THE REDHEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

by

ZANE GREY

CONTENTS

 THE REDHEADED OUTFIELD THE RUBE THE RUBE'S PENNANT THE RUBE'S HONEYMOON THE RUBE'S WATERLOO BREAKING INTO FAST COMPANY THE KNOCKER THE WINNING BALL FALSE COLORS THE MANAGER OF MADDEN'S HILL OLD WELL-WELL

THE REDHEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

There was Delaney's red-haired trio--Red Gilbat, left fielder; ReddyClammer, right fielder, and Reddie Ray, center fielder, composing themost remarkable outfield ever developed in minor league baseball. Itwas Delaney's pride, as it was also his trouble. 

Red Gilbat was nutty--and his batting average was . 371. Any student ofbaseball could weigh these two facts against each other and understandsomething of Delaney's trouble. It was not possible to camp on RedGilbat's trail. The man was a jack-o'-lantern, a will-o'-the-wisp, aweird, long-legged, long-armed, red-haired illusive phantom. When thegong rang at the ball grounds there were ten chances to one that Redwould not be present. He had been discovered with small boys peepingthrough knotholes at the vacant left field he was supposed to inhabitduring play. 

Of course what Red did off the ball grounds was not so important aswhat he did on. And there was absolutely no telling what under the sunhe might do then except once out of every three times at bat he couldbe counted on to knock the cover off the ball. 

Reddy Clammer was a grand-stand player--the kind all managershated--and he was hitting . 305. He made circus catches, circus stops, circus throws, circus steals--but particularly circus catches. That isto say, he made easy plays appear difficult. He was always strutting, posing, talking, arguing, quarreling--when he was not engaged in makinga grand-stand play. Reddy Clammer used every possible incident andartifice to bring himself into the limelight. 

Reddie Ray had been the intercollegiate champion in the sprints and afamous college ball player. After a few months of professional ball hewas hitting over . 400 and leading the league both at bat and on thebases. It was a beautiful and a thrilling sight to see him run. Hewas so quick to start, so marvelously swift, so keen of judgment, thatneither Delaney nor any player could ever tell the hit that he was notgoing to get. That was why Reddie Ray was a whole game in himself. 

Delaney's Rochester Stars and the Providence Grays were tied for firstplace. Of the present series each team had won a game. Rivalry hadalways been keen, and as the teams were about to enter the longhomestretch for the pennant there was battle in the New England air. 

The September day was perfect. The stands were half full and thebleachers packed with a white-sleeved mass. And the field wasbeautifully level and green. The Grays were practicing and the Starswere on their bench. 

"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 arobber. But Scott is pitchin' well. Won his last three games. He'llbother 'em. And the three Reds have broken loose. They're on therampage. They'll burn up this place today. "

Somebody noted the absence of Gilbat. 

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 the Providence manager to hold back thegong for a few minutes. 

Presently somebody brought Delaney a telephone message that Red Gilbatwas 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 intow Delaney uttered an immense sigh of relief and then, after a closescrutiny of Red's face, he whispered, "Lock the gates!"

Then the gong rang. The Grays trooped in. The Stars ran out, exceptGilbat, who ambled like a giraffe. The hum of conversation in thegrand stand quickened for a moment with the scraping of chairs, andthen grew quiet. The bleachers sent up the rollicking cry ofexpectancy. The umpire threw out a white ball with his stentorian"Play!" and Blake of the Grays strode to the plate. 

Hitting safely, he started the game with a rush. With Dorr up, the Starinfield played for a bunt. Like clockwork Dorr dumped the first ball asBlake got his flying start for second base. Morrissey tore in for theball, got it on the run and snapped it underhand to Healy, beating therunner by an inch. The fast Blake, with a long slide, made third base. The stands stamped. The bleachers howled. White, next man up, batteda high fly to left field. This was a sun field and the hardest to playin 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, anddeliberately caught the ball in his gloved hand. A throw-in to catchthe runner scoring from third base would have been futile, but it wasnot 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 moistface. "I never before saw our nutty Redhead pull off a play like that. "

Some of the players yelled at Red, "This is a two-handed league, youbat!"

The first five players on the list for the Grays were left-handedbatters, and against a right-handed pitcher whose most effective ballfor them was a high fast one over the outer corner they would naturallyhit toward left field. It was no surprise to see Hanley bat askyscraper out to left. Red had to run to get under it. He bracedhimself rather unusually for a fielder. He tried to catch the ball inhis bare right hand and muffed it, Hanley got to second on the playwhile the audience roared. When they got through there was someroaring among the Rochester players. Scott and Captain Healy roared atRed, 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 ball--half fly, half liner--and a difficult one to field. Gilbat ran with great bounds, and though he might have got two hands onthe ball he did not try, but this time caught it in his right, retiringthe side. 

The Stars trotted in, Scott and Healy and Kane, all veterans, lookinglike thunderclouds. Red ambled in the last and he seemed verynonchalant. 

"By Gosh, I'd 'a' ketched that one I muffed if I'd had time to changehands, " he said with a grin, and he exposed a handful of peanuts. Hehad refused to drop the peanuts to make the catch with two hands. Thatexplained the mystery. It was funny, yet nobody laughed. There wasthat run chalked up against the Stars, and this game had to be won. 

"Red, I--I want to take the team home in the lead, " said Delaney, andit was plain that he suppressed strong feeling. "You didn't play thegame, you know. "

Red appeared mightily ashamed. 

"Del, I'll git that run back, " he said. 

Then he strode to the plate, swinging his wagon-tongue bat. For allhis awkward position in the box he looked what he was--a formidablehitter. He seemed to tower over the pitcher--Red was six feet one--andhe scowled and shook his bat at Wehying and called, "Put one over--youwienerwurst!" Wehying was anything but red-headed, and he wasted somany balls on Red that it looked as if he might pass him. He wouldhave passed him, too, if Red had not stepped over on the fourth balland swung on it. White at second base leaped high for the stinginghit, and failed to reach it. The ball struck and bounded for thefence. 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 theaudience and the game might gladly wait years to see him make a choice. 

"Git in the game!" yelled Delaney. 

"Aw, take my bat, Duke of the Abrubsky!" sarcastically said Dump Kane. When the grouchy Kane offered to lend his bat matters were critical inthe Star camp. 

Other retorts followed, which Reddy Clammer deigned not to notice. Atlast he got a bat that suited him--and 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, yourlover has come!"

Not improbably Clammer was thinking first of his presence before themultitude, secondly of his batting average and thirdly of the run to bescored. In this instance he waited and feinted at balls and fouledstrikes at length to work his base. When he got to first base suddenlyhe bolted for second, and in the surprise of the unlooked-for play hemade it by a spread-eagle slide. It was a circus steal. 

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

Reddie Ray was striding to the plate. 

There was something about Reddie Ray that pleased all the senses. Hislithe form seemed instinct with life; any sudden movement wassuggestive of stored lightning. His position at the plate was on theleft side, and he stood perfectly motionless, with just a hint of tensewaiting alertness. Dorr, Blake and Babcock, the outfielders for theGrays, trotted round to the right of their usual position. Delaneysmiled derisively, as if he knew how futile it was to tell what fieldReddie Ray might hit into. Wehying, the old fox, warily eyed theyoungster, and threw him a high curve, close in. It grazed Reddie'sshirt, but he never moved a hair. Then Wehying, after the manner ofmany veteran pitchers when trying out a new and menacing batter, drovea straight fast ball at Reddie's head. Reddie ducked, neither too slownor too quick, just right to show what an eye he had, how hard it wasto pitch to. The next was a strike. And on the next he appeared tostep and swing in one action. There was a ringing rap, and the ballshot toward right, curving down, a vicious, headed hit. Mallory, atfirst base, snatched at it and found only the air. Babcock had onlytime to take a few sharp steps, and then he plunged down, blocked thehit and fought the twisting ball. Reddie turned first base, flitted ontoward second, went headlong in the dust, and shot to the base beforeWhite got the throw-in from Babcock. Then, as White wheeled and linedthe ball home to catch the scoring Clammer, Reddie Ray leaped up, gothis sprinter's start and, like a rocket, was off for third. This timehe dove behind the base, sliding in a half circle, and as Hanley caughtStrickland's perfect throw and whirled with the ball, Reddie's handslid to the bag. 

Reddie got to his feet amid a rather breathless silence. Even thecoachers were quiet. There was a moment of relaxation, then Wehyingreceived the ball from Hanley and faced the batter. 

This was Dump Kane. There was a sign of some kind, almostimperceptible, between Kane and Reddie. As Wehying half turned in hisswing to pitch, Reddie Ray bounded homeward. It was not so much theboldness of his action as the amazing swiftness of it that held theaudience spellbound. Like a thunderbolt Reddie came down the line, almost beating Wehying's pitch to the plate. But Kane's batintercepted the ball, laying it down, and Reddie scored withoutsliding. 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 themajor league could there have been faster work. And the ball had beenfielded perfectly and thrown perfectly. 

"There you are, " said Delaney, hoarsely. "Can you beat it? If you'vebeen wonderin' how the cripped Stars won so many games just put whatyou've seen in your pipe and smoke it. Red Gilbat gets on--ReddyClammer gets on--and then Reddie Ray drives them home or chases themhome. "

The game went on, and though it did not exactly drag it slowed downconsiderably. Morrissey and Healy were retired on infield plays. Andthe sides changed. For the Grays, O'Brien made a scratch hit, went tosecond on Strickland's sacrifice, stole third and scored on Mallory'sinfield out. Wehying missed three strikes. In the Stars' turn thethree end players on the batting list were easily disposed of. In thethird inning the clever Blake, aided by a base on balls and a hitfollowing, tied the score, and once more struck fire and brimstone fromthe impatient bleachers. Providence was a town that had to have itsteam win. 

"Git at 'em, Reds!" said Delaney gruffly. 

"Batter up!" called Umpire Fuller, sharply. 

"Where's Red? Where's the bug? Where's the nut? Delaney, did youlock the gates? Look under the bench!" These and other remarks, notexactly elegant, attested to the mental processes of some of the Stars. Red Gilbat did not appear to be forthcoming. There was an anxiousdelay Capt. Healy searched for the missing player. Delaney did not sayany more. 

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 offeredto hit one of the balls Wehying shot over. When Fuller had called thethird strike Red hurried back to the door and disappeared. 

"Somethin' doin', " whispered Delaney. 

Lord Chesterfield Clammer paraded to the batter's box and, aftergradually surveying the field, as if picking out the exact place hemeant to drive the ball, he stepped to the plate. Then a roar from thebleachers surprised him. 

"Well, I'll be dog-goned!" exclaimed Delaney. "Red stole that sure asshootin'. "

Red Gilbat was pushing a brand-new baby carriage toward the batter'sbox. There was a tittering in the grand stand; another roar from thebleachers. Clammer's face turned as red as his hair. Gilbat shovedthe baby carriage upon the plate, spread wide his long arms, made ashort presentation speech and an elaborate bow, then backed away. 

All eyes were centered on Clammer. If he had taken it right theincident might have passed without undue hilarity. But Clammer becameabsolutely wild with rage. It was well known that he was unmarried. Equally well was it seen that Gilbat had executed one of his famoustricks. Ball players were inclined to be dignified about thepresentation of gifts upon the field, and Clammer, the dude, the swell, the lady's man, the favorite of the baseball gods--in his ownestimation--so far lost control of himself that he threw his bat at hisretreating tormentor. Red jumped high and the bat skipped along theground toward the bench. The players sidestepped and leaped and, ofcourse, the bat cracked one of Delaney's big shins. His eyes poppedwith pain, but he could not stop laughing. One by one the players laydown and rolled over and yelled. The superior Clammer was notoverliked by his co-players. 

From the grand stand floated the laughter of ladies and gentlemen. Andfrom the bleachers--that throne of the biting, ironic, scornfulfans--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 littleinstruments of pipe and rubber balloon, and over the field wailed out ashrill, high-keyed cry, an excellent imitation of a baby. Whereuponthe whole audience roared, and in discomfiture Reddy Clammer went insearch of his bat. 

To make his chagrin all the worse he ingloriously struck out. And thenhe strode away under the lea of the grand-stand wall toward right field. 

Reddie Ray went to bat and, with the infield playing deep and theoutfield swung still farther round to the right, he bunted a littleteasing ball down the third-base line. Like a flash of light he hadcrossed first base before Hanley got his hands on the ball. Then Kanehit into second base, forcing Reddie out. 

Again the game assumed less spectacular and more ordinary play. BothScott and Wehying held the batters safely and allowed no runs. But inthe fifth inning, with the Stars at bat and two out, Red Gilbat againelectrified the field. He sprang up from somewhere and walked to theplate, his long shape enfolded in a full-length linen duster. Thecolor and style of this garment might not have been especiallystriking, but upon Red it had a weird and wonderful effect. EvidentlyRed intended to bat while arrayed in his long coat, for he stepped intothe box and faced the pitcher. Capt. Healy yelled for him to take theduster off. Likewise did the Grays yell. 

The bleachers shrieked their disapproval. To say the least, RedGilbat's crazy assurance was dampening to the ardor of the most blindlyconfident fans. At length Umpire Fuller waved his hand, enjoiningsilence and calling time. 

"Take it off or I'll fine you. "

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

"What do I care for money!" replied Red. 

"That costs you twenty-five, " said Fuller. 

"Cigarette change!" yelled Red. 

"Costs you fifty. "

"Bah! Go to an eye doctor, " roared Red. 

"Seventy-five, " added Fuller, imperturbably. 

"Make it a hundred!"

"It's two hundred. "

"ROB-B-BER!" bawled Red. 

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

There was a mounting sensation of prophetic certainty. Old fox Wehyingappeared nervous. He wasted two balls on Red; then he put one over theplate, and then he wasted another. Three balls and one strike! Thatwas 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 throwand let drive. Red lunged and cracked the ball. It went up and up andkept going up and farther out, and as the murmuring audience was slowlytransfixed into late realization the ball soared to its height anddropped beyond the left-field fence. A home run!

Red Gilbat gathered up the tails of his duster, after the manner of aneat woman crossing a muddy street, and ambled down to first base andon to second, making prodigious jumps upon the bags, and round third, to come down the home-stretch wagging his red head. Then he stood onthe plate, and, as if to exact revenge from the audience for the funthey made of him, he threw back his shoulders and bellowed: "HAW!HAW! HAW!"

Not a handclap greeted him, but some mindless, exceedingly adventurousfan yelled: "Redhead! Redhead! Redhead!"

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

Delaney looked as if he might have a stroke. "Grab him! Soak him witha bat! Somebody grab him!"

But none of the Stars was risking so much, and Gilbat, to the howlingderision of the gleeful fans, reached the bleachers. He stretched hislong arms up to the fence and prepared to vault over. "Where's the guywho called me redhead?" he yelled. 

That was heaping fuel on the fire. From all over the bleachers, fromeverywhere, came the obnoxious word. Red heaved himself over the fenceand piled into the fans. Then followed the roar of many voices, thetramping of many feet, the pressing forward of line after line ofshirt-sleeved men and boys. That bleacher stand suddenly assumed themaelstrom appearance of a surging mob round an agitated center. In amoment all the players rushed down the field, and confusion reigned. 

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" moaned Delaney. 

