Zane Grey .................................................................................................................................................1

There was Delaney's redhaired trioRed Gilbat, left fielder; Reddy Clammer, right fielder, and Reddie

Ray, center fielder, composing the most remarkable outfield ever developed in minor league baseball. It was

Red Gilbat was nuttyand his batting average was .371. Any student of baseball could weigh these two facts

against each other and understand something of Delaney's trouble. It was not possible to camp on Red

Gilbat's trail. The man was a jacko'lantern, a willo'thewisp, a weird, long legged, longarmed,

redhaired illusive phantom. When the gong rang at the ball grounds there were ten chances to one that Red

would not be present. He had been discovered with small boys peeping through knotholes at the vacant left

Of course what Red did off the ball grounds was not so important as what he did on. And there was

absolutely no telling what under the sun he might do then except once out of every three times at bat he could

Reddy Clammer was a grandstand playerthe kind all managers hatedand he was hitting .305. He made

circus catches, circus stops, circus throws, circus stealsbut particularly circus catches. That is to say, he

made easy plays appear difficult. He was always strutting, posing, talking, arguing, quarrelingwhen he was

not engaged in making a grandstand play. Reddy Clammer used every possible incident and artifice to bring

Reddie Ray had been the intercollegiate champion in the sprints and a famous college ball player. After a few

months of professional ball he was hitting over .400 and leading the league both at bat and on the bases. It

was a beautiful and a thrilling sight to see him run. He was so quick to start, so marvelously swift, so keen of

judgment, that neither Delaney nor any player could ever tell the hit that he was not going to get. That was

Delaney's Rochester Stars and the Providence Grays were tied for first place. Of the present series each team

had won a game. Rivalry had always been keen, and as the teams were about to enter the long homestretch

The September day was perfect. The stands were half full and the bleachers packed with a whitesleeved

mass. And the field was beautifully level and green. The Grays were practicing and the Stars were on their

``We're up against it,'' Delaney was saying. ``This new umpire, Fuller, hasn't got it in for us. Oh, no, not at

all! Believe me, he's a robber. But Scott is pitchin' well. Won his last three games. He'll bother 'em. And the

three Reds have broken loose. They're on the rampage. They'll burn up this place today.''

Delaney gave a sudden start. ``Why, Gil was here,'' he said slowly. ``Lord!he's about due for a nutty stunt.''

Whereupon Delaney sent boys and players scurrying about to find Gilbat, and Delaney went himself to ask

Presently somebody brought Delaney a telephone message that Red Gilbat was playing ball with some boys

in a lot four blocks down the street. When at length a couple of players marched up to the bench with Red in

tow Delaney uttered an immense sigh of relief and then, after a close scrutiny of Red's face, he whispered,

Then the gong rang. The Grays trooped in. The Stars ran out, except Gilbat, who ambled like a giraffe. The

hum of conversation in the grand stand quickened for a moment with the scraping of chairs, and then grew

quiet. The bleachers sent up the rollicking cry of expectancy. The umpire threw out a white ball with his

Hitting safely, he started the game with a rush. With Dorr up, the Star infield played for a bunt. Like

clockwork Dorr dumped the first ball as Blake got his flying start for second base. Morrissey tore in for the

ball, got it on the run and snapped it underhand to Healy, beating the runner by an inch. The fast Blake, with

a long slide, made third base. The stands stamped. The bleachers howled. White, next man up, batted a high

fly to left field. This was a sun field and the hardest to play in the league. Red Gilbat was the only man who

ever played it well. He judged the fly, waited under it, took a step hack, then forward, and deliberately caught

the ball in his gloved hand. A throwin to catch the runner scoring from third base would have been futile,

but it was not like Red Gilbat to fail to try. He tossed the ball to O'Brien. And Blake scored amid applause.

``What do you know about that?'' ejaculated Delaney, wiping his moist face. ``I never before saw our nutty

The first five players on the list for the Grays were lefthanded batters, and against a right handed pitcher

whose most effective ball for them was a high fast one over the outer corner they would naturally hit toward

left field. It was no surprise to see Hanley bat a skyscraper out to left. Red had to run to get under it. He

braced himself rather unusually for a fielder. He tried to catch the ball in his bare right hand and muffed it,

Hanley got to second on the play while the audience roared. When they got through there was some roaring

among the Rochester players. Scott and Captain Healy roared at Red, and Red roared back at them.

``It's all off. Red never did that before,'' cried Delaney in despair. ``He's gone clean bughouse now.''

Babcock was the next man up and he likewise hit to left. It was a low, twisting ballhalf fly, half linerand

a difficult one to field. Gilbat ran with great bounds, and though he might have got two hands on the ball he

The Stars trotted in, Scott and Healy and Kane, all veterans, looking like thunderclouds. Red ambled in the

``By Gosh, I'd 'a' ketched that one I muffed if I'd had time to change hands,'' he said with a grin, and he

exposed a handful of peanuts. He had refused to drop the peanuts to make the catch with two hands. That

explained the mystery. It was funny, yet nobody laughed. There was that run chalked up against the Stars,

``Red, II want to take the team home in the lead,'' said Delaney, and it was plain that he suppressed strong

Then he strode to the plate, swinging his wagon tongue bat. For all his awkward position in the box he

looked what he wasa formidable hitter. He seemed to tower over the pitcherRed was six feet oneand

he scowled and shook his bat at Wehying and called, ``Put one overyou wienerwurst!'' Wehying was

anything but red headed, and he wasted so many balls on Red that it looked as if he might pass him. He

would have passed him, too, if Red had not stepped over on the fourth ball and swung on it. White at second

base leaped high for the stinging hit, and failed to reach it. The ball struck and bounded for the fence. When

Babcock fielded it in, Red was standing on third base, and the bleachers groaned.

Whereupon Chesty Reddy Clammer proceeded to draw attention to himself, and incidentally delay the game,

by assorting the bats as if the audience and the game might gladly wait years to see him make a choice.

``Aw, take my bat, Duke of the Abrubsky!'' sarcastically said Dump Kane. When the grouchy Kane offered to

Other retorts followed, which Reddy Clammer deigned not to notice. At last he got a bat that suited

himand then, importantly, dramatically, with his cap jauntily riding his red locks, he marched to the plate.

Some wag in the bleachers yelled into the silence, ``Oh, Maggie, your lover has come!''

Not improbably Clammer was thinking first of his presence before the multitude, secondly of his batting

average and thirdly of the run to be scored. In this instance he waited and feinted at balls and fouled strikes at

length to work his base. When he got to first base suddenly he bolted for second, and in the surprise of the

Delaney snorted. Then the look of profound disgust vanished in a flash of light. His huge face beamed.

There was something about Reddie Ray that pleased all the senses. His lithe form seemed instinct with life;

any sudden movement was suggestive of stored lightning. His position at the plate was on the left side, and

he stood perfectly motionless, with just a hint of tense waiting alertness. Dorr, Blake and Babcock, the

outfielders for the Grays, trotted round to the right of their usual position. Delaney smiled derisively, as if he

knew how futile it was to tell what field Reddie Ray might hit into. Wehying, the old fox, warily eyed the

youngster, and threw him a high curve, close in. It grazed Reddie's shirt, but he never moved a hair. Then

Wehying, after the manner of many veteran pitchers when trying out a new and menacing batter, drove a

straight fast ball at Reddie's head. Reddie ducked, neither too slow nor too quick, just right to show what an

eye he had, how hard it was to pitch to. The next was a strike. And on the next he appeared to step and swing

in one action. There was a ringing rap, and the ball shot toward right, curving down, a vicious, headed hit.

Mallory, at first base, snatched at it and found only the air. Babcock had only time to take a few sharp steps,

and then he plunged down, blocked the hit and fought the twisting ball. Reddie turned first base, flitted on

toward second, went headlong in the dust, and shot to the base before White got the throwin from Babcock.

Then, as White wheeled and lined the ball home to catch the scoring Clammer, Reddie Ray leaped up, got his

sprinter's start and, like a rocket, was off for third. This time he dove behind the base, sliding in a half circle,

and as Hanley caught Strickland's perfect throw and whirled with the ball, Reddie's hand slid to the bag.

Reddie got to his feet amid a rather breathless silence. Even the coachers were quiet. There was a moment of

This was Dump Kane. There was a sign of some kind, almost imperceptible, between Kane and Reddie. As

Wehying half turned in his swing to pitch, Reddie Ray bounded homeward. It was not so much the boldness

of his action as the amazing swiftness of it that held the audience spellbound. Like a thunderbolt Reddie came

down the line, almost beating Wehying's pitch to the plate. But Kane's bat intercepted the ball, laying it

down, and Reddie scored without sliding. Dorr, by sharp work, just managed to throw Kane out.

Three runs so quick it was hard to tell how they had come. Not in the major league could there have been

``There you are,'' said Delaney, hoarsely. ``Can you beat it? If you've been wonderin' how the cripped Stars

won so many games just put what you've seen in your pipe and smoke it. Red Gilbat gets onReddy

The game went on, and though it did not exactly drag it slowed down considerably. Morrissey and Healy

were retired on infield plays. And the sides changed. For the Grays, O'Brien made a scratch hit, went to

second on Strickland's sacrifice, stole third and scored on Mallory's infield out. Wehying missed three strikes.

In the Stars' turn the three end players on the batting list were easily disposed of. In the third inning the clever

Blake, aided by a base on balls and a hit following, tied the score, and once more struck fire and brimstone

from the impatient bleachers. Providence was a town that had to have its team win.

``Where's Red? Where's the bug? Where's the nut? Delaney, did you lock the gates? Look under the bench!''

These and other remarks, not exactly elegant, attested to the mental processes of some of the Stars. Red

Gilbat did not appear to be forthcoming. There was an anxious delay Capt. Healy searched for the missing

Suddenly a door under the grand stand opened and Red Gilbat appeared. He hurried for his bat and then up to

the plate. And he never offered to hit one of the balls Wehying shot over. When Fuller had called the third

Lord Chesterfield Clammer paraded to the batter's box and, after gradually surveying the field, as if picking

out the exact place he meant to drive the ball, he stepped to the plate. Then a roar from the bleachers

``Well, I'll be doggoned!'' exclaimed Delaney. ``Red stole that sure as shootin'.''

Red Gilbat was pushing a brandnew baby carriage toward the batter's box. There was a tittering in the grand

stand; another roar from the bleachers. Clammer's face turned as red as his hair. Gilbat shoved the baby

carriage upon the plate, spread wide his long arms, made a short presentation speech and an elaborate bow,

All eyes were centered on Clammer. If he had taken it right the incident might have passed without undue

hilarity. But Clammer became absolutely wild with rage. It was well known that he was unmarried. Equally

well was it seen that Gilbat had executed one of his famous tricks. Ball players were inclined to be dignified

about the presentation of gifts upon the field, and Clammer, the dude, the swell, the lady's man, the favorite

of the baseball godsin his own estimation so far lost control of himself that he threw his bat at his

retreating tormentor. Red jumped high and the bat skipped along the ground toward the bench. The players

sidestepped and leaped and, of course, the bat cracked one of Delaney's big shins. His eyes popped with pain,

but he could not stop laughing. One by one the players lay down and rolled over and yelled. The superior

From the grand stand floated the laughter of ladies and gentlemen. And from the bleachers that throne of

the biting, ironic, scornful fans pealed up a howl of delight. It lasted for a full minute. Then, as quiet

ensued, some boy blew a blast of one of those infernal little instruments of pipe and rubber balloon, and over

the field wailed out a shrill, highkeyed cry, an excellent imitation of a baby. Whereupon the whole audience

To make his chagrin all the worse he ingloriously struck out. And then he strode away under the lea of the

Reddie Ray went to bat and, with the infield playing deep and the outfield swung still farther round to the

right, he bunted a little teasing ball down the thirdbase line. Like a flash of light he had crossed first base

before Hanley got his hands on the ball. Then Kane hit into second base, forcing Reddie out.

Again the game assumed less spectacular and more ordinary play. Both Scott and Wehying held the batters

safely and allowed no runs. But in the fifth inning, with the Stars at bat and two out, Red Gilbat again

electrified the field. He sprang up from somewhere and walked to the plate, his long shape enfolded in a

fulllength linen duster. The color and style of this garment might not have been especially striking, but upon

Red it had a weird and wonderful effect. Evidently Red intended to bat while arrayed in his long coat, for he

stepped into the box and faced the pitcher. Capt. Healy yelled for him to take the duster off. Likewise did the

The bleachers shrieked their disapproval. To say the least, Red Gilbat's crazy assurance was dampening to the

ardor of the most blindly confident fans. At length Umpire Fuller waved his hand, enjoining silence and

From his lofty height Gilbat gazed down upon the little umpire, and it was plain what he thought.

Fuller showed willingness to overlook Red's back talk as well as costume, and he called, ``Play!''

There was a mounting sensation of prophetic certainty. Old fox Wehying appeared nervous. He wasted two

balls on Red; then he put one over the plate, and then he wasted another. Three balls and one strike! That was

a bad place for a pitcher, and with Red Gilbat up it was worse. Wehying swung longer and harder to get all

his left behind the throw and let drive. Red lunged and cracked the ball. It went up and up and kept going up

and farther out, and as the murmuring audience was slowly transfixed into late realization the ball soared to

Red Gilbat gathered up the tails of his duster, after the manner of a neat woman crossing a muddy street, and

ambled down to first base and on to second, making prodigious jumps upon the bags, and round third, to

come down the home stretch wagging his red head. Then he stood on the plate, and, as if to exact revenge

from the audience for the fun they made of him, he threw back his shoulders and bellowed: ``HAW! HAW!

Not a handclap greeted him, but some mindless, exceedingly adventurous fan yelled: ``Redhead! Redhead!

That was the one thing calculated to rouse Red Gilbat. He seemed to flare, to bristle, and he paced for the

Delaney looked as if he might have a stroke. ``Grab him! Soak him with a bat! Somebody grab him!''

But none of the Stars was risking so much, and Gilbat, to the howling derision of the gleeful fans, reached the

bleachers. He stretched his long arms up to the fence and prepared to vault over. ``Where's the guy who

That was heaping fuel on the fire. From all over the bleachers, from everywhere, came the obnoxious word.

Red heaved himself over the fence and piled into the fans. Then followed the roar of many voices, the

tramping of many feet, the pressing forward of line after line of shirt sleeved men and boys. That bleacher

stand suddenly assumed the maelstrom appearance of a surging mob round an agitated center. In a moment

However, the game had to go on. Delaney, no doubt, felt all was over. Nevertheless there were games

occasionally that seemed an unending series of unprecedented events. This one had begun admirably to break

a record. And the Providence fans, like all other fans, had cultivated an appetite as the game proceeded. They

were wild to put the other redheads out of the field or at least out for the inning, wild to tie the score, wild to

win and wilder than all for more excitement. Clammer hit safely. But when Reddie Ray lined to the second

Of course, the sixth inning opened with the Stars playing only eight men. There was another delay. Probably

everybody except Delaney and perhaps Healy had forgotten the Stars were short a man. Fuller called time.

Capt. White came over to Delaney and courteously offered to lend a player for the remaining innings. Then a

pompous individual came out of the door leading from the press boxeshe was a director Delaney disliked.

``Not on your life! It'll be ours or else we'll play it out and beat you to death.''

``Tell Reddie to swing over a little toward left,'' was Delaney's order to Healy. Fire gleamed in the manager's

Fuller called play then, with Reddy Clammer and Reddie Ray composing the Star outfield. And the Grays

evidently prepared to do great execution through the wide lanes thus opened up. At that stage it would not

White sent a long fly back of Clammer. Reddy had no time to loaf on this hit. It was all he could do to reach

it and he made a splendid catch, for which the crowd roundly applauded him. That applause was wine to

Reddy Clammer. He began to prance on his toes and sing out to Scott: ``Make 'em hit to me, old man! Make

'em hit to me!'' Whether Scott desired that or not was scarcely possible to say; at any rate, Hanley pounded a

hit through the infield. And Clammer, prancing high in the air like a checkreined horse, ran to intercept the

ball. He could have received it in his hands, but that would never have served Reddy Clammer. He timed the

hit to a nicety, went down with his old grandstand play and blocked the ball with his anatomy. Delaney

swore. And the bleachers, now warm toward the gallant outfielder, lustily cheered him. Babcock hit down the

rightfield foul line, giving Clammer a long run. Hanley was scoring and Babcock was sprinting for third

base when Reddy got the ball. He had a fine arm and he made a hard and accurate throw, catching his man in

Perhaps even Delaney could not have found any fault with that play. But the aftermath spoiled the thing.

Clammer now rode the air; he soared; he was in the clouds; it was his inning and he had utterly forgotten his

team mates, except inasmuch as they were performing mere little automatic movements to direct the great

There is fate in baseball as well as in other walks of life. O'Brien was a strapping fellow and he lifted another

ball into Clammer's wide territory. The hit was of the high and faraway variety. Clammer started to run with

it, not like a grim outfielder, but like one thinking of himself, his style, his opportunity, his inevitable success.

Certain it was that in thinking of himself the outfielder forgot his surroundings. He ran across the foul line,

head up, hair flying, unheeding the warning cry from Healy. And, reaching up to make his crowning circus

play, he smashed face forward into the bleachers fence. Then, limp as a rag, he dropped. The audience sent

``That wasn't one of his stage falls,'' said Delaney. ``I'll bet he's dead. . . . Poor Reddy! And I want him to bust

Clammer was carried off the field into the dressing room and a physician was summoned out of the audience.

``Aw, spoiled his pretty mug, that's all,'' replied Healy, scornfully. ``Mebee he'll listen to me now.''

Delaney's change was characteristic of the man. ``Well, if it didn't kill him I'm blamed glad he got it. . . . Cap,

we can trim 'em yet. Reddie Ray'll play the whole outfield. Give Reddie a chance to run! Tell the boy to cut

loose. And all of you git in the game. Win or lose, I won't forget it. I've a hunch. Once in a while I can tell

what's comin' off. Some queer game this! And we're goin' to win. Gilbat lost the game; Clammer throwed it

away again, and now Reddie Ray's due to win it. . . . I'm all in, but I wouldn't miss the finish to save my life.''

Delaney's deep presaging sense of baseball events was never put to a greater test. And the seven Stars, with

the score tied, exhibited the temper and timber of a championship team in the last ditch. It was so splendid

Wherever the tired Scott found renewed strength and speed was a mystery. But he struck out the hardhitting

Providence catcher and that made the third out. The Stars could not score in their half of the inning. Likewise

the seventh inning passed without a run for either side; only the infield work of the Stars was something

superb. When the eighth inning ended, without a tally for either team, the excitement grew tense. There was

Reddy Ray playing outfield alone, and the Grays with all their desperate endeavors had not lifted the ball out

But in the ninth, Blake, the first man up, lined low toward right center. The hit was safe and looked good for

three bases. No one looking, however, had calculated on Reddie's Ray's fleetness. He covered ground and

dove for the bounding ball and knocked it down. Blake did not get beyond first base. The crowd cheered the

play equally with the prospect of a run. Dorr bunted and beat the throw. White hit one of the high fast balls

Scott was serving and sent it close to the leftfield foul line. The running Reddie Ray made on that play held

Hanley, the fourth lefthanded hitter, came up and Scott pitched to him as he had to the others high fast

balls over the inside corner of the plate. Reddy Ray's position was some fifty yards behind deep short, and a

little toward center field. He stood sideways, facing twothirds of that vacant outfield. In spite of Scott's skill,

Hanley swung the ball far round into right field, but he hit it high, and almost before he actually hit it the

The suspence grew almost unbearable as the ball soared in its parabolic flight and the red haired runner

streaked dark across the green. The ball seemed never to be coming down. And when it began to descend and

reached a point perhaps fifty feet above the ground there appeared more distance between where it would

alight and where Reddie was than anything human could cover. It dropped and dropped, and then dropped

into Reddie Ray's outstretched hands. He had made the catch look easy. But the fact that White scored from

There was no movement or restlessness of the audience such as usually indicated the beginning of the

exodus. Scott struck Babcock out. The game still had fire. The Grays never let up a moment on their

coaching. And the hoarse voices of the Stars were grimmer than ever. Reddie Ray was the only one of the

The teams changed sides with the Grays three runs in the lead. Morrissey, for the Stars, opened with a clean

drive to right. Then Healy slashed a ground ball to Hanley and nearly knocked him down. When old Burns,

by a hard rap to short, advanced the runners a base and made a desperate, though unsuccessful, effort to reach

first the Providence crowd awoke to a strange and inspiring appreciation. They began that most rare feature in

The play had gone fast and furious. Wehying, sweaty and disheveled, worked violently. All the Grays were

on uneasy tiptoes. And the Stars were seven Indians on the warpath. Halloran fouled down the rightfield

line; then he fouled over the leftfield fence. Wehying tried to make him too anxious, but it was in vain.

Halloran was implacable. With two strikes and three balls he hit straight down to white, and was out. The ball

Two men out, two on base, Stars wanting three runs to tie, Scott, a weak batter, at the plate! The situation was

disheartening. Yet there sat Delaney, shot through and through with some vital compelling force. He saw

only victory. And when the very first ball pitched to Scott hit him on the leg, giving him his base, Delaney

Delaney looked at Reddie. And Reddie looked at Delaney. The manager's face was pale, intent, with a little

smile. The player had eyes of fire, a lean, bulging jaw and the hands he reached for his bat clutched like

``Reddie, I knew it was waitin' for you,'' said Delaney, his voice ringing. ``Break up the game!''

After all this was only a baseball game, and perhaps from the fans' viewpoint a poor game at that. But the

moment when that lithe, redhaired athlete toed the plate was a beautiful one. The long crash from the

bleachers, the steady cheer from the grand stand, proved that it was not so much the game that mattered.

Wehying had shot his bolt; he was tired. Yet he made ready for a final effort. It seemed that passing Reddie

Ray on balls would have been a wise play at that juncture. But no pitcher, probably, would have done it with

Clean and swift, Reddie leaped at the first pitched ball. Ping! For a second no one saw the hit. Then it

gleamed, a terrific drive, low along the ground, like a bounding bullet, straight at Babcock in right field. It

Thunder broke loose from the stands. Reddie Ray was turning first base. Beyond first base he got into his

wonderful stride. Some runners run with a consistent speed, the best they can make for a given distance. But

this trained sprinter gathered speed as he ran. He was no shortstepping runner. His strides were long. They

gave an impression of strength combined with fleetness. He had the speed of a race horse, but the trimness,

the raciness, the delicate legs were not characteristic of him. Like the wind he turned second, so powerful that

his turn was short. All at once there came a difference in his running. It was no longer beautiful. The grace

was gone. It was now fierce, violent. His momentum was running him off his legs. He whirled around third

base and came hurtling down the homestretch. His face was convulsed, his eyes were wild. His arms and legs

worked in a marvelous muscular velocity. He seemed a demona flying streak. He overtook and ran down

The park seemed full of shrill, piercing strife. It swelled, reached a highest pitch, sustained that for a long

``My Gawd!'' exclaimed Delaney, as he fell back. ``Wasn't that a finish? Didn't I tell you to watch them

It was the most critical time I had yet experienced in my career as a baseball manager. And there was more

than the usual reason why I must pull the team out. A chance for a business deal depended upon the

goodwill of the stockholders of the Worcester club. On the outskirts of the town was a little cottage that I

wanted to buy, and this depended upon the business deal. My whole future happiness depended upon the little

Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team, I had found a strong aggregation and an enthusiastic

following. I really had a team with pennant possibilities. Providence was a strong rival, but I beat them three

straight in the opening series, set a fast pace, and likewise set Worcester baseball mad. The Eastern League

clubs were pretty evenly matched; still I continued to hold the lead until misfortune overtook me.

Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid off. Mullaney got spiked while sliding and was out of the game.

Ashwell sprained his ankle and Hirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great pitcher, hurt his arm on a cold

day and he could not get up his old speed. Stringer, who had batted three hundred and seventyone and led

the league the year before, struck a bad spell and could not hit a barn door handed up to him.

Then came the slump. The team suddenly let down; went to pieces; played ball that would have disgraced an

amateur nine. It was a trying time. Here was a great team, strong everywhere. A little hard luck had dug up a

slumpand now! Day by day the team dropped in the race. When we reached the second division the

newspapers flayed us. Worcester would never stand for a second division team. Baseball admirers, reporters,

fansespecially the fansare fickle. The admirers quit, the reporters grilled us, and the fans, though they

stuck to the games with that barnaclelike tenacity peculiar to them, made life miserable for all of us. I saw

the pennant slowly fading, and the successful season, and the business deal, and the cottage, and Milly

But when I thought of her I just could not see failure. Something must be done, but what? I was at the end of

my wits. When Jersey City beat us that Saturday, eleven to two, shoving us down to fifth place with only a

few percentage points above the Fall River team, I grew desperate, and locking my players in the dressing

room I went after them. They had lain down on me and needed a jar. I told them so straight and flat, and

``And fellows,'' I concluded, ``you've got to brace. A little more of this and we can't pull out. I tell you you're

a championship team. We had that pennant cinched. A few cuts and sprains and hard luckand you all quit!

You lay down! I've been patient. I've plugged for you. Never a man have I fined or thrown down. But now

I'm at the end of my string. I'm out to fine you now, and I'll release the first man who shows the least yellow.

I play no more substitutes. Crippled or not, you guys have got to get in the game.''

I waited to catch my breath and expected some such outburst as managers usually get from criticized players.

``Gregg, your layoff ends today. You play Monday. Mullaney, you've drawn your salary for two weeks with

that spiked foot. If you can't run on itwell, all right, but I put it up to your good faith. I've played the game

and I know it's hard to run on a sore foot. But you can do it. Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I knownow, can

``Connelly, I've seen as fast a team in as bad a rut and yet pull out,'' returned Radbourne. ``We're about due

for the brace. When it comes look out! As for me, well, my arm isn't right, but it's acting these warm days

in a way that tells me it will be soon. It's been worked too hard. Can't you get another pitcher? I'm not

knocking Herne or Cairns. They're good for their turn, but we need a new man to help out. And he must be a

Up to me it certainly was, and I cudgeled my brains for inspiration. After I had given up in hopelessness it

came in the shape of a notice I read in one of the papers. It was a brief mention of an amateur Worcester ball

team being shut out in a game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsville played Sunday ball, which gave me an

It took some train riding and then a journey by coach to get to Rickettsville. I mingled with the crowd of

talking rustics. There was only one little ``bleachers'' and this was loaded to the danger point with the

feminine adherents of the teams. Most of the crowd centered alongside and back of the catcher's box. I edged

Hunting up a player in this way was no new thing to me. I was too wise to make myself known before I had

sized up the merits of my man. So, before the players came upon the field I amused myself watching the

rustic fans and listening to them. Then a roar announced the appearance of the Rickettsville team and their

opponents, who wore the name of Spatsburg on their Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms of these country

amateurs would have put a Philadelphia Mummer's parade to the blush, at least for bright colors. But after

one amused glance I got down to the stern business of the day, and that was to discover a pitcher, and failing

Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the Rickettsville twirler. He was far over six feet tall and as lean as a

fence rail. He had a great shock of light hair, a sunburned, sharpfeatured face, wide, sloping shoulders, and

arms enormously long. He was about as graceful and had about as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow.

