having warmed up already. The Northern League, a genuine “bush” organization, had opened two days earlier in Bancroft and Fryeburg, but this was to be the first game of the season in Kingsbridge, a hustling, crude, though ambitious pulp-mill town.

As it was Saturday afternoon, when the mills closed down at three o’clock, there was certain to be a big crowd in attendance, double assurance of which could be seen in the rapidly filling grand stand and bleachers, and the steady stream of humanity pouring in through the gates.

As Riley approached, a lean, sallow man, with a hawk-beak nose, rose from the home bench and nodded, holding out a bony hand, which, cold as a dead fish, was almost smothered in the pudgy paw put forth to meet it.

“Hello, Hutch!” gurgled the manager of the Bullies, with a show of cordiality, although he quickly dropped the chilling hand. “How’s tricks? See you took a fall outer Fryeburg yistidday.”

“Yes, we got away with it,” answered the local manager, in a monotonous, dead-level voice, lacking wholly in enthusiasm. “But the ‘Brownies’ are a cinch; nothing but a bunch of raw kids.”

“Uh-huh!” grunted Riley, twisting his thumb into the huge watch chain which spanned the breadth of his bulging waistcoat; “that’s right. Still, you didn’t have much leeway to spare, did ye?”

“Put it over by one measly run, that’s all. Deever’s arm went on the blink in the seventh, and the greenhorns came near hammering out a win. Locke managed to hold ’em.”

“Who is this Locke? I see he’s down to wing ’em for you to-day. Where’d you find him, huh?”

“Don’t ask me who he is. I never heard of him before. He’s some green dub of a port-side flinger old man Cope picked up. You know Cope used to play the game back in the days of the Deluge, and he thinks he knows all about it. As he’s chairman of the Kingsbridge Baseball Association, and one of the heaviest backers of the team, folks round here let him meddle enough to keep him appeased. All the same, long as they’ve hired me to manage, I’m going to manage, after I’ve shown ’em how much Cope don’t know about it.”

“That’s the talk, Hutch,” chuckled the Bancroft manager. “You’ve got some team, and you oughter be able to make it interestin’ for the rest of us, if the rubes let you have your swing. It was that old fox, Cope, who got Deever away from me arter I had Pat as good as signed, which makes me feel a bit raw, natural. Outside of Deever, and Locke, and a few others, I s’pose the team’s practically your make-up?”

“Then you’ve got another guess coming,” returned Bob Hutchinson. “Skillings, Lace, Crandall, and Hickey make the whole of my picking; Cope practically got together the rest of the bunch. But wait; some of ’em won’t hold their jobs long, between you and me, Mike.

“Perhaps we hadn’t better chin any longer, for I see we’re being watched, and the people of this town are so hot against Bancroft, and you in particular, that they might get suspicious, and think there was something crooked doing if we talked too long.”

“Guess that’s right,” admitted Riley. “They ain’t got no love for me in Kingsbridge, ’count of our rubbing it inter them last year. Makes me laugh, the way they squealed. They were so sore they swore they’d have a team to beat us this year at any cost. That’s how you got your job; they decided to have a reg’ler manager, who could give all his time and attention to handlin’ the team. Sorry for you, Hutch, but if they beat Bancroft under the wire with the bunch they’ve scraped together, I’ll quit the game for good. So long.”

Having learned that Hutchinson was not wholly responsible for the make-up of the Kingsbridge nine, Riley did not hesitate to express himself in this manner, thus betraying the disdain in which he really held his opponents of the day.

Only once since the organization of the so-called Northern League, which really had very little organization whatever, being run, like many small, back-country “leagues,” in a loose, hit-or-miss fashion—only once had Bancroft failed to win the championship; and that year Riley, a minor leaguer before age and avoirdupois had deposited him in the can, had not handled the club.

Bancroft was a city, and it cut her fans deeply to be downed on the diamond by a smaller place, besides severely wounding in their pockets some of the sports who had wagered real money. Hence the former successful manager was called back to the job, at which he was always prepared to make good through any means available.