However, the game had to go on. Delaney, no doubt, felt all was over. Nevertheless there were games occasionally that seemed an unendingseries of unprecedented events. This one had begun admirably to breaka record. And the Providence fans, like all other fans, had cultivatedan appetite as the game proceeded. They were wild to put the otherredheads out of the field or at least out for the inning, wild to tiethe score, wild to win and wilder than all for more excitement. Clammerhit safely. But when Reddie Ray lined to the second baseman, Clammer, having taken a lead, was doubled up in the play. 

Of course, the sixth inning opened with the Stars playing only eightmen. There was another delay. Probably everybody except Delaney andperhaps Healy had forgotten the Stars were short a man. Fuller calledtime. The impatient bleachers barked for action. 

Capt. White came over to Delaney and courteously offered to lend aplayer for the remaining innings. Then a pompous individual came outof the door leading from the press boxes--he was a director Delaneydisliked. 

"Guess you'd better let Fuller call the game, " he said brusquely. 

"If you want to--as the score stands now in our favor, " replied Delaney. 

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

He departed in high dudgeon. 

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

Fuller called play then, with Reddy Clammer and Reddie Ray composingthe Star outfield. And the Grays evidently prepared to do greatexecution through the wide lanes thus opened up. At that stage itwould not have been like matured ball players to try to crop hits downinto the infield. 

White sent a long fly back of Clammer. Reddy had no time to loaf onthis hit. It was all he could do to reach it and he made a splendidcatch, for which the crowd roundly applauded him. That applause waswine to Reddy Clammer. He began to prance on his toes and sing out toScott: "Make 'em hit to me, old man! Make 'em hit to me!" WhetherScott desired that or not was scarcely possible to say; at any rate, Hanley pounded a hit through the infield. And Clammer, prancing highin the air like a check-reined horse, ran to intercept the ball. Hecould have received it in his hands, but that would never have servedReddy Clammer. He timed the hit to a nicety, went down with his oldgrand-stand play and blocked the ball with his anatomy. Delaney swore. And the bleachers, now warm toward the gallant outfielder, lustilycheered him. Babcock hit down the right-field foul line, givingClammer a long run. Hanley was scoring and Babcock was sprinting forthird base when Reddy got the ball. He had a fine arm and he made ahard and accurate throw, catching his man in a close play. 

Perhaps even Delaney could not have found any fault with that play. But the aftermath spoiled the thing. Clammer now rode the air; hesoared; he was in the clouds; it was his inning and he had utterlyforgotten his team mates, except inasmuch as they were performing merelittle automatic movements to direct the great machinery in hisdirection for his sole achievement and glory. 

There is fate in baseball as well as in other walks of life. O'Brienwas a strapping fellow and he lifted another ball into Clammer's wideterritory. The hit was of the high and far-away variety. Clammerstarted to run with it, not like a grim outfielder, but like onethinking of himself, his style, his opportunity, his inevitablesuccess. Certain it was that in thinking of himself the outfielderforgot his surroundings. He ran across the foul line, head up, hairflying, unheeding the warning cry from Healy. And, reaching up to makehis crowning circus play, he smashed face forward into the bleachersfence. Then, limp as a rag, he dropped. The audience sent forth along groan of sympathy. 

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

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

"Cap. , what'd it--do to him?" asked Delaney. 

"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'tkill 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 orlose, I won't forget it. I've a hunch. Once in a while I can tellwhat's comin' off. Some queer game this! And we're goin' to win. Gilbat lost the game; Clammer throwed it away again, and now ReddieRay's due to win it. .. . I'm all in, but I wouldn't miss the finishto save my life. "

Delaney's deep presaging sense of baseball events was never put to agreater test. And the seven Stars, with the score tied, exhibited thetemper and timber of a championship team in the last ditch. It was sosplendid that almost instantly it caught the antagonistic bleachers. 

Wherever the tired Scott found renewed strength and speed was amystery. But he struck out the hard-hitting Providence catcher andthat made the third out. The Stars could not score in their half ofthe inning. Likewise the seventh inning passed without a run foreither side; only the infield work of the Stars was something superb. When the eighth inning ended, without a tally for either team, theexcitement grew tense. There was Reddy Ray playing outfield alone, andthe Grays with all their desperate endeavors had not lifted the ballout of the infield. 

But in the ninth, Blake, the first man up, lined low toward rightcenter. The hit was safe and looked good for three bases. No onelooking, however, had calculated on Reddie's Ray's fleetness. Hecovered ground and dove for the bounding ball and knocked it down. Blake did not get beyond first base. The crowd cheered the playequally 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 itclose to the left-field foul line. The running Reddie Ray made on thatplay held White at second base. But two runs had scored with no oneout. 

Hanley, the fourth left-handed hitter, came up and Scott pitched to himas he had to the others--high fast balls over the inside corner of theplate. Reddy Ray's position was some fifty yards behind deep short, and a little toward center field. He stood sideways, facing two-thirdsof that vacant outfield. In spite of Scott's skill, Hanley swung theball far round into right field, but he hit it high, and almost beforehe actually hit it the great sprinter was speeding across the green. 

The suspense grew almost unbearable as the ball soared in its parabolicflight and the red-haired runner streaked dark across the green. Theball seemed never to be coming down. And when it began to descend andreached a point perhaps fifty feet above the ground there appeared moredistance between where it would alight and where Reddie was thananything human could cover. It dropped and dropped, and then droppedinto Reddie Ray's outstretched hands. He had made the catch look easy. But the fact that White scored from second base on the play showed whatthe catch really was. 

There was no movement or restlessness of the audience such as usuallyindicated the beginning of the exodus. Scott struck Babcock out. Thegame still had fire. The Grays never let up a moment on theircoaching. And the hoarse voices of the Stars were grimmer than ever. Reddie Ray was the only one of the seven who kept silent. And hecrouched like a tiger. 

The teams changed sides with the Grays three runs in the lead. Morrissey, for the Stars, opened with a clean drive to right. ThenHealy 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 andmade a desperate, though unsuccessful, effort to reach first theProvidence crowd awoke to a strange and inspiring appreciation. Theybegan that most rare feature in baseball audiences--a strong andtrenchant call for the visiting team to win. 

The play had gone fast and furious. Wehying, sweaty and disheveled, worked violently. All the Grays were on uneasy tiptoes. And the Starswere seven Indians on the warpath. Halloran fouled down theright-field line; then he fouled over the left-field fence. Wehyingtried to make him too anxious, but it was in vain. Halloran wasimplacable. With two strikes and three balls he hit straight down towhite, and was out. The ball had been so sharp that neither runner onbase had a chance to advance. 

Two men out, two on base, Stars wanting three runs to tie, Scott, aweak batter, at the plate! The situation was disheartening. Yet theresat Delaney, shot through and through with some vital compelling force. He saw only victory. And when the very first ball pitched to Scott hithim on the leg, giving him his base, Delaney got to his feet, unsteadyand hoarse. 

Bases full, Reddie Ray up, three runs to tie!

Delaney looked at Reddie. And Reddie looked at Delaney. The manager'sface was pale, intent, with a little smile. The player had eyes offire, a lean, bulging jaw and the hands he reached for his bat clutchedlike talons. 

"Reddie, I knew it was waitin' for you, " said Delaney, his voiceringing. "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 crashfrom the bleachers, the steady cheer from the grand stand, proved thatit was not so much the game that mattered. 

Wehying had shot his bolt; he was tired. Yet he made ready for a finaleffort. It seemed that passing Reddie Ray on balls would have been awise play at that juncture. But no pitcher, probably, would have doneit with the bases crowded and chances, of course, against the batter. 

Clean and swift, Reddie leaped at the first pitched ball. Ping! For asecond no one saw the hit. Then it gleamed, a terrific drive, lowalong the ground, like a bounding bullet, straight at Babcock in rightfield. It struck his hands and glanced viciously away to roll towardthe fence. 

Thunder broke loose from the stands. Reddie Ray was turning firstbase. Beyond first base he got into his wonderful stride. Somerunners run with a consistent speed, the best they can make for a givendistance. But this trained sprinter gathered speed as he ran. He wasno short-stepping runner. His strides were long. They gave animpression of strength combined with fleetness. He had the speed of arace horse, but the trimness, the raciness, the delicate legs were notcharacteristic of him. Like the wind he turned second, so powerfulthat his turn was short. All at once there came a difference in hisrunning. It was no longer beautiful. The grace was gone. It was nowfierce, violent. His momentum was running him off his legs. Hewhirled around third base and came hurtling down the homestretch. Hisface was convulsed, his eyes were wild. His arms and legs worked in amarvelous muscular velocity. He seemed a demon--a flying streak. Heovertook and ran down the laboring Scott, who had almost reached theplate. 

The park seemed full of shrill, piercing strife. It swelled, reached ahighest pitch, sustained that for a long moment, and then declined. 

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

THE RUBE

It was the most critical time I had yet experienced in my career as abaseball manager. And there was more than the usual reason why I mustpull the team out. A chance for a business deal depended upon thegood-will of the stockholders of the Worcester club. On the outskirtsof the town was a little cottage that I wanted to buy, and thisdepended upon the business deal. My whole future happiness dependedupon the little girl I hoped to install in that cottage. 

Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team, I had found a strongaggregation and an enthusiastic following. I really had a team withpennant possibilities. Providence was a strong rival, but I beat themthree straight in the opening series, set a fast pace, and likewise setWorcester baseball mad. The Eastern League clubs were pretty evenlymatched; still I continued to hold the lead until misfortune overtookme. 

Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid off. Mullaney got spikedwhile sliding and was out of the game. Ashwell sprained his ankle andHirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great pitcher, hurt his arm on acold day and he could not get up his old speed. Stringer, who hadbatted three hundred and seventy-one and led the league the yearbefore, struck a bad spell and could not hit a barn door handed up tohim. 

Then came the slump. The team suddenly let down; went to pieces;played ball that would have disgraced an amateur nine. It was a tryingtime. Here was a great team, strong everywhere. A little hard luck haddug up a slump--and now! Day by day the team dropped in the race. Whenwe reached the second division the newspapers flayed us. Worcesterwould never stand for a second division team. Baseball admirers, reporters, fans--especially the fans--are fickle. The admirers quit, the reporters grilled us, and the fans, though they stuck to the gameswith that barnacle-like tenacity peculiar to them, made life miserablefor all of us. I saw the pennant slowly fading, and the successfulseason, and the business deal, and the cottage, and Milly----

But when I thought of her I just could not see failure. Something mustbe done, but what? I was at the end of my wits. When Jersey City beatus that Saturday, eleven to two, shoving us down to fifth place withonly a few percentage points above the Fall River team, I grewdesperate, and locking my players in the dressing room I went afterthem. They had lain down on me and needed a jar. I told them sostraight and flat, and being bitter, I did not pick and choose my words. 

"And fellows, " I concluded, "you've got to brace. A little more ofthis and we can't pull out. I tell you you're a championship team. Wehad that pennant cinched. A few cuts and sprains and hard luck--andyou 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 mystring. I'm out to fine you now, and I'll release the first man whoshows 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 managersusually get from criticized players. But not a word! Then I addressedsome of them personally. 

"Gregg, your lay-off ends today. You play Monday. Mullaney, you'vedrawn your salary for two weeks with that spiked foot. If you can'trun on it--well, all right, but I put it up to your good faith. I'veplayed the game and I know it's hard to run on a sore foot. But youcan do it. Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I know--now, can you run?"

"Sure I can. I'm not a quitter. I'm ready to go in, " replied Ashwell. 

"Raddy, how about you?" I said, turning to my star twirler. 

"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 itcomes--look out! As for me, well, my arm isn't right, but it's actingthese warm days in a way that tells me it will be soon. It's beenworked too hard. Can't you get another pitcher? I'm not knocking Herneor Cairns. They're good for their turn, but we need a new man to helpout. And he must be a crackerjack if we're to get back to the lead. "

"Where on earth can I find such a pitcher?" I shouted, almostdistracted. 

"Well, that's up to you, " replied Radbourne. 

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 Iread in one of the papers. It was a brief mention of an amateurWorcester ball team being shut out in a game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsville played Sunday ball, which gave me an opportunity to lookthem over. 

It took some train riding and then a journey by coach to get toRickettsville. I mingled with the crowd of talking rustics. There wasonly one little "bleachers" and this was loaded to the danger pointwith the feminine adherents of the teams. Most of the crowd centeredalongside and back of the catcher's box. I edged in and got a positionjust behind the stone that served as home plate. 

Hunting up a player in this way was no new thing to me. I was too wiseto 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 therustic fans and listening to them. Then a roar announced theappearance of the Rickettsville team and their opponents, who wore thename of Spatsburg on their Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms ofthese country amateurs would have put a Philadelphia Mummer's parade tothe blush, at least for bright colors. But after one amused glance Igot down to the stern business of the day, and that was to discover apitcher, and failing that, baseball talent of any kind. 

Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the Rickettsville twirler. Hewas far over six feet tall and as lean as a fence rail. He had a greatshock of light hair, a sunburned, sharp-featured face, wide, slopingshoulders, and arms enormously long. He was about as graceful and hadabout as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow. 

"He's a rube!" I ejaculated, in disgust and disappointment. 

But when I had seen him throw one ball to his catcher I grew as keen asa fox on a scent. What speed he had! I got round closer to him andwatched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a giant. To be sure, hewas lean, rawboned as a horse, but powerful. What won me at once washis natural, easy swing. He got the ball away with scarcely anyeffort. I wondered what he could do when he brought the motion of hisbody into play. 

"Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?" I asked of a boy. 

"Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it ain't. Huh!" repliedthis country youngster. Evidently my question had thrown someimplication upon this particular player. 

"I reckon you be a stranger in these parts, " said a pleasant oldfellow. "His name's Hurtle--Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. Hehain't lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee! Never pitchedany before, nuther. "

Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name!

Rickettsville chose the field and the game began. Hurtle swung with hiseasy motion. The ball shot across like a white bullet. It was astrike, and so was the next, and the one succeeding. He could notthrow anything but strikes, and it seemed the Spatsburg players couldnot make even a foul. 

Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little to me. And I was sofascinated 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 theRickettsville rooters. The man was a wonder. A blind baseball managercould have seen that. He had a straight ball, shoulder high, level asa stretched string, and fast. He had a jump ball, which he evidentlyworked by putting on a little more steam, and it was the speediestthing I ever saw in the way of a shoot. He had a wide-sweepingoutcurve, wide as the blade of a mowing scythe. And he had a drop--anunhittable drop. He did not use it often, for it made his catcher digtoo hard into the dirt. But whenever he did I glowed all over. Onceor twice he used an underhand motion and sent in a ball that fairlyswooped 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 threwwent over the plate. He could not miss it. To him that plate was asbig as a house. 

What a find! Already I had visions of the long-looked-for brace of myteam, and of the pennant, and the little cottage, and the happy lightof a pair of blue eyes. What he meant to me, that country pitcherHurtle! He shut out the Spatsburg team without a run or a hit or evena scratch. Then I went after him. I collared him and his manager, andthere, surrounded by the gaping players, I bought him and signed himbefore any of them knew exactly what I was about. I did not haggle. Iasked the manager what he wanted and produced the cash; I asked Hurtlewhat he wanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand, paid him inadvance, and got his name to the contract. Then I breathed a long, deep breath; the first one for weeks. Something told me that withHurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern League pennant. ThenI invited all concerned down to the Rickettsville hotel. 