But when I had seen him throw one ball to his catcher I grew as keen as a fox on a scent. What speed he had!

I got round closer to him and watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a giant. To be sure, he was lean,

rawboned as a horse, but powerful. What won me at once was his natural, easy swing. He got the ball away

with scarcely any effort. I wondered what he could do when he brought the motion of his body into play.

``Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it ain't. Huh!'' replied this country youngster. Evidently my

``I reckon you be a stranger in these parts,'' said a pleasant old fellow. ``His name's Hurtle Whitaker

Hurtle. Whit fer short. He hain't lost a goldarned game this summer. No siree! Never pitched any before,

Rickettsville chose the field and the game began. Hurtle swung with his easy motion. The ball shot across

like a white bullet. It was a strike, and so was the next, and the one succeeding. He could not throw anything

Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little to me. And I was so fascinated by what I saw in him that I

could hardly contain myself. After the first few innings I no longer tried to. I yelled with the Rickettsville

rooters. The man was a wonder. A blind baseball manager could have seen that. He had a straight ball,

shoulder high, level as a stretched string, and fast. He had a jump ball, which he evidently worked by putting

on a little more steam, and it was the speediest thing I ever saw in the way of a shoot. He had a

widesweeping outcurve, wide as the blade of a mowing scythe. And he had a dropan unhittable drop. He

did not use it often, for it made his catcher dig too hard into the dirt. But whenever he did I glowed all over.

Once or twice he used an underhand motion and sent in a ball that fairly swooped up. It could not have been

hit with a board. And best of all, dearest to the manager's heart, he had control. Every ball he threw went over

What a find! Already I had visions of the long lookedfor brace of my team, and of the pennant, and the

little cottage, and the happy light of a pair of blue eyes. What he meant to me, that country pitcher Hurtle! He

shut out the Spatsburg team without a run or a hit or even a scratch. Then I went after him. I collared him and

his manager, and there, surrounded by the gaping players, I bought him and signed him before any of them

knew exactly what I was about. I did not haggle. I asked the manager what he wanted and produced the cash;

I asked Hurtle what he wanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand, paid him in advance, and got his

name to the contract. Then I breathed a long, deep breath; the first one for weeks. Something told me that

with Hurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern League pennant. Then I invited all concerned down to

We made connections at the railroad junction and reached Worcester at midnight in time for a good sleep. I

took the silent and backward pitcher to my hotel. In the morning we had breakfast together. I showed him

I had ordered morning practice, and as morning practice is not conducive to the cheerfulness of ball players, I

wanted to reach the dressing room a little late. When we arrived, all the players had dressed and were out on

the field. I had some difficulty in fitting Hurtle with a uniform, and when I did get him dressed he resembled

a twolegged giraffe decked out in white shirt, gray trousers and maroon stockings.

Spears, my veteran first baseman and captain of the team, was the first to see us.

``Sufferin' umpires!'' yelled Spears. ``Here, you Micks! Look at this Con's got with him!''

What a yell burst from that sore and disgruntled bunch of ball tossers! My players were a grouchy set in

``Regular lineup, now no monkey biz,'' I went on. ``Take two cracks and a bunt. Here, Hurtle,'' I said,

drawing him toward the pitcher's box, ``don't pay any attention to their talk. That's only the fun of ball

Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervously over the ball. I thought it best not to say more to him, for he had

a rather wild look. I remembered my own stage fright upon my first appearance in fast company. Besides I

knew what my amiable players would say to him. I had a secret hope and belief that presently they would yell

McCall, my speedy little left fielder, led off at bat. He was full of ginger, chipper as a squirrel, sarcastic as

Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box and seemed to be rolling something in his mouth. Then he moved

his arm. We all saw the ball dart down straightthat is, all of us except McCall, because if he had seen it he

McCall shrieked. We all groaned. That crack hurt all of us. Any baseball player knows how it hurts to be hit

Then and there Hurtle got the name that was to cling to him all his baseball days.

McCall went back to the plate, red in the face, mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every time Rube pitched a

ball. He never even ticked one and retired in disgust, limping and swearing. Ashwell was next. He did not

show much alacrity. On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flat in the dust. The ball whipped the hair of

his head. Rube was wild and I began to get worried. Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but when he

Stringer went up, bold and formidable. That was what made him the great hitter he was. He loved to bat; he

would have faced anybody; he would have faced even a cannon. New curves were a fascination to him. And

speed for him, in his own words, was ``apple pie.'' In this instance, surprise was in store for Stringer. Rube

shot up the straight one, then the wide curve, then the drop. Stringer missed them all, struck out, fell down

ignominiously. It was the first time he had fanned that season and he looked dazed. We had to haul him away.

I called off the practice, somewhat worried about Rube's showing, and undecided whether or not to try him in

the game that day. So I went to Radbourne, who had quietly watched Rube while on the field. Raddy was an

old pitcher and had seen the rise of a hundred stars. I told him about the game at Rickettsville and what I

``Con, you've made the find of your life,'' said Raddy, quietly and deliberately.

This from Radbourne was not only comforting; it was relief, hope, assurance. I avoided Spears, for it would

hardly be possible for him to regard the Rube favorably, and I kept under cover until time to show up at the

Buffalo was on the ticket for that afternoon, and the Bisons were leading the race and playing in topnotch

form. I went into the dressing room while the players were changing suits, because there was a little

``Boys,'' I said, curtly, ``Hurtle works today. Cut loose, now, and back him up.''

``Did you mutts hear what I said? Well, it goes. Not a word, now. I'm handling this team. We're in bad, I

know, but it's my judgment to pitch Hurtle, rube or no rube, and it's up to you to back us. That's the baseball

Grumbling and muttering, they passed out of the dressing room. I knew ball players. If Hurtle should happen

to show good form they would turn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in their rear. He looked like a man in a

trance. I wanted to speak encouragingly to him, but Raddy told me to keep quiet.

It was inspiring to see my team practice that afternoon. There had come a subtle change. I foresaw one of

those baseball climaxes that can be felt and seen, but not explained. Whether it was a hint of the hopedfor

brace, or only another flash of form before the final letdown, I had no means to tell. But I was on edge.

Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, and I sent my team into the field. When that long, lanky, awkward

rustic started for the pitcher's box, I thought the bleachers would make him drop in his tracks. The fans were

Then the inning began, and things happened. Rube had marvelous speed, but he could not find the plate. He

threw the ball the second he got it; he hit men, walked men, and fell all over himself trying to field bunts. The

crowd stormed and railed and hissed. The Bisons pranced round the bases and yelled like Indians. Finally

Eight runs! Enough to win two games! I could not have told how it happened. I was sick and all but crushed.

Still I had a blind, dogged faith in the big rustic. I believed he had not got started right. It was a trying

``Don't take him out,'' said Raddy. ``He's not shown at all what's in him. The blamed hayseed is up in the air.

He's crazy. He doesn't know what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may be scared to death, but he's dead in

``Spears, you're the captain,'' I said, sharply. ``Go after the rube. Wake him up. Tell him he can't pitch. Call

``Well, I'll be dinged! He looks it,'' replied Spears. ``Here, Rube, get off the bench. Come here.''

Rube lurched toward us. He seemed to be walking in his sleep. His breast was laboring and he was dripping

``Who ever told you that you could pitch?'' asked Spears genially. He was master at baseball ridicule. I had

never yet seen the youngster who could stand his badinage. He said a few things, then wound up with:

``Come now, you cross between a hayrack and a wagon tongue, get sore and do something. Pitch if you can.

Rube jumped as if he had been struck. His face flamed red and his little eyes turned black. He shoved his big

``Mister, I'll lick you fer thetafter the game! And I'll show you doggoned well how I can pitch.''

``Good!'' exclaimed Raddy; and I echoed his word. Then I went to the bench and turned my attention to the

game. Some one told me that McCall had made a couple of fouls, and after waiting for two strikes and three

balls had struck out. Ashwell had beat out a bunt in his old swift style, and Stringer was walking up to the

plate on the moment. It was interesting, even in a losing game, to see Stringer go to bat. We all watched him,

as we had been watching him for weeks, expecting him to break his slump with one of the drives that had

made him famous. Stringer stood to the left side of the plate, and I could see the bulge of his closely locked

jaw. He swung on the first pitched ball. With the solid rap we all rose to watch that hit. The ball lined first,

then soared and did not begin to drop till it was far beyond the rightfield fence. For an instant we were all

still, so were the bleachers. Stringer had broken his slump with the longest drive ever made on the grounds.

``Con, how'd you like that drive?'' he asked me, with a bright gleam in his eyes.

``Oh!a beaut!'' I replied, incoherently. The players on the bench were all as glad as I was. Henley flew

out to left. Mullaney smashed a two bagger to right. Then Gregg hit safely, but Mullaney, in trying to score

``Four hits! I tell you fellows, something's coming off,'' said Raddy. ``Now, if only Rube''

What a difference there was in that long rustic! He stalked into the box, unmindful of the hooting crowd and

grimly faced Schultz, the first batter up for the Bisons. This time Rube was deliberate. And where he had not

swung before he now got his body and arm into full motion. The ball came in like a glint of light. Schultz

``Wow!'' yelled the Buffalo coacher. Rube sped up the sidewheeler and Schultz reached wide to meet it and

failed. The third was the lightning drop, straight over the plate. The batter poked weakly at it. Then Carl

struck out and Manning following, did likewise. Three of the best hitters in the Eastern retired on nine

strikes! That was no fluke. I knew what it meant, and I sat there hugging myself with the hum of something

Gregg had a glow on his sweaty face. ``Oh, but say, boys, take a tip from me! The Rube's a world beater!

When old Spears pasted a single through shortstop, the Buffalo manager took Clary out of the box and put in

Vane, their best pitcher. Bogart advanced the runner to second, but was thrown out on the play. Then Rube

came up. He swung a huge bat and loomed over the Bison's twirler. Rube had the look of a hitter. He seemed

to be holding himself back from walking right into the ball. And he hit one high and far away. The fast Carl

could not get under it, though he made a valiant effort. Spears scored and Rube's long strides carried him to

third. The cold crowd in the stands came to life; even the sore bleachers opened up. McCall dumped a slow

teaser down the line, a hit that would easily have scored Rube, but he ran a little way, then stopped, tried to

get back, and was easily touched out. Ashwell's hard chance gave the Bison's shortstop an error, and Stringer

came up with two men on bases. Stringer hit a foul over the rightfield fence and the crowd howled. Then he

``Con, I don't know what to think, but ding me if we ain't hittin' the ball,'' said Spears. Then to his players:

``A little more of that and we're back in our old shape. All in a minuteat 'em now! Rube, you dinged old

Rube toed the rubber, wrapped his long brown fingers round the ball, stepped out as he swung andzing!

That inning he unloosed a few more kinks in his arm and he tried some new balls upon the Bisons. But

whatever he used and wherever he put them the result was the samethey cut the plate and the Bisons were

That inning marked the change in my team. They had come hack. The hoodoo had vanished. The

The Bisons were fighting, too, but Rube had them helpless. When they did hit a ball one of my infielders

snapped it up. No chances went to the outfield. I sat there listening to my men, and reveled in a moment that I

``Now you're pitching some, Rube. Another strike! Get him a board!'' called Ashwell.

So, with the wonderful pitching of an angry rube, the Worcester team came into its own again. I sat through it

all without another word; without giving a signal. In a way I realized the awakening of the bleachers, and

heard the pound of feet and the crash, but it was the spirit of my team that thrilled me. Next to that the work

of my new find absorbed me. I gloated over his easy, deceiving swing. I rose out of my seat when he threw

that straight fast ball, swift as a bullet, true as a plumb line. And when those hardhitting, sure bunting

Bisons chopped in vain at the wonderful drop, I choked back a wild yell. For Rube meant the world to me

In the eighth the score was 8 to 6. The Bisons had one scratch hit to their credit, but not a runner had got

beyond first base. Again Rube held them safely, one man striking out, another fouling out, and the third going

Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! The bleachers were making up for many games in which they could not express

``It's a cinch we'll win!'' yelled a fan with a voice. Rube was the first man up in our half of the ninth and his

big bat lammed the first ball safe over second base. The crowd, hungry for victory, got to their feet and stayed

upon their feet, calling, cheering for runs. It was the moment for me to get in the game, and I leaped up,

strung like a wire, and white hot with inspiration. I sent Spears to the coaching box with orders to make Rube

Then I dropped back on the bench spent and panting. It was only a game, yet it meant so much! Little McCall

was dark as a thunder cloud, and his fiery eyes snapped. He was the fastest man in the league, and could have

bunted an arrow from a bow. The foxy Bison third baseman edged in. Mac feinted to bunt toward him then

turned his bat inward and dumped a teasing curving ball down the first base line. Rube ran as if in

sevenleague boots. Mac's short legs twinkled; he went like the wind; he leaped into first base with his long

The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumbling down. For a moment the air was full of deafening sound.

Then came the pause, the dying away of clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspended quiet. Spears' clear

Ashwell took his stand. He was another left hand hitter, and against a righthand pitcher, in such

circumstances as these, the most dangerous of men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captain knew it, as showed

plainly in his signal to catch Rube at second. But Spears' warning held or frightened Rube on the bag.

Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwell could not be coaxed. Wearily Vane swung; the shortstop raced out

to get in line for a possible hit through the wide space to his right, and the second baseman got on his toes as

Crack! The old story of the hit and run game! Ashwell's hit crossed sharply where a moment before the

shortstop had been standing. With gigantic strides Rube rounded the corner and scored. McCall flitted

through second, and diving into third with a cloud of dust, got the umpire's decision. When Stringer hurried

up with Mac on third and Ash on first the whole field seemed racked in a deafening storm. Again it subsided

quickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans had been crushed too often of late for them to be fearless.

But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense ended. I was like a man clamped in a vise. Stringer stood

motionless. Mac bent low with the sprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm and slowly edged off first.

Stringer waited for one strike and two balls, then he hit the next. It hugged the first base line, bounced

fiercely past the bag and skipped over the grass to bump hard into the fence. McCall romped home, and lame

Ashwell beat any run he ever made to the plate. Rolling, swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feet could not

down the high piercing sustained yell of the fans. It was great. Three weeks of submerged bottled baseball joy

We scored no more. But the Bisons were beaten. Their spirit was broken. This did not make the Rube let up

in their last half inning. Grim and pale he faced them. At every long step and swing he tossed his shock of

light hair. At the end he was even stronger than at the beginning. He still had the glancing, floating airy

quality that baseball players call speed. And he struck out the last three batters.

In the tumult that burst over my ears I sat staring at the dots on my score card. Fourteen strike outs! one

scratch hit! No base on balls since the first inning! That told the story which deadened senses doubted. There

was a roar in my ears. Some one was pounding me. As I struggled to get into the dressing room the crowd

mobbed me. But I did not hear what they yelled. I had a kind of misty veil before my eyes, in which I saw

that lanky Rube magnified into a glorious figure. I saw the pennant waving, and the gleam of a white cottage

through the trees, and a trim figure waiting at the gate. Then I rolled into the dressing room.

Somehow it seemed strange to me. Most of the players were stretched out in peculiar convulsions. Old Spears

sat with drooping head. Then a wild flamingeyed giant swooped upon me. With a voice of thunder he

``Fellows, it's this way. You've got to win today's game. It's the last of the season and means the pennant for

Worcester. One more hard scrap and we're done! Of all the uphill fights any bunch ever made to land the

flag, our has been the best. You're the best team I ever managed, the gamest gang of ball players that ever

stepped in spikes. We've played in the hardest kind of luck all season, except that short trip we called the

Rube's Honeymoon. We got a bad start, and sore arms and busted fingers, all kinds of injuries, every accident

calculated to hurt a team's chances, came our way. But in spite of it all we got the lead and we've held it, and

I paused to catch my breath, and looked round on the grim, tired faces of my players. They made a stern

group. The close of the season found them almost played out. What a hard chance it was, after their

extraordinary efforts, to bring the issue of the pennant down to this last game!

``If we lose today, Buffalo, with three games more to play at home, will pull the bunting,'' I went on. ``But

they're not going to win! I'm putting it up to you that way. I know Spears is all in; Raddy's arm is gone; Ash

is playing on one leg; you're all crippled. But you've got one more game in you, I know. These last few weeks

the Rube has been pitching out of turn and he's about all in, too. He's kept us in the lead. If he wins today it'll

be Rube's Pennant. But that might apply to all of you. Now, shall we talk over the play today? Any tricks to

``Con, you're pretty much upset an' nervous,'' replied Spears, soberly. ``It ain't no wonder. This has been one

corker of a season. I want to suggest that you let me run the team today. I've talked over the play with the

fellers. We ain't goin' to lose this game, Con. Buffalo has been comin' with a rush lately, an' they're confident.

But we've been holdin' in, restin' up as much as we dared an' still keep our lead. Mebbee it'll surprise you to

know we've bet every dollar we could get hold of on this game. Why, Buffalo money is everywhere.''

``All right, Spears, I'll turn the team over to you. We've got the banner crowd of the year out there right now,

a great crowd to play before. I'm more fussed up over this game than any I remember. But I have a sort of

Spears led the silent players out of the dressing room and I followed; and while they began to toss balls to

The Bisons were prancing about the diamond, and their swaggering assurance was not conducive to hope for

the Worcesters. I wondered how many of that vast, noisy audience, intent on the day's sport, even had a

thought of what pain and toil it meant to my players. The Buffalo men were in good shape; they had been

At any rate, there were a few faithful little women in the grand standMilly and Nan and Rose Stringer and

Kate Bogartwho sat with compressed lips and hoped and prayed for that game to begin and end.

The gong called off the practice, and Spears, taking the field, yelled gruff encouragement to his men. Umpire

Carter brushed off the plate and tossed a white ball to Rube and called: ``Play!'' The bleachers set up an

Schultz toed the plate and watched the Rube pitch a couple. There seemed to be no diminution of the great

pitcher's speed and both balls cut the plate. Schultz clipped the next one down the third base Line. Bogart

trapped it close to the bag, and got it away underhand, beating the speedy runner by a nose. It was a pretty

play to start with, and the spectators were not closemouthed in appreciation. The short, stocky Carl ambled

up to bat, and I heard him call the Rube something. It was not a friendly contest, this deciding game between

Carl chopped a bouncing grounder through short and Ash was after it like a tiger, but it was a hit. The Buffalo

contingent opened up. Then Manning faced the Rube, and he, too, vented sarcasm. It might not have been

heard by the slow, imperturbable pitcher for all the notice he took. Carl edged off first, slid back twice, got a

third start, and on the Rube's pitch was off for second base with the lead that always made him dangerous.

Manning swung vainly, and Gregg snapped a throw to Mullaney. Ball and runner got to the bag apparently

simultaneously; the umpire called Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar of delight.

The next pitch to Manning was a strike. Rube was not wasting any balls, a point I noted with mingled fear

and satisfaction. For he might have felt that he had no strength to spare that day and so could not try to work

the batters. Again he swung, and Manning rapped a long line fly over McCall. As the little left fielder turned

at the sound of the hit and sprinted out, his lameness was certainly not in evidence. He was the swiftest

runner in the league and always when he got going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him. Mac took

that fly right off the foul flag in deep left, and the bleachers dinned their pleasure.

The teams changed positions. ``Fellers,'' said Spears, savagely, ``we may be a bungedup lot of stiffs, but,

Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work cut out for him. For one sympathetic moment I saw his part

through his eyes. My Worcester veterans, long used to being under fire, were relentlessly bent on taking that

game. It showed in many ways, particularly in their silence, because they were seldom a silent team. McCall

hesitated a moment over his bats. Then, as he picked up the lightest one, I saw his jaw set, and I knew he

intended to bunt. He was lame, yet he meant to beat out an infield hit. He went up scowling.

Vane had an old head, and he had a varied assortment of balls. For Mac he used an under hand curve, rising

``That's the place, Bo,'' cried the Buffalo infielders. ``Keep 'em close on the Crab.'' Eager and fierce as

McCall was, he let pitch after pitch go by till he had three balls and two strikes. Still the heady Vane sent up

another pitch similar to the others. Mac stepped forward in the box, dropped his bat on the ball, and leaped

down the line toward first base. Vane came rushing in for the bunt, got it and threw. But as the speeding ball

neared the baseman, Mac stretched out into the air and shot for the bag. By a fraction of a second he beat the

ball. It was one of his demon slides. He knew that the chances favored his being crippled; we all knew that

some day Mac would slide recklessly once too often. But that, too, is all in the game and in the spirit of a

By that the captain meant that Mac would go down, and Ashwell would hit with the run.

When Vane pitched, little McCall was flitting toward second. The Bison shortstop started for the bag, and

Ash hit square through his tracks. A rolling cheer burst from the bleachers, and swelled till McCall overran

third base and was thrown back by the coacher. Stringer hurried forward with his big bat.

``Oh! My!'' yelled a fan, and he voiced my sentiments exactly. Here we would score, and be one run closer to

How well my men worked together! As the pitcher let the ball go, Ash was digging for second and Mac was

shooting plateward. They played on the chance of Stringer's hitting. Stringer swung, the bat cracked, we

heard a thud somewhere, and then Manning, half knocked over, was fumbling for the ball. He had knocked

down a terrific drive with his mitt, and he got the ball in time to put Stringer out. But Mac scored and Ash

drew a throw to third base and beat it. He had a bad ankle, but no one noticed it in that daring run.

``Watch me paste one!'' said Captain Spears, as he spat several yards. He batted out a fly so long and high and

far that, slow as he was, he had nearly run to second base when Carl made the catch. Ash easily scored on the

throwin. Then Bogart sent one skipping over second, and Treadwell, scooping it on the run, completed a

The second inning somewhat quickened the pace. Even the Rube worked a little faster. Ellis lined to Cairns in

right; Treadwell fouled two balls and had a called strike, and was out; McKnight hit a low fly over short, then

Bud Wiler sent one between Spears and Mullaney. Spears went for it while the Rube with giant strides ran to

cover first base. Between them they got Bud, but it was only because he was heavy and slow on his feet.

In our half of that inning Mullaney, Gregg and Cairns went out in one, two, three order.

With Pannell up, I saw that the Rube held in on his speed, or else he was tiring. Pannell hit the second slow

ball for two bases. Vane sacrificed, and then the redoubtable Schultz came up. He appeared to be in no hurry

to bat. Then I saw that the foxy Buffalo players were working to tire the Rube. They had the situation figured.

``Make 'em hit, Rube. Push 'em straight over. Never mind the corners. We don't care for a few runs. We'll hit

Shultz flied to Mac, who made a beautiful throw to the plate too late to catch Pannell. Carl deliberately

bunted to the right of the Rube and it cost the big pitcher strenuous effort to catch his man.

Manning tripled down the left foul linea hit the bleachers called a screamer. When Ellis came up, it looked

like a tie score, and when the Rube pitched it was plain that he was tired. The Bisons yelled their assurance of

this and the audience settled into quiet. Ellis batted a scorcher that looked good for a hit. But the fast Ashwell

was moving with the ball, and he plunged lengthwise to get it square in his glove. The hit had been so sharp

that he had time to get up and make the throw to beat the runner. The bleachers thundered at the play.

The Rube was an uncertain batter. There was never any telling what he might do, for he had spells of good

and bad hitting. But when he did get his bat on the ball it meant a chase for some fielder. He went up

swinging his huge club, and he hit a fly that would have been an easy home run for a fast man. But the best

Rube could do was to reach third base. This was certainly good enough, as the bleachers loudly proclaimed,

McCall bunted toward third, another of his teasers. The Rube would surely have scored had he started with

the ball, but he did not try and missed a chance. Wiler, of course, held the ball, and Mac got to first without

special effort. He went down on the first pitch. Then Ash lined to Carl. The Rube waited till the ball was

caught and started for home. The crowd screamed, the Rube ran for all he was worth and Carl's throw to the

It looked to the bleachers as if Ellis had been unnecessarily rough, and they hissed and stormed disapproval.

As for me, I knew the Bisons were losing no chance to wear out my pitcher. Stringer fouled out with Mac on

third, and it made him so angry that he threw his bat toward the bench, making some of the boys skip lively.

The next three innings, as far as scoring was concerned, were all for Buffalo. But the Worcester infield

In the last half of the sixth, with Ash on first base and two men out, old Spears hit another of his lofty flies,

and this one went over the fence and tied the score. How the bleachers roared! It was full two minutes before

they quieted down. To make it all the more exciting, Bogart hit safely, ran like a deer to third on Mullaney's

grounder, which Wiler knocked down, and scored on a passed ball. Gregg ended the inning by striking out.

``Get at the Rube!'' boomed Ellis, the Bison captain. ``We'll have him up in the air soon. Get in the game

Before I knew what had happened, the Bisons had again tied the score. They were indomitable. They grew

stronger all the time. A stroke of good luck now would clinch the game for them. The Rube was beginning to

labor in the box; Ashwell was limping; Spears looked as if he would drop any moment; McCall could

scarcely walk. But if the ball came his way he could still run. Nevertheless, I never saw any finer fielding

``AshMaccan you hold out?'' I asked, when they limped in. I received glances of scorn for my question.

``I'll stick pretty much if somethin' doesn't happen,'' he said; ``but I'm all in. I'll need a runner if I get to first

Spears lumbered down to first base on an infield hit and the heavy Manning gave him the hip. Old Spears

went down, and I for one knew he was out in more ways than that signified by Carter's sharp: ``Out!''

The old warhorse gathered himself up slowly and painfully, and with his arms folded and his jaw

``Did you call me out?'' he asked, in a voice plainly audible to any one on the field.

``I tell you it was a rotten decision,'' yelled Spears. The bleachers agreed with him.

Carter grew red in the face. He and Spears had before then met in field squabbles, and he showed it.

Then he labored slowly toward the bench, all red, and yet with perspiration, his demeanor one of outraged

dignity. The great crowd, as one man, stood up and yelled hoarsely at Carter, and hissed and railed at him.

When Spears got to the bench he sat down beside me as if in pain, but he was smiling.

``Con, I was all in, an' knowin' I couldn't play any longer, thought I'd try to scare Carter. Say, he was white in

Bogart and Mullaney batted out in short order, and once more the aggressive Bisons hurried in for their turn.

Spears sent Cairns to first base and Jones to right. The Rube lobbed up his slow ball. In that tight pinch he

showed his splendid nerve. Two Buffalo players, overanxious, popped up flies. The Rube kept on pitching

the slow curve until it was hit safely. Then heaving his shoulders with all his might he got all the motion

possible into his swing and let drive. He had almost all of his old speed, but it hurt me to see him work with

He came stooping into the bench, apparently deaf to the stunning round of applause. Every player on the team

had a word for the Rube. There was no quitting in that bunch, and if I ever saw victory on the stern faces of

``We haven't opened up yet. Mebbee this is the innin'. If it ain't, the next is,'' said Spears.