Kingsbridge had entered the league the previous season, filling the place of a town that, loaded with baseball debts, and discouraged by poor success, had dropped out. Owing its existence to Cyrus King, lumberman and pulp manufacturer, Kingsbridge was barely four years old, yet its inhabitants already numbered nearly five thousand.

Furthermore, it was confidently looking forward to the time, believed to be not far distant, when it should outstrip the already envious city of Bancroft, and become the “metropolis” of that particular region.

While pretending to scoff at the “mushroom village,” Bancroft was secretly disturbed and worried, fearing the day when Kingsbridge, through the enterprise of its citizens, the interest and power of its founder, and the coming of a second railroad, which was seeking a charter, would really forge to the front, and leave the “big town down the river” in the lurch. Therefore, quite naturally, the rivalry between the two places was intense in other things besides baseball.

There is nothing like the game, however, to bring to the surface the jealousies and rivalries existing between towns having contending teams; something about the game is certain to tear open old sores and stir up ancient animosities apparently long forgotten.

Especially is this true in minor leagues and “out in the bush,” where not infrequently it appears to the chance stranger that whole towns—men, women, and children—have gone baseball crazy.

It is in such places that one may see the game, as a game, at its best—and its worst. Here victory or defeat assumes a tragic importance that must seem laughable to the ordinary city fan; the former being frequently the cause of rejoicing and celebrating, sometimes with fireworks and brass bands, while the latter will cast over the community a cloud of gloom which could be equaled only by an appalling catastrophe.

This intensity of feeling and emotion may scarcely be understood by a person who has never followed with individual interest the fortunes of a backwoods team, tasting the sweet intoxication of triumph, hard earned and contested to the last ditch, or the heartbreaking bitterness of defeat and shattered hopes.

CHAPTER IIUNDER COVER

K

ingsbridge, with its pulp-mill and saw-mill laborers, was precisely the sort of a place to back a team to the limit, and to demand a winning club, regardless of expense.

On Saturdays, because of the early shutting down of the mills, nearly all the laborers could get out to witness the contests, and few there were who failed to attend, unless sickness or imperative necessity kept them away. In fact, on the last day of the week, the attendance in that town was as large as the average turnout in Bancroft.

The mill town’s initial experience had been most unsatisfactory and discouraging. Starting out with a nine made up of youngsters, among whom were college men and high-school boys, it had made a promising beginning, actually standing at the head of the league for almost three weeks, and then fighting Bancroft for first place for an equal length of time.

But the youngsters did not seem to have staying qualities, and this, combined with poor management and the “fair-or-foul” methods of the Bullies, had eventually sent Kingsbridge down the ladder to finish the season at the very foot of the list.

This failure, however, simply aroused the town to grim determination, bringing about the organization of a baseball association which included many of the leading citizens, Henry Cope, who kept the largest general store in town, being chosen chairman. The association pledged itself to put a winning team on to the field, and Cope, having considerable knowledge of baseball and players, set to work in midwinter preparing for the coming campaign. He was given a comparatively free hand by his associates, although, in order that Bancroft might not hear and get wise, the purpose of his movements was kept secret until it was almost time for the league to open.

Then it became known that Bob Hutchinson, a manager who had handled teams in one of the well known minor leagues, had been secured to take charge of the “Kinks.” It was also made public that a team of fast and experienced players throughout had been signed, and the names of several of these players were printed in the sporting column of the Bancroft News.

Hope flamed high in Kingsbridge. The topic of the street corners was baseball. It was freely proclaimed that the town was prepared to take a heavy fall out of Bancroft, and would begin by downing the “hated enemy” in the very first clash, which was scheduled to occur in the down-river city.

Of course a few pessimistic killjoys, of whom every community must have its quota, scoffed at the efforts and expectations of the enthusiasts, declaring it was not possible for a place no larger than Kingsbridge, no matter how earnestly it might try, to defeat a city with Bancroft’s record and resources. These croakers were not popular, yet their gloomy prophecies awakened misgivings in many a heart.