We made connections at the railroad junction and reached Worcester atmidnight in time for a good sleep. I took the silent and backwardpitcher to my hotel. In the morning we had breakfast together. Ishowed him about Worcester and then carried him off to the ball grounds. 

I had ordered morning practice, and as morning practice is notconducive to the cheerfulness of ball players, I wanted to reach thedressing room a little late. When we arrived, all the players haddressed and were out on the field. I had some difficulty in fittingHurtle with a uniform, and when I did get him dressed he resembled atwo-legged giraffe decked out in white shirt, gray trousers and maroonstockings. 

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

"Sufferin' umpires!" yelled Spears. "Here, you Micks! Look at thisCon's got with him!"

What a yell burst from that sore and disgruntled bunch of ball tossers!My players were a grouchy set in practice anyway, and today they werein their meanest mood. 

"Hey, beanpole!"

"Get on to the stilts!"

"Con, where did you find that?"

I cut short their chaffing with a sharp order for batting practice. 

"Regular line-up, now no monkey biz, " I went on. "Take two cracks anda 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 ballplayers. Go in now and practice a little. Lam a few over. "

Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervously over the ball. I thoughtit best not to say more to him, for he had a rather wild look. Iremembered my own stage fright upon my first appearance in fastcompany. Besides I knew what my amiable players would say to him. Ihad a secret hope and belief that presently they would yell upon theother side of the fence. 

McCall, my speedy little left fielder, led off at bat. He was full ofginger, chipper as a squirrel, sarcastic as only a tried ball playercan be. 

"Put 'em over, Slats, put 'em over, " he called, viciously swinging hisash. 

Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box and seemed to be rollingsomething in his mouth. Then he moved his arm. We all saw the balldart down straight--that is, all of us except McCall, because if he hadseen it he might have jumped out of the way. Crack! The ball hit himon the shin. 

McCall shrieked. We all groaned. That crack hurt all of us. Anybaseball player knows how it hurts to be hit on the shinbone. McCallwaved his bat madly. 

"Rube! Rube! Rube!" he yelled. 

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

McCall went back to the plate, red in the face, mad as a hornet, and hesidestepped every time Rube pitched a ball. He never even ticked oneand retired in disgust, limping and swearing. Ashwell was next. He didnot show much alacrity. On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flat inthe dust. The ball whipped the hair of his head. Rube was wild and Ibegan to get worried. Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but when heassayed a bunt the gang yelled derisively at him. 

"What's he got?" The old familiar cry of batters when facing a newpitcher!

Stringer went up, bold and formidable. That was what made him thegreat hitter he was. He loved to bat; he would have faced anybody; hewould have faced even a cannon. New curves were a fascination to him. And speed for him, in his own words, was "apple pie. " In thisinstance, surprise was in store for Stringer. Rube shot up thestraight one, then the wide curve, then the drop. Stringer missed themall, struck out, fell down ignominiously. It was the first time he hadfanned that season and he looked dazed. We had to haul him away. 

I called off the practice, somewhat worried about Rube's showing, andundecided whether or not to try him in the game that day. So I went toRadbourne, who had quietly watched Rube while on the field. Raddy wasan old pitcher and had seen the rise of a hundred stars. I told himabout the game at Rickettsville and what I thought of Rube, and franklyasked his opinion. 

"Con, you've made the find of your life, " said Raddy, quietly anddeliberately. 

This from Radbourne was not only comforting; it was relief, hope, assurance. I avoided Spears, for it would hardly be possible for himto regard the Rube favorably, and I kept under cover until time to showup at the grounds. 

Buffalo was on the ticket for that afternoon, and the Bisons wereleading the race and playing in topnotch form. I went into thedressing room while the players were changing suits, because there wasa little unpleasantness that I wanted to spring on them before we goton the field. 

"Boys, " I said, curtly, "Hurtle works today. Cut loose, now, and backhim up. "

I had to grab a bat and pound on the wall to stop the uproar. 

"Did you mutts hear what I said? Well, it goes. Not a word, now. I'mhandling this team. We're in bad, I know, but it's my judgment topitch Hurtle, rube or no rube, and it's up to you to back us. That'sthe baseball of it. "

Grumbling and muttering, they passed out of the dressing room. I knewball players. If Hurtle should happen to show good form they wouldturn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in their rear. He lookedlike a man in a trance. I wanted to speak encouragingly to him, butRaddy told me to keep quiet. 

It was inspiring to see my team practice that afternoon. There hadcome a subtle change. I foresaw one of those baseball climaxes thatcan be felt and seen, but not explained. Whether it was a hint of thehoped-for brace, or only another flash of form before the finallet-down, I had no means to tell. But I was on edge. 

Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, and I sent my team intothe field. When that long, lanky, awkward rustic started for thepitcher's box, I thought the bleachers would make him drop in histracks. The fans were sore on any one those days, and a new pitcherwas bound to hear from them. 

"Where! Oh, where! Oh, where!"

"Connelly's found another dead one!"

"Scarecrow!"

"Look at his pants!"

"Pad his legs!"

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 gotit; he hit men, walked men, and fell all over himself trying to fieldbunts. The crowd stormed and railed and hissed. The Bisons prancedround the bases and yelled like Indians. Finally they retired witheight runs. 

Eight runs! Enough to win two games! I could not have told how ithappened. I was sick and all but crushed. Still I had a blind, doggedfaith in the big rustic. I believed he had not got started right. Itwas a trying situation. I called Spears and Raddy to my side andtalked fast. 

"It's all off now. Let the dinged rube take his medicine, " growledSpears. 

"Don't take him out, " said Raddy. "He's not shown at all what's inhim. The blamed hayseed is up in the air. He's crazy. He doesn'tknow what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may be scared to death, buthe's dead in earnest. "

Suddenly I recalled the advice of the pleasant old fellow atRickettsville. 

"Spears, you're the captain, " I said, sharply. "Go after the rube. Wake him up. Tell him he can't pitch. Call him 'Pogie!' That's aname that stirs him up. "

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

Rube lurched toward us. He seemed to be walking in his sleep. Hisbreast was laboring and he was dripping with sweat. 

"Who ever told you that you could pitch?" asked Spears genially. Hewas master at baseball ridicule. I had never yet seen the youngsterwho could stand his badinage. He said a few things, then wound upwith: "Come now, you cross between a hayrack and a wagon tongue, getsore and do something. Pitch if you can. Show us! Do you hear, youtow-headed Pogie!"

Rube jumped as if he had been struck. His face flamed red and hislittle eyes turned black. He shoved his big fist under Capt. Spears'nose. 

"Mister, I'll lick you fer thet--after the game! And I'll show youdog-goned well how I can pitch. "

"Good!" exclaimed Raddy; and I echoed his word. Then I went to thebench and turned my attention to the game. Some one told me thatMcCall had made a couple of fouls, and after waiting for two strikesand three balls had struck out. Ashwell had beat out a bunt in his oldswift 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, expectinghim 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 bulgeof his closely locked jaw. He swung on the first pitched ball. Withthe 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 theright-field fence. For an instant we were all still, so were thebleachers. Stringer had broken his slump with the longest drive evermade on the grounds. The crowd cheered as he trotted around the basesbehind Ashwell. Two runs. 

"Con, how'd you like that drive?" he asked me, with a bright gleam inhis eyes. 

"O-h-!--a beaut!" I replied, incoherently. The players on the benchwere all as glad as I was. Henley flew out to left. Mullaney smashed atwo-bagger to right. Then Gregg hit safely, but Mullaney, in trying toscore on the play, was out at the plate. 

"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 thebox, unmindful of the hooting crowd and grimly faced Schultz, the firstbatter up for the Bisons. This time Rube was deliberate. And where hehad not swung before he now got his body and arm into full motion. Theball came in like a glint of light. Schultz looked surprised. Theumpire called "Strike!"

"Wow!" yelled the Buffalo coacher. Rube sped up the sidewheeler andSchultz reached wide to meet it and failed. The third was thelightning drop, straight over the plate. The batter poked weakly atit. Then Carl struck out and Manning following, did likewise. Threeof the best hitters in the Eastern retired on nine strikes! That wasno fluke. I knew what it meant, and I sat there hugging myself withthe hum of something joyous in my ears. 

Gregg had a glow on his sweaty face. "Oh, but say, boys, take a tipfrom me! The Rube's a world beater! Raddy knew it; he sized up thatswing, and now I know it. Get wise, you its!"

When old Spears pasted a single through shortstop, the Buffalo managertook Clary out of the box and put in Vane, their best pitcher. Bogartadvanced the runner to second, but was thrown out on the play. ThenRube 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 backfrom 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 coldcrowd 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 havescored 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'sshortstop an error, and Stringer came up with two men on bases. Stringer hit a foul over the right-field fence and the crowd howled. Then he hit a hard long drive straight into the centerfielder's hands. 

"Con, I don't know what to think, but ding me if we ain't hittin' theball, " said Spears. Then to his players: "A little more of that andwe're back in our old shape. All in a minute--at 'em now! Rube, youdinged old Pogie, pitch!"

Rube toed the rubber, wrapped his long brown fingers round the ball, stepped out as he swung and--zing! That inning he unloosed a few morekinks in his arm and he tried some new balls upon the Bisons. Butwhatever he used and wherever he put them the result was the same--theycut the plate and the Bisons were powerless. 

That inning marked the change in my team. They had come hack. Thehoodoo had vanished. The championship Worcester team was itself again. 

The Bisons were fighting, too, but Rube had them helpless. When theydid hit a ball one of my infielders snapped it up. No chances went tothe outfield. I sat there listening to my men, and reveled in a momentthat I had long prayed for. 

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

"Ding 'em, Rube, ding 'em!" came from Capt. Spears. 

"Speed? Oh-no!" yelled Bogart at third base. 

"It's all off, Rube! It's all off--all off!"

So, with the wonderful pitching of an angry rube, the Worcester teamcame into its own again. I sat through it all without another word;without giving a signal. In a way I realized the awakening of thebleachers, and heard the pound of feet and the crash, but it was thespirit of my team that thrilled me. Next to that the work of my newfind absorbed me. I gloated over his easy, deceiving swing. I roseout of my seat when he threw that straight fast ball, swift as abullet, true as a plumb line. And when those hard-hitting, surebunting Bisons chopped in vain at the wonderful drop, I choked back awild yell. For Rube meant the world to me that day. 

In the eighth the score was 8 to 6. The Bisons had one scratch hit totheir credit, but not a runner had got beyond first base. Again Rubeheld them safely, one man striking out, another fouling out, and thethird going out on a little fly. 

Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! The bleachers were making up for manygames in which they could not express their riotous feelings. 

"It's a cinch we'll win!" yelled a fan with a voice. Rube was thefirst man up in our half of the ninth and his big bat lammed the firstball safe over second base. The crowd, hungry for victory, got totheir feet and stayed upon their feet, calling, cheering for runs. Itwas the moment for me to get in the game, and I leaped up, strung likea wire, and white hot with inspiration. I sent Spears to the coachingbox with orders to make Rube run on the first ball. I gripped McCallwith hands that made him wince. 

Then I dropped back on the bench spent and panting. It was only agame, 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, andcould have bunted an arrow from a bow. The foxy Bison third basemanedged in. Mac feinted to bunt toward him then turned his bat inwardand dumped a teasing curving ball down the first base line. Rube ranas if in seven-league boots. Mac's short legs twinkled; he went likethe wind; he leaped into first base with his long slide, and beat thethrow. 

The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumbling down. For a moment theair was full of deafening sound. Then came the pause, the dying awayof clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspended quiet. Spears' clearvoice, as he coached Rube, in its keen note seemed inevitable ofanother run. 

Ashwell took his stand. He was another left-hand hitter, and against aright-hand pitcher, in such circumstances as these, the most dangerousof men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captain knew it, as showedplainly in his signal to catch Rube at second. But Spears' warningheld 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 apossible hit through the wide space to his right, and the secondbaseman got on his toes as both base runners started. 

Crack! The old story of the hit and run game! Ashwell's hit crossedsharply where a moment before the shortstop had been standing. Withgigantic strides Rube rounded the corner and scored. McCall flittedthrough second, and diving into third with a cloud of dust, got theumpire's decision. When Stringer hurried up with Mac on third and Ashon first the whole field seemed racked in a deafening storm. Again itsubsided quickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans had been crushed toooften of late for them to be fearless. 

But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense ended. I was like a manclamped in a vise. Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with thesprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm and slowly edged offfirst. Stringer waited for one strike and two balls, then he hit thenext. It hugged the first base line, bounced fiercely past the bag andskipped over the grass to bump hard into the fence. McCall rompedhome, and lame Ashwell beat any run he ever made to the plate. Rolling, swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feet could not down the highpiercing sustained yell of the fans. It was great. Three weeks ofsubmerged bottled baseball joy exploded in one mad outburst! The fans, too, had come into their own again. 

We scored no more. But the Bisons were beaten. Their spirit wasbroken. 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 tossedhis shock of light hair. At the end he was even stronger than at thebeginning. He still had the glancing, floating airy quality thatbaseball 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 myscore card. Fourteen strike outs! one scratch hit! No base on ballssince the first inning! That told the story which deadened sensesdoubted. There was a roar in my ears. Some one was pounding me. As Istruggled to get into the dressing room the crowd mobbed me. But I didnot 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 sawthe 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 dressingroom. 

Somehow it seemed strange to me. Most of the players were stretchedout in peculiar convulsions. Old Spears sat with drooping head. Then awild flaming-eyed giant swooped upon me. With a voice of thunder heannounced:

"I'm a-goin' to lick you, too!"

After that we never called him any name except Rube. 

THE RUBE'S PENNANT

"Fellows, it's this way. You've got to win today's game. It's thelast of the season and means the pennant for Worcester. One more hardscrap and we're done! Of all the up-hill fights any bunch ever made toland the flag, our has been the best. You're the best team I evermanaged, the gamest gang of ball players that ever stepped in spikes. We've played in the hardest kind of luck all season, except that shorttrip we called the Rube's Honeymoon. We got a bad start, and sore armsand busted fingers, all kinds of injuries, every accident calculated tohurt a team's chances, came our way. But in spite of it all we got thelead and we've held it, and today we're still a few points ahead ofBuffalo. "

I paused to catch my breath, and looked round on the grim, tired facesof my players. They made a stern group. The close of the season foundthem almost played out. What a hard chance it was, after theirextraordinary efforts, to bring the issue of the pennant down to thislast game!

"If we lose today, Buffalo, with three games more to play at home, willpull the bunting, " I went on. "But they're not going to win! I'mputting it up to you that way. I know Spears is all in; Raddy's arm isgone; Ash is playing on one leg; you're all crippled. But you've gotone more game in you, I know. These last few weeks the Rube has beenpitching out of turn and he's about all in, too. He's kept us in thelead. If he wins today it'll be Rube's Pennant. But that might applyto all of you. Now, shall we talk over the play today? Any tricks topull off? Any inside work?"

"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 tosuggest that you let me run the team today. I've talked over the playwith the fellers. We ain't goin' to lose this game, Con. Buffalo hasbeen comin' with a rush lately, an' they're confident. But we've beenholdin' 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 gethold of on this game. Why, Buffalo money is everywhere. "

"All right, Spears, I'll turn the team over to you. We've got thebanner crowd of the year out there right now, a great crowd to playbefore. I'm more fussed up over this game than any I remember. But Ihave a sort of blind faith in my team. .. . I guess that's all I wantto say. "

Spears led the silent players out of the dressing room and I followed;and while they began to toss balls to and fro, to limber up cold, deadarms, I sat on the bench. 