With the weak end of the batting list up, there seemed little hope of getting a run on Vane that inning. He had

so much confidence that he put the ball over for Gregg, who hit out of the reach of the infield. Again Vane

sent up his straight ball, no doubt expecting Cairns to hit into a double play. But Cairns surprised Vane and

everybody else by poking a safety past first base. The fans began to howl and pound and whistle.

The Rube strode to bat. The infield closed in for a bunt, but the Rube had no orders for that style of play.

Spears had said nothing to him. Vane lost his nonchalance and settled down. He cut loose with all his speed.

Rube stepped out, suddenly whirled, then tried to dodge, but the ball hit him fair in the back. Rube sagged in

his tracks, then straightened up, and walked slowly to first base. Score 5 to 5, bases full, no outs, McCall at

bat. I sat dumb on the bench, thrilling and shivering. McCall! Ashwell! Stringer to bat!

If Vane knew that, he showed no evidence of it. His face was cold, unsmiling, rigid. He had to pitch to

McCall, the fastest man in the league; to Ashwell, the best bunter; to Stringer, the champion batter. It was a

supreme test for a great pitcher. There was only one kind of a ball that McCall was not sure to hit, and that

was a high curve, in close. Vane threw it with all his power. Carter called it a strike. Again Vane swung and

his arm fairly cracked. Mac fouled the ball. The third was wide. Slowly, with lifting breast, Vane got ready,

As the Buffalo players crowed and the audience groaned it was worthy of note that little McCall showed no

``Ash, I couldn't see 'em,'' he said, as he passed to the bench. ``Speed, whew! look out for it. He's been savin'

Ashwell, too, was lefthanded; he, too, was extremely hard to pitch to; and if he had a weakness that any of

us ever discovered, it was a slow curve and change of pace. But I doubted if Vane would dare to use slow

balls to Ash at that critical moment. I had yet to learn something of Vane. He gave Ash a slow,

widesweeping sidewheeler, that curved round over the plate. Ash always took a strike, so this did not

matter. Then Vane used his deceptive change of pace, sending up a curve that just missed Ash's bat as he

Vane doubled up like a contortionist, and shot up a lightningswift drop that fooled Ash completely. Again

Stringer did not call out to Vane. That was not his way. He stood tense and alert, bat on his shoulder, his

powerful form braced, and he waited. The outfielders trotted over toward right field, and the infielders played

deep, calling out warnings and encouragement to the pitcher. Stringer had no weakness, and Vane knew this.

Nevertheless he did not manifest any uneasiness, and pitched the first ball without any extra motion. Carter

called it a strike. I saw Stringer sink down slightly and grow tenser all over. I believe that moment was longer

for me than for either the pitcher or the batter. Vane took his time, watched the base runners, feinted to throw

to catch them, and then delivered the ball toward the plate with the limit of his power.

Stringer hit the ball. As long as I live, I will see that glancing low liner. Shultz, by a wonderful play in deep

center, blocked the ball and thereby saved it from being a home run. But when Stringer stopped on second

A shrill, shrieking, highpitched yell! The bleachers threatened to destroy the stands and also their throats in

Jones, batting in place of Spears, had gone up and fouled out before the uproar had subsided.

``Fellers, I reckon I feel easier,'' said the Rube. It was the only time I had ever heard him speak to the players

``Only six batters, Rube,'' called out Spears. ``Boys, it's a grand game, an' it's our'n!''

The Rube had enough that inning to dispose of the lower half of the Buffalo list without any alarming bids for

a run. And in our half, Bogart and Mullaney hit vicious ground balls that gave Treadwell and Wiler

opportunities for superb plays. Carl, likewise, made a beautiful running catch of Gregg's line fly. The Bisons

When Shultz stalked up to the plate I shut my eyes a moment, and so still was it that the field and stands

might have been empty. Yet, though I tried, I could not keep my eyes closed. I opened them to watch the

Rube. I knew Spears felt the same as I, for he was blowing like a porpoise and muttering to himself: ``Mebee

The Rube pitched with heavy, violent effort. He had still enough speed to be dangerous. But after the manner

Every pitch lessened the Rube's strength and these wise opponents knew it. Likewise the Rube himself knew,

and never had he shown better head work than in this inning. If he were to win, he must be quick. So he

wasted not a ball. The first pitch and the second, delivered breast high and fairly over the plate, beautiful balls

to hit, Shultz watched speed by. He swung hard on the third and the crippled Ashwell dove for it in a cloud of

dust, got a hand in front of it, but uselessly, for the hit was safe. The crowd cheered that splendid effort.

Carl marched to bat, and he swung his club over the plate as if he knew what to expect. ``Come on, Rube!'' he

shouted. Wearily, doggedly, the Rube whirled, and whipped his arm. The ball had all his old glancing speed

and it was a strike. The Rube was making a tremendous effort. Again he got his body in convulsive

motiontwo strikes! Shultz had made no move to run, nor had Carl made any move to hit. These veterans

``Now, Carl!'' yelled Ellis, with startling suddenness, as the Rube pitched again.

Crack! Carl placed that hit as safely through short as if he had thrown it. McCall's little legs twinkled as he

dashed over the grass. He had to head off that hit and he ran like a streak. Down and forward he pitched, as if

in one of his fierce slides, and he got his body in front of the ball, blocking it, and then he rolled over and

over. But he jumped up and lined the ball to Bogart, almost catching Shultz at thirdbase. Then, as Mac tried

``Call time,'' I called to Carter. ``McCall is done. . . . Myers, you go to left an' for Lord's sake play ball!''

Stringer and Bogart hurried to Mac and, lifting him up and supporting him between them with his arms

around their shoulders, they led him off amid cheers from the stands. Mac was white with pain.

``Naw, I won't go off the field. Leave me on the bench,'' he said. ``Fight 'em now. It's our game. Never mind a

The boys ran back to their positions and Carter called play. Perhaps a little delay had been helpful to the

Rube. Slowly he stepped into the box and watched Shultz at third and Carl at second. There was not much

probability of his throwing to catch them off the base, but enough of a possibility to make them careful, so he

The Rube pitched a strike to Manning, then another. That made eight strikes square over the plate that inning.

What magnificent control! It was equaled by the implacable patience of those veteran Bisons. Manning hit

the next ball as hard as Carl had hit his. But Mullaney plunged down, came up with the ball, feinted to fool

Carl, then let drive to Gregg to catch the fleeting Shultz. The throw went wide, but Gregg got it, and, leaping

One out. Two runners on bases. The bleachers rose and split their throats. Would the inning never end?

I had a sickening fear that the strange confidence that obsessed the Worcester players had been blind,

Spears had called the play. The Rube tried to hold the little basestealer close to second, but, after one

attempt, wisely turned to his hard task of making the Bisons hit and hit quickly. Ellis let the ball pass; Gregg

made a perfect throw to third; Bogart caught the ball and moved like a flash, but Carl slid under his hands to

the bag. Manning ran down to second. The Rube pitched again, and this was his tenth ball over the plate.

Even the Buffalo players evinced eloquent appreciation of the Rube's defence at this last stand.

Then Ellis sent a clean hit to right, scoring both Carl and Manning. I breathed easier, for it seemed with those

two runners in, the Rube had a better chance. Treadwell also took those two runners in, the Rube had a way

those Bisons waited. They had their reward, for the Rube's speed left him. When he pitched again the ball had

control, but no shoot. Treadwell hit it with all his strength. Like a huge cat Ashwell pounced upon it, ran over

second base, forcing Ellis, and his speedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell.

``It's our game!'' howled Spears in my ear, for the noise from the stands was deafening. ``It's our pennant!''

The formidable batting strength of the Bisons had been met, not without disaster, but without defeat.

McKnight came up for Buffalo and the Rube took his weary swing. The batter made a terrific lunge and hit

Suddenly electrified into action, I leaped up. That hit! It froze me with horror. It was a homerun. I saw

Stringer fly toward left center. He ran like something wild. I saw the heavy Treadwell lumbering round the

``Ahh!'' The whole audience relieved its terror in that expulsion of suspended breath. Stringer had leaped

high to knock down the ball, saving a sure homerun and the game. He recovered himself, dashed back for

When Ash turned toward the plate, Treadwell was rounding third base. A tie score appeared inevitable. I saw

Ash's arm whip and the ball shoot forward, leveled, glancing, beautiful in its flight. The crowd saw it, and the

silence broke to a yell that rose and rose as the ball sped in. That yell swelled to a splitting shriek, and

Treadwell slid in the dust, and the ball shot into Gregg's hands all at the same instant.

Carter waved both arms upwards. It was the umpire's action when his decision went against the baserunner.

I collapsed and sank back upon the bench. My confused senses received a dull roar of pounding feet and

dinning voices as the herald of victory. I felt myself thinking how pleased Milly would be. I had a distinct

picture in my mind of a white cottage on a hill, no longer a dream, but a reality, made possible for me by the

``He's got a new manager. Watch him pitch now!'' That was what Nan Brown said to me about Rube Hurtle,

My baseball career held some proud moments, but this one, wherein I realized the success of my

matchmaking plans, was certainly the proudest one. So, entirely outside of the honest pleasure I got out of the

Rube's happiness, there was reason for me to congratulate myself. He was a transformed man, so absolutely

renewed, so wild with joy, that on the strength of it, I decided the pennant for Worcester was a foregone

conclusion, and, sure of the money promised me by the directors, Milly and I began to make plans for the

The Rube insisted on pitching Monday's game against the Torontos, and although poor fielding gave them a

couple of runs, they never had a chance. They could not see the ball. The Rube wrapped it around their necks

and between their wrists and straight over the plate with such incredible speed that they might just as well

That night I was happy. Spears, my veteran captain, was one huge smile; Radbourne quietly assured me that

And the Rube was the happiest of all. At the hotel he burst out with his exceeding good fortune. He and Nan

After the noisy congratulations were over and the Rube had gone, Spears looked at me and I looked at him.

``Why not? Sure we can. We'll help him get married. I tell you it'll save the pennant for us. Look how he

``See here, Con, you've got softenin' of the brain, too. Where's your baseball sense? We've got a pennant to

win. By July Fourth we'll be close to the lead again, an' there's that three weeks' trip on the road, the longest

an' hardest of the season. We've just got to break even on that trip. You know what that means. If the Rube

marries Nanwhat are we goin' to do? We can't leave him behind. If he takes Nan with us why it'll be a

honeymoon! An' half the gang is stuck on Nan Brown! An' Nan Brown would flirt in her bridal veil! . . . Why

``Good Heavens! Cap. You're right,'' I groaned. ``I never thought of that. We've got to postpone the wedding.

. . . How on earth can we? I've heard her tell Milly that. She'll never consent to it. Say, this'll drive me to

``All I got to say is this, Con. If the Rube takes his wife on that trip it's goin' to be an all fired hummer.

``I'm not likely to. But, Spears, the point is thiswill the Rube win his games?''

``Figurin' from his work today, I'd gamble he'll never lose another game. It ain't that. I'm thinkin' of what the

gang will do to him an' Nan on the cars an' at the hotels. Oh! Lord, Con, it ain't possible to stand for that

``If the worst comes to the worst, Cap, I don't care for anything but the games. If we get in the lead and stay

there I'll stand for anything. . . . Couldn't the gang be coaxed or bought off to let the Rube and Nan alone?''

``Not on your life! There ain't enough love or money on earth to stop them. It'll be awful. Mind, I'm not

responsible. Don't you go holdin' me responsible. In all my years of baseball I never went on a trip with a

bride in the game. That's new on me, an' I never heard of it. I'd be bad enough if he wasn't a rube an' if she

wasn't a crazy girlfan an' a flirt to boot, an' with half the boys in love with her, but as it is''

Spears gave up and, gravely shaking his head, he left me. I spent a little while in sober reflection, and finally

came to the conclusion that, in my desperate ambition to win the pennant, I would have taken half a dozen

rube pitchers and their baseballmade brides on the trip, if by so doing I could increase the percentage of

games won. Nevertheless, I wanted to postpone the Rube's wedding if it was possible, and I went out to see

``Connie, you don't want to postpone it. Why, how perfectly lovely! . . . Mrs. Stringer will go on that trip and

She actually jumped up and down in glee. That was the woman in her. It takes a wedding to get a woman. I

remonstrated and pleaded and commanded, all to no purpose. Milly intended to go on that trip to see the

She coaxed so hard that I yielded. Thereupon she called up Mrs. Stringer on the telephone, and of course

found that young woman just as eager as she was. For my part, I threw anxiety and care to the four winds,

and decided to be as happy as any of them. The pennant was mine! Something kept ringing that in my ears.

With the Rube working his iron arm for the edification of his proud Nancy Brown, there was extreme

likelihood of divers shutouts and humiliating defeats for some Eastern League teams.

How well I calculated became a matter of baseball history during that last week of June. We won six straight

games, three of which fell to the Rube's credit. His opponents scored four runs in the three games, against the

nineteen we made. Upon July 1, Radbourne beat Providence and Cairns won the second game. We now had a

string of eight victories. Sunday we rested, and Monday was the Fourth, with morning and afternoon games

Upon the morning of the Fourth, I looked for the Rube at the hotel, but could not find him. He did not show

up at the grounds when the other boys did, and I began to worry. It was the Rube's turn to pitch and we were

neck and neck with Buffalo for first place. If we won both games we would go ahead of our rivals. So I was

all on edge, and kept going to the dressingroom to see if the Rube had arrived. He came, finally, when all

the boys were dressed, and about to go out for practice. He had on a new suit, a tailormade suit at that, and

he looked fine. There was about him a kind of strange radiance. He stated simply that he had arrived late

because he had just been married. Before congratulations were out of our mouths, he turned to me.

``What! Say, Whit, Buffalo is on the card today and we are only three points behind them. If we win both

we'll be leading the league once more. I don't know about pitching you both games.''

``I reckon we'll be in the lead tonight then,'' he replied, ``for I'll win them both.''

I was about to reply when Dave, the ground keeper, called me to the door, saying there was a man to see

me. I went out, and there stood Morrisey, manager of the Chicago American League team. We knew each

``Con, I dropped off to see you about this new pitcher of yours, the one they call the Rube. I want to see him

``Waittill you see him pitch,'' I replied. I could scarcely get that much out, for Morrisey's presence meant a

``Well, Morrisey, not exactly. I can give you the first call. You'll have to bid high, though. Just wait till you

``I'm glad to hear that. My scout was over here watching him pitch and says he's a wonder.''

What luck it was that Morrisey should have come upon this day! I could hardly contain myself. Almost I

began to spend the money I would get for selling the Rube to the big league manager. We took seats in the

grand stand, as Morrisey did not want to be seen by any players, and I stayed there with him until the gong

sounded. There was a big attendance. I looked all over the stand for Nan, but she was lost in the gay crowd.

But when I went down to the bench I saw her up in my private box with Milly. It took no second glance to

Then, in the absorption of the game, I became oblivious to Milly and Nan; the noisy crowd; the giant

firecrackers and the smoke; to the presence of Morrisey; to all except the Rube and my team and their

opponents. Fortunately for my hopes, the game opened with characteristic Worcester dash. Little McCall

doubled, Ashwell drew his base on four wide pitches, and Stringer drove the ball over the rightfield

Three runs were enough to win that game. Of all the exhibitions of pitching with which the Rube had favored

us, this one was the finest. It was perhaps not so much his marvelous speed and unhittable curves that made

the game one memorable in the annals of pitching; it was his perfect control in the placing of balls, in the

cutting of corners; in his absolute implacable mastery of the situation. Buffalo was unable to find him at all.

The game was swift short, decisive, with the score 5 to 0 in our favor. But the score did not tell all of the

Rube's work that morning. He shut out Buffalo without a hit, or a scratch, the first nohit, norun game of

the year. He gave no base on balls; not a Buffalo player got to first base; only one fly went to the outfield.

For once I forgot Milly after a game, and I hurried to find Morrisey, and carried him off to have dinner with

``Your rube is a wonder, and that's a fact,'' he said to me several times. ``Where on earth did you get him?

``How much? Do you hear? How much?'' Morrisey hammered the table with his fist and his eyes gleamed.

Carried away as I was by his vehemence, I was yet able to calculate shrewdly, and I decided to name a very

Presently my hand, none too firm, was signing my name to a contract whereby I was to sell my pitcher for

five thousand dollars at the close of the current season. I never saw a man look so pleased as Morrisey when

he folded that contract and put it in his pocket. He bade me goodbye and hurried off to catch a train, and he

That afternoon before a crowd that had to be roped off the diamond, I put the Rube against the Bisons. How

well he showed the baseball knowledge he had assimilated! He changed his style in that second game. He

used a slow ball and wide curves and took things easy. He made Buffalo hit the ball and when runners got on

bases once more let out his speed and held them down. He relied upon the players behind him and they were

It was a totally different game from that of the morning, and perhaps one more suited to the pleasure of the

audience. There was plenty of hard hitting, sharp fielding and good base running, and the game was close and

exciting up to the eighth, when Mullaney's triple gave us two runs, and a lead that was not headed. To the

deafening roar of the bleachers the Rube walked off the field, having pitched Worcester into first place in the

That night the boys planned their first job on the Rube. We had ordered a special Pullman for travel to

Toronto, and when I got to the depot in the morning, the Pullman was a white fluttering mass of satin

ribbons. Also, there was a brass band, and thousands of baseball fans, and barrels of old footgear. The Rube

and Nan arrived in a cab and were immediately mobbed. The crowd roared, the band played, the engine

whistled, the bell clanged; and the air was full of confetti and slippers, and showers of rice like hail pattered

everywhere. A somewhat dishevelled bride and groom boarded the Pullman and breathlessly hid in a state

room. The train started, and the crowd gave one last rousing cheer. Old Spears yelled from the back platform:

``Fellers, an' fans, you needn't worry none about leavin' the Rube an' his bride to the tender mercies of the

gang. A hundred years from now people will talk about this honeymoon baseball trip. Wait till we come

backan' say, jest to put you wise, no matter what else happens, we're comin' back in first place!''

It was surely a merry party in that Pullman. The bridal couple emerged from their hiding place and held a sort

of reception in which the Rube appeared shy and frightened, and Nan resembled a joyous, fluttering bird in

gray. I did not see if she kissed every man on the team, but she kissed me as if she had been wanting to do it

for ages. Milly kissed the Rube, and so did the other women, to his infinite embarrassment. Nan's effect upon

that crowd was most singular. She was sweetness and caprice and joy personified.

We settled down presently to something approaching order, and I, for one, with very keen ears and alert eyes,

``I see the lambs agambolin','' observed McCall, in a voice louder than was necessary to convey his meaning

``Yes, it do seem as if there was joy aboundin' hereabouts,'' replied Mul with fervor.

``It's more springtime than summer,'' said Ashwell, ``an' everything in nature is runnin' in pairs. There are

the sheep an' the cattle an' the birds. I see two kingfishers fishin' over here. An' there's a couple of

honeybees makin' honey. Oh, honey, an' by George, if there ain't two butterflies foldin' their wings round

Then the staid Captain Spears spoke up with an appearance of sincerity and a tone that was nothing short of

``Reggie, see the sunshine asleep upon yon bank. Ain't it lovely? An' that white cloud sailin' thither amid the

bluehow spontaneous! Joy is abroad o'er all this bootiful land today Oh, yes! An' love's wings hover

o 'er the little lambs an' the bullfrogs in the pond an' the dicky birds in the trees. What sweetness to lie in the

grass, the lap of bounteous earth, eatin' apples in the Garden of Eden, an' chasin' away the snakes an' dreamin'

Spears was singing when he got so far and there was no telling what he might have done if Mullaney, unable

to stand the agony, had not jabbed a pin in him. But that only made way for the efforts of the other boys, each

of whom tried to outdo the other in poking fun at the Rube and Nan. The big pitcher was too gloriously happy

to note much of what went on around him, but when it dawned upon him he grew red and white by turns.

Nan, however, was more than equal to the occasion. Presently she smiled at Spears, such a smile! The captain

looked as if he had just partaken of an intoxicating wine. With a heightened color in her cheeks and a

dangerous flash in her roguish eyes, Nan favored McCall with a look, which was as much as to say that she

remembered him with a dear sadness. She made eyes at every fellow in the car, and then bringing back her

gaze to the Rube, as if glorying in comparison, she nestled her curly black head on his shoulder. He gently

tried to move her; but it was not possible. Nan knew how to meet the ridicule of half a dozen old lovers. One

by one they buried themselves in newspapers, and finally McCall, for once utterly beaten, showed a white

The boys did not recover from that shock until late in the afternoon. As it was a physical impossibility for

Nan to rest her head all day upon her husband's broad shoulder, the boys toward dinner time came out of their

jealous trance. I heard them plotting something. When dinner was called, about half of my party, including

the bride and groom, went at once into the diningcar. Time there flew by swiftly. And later, when we were

once more in our Pullman, and I had gotten interested in a game of cards with Milly and Stringer and his

He explained that during his absence in the diningcar someone had entered his stateroom and stolen his grip

and Nan's. I hastened at once to aid the Rube in his search. The boys swore by everything under and beyond

the sun they had not seen the grips; they appeared very much grieved at the loss and pretended to help in

searching the Pullman. At last, with the assistance of a porter, we discovered the missing grips in an upper

berth. The Rube carried them off to his stateroom and we knew soon from his uncomplimentary remarks that

the contents of the suitcases had been mixed and manhandled. But he did not hunt for the jokers.

We arrived at Toronto before daylight next morning, and remained in the Pullman until seven o'clock. When

we got out, it was discovered that the Rube and Nan had stolen a march upon us. We traced them to the hotel,

and found them at breakfast. After breakfast we formed a merry sightseeing party and rode all over the city.

That afternoon, when Raddy let Toronto down with three hits and the boys played a magnificent game behind

him, and we won 7 to 2, I knew at last and for certain that the Worcester team had come into its own again.

Then next day Cairns won a close, exciting game, and following that, on the third day, the matchless Rube

toyed with the Torontos. Eleven straight games won! I was in the clouds, and never had I seen so beautiful a

From that day The Honeymoon Trip of the Worcester Baseball Club, as the newspapers heralded itwas a

triumphant march. We won two out of three games at Montreal, broke even with the hardfighting Bisons,

took three straight from Rochester, and won one and tied one out of three with Hartford. It would have been

wonderful ball playing for a team to play on home grounds and we were doing the full circuit of the league.

Spears had called the turn when he said the trip would be a hummer. Nan Hurtle had brought us wonderful

Ashwell, who was a capital actor, disguised himself as a conductor and pretended to try to eject Whit and

Nan from the train, urging that lovemaking was not permitted. Some of the team hired a clever young

woman to hunt the Rube up at the hotel, and claim old acquaintance with him. Poor Whit almost collapsed

when the young woman threw her arms about his neck just as Nan entered the parlor. Upon the instant Nan

became wild as a little tigress, and it took much explanation and eloquence to reinstate Whit in her affections.

Another time Spears, the wily old fox, succeeded in detaining Nan on the way to the station, and the two

missed the train. At first the Rube laughed with the others, but when Stringer remarked that he had noticed a

growing attachment between Nan and Spears, my great pitcher experienced the first pangs of the greeneyed

monster. We had to hold him to keep him from jumping from the train, and it took Milly and Mrs. Stringer to

soothe him. I had to wire back to Rochester for a special train for Spears and Nan, and even then we had to

So far upon our trip I had been fortunate in securing comfortable rooms and the best of transportation for my

party. At Hartford, however, I encountered difficulties. I could not get a special Pullman, and the sleeper we

entered already had a number of occupants. After the ladies of my party had been assigned to berths, it was

It was late when we got aboard, the berths were already made up, and soon we had all retired. In the morning

very early I was awakened by a disturbance. It sounded like a squeal. I heard an astonished exclamation,

another squeal, the pattering of little feet, then hoarse uproar of laughter from the ball players in the upper

berths. Following that came low, excited conversation between the porter and somebody, then an angry snort

from the Rube and the thud of his heavy feet in the aisle. What took place after that was guesswork for me.

But I gathered from the roars and bawls that the Rube was after some of the boys. I poked my head between

Mac was nowhere in that sleeper, judging from the vehement denials. But the Rube kept on digging and

``I'm agoin' to lick you, Mac, so I reckon you'd better show up,'' shouted the Rube.

The big fellow was mad as a hornet. When he got to me he grasped me with his great fence rail splitting

``I'll show you when I find him.'' And the Rube stalked on down the aisle, a tragically comic figure in his

pajamas. In his search for Mac he pried into several upper berths that contained occupants who were not ball

players, and these protested in affright. Then the Rube began to investigate the lower berths. A row of heads

``Here, you Indian! Don't you look in there! That's my wife's berth!'' yelled Stringer.

What the Rube might have done there was no telling, but as he grasped a curtain, he was interrupted by a

Instantly there was a deafening tumult in the car. When it had subsided somewhat, and I considered I would

be safe, I descended from my berth and made my way to the dressing room. Sprawled over the leather seat

was the Rube pommelling McCall with hearty good will. I would have interfered, had it not been for Mac's

demeanor. He was half frightened, half angry, and utterly unable to defend himself or even resist, because he

``Doggone it! WhitI didn'tdo it! I swear it was Spears! Stop thumpin' me nowor I'll get sore. . . .

For all his protesting Mac received a good thumping, and I doubted not in the least that he deserved it. The

wonder of the affair, however, was the fact that no one appeared to know what had made the Rube so furious.

The porter would not tell, and Mac was strangely reticent, though his smile was one to make a fellow

exceedingly sure something out of the ordinary had befallen. It was not until I was having breakfast in

Providence that I learned the true cause of Rube's conduct, and Milly confided it to me, insisting on strict

``Well, Connie,'' went on Milly, when I had promised, ``it was the funniest thing yet, but it was horrid of

McCall. You see, the Rube had upper seven and Nan had lower seven. Early this morning, about daylight,

Nan awoke very thirsty and got up to get a drink. During her absence, probably, but any way some time last

night, McCall changed the number on her curtain, and when Nan came back to number seven of course she

``No wonder the Rube punched him!'' I declared. ``I wish we were safe home. Something'll happen yet on

I was faithful to my promise to Milly, but the secret leaked out somewhere; perhaps Mac told it, and before

the game that day all the players knew it. The Rube, having recovered his good humor, minded it not in the

least. He could not have felt illwill for any length of time. Everything seemed to get back into smooth

But, somehow or other, and about something unknown to the rest of us, the Rube and Nan quarreled. It was

We lost the first game to Providence and won the second. The next day, a Saturday, was the last game of the

trip, and it was Rube's turn to pitch. Several times during the first two days the Rube and Nan about half

made up their quarrel, only in the end to fall deeper into it. Then the last straw came in a foolish move on the

part of wilful Nan. She happened to meet Henderson, her former admirer, and in a flash she took up her

``Don't go to the game with him, Nan,'' I pleaded. ``It's a silly thing for you to do. Of course you don't mean

anything, except to torment Whit. But cut it out. The gang will make him miserable and we'll lose the game.

``I'm supremely indifferent to what happens,'' she replied, with a rebellious toss of her black head. ``I hope

She went to the game with Henderson and sat in the grand stand, and the boys spied them out and told the

Rube. He did not believe it at first, but finally saw them, looked deeply hurt and offended, and then grew

angry. But the gong, sounding at that moment, drew his attention to his business of the day, to pitch.