In Bancroft the midwinter silence of Kingsbridge had aroused some alarm lest the mill town, troubled with cold feet, should fail to come to the scratch when the season opened, which would make it necessary to lure some other place into the fold, or run the league three-cornered, something most unpleasant and undesirable.

Even when Kingsbridge sent a representative to attend the usual annual meeting of the league association, the quiet declination of that representative to give out any particulars concerning the personnel of the up-river team had left a feeling of uneasiness, despite his repeated assurance that there would be such a team.

Later, on the appearance of the newspaper report that Kingsbridge had engaged Bob Hutchinson as manager, and the publication of an incomplete roster of the mill-town players, Bancroft’s relief and satisfaction had been tempered by alarm of a different nature. For it now became apparent that the city’s ambitious rival had all along been quietly at work preparing to spring a surprise in the form of an unusually strong nine that would make the other clubs go some, right from the call of “play.”

Mike Riley had not sought to allay this final feeling of apprehension; on the contrary, for purely personal reasons, he fostered it. For would it not encourage the backers of his team, believing as they did in his sound baseball sense, to give him even greater liberty in management? And when he should again win the championship, as he secretly and egotistically felt certain of doing, the luster of the accomplishment must seem far more dazzling than usual.

After Bancroft’s opening-day success, when she had rubbed it into the Kinks to the tune of 8 to 4, Riley became completely satisfied that the Kingsbridge nine was a false alarm.

Aware of Hutchinson’s particular weaknesses, he had never really feared the man; but let this much be said to Riley’s credit: whenever possible, he preferred to capture victory by the skill and fighting ability of his team, rather than through secret deals and shady, underhanded methods. And he always developed a team of aggressive, browbeating fighters; hence the far-from-pleasing appellation of “Bullies.”

In her second game, Kingsbridge’s victory over Fryeburg had come as a surprise to Manager Riley, whose judgment had led him to believe that the Brownies would also open the season with a triumph on their own field. Hence his desire to question Hutchinson about it.

Tom Locke, the new pitcher who had relieved Pat Deever when the Fryeburgers took Deever’s measure in the seventh, was an unknown to Riley, and, the chap being slated to go against Bancroft this day, Mike had sought information concerning him.

Hutchinson, however, could tell him nothing save that the young man had been signed by Henry Cope; but, holding Cope’s baseball judgment openly in contempt, this seemed sufficiently relieving, and, complacently chewing his black cigar, he confidently returned to the Bancroft bench.

CHAPTER IIITHE MAN TO PITCH

T

o the left of the bench, which was set well back against the railing in front of the third-base bleachers, on which a carload of Bancroft fans were bunched, Jock Hoover, the star slabman of the team, was warming up with Bingo Bangs, the catcher.

Hoover, speedy, pugnacious, with an arm of iron, the face of a Caliban, and the truculence of an Attila, was well calculated to inspire respect and fear when on the mound; and his mid-season acquirement by Bancroft the year before had doubtless fixed that team in first position, and marked the assured downfall of Kingsbridge, against whom he was most frequently worked.

In Bancroft, Hoover was admired and toadied; in Kingsbridge he was most cordially hated. More than once his intimidating methods on the latter field had come perilously close to producing a riot, which, had it ever started among the mill men, must have been a nasty affair.

Never in the most threatening moments of the rough crowd’s clamoring, however, had Hoover turned a hair. Always through it all he had sneered and grinned contemptuously, apparently inviting assault, and showing disappointment when the better element among the crowd, who cared for the sport as a sport, and knew the harm to the game that a pitched battle must bring, succeeded in holding the hot-headed and reckless ones in check.

Biting off the end of his cigar, Riley stood watching Hoover meditatively. Out on the field the locals were getting in the last snappy bit of preliminary practice, and the game would begin in a few minutes. The manager’s eyes had left Hoover and sought “Butch” Prawley, one of the other two pitchers, when a hand touched his arm, and some one spoke to him. Rolling his head toward his shoulder, he saw “Fancy” Dyke standing on the other side of the rail.