The Bisons were prancing about the diamond, and their swaggeringassurance was not conducive to hope for the Worcesters. I wondered howmany of that vast, noisy audience, intent on the day's sport, even hada thought of what pain and toil it meant to my players. The Buffalomen were in good shape; they had been lucky; they were at the top oftheir stride, and that made all the difference. 

At any rate, there were a few faithful little women in the grandstand--Milly and Nan and Rose Stringer and Kate Bogart--who sat withcompressed lips and hoped and prayed for that game to begin and end. 

The gong called off the practice, and Spears, taking the field, yelledgruff encouragement to his men. Umpire Carter brushed off the plateand tossed a white ball to Rube and called: "Play!" The bleachers setup an exultant, satisfied shout and sat down to wait. 

Schultz toed the plate and watched the Rube pitch a couple. Thereseemed to be no diminution of the great pitcher's speed and both ballscut the plate. Schultz clipped the next one down the third-base Line. Bogart trapped it close to the bag, and got it away underhand, beatingthe speedy runner by a nose. It was a pretty play to start with, andthe spectators were not close-mouthed 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 Buffalo andWorcester. 

"Bing one close to his swelled nut!" growled Spears to the Rube. 

Carl chopped a bouncing grounder through short and Ash was after itlike a tiger, but it was a hit. The Buffalo contingent opened up. Then Manning faced the Rube, and he, too, vented sarcasm. It might nothave been heard by the slow, imperturbable pitcher for all the noticehe took. Carl edged off first, slid back twice, got a third start, andon the Rube's pitch was off for second base with the lead that alwaysmade him dangerous. Manning swung vainly, and Gregg snapped a throw toMullaney. Ball and runner got to the bag apparently simultaneously;the umpire called Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar ofdelight. 

The next pitch to Manning was a strike. Rube was not wasting anyballs, a point I noted with mingled fear and satisfaction. For hemight have felt that he had no strength to spare that day and so couldnot try to work the batters. Again he swung, and Manning rapped a longline fly over McCall. As the little left fielder turned at the soundof the hit and sprinted out, his lameness was certainly not inevidence. He was the swiftest runner in the league and always when hegot going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him. Mac took that flyright off the foul flag in deep left, and the bleachers dinned theirpleasure. 

The teams changed positions. "Fellers, " said Spears, savagely, "we maybe a bunged-up lot of stiffs, but, say! We can hit! If you love yourold captain--sting the ball!"

Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work cut out for him. For onesympathetic moment I saw his part through his eyes. My Worcesterveterans, long used to being under fire, were relentlessly bent ontaking that game. It showed in many ways, particularly in theirsilence, because they were seldom a silent team. McCall hesitated amoment over his bats. Then, as he picked up the lightest one, I sawhis jaw set, and I knew he intended to bunt. He was lame, yet he meantto beat out an infield hit. He went up scowling. 

Vane had an old head, and he had a varied assortment of balls. For Mache used an under hand curve, rising at the plate and curving in to theleft-hander. Mac stepped back and let it go. 

"That's the place, Bo, " cried the Buffalo infielders. "Keep 'em closeon the Crab. " Eager and fierce as McCall was, he let pitch after pitchgo by till he had three balls and two strikes. Still the heady Vanesent up another pitch similar to the others. Mac stepped forward inthe box, dropped his bat on the ball, and leaped down the line towardfirst base. Vane came rushing in for the bunt, got it and threw. Butas the speeding ball neared the baseman, Mac stretched out into the airand shot for the bag. By a fraction of a second he beat the ball. Itwas one of his demon-slides. He knew that the chances favored hisbeing crippled; we all knew that some day Mac would slide recklesslyonce too often. But that, too, is all in the game and in the spirit ofa great player. 

"We're on, " said Spears; "now keep with him. "

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

When Vane pitched, little McCall was flitting toward second. The Bisonshortstop started for the bag, and Ash hit square through his tracks. Arolling cheer burst from the bleachers, and swelled till McCall overranthird base and was thrown back by the coacher. Stringer hurriedforward with his big bat. 

"Oh! My!" yelled a fan, and he voiced my sentiments exactly. Here wewould score, and be one run closer to that dearly bought pennant. 

How well my men worked together! As the pitcher let the ball go, Ashwas digging for second and Mac was shooting plateward. They played onthe chance of Stringer's hitting. Stringer swung, the bat cracked, weheard a thud somewhere, and then Manning, half knocked over, wasfumbling for the ball. He had knocked down a terrific drive with hismitt, and he got the ball in time to put Stringer out. But Mac scoredand 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, hehad nearly run to second base when Carl made the catch. Ash easilyscored on the throw-in. Then Bogart sent one skipping over second, andTreadwell, scooping it on the run, completed a play that showed why hewas considered the star of the Bison infield. 

"Two runs, fellers!" said Spears. "That's some! Push 'em over, Rube. "

The second inning somewhat quickened the pace. Even the Rube worked alittle faster. Ellis lined to Cairns in right; Treadwell fouled twoballs and had a called strike, and was out; McKnight hit a low fly overshort, then Bud Wiler sent one between Spears and Mullaney. Spearswent 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 andslow 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 hewas tiring. Pannell hit the second slow ball for two bases. Vanesacrificed, and then the redoubtable Schultz came up. He appeared to bein no hurry to bat. Then I saw that the foxy Buffalo players wereworking to tire the Rube. They had the situation figured. But theywere no wiser than old Spears. 

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

Shultz flied to Mac, who made a beautiful throw to the plate too lateto catch Pannell. Carl deliberately bunted to the right of the Rubeand it cost the big pitcher strenuous effort to catch his man. 

"We got the Rube waggin'!" yelled a Buffalo player. 

Manning tripled down the left foul line--a hit the bleachers called ascreamer. When Ellis came up, it looked like a tie score, and when theRube pitched it was plain that he was tired. The Bisons yelled theirassurance of this and the audience settled into quiet. Ellis batted ascorcher that looked good for a hit. But the fast Ashwell was movingwith 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 throwto beat the runner. The bleachers thundered at the play. 

"You're up, Rube, " called Spears. "Lam one out of the lot!"

The Rube was an uncertain batter. There was never any telling what hemight do, for he had spells of good and bad hitting. But when he didget his bat on the ball it meant a chase for some fielder. He went upswinging his huge club, and he hit a fly that would have been an easyhome run for a fast man. But the best Rube could do was to reach thirdbase. This was certainly good enough, as the bleachers loudlyproclaimed, and another tally for us seemed sure. 

McCall bunted toward third, another of his teasers. The Rube wouldsurely have scored had he started with the ball, but he did not try andmissed a chance. Wiler, of course, held the ball, and Mac got to firstwithout special effort. He went down on the first pitch. Then Ashlined to Carl. The Rube waited till the ball was caught and startedfor home. The crowd screamed, the Rube ran for all he was worth andCarl's throw to the plate shot in low and true. Ellis blocked the Rubeand tagged him out. 

It looked to the bleachers as if Ellis had been unnecessarily rough, and they hissed and stormed disapproval. As for me, I knew the Bisonswere losing no chance to wear out my pitcher. Stringer fouled out withMac on third, and it made him so angry that he threw his bat toward thebench, making some of the boys skip lively. 

The next three innings, as far as scoring was concerned, were all forBuffalo. But the Worcester infield played magnificent ball, holdingtheir opponents to one run each inning. 

That made the score 4 to 2 in favor of Buffalo. 

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 thefence and tied the score. How the bleachers roared! It was full twominutes 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 theinning by striking out. 

"Get at the Rube!" boomed Ellis, the Bison captain. "We'll have him upin the air soon. Get in the game now, you stickers!"

Before I knew what had happened, the Bisons had again tied the score. They were indomitable. They grew stronger all the time. A stroke ofgood luck now would clinch the game for them. The Rube was beginning tolabor in the box; Ashwell was limping; Spears looked as if he woulddrop any moment; McCall could scarcely walk. But if the ball came hisway he could still run. Nevertheless, I never saw any finer fieldingthan these cripped players executed that inning. 

"Ash--Mac--can you hold out?" I asked, when they limped in. I receivedglances of scorn for my question. Spears, however, was not sanguine. 

"I'll stick pretty much if somethin' doesn't happen, " he said; "but I'mall in. I'll need a runner if I get to first this time. "

Spears lumbered down to first base on an infield hit and the heavyManning gave him the hip. Old Spears went down, and I for one knew hewas out in more ways than that signified by Carter's sharp: "Out!"

The old war-horse gathered himself up slowly and painfully, and withhis arms folded and his jaw protruding, he limped toward the umpire. 

"Did you call me out?" he asked, in a voice plainly audible to any oneon the field. 

"Yes, " snapped Carter. 

"What for? I beat the ball, an' Mannin' played dirty with me--gave methe hip. "

"I called you out. "

"But I wasn't out!"

"Shut up now! Get off the diamond!" ordered Carter, peremptorily. 

"What? Me? Say, I'm captain of this team. Can't I question adecision?"

"Not mine. Spears, you're delaying the game. "

"I tell you it was a rotten decision, " yelled Spears. The bleachersagreed with him. 

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

"Fifty dollars!"

"More! You cheap-skate you piker! More!"

"It's a hundred!"

"Put me out of the game!" roared Spears. 

"You bet! Hurry now--skedaddle!"

"Rob-b-ber!" bawled Spears. 

Then he labored slowly toward the bench, all red, and yet withperspiration, his demeanor one of outraged dignity. The great crowd, as one man, stood up and yelled hoarsely at Carter, and hissed andrailed at him. When Spears got to the bench he sat down beside me asif in pain, but he was smiling. 

"Con, I was all in, an' knowin' I couldn't play any longer, thought I'dtry to scare Carter. Say, he was white in the face. If we play into aclose decision now, he'll give it to us. "

Bogart and Mullaney batted out in short order, and once more theaggressive Bisons hurried in for their turn. Spears sent Cairns tofirst base and Jones to right. The Rube lobbed up his slow ball. Inthat tight pinch he showed his splendid nerve. Two Buffalo players, over-anxious, popped up flies. The Rube kept on pitching the slowcurve until it was hit safely. Then heaving his shoulders with all hismight he got all the motion possible into his swing and let drive. Hehad almost all of his old speed, but it hurt me to see him work withsuch desperate effort. He struck Wiler out. 

He came stooping into the bench, apparently deaf to the stunning roundof applause. Every player on the team had a word for the Rube. Therewas no quitting in that bunch, and if I ever saw victory on the sternfaces of ball players it was in that moment. 

"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 ofgetting a run on Vane that inning. He had so much confidence that heput 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 hitinto a double play. But Cairns surprised Vane and everybody else bypoking a safety past first base. The fans began to howl and pound andwhistle. 

The Rube strode to bat. The infield closed in for a bunt, but the Rubehad 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 hisspeed. Rube stepped out, suddenly whirled, then tried to dodge, butthe ball hit him fair in the back. Rube sagged in his tracks, thenstraightened up, and walked slowly to first base. Score 5 to 5, basesfull, no outs, McCall at bat. I sat dumb on the bench, thrilling andshivering. McCall! Ashwell! Stringer to bat!

"Play it safe! Hold the bags!" yelled the coacher. 

McCall fairly spouted defiance as he faced Vane. 

"Pitch! It's all off! An' you know it!"

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 theleague; to Ashwell, the best bunter; to Stringer, the champion batter. It was a supreme test for a great pitcher. There was only one kind ofa ball that McCall was not sure to hit, and that was a high curve, inclose. Vane threw it with all his power. Carter called it a strike. Again Vane swung and his arm fairly cracked. Mac fouled the ball. Thethird was wide. Slowly, with lifting breast, Vane got ready, whirledsavagely and shot up the ball. McCall struck out. 

As the Buffalo players crowed and the audience groaned it was worthy ofnote that little McCall showed no temper. Yet he had failed to grasp agreat opportunity. 

"Ash, I couldn't see 'em, " he said, as he passed to the bench. "Speed, whew! look out for it. He's been savin' up. Hit quick, an' you'll gethim. "

Ashwell bent over the plate and glowered at Vane. 

"Pitch! It's all off! An' you know it!" he hissed, using Mac's words. 

Ashwell, too, was left-handed; he, too, was extremely hard to pitch to;and if he had a weakness that any of us ever discovered, it was a slowcurve and change of pace. But I doubted if Vane would dare to use slowballs to Ash at that critical moment. I had yet to learn something ofVane. He gave Ash a slow, wide-sweeping sidewheeler, that curved roundover the plate. Ash always took a strike, so this did not matter. Then Vane used his deceptive change of pace, sending up a curve thatjust missed Ash's bat as he swung. 

"Oh! A-h-h! hit!" wailed the bleachers. 

Vane doubled up like a contortionist, and shot up a lightning-swiftdrop that fooled Ash completely. Again the crowd groaned. Score tied, bases full, two out, Stringer at bat!

"It's up to you, String, " called Ash, stepping aside. 

Stringer did not call out to Vane. That was not his way. He stoodtense and alert, bat on his shoulder, his powerful form braced, and hewaited. The outfielders trotted over toward right field, and theinfielders played deep, calling out warnings and encouragement to thepitcher. Stringer had no weakness, and Vane knew this. Nevertheless hedid not manifest any uneasiness, and pitched the first ball without anyextra motion. Carter called it a strike. I saw Stringer sink downslightly and grow tenser all over. I believe that moment was longerfor me than for either the pitcher or the batter. Vane took his time, watched the base runners, feinted to throw to catch them, and thendelivered 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 lowliner. Shultz, by a wonderful play in deep center, blocked the balland thereby saved it from being a home run. But when Stringer stoppedon second base, all the runners had scored. 

A shrill, shrieking, high-pitched yell! The bleachers threatened todestroy the stands and also their throats in one long revel of baseballmadness. 

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

"Fellers, I reckon I feel easier, " said the Rube. It was the only timeI had ever heard him speak to the players at such a stage. 

"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 theBuffalo list without any alarming bids for a run. And in our half, Bogart and Mullaney hit vicious ground balls that gave Treadwell andWiler opportunities for superb plays. Carl, likewise, made a beautifulrunning catch of Gregg's line fly. The Bisons were still in the game, still capable of pulling it out at the last moment. 

When Shultz stalked up to the plate I shut my eyes a moment, and sostill 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 towatch the Rube. I knew Spears felt the same as I, for he was blowinglike a porpoise and muttering to himself: "Mebee the Rube won't lastan' I've no one to put in!"

The Rube pitched with heavy, violent effort. He had still enough speedto be dangerous. But after the manner of ball players Shultz and thecoachers mocked him. 

"Take all you can, " called Ellis to Shultz. 

Every pitch lessened the Rube's strength and these wise opponents knewit. Likewise the Rube himself knew, and never had he shown better headwork than in this inning. If he were to win, he must be quick. So hewasted not a ball. The first pitch and the second, delivered breasthigh and fairly over the plate, beautiful balls to hit, Shultz watchedspeed by. He swung hard on the third and the crippled Ashwell dove forit in a cloud of dust, got a hand in front of it, but uselessly, forthe hit was safe. The crowd cheered that splendid effort. 