His work that day reminded me of the first game he ever pitched for me, upon which occasion Captain Spears

got the best out of him by making him angry. For several innings Providence was helpless before his

delivery. Then something happened that showed me a crisis was near. A wag of a fan yelled from the

This cry was taken up by the delighted fans and it rolled around the field. But the Rube pitched on, harder

than ever. Then the knowing bleacherite who had started the cry changed it somewhat.

This, too, went the rounds, and still the Rube, though red in the face, preserved his temper and his pitching

control. All would have been well if Bud Wiler, comedian of the Providence team, had not hit upon a way to

``Nanny's Goat!'' he shouted from the coaching lines. Every Providence player took it up.

The Rube was not proof against that. He yelled so fiercely at them, and glared so furiously, and towered so

formidably, that they ceased for the moment. Then he let drive with his fast straight ball and hit the first

Providence batter in the ribs. His comrades had to help him to the bench. The Rube hit the next batter on the

leg, and judging from the crack of the ball, I fancied that player would walk lame for several days. The Rube

tried to hit the next batter and sent him to first on balls. Thereafter it became a dodging contest with honors

about equal between pitcher and batters. The Providence players stormed and the bleachers roared. But I

With the score a tie, and three men on bases one of the players on the bench again yelled ``Nanny's Goat!''

Straight as a string the Rube shot the ball at this fellow and bounded after it. The crowd rose in an uproar.

The base runners began to score. I left my bench and ran across the space, but not in time to catch the Rube. I

saw him hit two or three of the Providence men. Then the policemen got to him, and a real fight brought the

big audience into the stamping melee. Before the Rube was collared I saw at least four bluecoats on the

The game broke up, and the crowd spilled itself in streams over the field. Excitement ran high. I tried to force

my way into the mass to get at the Rube and the officers, but this was impossible. I feared the Rube would be

taken from the officers and treated with violence, so I waited with the surging crowd, endeavoring to get

nearer. Soon we were in the street, and it seemed as if all the stands had emptied their yelling occupants.

A trolley car came along down the street, splitting the mass of people and driving them back. A dozen

policemen summarily bundled the Rube upon the rear end of the car. Some of these officers boarded the car,

I saw some one thrust forward a frantic young woman. The officers stopped her, then suddenly helped her on

the car, just as I started. I recognized Nan. She gripped the Rube with both hands and turned a white, fearful

The Rube stood in the grasp of his wife and the policemen, and he looked like a ruffled lion. He shook his big

To my infinite relief, the trolley gathered momentum and safely passed out of danger. The last thing I made

out was Nan pressing close to the Rube's side. That moment saw their reconciliation and my joy that it was

It was about the sixth inning that I suspected the Rube of weakening. For that matter he had not pitched

anything resembling his usual brand of baseball. But the Rube had developed into such a wonder in the box

that it took time for his letdown to dawn upon me. Also it took a tip from Raddy, who sat with me on the

``Con, the Rube isn't himself today,'' said Radbourne. ``His mind's not on the game. He seems hurried and

flustered, too. If he doesn't explode presently, I'm a dub at callin' the turn.''

Raddy was the best judge of a pitcher's condition, physical or mental, in the Eastern League. It was a

Saturday and we were on the road and finishing up a series with the Rochesters. Each team had won and lost

a game, and, as I was climbing close to the leaders in the pennant race, I wanted the third and deciding game

of that Rochester series. The usual big Saturday crowd was in attendance, noisy, demonstrative and exacting.

In this sixth inning the first man up for Rochester had flied to McCall. Then had come the two plays

significant of Rube's weakening. He had hit one batter and walked another. This was sufficient, considering

the score was three to one in our favor, to bring the audience to its feet with a howling, stamping demand for

I watched the foxy old captain walk over to the Rube and talk to him while he rested, a reassuring hand on the

pitcher's shoulder. The crowd yelled its disapproval and Umpire Bates called out sharply:

``Now, Mister Umpire, ain't I hurrin' all I can?'' queried Spears as he leisurely ambled back to first.

The Rube tossed a long, damp welt of hair back from his big brow and nervously toed the rubber. I noted that

he seemed to forget the runners on bases and delivered the ball without glancing at either bag. Of course this

``Steady up, old man,'' called Gregg between the yells of the bleachers. He held his mitt square over the plate

for the Rube to pitch to. Again the long twirler took his swing, and again the ball went wild. Clancy had the

Rube in the hole now and the situation began to grow serious. The Rube did not take half his usual

deliberation, and of the next two pitches one of them was a ball and the other a strike by grace of the umpire's

generosity. Clancy rapped the next one, an absurdly slow pitch for the Rube to use, and both runners scored

I saw Spears shake his head and look toward the bench. It was plain what that meant.

``Raddy, I ought to take the Rube out,'' I said, ``but whom can I put in? You worked yesterday Cairns' arm

is sore. It's got to be nursed. And Henderson, that ladies' man I just signed, is not in uniform.''

``Not on your life.'' I had as hard a time keeping Radbourne from overworking as I had in getting enough

work out of some other players. ``I guess I'll let the Rube take his medicine. I hate to lose this game, but if we

have to, we can stand it. I'm curious, anyway, to see what's the matter with the Rube. Maybe he'll settle down

I made no sign that I had noticed Spears' appeal to the bench. And my aggressive players, no doubt seeing the

situation as I saw it, sang out their various calls of cheer to the Rube and of defiance to their antagonists.

Clancy stole off first base so far that the Rube, catching somebody's warning too late, made a balk and the

umpire sent the runner on to second. The Rube now plainly showed painful evidences of being rattled.

He could not locate the plate without slowing up and when he did that a Rochester player walloped the ball.

Pretty soon he pitched as if he did not care, and but for the fast fielding of the team behind him the

Rochesters would have scored more than the eight runs it got. When the Rube came in to the bench I asked

him if he was sick and at first he said he was and then that he was not. So I let him pitch the remaining

innings, as the game was lost anyhow, and we walked off the field a badly beaten team.

That night we had to hurry from the hotel to catch a train for Worcester and we had dinner in the diningcar.

Several of my players' wives had come over from Worcester to meet us, and were in the diningcar when I

entered. I observed a pretty girl sitting at one of the tables with my new pitcher, Henderson.

``Naw, but he looks like he wanted to be. He was in the grand stand today with that girl.''

A second glance at Henderson's companion brought this compliment from me involuntarily.

``Con, you'll get it as bad as the rest of this mushy bunch of ball players. We're all stuck on that kid. But since

Henderson came she's been a frost to all of us. An' it's put the Rube in the dumps.''

``That's Nan Brown. She lives in Worcester an' is the craziest girl fan I ever seen. Flirt! Well, she's got them

That was enough to whet my curiosity, and I favored Miss Brown with more than one glance during dinner.

When we returned to the parlor car I took advantage of the opportunity and remarked to Henderson that he

So I chatted with Nan Brown, and studied her. She was a pretty, laughing, coquettish little minx and quite

baseball mad. I had met many girl fans, but none so enthusiastic as Nan. But she was wholesome and sincere,

Before turning in I sat down beside the Rube. He was very quiet and his face did not encourage company. But

He scarcely heard me and made no move to take the proffered cigar. All at once it struck me that the rustic

``Whit, old fellow, what was wrong today?'' I asked, quietly, with my hand on his arm.

``Mr. Connelly, I want my release, I want to go back to Rickettsville,'' he replied hurriedly.

For the space of a few seconds I did some tall thinking. The situation suddenly became grave. I saw the

``You want to go home?'' I began slowly. ``Why, Whit, I can't keep you. I wouldn't try if you didn't want to

stay. But I'll tell you confidentially, if you leave me at this stage I'm ruined.''

``Well, I can't win the pennant without you. If I do win it there's a big bonus for me. I can buy the house I

want and get married this fall if I capture the flag. You've met Milly. You can imagine what your pitching

That moment bound Whit Hurtle and Frank Connelly into a far closer relation than the one between player

and manager. I sat silent for a while, listening to the drowsy talk of the other players and the rush and roar of

``Thank you, old chap,'' I replied. ``It wouldn't have been like you to throw me down at this stage. Whit,

``Don't be too sure of that. I'm a pretty wise guy, if I do say it myself. I might be able to do as much for you

The sight of his face convinced me that I had taken a wrong tack. It also showed me how deep Whit's trouble

really was. I bade him good night and went to my berth, where sleep did not soon visit me. A saucy,

Women are just as fatal to ball players as to men in any other walk of life. I had seen a strong athlete grow

palsied just at a scornful slight. It's a great world, and the women run it. So I lay awake racking my brains to

outwit a pretty disorganizer; and I plotted for her sake. Married, she would be out of mischief. For Whit's

sake, for Milly's sake, for mine, all of which collectively meant for the sake of the pennant, this would be the

I decided to take Milly into my confidence, and finally on the strength of that I got to sleep. In

he morning I went to my hotel, had breakfast, attended to my mail, and then boarded a car to go out to Milly's

house. She was waiting for me on the porch, dressed as I liked to see her, in blue and white, and she wore

``Hello, Connie. I haven't seen a morning paper, but I know from your face that you lost the Rochester

``I guess yes. The Rube blew up, and if we don't play a pretty smooth game, young lady, he'll never come

``Why, Connie, I knew long ago. Haven't you seen the change in him before this?''

``You are a man. Well, he was a gawky, slouchy, shy farmer boy when he came to us. Of course the city life

and popularity began to influence him. Then he met Nan. She made the Rube a worshipper. I first noticed a

change in his clothes. He blossomed out in a new suit, white negligee, neat tie and a stylish straw hat. Then it

was evident he was making heroic struggles to overcome his awkwardness. It was plain he was studying and

copying the other boys. He's wonderfully improved, but still shy. He'll always be shy. Connie, Whit's a fine

``But, Milly,'' I interrupted, ``the Rube's hard hit. Why is he too good for her?''

``Nan is a naturalborn flirt,'' Milly replied. ``She can't help it. I'm afraid Whit has a slim chance. Nan may

not see deep enough to learn his fine qualities. I fancy Nan tired quickly of him, though the one time I saw

them together she appeared to like him very well. This new pitcher of yours, Henderson, is a handsome

fellow and smooth. Whit is losing to him. Nan likes flash, flattery, excitement.''

``McCall told me the Rube had been down in the mouth ever since Henderson joined the team. Milly, I don't

like Henderson a whole lot. He's not in the Rube's class as a pitcher. What am I going to do? Lose the pennant

``He won't unless we can pull some wires. I've got to help him win Nan Brown. What do you think of that for

a manager's job? I guess maybe winning pennants doesn't call for diplomatic genius and cunning! But I'll

hand them a few tricks before I lose. My first move will be to give Henderson his release.

I left Milly, as always, once more able to make light of discouragements and difficulties.

Monday I gave Henderson his unconditional release. He celebrated the occasion by verifying certain rumors I

had heard from other managers. He got drunk. But he did not leave town, and I heard that he was negotiating

Radbourne pitched one of his giltedged games that afternoon against Hartford and we won. And Milly sat in

the grand stand, having contrived by cleverness to get a seat next to Nan Brown. Milly and I were playing a

vastly deeper game than baseballa game with hearts. But we were playing it with honest motive, for the

good of all concerned, we believed, and on the square. I sneaked a look now and then up into the grand stand.

Milly and Nan appeared to be getting on famously. It was certain that Nan was flushed and excited, no doubt

consciously proud of being seen with my affianced. After the game I chanced to meet them on their way out.

I hunted up the Rube and bundled him off to the hotel to take dinner with me. At first he was glum, but after a

while he brightened up somewhat to my persistent cheer and friendliness. Then we went out on the hotel

``Whit, I'm pulling a stroke for you. Now listen and don't be offended. I know what's put you off your feed,

because I was the same way when Milly had me guessing. You've lost your head over Nan Brown. That's not

so terrible, though I daresay you think it's a catastrophe. Because you've quit. You've shown a yellow streak.

``My boy, that isn't the way to win a girl. You've got to scrap. Milly told me yesterday how she had watched

your love affairs with Nan, and how she thought you had given up just when things might have come your

way. Nan is a little flirt, but she's all right. What's more, she was getting fond of you. Nan is meanest to the

man she likes best. The way to handle her, Whit, is to master her. Play high and mighty. Get tragical. Then

grab her up in your arms. I tell you, Whit, it'll all come your way if you only keep your nerve. I'm your friend

The Rube drew a long, deep breath and held out his hand. I sensed another stage in the evolution of Whit

``I reckon I've taken baseball coachin','' he said presently, ``an' I don't see why I can't take some other kind.

``Hello, Connie. You're late. Good evening, Mr. Hurtle. Come right in. You've met Miss Nan Brown? Oh, of

It was a trying moment for Milly and me. A little pallor showed under the Rube's tan, but he was more

composed than I had expected. Nan got up from the piano. She was all in white and deliciously pretty. She

gave a quick, glad start of surprise. What a relief that was to my troubled mind! Everything had depended

More than once I had been proud of Milly's cleverness, but this night as hostess and an accomplice she won

my everlasting admiration. She contrived to give the impression that Whit was a frequent visitor at her home

and very welcome. She brought out his best points, and in her skillful hands he lost embarrassment and

awkwardness. Before the evening was over Nan regarded Whit with different eyes, and she never dreamed

that everything had not come about naturally. Then Milly somehow got me out on the porch, leaving Nan and

``Milly, you're a marvel, the best and sweetest ever,'' I whispered. ``We're going to win. It's a cinch.''

``Well, Connie, not thatexactly,'' she whispered back demurely. ``But it looks hopeful.''

``Now I can roast you,'' Nan was saying, archly. She had switched back to her favorite baseball vernacular.

``You pitched a swell game last Saturday in Rochester, didn't you? Not! You had no steam, no control, and

``Nan, what could you expect?'' was the cool reply. ``You sat up in the stand with your handsome friend. I

Then I whispered to Milly that it might be discreet for us to move a little way from the vicinity.

It was on the second day afterward that I got a chance to talk to Nan. She reached the grounds early, before

Milly arrived, and I found her in the grand stand. The Rube was down on the card to pitch and when he

started to warm up Nan said confidently that he would shut out Hartford that afternoon.

``I'm sorry, Nan, but you're way off. We'd do well to win at all, let alone get a shutout.''

``Whit's not in shape. He's not right. He's ill or something is wrong. I'm worried sick about him.''

``I 'm serious, Nan. The lad's off, somehow. He's in magnificent physical trim, but he can't keep his mind on

the game. He has lost his head. I've talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no good. He only goes down

deeper in the dumps. Something is terribly wrong with him, and if he doesn't brace, I'll have to release''

Miss Nan Brown suddenly lost a little of her rich bloom. ``Oh! you wouldn'tyou couldn't release him!''

``I'll have to if he doesn't brace. It means a lot to me, Nan, for of course I can't win the pennant this year

without Whit being in shape. But I believe I wouldn't mind the loss of that any more than to see him fall

down. The boy is a magnificent pitcher. If he can only be brought around he'll go to the big league next year

and develop into one of the greatest pitchers the game has ever produced. But somehow or other he has lost

heart. He's quit. And I've done my best for him. He's beyond me now. What a shame it is! For he's the making

of such a splendid man outside of baseball. Milly thinks the world of him. Well, well; there are

disappointments we can't help them. There goes the gong. I must leave you. Nan, I'll bet you a box of

``It is,'' replied Nan, with fire in her eyes. ``You go to Whit Hurtle and tell him I said if he wins today's game

I nearly broke my neck over benches and bats getting to Whit with that message. He gulped once.

Then he tightened his belt and shut out Hartford with two scratch singles. It was a great exhibition of

pitching. I had no means to tell whether or not the Rube got his reward that night, but I was so happy that I

But it turned out that I had been a little premature in my elation. In two days the Rube went down into the

depths again, this time clear to China, and Nan was sitting in the grand stand with Henderson. The Rube lost

his next game, pitching like a schoolboy scared out of his wits. Henderson followed Nan like a shadow, so

that I had no chance to talk to her. The Rube lost his next game and then another. We were pushed out of

If we kept up that losing streak a little longer, our hopes for the pennant were gone. I had begun to despair of

the Rube. For some occult reason he scarcely spoke to me. Nan flirted worse than ever. It seemed to me she

The Providence ball team came to town and promptly signed Henderson and announced him for Saturday's

game. Cairns won the first of the series and Radbourne lost the second. It was Rube's turn to pitch the

Saturday game and I resolved to make one more effort to put the love sick swain in something like his old

She was surprised to see me, but received me graciously. I fancied her face was not quite so glowing as usual.

I came bluntly out with my mission. She tried to freeze me but I would not freeze. I was out to win or lose

and not to be lightly laughed aside or coldly denied. I played to make her angry, knowing the real truth of her

For once in my life I became a knocker and said some unpleasant thingsalbeit they were true about

Henderson. She championed Henderson royally, and when, as a last card, I compared Whit's fine record with

Henderson's, not only as a ball player, but as a man, particularly in his reverence for women, she flashed at

``What do you know about it? Mr. Henderson asked me to marry him. Can a man do more to show his

respect? Your friend never so much as hinted such honorable intentions. What's morehe insulted me!'' The

blaze in Nan's black eyes softened with a film of tears. She looked hurt. Her pride had encountered a fall.

``Couldn't he? That's all you know about him. You know II promised to kiss him if he beat Hartford that

day. So when he came II did. Then the big savage began to rave and he grabbed me up in his arms. He

smothered me; almost crushed the life out of me. He frightened me terribly. When I got away from himthe

monster stood there and coolly said I belonged to him. I ran out of the room and wouldn't see him any more.

At first I might have forgiven him if he had apologizedsaid he was sorry, but never a word. Now I never

I had to make a strenuous effort to conceal my agitation. The Rube had most carefully taken my fool advice

When I had got a hold upon myself, I turned to Nan whitehot with eloquence. Now I was talking not wholly

for myself or the pennant, but for this boy and girl who were at odds in that strangest game of lifelove.

What I said I never knew, but Nan lost her resentment, and then her scorn and indifference. Slowly she

thawed and warmed to my reason, praise, whatever it was, and when I stopped she was again the radiant

``Take another message to Whit for me,'' she said, audaciously. ``Tell him I adore ball players, especially

pitchers. Tell him I'm going to the game today to choose the best one. If he loses the game''

She left the sentence unfinished. In my state of mind I doubted not in the least that she meant to marry the

pitcher who won the game, and so I told the Rube. He made one wild upheaval of his arms and shoulders,

When I got to the bench that afternoon I was tired. There was a big crowd to see the game; the weather was

perfect; Milly sat up in the box and waved her score card at me; Raddy and Spears declared we had the game;

the Rube stalked to and fro like an implacable Indian chief but I was not happy in mind. Calamity breathed

The game began. McCall beat out a bunt; Ashwell sacrificed and Stringer laced one of his beautiful triples

against the fence. Then he scored on a high fly. Two runs! Worcester trotted out into the field. The Rube was

white with determination; he had the speed of a bullet and perfect control of his jump ball and drop. But

Providence hit and had the luck. Ashwell fumbled, Gregg threw wild. Providence tied the score.

The game progressed, growing more and more of a nightmare to me. It was not Worcester's day. The umpire

could not see straight; the boys grumbled and fought among themselves; Spears roasted the umpire and was

sent to the bench; Bogart tripped, hurting his sore ankle, and had to be taken out. Henderson's slow, easy ball

baffled my players, and when he used speed they lined it straight at a Providence fielder.

In the sixth, after a desperate rally, we crowded the bases with only one out. Then Mullaney's hard rap to left,

seemingly good for three bases, was pulled down by Stone with one hand. It was a wonderful catch and he

doubled up a runner at second. Again in the seventh we had a chance to score, only to fail on another double

When the Providence players were at bat their luck not only held good but trebled and quadrupled. The little

Texasleague hits dropped safely just out of reach of the infielders. My boys had an off day in fielding. What

horror that of all days in a season this should be the one for them to make errors!

But they were game, and the Rube was the gamest of all. He did not seem to know what hard luck was, or

discouragement, or poor support. He kept everlastingly hammering the ball at those lucky Providence hitters.

What speed he had! The ball streaked in, and somebody would shut his eyes and make a safety. But the Rube

pitched, on, tireless, irresistibly, hopeful, not forgetting to call a word of cheer to his fielders.

It was one of those strange games that could not be bettered by any labor or daring or skill. I saw it was lost

from the second inning, yet so deeply was I concerned, so tantalizingly did the plays reel themselves off, that

The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of doubt how baseball fate, in common with other fates, loved to

balance the chances, to lift up one, then the other, to lend a deceitful hope only to dash it away.

Providence had almost three times enough to win. The team let up in that inning or grew over confident or

careless, and before we knew what had happened some scratch hits, and bases on balls, and errors, gave us

three runs and left two runners on bases. The disgusted bleachers came out of their gloom and began to

whistle and thump. The Rube hit safely, sending another run over the plate. McCall worked his old trick,

Bases full, three runs to tie! With Ashwell up and one out, the noise in the bleachers mounted to a

highpitched, shrill, continuous sound. I got up and yelled with all my might and could not hear my voice.

Ashwell was a dangerous man in a pinch. The game was not lost yet. A hit, anything to get Ash to firstand

Ash laughed at Henderson, taunted him, shook his bat at him and dared him to put one over. Henderson did

not stand under fire. The ball he pitched had no steam. Ash cracked itsquare on the line into the shortstop's

Then Stringer strode grimly to the plate. It was a hundred to one, in that instance, that he would lose the ball.

The bleachers let out one deafening roar, then hushed. I would rather have had Stringer at the bat than any

other player in the world, and I thought of the Rube and Nan and Millyand hope would not die.

Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and struck the ball with a sharp, solid bing! It shot toward center,

low, level, exceedingly swift, and like a dark streak went straight into the fielder's hands. A rod to right or left

would have made it a home run. The crowd strangled a victorious yell. I came out of my trance, for the game

I hurried him into the dressing room and kept close to him. He looked like a man who had lost the one thing

worth while in his life. I turned a deaf ear to my players, to everybody, and hustled the Rube out and to the

To my amaze we met Milly and Nan as we entered the lobby. Milly wore a sweet, sympathetic smile. Nan

shone more radiant than ever. I simply stared. It was Milly who got us all through the corridor into the parlor.

``Whit, you pitched a bad game but'' there was the old teasing, arch, coquettishness``but you are the best

They may say baseball is the same in the minor leagues that it is in the big leagues, but any old ball player or

manager knows better. Where the difference comes in, however, is in the greater excellence and unity of the

major players, a speed, a daring, a finish that can be acquired only in competition with one another.

I thought of this when I led my party into Morrisey's private box in the grand stand of the Chicago American

League grounds. We had come to see the Rube's break into fast company. My great pitcher, Whittaker Hurtle,

the Rube, as we called him, had won the Eastern League Pennant for me that season, and Morrisey, the

Chicago magnate, had bought him. Milly, my affianced, was with me, looking as happy as she was pretty,

With me, also, were two veterans of my team, McCall and Spears, who lived in Chicago, and who would

have traveled a few miles to see the Rube pitch. And the other member of my party was Mrs. Hurtle, the

Rube's wife, as saucy and as sparklingeyed as when she had been Nan Brown. Today she wore a new

tailormade gown, new bonnet, new glovesshe said she had decorated herself in a manner befitting the

Morrisey's box was very comfortable, and, as I was pleased to note, so situated that we had a fine view of the

field and stands, and yet were comparatively secluded. The bleachers were filling. Some of the Chicago

players were on the field tossing and batting balls; the Rube, however, had not yet appeared.

A moment later a metallic sound was heard on the stairs leading up into the box. I knew it for baseball spiked

The Rube, looking enormous in his uniform, stalked into the box, knocking over two chairs as he entered. He

carried a fielder's glove in one huge freckled hand, and a big black bat in the other.

Nan, with much dignity and a very manifest pride, introduced him to Mrs. Nelson.

There was a little chatting, and then, upon the arrival of Manager Morrisey, we men retired to the back of the

Chicago was in fourth place in the league race, and had a fighting chance to beat Detroit out for the third

position. Philadelphia was scheduled for that day, and Philadelphia had a great team. It was leading the race,

and almost beyond all question would land the flag. In truth, only one more victory was needed to clinch the

pennant. The team had three games to play in Chicago and it was to wind up the season with three in

Washington. Six games to play and only one imperatively important to win! But baseball is uncertain, and

``Well, Whit, this is where you break in,'' I said. ``Now, tip us straight. You've had more than a week's rest.

``Grand, Con, grand!'' replied the Rube with his frank smile. ``I was a little anxious till I warmed up. But say!

``That'll do for me,'' said Morrisey, rubbing his hands. ``I'll spring something on these swelled Quakers today.

Now, Connelly, give Hurtle one of your old talksthe last oneand then I'll ring the gong.''

I added some words of encouragement, not forgetting my old ruse to incite the Rube by rousing his temper.

And then, as the gong rang and the Rube was departing, Nan stepped forward for her say. There was a little

``Whit, it's a magnificent sightthat beautiful green field and the stands. What a crowd of fans! Why, I

never saw a real baseball crowd before. There are twenty thousand here. And there's a difference in the

feeling. It's sharper new to me. It's big league baseball. Not a soul in that crowd ever heard of you, but, I

believe, tomorrow the whole baseball world will have heard of you. Mr. Morrisey knows. I saw it in his face.

Then she lifted her face and, pulling him down within reach, she kissed him. Nan took her husband's work in

dead earnest; she gloried in it, and perhaps she had as much to do with making him a great pitcher as any of

The Rube left the box, and I found a seat between Nan and Milly. The field was a splendid sight. Those

bleachers made me glow with managerial satisfaction. On the field both teams pranced and danced and

In spite of the absolutely last degree of egotism manifested by the Philadelphia players, I could not but

``So these are the champions of last season and of this season, too,'' commented Milly. ``I don't wonder. How

swiftly and cleanly they play! They appear not to exert themselves, yet they always get the ball in perfect

time. It all reminds me ofof the rhythm of music. And that champion batter and runnerthat Lane in

center isn't he just beautiful? He walks and runs like a blueribbon winner at the horse show. I tell you one

``Oh, these Quakers hate themselves, I don't think!'' retorted Nan. Being a rabid girlfan it was, of course,

impossible for Nan to speak baseball convictions or gossip without characteristic baseball slang. ``Stuck on

themselves! I never saw the like in my life. That fellow Lane is so swelled that he can't get down off his toes.

But he's a wonder, I must admit that. They're a bunch of stars. Easy, fast, trainedthey're machines, and I'll

bet they're Indians to fight. I can see it sticking out all over them. This will certainly be some game with Whit

handing up that jump ball of his to this gang of champs. But, Connie, I'll go you Whit beats them.''