Francis Dyke, a young sporting man of Bancroft, was one of the backers of the team. To him a baseball game on which he had not placed a wager worth while was necessarily slow and uninteresting, even though well fought and contested to the finish. Son of a horseman who had won and lost big sums on the turf, Fancy, apparently inheriting the gaming instinct, had turned to baseball with the decline of racing. His nickname came through his taste for flashy clothes.

“Don’t you do it,” said Dyke, vapory bits of bluish cigarette smoke curling from his thin lips as he spoke.

“Do what?” grunted Riley in surprise.

“Run in Prawley. You were thinking of letting Hoover squat on the bench.”

“How’d you know that?” asked the manager, still more surprised.

“Saw it on your face.”

“If my mug gives me away in that fashion, I’ll trade it for another,” growled Mike, in displeasure. “But why not pitch Prawley? He can swaller that bunch, one after another, without greasin’. This is our first game here, and Jock ain’t so pop’ler in this town.”

“What do you care about that? It’s our first game here, and we want it, to hold first place. If they should happen to trim us to-day, they’d have us tied.”

With the mutilated and lifeless cigar gripped in his coarse teeth, Riley pulled down the corners of his big mouth disdainfully. “Trim us—with that bunch of scrubs and has-beens! Why, they couldn’t do it if I went in and pitched myself.”

“Take it from me, ’tain’t wise to be so cocksure. I’ve been watching their new pitcher warm up. He’s a southpaw.”

“And a green one from the scrub pastures somewhere. The boys will send him to the stable in about three innin’s.”

“Perhaps. But I walked over in range while he was limbering his flinger, and he’s got a few good benders, not to mention some speed. You don’t want to forget that we’ve got five left-hand batters, and a southpaw that can really pitch may bother ’em some. I reckon that’s just why they’ve raked in this feller Locke.”

“Don’t you b’lieve it. Just spoke to Hutch about him, and Hutch don’t know no more’n you or me. Old Cope signed Locke and the most of the team, and he’d never figger on a lefty worryin’ us because we’ve got so many left-hand hitters.”

“That,” persisted Dyke, “don’t alter the conditions any. This Locke stopped Fryeburg after they blanketed Deever, and Kingsbridge wants this game to-day—bad. I’ve heard some of the Bridgers talkin’, and they’re plenty confident, thinking they’ve got a wiz in this southpaw kid.

“To-morrow’s Sunday, and Hoover can rest,” he added. “He’s hard as nails, and you won’t hurt him, even if you have to use him again Monday. Always play the game safe when you can—that’s my motto. I’ll take chances, all right, if I have to, but I’ve never yet let my conscience fret me into ducking a bet on a sure thing. Hoover is the Kinks’ hoodoo, and it ought to be pretty safe with him handing ’em.”

“Safe,” gurgled Riley, highly amused. “I should guess yes. They think they’ve got some players, but, with Hutchinson furnishin’ only four out of the ’leven men they have, as he told me, and Cope diggin’ up the rest, most of ’em holdovers from last year, it’s a joke.

“Why, I let old Cope have Pat Deever, though he thinks he got Deever away from me. Just as I was about to close with Pat, I got it straight that he’d put his wing on the blink for fair, and, by pretendin’ I was hot after Deever all the time, I helped him make a fancy deal with Cope.

“Pat was batted out by the Brownies after fooling ’em along to the seventh with a slow ball that made him sweat drops of blood ev’ry time he boosted it over the pan; but he’s foxy, and he’ll manage to hang on by bluffing ’em that his arm’ll come round soon, see if he don’t,” added Riley. “The only pitcher they’ve got is Skillings, and even he’s frappéd his wing, pitchin’ the drop all the time, which he has to, as he’s a mark when he lets up on it.”

“You’re manager,” said Fancy, “and I’m not trying to show you; but I hope you’ll play safe by sending Hoover out to start with. If it proves so easy, you can pull him out when you see the game is clinched.”

“All right. Jock’s name is on the battin’ order, and I’ll let him start her off.”

CHAPTER IVTHE PARSON’S DAUGHTER

D

yke expressed satisfaction, and the hazelnut sparkler in his blazing red tie reflected varicolored gleams from its many facets, as his cupped hands held a burning match to light a fresh cigarette.

