Sizing up the Swede, Lefty tested him with a curve, but Oleson betrayed no disposition to reach. A drop followed, and the batter fouled it. His style of swinging led the southpaw to fancy that he had a preference for drops, and therefore Locke wound the next one round his neck, puncturing his weakness. Not only did Oleson miss, but he swung in a manner that made it doubtful if he would drive the ball out of the infield if he happened to hit one of that kind. "Hit it where you missed it!" implored Wiley. "Don't let him bamboozle you with the chin wipers." Then he turned on O'Reilley. "Cast off that mooring! Break your anchor loose and get under way! Man the halyards and crack on every stitch! You've got to make port when Ole stings the horsehide." In spite of himself, Lefty was compelled to laugh outright at the Marine Marvel's coaching contortions. "Calm yourself, cap'n," he advised. "The hurricane is over." "How can I calm myself when calamity threatens?" was the wild retort. "You are a base deceiver, Lefty. Such chicanery is shameful! I don't know what chicanery means, but it seems to fit the offense." And now the spectators fell to laughing at the swarthy little man, who did not seem to be so very offensive, after all, and who was injecting more than a touch of vaudeville comedy into the game. Oleson waited patiently, still determined to hit, although somewhat dismayed by his two failures to gauge the left-hander's slants. But when Lefty suddenly gave him another exactly like the last, he slashed at it awkwardly and fruitlessly. The crowd broke into a cheer, and the Swede turned dazedly from the plate, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. "That Lefty he bane some pitcher," admitted Oleson. "He got a good yump ball." CHAPTER IX TORTURING DOUBT To a degree, Locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been a sheer waste of time. Working against batters who were dangerous, his artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would hold them in check. He had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted to his natural form. But what would that do to his shoulder? Could he pitch like that and go the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? Should he attempt it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last heart-breaking game in the Big League. Involuntarily, as he left the mound, he looked around for Weegman, who had disappeared. It gave Lefty some satisfaction to feel that, for the time being, at least, he had wiped the mocking grin from the schemer's face.