The gong rang; the crowd seemed to hum and rustle softly to quiet attention; Umpire McClung called the

There was the usual applause from the grand stand and welcome cheers from the bleachers. The Rube was the

last player to go out. Morrisey was a manager who always played to the stands, and no doubt he held the

Rube back for effect. If so, he ought to have been gratified. That moment reminded me of my own team and

audience upon the occasion of the Rube's debut. It was the same only here it happened in the big league,

The roar that went up from the bleachers might well have scared an unseasoned pitcher out of his wits. And

the Quakers lined up before their bench and gazed at this newcomer who had the nerve to walk out there to

the box. Cogswell stood on the coaching line, looked at the Rube and then held up both arms and turned

Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leaned over the boxrail and looked at the champions with fire in her

Certain it was that there was no one who knew the Rube as well as I; and I knew beyond the shadow of a

doubt that the hour before me would see brightening of a great star pitcher on the big league horizon. It was

bound to be a full hour for me. I had much reason to be grateful to Whit Hurtle. He had pulled my team out of

a rut and won me the pennant, and the five thousand dollars I got for his release bought the little cottage on

the hill for Milly and me. Then there was my pride in having developed him. And all that I needed to calm

me, settle me down into assurance and keen criticism of the game, was to see the Rube pitch a few balls with

Berne, first batter for the Quakers, walked up to the plate. He was another Billy Hamilton, built like a wedge.

Whit swayed back, coiled and uncoiled. Something thin, white, glancing, shot at Berne. He ducked, escaping

the ball by a smaller margin than appeared good for his confidence. He spoke low to the Rube, and what he

``Wild! What'd you look for?'' called out Cogswell scornfully. ``He's from the woods!''

The Rube swung his enormously long arm, took an enormous stride toward third base, and pitched again. It

The Rube's next one was his out curve. It broke toward the corner of the plate and would have been a strike

Callopy, the second hitter, faced the Rube, and he, too, after the manner of ball players, made some remark

meant only for the Rube's ears. Callopy was a famous waiter. He drove more pitchers mad with his

implacable patience than any hitter in the league. The first one of the Rube's he waited on crossed the

incorner; the second crossed the outcorner and the third was Rube's wide, slow, tantalizing ``stitchball,''

as we call it, for the reason that it came so slow a batter could count the stitches. I believe Callopy waited on

that curve, decided to hit it, changed his mind and waited some more, and finally the ball maddened him and

Then the graceful, powerful Lane, champion batter, champion base runner, stepped to the plate. How a

baseball crowd, any crowd, anywhere, loves the champion batter! The ovation Lane received made me

wonder, with this impressive reception in a hostile camp, what could be the manner of it on his home field?

Any boy ball player from the lots seeing Lane knock the dirt out of his spikes and step into position would

I was curious to see what the Rube would pitch Lane. It must have been a new and significant moment for

Hurtle. Some pitchers actually wilt when facing a hitter of Lane's reputation. But he, on his baseball side, was

peculiarly unemotional. Undoubtedly he could get furious, but that only increased his effectiveness. To my

amazement the Rube pitched Lane a little easy ball, not in any sense like his floater or stitchball, but just a

little toss that any youngster might have tossed. Of all possible balls, Lane was not expecting such as that,

and he let it go. If the nerve of it amazed me, what did it not do to Lane? I saw his face go fiery red. The

grand stand murmured; let out one short yelp of pleasure; the Quaker players chaffed Lane.

The pitch was a strike. I was gripping my chair now, and for the next pitch I prophesied the Rube's wonderful

jump ball, which he had not yet used. He swung long, and at the end of his swing seemed to jerk tensely. I

scarcely saw the ball. It had marvelous speed. Lane did not offer to hit it, and it was a strike. He looked at the

Rube, then at Cogswell. That veteran appeared amused. The bleachers, happy and surprised to be able to yell

Again I took it upon myself to interpret the Rube's pitching mind. He had another ball that he had not used, a

drop, an unhittable drop. I thought he would use that next. He did, and though Lane reached it with the bat,

Poole, the best of the Quaker's pitching staff, walked out to the slab. He was a lefthander, and Chicago,

having so many players who batted lefthanded, always found a southpaw a hard nut to crack. Cogswell,

field manager and captain of the Quakers, kicked up the dust around first base and yelled to his men: ``Git in

Staats hit Poole's speed ball into deep short and was out; Mitchell flew out to Berne; Rand grounded to

While the teams again changed sides the fans cheered, and then indulged in the first stretch of the game. I

calculated that they would be stretching their necks presently, trying to keep track of the Rube's work. Nan

leaned on the railing absorbed in her own hope and faith. Milly chattered about this and that, people in the

My own interest, while it did not wholly preclude the fortunes of the Chicago players at the bat, was mostly

In the Rube's half inning he retired Bannister and Blandy on feeble infield grounders, and worked Cogswell

Poole meant to win for the Quakers if his good arm and cunning did not fail him, and his pitching was

masterly. McCloskey fanned, Hutchinson fouled out, Brewster got a short safe fly just out of reach, and

With Dugan up for the Quakers in the third inning, Cogswell and Bannister, from the coaching lines, began to

talk to the Rube. My ears, keen from long practice, caught some of the remarks in spite of the noisy

``My topheavy rustic friend, you'll need an airship presently, when you go up!''

All the badinage was goodnatured, which was sure proof that the Quakers had not arrived at anything like

real appreciation of the Rube. They were accustomed to observe the trying out of many youngsters, of whom

Dugan chopped at three strikes and slammed his bat down. Hucker hit a slow fly to Hoffer. Three men out on

five pitched balls! Cogswell, old war horse that he was, stood a full moment and watched the Rube as he

walked in to the bench. An idea had penetrated Cogswell's brain, and I would have given something to know

what it was. Cogswell was a great baseball general, and though he had a preference for matured ball players

he could, when pressed, see the quality in a youngster. He picked up his mitt and took his position at first

Rand for Chicago opened with a hit, and the bleachers, ready to strike fire, began to cheer and stamp. When

McCloskey, in an attempt to sacrifice, beat out his bunt the crowd roared. Rand,

eing slow on his feet, had not attempted to make third on the play. Hutchinson sacrificed, neatly advancing

the runners. Then the bleachers played the long rolling drum of clattering feet with shrill whistling

accompaniment. Brewster batted a wicked ground ball to Blandy. He dove into the dust, came up with the

ball, and feinting to throw home he wheeled and shot the ball to Cogswell, who in turn shot it to the plate to

head Rand. Runner and ball got there apparently together, but Umpire McClung's decision went against

Again the head of the Quakers' formidable list was up. I knew from the way that Cogswell paced the

coaching box that the word had gone out to look the Rube over seriously. There were possibilities even in

Berne carefully stepped into the batter's box, as if he wanted to be certain to the breadth of a hair how close

he was to the plate. He was there this time to watch the Rube pitch, to work him out, to see what was what.

He crouched low, and it would have been extremely hard to guess what he was up to. His great play,

however, was his ability to dump the ball and beat out the throw to first. It developed presently, that this was

now his intention and that the Rube knew it and pitched him the one ball which is almost impossible to

bunta high incurve, over the inside corner. There was no mistaking the Rube's magnificent control. True as

a plumb line he shot up the ballonce, twice, and Berne fouled bothtwo strikes. Grudgingly he waited on

the next, but it, too, was over the corner, and Berne went out on strikes. The great crowd did not, of course,

grasp the finesse of the play, but Berne had struck out that was enough for them.

Callopy, the famous spiker, who had put many a player out of the game for weeks at a time, strode into the

batter's place, and he, too, was not at the moment making any funny remarks. The Rube delivered a ball that

all but hit Callopy fair on the head. It was the second narrow escape for him, and the roar he let out showed

how he resented being threatened with a little of his own medicine. As might have been expected, and very

likely as the Rube intended, Callopy hit the next ball, a sweeping curve, up over the infield.

I was trying to see all the intricate details of the motive and action on the field, and it was not easy to watch

several players at once. But while Berne and Callopy were having their troubles with the Rube, I kept the tail

He was missing no signs, no indications, no probabilities, no possibilities. But he was in doubt. Like a hawk

he was watching the Rube, and, as well, the crafty batters. The inning might not tell the truth as to the Rube's

luck, though it would test his control. The Rube's speed and curves, without any head work, would have made

him a pitcher of no mean ability, but was this remarkable placing of balls just accident? That was the

When Berne walked to the bench I distinctly heard him say: ``Come out of it, you dubs. I say you can't work

Several of the Quakers were standing out from the bench, all intent on the Rube. He had stirred them up. First

it was humor; then ridicule, curiosity, suspicion, doubt. And I knew it would grow to wonder and certainty,

then fierce attack from both tongues and bats, and lastlyfor ball players are generousunstinted

Somehow, not only the first climaxes of a game but the decisions, the convictions, the reputations of pitchers

and fielders evolve around the great hitter. Plain it was that the vast throng of spectators, eager to believe in a

new find, wild to welcome a new star, yet loath to trust to their own impulsive judgments, held themselves in

The field grew tolerably quiet just then. The Rube did not exert himself. The critical stage had no concern for

him. He pitched Lane a high curve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meant to be hit and a ball hard to hit

safely. Lane knew that as well as any hitter in the world, so he let two of the curves go bytwo strikes.

Again the Rube relentlessly gave him the same ball; and Lane, hitting viciously, spitefully, because he did not

``Oh, I don't know! Pretty fair, I guess!'' yelled a tenorvoiced fan; and he struck the key note. And the

bleachers rose to their feet and gave the Rube the rousing cheer of the brotherhood of fans.

Hoffer walked to first on a base on balls. Sweeney advanced him. The Rube sent up a giant fly to Callopy.

Then Staats hit safely, scoring the first run of the game. Hoffer crossed the plate amid vociferous applause.

What a change had come over the spirit of that Quaker aggregation! It was something to make a man thrill

with admiration and, if he happened to favor Chicago, to fire all his fighting blood. The players poured upon

the Rube a continuous stream of scathing abuse. They would have made a raging devil of a mildmannered

clergyman. Some of them were skilled in caustic wit, most of them were possessed of forked tongues; and

Cogswell, he of a thousand baseball battles, had a genius for inflaming anyone he tormented. This was mostly

beyond the ken of the audience, and behind the back of the umpire, but it was perfectly plain to me. The

Quakers were trying to rattle the Rube, a trick of the game as fair for one side as for the other. I sat there tight

in my seat, grimly glorying in the way the Rube refused to be disturbed. But the lion in him was rampant.

Fortunately, it was his strange gift to pitch better the angrier he got; and the more the Quakers flayed him, the

The innings swiftly passed to the eighth with Chicago failing to score again, with Philadelphia failing to score

at all. One scratch hit and a single, gifts to the weak end of the batting list, were all the lank pitcher allowed

them. Long since the bleachers had crowned the Rube. He was theirs and they were his; and their voices had

the peculiar strangled hoarseness due to overexertion. The grand stand, slower to understand and approve,

arrived later; but it got there about the seventh, and ladies' gloves and men's hats were sacrificed.

In the eighth the Quakers reluctantly yielded their meed of praise, showing it by a cessation of their savage

wordy attacks on the Rube. It was a kind of sullen respect, wrung from the bosom of great foes.

Then the ninth inning was at hand. As the sides changed I remembered to look at the feminine group in our

box. Milly was in a most beautiful glow of happiness and excitement. Nan sat rigid, leaning over the rail, her

face white and drawn, and she kept saying in a low voice: ``Will it never end? Will it never end?'' Mrs.

It was the Quakers' last stand. They faced it as a team that had won many a game in the ninth with two men

out. Dugan could do nothing with the Rube's unhittable drop, for a drop curve was his weakness, and he

struck out. Hucker hit to Hoffer, who fumbled, making the first error of the game. Poole dumped the ball, as

evidently the Rube desired, for he handed up a straight one, but the bunt rolled teasingly and the Rube, being

Suddenly the whole field grew quiet. For the first time Cogswell's coaching was clearly heard.

Could it be possible, I wondered, that after such a wonderful exhibition of pitching the Rube would lose out

There were two Quakers on base, one out, and two of the best hitters in the league on deck, with a chance of

I put my hand on hers. ``Don't quit, Nan. You'll never forgive yourself if you quit. Take it from me, Whit will

What a hole that was for the Rube on the day of his break into fast company! I measured it by his remarkable

deliberation. He took a long time to get ready to pitch to Berne, and when he let drive it was as if he had been

trifling all before in that game. I could think of no way to figure it except that when the ball left him there

was scarcely any appreciable interval of time before it cracked in Sweeney's mitt. It was the Rube's drop,

which I believed unhittable. Berne let it go by, shaking his head as McClung called it a strike. Another

followed, which Berne chopped at vainly. Then with the same upheaval of his giant frame, the same flinging

of long arms and lunging forward, the Rube delivered a third drop. And Berne failed to hit it.

The voiceless bleachers stamped on the benches and the grand stand likewise thundered.

Callopy showed his craft by stepping back and lining Rube's high pitch to left. Hoffer leaped across and

plunged down, getting his gloved hand in front of the ball. The hit was safe, but Hoffer's valiant effort saved

Not improbably there were many thousand spectators of that thrilling moment who pitied the Rube for the

fate which placed Lane at the bat then. But I was not one of them. Nevertheless my throat was clogged, my

mouth dry, and my ears full of bells. I could have done something terrible to Hurtle for his deliberation, yet I

Then he swung, stepped out, and threw his body with the ball. This was his rarely used pitch, his last resort,

his fast rise ball that jumped up a little at the plate. Lane struck under it. How significant on the instant to see

old Cogswell's hands go up! Again the Rube pitched, and this time Lane watched the ball go by. Two strikes!

That whole audience leaped to its feet, whispering, yelling, screaming, roaring, bawling.

The Rube received the ball from Sweeney and quick as lightning he sped it plateward. The great Lane struck

In that whirling moment when the crowd went mad and Milly was hugging me, and Nan pounding holes in

my hat, I had a queer sort of blankness, a section of time when my sensations were deadlocked.

``Oh! Connie, look!'' cried Nan. I saw Lane and Cogswell warmly shaking hands with the Rube. Then the

Wereupon Nan kissed me and Milly, and then kissed Mrs. Nelson. In that radiant moment Nan was all

``Yes, Carroll, I got my notice. Maybe it's no surprise to you. And there's one more thing I want to say.

You're `it' on this team. You're the topnotch catcher in the Western League and one of the best ball players in

Madge Ellston heard young Sheldon speak. She saw the flash in his gray eyes and the heat of his bronzed

``Fade away, sonny. Back to the bushleague for yours!'' replied Carroll, derisively. ``You're not fast enough

for Kansas City. You look pretty good in a uniform and you're swift on your feet, but you can't hit. You've

got a glass arm and you run bases like an ostrich trying to side. That notice was coming to you. Go learn the

Then a crowd of players trooped noisily out of the hotel lobby and swept Sheldon and Carroll down the porch

Madge's uncle owned the Kansas City club. She had lived most of her nineteen years in a baseball

atmosphere, but accustomed as she was to baseball talk and the peculiar banterings and bickerings of the

players, there were times when it seemed all Greek. If a player got his ``notice'' it meant he would be released

in ten days. A ``knocker'' was a ball player who spoke ill of his fellow players. This scrap of conversation,

however, had an unusual interest because Carroll had paid court to her for a year, and Sheldon, coming to the

team that spring, had fallen desperately in love with her. She liked Sheldon pretty well, but Carroll fascinated

her. She began to wonder if there were bad feelings between the rivalsto compare themto get away from

When Pat Donahue, the veteran manager of the team came out, Madge greeted him with a smile. She had

always gotten on famously with Pat, notwithstanding her imperious desire to handle the managerial reins

``Miss Madge, you weren't to the park yesterday an' we lost without our pretty mascot. We shure needed you.

``I'm coming out today,'' replied Miss Ellston, thoughtfully. ``Pat, what's a knocker?''

``Now, Miss Madge, are you askin' me that after I've been coachin' you in baseball for years?'' questioned

``I know what a knocker is, as everybody else does. But I want to know the real meaning, the insideball of

``The insideball of it, eh? Come, let's sit over here a bitthe sun's shure warm today. . . . Miss Madge, a

knocker is the strangest man known in the game, the hardest to deal with an' what every baseball manager

Donahue told her that he believed the term ``knocker'' came originally from baseball; that in general it

typified the player who strengthened his own standing by belittling the ability of his teammates, and by

enlarging upon his own superior qualities. But there were many phases of this peculiar type. Some players

were natural born knockers; others acquired the name in their later years in the game when younger men

threatened to win their places. Some of the best players ever produced by baseball had the habit in its most

violent form. There were players of ridiculously poor ability who held their jobs on the strength of this one

trait. It was a mystery how they misled magnates and managers alike; how for months they held their places,

weakening a team, often keeping a good team down in the race; all from sheer bold suggestion of their own

worth and other players' worthlessness. Strangest of all was the knockers' power to disorganize; to engender a

bad spirit between management and team and among the players. The team which was without one of the

parasites of the game generally stood well up in the race for the pennant, though there had been championship

``It's shure strange, Miss Madge,'' said Pat in conclusion, shaking his gray head. ``I've played hundreds of

knockers, an' released them, too. Knockers always get it in the end, but they go on foolin' me and workin' me

just the same as if I was a youngster with my first team. They're part an' parcel of the game.''

``No, I shure don't, an' I never seen one yet that wasn't the same off the field as he was on.''

``Thank you, Pat. I think I understand now. Andoh, yes, there's another thing I want to ask you. What's the

matter with Billie Sheldon? Uncle George said he was falling off in his game. Then I've read the papers.

``Didn't he? I was sure thinkin' I had a find in Billie. Well, he's lost his nerve. He's in a bad slump. It's

worried me for days. I'm goin' to release Billie. The team needs a shakeup. That's where Billie gets the

worst of it, for he's really the makin' of a star; but he's slumped, an' now knockin' has made him let down.

There, Miss Madge, that's an example of what I've just been tellin' you. An' you can see that a manager has

his troubles. These hulkin' athletes are a lot of spoiled babies an' I often get sick of my job.''

That afternoon Miss Ellston was in a brown study all the way out to the baseball park. She arrived rather

earlier than usual to find the grand stand empty. The Denver team had just come upon the field, and the

Kansas City players were practising batting at the left of the diamond. Madge walked down the aisle of the

grand stand and out along the reporters' boxes. She asked one of the youngsters on the field to tell Mr.

Billie eagerly hurried from the players' bench with a look of surprise and expectancy on his sun tanned face.

Madge experienced for the first time a sudden sense of shyness at his coming. His lithe form and his nimble

step somehow gave her a pleasure that seemed old yet was new. When he neared her, and, lifting his cap,

spoke her name, the shade of gloom in his eyes and lines of trouble on his face dispelled her confusion.

``You started off this spring with a rush. You played brilliantly and for a while led the team in batting. Uncle

George thought so well of you. Then came this spell of bad form. But, Billie, it's only a slump; you can

``I don't know,'' he replied, despondently. ``Awhile back I got my mind off the game. Then people who

``But I'm saying it. See here, Billie Sheldon, my uncle owns this team and Pat Donahue is manager. I think

they both like me a little. Now I don't want to see you lose your place. Perhaps''

``Madge, that's fine of youbut I thinkI guess it'd be best for me to leave Kansas City.''

``You know,'' he said huskily. ``I've lost my headI'm in loveI can't think of baseball I'm crazy about

``Billie Sheldon,'' she replied, spiritedly. ``You're talking nonsense. Even if you were were that way, it'd be

no reason to play poor ball. Don't throw the game, as Pat would say. Make a brace! Get up on your toes! Tear

She exhausted her vocabulary of baseball language if not her enthusiasm, and paused in blushing confusion.

Madge murmured a hurried goodbye and, turning away, went up the stairs. Her uncle's private box was

upon the top of the grand stand and she reached it in a somewhat bewildered state of mind. She had a

confused sense of having appeared to encourage Billie, and did not know whether she felt happy or guilty.

The flame in his eyes had warmed all her blood. Then, as she glanced over the railing to see the powerful

Burns Carroll, there rose in her breast a panic at strange variance with her other feelings.

Many times had Madge Ellston viewed the field and stands and the outlying country from this high vantage

point; but never with the same mingling emotions, nor had the sunshine ever been so golden, the woods and

meadows so green, the diamond so smooth and velvety, the whole scene so gaily bright.

Denver had always been a good drawing card, and having won the first game of the present series, bade fair

to draw a record attendance. The long lines of bleachers, already packed with the familiar mottled crowd, sent

forth a merry, rattling hum. Soon a steady stream of well dressed men and women poured in the gates and

up the grandstand stairs. The soft murmur of many voices in light conversation and laughter filled the air.

The peanut venders and scorecard sellers kept up their insistent shrill cries. The baseball park was alive now

and restless; the atmosphere seemed charged with freedom and pleasure. The players romped like skittish

colts, the fans shrieked their witticismsall sound and movements suggested play.

Madge Ellston was somehow relieved to see her uncle sitting in one of the lower boxes. During this game she

wanted to be alone, and she believed she would be, for the President of the League and directors of the

Kansas City team were with her uncle. When the bell rang to call the Denver team in from practice the stands

could hold no more, and the ropedoff side lines were filling up with noisy men and boys. From her seat

Madge could see right down upon the players' bench, and when she caught both Sheldon and Carroll gazing

Then the bell rang again, the bleachers rolled out their welcoming acclaim, and play was called with Kansas

Right off the reel Hunt hit a short fly safely over second. The ten thousand spectators burst into a roar. A

Madge was surprised and glad to see Billie Sheldon start next for the plate. All season, until lately, he had

been the second batter. During his slump he had been relegated to the last place on the batting list. Perhaps he

had asked Pat to try him once more at the top. The bleachers voiced their unstinted appreciation of this return,

As for Madge, her breast heaved and she had difficulty in breathing. This was going to be a hard game for

her. The intensity of her desire to see Billie brace up to his old form amazed her. And Carroll's rude words

beat thick in her ears. Never before had Billie appeared so instinct with life, so intent and strung as when he

faced Keene, the Denver pitcher. That worthy tied himself up in a knot, and then, unlimbering a long arm,

Billie seemed to leap forward and throw his bat at it. There was a sharp ringing crackand the ball was like

a white string marvelously stretching out over the players, over the green field beyond, and then, sailing,

soaring, over the right field fence. For a moment the stands, even the bleachers, were stone quiet. No player

had ever hit a ball over that fence. It had been deemed impossible, as was attested to by the many painted

``ads'' offering prizes for such a feat. Suddenly the far end of the bleachers exploded and the swelling roar

rolled up to engulf the grand stand in thunder. Billie ran round the bases to applause never before vented on

that field. But he gave no sign that it affected him; he did not even doff his cap. Whitefaced and stern, he

hurried to the bench, where Pat fell all over him and many of the players grasped his hands.

Up in her box Madge was crushing her score card and whispering: ``Oh! Billie, I could hug you for that!''

Two runs on two pitched balls! That was an opening to stir an exacting audience to the highest pitch of

enthusiasm. The Denver manager peremptorily called Keene off the diamond and sent in Steele, a

southpaw, who had always bothered Pat's lefthanded hitters. That move showed his astute judgment, for

It was Dalgren's turn to pitch and though he had shown promise in several games he had not yet been tried

out on a team of Denver's strength. The bleachers gave him a good cheering as he walked into the box, but

for all that they whistled their wonder at Pat's assurance in putting him against the Cowboys in an important

The lad was visibly nervous and the hardhitting and loudcoaching Denver players went after him as if they

meant to drive him out of the game. Crane stung one to left center for a base, Moody was out on a liner to

short, almost doubling up Crane; the fleetfooted Bluett bunted and beat the throw to first; Langly drove to

left for what seemed a threebagger, but Curtis, after a hard run, caught the ball almost off the leftfield

bleachers. Crane and Bluett advanced a base on the throwin. Then Kane batted up a high foulfly. Burns

Carroll, the Kansas City catcher, had the reputation of being a fiend for chasing foul flies, and he dashed at

this one with a speed that threatened a hard fall over the players' bench or a collision with the fence. Carroll

caught the ball and crashed against the grand stand, but leaped back with an agility that showed that if there

Thus the sharp inning ended with a magnificent play. It electrified the spectators into a fierce energy of

applause. With one accord, by baseball instinct, the stands and bleachers and roped insidelines realized it

was to be a game of games and they answered to the stimulus with a savage enthusiasm that inspired

In the first half of the second inning, Steele's will to do and his arm to execute were very like his name.

Kansas City could not score. In their half the Denver team made one run by clean hitting.

Then the closely fought advantage seesawed from one team to the other. It was not a pitchers' battle, though

both men worked to the limit of skill and endurance. They were hit hard. Dazzling plays kept the score down

and the innings short. Over the fields hung the portent of something to come, every player, every spectator

felt the subtle baseball chance; each inning seemed to lead closer and more thrillingly up to the climax. But at

the end of the seventh, with the score tied six and six, with daring steals, hard hits and splendid plays, enough

to have made memorable several games, it seemed that the great portentous moment was still in abeyance.

The head of the batting list for Kansas City was up. Hunt caught the first pitched ball squarely on the end of

his bat. It was a mighty drive and as the ball soared and soared over the centerfield Hunt raced down the

base line, and the winged footed Crane sped outward, the bleachers split their throats. The hit looked good

for a home run, but Crane leaped up and caught the ball in his gloved hand. The sudden silence and then the

long groan which racked the bleachers was greater tribute to Crane's play than any applause.

Billie Sheldon then faced Steele. The fans roared hoarsely, for Billie had hit safely three times out of four.

Steele used his curve ball, but he could not get the batter to go after it. When he had wasted three balls, the

neverdespairing bleachers howled: ``Now, Billie, in your groove! Sting the next one!'' But Billie waited.

One strike! Two strikes! Steele cut the plate. That was a test which proved Sheldon's caliber.

With seven innings of exciting play passed, with both teams on edge, with the bleachers wild and the grand

stands keyed up to the breaking point, with everything making deliberation almost impossible, Billie Sheldon

Steele had not tired nor lost his cunning. With hands before him he grimly studied Billie, then whirling hard

Billie swung perfectly and cut a curving liner between the first baseman and the base. Like a shot it skipped

over the grass out along the foul line into right field. Amid tremendous uproar Billie stretched the hit into a

triple, and when he got up out of the dust after his slide into third the noise seemed to be the crashing down of

the bleachers. It died out with the choking gurgling yell of the most leatherlunged fan.

McReady marched up and promptly hit a long fly to the redoubtable Crane. Billie crouched in a sprinter's

position with his eye on the graceful fielder, waiting confidently for the ball to drop. As if there had not

already been sufficient heart rending moments, the chance that governed baseball meted out this play; one

of the keenest, most trying known to the game. Players waited, spectators waited, and the instant of that

dropping ball was interminably long. Everybody knew Crane would catch it; everybody thought of the

wonderful throwing arm that had made him famous. Was it possible for Billie Sheldon to beat the throw to

Crane made the catch and got the ball away at the same instant Sheldon leaped from the base and dashed for

home. Then all eyes were on the ball. It seemed incredible that a ball thrown by human strength could speed

plateward so low, so straight, so swift. But it lost its force and slanted down to bound into the catcher's hands

By the time the bleachers had stopped stamping and bawling, Curtis ended the inning with a difficult

Once more the Kansas City players took the field and Burns Carroll sang out in his lusty voice: ``Keep lively,

boys! Play hard! Dig 'em up an' get 'em!'' Indeed the big catcher was the main stay of the home team. The

bulk of the work fell upon his shoulders. Dalgren was wild and kept his catcher continually blocking low

pitches and wide curves and poorly controlled high fast balls. But they were all alike to Carroll. Despite his

weight, he was as nimble on his feet as a goat, and if he once got his hands on the ball he never missed it. It

was his encouragement that steadied Dalgren; his judgment of hitters that carried the young pitcher through

dangerous places; his lightning swift grasp of points that directed the machinelike work of his team.