Carl marched to bat, and he swung his club over the plate as if he knewwhat to expect. "Come on, Rube!" he shouted. Wearily, doggedly, theRube whirled, and whipped his arm. The ball had all his old glancingspeed and it was a strike. The Rube was making a tremendous effort. Again he got his body in convulsive motion--two strikes! Shultz hadmade no move to run, nor had Carl made any move to hit. These veteranswere waiting. The Rube had pitched five strikes--could he last?

"Now, Carl!" yelled Ellis, with startling suddenness, as the Rubepitched again. 

Crack! Carl placed that hit as safely through short as if he hadthrown 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 forwardhe pitched, as if in one of his fierce slides, and he got his body infront of the ball, blocking it, and then he rolled over and over. Buthe jumped up and lined the ball to Bogart, almost catching Shultz atthird-base. Then, as Mac tried to walk, his lame leg buckled underhim, and down he went, and out. 

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

Stringer and Bogart hurried to Mac and, lifting him up and supportinghim between them with his arms around their shoulders, they led him offamid 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 couple of runs. "

The boys ran back to their positions and Carter called play. Perhaps alittle delay had been helpful to the Rube. Slowly he stepped into thebox and watched Shultz at third and Carl at second. There was not muchprobability of his throwing to catch them off the base, but enough of apossibility to make them careful, so he held them close. 

The Rube pitched a strike to Manning, then another. That made eightstrikes 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 Mullaneyplunged down, came up with the ball, feinted to fool Carl, then letdrive to Gregg to catch the fleeting Shultz. The throw went wide, butGregg got it, and, leaping lengthwise, tagged Shultz out a yard fromthe plate. 

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

Spears kept telling himself: "They'll score, but we'll win. It's ourgame!"

I had a sickening fear that the strange confidence that obsessed theWorcester players had been blind, unreasoning vanity. 

"Carl will steal, " muttered Spears. "He can't be stopped. "

Spears had called the play. The Rube tried to hold the littlebase-stealer close to second, but, after one attempt, wisely turned tohis hard task of making the Bisons hit and hit quickly. Ellis let theball pass; Gregg made a perfect throw to third; Bogart caught the balland 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 histenth ball over the plate. Even the Buffalo players evinced eloquentappreciation of the Rube's defence at this last stand. 

Then Ellis sent a clean hit to right, scoring both Carl and Manning. Ibreathed easier, for it seemed with those two runners in, the Rube hada better chance. Treadwell also took those two runners in, the Rubehad a way those Bisons waited. They had their reward, for the Rube'sspeed left him. When he pitched again the ball had control, but noshoot. Treadwell hit it with all his strength. Like a huge catAshwell pounced upon it, ran over second base, forcing Ellis, and hisspeedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell. 

Score 8 to 7. Two out. Runner on first. One run to tie. 

In my hazy, dimmed vision I saw the Rube's pennant waving from theflag-pole. 

"It's our game!" howled Spears in my ear, for the noise from the standswas deafening. "It's our pennant!"

The formidable batting strength of the Bisons had been met, not withoutdisaster, but without defeat. McKnight came up for Buffalo and theRube took his weary swing. The batter made a terrific lunge and hitthe ball with a solid crack It lined for center. 

Suddenly electrified into action, I leaped up. That hit! It froze mewith horror. It was a home-run. I saw Stringer fly toward leftcenter. He ran like something wild. I saw the heavy Treadwelllumbering round the bases. I saw Ashwell run out into center field. 

"Ah-h!" The whole audience relieved its terror in that expulsion ofsuspended breath. Stringer had leaped high to knock down the ball, saving a sure home-run and the game. He recovered himself, dashed backfor the ball and shot it to Ash. 

When Ash turned toward the plate, Treadwell was rounding third base. Atie score appeared inevitable. I saw Ash's arm whip and the ball shootforward, 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 thedust, 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 hisdecision went against the base-runner. The audience rolled up onegreat stentorian cry. 

"Out!"

I collapsed and sank back upon the bench. My confused senses receiveda dull roar of pounding feet and dinning voices as the herald ofvictory. I felt myself thinking how pleased Milly would be. I had adistinct picture in my mind of a white cottage on a hill, no longer adream, but a reality, made possible for me by the Rube's winning of thepennant. 

THE RUBE'S HONEYMOON

"He's got a new manager. Watch him pitch now!" That was what NanBrown said to me about Rube Hurtle, my great pitcher, and I took it asher way of announcing her engagement. 

My baseball career held some proud moments, but this one, wherein Irealized the success of my matchmaking plans, was certainly theproudest one. So, entirely outside of the honest pleasure I got out ofthe Rube's happiness, there was reason for me to congratulate myself. He was a transformed man, so absolutely renewed, so wild with joy, thaton the strength of it, I decided the pennant for Worcester was aforegone conclusion, and, sure of the money promised me by thedirectors, Milly and I began to make plans for the cottage upon thehill. 

The Rube insisted on pitching Monday's game against the Torontos, andalthough poor fielding gave them a couple of runs, they never had achance. They could not see the ball. The Rube wrapped it around theirnecks and between their wrists and straight over the plate with suchincredible speed that they might just as well have tried to bat riflebullets. 

That night I was happy. Spears, my veteran captain, was one hugesmile; Radbourne quietly assured me that all was over now but theshouting; all the boys were happy. 

And the Rube was the happiest of all. At the hotel he burst out withhis exceeding good fortune. He and Nan were to be married upon theFourth of July!

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

"Con, " said he soberly, "we just can't let him get married on theFourth. "

"Why not? Sure we can. We'll help him get married. I tell you it'llsave the pennant for us. Look how he pitched today! Nan Brown is oursalvation!"

"See here, Con, you've got softenin' of the brain, too. Where's yourbaseball sense? We've got a pennant to win. By July Fourth we'll beclose to the lead again, an' there's that three weeks' trip on theroad, the longest an' hardest of the season. We've just got to breakeven on that trip. You know what that means. If the Rube marriesNan--what are we goin' to do? We can't leave him behind. If he takesNan with us--why it'll be a honeymoon! An' half the gang is stuck onNan Brown! An' Nan Brown would flirt in her bridal veil! . .. WhyCon, we're up against a worse proposition than ever. "

"Good Heavens! Cap. You're right, " I groaned. "I never thought ofthat. 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 drink. "

"All I got to say is this, Con. If the Rube takes his wife on thattrip it's goin' to be an all-fired hummer. Don't you forget that. "

"I'm not likely to. But, Spears, the point is this--will the Rube winhis games?"

"Figurin' from his work today, I'd gamble he'll never lose anothergame. 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 tostand for that honeymoon trip! Just think!"

"If the worst comes to the worst, Cap, I don't care for anything butthe games. If we get in the lead and stay there I'll stand foranything. .. . Couldn't the gang be coaxed or bought off to let theRube and Nan alone?"

"Not on your life! There ain't enough love or money on earth to stopthem. 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 tripwith 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 crazygirl-fan 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 alittle while in sober reflection, and finally came to the conclusionthat, in my desperate ambition to win the pennant, I would have takenhalf a dozen rube pitchers and their baseball-made 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 waspossible, and I went out to see Milly and asked her to help us. Butfor once in her life Milly turned traitor. 

"Connie, you don't want to postpone it. Why, how perfectly lovely! . .. Mrs. Stringer will go on that trip and Mrs. Bogart. .. . Connie, I'm going too!"

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 andcommanded, all to no purpose. Milly intended to go on that trip to seethe games, and the fun, and the honeymoon. 

She coaxed so hard that I yielded. Thereupon she called up Mrs. Stringer on the telephone, and of course found that young woman just aseager as she was. For my part, I threw anxiety and care to the fourwinds, and decided to be as happy as any of them. The pennant wasmine! Something kept ringing that in my ears. With the Rube workinghis iron arm for the edification of his proud Nancy Brown, there wasextreme likelihood of divers shut-outs and humiliating defeats for someEastern League teams. 

How well I calculated became a matter of baseball history during thatlast week of June. We won six straight games, three of which fell tothe Rube's credit. His opponents scored four runs in the three games, against the nineteen we made. Upon July 1, Radbourne beat Providenceand Cairns won the second game. We now had a string of eightvictories. Sunday we rested, and Monday was the Fourth, with morningand afternoon games with Buffalo. 

Upon the morning of the Fourth, I looked for the Rube at the hotel, butcould not find him. He did not show up at the grounds when the otherboys did, and I began to worry. It was the Rube's turn to pitch and wewere neck and neck with Buffalo for first place. If we won both gameswe would go ahead of our rivals. So I was all on edge, and kept goingto the dressing-room to see if the Rube had arrived. He came, finally, when all the boys were dressed, and about to go out for practice. Hehad on a new suit, a tailor-made suit at that, and he looked fine. There was about him a kind of strange radiance. He stated simply thathe had arrived late because he had just been married. Beforecongratulations were out of our mouths, he turned to me. 

"Con, I want to pitch both games today, " he said. 

"What! Say, Whit, Buffalo is on the card today and we are only threepoints behind them. If we win both we'll be leading the league oncemore. I don't know about pitching you both games. "

"I reckon we'll be in the lead tonight then, " he replied, "for I'll winthem both. "

I was about to reply when Dave, the ground-keeper, called me to thedoor, saying there was a man to see me. I went out, and there stoodMorrisey, manager of the Chicago American League team. We knew eachother well and exchanged greetings. 

"Con, I dropped off to see you about this new pitcher of yours, the onethey call the Rube. I want to see him work. I've heard he's prettyfast. How about it?"

"Wait--till you see him pitch, " I replied. I could scarcely get thatmuch out, for Morrisey's presence meant a great deal and I did not wantto betray my elation. 

"Any strings on him?" queried the big league manager, sharply. 

"Well, Morrisey, not exactly. I can give you the first call. You'llhave to bid high, though. Just wait till you see him work. "

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

What luck it was that Morrisey should have come upon this day! I couldhardly contain myself. Almost I began to spend the money I would getfor selling the Rube to the big league manager. We took seats in thegrand stand, as Morrisey did not want to be seen by any players, and Istayed there with him until the gong sounded. There was a bigattendance. I looked all over the stand for Nan, but she was lost inthe gay crowd. But when I went down to the bench I saw her up in myprivate box with Milly. It took no second glance to see that Nan Brownwas a bride and glorying in the fact. 

Then, in the absorption of the game, I became oblivious to Milly andNan; the noisy crowd; the giant fire-crackers and the smoke; to thepresence of Morrisey; to all except the Rube and my team and theiropponents. Fortunately for my hopes, the game opened withcharacteristic Worcester dash. Little McCall doubled, Ashwell drew hisbase on four wide pitches, and Stringer drove the ball over theright-field fence--three runs!

Three runs were enough to win that game. Of all the exhibitions ofpitching with which the Rube had favored us, this one was the finest. It was perhaps not so much his marvelous speed and unhittable curvesthat made the game one memorable in the annals of pitching; it was hisperfect control in the placing of balls, in the cutting of corners; inhis absolute implacable mastery of the situation. Buffalo was unableto find him at all. The game was swift short, decisive, with the score5 to 0 in our favor. But the score did not tell all of the Rube's workthat morning. He shut out Buffalo without a hit, or a scratch, thefirst no-hit, no-run game of the year. He gave no base on balls; not aBuffalo 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 me. 

"Your rube is a wonder, and that's a fact, " he said to me severaltimes. "Where on earth did you get him? Connelly, he's my meat. Doyou understand? Can you let me have him right now?"

"No, Morrisey, I've got the pennant to win first. Then I'll sell him. "

"How much? Do you hear? How much?" Morrisey hammered the table withhis fist and his eyes gleamed. 

Carried away as I was by his vehemence, I was yet able to calculateshrewdly, and I decided to name a very high price, from which I couldcome down and still make a splendid deal. 

"How much?" demanded Morrisey. 

"Five thousand dollars, " I replied, and gulped when I got the words out. 

Morrisey never batted an eye. 

"Waiter, quick, pen and ink and paper!"

Presently my hand, none too firm, was signing my name to a contractwhereby I was to sell my pitcher for five thousand dollars at the closeof the current season. I never saw a man look so pleased as Morriseywhen he folded that contract and put it in his pocket. He bade megood-bye and hurried off to catch a train, and he never knew the Rubehad pitched the great game on his wedding day. 

That afternoon before a crowd that had to be roped off the diamond, Iput the Rube against the Bisons. How well he showed the baseballknowledge he had assimilated! He changed his style in that secondgame. He used a slow ball and wide curves and took things easy. Hemade Buffalo hit the ball and when runners got on bases once more letout his speed and held them down. He relied upon the players behindhim and they were equal to the occasion. 

It was a totally different game from that of the morning, and perhapsone more suited to the pleasure of the audience. There was plenty ofhard hitting, sharp fielding and good base running, and the game wasclose and exciting up to the eighth, when Mullaney's triple gave us tworuns, and a lead that was not headed. To the deafening roar of thebleachers the Rube walked off the field, having pitched Worcester intofirst place in the pennant race. 

That night the boys planned their first job on the Rube. We hadordered a special Pullman for travel to Toronto, and when I got to thedepot in the morning, the Pullman was a white fluttering mass of satinribbons. Also, there was a brass band, and thousands of baseball fans, and barrels of old foot-gear. The Rube and Nan arrived in a cab andwere immediately mobbed. The crowd roared, the band played, the enginewhistled, the bell clanged; and the air was full of confetti andslippers, and showers of rice like hail pattered everywhere. Asomewhat dishevelled bride and groom boarded the Pullman andbreathlessly hid in a state room. The train started, and the crowdgave 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 nowpeople will talk about this honeymoon baseball trip. Wait till we comeback--an' say, jest to put you wise, no matter what else happens, we'recomin' back in first place!"

It was surely a merry party in that Pullman. The bridal couple emergedfrom their hiding place and held a sort of reception in which the Rubeappeared shy and frightened, and Nan resembled a joyous, flutteringbird in gray. I did not see if she kissed every man on the team, butshe kissed me as if she had been wanting to do it for ages. Millykissed the Rube, and so did the other women, to his infiniteembarrassment. Nan's effect upon that crowd was most singular. Shewas sweetness and caprice and joy personified. 

We settled down presently to something approaching order, and I, forone, with very keen ears and alert eyes, because I did not want to missanything. 

"I see the lambs a-gambolin', " observed McCall, in a voice louder thanwas necessary to convey his meaning to Mullaney, his partner in theseat. 

"Yes, it do seem as if there was joy aboundin' hereabouts, " replied Mulwith fervor. 

"It's more spring-time than summer, " said Ashwell, "an' everything innature is runnin' in pairs. There are the sheep an' the cattle an' thebirds. I see two kingfishers fishin' over here. An' there's a coupleof honey-bees makin' honey. Oh, honey, an' by George, if there ain'ttwo butterflies foldin' their wings round each other. See thedandelions kissin' in the field!"

Then the staid Captain Spears spoke up with an appearance of sincerityand a tone that was nothing short of remarkable. 

