LEFTY O’ THE BLUE STOCKINGS CHAPTER I THE UNLUCKY SEVENTH It was “Bush” Aldrich, of the Specters, who started the trouble by smashing out a two-base hit in the seventh. Bush was one of the latest acquisitions of that hard-hitting, snappy, scrappy aggregation of Big League talent which had fought its way into the first division, and was giving last season’s pennant winners, the Blue Stockings, a decidedly uncomfortable time holding their all too scanty lead. Bush had already shown his ability to stay with fast company by getting two clean singles off Grist, the Blue Stocking twirler, but fine fielding had prevented either bingle from being effective. Now, however, with one out, and a man on first and third, either through luck or cleverness, he hit again at the psychological moment to cause a break in the hard-fought game. Grist, sure that he had fathomed the youngster’s weakness, tried his sharp outdrop, which had pulled the right fielder more than once before. This time, however, Aldrich was ready for it. Poising a bat that was a bit longer than any he had used before, he stepped in as the ball curved and smote it a crack which brought half the spectators in the crowded stands to their feet with a concerted gasp of dismay. As the sphere whistled out on a line, Larry Dalton, the Blue Stocking second baseman, flung up his hands in a ludicrous gesture of despair. Brock, the slim, speedy center fielder, had already turned his back on the home plate, and was flying toward the fence like a deer that has heard the whistling whine of a hunter’s bullet. Unfortunately, the ball held up better than he expected, and, though he strained every nerve, he saw that there was little chance to make the catch. With a last desperate spurt, he launched himself through the air like a catapult, both hands outstretched. The horsehide struck the ends of his fingers, and a despairing groan rose from the staring fans as it fell to the ground and rolled to one side. Brock snatched it up, and whipped it back into the diamond. Bugs Murray was just jogging over the plate. Logie, the Specter shortstop, had rounded second, and was flying toward third, urged on by staccato promptings from the coaching line. Aldrich was fairly tearing up the ground between first and second. As the sphere came whirling toward the waiting Dalton’s eager hands, Bush slid. The umpire, squatting to watch the play, put his hand out, palm downward; and another groan arose from the stands, punctuated, by protesting yells and bitter comment. “They’re gone!” shouted the Specter captain joyously. “They’re up in the air! Hit her on the nose, Rowdy; you can do it!”