In this inning Carroll exhibited another of his demon chases after a foul fly; he threw the base stealing

Crane out at second, and by a remarkable leap and stop of McReady's throw, he blocked a runner who would

The Cowboys blanked their opponents in the first half of the ninth, and trotted in for their turn needing one

There had scarcely been a breathing spell for the onlookers in this rapidfire game. Every inning had held

them, one moment breathless, the next wildly clamorous, and another waiting in numb fear. What did these

last few moments hold in store? The only answer to that was the dogged plugging optimism of the Denver

players. To listen to them, to watch them, was to gather the impression that baseball fortune always favored

``Only three more, Dal. Steady boys, it's our game,'' rolled out Carroll's deep bass. How virile he was! What a

But valiantly as Dalgren tried to respond, he failed. The grindthe strain had been too severe. When he

finally did locate the plate Bluett hit safely. Langley bunted along the base line and beat the ball.

A blank, dead quiet settled down over the bleachers and stands. Something fearful threatened. What might

not come to pass, even at the last moment of this nerveracking game? There was a runner on first and a

runner on second. That was bad. Exceedingly bad was it that these runners were on base with nobody out.

Worst of all was the fact that Kane was up. Kane, the best bunter, the fastest man to first, the hardest hitter in

the league! That he would fail to advance those two runners was scarcely worth consideration. Once

advanced, a fly to the outfield, a scratch, anything almost, would tie the score. So this was the climax

Kane swung his ash viciously and called on Dalgren to put one over. Dalgren looked in toward the bench as if

he wanted and expected to be taken out. But Pat Donahue made no sign. Pat had trained many a pitcher by

forcing him to take his medicine. Then Carroll, mask under his arm, rolling his big hand in his mitt, sauntered

down to the pitcher's box. The sharp order of the umpire in no wise disconcerted him. He said something to

Dalgren, vehemently nodding his head the while. Players and audience alike supposed he was trying to put a

little heart into Dalgren, and liked him the better, notwithstanding the opposition to the umpire.

Carroll sauntered back to his position. He adjusted his breast protector, and put on his mask, deliberately

taking his time. Then he stepped behind the plate, and after signing for the pitch, he slowly moved his right

Dalgren wound up, took his swing, and let drive. Even as he delivered the ball Carroll bounded away from

his position, flinging off the mask as he jumped. For a single fleeting instant, the catcher's position was

vacated. But that instant was long enough to make the audience gasp. Kane bunted beautifully down the third

base line, and there Carroll stood, fifteen feet from the plate, agile as a huge monkey. He whipped the ball to

Mahew at third. Mahew wheeled quick as thought and lined the ball to second. Sheldon came tearing for the

bag, caught the ball on the run, and with a violent stop and wrench threw it like a bullet to first base. Fast as

The players of both teams cheered, but the audience, slower to grasp the complex and intricate points, needed

a long moment to realize what had happened. They needed another to divine that Carroll had anticipated

Kane's intention to bunt, had left his position as the ball was pitched, had planned all, risked all, played all on

Kane's sure eye; and so he had retired the side and won the game by creating and executing the rarest play in

Then the audience rose in a body to greet the great catcher. What a hoarse thundering roar shook the stands

and waved in a blast over the field! Carroll stood bowing his acknowledgment, and then swaggered a little

with the sun shining on his handsome heated face. Like a conqueror conscious of full blown power he stalked

Madge Ellston came out of her trance and viewed the ragged scorecard, her torn parasol, her battered gloves

and flying hair, her generally disheveled state with a little start of dismay, but when she got into the thick and

press of the moving crowd she found all the women more or less disheveled. And they seemed all the prettier

and friendlier for that. It was a happy crowd and voices were conspicuously hoarse.

When Madge entered the hotel parlor that evening she found her uncle with guests and among them was

Burns Carroll. The presence of the handsome giant affected Madge more impellingly than ever before, yet in

some inexplicably different way. She found herself trembling; she sensed a crisis in her feelings for this man

and it frightened her. She became conscious suddenly that she had always been afraid of him. Watching

Carroll receive the congratulations of many of those present, she saw that he dominated them as he had her.

His magnetism was over powering; his great stature seemed to fill the room; his easy careless assurance

emanated from superior strength. When he spoke lightly of the game, of Crane's marvelous catch, of

Dalgren's pitching and of his own triple play, it seemed these looming features retreated in

In the light of Carroll's illuminating talk, in the remembrance of Sheldon's bitter denunciation, in the

knowledge of Pat Donahue's estimate of a peculiar type of ballplayer, Madge Ellston found herself judging

Carroll soon made his way to her side and greeted her with his old familiar manner of possession. However

Carroll possessed the elemental attributes of a conqueror. When with him Madge whimsically feared that he

would snatch her up in his arms and carry her bodily off, as the warriors of old did with the women they

wanted. But she began to believe that the fascination he exercised upon her was merely physical. That gave

her pause. Not only was Burns Carroll on trial, but also a very foolish fluttering little mothherself. It was

``A lucky stab! Crane has a habit of running round like an ostrich and sticking out a hand to catch a ball. It's a

grandstand play. Why, a good outfielder would have been waiting under that fly.''

``Oh, the kid's all right with an old head back of the plate. He's wild, though, and will never make good in fast

company. I won his game today. He wouldn't have lasted an inning without me. It was dead wrong for Pat to

A hot retort trembled upon Madge Ellston's lips, but she withheld it and quietly watched Carroll. How

``And Billie Sheldonwasn't it good to see him brace? What hitting! . . . That home run!''

``Sheldon flashed up today. That's the worst of such players. This talk of his slump is all rot. When he joined

the team he made some lucky hits and the papers lauded him as a comer, but he soon got down to his real

form. Why, to break into a game now and then, to shut his eyes and hit a couple on the nosethat's not

baseball. Pat's given him ten days' notice, and his release will be a good move for the team. Sheldon's not fast

``I'm sorry. He seemed so promising,'' replied Madge. ``I liked Billypretty well.''

``Yes, that was evident,'' said Carroll, firing up. ``I never could understand what you saw in him. Why,

Madge turned a white face that silenced Carroll. She excused herself and returned to the parlor, where she

had last seen her uncle. Not finding him there, she went into the long corridor and met Sheldon, Dalgren and

two more of the players. Madge congratulated the young pitcher and the other players on their brilliant work;

and they, not to be outdone, gallantly attributed the day's victory to her presence at the game. Then, without

knowing in the least how it came about, she presently found herself alone with Billy, and they were strolling

The girl risked one quick look at him. How boyish he seemed, how eager! What an altogether different Billie!

But was the difference all in him! Somehow, despite a conscious shyness in the moment she felt natural and

free, without the uncertainty and restraint that had always troubled her while with him.

``Madge, wasn't that hit a dandy? How I made it is a mystery, but the bat felt like a feather. I thought of you.

``Billie, are you stillcrazy about me? Now, don't come so close. Can't you behave yourself? And don't

break my fingers with you terrible baseball hands. . . . Well, when you made that hit I just collapsed and I

``I said, `Billie, I could hug you for that!' . . . Billie, let me go! Oh, you mustn't!please!''

Quite a little while afterward Madge remembered to tell Billie that she had been seeking her uncle. They met

``Shure it looks as if she's signed a new manager,'' said Pat, his shrewd eyes twinkling.

The soft glow in Madge's cheeks deepened into telltale scarlet; Billie resembled a schoolboy stricken in

``Ellston,'' said Pat. ``Billie's homerun drive today recalled his notice an' if I don't miss guess it won him

``Shure, it was good to see you brace, Billie,'' said the manager, with a kindly hand on the young man's arm.

``I'm tickled to death. That ten days' notice doesn't go. See? I've had to shake up the team but your job is

good. I released McReady outright an' traded Carroll to Denver for a catcher and a fielder. Some of the

directors hollered murder, an' I expect the fans will roar, but I'm running this team, I'll have harmony among

One day in July our Rochester club, leader in the Eastern League, had returned to the hotel after winning a

doubleheader from the Syracuse club. For some occult reason there was to be a layoff next day and then on

the following another doubleheader. These doubleheaders we hated next to exhibition games. Still a

layoff for twentyfour hours, at that stage of the race, was a Godsend, and we received the news with

After dinner we were all sitting and smoking comfortably in front of the hotel when our manager, Merritt,

came hurriedly out of the lobby. It struck me that he appeared a little flustered.

``Say, you fellars,'' he said brusquely. ``Pack your suits and be ready for the bus at seven thirty.''

For a moment there was a blank, ominous silence, while we assimilated the meaning of his terse speech.

``I've got a good thing on for tomorrow,'' continued the manager. ``Sixty per cent gate receipts if we win.

``It's in Canada. We'll take the night express an' get there tomorrow in time for the game. An' we'll hev to

Upon Merritt then rained a multiplicity of excuses. Gillinger was not well, and ought to have that day's rest.

Snead's eyes would profit by a layoff. Deerfoot Browning was leading the league in base running, and as his

legs were all bruised and scraped by sliding, a manager who was not an idiot would have a care of such

valuable runmakers for his team. Lake had ``Charley horse.'' Hathaway's arm was sore. Bane's stomach

threatened gastritis. Spike Doran's finger needed a chance to heal. I was stale, and the other players, three

``Cut it out!'' said Merritt, getting exasperated. ``You'd all lay down on menow, wouldn't you? Well, listen

to this: McDougal pitched today; he doesn't go. Blake works Friday, he doesn't go. But the rest of you

puffedup, high salaried stiffs pack your grips quick. See? It'll cost any fresh fellar fifty for missin' the

So that was how eleven of the Rochester team found themselves moodily boarding a Pullman en route for

Guelph lay somewhere in the interior of Canada, and we did not expect to get there until 1 o'clock.

As it turned out, the train was late; we had to dress hurriedly in the smoking room, pack our citizen clothes in

our grips and leave the train to go direct to the ball grounds without time for lunch.

It was a tired, dustyeyed, peevish crowd of ball players that climbed into a waiting bus at the little station.

We had never heard of Guelph; we did not care anything about Rube baseball teams. Baseball was not play to

us; it was the hardest kind of work, and of all things an exhibition game was an abomination.

The Guelph players, strapping lads, met us with every mark of respect and courtesy and escorted us to the

Some 500 men and boys trotted curiously along with us, for all the world as if the bus were a circus parade

cage filled with striped tigers. What a rustic, motley crowd massed about in and on that ball ground. There

The audience was strange to us. The Indians, halfbreeds, FrenchCanadians; the huge, hulking, bearded

farmers or traders, or trappers, whatever they were, were new to our baseball experience.

The players themselves, however, earned the largest share of our attention. By the time they had practiced a

These long, powerful, bighanded lads evidently did not know the difference between lacrosse and baseball;

but they were quick as cats on their feet, and they scooped up the ball in a way wonderful to see. And

throw!it made a professional's heart swell just to see them line the ball across the diamond.

``Lord! what whips these lads have!'' exclaimed Merritt. ``Hope we're not up against it. If this team should

beat us we wouldn't draw a handful at Toronto. We can't afford to be beaten. Jump around and cinch the

The ``rabbit'' was a baseball similar in appearance to the ordinary league ball; under its horse hide cover,

An ingenious fan, a friend of Merritt, had removed the covers from a number of league balls and sewed them

on rubber balls of his own making. They could not be distinguished from the regular article, not even by an

experienced professionaluntil they were hit. Then! The fact that after every bounce one of these rubber

Many a game had the ``rabbit'' won for us at critical stages. Of course it was against the rules of the league,

and of course every player in the league knew about it; still, when it was judiciously and cleverly brought into

a close game, the ``rabbit'' would be in play, and very probably over the fence, before the opposing captain

``Fellars, look at that guy who's goin' to pitch,'' suddenly spoke up one of the team.

Many as were the country players whom we seasoned and traveled professionals had run across, this twirler

outclassed them for remarkable appearance. Moreover, what put an entirely different tinge to our momentary

humor was the discovery that he was as wild as a March hare and could throw a ball so fast that it resembled

Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the first pitched ball, which he did not see, and the second, which

ticked his shirt as it shot past, he turned to us with an expression that made us groan inwardly.

When Deerfoot looked that way it meant the pitcher was dangerous. Deerfoot made no effort to swing at the

I was second at bat, and went up with some reluctance. I happened to be leading the league in both long

distance and safe hitting, and I doted on speed. But having stopped many mean in shoots with various parts

of my anatomy, I was rather squeamish about facing backwoods yaps who had no control.

When I had watched a couple of his pitches, which the umpire called strikes, I gave him credit for as much

speed as Rusie. These balls were as straight as a string, singularly without curve, jump, or variation of any

kind. I lined the next one so hard at the shortstop that it cracked like a pistol as it struck his hands and whirled

him half off his feet. Still he hung to the ball and gave opportunity for the first crash of applause.

``Boys, he's a trifle wild,'' I said to my team mates, ``but he has the most beautiful ball to hit you ever saw. I

don't believe he uses a curve, and when we once time that speed we'll kill it.''

Next inning, after old man Hathaway had baffled the Canadians with his wide, tantalizing curves, my

predictions began to be verified. Snead rapped one high and far to deep right field. To our infinite surprise,

however, the right fielder ran with fleetness that made our own Deerfoot seem slow, and he got under the ball

Doran sent a sizzling grasscutter down toward left. The lanky third baseman darted over, dived down, and,

coming up with the ball, exhibited the power of a throwing arm that made as all green with envy.

Then, when the catcher chased a foul fly somewhere back in the crowd and caught it, we began to take notice.

``Lucky stabs!'' said Merritt cheerfully. ``They can't keep that up. We'll drive him to the woods next time.''

But they did keep it up; moreover, they became more brilliant as the game progressed. What with Hathaway's

heady pitching we soon disposed of them when at the bat; our turns, however, owing to the wonderful

Merritt, with his mind ever on the slice of gate money coming if we won, began to fidget and fume and find

``You're a swell lot of champions, now, ain't you?'' he observed between innings.

All baseball players like to bat, and nothing pleases them so much as base hits; on the other hand, nothing is

quite so painful as to send out hard liners only to see them caught. And it seemed as if every man on our team

connected with that lanky twirler's fast high ball and hit with the force that made the bat spring only to have

Considering that we were in no angelic frame of mind before the game started, and in view of Merritt's

persistently increasing ill humor, this failure of ours to hit a ball safely gradually worked us into a kind of

frenzy. From indifference we passed to determination, and from that to sheer passionate purpose.

Luck appeared to be turning in the sixth inning. With one out, Lake hit a beauty to right. Doran beat an

With Browning up and me next, the situation looked rather precarious for the Canadians.

``Say, Deerfoot,'' whispered Merritt, ``dump one down the thirdbase line. He's playin' deep. It's a pipe. Then

In a stage like that Browning was a man absolutely to depend upon. He placed a slow bunt in the grass

toward third and sprinted for first. The third baseman fielded the ball, but, being confused, did not know

``Stick it in your basket,'' yelled Merritt, in a delight that showed how hard he was pulling for the gate money,

and his beaming smile as he turned to me was inspiring. ``Now, Reddy, it's up to you! I'm not worrying about

Merritt's compliment was pleasing, but it did not augment my purpose, for that already had reached the

highest mark. Love of hitting, if no other thing, gave me the thrilling fire to arise to the opportunity. Selecting

my light bat, I went up and faced the rustic twirler and softly said things to him.

He delivered the ball, and I could have yelled aloud, so fast, so straight, so true it sped toward me. Then I hit

it harder than I had ever hit a ball in my life. The bat sprung, as if it were whalebone. And the ball took a

bullet course between center and left. So beautiful a hit was it that I watched as I ran.

Out of the tail of my eye I saw the center fielder running. When I rounded first base I got a good look at this

fielder, and though I had seen the greatest outfielders the game ever produced, I never saw one that covered

On the ball soared, and began to drop; on the fielder sped, and began to disappear over a little hill back of his

position. Then he reached up with a long arm and marvelously caught the ball in one hand. He went out of

sight as I touched second base, and the heterogeneous crowd knew about a great play to make more noise

In the next half inning our opponents, by clean drives, scored two runs and we in our turn again went out

ignominiously. When the first of the eighth came we were desperate and clamored for the ``rabbit.''

``I've sneaked it in,'' said Merritt, with a low voice. ``Got it to the umpire on the last passed ball. See, the

A peculiarity about the ``rabbit'' was the fact that though it felt as light as the regulation league ball it could

Bane hit the first delivery from our hoosier stumbling block. The ball struck the ground and began to bound

toward short. With every bound it went swifter, longer and higher, and it bounced clear over the shortstop's

head. Lake chopped one in front of the plate, and it rebounded from the ground straight up so high that both

Doran hit to the pitcher. The ball caromed his leg, scooted fiendishly at the second baseman, and tried to run

Hathaway got a safe fly over the infield and two runs tallied. The pitcher, in spite of the help of the umpire,

could not locate the plate for Balknap, and gave him a base on balls. Bases full again!

Deerfoot slammed a hot liner straight at the second baseman, which, striking squarely in his hands, recoiled

as sharply as if it had struck a wall. Doran scored, and still the bases were filled.

The laboring pitcher began to get rattled; he could not find his usual speed; he knew it, but evidently could

When I came to bat, indications were not wanting that the Canadian team would soon be up in the air. The

long pitcher delivered the ``rabbit,'' and got it low down by my knees, which was an unfortunate thing for

him. I swung on that one, and trotted round the bases behind the runners while the center and left fielders

Gillinger weighed nearly two hundred pounds, and he got all his weight under the ``rabbit.'' It went so high

that we could scarcely see it. All the infielders rushed in, and after staggering around, with heads bent back,

one of them, the shortstop, managed to get under it. The ``rabbit'' bounded forty feet out of his hands!

When Snead's grounder nearly tore the third baseman's leg off; when Bane's hit proved as elusive as a flitting

shadow; when Lake's liner knocked the pitcher flat, and Doran's fly leaped high out of the center fielder's

glovethen those earnest, simple, country ballplayers realized something was wrong. But they imagined it

was in themselves, and after a short spell of rattles, they steadied up and tried harder than ever. The motions

they went through trying to stop that jumping jackrabbit of a ball were ludicrous in the extreme.

Finally, through a foul, a short fly, and a scratch hit to first, they retired the side and we went into the field

We spent a fatefully anxious few moments squabbling with the umpire and captain over the ``rabbit.'' At the

idea of letting those herculean railsplitters have a chance to hit the rubber ball we felt our blood run cold.

``But this ball has a rip in it,'' blustered Gillinger. He lied atrociously. A microscope could not have

``Sure it has,'' supplemented Merritt, in the suave tones of a stage villain. ``We're used to playing with good

``Why did you ring this one in on us?'' asked the captain. ``We never threw out this ball. We want a chance to

That was just the one thing we did not want them to have. But fate played against us.

``Get up on your toes, now an' dust,'' said Merritt. ``Take your medicine, you lazy sitinfront ofthehotel

Not improbably we all entertained the identical thought that old man Hathaway was the last pitcher under the

sun calculated to be effective with the ``rabbit.'' He never relied on speed; in fact, Merritt often scornfully

accused him of being unable to break a pane of glass; he used principally what we called floaters and a

``It's comin' to us, all right, all right!'' yelled Deerfoot to me, across the intervening grass. I was of the opinion

Old man Hathaway gazed at Merritt on the bench as if he wished the manager could hear what he was calling

him and then at his fellow players as if both to warn and beseech them. Then he pitched the ``rabbit.''

The big lumbering Canadian rapped the ball at Crab Bane. I did not see it, because it went so fast, but I

gathered from Crab's actions that it must have been hit in his direction. At any rate, one of his legs flopped

out sidewise as if it had been suddenly jerked, and he fell in a heap. The ball, a veritable ``rabbit'' in its wild

The next batter resembled the first one, and the hit likewise, only it leaped wickedly at Doran and went

through his hands as if they had been paper. The third man batted up a very high fly to Gillinger. He clutched

at it with his huge shovel hands, but he could not hold it. The way he pounced upon the ball, dug it out of the

Obviously Hathaway had to stop the throw, for he could not get out of the road, and he spoke to his captain in

Thus began retribution. Those husky lads continued to hammer the ``rabbit'' at the infielders and as it

Another singular feature about the ``rabbit'' was the seeming impossibility for professionals to hold it. Their

familiarity with it, their understanding of its vagaries and inconsistencies, their mortal dread made fielding it

By way of variety, the lambasting Canadians commenced to lambast a few over the hills and far away, which

Every time a run crossed the plate the motley crowd howled, roared, danced and threw up their hats. The

members of the batting team pranced up and down the side lines, giving a splendid imitation of cannibals

Once Snead stooped down to trap the ``rabbit,'' and it slipped through his legs, for which his comrades jeered

him unmercifully. Then a brawny batter sent up a tremendously high fly between short and third.

``You take it!'' replied the Crab, and actually walked backward. That ball went a mile high. The sky was

hazy, gray, the most perplexing in which to judge a fly ball. An ordinary fly gave trouble enough in the

Gillinger wandered around under the ball for what seemed an age. It dropped as swiftly as a rocket shoots

upward. Gillinger went forward in a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up his broad hands. He misjudged the

ball, and it hit him fairly on the head and bounced almost to where Doran stood at second.

Our big captain wilted. Time was called. But Gillinger, when he came to, refused to leave the game and went

Every one of his teammates was sorry, yet every one howled in glee. To be hit on the head was the

Old man Hathaway gradually lost what little speed he had, and with it his nerve. Every time he pitched the

``rabbit'' he dodged. That was about the funniest and strangest thing ever seen on a ball field. Yet it had an

Hathaway's expert contortions saved his head and body on divers occasions, but presently a low bounder

We all knew from the crack and the way the pitcher went down that the ``rabbit'' had put him out of the game.

``Hard luck, old man,'' said the manager. ``That'll make a green and yellow spot all right. Boys, we're still two

runs to the good. There's one out, an' we can win yet. Deerfoot, you're as badly crippled as Hathaway. The

Merritt's idea did not strike us as a bad one. He could pitch, and he always kept his arm in prime condition.

We welcomed him into the fray for two reasonsbecause he might win the game, and because he might be

While Merritt was putting on Hathaway's baseball shoes, some of us endeavored to get the ``rabbit'' away

Merritt received the innocentlooking ball with a look of mingled disgust and fear, and he summarily ordered

Not far had we gone, however, when we were electrified by the umpire's sharp words:

``Naw! Naw, you don't. I saw you change the ball I gave you fer one in your pocket! Naw! You don't come

enny of your American dodges on us! Gimmee thet ball, an' you use the other, or I'll stop the game.''

Wherewith the shrewd umpire took the ball from Merritt's hand and fished the ``rabbit'' from his pocket. Our

thwarted manager stuttered his wrath. ``Yyou bebewhwhiskered yyap! I'll gggive''

What dire threat he had in mind never materialized, for he became speechless. He glowered upon the cool

It may have been imagination, yet I made sure Merritt seemed to shrink and grow smaller before he pitched a

ball. For one thing the plate was uphill from the pitcher's box, and then the fellow standing there loomed up

like a hill and swung a bat that would have served as a wagon tongue. No wonder Merritt evinced

A dark streak and a white puff of dust over second base showed how safe that hit was. By dint of manful

body work, Hooker contrived to stop the ``rabbit'' in midcenter. Another run scored. Human nature was

proof against this temptation, and Merritt's players tendered him manifold congratulations and dissertations.

``Say, Merritt, what little brains you've got will presently be ridin' on the `rabbit.' ''

After these merciless taunts, and particularly after the next slashing hit that tied the score, Merritt looked

The giant who was waiting to slug it evidently thought better of his eagerness as far as that pitch was

Merritt got the next ball higher. With a mighty swing, the batsman hit a terrific liner right at the pitcher.

Quick as lightning, Merritt wheeled, and the ball struck him with the sound of two boards brought heavily

Merritt did not fall; he melted to the ground and writhed while the runners scored with more tallies than they

What did we care! Justice had been done us, and we were unutterably happy. Crabe Bane stood on his head;

Gillinger began a war dance; old man Hathaway hobbled out to the side lines and whooped like an Indian;

Snead rolled over and over in the grass. All of us broke out into typical expressions of baseball frenzy, and

Merritt got up and made a dive for the ball. With face positively flaming he flung it far beyond the merry

crowd, over into a swamp. Then he limped for the bench. Which throw ended the most memorable game ever

``Fate has decreed more bad luck for Salisbury in Saturday's game with Bellville. It has leaked out that our

rivals will come over strengthened by a `ringer,' no less than Yale's star pitcher, Wayne. We saw him shut

Princeton out in June, in the last game of the college year, and we are not optimistic in our predictions as to

what Salisbury can do with him. This appears a rather unfair procedure for Bellville to resort to. Why couldn't

they come over with their regular team? They have won a game, and so have we; both games were close and

brilliant; the deciding game has roused unusual interest. We are inclined to resent Bellville's methods as

unsportsmanlike. All our players can do is to go into this game on Saturday and try the harder to win.''

Wayne laid down the Salisbury Gazette, with a little laugh of amusement, yet feeling a vague, disquieting

Somewhere he had heard that Salisbury maintained an unsalaried team. It was notorious among college

athletes that the Bellville Club paid for the services of distinguished players. And this in itself rather inclined

Wayne to sympathize with Salisbury. He knew something of the struggles of a strictly amateur club to cope

As he was sitting there, idly tipped back in a comfortable chair, dreaming over some of the baseball disasters

he had survived before his college career, he saw a young man enter the lobby of the hotel, speak to the clerk,

``Are yon Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher?'' he asked eagerly. He was a fairhaired, cleancut young fellow,

``My name's Huling. I'm captain of the Salisbury nine. Just learned you were in town and are going to pitch

against us tomorrow. Won't you walk out into the grounds with me now? You might want to warm up a

``Thank you, yes, I will. Guess I won't need my suit. I'll just limber up, and give my arm a good rub.''

It struck Wayne before they had walked far that Huling was an amiable and likable chap. As the captain of

the Salisbury nine, he certainly had no reason to be agreeable to the Morristown ``ringer,'' even though

The field was an oval, green as an emerald, level as a billiard table and had no fences or stands to obstruct the

open view of the surrounding wooded country. On each side of the diamond were rows of wooden benches,

Wayne took off his coat, and tossed a ball for a while to an ambitious youngster, and then went into the

clubhouse, where Huling introduced him to several of his players. After a good rubdown, Wayne thanked

``Why not stay to see us practice?'' asked the captain. ``We're not afraid you'll size up our weaknesses. As a

matter of fact, we don't look forward to any hitting stunts tomorrow, eh, Burns? Burns, here, is our leading

hitter, and he's been unusually noncommittal since he heard who was going to pitch for Bellville.''