"Reggie, see the sunshine asleep upon yon bank. Ain't it lovely? An'that white cloud sailin' thither amid the blue--how spontaneous! Joy isa-broad o'er all this boo-tiful land today--Oh, yes! An' love's wingshover o 'er the little lambs an' the bullfrogs in the pond an' thedicky birds in the trees. What sweetness to lie in the grass, the lapof bounteous earth, eatin' apples in the Garden of Eden, an' chasin'away the snakes an' dreamin' of Thee, Sweet-h-e-a-r-t----"

Spears was singing when he got so far and there was no telling what hemight have done if Mullaney, unable to stand the agony, had not jabbeda pin in him. But that only made way for the efforts of the otherboys, each of whom tried to outdo the other in poking fun at the Rubeand Nan. The big pitcher was too gloriously happy to note much of whatwent on around him, but when it dawned upon him he grew red and whiteby turns. 

Nan, however, was more than equal to the occasion. Presently shesmiled at Spears, such a smile! The captain looked as if he had justpartaken of an intoxicating wine. With a heightened color in hercheeks and a dangerous flash in her roguish eyes, Nan favored McCallwith a look, which was as much as to say that she remembered him with adear sadness. She made eyes at every fellow in the car, and thenbringing back her gaze to the Rube, as if glorying in comparison, shenestled her curly black head on his shoulder. He gently tried to moveher; but it was not possible. Nan knew how to meet the ridicule of halfa dozen old lovers. One by one they buried themselves in newspapers, and finally McCall, for once utterly beaten, showed a white feather, and sank back out of sight behind his seat. 

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 dayupon her husband's broad shoulder, the boys toward dinner time came outof their jealous trance. I heard them plotting something. When dinnerwas called, about half of my party, including the bride and groom, wentat once into the dining-car. Time there flew by swiftly. And later, when we were once more in our Pullman, and I had gotten interested in agame of cards with Milly and Stringer and his wife, the Rube camemarching up to me with a very red face. 

"Con, I reckon some of the boys have stolen my--our grips, " said he. 

"What?" I asked, blankly. 

He explained that during his absence in the dining-car someone hadentered his stateroom and stolen his grip and Nan's. I hastened atonce to aid the Rube in his search. The boys swore by everything underand beyond the sun they had not seen the grips; they appeared very muchgrieved at the loss and pretended to help in searching the Pullman. Atlast, with the assistance of a porter, we discovered the missing gripsin an upper berth. The Rube carried them off to his stateroom and weknew soon from his uncomplimentary remarks that the contents of thesuitcases had been mixed and manhandled. But he did not hunt for thejokers. 

We arrived at Toronto before daylight next morning, and remained in thePullman until seven o'clock. When we got out, it was discovered thatthe Rube and Nan had stolen a march upon us. We traced them to thehotel, and found them at breakfast. After breakfast we formed a merrysight-seeing party and rode all over the city. 

That afternoon, when Raddy let Toronto down with three hits and theboys played a magnificent game behind him, and we won 7 to 2, I knew atlast and for certain that the Worcester team had come into its ownagain. Then next day Cairns won a close, exciting game, and followingthat, on the third day, the matchless Rube toyed with the Torontos. Eleven straight games won! I was in the clouds, and never had I seenso beautiful a light as shone in Milly's eyes. 

From that day The Honeymoon Trip of the Worcester Baseball Club, as thenewspapers heralded it--was a triumphant march. We won two out ofthree games at Montreal, broke even with the hard-fighting Bisons, tookthree straight from Rochester, and won one and tied one out of threewith Hartford. It would have been wonderful ball playing for a team toplay 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 luck. 

But the tricks they played on Whit and his girl-fan bride!

Ashwell, who was a capital actor, disguised himself as a conductor andpretended to try to eject Whit and Nan from the train, urging thatlove-making was not permitted. Some of the team hired a clever youngwoman to hunt the Rube up at the hotel, and claim old acquaintance withhim. Poor Whit almost collapsed when the young woman threw her armsabout his neck just as Nan entered the parlor. Upon the instant Nanbecame wild as a little tigress, and it took much explanation andeloquence to reinstate Whit in her affections. 

Another time Spears, the wily old fox, succeeded in detaining Nan onthe way to the station, and the two missed the train. At first theRube laughed with the others, but when Stringer remarked that he hadnoticed a growing attachment between Nan and Spears, my great pitcherexperienced the first pangs of the green-eyed monster. We had to holdhim 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 specialtrain for Spears and Nan, and even then we had to play half a gamewithout the services of our captain. 

So far upon our trip I had been fortunate in securing comfortable roomsand the best of transportation for my party. At Hartford, however, Iencountered difficulties. I could not get a special Pullman, and thesleeper we entered already had a number of occupants. After the ladiesof my party had been assigned to berths, it was necessary for some ofthe boys to sleep double in upper berths. 

It was late when we got aboard, the berths were already made up, andsoon we had all retired. In the morning very early I was awakened by adisturbance. It sounded like a squeal. I heard an astonishedexclamation, another squeal, the pattering of little feet, then hoarseuproar of laughter from the ball players in the upper berths. Followingthat came low, excited conversation between the porter and somebody, then an angry snort from the Rube and the thud of his heavy feet in theaisle. What took place after that was guess-work for me. But Igathered from the roars and bawls that the Rube was after some of theboys. I poked my head between the curtains and saw him digging intothe berths. 

"Where's McCall?" he yelled. 

Mac was nowhere in that sleeper, judging from the vehement denials. But the Rube kept on digging and prodding in the upper berths. 

"I'm a-goin' 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 mewith his great fence-rail splitting hands and I cried out with pain. 

"Say! Whit, let up! Mac's not here. .. . What's wrong?"

"I'll show you when I find him. " And the Rube stalked on down theaisle, a tragically comic figure in his pajamas. In his search for Mache pried into several upper berths that contained occupants who werenot ball players, and these protested in affright. Then the Rube beganto investigate the lower berths. A row of heads protruded in a bobbingline from between the curtains of the upper berths. 

"Here, you Indian! Don't you look in there! That's my wife's berth!"yelled Stringer. 

Bogart, too, evinced great excitement. 

"Hurtle, keep out of lower eight or I'll kill you, " he shouted. 

What the Rube might have done there was no telling, but as he grasped acurtain, he was interrupted by a shriek from some woman assuredly notof our party. 

"Get out! you horrid wretch! Help! Porter! Help! Conductor!"

Instantly there was a deafening tumult in the car. When it hadsubsided somewhat, and I considered I would be safe, I descended frommy berth and made my way to the dressing room. Sprawled over theleather seat was the Rube pommelling McCall with hearty good will. Iwould have interfered, had it not been for Mac's demeanor. He was halffrightened, half angry, and utterly unable to defend himself or evenresist, because he was laughing, too. 

"Dog-gone it! Whit--I didn't--do it! I swear it was Spears! Stopthumpin' me now--or I'll get sore. .. . You hear me! It wasn't me, Itell you. Cheese it!"

For all his protesting Mac received a good thumping, and I doubted notin 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 sofurious. The porter would not tell, and Mac was strangely reticent, though his smile was one to make a fellow exceedingly sure somethingout of the ordinary had befallen. It was not until I was havingbreakfast in Providence that I learned the true cause of Rube'sconduct, and Milly confided it to me, insisting on strict confidence. 

"I promised not to tell, " she said. "Now you promise you'll nevertell. "

"Well, Connie, " went on Milly, when I had promised, "it was thefunniest thing yet, but it was horrid of McCall. You see, the Rube hadupper seven and Nan had lower seven. Early this morning, aboutdaylight, Nan awoke very thirsty and got up to get a drink. During herabsence, probably, but any way some time last night, McCall changed thenumber on her curtain, and when Nan came back to number seven of courseshe almost got in the wrong berth. "

"No wonder the Rube punched him!" I declared. "I wish we were safehome. Something'll happen yet on this trip. "

I was faithful to my promise to Milly, but the secret leaked outsomewhere; perhaps Mac told it, and before the game that day all theplayers knew it. The Rube, having recovered his good humor, minded itnot in the least. He could not have felt ill-will for any length oftime. Everything seemed to get back into smooth running order, and theHoneymoon Trip bade fair to wind up beautifully. 

But, somehow or other, and about something unknown to the rest of us, the Rube and Nan quarreled. It was their first quarrel. Milly and Itried to patch it up but failed. 

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 topitch. Several times during the first two days the Rube and Nan abouthalf 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 shetook up her flirtation with him where she had left off. 

"Don't go to the game with him, Nan, " I pleaded. "It's a silly thingfor you to do. Of course you don't mean anything, except to tormentWhit. But cut it out. The gang will make him miserable and we'll losethe game. There's no telling what might happen. "

"I'm supremely indifferent to what happens, " she replied, with arebellious toss of her black head. "I hope Whit gets beaten. "

She went to the game with Henderson and sat in the grand stand, and theboys 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 grewangry. But the gong, sounding at that moment, drew his attention tohis 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 makinghim angry. For several innings Providence was helpless before hisdelivery. Then something happened that showed me a crisis was near. Awag of a fan yelled from the bleachers. 

"Honeymoon Rube!"

This cry was taken up by the delighted fans and it rolled around thefield. But the Rube pitched on, harder than ever. Then the knowingbleacherite who had started the cry changed it somewhat. 

"Nanny's Rube!" he yelled. 

This, too, went the rounds, and still the Rube, though red in the face, preserved his temper and his pitching control. All would have beenwell if Bud Wiler, comedian of the Providence team, had not hit upon away to rattle Rube. 

"Nanny's Goat!" he shouted from the coaching lines. Every Providenceplayer 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 ceasedfor the moment. Then he let drive with his fast straight ball and hitthe first Providence batter in the ribs. His comrades had to help himto the bench. The Rube hit the next batter on the leg, and judgingfrom the crack of the ball, I fancied that player would walk lame forseveral days. The Rube tried to hit the next batter and sent him tofirst on balls. Thereafter it became a dodging contest with honorsabout equal between pitcher and batters. The Providence playersstormed and the bleachers roared. But I would not take the Rube outand the game went on with the Rube forcing in runs. 

With the score a tie, and three men on bases one of the players on thebench again yelled "Nanny's Goat!"

Straight as a string the Rube shot the ball at this fellow and boundedafter it. The crowd rose in an uproar. The base runners began toscore. I left my bench and ran across the space, but not in time tocatch 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 bigaudience into the stamping melee. Before the Rube was collared I sawat least four blue-coats on the grass. 

The game broke up, and the crowd spilled itself in streams over thefield. Excitement ran high. I tried to force my way into the mass toget at the Rube and the officers, but this was impossible. I fearedthe Rube would be taken from the officers and treated with violence, soI waited with the surging crowd, endeavoring to get nearer. Soon wewere in the street, and it seemed as if all the stands had emptiedtheir yelling occupants. 

A trolley car came along down the street, splitting the mass of peopleand driving them back. A dozen policemen summarily bundled the Rubeupon the rear end of the car. Some of these officers boarded the car, and some remained in the street to beat off the vengeful fans. 

I saw some one thrust forward a frantic young woman. The officersstopped her, then suddenly helped her on the car, just as I started. Irecognized Nan. She gripped the Rube with both hands and turned awhite, fearful face upon the angry crowd. 

The Rube stood in the grasp of his wife and the policemen, and helooked like a ruffled lion. He shook his big fist and bawled infar-reaching voice:

"I can lick you all!"

To my infinite relief, the trolley gathered momentum and safely passedout of danger. The last thing I made out was Nan pressing close to theRube's side. That moment saw their reconciliation and my joy that itwas the end of the Rube's Honeymoon. 

THE RUBE'S WATERLOO

It was about the sixth inning that I suspected the Rube of weakening. For that matter he had not pitched anything resembling his usual brandof baseball. But the Rube had developed into such a wonder in the boxthat it took time for his let-down to dawn upon me. Also it took a tipfrom Raddy, who sat with me on the bench. 

"Con, the Rube isn't himself today, " said Radbourne. "His mind's noton the game. He seems hurried and flustered, too. If he doesn'texplode 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 andfinishing up a series with the Rochesters. Each team had won and losta game, and, as I was climbing close to the leaders in the pennantrace, I wanted the third and deciding game of that Rochester series. The usual big Saturday crowd was in attendance, noisy, demonstrativeand exacting. 

In this sixth inning the first man up for Rochester had flied toMcCall. 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 theaudience to its feet with a howling, stamping demand for runs. 

"Spears is wise all right, " said Raddy. 

I watched the foxy old captain walk over to the Rube and talk to himwhile he rested, a reassuring hand on the pitcher's shoulder. Thecrowd yelled its disapproval and Umpire Bates called out sharply:

"Spears, get back to the bag!"

"Now, Mister Umpire, ain't I hurrin' all I can?" queried Spears as heleisurely ambled back to first. 

The Rube tossed a long, damp welt of hair back from his big brow andnervously toed the rubber. I noted that he seemed to forget the runnerson bases and delivered the ball without glancing at either bag. Ofcourse this resulted in a double steal. The ball went wild--almost awild pitch. 

"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. Againthe long twirler took his swing, and again the ball went wild. Clancyhad 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 twopitches one of them was a ball and the other a strike by grace of theumpire's generosity. Clancy rapped the next one, an absurdly slowpitch for the Rube to use, and both runners scored to the shrill tuneof the happy bleachers. 

I saw Spears shake his head and look toward the bench. It was plainwhat 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. AndHenderson, that ladies' man I just signed, is not in uniform. "

"I'll go in, " replied Raddy, instantly. 

"Not on your life. " I had as hard a time keeping Radbourne fromoverworking 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 thisgame, but if we have to, we can stand it. I'm curious, anyway, to seewhat's the matter with the Rube. Maybe he'll settle down presently. "

I made no sign that I had noticed Spears' appeal to the bench. And myaggressive players, no doubt seeing the situation as I saw it, sang outtheir various calls of cheer to the Rube and of defiance to theirantagonists. Clancy stole off first base so far that the Rube, catching somebody's warning too late, made a balk and the umpire sentthe runner on to second. The Rube now plainly showed painful evidencesof being rattled. 

He could not locate the plate without slowing up and when he did that aRochester player walloped the ball. Pretty soon he pitched as if hedid not care, and but for the fast fielding of the team behind him theRochesters would have scored more than the eight runs it got. When theRube came in to the bench I asked him if he was sick and at first hesaid he was and then that he was not. So I let him pitch the remaininginnings, as the game was lost anyhow, and we walked off the field abadly beaten team. 

That night we had to hurry from the hotel to catch a train forWorcester and we had dinner in the dining-car. Several of my players'wives had come over from Worcester to meet us, and were in thedining-car when I entered. I observed a pretty girl sitting at one ofthe tables with my new pitcher, Henderson. 

"Say, Mac, " I said to McCall, who was with me, "is Henderson married?"

"Naw, but he looks like he wanted to be. He was in the grand standtoday with that girl. "

"Who is she? Oh! a little peach!"

A second glance at Henderson's companion brought this compliment fromme involuntarily. 

"Con, you'll get it as bad as the rest of this mushy bunch of ballplayers. We're all stuck on that kid. But since Henderson came she'sbeen a frost to all of us. An' it's put the Rube in the dumps. "

"Who's the girl?"

"That's Nan Brown. She lives in Worcester an' is the craziest girl fanI ever seen. Flirt! Well, she's got them all beat. Somebodyintroduced the Rube to her. He has been mooney ever since. "

That was enough to whet my curiosity, and I favored Miss Brown withmore than one glance during dinner. When we returned to the parlor carI took advantage of the opportunity and remarked to Henderson that hemight introduce his manager. He complied, but not with amiable grace. 

