Rival Pitchers of Oakdale | Page 6

rescuing Lela Barker from drowning, Hooker, who never had words of eulogy for anyone save himself, remained silent. Not that he had not come, like others, suddenly to regard the young Texan with respect; but for one of his envious nature respect does not always mean liking, no throb of which was awakened in his bosom. Indeed, he secretly disliked Rodney Grant more than ever, and, now that Springer had taken Grant in hand to make a pitcher of him, Roy's spleen was embittering his very soul.
Elbows on his knees, projecting chin on his clenched fists, he sullenly watched Rod pitch for the first time to batters. Several times he made in his throat a faint sound like a muttered growl of satisfaction, as he saw those batters hitting the ball to all parts of the field, and finally he triumphantly whispered:
"Well, I don't see that he's doing anything. They're pounding him all over the lot."
But, at the suggestion of Eliot, Rodney Grant was simply putting the ball over, now and then using speed, of which he apparently had enough, and occasionally mixing in a curve. Behind the pan Eliot would hold up his big mitt first on one corner then the other, now high, now low, and almost invariably the ball came whistling straight into the pocket of that mitt, which caused Roger to nod his head and brought to his face a faint touch of that rare smile seldom seen there.
"Good control, Rod, old man," he praised. "That's one of the most essential qualities a pitcher can have."
"Bah!" muttered the envious lad on the bleachers. "What's that amount to, if a fellow hasn't the curves at his command?"
Presently, with Barker stepping out to hit, Eliot called Grant, met him ten feet in front of the plate, and they exchanged a few words in low tones, after which Roger returned to his position and gave the regular finger signals that he would use in a game.
Barker slashed at a high one close across his shoulders and missed. He let two wide ones pass, and fouled when a bender cut a corner.
"Two strikes!" cried Sage, who was still umpiring. "Look out or he'll strike you out, Berlin."
With a faint smile, the batter shrugged his shoulders, and then he did his best to meet the next pitched ball, which seemed to be the kind he especially relished. To his surprise, he missed it widely, for the ball took a sharp drop at the proper moment to deceive him.
"You're out," laughed Sage. "He did get you."
"He did for a fact," agreed Berlin. "That was a dandy drop, Grant. I wasn't looking for it."
Rodney put the next one straight over, and Berlin hit to Cooper at short.
Jack Nelson followed, and he was likewise surprised to be struck out, Grant using his drop twice in the performance.
"Hi there, you!" shouted Nelson. "What did you put on the old ball, anyhow? Pitch? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if you could, some."
"You bet he will," called Phil Springer delightedly. "I'll have him delivering the goods before the season is half over."
"Bah!" again muttered Hooker. "You're a fool, Springer."
Later he saw Eliot and Barker talking together not far from the bench, and near them stood Herbert Rackliff, a city boy who had entered Oakdale Academy at the opening of the spring term.
Rackliff was a chap whose clothes were the envy of almost every lad in town, being tailor-made, of the latest cut and the finest fabric. His ties and his socks, a generous portion of the latter displayed by the up-rolled bottoms of his trousers, were always of a vivid hue and usually of silk. His highly-polished russet shoes were scarcely browner than the tips of two fingers of his right hand, which outside of school hours were constantly dallying with a cigarette. He had rings and scarf pins, and a gold watch with a handsome seal fob. His face was pale and a trifle hollow-cheeked, his chest flat, and his muscles, lacking exercise, sadly undeveloped. For Rackliff took no part in outdoor sports of any sort, protesting that too much exertion gave him palpitation of the heart.
Hooker was still sitting hunched on the bleachers, when Rackliff, having lighted a fresh cigarette, came sauntering languidly toward him.
"Hello, Roy, old sport," saluted the city youth. "You look lonesome."
"I'm not," retorted Hooker shortly.
"Well, you're not practicing, and you must be tired of watching the animals perform. I came over to kill a little time, but it's grown monotonous for me, and I'm going to beat it."
"I think I'll get out myself," said Hooker, descending from the bleachers.
Rackliff accompanied him to the gymnasium, where Roy hastened to strip off his baseball togs and get into his regular clothes.
"What made you quit pitching so soon?" questioned the city lad, lingering near.