``Well, I wouldn't give a whole lot for my prospects of a home run tomorrow,'' said Burns, with a laugh.

Wayne went outside, and found a seat in the shade. A number of urchins had trooped upon the green field,

and carriages and motors were already in evidence. By the time the players came out of the dressing room,

Despite Wayne's hesitation, Huling insisted upon introducing him to friends, and finally hauled him up to a

big touring car full of girls. Wayne, being a Yale pitcher, had seen several thousand pretty girls, but the group

in that automobile fairly dazzled him. And the last one to whom Huling presented himwith the words:

``Dorothy, this is Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher, who is to play with Bellville tomorrow; Mr. Wayne, my

Wayne thought the awkwardness with which he found a seat beside her was unbecoming to a Yale senior.

But, considering she was the girl he had been expecting to discover for years, his clumsiness bespoke the

importance of the event. The merry laughter of the girls rang in his ears. Presently, a voice detached itself

``When? Not this season?'' she inquired quickly, betraying a knowledge of his record that surprised and

Her white hand lightly touched the Princeton pin at her neck. Wayne roused suddenly out of his trance. The

girl was a Princeton girl! The gleam of her golden hair, the flash of her blue eyes, became clear in sight.

``It was a great game, Mr. Wayne, and you may well be proud of your part in winning it. I shouldn't be

surprised if you treated the Salisbury team to the same coat of whitewash. We girls are up in arms. Our boys

stood a fair chance to win this game, but now there's a doubt. By the way, are you acquainted in Bellville?''

``No. I met Reed, the Bellville captain, in New York this week. He had already gotten an extra

pitcheranother ringerfor this game, but he said he preferred me, if it could be arranged.''

While conversing, Wayne made note of the fact that the other girls studiously left him to Miss Huling. If the

``Mr. Wayne, if your word is not involvedwill you change your mind and pitch tomorrow's game for us

Quite amazed, Wayne turned squarely to look at Miss Huling. Instead of disarming his quick suspicion, her

cool, sweet voice, and brave, blue eyes confirmed it. The charms of the captain's sister were to be used to win

him away from the Bellville nine. He knew the trick; it had been played upon him before.

But never had any other such occasion given him a feeling of regret. This case was different. She was the girl.

And she meant to flirt with him, to use her eyes for all they were worth to encompass the Waterloo of the

No, he had made a mistake, after allshe was not the real girl. Suddenly conscious of a little shock of pain,

he dismissed that dream girl from his mind, and determined to meet Miss Huling half way in her game. He

``Well, Miss Huling, my word certainly is not involved. But as to pitching for Salisburythat depends.''

``Mr. Wayne, you meanmoney? Oh, I know. My brother Rex told me how you college men are paid big

sums. Our association will not give a dollar, and, besides, my brother knows nothing of this. But we girls are

``Miss Huling, I didn't mean remuneration in sordid cash,'' interrupted Wayne, in a tone that heightened the

Wayne eyed her keenly with mingled emotions. Was that roseleaf flush in her cheeks natural? Some girls

could blush at will. Were the wistful eyes, the earnest lips, only shamming? It cost him some bitterness to

decide that they were. Her beauty fascinated, while it hardened him. Eternally, the beauty of women meant

the undoing of men, whether they played the simple, inconsequential game of baseball, or the great,

The shame of the situation for him was increasingly annoying, inasmuch as this lovely girl should stoop to

flirtation with a stranger, and the same time draw him, allure him, despite the apparent insincerity.

``I will.'' She said it with a shyness, a look in her eyes that made Wayne wince. What a perfect little actress!

But there seemed just a chance that this was not deceit. For an instant he wavered, held back by subtle, finer

intuition; then he beat down the mounting influence of truth in those darkblue eyes, and spoke deliberately:

Dorothy Huling's face flamed scarlet. But this did not affect Wayne so deeply, though it showed him his

mistake, as the darkening shadow of disappointment in her eyes. If she had been a flirt, she would have been

prepared for rudeness. He began casting about in his mind for some apology, some mitigation of his offense;

but as he was about to speak, the sudden fading of her color, leaving her pale, and the look in her proud, dark

But how immeasurable was the distance between the shy consent to wear Yale blue, and the pale, surprised

agreement to his second proposal! Wayne experienced a strange sensation of personal loss.

While he endeavored to find his tongue, Miss Huling spoke to one of the boys standing near, and he started

off on a run for the field. Presently Huling and the other players broke for the car, soon surrounding it in

``Wayne, is it straight? You'll pitch for us tomorrow?'' demanded the captain, with shining eyes.

``Surely I will. Bellville don't need me. They've got Mackay, of Georgetown,'' replied Wayne.

Accustomed as he was to being mobbed by enthusiastic students and admiring friends, Wayne could not but

feel extreme embarrassment at the reception accorded him now. He felt that he was sailing under false colors.

The boys mauled him, the girls fluttered about him with glad laughter. He had to tear himself away; and when

Wayne cursed himself roundly; then he fell into deep thought. He began to hope he could retrieve the

blunder. He would win the game; he would explain to her the truth; he would ask for an opportunity to prove

he was worthy of her friendship; he would not mention the kiss. This last thought called up the soft curve of

her red lips and that it was possible for him to kiss her made the temptation strong.

His sleep that night was not peaceful and dreamless. He awakened late, had breakfast sent to his room, and

then took a long walk out into the country. After lunch he dodged the crowd in the hotel lobby, and hurried

upstairs, where he put on his baseball suit. The first person he met upon going down was Reed, the Bellville

``What's this I hear, Wayne, about your pitching for Salisbury today? I got your telegram.''

``Not at all. Only if I didn't have the Georgetown crack, I'd yell murder. As it is, we'll trim Salisbury

When Wayne reached the ball grounds, he thought he had never seen a more inspiring sight. The bright green

oval was surrounded by a glittering mass of white and blue and black. Out along the foul lines were carriages,

motors, and tallyhos, brilliant with waving fans and flags. Over the field murmured the low hum of many

``Here you are!'' cried Huling, making a grab for Wayne. ``Where were you this morning? We couldn't find

you. Come! We've got a minute before the practice whistle blows, and I promised to exhibit you.''

He hustled Wayne down the firstbase line, past the cheering crowd, out among the motors, to the same

touring car that he remembered. A bevy of whitegowned girls rose like a covey of ptarmigans, and whirled

Dorothy Huling wore a bow of Yale blue upon her breast, and Wayne saw it and her face through a blur.

In the merry melee some one tied a knot of ribbon upon Wayne. Who it was he did not know; he saw only the

averted face of Dorothy Huling. And as he returned to the field with a dull pang, he determined he would

The practice was short, but long enough for Wayne to locate the glaring weakness of Salisbury at shortstop

and third base. In fact, most of the players of his team showed rather poor form; they were overstrained, and

Burns, the catcher, however, gave Wayne confidence. He was a short, sturdy youngster, with all the earmarks

of a coming star. Huling, the captain, handled himself well at first base. The Bellville players were more

matured, and some of them were former college cracks. Wayne saw that he had his work cut out for him.

The whistle blew. The Bellville team trotted to their position in the field; the umpire called play, and tossed a

Wells, the first batter, fouled out; Stamford hit an easy bounce to the pitcher, and Clews put up a little Texas

The teams changed from bat to field. Wayne faced the plate amid vociferous cheering. He felt that he could

beat this team even without good support. He was in the finest condition, and his arm had been resting for ten

days. He knew that if he had control of his high inshoot, these Bellville players would feel the whiz of some

He struck Moore out, retired Reed on a measly fly, and made Clark hit a weak grounder to second; and he

walked in to the bench assured of the outcome. On some days he had poor control; on others his drop ball

refused to work properly; but, as luck would have it, he had never had greater speed or accuracy, or a more

bewildering fast curve than on this day, when he meant to win a game for a girl.

``Boys, I've got everything,'' he said to his fellowplayers, calling them around him. ``A couple of runs will

win for us. Now, listen, I know Mackay. He hasn't any speed, or much of a curve. All he's got is a teasing

slow ball and a foxy head. Don't be too anxious to hit. Make him put 'em over.''

But the Salisbury players were not proof against the tempting slow balls that Mackay delivered. They hit at

wide curves far off the plate and when they did connect with the ball it was only to send an easy chance to the

The game seesawed along, inning after inning; it was a pitcher's battle that looked as if the first run scored

would win the game. Mackay toyed with the Salisbury boys; it was his pleasure to toss up twisting, floating

balls that could scarcely be hit out of the diamond. Wayne had the Bellville players utterly at his mercy; he

mixed up his high jump and fast drop so cleverly, with his sweeping outcurve, that his opponents were

In the first of the seventh, Barr for Bellville hit a ball which the third baseman should have fielded. But he

fumbled. The second batter sent a fly to shortstop, who muffed it. The third hitter reached his base on another

error by an infielder. Here the bases were crowded, and the situation had become critical all in a moment.

Wayne believed the infield would go to pieces, and lose the game, then and there, if another hit went to short

``Burns, it's up to you and me,'' he said, in a low tone. ``I've got to fan the rest of these hitters. You're doing

splendidly. Now, watch close for my drop. Be ready to go down on your knees. When I let myself out, the

``Speed 'em over!'' said Burns, his sweaty face grim and determined. ``I'll get in front of 'em.''

The head of the batting list was up for Bellville, and the whole Bellville contingent on the side lines rose and

Moore was a left handed hitter, who choked his bat up short, and poked at the ball. He was a good bunter, and

swift on his feet. Wayne had taken his measure, as he had that of the other players, earlier in the game; and he

knew it was good pitching to keep the ball in close to Moore's hands, so that if he did hit it, the chances were

Summoning all his strength, Wayne took his long swing and shot the ball over the inside corner with terrific

Wayne knew it would not do to waste any balls if he wished to maintain that speed, so he put the second one

Then Burns signed for the last drop. Wayne delivered it with trepidation, for it was a hard curve to handle.

Moore fell all over himself trying to hit it. Little Burns dropped to his knees to block the vicious curve. It

How the Salisbury supporters roared their approval! One man outthe bases fullwith Reed, the slugging

If Reed had a weakness, Wayne had not discovered it yet, although Reed had not hit safely. The captain stood

somewhat back from the plate, a fact that induced Wayne to try him with the speedy outcurve. Reed lunged

with a powerful swing, pulling away from the plate, and he missed the curve by a foot.

Wayne did not need to know any more. Reed had made his reputation slugging straight balls from heedless

pitchers. He chopped the air twice more, and flung his bat savagely to the ground.

Clark, the third man up, was the surest batter on the Bellville team. He looked dangerous. He had made the

only hit so far to the credit of his team. Wayne tried to work him on a high, fast ball close in. Clark swung

freely and cracked a ripping liner to left. Half the crowd roared, and then groaned, for the beautiful hit went

foul by several yards. Wayne wisely decided to risk all on his fast drop. Clark missed the first, fouled the

Then he waited. He cooly let one, two, three of the fast drops go by without attempting to hit them. Burns

valiantly got his body in front of them. These balls were all over the plate, but too low to be called strikes.

Tight as the place was, Wayne did not flinch. The game depended practically upon the next ball delivered.

Wayne craftily and daringly decided to use another fast drop, for of all his assortment that would be the one

least expected by Clark. But it must be started higher, so that in case Clark made no effort to swing, it would

Gripping the ball with a clinched hand, Wayne swung sharply, and drove it home with the limit of his power.

It sped like a bullet, waist high, and just before reaching the plate darted downward, as if it had glanced on an

Clark was fooled completely and struck futilely. But the ball caromed from the hard ground, hit Burns with a

resounding thud, and bounced away. Clark broke for first, and Moore dashed for home. Like a tiger the little

catcher pounced upon the ball, and, leaping back into line, blocked the sliding Moore three feet from the

Pandemonium burst loose among the Salisbury adherents. The men bawled, the women screamed, the boys

shrieked, and all waved their hats and flags, and jumped up and down, and manifested symptoms of baseball

In the first of the eighth inning, Mackay sailed up the balls like balloons, and disposed of three batters on the

same old weak hits to his clever fielders. In the last of the eighth, Wayne struck out three more Bellville

``Burns, you're up,'' said Wayne, who, in his earnestness to win, kept cheering his comrades. ``Do something.

Get your base any way you can. Get in front of one. We must score this inning.''

Faithful, battered Burns cunningly imposed his hip over the plate and received another bruise in the interests

of his team. The opposing players furiously stormed at the umpire for giving him his base, but Burns' trick

went through. Burnett bunted skilfully, sending Burns to second. Cole hit a fly to center. Then Huling singled

It became necessary for the umpire to delay the game while he put the madly leaping boys back off the

coaching lines. The shrill, hilarious cheering gradually died out, and the field settled into a forced quiet.

Wayne hurried up to the plate and took his position. He had always been a timely hitter, and he gritted his

teeth in his resolve to settle this game. Mackay whirled his long arm, wheeled, took his long stride, and

pitched a slow, tantalizing ball that seemed never to get anywhere. But Wayne waited, timed it perfectly, and

The ball flew safely over short, and but for a fine sprint and stop by the left fielder, would have resulted in a

triple, possibly a home run. As it was, Burns and Huling scored; and Wayne, by a slide, reached second base.

When he arose and saw the disorderly riot, and heard the noise of that welldressed audience, he had a

moment of exultation. Then Wells flew out to center ending the chances for more runs.

As Wayne received the ball in the pitcher's box, he paused and looked out across the field toward a

whitecrowned motor car, and he caught a gleam of Dorothy Huling's golden hair, and wondered if she were

For nothing short of the miraculous could snatch this game from him now. Burns had withstood a severe

pounding, but he would last out the inning, and Wayne did not take into account the rest of the team. He

opened up with no slackening of his terrific speed, and he struck out the three remaining batters on eleven

pitched balls. Then in the rising din he ran for Burns and gave him a mighty hug.

Burns looked at his quivering, puffed, and bleeding hands, and smiled as if to say that this was praise to

remember, and reward enough. Then the crowd swooped down on them, and they were swallowed up in the

clamor and surge of victory. When Wayne got out of the thick and press of it, he made a bee line for his

Resting, dressing, and dining were matters which he went through mechanically, with his mind ever on one

thing. Later, he found a dark corner of the porch and sat there waiting, thinking. There was to be a dance

given in honor of the team that evening at the hotel. He watched the boys and girls pass up the steps. When

the music commenced, he arose and went into the hall. It was bright with white gowns, and gay with

``Do something for me, quick,'' implored Wayne of the captain, as he saw the young people wave toward

Then he gave himself up. He took his meed of praise and flattery, and he withstood the battery of arch eyes

modestly, as became the winner of many fields. But even the reception after the Princeton game paled in

She was here. Always it seemed, while he listened or talked or danced, his eyes were drawn to a slender,

graceful form, and a fair face crowned with golden hair. Then he was making his way to where she stood near

He never knew what he said to her, nor what reply she made, but she put her arm in his, and presently they

were gliding over the polished floor. To Wayne the dance was a dream. He led her through the hall and out

``Mr. Wayne, I have to thank you for saving the day for us. You pitched magnificently.''

``I would have broken my arm to win that game,'' burst out Wayne. ``Miss Huling, I made a blunder

yesterday. I thought there was a conspiracy to persuade me to throw down Bellville. I've known of such

things, and I resented it. You understand what I thought. I humbly offer my apologies, and beg that you forget

How cold she was! How unattainable in that moment! He caught his breath, and rushed on.

``Your brother and the management of the club have asked me to pitch for Salisbury the remainder of the

``If what?'' She was all alive now, flushing warmly, dark eyes alight, the girl of his dreams.

``If you will forgive meif you will let me be your friendifMiss Huling, you will again wear that bit of

``If, Mr. Wayne, you had very sharp eyes you would have noticed that I still wear it!''

Willie Howarth loved baseball. He loved it all the more because he was a cripple. The game was more

beautiful and wonderful to him because he would never be able to play it. For Willie had been born with one

leg shorter than the other; he could not run and at 11 years of age it was all he could do to walk with a crutch.

Nevertheless Willie knew more about baseball than any other boy on Madden's Hill. An uncle of his had once

been a ballplayer and he had taught Willie the fine points of the game. And this uncle's ballplayer friends,

who occasionally visited him, had imparted to Willie the vernacular of the game. So that Willie's knowledge

of players and play, and particularly of the strange talk, the wild and whirling words on the lips of the real

baseball men, made him the envy of every boy on Madden's Hill, and a mine of information. Willie never

missed attending the games played on the lots, and he could tell why they were won or lost.

Willie suffered considerable pain, mostly at night, and this had given him a habit of lying awake in the dark

hours, grieving over that crooked leg that forever shut him out of the heritage of youth. He had kept his secret

well; he was accounted shy because he was quiet and had never been able to mingle with the boys in their

activity. No one except his mother dreamed of the fire and hunger and pain within his breast. His school

mates called him ``Daddy.'' It was a name given for his bent shoulders, his labored gait and his thoughtful

face, too old for his years. And no one, not even his mother, guessed how that name hurt Willie.

It was a source of growing unhappiness with Willie that the Madden's Hill boys were always beaten by the

other teams of the town. He really came to lose his sadness over his own misfortune in pondering on the

wretched play of the Madden's Hill baseball club. He had all a boy's pride in the locality where he lived. And

when the Bogg's Farm team administered a crushing defeat to Madden's Hill, Willie grew desperate.

``Hello, Daddy,'' said Lane. He was a big, aggressive boy, and in a way had a fondness for Willie.

``Lane, you got an orful trimmin' up on the Boggs. What 'd you wanter let them country jakes beat you for?''

``Aw, Daddy, they was lucky. Umpire had hay seed in his eyes! Robbed us! He couldn't see straight. We'll

The idea seemed to strike Capt. Griffith favorably. He prevailed upon all the boys living on Madden's Hill to

come out for practice after school. Then he presented them to the managing coach. The boys were inclined to

poke fun at Daddy Howarth and ridicule him; but the idea was a novel one and they were in such a state of

subjection from many beatings that they welcomed any change. Willie sat on a bench improvised from a soap

box and put them through a drill of batting and fielding. The next day in his coaching he included bunting

and sliding. He played his men in different positions and for three more days he drove them unmercifully.

When Saturday came, the day for the game with Bogg's Farm, a wild protest went up from the boys. Willie

experienced his first bitterness as a manager. Out of forty aspirants for the Madden's Hill team he could

choose but nine to play the game. And as a conscientious manager he could use no favorites. Willie picked

the best players and assigned them to positions that, in his judgment, were the best suited to them. Bob Irvine

wanted to play first base and he was down for right field. Sam Wickhart thought he was the fastest fielder,

and Willie had him slated to catch. Tom Lindsay's feelings were hurt because he was not to play in the

infield. Eddie Curtis suffered a fall in pride when he discovered he was not down to play second base. Jake

Thomas, TayTay Mohler and Brick Grace all wanted to pitch. The manager had chosen Frank Price for that

So there was a deadlock. For a while there seemed no possibility of a game. Willie sat on the bench, the

center of a crowd of discontented, quarreling boys. Some were jealous, some were outraged, some tried to

pacify and persuade the others. All were noisy. Lane Griffith stood by his manager and stoutly declared the

players should play the positions to which they had been assigned or not at all. And he was entering into a hot

argument with Tom Lindsay when the Bogg's Farm team arrogantly put in an appearance.

The way that team from the country walked out upon the field made a great difference. The spirit of

Madden's Hill roused to battle. The game began swiftly and went on wildly. It ended almost before the Hill

boys realized it had commenced. They did not know how they had won but they gave Daddy Howarth credit

for it. They had a bonfire that night to celebrate the victory and they talked baseball until their parents

Madden's Hill practiced all that next week and on Saturday beat the Seventh Ward team. In four more weeks

they had added half a dozen more victories to their record. Their reputation went abroad. They got uniforms,

and baseball shoes with spikes, and bats and balls and gloves. They got a mask, but Sam Wickhart refused to

``Sam, one of these days you'll be stoppin' a high inshoot with your eye,'' sagely remarked Daddy Howarth.

Natchez was the one name on the lips of every Madden's Hill boy. For Natchez had the great team of the

town and, roused by the growing repute of the Hill club, had condescended to arrange a game. When that

game was scheduled for July Fourth Daddy Howarth set to driving his men. Early and late he had them out.

This manager, in keeping with all other famous managers, believed that batting was the thing which won

games. He developed a hardhitting team. He kept everlastingly at them to hit and run, hit and run.

On the Saturday before the Fourth, Madden's Hill had a game to play that did not worry Daddy and he left his

``Fellers, I'm goin' down to the Round House to see Natchez play. I'll size up their game,'' said Daddy.

When he returned he was glad to find that his team had won its ninth straight victory, but he was not

communicative in regard to the playing of the Natchez club. He appeared more than usually thoughtful.

The Fourth fell on Tuesday. Daddy had the boys out Monday and he let them take only a short, sharp

practice. Then he sent them home. In his own mind, Daddy did not have much hope of beating Natchez. He

had been greatly impressed by their playing, and one inning toward the close of the Round House game they

had astonished him with the way they suddenly seemed to break loose and deluge their opponents in a flood

of hits and runs. He could not understand this streak of theirsfor they did the same thing every time they

He had never wanted anything in his life, not even to have two good legs, as much as he wanted to beat

Natchez. For the Madden's Hill boys had come to believe him infallible. He was their idol. They imagined

they had only to hit and run, to fight and never give up, and Daddy would make them win. There was not a

boy on the team who believed that Natchez had a chance. They had grown proud and tenacious of their dearly

won reputation. First of all, Daddy thought of his team and their loyalty to him; then he thought of the glory

lately come to Madden's Hill, and lastly of what it meant to him to have risen from a lonely watcher of the

gamea cripple who could not even carry a batto manager of the famous Hill team. It might go hard with

From time out of mind there had always been rivalry between Madden's Hill and Natchez. And there is no

rivalry so bitter as that between boys. So Daddy, as he lay awake at night planning the system of play he

wanted to use, left out of all account any possibility of a peaceful game. It was comforting to think that if it

came to a fight Sam and Lane could hold their own with Bo Stranathan and Slugger Blandy.

In the managing of his players Daddy observed strict discipline. It was no unusual thing for him to fine them.

On practice days and off the field they implicitly obeyed him. During actual play, however, they had evinced

a tendency to jump over the traces. It had been his order for them not to report at the field Tuesday until 2

o'clock. He found it extremely difficult to curb his own inclination to start before the set time. And only the

He lived near the ball grounds, yet on this day, as he hobbled along on his crutch, he thought the distance

interminably long, and for the first time in weeks the old sickening resentment at his useless leg knocked at

his heart. Manfully Daddy refused admittance to that old gloomy visitor. He found comfort and forgetfulness

in the thought that no strong and swiftlegged boy of his acquaintance could do what he could do.

Upon arriving at the field Daddy was amazed to see such a large crowd. It appeared that all the boys and girls

in the whole town were in attendance, and, besides, there was a sprinkling of grownup people interspersed

here and there around the diamond. Applause greeted Daddy's appearance and members of his team escorted

Daddy cast a sharp eye over the Natchez players practicing on the field. Bo Stranathan had out his strongest

team. They were not a prepossessing nine. They wore soiled uniforms that did not match in cut or color. But

they pranced and swaggered and strutted! They were boastful and boisterous. It was a trial for any Madden's

``Fellers, if Slugger Blandy tries to pull any stunt on me today he'll get a swelleder nut,'' growled Lane

``Ttttttetetell him tttto keep out of mmmmy way an' not bbbbblblock me,'' stuttered

``Cheese it, you kids, till we git in the game,'' ordered Daddy. ``Now, Madden's Hill, hang round an' listen. I

had to sign articles with Natchezhad to let them have their umpire. So we're up against it. But we'll hit this

pitcher Muckle Harris. He ain't got any steam. An' he ain't got much nerve. Now every feller who goes up to

bat wants to talk to Muck. Call him a big swelled stiff. Tell him he can't break a pane of glasstell him he

can't put one over the pan tell him it he does you'll slam it down in the sand bank. Bluff the whole team.

Keep scrappy all the time. See! That's my game today. This Natchez bunch needs to be gone after. Holler at

``Boss, enny ground rules?'' inquired Bo Stranathan. He was a big, bushyhaired boy with a grin and

protruding teeth. ``How many bases on wild throws over first base an' hits over the sand bank?''

``Huh! Watcher think? We ain 't goin' to play with no mush ball like thet,'' protested Bo. ``We play with a

Daddy remembered what he had heard about the singular generosity of the Natchez team to supply the balls

``We don't hev to pay nothin' fer them balls. A man down at the Round House makes them for us. They ain't

However, as Bo did not appear eager to pass over the balls for examination Daddy simply reached out and

took them. They were small, perfectly round and as hard as bullets. They had no covers. The yarn had been

closely and tightly wrapped and then stitched over with fine bees waxed thread. Daddy fancied he detected a

difference in the weight of the ball, but Bo took them back before Daddy could be sure of that point.

``You don't have to fan about it. I know a ball when I see one,'' observed Daddy. ``But we're on our own

``Huh! All I gotta say is we'll play with my ball er there won't be no game,'' said Bo suddenly.

Daddy shrewdly eyed the Natchez captain. Bo did not look like a fellow wearing himself thin from

generosity. It struck Daddy that Bo's habit of supplying the ball for the game might have some relation to the

fact that he always carried along his own umpire. There was a strange feature about this umpire business and

it was that Bo's man had earned a reputation for being particularly fair. No boy ever had any real reason to

object to Umpire Gale's decisions. When Gale umpired away from the Natchez grounds his close decisions

always favored the other team, rather than his own. It all made Daddy keen and thoughtful.

``Stranathan, up here on Madden's Hill we know how to treat visitors. We'll play with your ball. . . . Now

``Boss, it's your grounds. Fire 'em off if they don't suit you. . . . Come on, let's git in the game. Watcher

Billy Gale called ``Play,'' and the game began with Slugger Blandy at bat. The formidable way in which he

swung his club did not appear to have any effect on Frank Price or the player back of him. Frank's most

successful pitch was a slow, tantalizing curve, and he used it. Blandy lunged at the ball, missed it and

Slugger fouled the next one high in the air back of the plate. Sam Wickhart, the stocky bowlegged catcher,

was a fiend for running after foul flies, and now he plunged into the crowd of boys, knocking them right and

left, and he caught the ball. Whisner came up and hit safely over Griffith, whereupon the Natchez supporters

began to howl. Kelly sent a grounder to Grace at short stop. Daddy's weak player made a poor throw to first

base, so the runner was safe. Then Bo Stranathan batted a stinging ball through the infield, scoring Whisner.

``Fellers, git in the game now,'' ordered Daddy, as his players eagerly trotted in. ``Say things to that Muckle

``Put one over, you freckleface! I 've been dyin' fer this chanst. You're on Madden's Hill now.''

Muckle evidently was not the kind of pitcher to stand coolly under such bantering. Obviously he was not

used to it. His face grew red and his hair waved up. Swinging hard, he threw the ball straight at Bob's head.