So I chatted with Nan Brown, and studied her. She was a pretty, laughing, coquettish little minx and quite baseball mad. I had metmany girl fans, but none so enthusiastic as Nan. But she was wholesomeand sincere, and I liked her. 

Before turning in I sat down beside the Rube. He was very quiet and hisface did not encourage company. But that did not stop me. 

"Hello, Whit; have a smoke before you go to bed?" I asked cheerfully. 

He scarcely heard me and made no move to take the proffered cigar. Allat once it struck me that the rustic simplicity which had characterizedhim had vanished. 

"Whit, old fellow, what was wrong today?" I asked, quietly, with myhand 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 situationsuddenly became grave. I saw the pennant for the Worcesters fading, dimming. 

"You want to go home?" I began slowly. "Why, Whit, I can't keep you. Iwouldn't try if you didn't want to stay. But I'll tell youconfidentially, if you leave me at this stage I'm ruined. "

"How's that?" he inquired, keenly looking at me. 

"Well, I can't win the pennant without you. If I do win it there's abig bonus for me. I can buy the house I want and get married this fallif I capture the flag. You've met Milly. You can imagine what yourpitching means to me this year. That's all. "

He averted his face and looked out of the window. His big jaw quivered. 

"If it's that--why, I'll stay, I reckon, " he said huskily. 

That moment bound Whit Hurtle and Frank Connelly into a far closerrelation than the one between player and manager. I sat silent for awhile, listening to the drowsy talk of the other players and the rushand roar of the train as it sped on into the night. 

"Thank you, old chap, " I replied. "It wouldn't have been like you tothrow me down at this stage. Whit, you're in trouble?"

"Yes. "

"Can I help you--in any way?"'

"I reckon not. "

"Don't be too sure of that. I'm a pretty wise guy, if I do say itmyself. I might be able to do as much for you as you're going to dofor me. "

The sight of his face convinced me that I had taken a wrong tack. Italso showed me how deep Whit's trouble really was. I bade him goodnight and went to my berth, where sleep did not soon visit me. Asaucy, sparkling-eyed woman barred Whit Hurtle's baseball career at itsthreshold. 

Women are just as fatal to ball players as to men in any other walk oflife. I had seen a strong athlete grow palsied just at a scornfulslight. It's a great world, and the women run it. So I lay awakeracking my brains to outwit a pretty disorganizer; and I plotted forher sake. Married, she would be out of mischief. For Whit's sake, forMilly's sake, for mine, all of which collectively meant for the sake ofthe pennant, this would be the solution of the problem. 

I decided to take Milly into my confidence, and finally on the strengthof that I got to sleep. In the morning I went to my hotel, hadbreakfast, attended to my mail, and then boarded a car to go out toMilly's house. She was waiting for me on the porch, dressed as I likedto see her, in blue and white, and she wore violets that matched thecolor of her eyes. 

"Hello, Connie. I haven't seen a morning paper, but I know from yourface that you lost the Rochester series, " said Milly, with a gay laugh. 

"I guess yes. The Rube blew up, and if we don't play a pretty smoothgame, young lady, he'll never come down. "

Then I told her. 

"Why, Connie, I knew long ago. Haven't you seen the change in himbefore this?"

"What change?" I asked blankly. 

"You are a man. Well, he was a gawky, slouchy, shy farmer boy when hecame to us. Of course the city life and popularity began to influencehim. Then he met Nan. She made the Rube a worshipper. I firstnoticed a change in his clothes. He blossomed out in a new suit, whitenegligee, neat tie and a stylish straw hat. Then it was evident he wasmaking heroic struggles to overcome his awkwardness. It was plain hewas studying and copying the other boys. He's wonderfully improved, butstill shy. He'll always be shy. Connie, Whit's a fine fellow, toogood for Nan Brown. "

"But, Milly, " I interrupted, "the Rube's hard hit. Why is he too goodfor her?"

"Nan is a natural-born flirt, " Milly replied. "She can't help it. I'mafraid Whit has a slim chance. Nan may not see deep enough to learnhis fine qualities. I fancy Nan tired quickly of him, though the onetime I saw them together she appeared to like him very well. This newpitcher of yours, Henderson, is a handsome fellow and smooth. Whit islosing to him. Nan likes flash, flattery, excitement. "

"McCall told me the Rube had been down in the mouth ever sinceHenderson 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 and a big slice of purse money just for a prettylittle flirt?"

"Oh, Connie, it's not so bad as that. Whit will come around all right. "

"He won't unless we can pull some wires. I've got to help him win NanBrown. What do you think of that for a manager's job? I guess maybewinning pennants doesn't call for diplomatic genius and cunning! ButI'll hand them a few tricks before I lose. My first move will be togive Henderson his release. "

I left Milly, as always, once more able to make light ofdiscouragements and difficulties. 

Monday I gave Henderson his unconditional release. He celebrated theoccasion by verifying certain rumors I had heard from other managers. He got drunk. But he did not leave town, and I heard that he wasnegotiating with Providence for a place on that team. 

Radbourne pitched one of his gilt-edged games that afternoon againstHartford and we won. And Milly sat in the grand stand, having contrivedby cleverness to get a seat next to Nan Brown. Milly and I wereplaying a vastly deeper game than baseball--a game with hearts. But wewere playing it with honest motive, for the good of all concerned, webelieved, and on the square. I sneaked a look now and then up into thegrand stand. Milly and Nan appeared to be getting on famously. It wascertain that Nan was flushed and excited, no doubt consciously proud ofbeing seen with my affianced. After the game I chanced to meet them ontheir way out. Milly winked at me, which was her sign that all wasworking beautifully. 

I hunted up the Rube and bundled him off to the hotel to take dinnerwith me. At first he was glum, but after a while he brightened upsomewhat to my persistent cheer and friendliness. Then we went out onthe hotel balcony to smoke, and there I made my play. 

"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 whenMilly had me guessing. You've lost your head over Nan Brown. That'snot so terrible, though I daresay you think it's a catastrophe. Because you've quit. You've shown a yellow streak. You've lain down. 

"My boy, that isn't the way to win a girl. You've got to scrap. Millytold me yesterday how she had watched your love affairs with Nan, andhow she thought you had given up just when things might have come yourway. Nan is a little flirt, but she's all right. What's more, she wasgetting fond of you. Nan is meanest to the man she likes best. Theway to handle her, Whit, is to master her. Play high and mighty. Gettragical. Then grab her up in your arms. I tell you, Whit, it'll allcome your way if you only keep your nerve. I'm your friend and so isMilly. We're going out to her house presently--and Nan will be there. "

The Rube drew a long, deep breath and held out his hand. I sensedanother stage in the evolution of Whit Hurtle. 

"I reckon I've taken baseball coachin', " he said presently, "an' Idon't see why I can't take some other kind. I'm only a rube, an'things come hard for me, but I'm a-learnin'. "

It was about dark when we arrived at the house. 

"Hello, Connie. You're late. Good evening, Mr. Hurtle. Come rightin. You've met Miss Nan Brown? Oh, of course; how stupid of me!"

It was a trying moment for Milly and me. A little pallor showed underthe Rube's tan, but he was more composed than I had expected. Nan gotup from the piano. She was all in white and deliciously pretty. Shegave a quick, glad start of surprise. What a relief that was to mytroubled mind! Everything had depended upon a real honest liking forWhit, and she had it. 

More than once I had been proud of Milly's cleverness, but this nightas hostess and an accomplice she won my everlasting admiration. Shecontrived to give the impression that Whit was a frequent visitor ather home and very welcome. She brought out his best points, and in herskillful hands he lost embarrassment and awkwardness. Before theevening was over Nan regarded Whit with different eyes, and she neverdreamed that everything had not come about naturally. Then Millysomehow got me out on the porch, leaving Nan and Whit together. 

"Milly, you're a marvel, the best and sweetest ever, " I whispered. "We're going to win. It's a cinch. "

"Well, Connie, not that--exactly, " she whispered back demurely. "Butit looks hopeful. "

I could not help hearing what was said in the parlor. 

"Now I can roast you, " Nan was saying, archly. She had switched back toher favorite baseball vernacular. "You pitched a swell game lastSaturday in Rochester, didn't you? Not! You had no steam, no control, and you couldn't have curved a saucer. "

"Nan, what could you expect?" was the cool reply. "You sat up in thestand with your handsome friend. I reckon I couldn't pitch. I justgave the game away. "

"Whit!--Whit!----"

Then I whispered to Milly that it might be discreet for us to move alittle 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 inthe grand stand. The Rube was down on the card to pitch and when hestarted to warm up Nan said confidently that he would shut out Hartfordthat afternoon. 

"I'm sorry, Nan, but you're way off. We'd do well to win at all, letalone get a shutout. "

"You're a fine manager!" she retorted, hotly. "Why won't we win?"

"Well, the Rube's not in good form. The Rube----"

"Stop calling him that horrid name. "

"Whit's not in shape. He's not right. He's ill or something is wrong. I'm worried sick about him. "

"Why--Mr. Connelly!" exclaimed Nan. She turned quickly toward me. 

I crowded on full canvas of gloom to my already long face. 

"I'm serious, Nan. The lad's off, somehow. He's in magnificentphysical trim, but he can't keep his mind on the game. He has lost hishead. I've talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no good. He onlygoes 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! youwouldn't--you couldn't release him!"

"I'll have to if he doesn't brace. It means a lot to me, Nan, for ofcourse 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 himfall down. The boy is a magnificent pitcher. If he can only bebrought around he'll go to the big league next year and develop intoone of the greatest pitchers the game has ever produced. But somehowor 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 asplendid man outside of baseball. Milly thinks the world of him. Well, well; there are disappointments--we can't help them. There goesthe gong. I must leave you. Nan, I'll bet you a box of candy Whitloses today. Is it a go?"

"It is, " replied Nan, with fire in her eyes. "You go to Whit Hurtle andtell him I said if he wins today's game I'll kiss him!"

I nearly broke my neck over benches and bats getting to Whit with thatmessage. He gulped once. 

Then he tightened his belt and shut out Hartford with two scratchsingles. It was a great exhibition of pitching. I had no means totell whether or not the Rube got his reward that night, but I was sohappy that I hugged Milly within an inch of her life. 

But it turned out that I had been a little premature in my elation. Intwo days the Rube went down into the depths again, this time clear toChina, and Nan was sitting in the grand stand with Henderson. The Rubelost 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 talkto her. The Rube lost his next game and then another. We were pushedout of second place. 

If we kept up that losing streak a little longer, our hopes for thepennant were gone. I had begun to despair of the Rube. For someoccult reason he scarcely spoke to me. Nan flirted worse than ever. It seemed to me she flaunted her conquest of Henderson in poor Whit'sface. 

The Providence ball team came to town and promptly signed Henderson andannounced him for Saturday's game. Cairns won the first of the seriesand Radbourne lost the second. It was Rube's turn to pitch theSaturday game and I resolved to make one more effort to put thelove-sick swain in something like his old fettle. So I called upon Nan. 

She was surprised to see me, but received me graciously. I fancied herface was not quite so glowing as usual. I came bluntly out with mymission. She tried to freeze me but I would not freeze. I was out towin or lose and not to be lightly laughed aside or coldly denied. Iplayed to make her angry, knowing the real truth of her feelings wouldshow under stress. 

For once in my life I became a knocker and said some unpleasantthings--albeit they were true--about Henderson. She championedHenderson royally, and when, as a last card, I compared Whit's finerecord with Henderson's, not only as a ball player, but as a man, particularly in his reverence for women, she flashed at me:

"What do you know about it? Mr. Henderson asked me to marry him. Cana man do more to show his respect? Your friend never so much as hintedsuch honorable intentions. What's more--he insulted me!" The blaze inNan's black eyes softened with a film of tears. She looked hurt. Herpride had encountered a fall. 

"Oh, no, Nan, Whit couldn't insult a lady, " I protested. 

"Couldn't he? That's all you know about him. You know I--I promised tokiss him if he beat Hartford that day. So when he came I--I did. Thenthe big savage began to rave and he grabbed me up in his arms. Hesmothered me; almost crushed the life out of me. He frightened meterribly. When I got away from him--the monster stood there and coollysaid I belonged to him. I ran out of the room and wouldn't see him anymore. At first I might have forgiven him if he had apologized--said hewas sorry, but never a word. Now I never will forgive him. "

I had to make a strenuous effort to conceal my agitation. The Rube hadmost carefully taken my fool advice in the matter of wooing a woman. 

When I had got a hold upon myself, I turned to Nan white-hot witheloquence. Now I was talking not wholly for myself or the pennant, butfor this boy and girl who were at odds in that strangest game oflife--love. 

What I said I never knew, but Nan lost her resentment, and then herscorn and indifference. Slowly she thawed and warmed to my reason, praise, whatever it was, and when I stopped she was again the radiantbewildering Nan of old. 

"Take another message to Whit for me, " she said, audaciously. "Tellhim I adore ball players, especially pitchers. Tell him I'm going tothe 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 inthe least that she meant to marry the pitcher who won the game, and soI told the Rube. He made one wild upheaval of his arms and shoulders, like an erupting volcano, which proved to me that he believed it, too. 

When I got to the bench that afternoon I was tired. There was a bigcrowd to see the game; the weather was perfect; Milly sat up in the boxand waved her score card at me; Raddy and Spears declared we had thegame; the Rube stalked to and fro like an implacable Indian chief--butI was not happy in mind. Calamity breathed in the very air. 

The game began. McCall beat out a bunt; Ashwell sacrificed andStringer laced one of his beautiful triples against the fence. Then hescored 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 andperfect control of his jump ball and drop. But Providence hit and hadthe luck. Ashwell fumbled, Gregg threw wild. Providence tied thescore. 

The game progressed, growing more and more of a nightmare to me. Itwas not Worcester's day. The umpire could not see straight; the boysgrumbled and fought among themselves; Spears roasted the umpire and wassent to the bench; Bogart tripped, hurting his sore ankle, and had tobe taken out. Henderson's slow, easy ball baffled my players, and whenhe used speed they lined it straight at a Providence fielder. 

In the sixth, after a desperate rally, we crowded the bases with onlyone out. Then Mullaney's hard rap to left, seemingly good for threebases, was pulled down by Stone with one hand. It was a wonderfulcatch and he doubled up a runner at second. Again in the seventh wehad a chance to score, only to fail on another double play, this timeby the infield. 

When the Providence players were at bat their luck not only held goodbut trebled and quadrupled. The little Texas-league hits droppedsafely just out of reach of the infielders. My boys had an off day infielding. What horror that of all days in a season this should be theone for them to make errors!

But they were game, and the Rube was the gamest of all. He did notseem to know what hard luck was, or discouragement, or poor support. Hekept everlastingly hammering the ball at those lucky Providencehitters. What speed he had! The ball streaked in, and somebody wouldshut his eyes and make a safety. But the Rube pitched, on, tireless, irresistibly, hopeful, not forgetting to call a word of cheer to hisfielders. 

It was one of those strange games that could not be bettered by anylabor or daring or skill. I saw it was lost from the second inning, yetso deeply was I concerned, so tantalizingly did the plays reelthemselves off, that I groveled there on the bench unable to abide bymy baseball sense. 