As he flung aside the match, and chanced to glance past the far end of the bleachers, his black eyes glinted on beholding a girl in a light dress, shading herself with a pale-blue parasol, and seated in a carriage that had just drawn up in line with others out there. A span of spirited and extremely restless bays were attached to the carriage. At the girl’s side, wearing a light suit, straw hat, and tan driving gloves, sat a square-shouldered young man.

“Hel-lo!” breathed Fancy. “There’s old man King’s cub, with the parson’s daughter. I don’t blame him, for she certainly is some peach. She must be getting independent; last year I offered to get her a season ticket, but she said her hidebound old man wouldn’t let her come to the games, which he considered sinful and poisonous to the morals of the community.”

“Huh!” grunted Riley, eyeing the girl in the carriage. “She’s a year older now, and mebbe she’s given the old pulpit pounder notice that she proposes henceforth to do about as she pleases. I’ve heard she’s ruther high-strung and lively.”

“Well, she’s taking a chance with Bent King, ’cording to his college record. He cut it out so hot that he was fired the second year, and then his old man, feeling somewhat peeved, set him to work in the big mill here. Now the brat’s foreman of the mill, though I reckon it was his father that put him there over better men, and not his ability.”

“Oh, you’re jealous,” chuckled the manager. “She turned you down when you tried to git gay, that’s what’s the matter. You oughter considered, Fancy, that your record was agin’ ye, and that you was known by reputation in Kingsbridge, just as well as in Bancroft. I’ve noticed the right sorter gals don’t travel in your society extensively.”

Dyke’s thin cheek took on a faint flush, and he gnawed with his sharp white teeth one corner of his close-cropped, small black mustache.

“I reckon she’d be as safe with me as with Bent King,” he retorted. “Of course, I know what her old man would think of me; but in these days girls don’t tell their folks about every man they’re friendly with.”

“There’s old Cope speakin’ to her now,” said Riley. “Looket him take the cover off that skatin’ rink of his. There’s real swagger gallantry for ye, Flash.”

A stout, red-faced, jolly-looking man in a somewhat soiled snuff-colored suit had paused beside the carriage to lift his hat and speak to the girl, who greeted him with a charming smile and a show of fetching dimples.

“Howdy-do, Janet,” said the man on the ground. “I’m s’prised to see you here, though I b’lieve you did tell me you was crazy over baseball. Your father’s so set agin’ it that I didn’t s’pose he’d let you come. Howdy-do, Benton. Fine day for the opening.”

“Oh, father is as bad as ever,” laughed the girl; “but I told Bent how much I wanted to come, and he drove round and used his persuasion with daddy, who finally consented, after getting a promise that I would sit in the carriage and not step out of it. It was jolly nice of Benton, for I am crazy over the game, and I’d go to see one every day if I could.”

She was fresh and girlish and unaffected, yet, somehow, she did not give one the impression of crudity and silliness so often shown by a vivacious, blue-eyed blonde. Although very pretty, she was not doll-like, and one who studied her mobile, changeful face would soon discover there, as well as in her voice and manner, unmistakable signs of good breeding and character. Her eyes were unusual; one could not look into their depths without feeling irresistibly attracted toward her.

The young man at her side, a well-set-up chap a trifle above medium height, was the only son of Cyrus King. He was not more than twenty-four, and had a somewhat cynical, haughty face, with a pair of flashing dark eyes and petulant mouth. Nevertheless, when he laughed, which he did quite frequently, he was attractive, almost handsome.

“Yes, Cope,” he nodded, as the older man brought forth a handkerchief and mopped his perspiring bald head; “it certainly is a good day for the opening, and there’s a cracking crowd out to see it. They’re beginning to overflow the seats. Suppose we have any show at all to win?”

“Hey?” cried the chairman of the baseball association. “Any show to win? You bet we have! We’re goin’ to win. We’ve got to have this first game at home.”

“But we’re up against Bancroft, and I see Jock Hoover has just finished warming up to pitch for them.”