``Never touched me!'' he chirped, jumping up and pounding the plate with his bat. ``You couldn't hit a barn

Bob did not get an opportunity to hit, for Harris could not locate the plate and passed him to first on four

``Dump the first one,'' whispered Daddy in Grace's ear. Then he gave Bob a signal to run on the first pitch.

Grace tried to bunt the first ball, but he missed it. His attempt, however, was so violent that he fell over in

front of the catcher, who could not recover in time to throw, and Bob got to second base. At this juncture, the

Madden's Hill band of loyal supporters opened up with a mingling of shrill yells and whistles and jangling of

tin cans filled with pebbles. Grace hit the next ball into second base and, while he was being thrown out, Bob

raced to third. With Sam Wickhart up it looked good for a score, and the crowd yelled louder. Sam was

awkward yet efficient, and he batted a long fly to right field. The fielder muffed the ball. Bob scored, Sam

reached second base, and the crowd yelled still louder. Then Lane struck out and Mohler hit to shortstop,

Natchez scored a run on a hit, a base on balls, and another error by Grace. Every time a ball went toward

Grace at short Daddy groaned. In their half of the inning Madden's Hill made two runs, increasing the score 3

The Madden's Hill boys began to show the strain of such a close contest. If Daddy had voiced aloud his fear it

would have been: ``They'll blow up in a minnit!'' Frank Price alone was slow and cool, and he pitched in

masterly style. Natchez could not beat him. On the other hand, Madden's Hill hit Muck Harris hard, but

superb fielding kept runners off the bases. As Daddy's team became more tense and excited Bo Stranathan's

players grew steadier and more arrogantly confident. Daddy saw it with distress, and he could not realize just

where Natchez had license for such confidence. Daddy watched the game with the eyes of a hawk.

As the Natchez players trooped in for their sixth inning at bat, Daddy observed a marked change in their

demeanor. Suddenly they seemed to have been let loose; they were like a band of Indians. Daddy saw

everything. He did not miss seeing Umpire Gale take a ball from his pocket and toss it to Frank, and Daddy

wondered if that was the ball which had been in the play. Straightway, however, he forgot that in the interest

Bo Stranathan bawled: ``Wull, Injuns, hyar's were we do 'em. We've jest ben loafin' along. Git ready to tear

Kelly hit a wonderfully swift ball through the infield. Bo batted out a single. Malloy got up in the way of one

of Frank's pitches, and was passed to first base. Then, as the Natchez crowd opened up in shrill clamor, the

impending disaster fell. Dundon hit a bounder down into the infield. The ball appeared to be endowed with

life. It bounded low, then high and, cracking into Grace's hands, bounced out and rolled away. The runners

Pickens sent up a tremendous fly, the highest ever batted on Madden's Hill. It went over Tom Lindsay in

center field, and Tom ran and ran. The ball went so far up that Tom had time to cover the ground, but he

could not judge it. He ran round in a little circle, with hands up in bewilderment. And when the ball dropped

``Run, you Injun, run!'' bawled Bo. ``What'd I tell you? We ain't got 'em goin', oh, no! Hittin' 'em on the

Bill dropped a slow, teasing ball down the third base line. Jake Thomas ran desperately for it, and the ball

appeared to strike his hands and run up his arms and caress his nose and wrap itself round his neck and then

roll gently away. All the while, the Natchez runners tore wildly about the bases and the Natchez supporters

screamed and whistled. Muck Harris could not bat, yet he hit the first ball and it shot like a bullet over the

he ball he sent out knocked Grace's leg from under him as if it were a tenpin. Whisner popped a fly over

Tay Tay Mohler's head. Now Tay Tay was fat and slow, but he was a sure catch. He got under the ball. It

struck his hands and jumped back twenty feet up into the air. It was a strangely live ball. Kelly again hit to

shortstop, and the ball appeared to start slow, to gather speed with every bound and at last to dart low and

``Haw! Haw!'' roared Bo. ``They've got a hole at short. Hit fer the hole, fellers. Watch me! Jest watch me!''

And he swung hard on the first pitch. The ball glanced like a streak straight at Grace, took a vicious jump,

Malloy fouled a pitch and the ball hit Sam Wickhart square over the eye. Sam's eye popped out and assumed

Daddy sat hunched on his soapbox, and, as in a hateful dream, he saw his famous team go to pieces. He put

his hands over his ears to shut out some of the uproar. And he watched that little yarn ball fly and shoot and

bound and roll to crush his fondest hopes. Not one of his players appeared able to hold it. And Grace had

holes in his hands and legs and body. The ball went right through him. He might as well have been so much

water. Instead of being a shortstop he was simply a hole. After every hit Daddy saw that ball more and more

as something alive. It sported with his infielders. It bounded like a huge jackrabbit, and went swifter and

And it became an infernal ball. It became endowed with a fiendish propensity to run up a player's leg and all

about him, as if trying to hide in his pocket. Grace's efforts to find it were heartbreaking to watch. Every time

it bounded out to center field, which was of frequent occurrence, Tom would fall on it and hug it as if he were

trying to capture a fleeing squirrel. Tay Tay Mohler could stop the ball, but that was no great credit to him,

for his hands took no part in the achievement. Tay Tay was fat and the ball seemed to like him. It boomed

into his stomach and banged against his stout legs. When Tay saw it coming he dropped on his knees and

Daddy tried not to notice the scoring of runs by his opponents. But he had to see them and he had to count.

Ten runs were as ten blows! After that each run scored was like a stab in his heart. The play went on, a

terrible fusilade of wicked ground balls that baffled any attempt to field them. Then, with nineteen runs

scored, Natchez appeared to tire. Sam caught a foul fly, and Tay Tay, by obtruding his wide person to the

``Wot kind of a ball's that?'' panted Tom, as he showed his head with a bruise as large as a gooseegg.

``Tttttatataytaytaytay'' began Mohler, in great excitement, but as he could not finish what

Daddy's watchful eye had never left that wonderful, infernal little yarn ball. Daddy was crushed under defeat,

but his baseball brains still continued to work. He saw Umpire Gale leisurely step into the pitcher's box, and

He jumped up quickly, forgetting his crutch, and fell headlong. Lane and Sam got him upright and handed the

``Don't you hide that ball. See! I've got my eye on this game. That ball was in play, an' you can't use the

Umpire Gale looked sheepish, and his eyes did not meet Daddy's. Then Bo came trotting up.

``Aw, nuthin'. You're tryin' to switch balls on me. That's all. You can't pull off any stunts on Madden's Hill.''

``Sure that ball's all right,'' replied Daddy. ``It's a fine ball. An' we want a chanst to hit it! See?''

``Give us our innin'let us git a whack at that ball, or I'll run you off Madden's Hill.''

``Course youse can git a whack at it,'' he said, in a weak attempt to be natural and dignified.

Daddy tossed the ball to Harris, and as he hobbled off the field he heard Bo calling out low and cautiously to

his players. Then Daddy was certain he had discovered a trick. He called his players around him.

``This game ain't over yet. It ain't any more'n begun. I'll tell you what. Last innin' Bo's umpire switched balls

on us. That ball was lively. An' they tried to switch back on me. But nix! We're goin' to git a chanst to hit that

lively ball, An' they're goin' to git a dose of their own medicine. Now, you dead onescome back to life!

``Daddy, you mean they run in a trick on us?'' demanded Lane, with flashing eyes.

``Funny about Natchez's strong finishes!'' replied Daddy, coolly, as he eyed his angry players.

The crowd, quick to sense what was in the air, thronged to the diamond and manifested alarming signs of

``Sam, let him pitch a couple,'' called Daddy from the bench. ``Mebbe we'll git wise then.''

Harris had pitched only twice when the fact became plain that he could not throw this ball with the same

speed as the other. The ball was heavier; besides Harris was also growing tired. The next pitch Sam hit far out

over the center fielder's head for a home run. It was a longer hit than any Madden's Hill boy had ever made.

The crowd shrieked its delight. Sam crossed the plate and then fell on the bench beside Daddy.

``Say! that ball nearly knocked the bat out of my hands,'' panted Sam. ``It made the bat spring!''

``Fellers, don't wait,'' ordered Daddy. ``Don't give the umpire a chanst to roast us now. Slam the first ball!''

The aggressive captain lined the ball at Bo Stranathan. The Natchez shortstop had a fine opportunity to make

the catch, but he made an inglorious muff. Tay Tay hurried to bat. Umpire Gale called the first pitch a strike.

Tay Tay was fat and he was also strong, so that when beef and muscle both went hard against the ball it

traveled. It looked as if it were going a mile straight up. All the infielders ran to get under it. They got into a

tangle, into which the ball descended. No one caught it, and thereupon the Natchez players began to rail at

one another. Bo stormed at them, and they talked back to him. Then when Tom Lindsay hit a little slow

grounder into the infield it seemed that a just retribution had overtaken the great Natchez team.

Ordinarily this grounder of Tom's would have been easy for a novice to field. But this peculiar grounder, after

it has hit the ground once, seemed to wake up and feel lively. It lost its leisurely action and began to have

celerity. When it reached Dundon it had the strange, jerky speed so characteristic of the grounders that had

confused the Madden's Hill team. Dundon got his hands on the ball and it would not stay in them. When

finally he trapped it Tom had crossed first base and another runner had scored. Eddie Curtis cracked another

at Bo. The Natchez captain dove for it, made a good stop, bounced after the rolling ball, and then threw to

Kelly at first. The ball knocked Kelly's hands apart as if they had been paper. Jake Thomas batted left handed

and he swung hard on a slow pitch and sent the ball far into right field. Runners scored. Jake's hit was a

threebagger. Then Frank Price hit up an infield fly. Bo yelled for Dundon to take it and Dundon yelled for

Harris. They were all afraid to try for it. It dropped safely while Jake ran home.

With the heavy batters up the excitement increased. A continuous scream and incessant rattle of tin cans

made it impossible to hear what the umpire called out. But that was not important, for he seldom had a

chance to call either ball or strike. Harris had lost his speed and nearly every ball he pitched was hit by the

Madden's Hill boys. Irvine cracked one down between short and third. Bo and Pickens ran for it and collided

while the ball jauntily skipped out to left field and, deftly evading Bell, went on and on. Bob reached third.

Grace hit another at Dundon, who appeared actually to stop it four times before he could pick it up, and then

he was too late. The doughty bowlegged Sam, with his huge black eye, hung over the plate and howled at

Muckle. In the din no one heard what he said, but evidently Muck divined it. For he roused to the spirit of a

pitcher who would die of shame if he could not fool a oneeyed batter. But Sam swooped down and upon the

first ball and drove it back toward the pitcher. Muck could not get out of the way and the ball made his leg

buckle under him. Then that hit glanced off to begin a marvelous exhibition of high and erratic bounding

Daddy hunched over his soapbox bench and hugged himself. He was farsighted and he saw victory. Again

he watched the queer antics of that little yarn ball, but now with different feelings. Every hit seemed to lift

him to the skies. He kept silent, though every time the ball fooled a Natchez player Daddy wanted to yell.

And when it started for Bo and, as if in revenge, bounded wickeder at every bounce to skip off the grass and

make Bo look ridiculous, then Daddy experienced the happiest moments of his baseball career. Every time a

But when Madden's Hill scored the nineteenth run without a player being put out, then Daddy lost count. He

gave himself up to revel. He sat motionless and silent; nevertheless his whole internal being was in the state

of wild tumult. It was as if he was being rewarded in joy for all the misery he had suffered because he was a

cripple. He could never play baseball. but he had baseball brains. He had been too wise for the tricky

Stranathan. He was the coach and manager and general of the great Madden's Hill nine. If ever he had to lie

awake at night again he would not mourn over his lameness; he would have something to think about. To him

would be given the glory of beating the invincible Natchez team. So Daddy felt the last bitterness leave him.

And he watched that strange little yarn ball, with its wonderful skips and darts and curves. The longer the

game progressed and the wearier Harris grew, the harder the Madden's Hill boys batted the ball and the

crazier it bounced at Bo and his sick players. Finally, Tay Tay Mohler hit a teasing grounder down to Bo.

Then it was as if the ball, realizing a climax, made ready for a final spurt. When Bo reached for the ball it was

somewhere else. Dundon could not locate it. And Kelly, rushing down to the chase, fell all over himself and

his teammates trying to grasp the illusive ball, and all the time Tay Tay was running. He never stopped. But

as he was heavy and fat he did not make fast time on the bases. Frantically the outfielders ran in to head off

the bouncing ball, and when they had succeeded Tay Tay had performed the remarkable feat of making a

That broke Natchez's spirit. They quit. They hurried for their bats. Only Bo remained behind a moment to try

to get his yarn ball. But Sam had pounced upon it and given it safely to Daddy. Bo made one sullen demand

``Funny about them fast finishes of yours!'' said Daddy scornfully. ``Say! the ball's our'n. The winnin' team

When it had been produced Daddy laid down the yarn ball and cut into it. The blade entered readily for a inch

and then stopped. Daddy cut all around the ball, and removed the cover of tightly wrapped yarn. Inside was a

He bought a ticket at the 25cent window, and edging his huge bulk through the turnstile, laboriously

followed the noisy crowd toward the bleachers. I could not have been mistaken. He was Old WellWell,

famous from Boston to Baltimore as the greatest baseball fan in the East. His singular yell had pealed into the

ears of five hundred thousand worshippers of the national game and would never be forgotten.

At sight of him I recalled a friend's baseball talk. ``You remember Old WellWell? He's all indying, poor

old fellow! It seems young Burt, whom the Phillies are trying out this spring, is Old WellWell's nephew and

protege. Used to play on the Murray Hill team; a speedy youngster. When the Philadelphia team was here

last, Manager Crestline announced his intention to play Burt in center field. Old WellWell was too ill to see

the lad get his tryout. He was heartbroken and said: `If I could only see one more game!' ''

The recollection of this random baseball gossip and the fact that Philadelphia was scheduled to play New

York that very day, gave me a sudden desire to see the game with Old WellWell. I did not know him, but

where on earth were introductions as superfluous as on the bleachers? It was a very easy matter to catch up

with him. He walked slowly, leaning hard on a cane and his wide shoulders sagged as he puffed along. I was

about to make some pleasant remark concerning the prospects of a fine game, when the sight of his face

shocked me and I drew back. If ever I had seen shadow of pain and shade of death they hovered darkly

No one accompanied him; no one seemed to recognize him. The majority of that merry crowd of boys and

men would have jumped up wild with pleasure to hear his wellremembered yell. Not much longer than a

year before, I had seen ten thousand fans rise as one man and roar a greeting to him that shook the stands. So

I was confronted by a situation strikingly calculated to rouse my curiosity and sympathy.

He found an end seat on a row at about the middle of the rightfield bleachers and I chose one across the

aisle and somewhat behind him. No players were yet in sight. The stands were filling up and streams of men

were filing into the aisles of the bleachers and piling over the benches. Old WellWell settled himself

comfortably in his seat and gazed about him with animation. There had come a change to his massive

features. The hard lines had softened; the patches of gray were no longer visible; his cheeks were ruddy;

something akin to a smile shone on his face as he looked around, missing no detail of the familiar scene.

During the practice of the home team Old Well Well sat still with his big hands on his knees; but when the

gong rang for the Phillies, he grew restless, squirming in his seat and half rose several times. I divined the

importuning of his old habit to greet his team with the yell that had made him famous. I expected him to get

up; I waited for it. Gradually, however, he became quiet as a man governed by severe selfrestraint and

At a glance I saw that the player was new to me and answered the newspaper description of young Burt.

What a lively looking athlete! He was tall, lithe, yet sturdy. He did not need to chase more than two fly balls

to win me. His graceful, fast style reminded me of the great Curt Welch. Old WellWell's face wore a rapt

expression. I discovered myself hoping Burt would make good; wishing he would rip the boards off the

It was Saturday, and by the time the gong sounded for the game to begin the grand stand and bleachers were

packed. The scene was glittering, colorful, a delight to the eye. Around the circle of bright faces rippled a

low, merry murmur. The umpire, grotesquely padded in front by his chest protector, announced the batteries,

dusted the plate, and throwing out a white ball, sang the open sesame of the game: ``Play!''

Then Old WellWell arose as if pushed from his seat by some strong propelling force. It had been his wont

always when play was ordered or in a moment of silent suspense, or a lull in the applause, or a dramatic

pause when hearts heat high and lips were mute, to bawl out over the listening, waiting multitude his terrific

Twice he opened his mouth, gurgled and choked, and then resumed his seat with a very red, agitated face;

something had deterred him from his purpose, or he had been physically incapable of yelling.

The game opened with White's sharp bounder to the infield. Wesley had three strikes called on him, and

Kelly fouled out to third base. The Phillies did no better, being retired in one, two, three order. The second

inning was short and no tallies were chalked up. Brain hit safely in the third and went to second on a

sacrifice. The bleachers began to stamp and cheer. He reached third on an infield hit that the Philadelphia

short stop knocked down but could not cover in time to catch either runner. The cheer in the grand stand

was drowned by the roar in the bleachers. Brain scored on a flyball to left. A double along the right foul line

brought the second runner home. Following that the next batter went out on strikes.

In the Philadelphia half of the inning young Burt was the first man up. He stood lefthanded at the plate and

looked formidable. Duveen, the wary old pitcher for New York, to whom this new player was an unknown

quantity, eyed his easy position as if reckoning on a possible weakness. Then he took his swing and threw the

ball. Burt never moved a muscle and the umpire called strike. The next was a ball, the next a strike; still Burt

``Somebody wake him up!'' yelled a wag in the bleachers. ``He's from Slumbertown, all right, all right!''

Duveen sent up another ball, high and swift. Burt hit straight over the first baseman, a line drive that struck

Here the promise of Burt's speed was fulfilled. Run! He was fleet as a deer. He cut through first like the wind,

settled to a driving strides rounded second, and by a good, long slide beat the throw in to third. The crowd,

who went to games to see long hits and daring runs, gave him a generous handclapping.

Old WellWell appeared on the verge of apoplexy. His ruddy face turned purple, then black; he rose in his

seat; he gave vent to smothered gasps; then he straightened up and clutched his hands into his knees.

Burt scored his run on a hit to deep short, an infielder's choice, with the chances against retiring a runner at

the plate. Philadelphia could not tally again that inning. New York blanked in the first of the next. For their

opponents, an error, a close decision at second favoring the runner, and a single to right tied the score. Bell of

New York got a clean hit in the opening of the fifth. With no one out and chances for a run, the impatient fans

let loose. Four subway trains in collision would not have equalled the yell and stamp in the bleachers.

Maloney was next to bat and he essayed a bunt. This the fans derided with hoots and hisses. No team work,

As if actuated by the sentiments of his admirers Maloney lined the ball over short. It looked good for a

double; it certainly would advance Bell to third; maybe home. But no one calculated on Burt. His fleetness

enabled him to head the bounding ball. He picked it up cleanly, and checking his headlong run, threw toward

third base. Bell was half way there. The ball shot straight and low with terrific force and beat the runner to the

``What a great arm!'' I exclaimed, deep in my throat. ``It's the lad's day! He can't be stopped.''

Old WellWell writhed in his seat. To him if was a oneman game, as it had come to be for me. I thrilled

with him; I gloried in the making good of his protege; it got to be an effort on my part to look at the old man,

The game went on, a close, exciting, brilliantly fought battle. Both pitchers were at their best. The batters

batted out long flies, low liners, and sharp grounders; the fielders fielded these difficult chances without

misplay. Opportunities came for runs, but no runs were scored for several innings. Hopes were raised to the

highest pitch only to be dashed astonishingly away. The crowd in the grand stand swayed to every pitched

To start the eighth, Stranathan of New York tripled along the left foul line. Thunder burst from the fans and

rolled swellingly around the field. Before the hoarse yelling, the shrill hooting, the hollow stamping had

ceased Stranathan made home on an infield hit. Then bedlam broke loose. It calmed down quickly, for the

fans sensed trouble between Binghamton, who had been thrown out in the play, and the umpire who was

The umpire's reply was lost, but it was evident that the offending player had been ordered out of the grounds.

Binghamton swaggered along the bleachers while the umpire slowly returned to his post. The fans took

exception to the player's objection and were not slow in expressing it. Various witty enconiums, not to be

misunderstood, attested to the bleachers' love of fair play and their disgust at a player's getting himself put out

The game proceeded. A second batter had been thrown out. Then two hits in succession looked good for

another run. White, the next batter, sent a single over second base. Burt scooped the ball on the first bounce

and let drive for the plate. It was another extraordinary throw. Whether ball or runner reached home base first

was most difficult to decide. The umpire made his sweeping wave of hand and the breathless crowd caught

In action and sound the circle of bleachers resembled a long curved beach with a mounting breaker

``Robbberr!'' bawled the outraged fans, betraying their marvelous inconsistency.

Old WellWell breathed hard. Again the wrestling of his body signified an inward strife. I began to feel sure

that the man was in a mingled torment of joy and pain, that he fought the maddening desire to yell because he

knew he had not the strength to stand it. Surely, in all the years of his long following of baseball he had never

had the incentive to express himself in his peculiar way that rioted him now. Surely, before the game ended

Duveen's only base on balls, with the help of a bunt, a steal, and a scratch hit, resulted in a run for

Philadelphia, again tying the score. How the fans raged at Fuller for failing to field the lucky scratch.

New York men got on bases in the ninth and made strenuous efforts to cross the plate, but it was not to be.

Philadelphia opened up with two scorching hits and then a double steal. Burt came up with runners on second

and third. Half the crowd cheered in fair appreciation of the way fate was starring the ambitious young

outfielder; the other half, dyedinthewool hometeam fans, bent forward in a waiting silent gloom of fear.

Burt knocked the dirt out of his spikes and faced Duveen. The second ball pitched he met fairly and it rang

No one in the stands saw where it went. But they heard the crack, saw the New York shortstop stagger and

then pounce forward to pick up the ball and speed it toward the plate. The catcher was quick to tag the

incoming runner, and then snap the ball to first base, completing a double play.

When the crowd fully grasped this, which was after an instant of bewilderment, a hoarse crashing roar rolled

out across the field to bellow back in loud echo from Coogan's Bluff. The grand stand resembled a colored

corn field waving in a violent wind; the bleachers lost all semblance of anything. Frenzied, flinging

When the noise subsided, one fan, evidently a little longerwinded than his comrades, cried out hysterically:

Score tied, three to three, game must go ten inningsthat was the shibboleth; that was the overmastering

truth. The game did go ten innings eleventwelve, every one marked by masterly pitching, full of

magnificent catches, stops and throws, replete with reckless baserunning and slides like flashes in the dust.

I had got down to plugging, and for the first time, not for my home team. I wanted Philadelphia to win,

because Burt was on the team. With Old WellWell sitting there so rigid in his seat, so obsessed by the

White cut a high twisting bounder inside the third base, and before the ball could be returned he stood safely

on second. The fans howled with what husky voice they had left. The second hitter batted a tremendously

high fly toward center field. Burt wheeled with the crack of the ball and raced for the ropes. Onward the ball

soared like a sailing swallow; the fleet fielder ran with his back to the stands. What an age that ball stayed in

the air! Then it lost its speed, gracefully curved and began to fall. Burt lunged forward and upwards; the ball

lit in his hands and stuck there as he plunged over the ropes into the crowd. White had leisurely trotted half

way to third; he saw the catch, ran back to touch second and then easily made third on the throwin. The

applause that greeted Burt proved the splendid spirit of the game. Bell placed a safe little hit over short,

Score four to threeonly one half inning left for Philadelphia to playhow the fans rooted for another run!

Two men at least of all that vast assemblage had not given up victory for Philadelphia. I had not dared to look

at Old WellWell for a long, while. I dreaded the nest portentious moment. I felt deep within me something

Magoon, the slugger of the Phillies, slugged one against the left field bleachers, but, being heavy and slow, he

could not get beyond second base. Cless swung with all his might at the first pitched ball, and instead of

hitting it a mile as he had tried, he scratched a mean, slow, teasing grounder down the third base line. It was

The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities; sharp commands came from the players' bench. The

Philadelphia team were bowling and hopping on the side lines, and had to be put down by the umpire.

An inbreathing silence fell upon stands and field, quiet, like a lull before a storm.

When I saw young Burt start for the plate and realized it was his turn at bat, I jumped as if I had been shot.

Putting my hand on Old Well Well's shoulder I whispered: ``Burt's at bat: He'll break up this game! I know

The old fellow did not feel my touch; he did not hear my voice; he was gazing toward the field with an

expression on his face to which no human speech could render justice. He knew what was coming. It could

How confidently young Burt stood up to the plate! None except a natural hitter could have had his position.

He might have been Wagner for all he showed of the tight suspense of that crisis. Yet there was a tense alert

Duveen plainly showed he was tired. Twice he shook his head to his catcher, as if he did not want to pitch a

certain kind of ball. He had to use extra motion to get his old speed, and he delivered a high straight ball that

Burt fouled over the grand stand. The second ball met a similar fate. All the time the crowd maintained that

strange waiting silence. The umpire threw out a glistening white ball, which Duveen rubbed in the dust and

spat upon. Then he wound himself up into a knot, slowly unwound, and swinging with effort, threw for the

Burt's lithe shoulders swung powerfully. The meeting of ball and bat fairly cracked. The low driving hit lined

Bleachers and stands uttered one short cry, almost a groan, and then stared at the speeding runners. For an

instant, approaching doom could not have been more dreaded. Magoon scored. Cless was rounding second

when the ball lit. If Burt was running swiftly when he turned first he had only got started, for then his long

sprinter's stride lengthened and quickened. At second he was flying; beyond second he seemed to merge into

I gripped my seat strangling the uproar within me. Where was the applause? The fans were silent, choked as I

was, but from a different cause. Cless crossed the plate with the score that defeated New York; still the

tension never laxed until Burt beat the ball home in as beautiful a run as ever thrilled an audience.

In the bleak dead pause of amazed disappointment Old WellWell lifted his hulking figure and loomed,

towered over the bleachers. His wide shoulders spread, his broad chest expanded, his breath whistled as he

drew it in. One fleeting instant his transfigured face shone with a glorious light. Then, as he threw back his

head and opened his lips, his face turned purple, the muscles of his cheeks and jaw rippled and strung, the

veins on his forehead swelled into bulging ridges. Even the back of his neck grew red.

Earsplitting stentorian blast! For a moment I was deafened. But I heard the echo ringing from the cliff, a

pealing clarion call, beautiful and wonderful, winding away in hollow reverberation, then breaking out anew

A sea of faces whirled in the direction of that long unheard yell. Burt had stopped statuelike as if stricken in

his tracks; then he came running, darting among the spectators who had leaped the fence.

Old WellWell stood a moment with slow glance lingering on the tumult of emptying bleachers, on the

moving mingling colors in the grand stand, across the green field to the grayclad players. He staggered

Before I could move, a noisy crowd swarmed about him, some solicitous, many facetious. Young Burt leaped

the fence and forced his way into the circle. Then they were carrying the old man down to the field and

toward the clubhouse. I waited until the bleachers and field were empty. When I finally went out there was a

crowd at the gate surrounding an ambulance. I caught a glimpse of Old WellWell. He lay white and still, but

his eyes were open, smiling intently. Young Burt hung over him with a pale and agitated face. Then a bell