The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of doubt how baseball fate, incommon 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 inthat inning or grew over-confident or careless, and before we knew whathad happened some scratch hits, and bases on balls, and errors, gave usthree runs and left two runners on bases. The disgusted bleachers cameout of their gloom and began to whistle and thump. The Rube hitsafely, sending another run over the plate. McCall worked his oldtrick, beating out a slow bunt. 

Bases full, three runs to tie! With Ashwell up and one out, the noisein the bleachers mounted to a high-pitched, 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. Ahit, anything to get Ash to first--and then Stringer!

Ash laughed at Henderson, taunted him, shook his bat at him and daredhim to put one over. Henderson did not stand under fire. The ball hepitched had no steam. Ash cracked it--square on the line into theshortstop's hands. The bleachers ceased yelling. 

Then Stringer strode grimly to the plate. It was a hundred to one, inthat instance, that he would lose the ball. The bleachers let out onedeafening roar, then hushed. I would rather have had Stringer at thebat than any other player in the world, and I thought of the Rube andNan and Milly--and hope would not die. 

Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and struck the ball with asharp, solid bing! It shot toward center, low, level, exceedinglyswift, 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 crowdstrangled a victorious yell. I came out of my trance, for the game wasover and lost. It was the Rube's Waterloo. 

I hurried him into the dressing room and kept close to him. He lookedlike a man who had lost the one thing worth while in his life. Iturned a deaf ear to my players, to everybody, and hustled the Rube outand to the hotel. I wanted to be near him that night. 

To my amaze we met Milly and Nan as we entered the lobby. Milly wore asweet, sympathetic smile. Nan shone more radiant than ever. I simplystared. It was Milly who got us all through the corridor into theparlor. I heard Nan talking. 

"Whit, you pitched a bad game but--" there was the old teasing, arch, coquettishness--"but you are the best pitcher!"

"Nan!"

"Yes!"

BREAKING INTO FAST COMPANY

They may say baseball is the same in the minor leagues that it is inthe big leagues, but any old ball player or manager knows better. Where the difference comes in, however, is in the greater excellenceand unity of the major players, a speed, a daring, a finish that can beacquired only in competition with one another. 

I thought of this when I led my party into Morrisey's private box inthe grand stand of the Chicago American League grounds. We had come tosee the Rube's break into fast company. My great pitcher, WhittakerHurtle, the Rube, as we called him, had won the Eastern League Pennantfor me that season, and Morrisey, the Chicago magnate, had bought him. Milly, my affianced, was with me, looking as happy as she was pretty, and she was chaperoned by her mother, Mrs. Nelson. 

With me, also, were two veterans of my team, McCall and Spears, wholived in Chicago, and who would have traveled a few miles to see theRube pitch. And the other member of my party was Mrs. Hurtle, theRube's wife, as saucy and as sparkling-eyed as when she had been NanBrown. Today she wore a new tailor-made gown, new bonnet, newgloves--she said she had decorated herself in a manner befitting thewife of a major league pitcher. 

Morrisey's box was very comfortable, and, as I was pleased to note, sosituated that we had a fine view of the field and stands, and yet werecomparatively secluded. The bleachers were filling. Some of theChicago 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 intothe box. I knew it for baseball spiked shoes clanking on the wood. 

The Rube, looking enormous in his uniform, stalked into the box, knocking over two chairs as he entered. He carried a fielder's glovein one huge freckled hand, and a big black bat in the other. 

Nan, with much dignity and a very manifest pride, introduced him toMrs. Nelson. 

There was a little chatting, and then, upon the arrival of ManagerMorrisey, we men retired to the back of the box to talk baseball. 

Chicago was in fourth place in the league race, and had a fightingchance to beat Detroit out for the third position. Philadelphia wasscheduled for that day, and Philadelphia had a great team. It wasleading the race, and almost beyond all question would land the flag. In truth, only one more victory was needed to clinch the pennant. Theteam had three games to play in Chicago and it was to wind up theseason with three in Washington. Six games to play and only oneimperatively important to win! But baseball is uncertain, and untilthe Philadelphians won that game they would be a band of fiends. 

"Well, Whit, this is where you break in, " I said. "Now, tip usstraight. You've had more than a week's rest. How's that arm?"

"Grand, Con, grand!" replied the Rube with his frank smile. "I was alittle anxious till I warmed up. But say! I've got more up my sleevetoday than I ever had. "

"That'll do for me, " said Morrisey, rubbing his hands. "I'll springsomething on these swelled Quakers today. Now, Connelly, give Hurtleone of your old talks--the last one--and then I'll ring the gong. "

I added some words of encouragement, not forgetting my old ruse toincite the Rube by rousing his temper. And then, as the gong rang andthe Rube was departing, Nan stepped forward for her say. There was alittle white under the tan on her cheek, and her eyes had a darklingflash. 

"Whit, it's a magnificent sight--that beautiful green field and thestands. What a crowd of fans! Why, I never saw a real baseball crowdbefore. There are twenty thousand here. And there's a difference inthe feeling. It's sharper--new to me. It's big league baseball. Nota soul in that crowd ever heard of you, but, I believe, tomorrow thewhole baseball world will have heard of you. Mr. Morrisey knows. Isaw it in his face. Captain Spears knows. Connie knows. I know. "

Then she lifted her face and, pulling him down within reach, she kissedhim. 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 asany of us. 

The Rube left the box, and I found a seat between Nan and Milly. Thefield was a splendid sight. Those bleachers made me glow withmanagerial satisfaction. On the field both teams pranced and dancedand bounced around in practice. 

In spite of the absolutely last degree of egotism manifested by thePhiladelphia players, I could not but admire such a splendid body ofmen. 

"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 inperfect time. It all reminds me of--of the rhythm of music. And thatchampion batter and runner--that Lane in center--isn't he justbeautiful? He walks and runs like a blue-ribbon winner at the horseshow. I tell you one thing, Connie, these Quakers are on dress parade. "

"Oh, these Quakers hate themselves, I don't think!" retorted Nan. Being a rabid girl-fan it was, of course, impossible for Nan to speakbaseball convictions or gossip without characteristic baseball slang. "Stuck on themselves! I never saw the like in my life. That fellowLane is so swelled that he can't get down off his toes. But he's awonder, I must admit that. They're a bunch of stars. Easy, fast, trained--they're machines, and I'll bet they're Indians to fight. Ican see it sticking out all over them. This will certainly be somegame with Whit handing up that jump ball of his to this gang of champs. But, Connie, I'll go you Whit beats them. "

I laughed and refused to gamble. 

The gong rang; the crowd seemed to hum and rustle softly to quietattention; Umpire McClung called the names of the batteries; then thefamiliar "Play!"

There was the usual applause from the grand stand and welcome cheersfrom the bleachers. The Rube was the last player to go out. Morriseywas a manager who always played to the stands, and no doubt he held theRube back for effect. If so, he ought to have been gratified. Thatmoment reminded me of my own team and audience upon the occasion of theRube's debut. It was the same only here it happened in the big league, before a championship team and twenty thousand fans. 

The roar that went up from the bleachers might well have scared anunseasoned pitcher out of his wits. And the Quakers lined up beforetheir bench and gazed at this newcomer who had the nerve to walk outthere to the box. Cogswell stood on the coaching line, looked at theRube and then held up both arms and turned toward the Chicago bench asif to ask Morrisey: "Where did you get that?"

Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leaned over the box-rail andlooked at the champions with fire in her eye. "Oh, you just wait!wait!" she bit out between her teeth. 

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 wouldsee brightening of a great star pitcher on the big league horizon. Itwas bound to be a full hour for me. I had much reason to be gratefulto Whit Hurtle. He had pulled my team out of a rut and won me thepennant, and the five thousand dollars I got for his release bought thelittle cottage on the hill for Milly and me. Then there was my pridein having developed him. And all that I needed to calm me, settle medown into assurance and keen criticism of the game, was to see the Rubepitch a few balls with his old incomparable speed and control. 

Berne, first batter for the Quakers, walked up to the plate. He wasanother Billy Hamilton, built like a wedge. I saw him laugh at thelong pitcher. 

Whit swayed back, coiled and uncoiled. Something thin, white, glancing, shot at Berne. He ducked, escaping the ball by a smallermargin than appeared good for his confidence. He spoke low to theRube, and what he said was probably not flavored with the milk offriendly sweetness. 

"Wild! What'd you look for?" called out Cogswell scornfully. "He'sfrom the woods!"

The Rube swung his enormously long arm, took an enormous stride towardthird base, and pitched again. It was one of his queer deliveries. The ball cut the plate. 

"Ho! Ho!" yelled the Quakers. 

The Rube's next one was his out curve. It broke toward the corner ofthe plate and would have been a strike had not Berne popped it up. 

Callopy, the second hitter, faced the Rube, and he, too, after themanner of ball players, made some remark meant only for the Rube'sears. Callopy was a famous waiter. He drove more pitchers mad with hisimplacable patience than any hitter in the league. The first one ofthe Rube's he waited on crossed the in-corner; the second crossed theout-corner and the third was Rube's wide, slow, tantalizing"stitch-ball, " as we call it, for the reason that it came so slow abatter could count the stitches. I believe Callopy waited on thatcurve, decided to hit it, changed his mind and waited some more, andfinally the ball maddened him and he had to poke at it, the resultbeing a weak grounder. 

Then the graceful, powerful Lane, champion batter, champion baserunner, stepped to the plate. How a baseball crowd, any crowd, anywhere, loves the champion batter! The ovation Lane received made mewonder, with this impressive reception in a hostile camp, what could bethe manner of it on his home field? Any boy ball-player from the lotsseeing Lane knock the dirt out of his spikes and step into positionwould have known he was a 400 hitter. 

I was curious to see what the Rube would pitch Lane. It must have beena new and significant moment for Hurtle. Some pitchers actually wiltwhen facing a hitter of Lane's reputation. But he, on his baseballside, was peculiarly unemotional. Undoubtedly he could get furious, butthat only increased his effectiveness. To my amazement the Rubepitched Lane a little easy ball, not in any sense like his floater orstitch-ball, but just a little toss that any youngster might havetossed. Of all possible balls, Lane was not expecting such as that, andhe let it go. If the nerve of it amazed me, what did it not do toLane? I saw his face go fiery red. The grand stand murmured; let outone short yelp of pleasure; the Quaker players chaffed Lane. 

The pitch was a strike. I was gripping my chair now, and for the nextpitch I prophesied the Rube's wonderful jump ball, which he had not yetused. He swung long, and at the end of his swing seemed to jerktensely. I scarcely saw the ball. It had marvelous speed. Lane didnot offer to hit it, and it was a strike. He looked at the Rube, thenat Cogswell. That veteran appeared amused. The bleachers, happy andsurprised to be able to yell at Lane, yelled heartily. 

Again I took it upon myself to interpret the Rube's pitching mind. Hehad another ball that he had not used, a drop, an unhittable drop. Ithought he would use that next. He did, and though Lane reached itwith the bat, the hit was a feeble one. He had been fooled and theside was out. 

Poole, the best of the Quaker's pitching staff, walked out to the slab. He was a left-hander, and Chicago, having so many players who battedleft-handed, always found a southpaw a hard nut to crack. Cogswell, field manager and captain of the Quakers, kicked up the dust aroundfirst base and yelled to his men: "Git in the game!"

Staats hit Poole's speed ball into deep short and was out; Mitchellflew out to Berne; Rand grounded to second. 

While the teams again changed sides the fans cheered, and then indulgedin the first stretch of the game. I calculated that they would bestretching their necks presently, trying to keep track of the Rube'swork. Nan leaned on the railing absorbed in her own hope and faith. Milly chattered about this and that, people in the boxes, and thechances of the game. 

My own interest, while it did not wholly preclude the fortunes of theChicago players at the bat, was mostly concerned with the Rube'sfortunes in the field. 

In the Rube's half inning he retired Bannister and Blandy on feebleinfield grounders, and worked Cogswell into hitting a wide curve highin the air. 

Poole meant to win for the Quakers if his good arm and cunning did notfail him, and his pitching was masterly. McCloskey fanned, Hutchinsonfouled out, Brewster got a short safe fly just out of reach, andHoffner hit to second, forcing Brewster. 

With Dugan up for the Quakers in the third inning, Cogswell andBannister, from the coaching lines, began to talk to the Rube. Myears, keen from long practice, caught some of the remarks in spite ofthe noisy bleachers. 

"Say, busher, you 've lasted longer'n we expected, but you don't knowit!"

"Gol darn you city ball tossers! Now you jest let me alone!"

"We're comin' through the rye!"

"My top-heavy rustic friend, you'll need an airship presently, when yougo up!"

All the badinage was good-natured, which was sure proof that theQuakers had not arrived at anything like real appreciation of the Rube. They were accustomed to observe the trying out of many youngsters, ofwhom ninety-nine out of a hundred failed to make good. 

Dugan chopped at three strikes and slammed his bat down. Hucker hit aslow fly to Hoffer. Three men out on five pitched balls! Cogswell, oldwar horse that he was, stood a full moment and watched the Rube as hewalked in to the bench. An idea had penetrated Cogswell's brain, and Iwould have given something to know what it was. Cogswell was a greatbaseball general, and though he had a preference for maturedball-players he could, when pressed, see the quality in a youngster. He picked up his mitt and took his position at first with a gruff wordto his players. 

Rand for Chicago opened with a hit, and the bleachers, ready to strikefire, began to cheer and stamp. When McCloskey, in an attempt tosacrifice, beat out his bunt the crowd roared. Rand, being slow on hisfeet, had not attempted to make third on the play. Hutchinsonsacrificed, neatly advancing the runners. Then the bleachers playedthe long rolling drum of clattering feet with shrill whistlingaccompaniment. Brewster batted a wicked ground ball to Blandy. Hedove into the dust, came up with the ball, and feinting to throw homehe wheeled and shot the ball to Cogswell, who in turn shot it to theplate to head Rand. Runner and ball got there apparently together, butUmpire McClung's decision went against Rand. It was fine, fast work, but how the bleachers stormed at McClung!

"Rob-b-ber!"

Again the head of the Quakers' formidable list was up. I knew from theway that Cogswell paced the coaching box that the word had gone out tolook the Rube over seriously. There were possibilities even in rubes. 

Berne carefully stepped into the batter's box, as if he wanted to becertain to the breadth of a hair how close he was to the plate. He wasthere this time to watch the Rube pitch, to work him out, to see whatwas what. He crouched low, and it would have been extremely hard toguess what he was up to. His great play, however, was his ability todump 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 pitchedhim the one ball which is almost impossible to bunt--a high incurve, over the inside corner. There was no mistaking the Rube's magnificentcontrol. True as a plumb line he shot up the ball--once, twice, andBerne fouled both--two strikes. Grudgingly he waited on the next, butit, too, was over the corner, and Berne went out on strikes. The greatcrowd did not, of course, grasp the finesse of the play, but Berne hadstruck out--that was enough for them. 

Callopy, the famous spiker, who had put many a player out of the gamefor weeks at a time, strode into the batter's place, and he, too, wasnot at the moment making any funny remarks. The Rube delivered a ballthat all but hit Callopy fair on the head. It was the second narrowescape for him, and the roar he let out showed how he resented beingthreatened with a little of his own medicine. As might have beenexpected, and very likely as the Rube intended, Callopy hit the nextball, a sweeping curve, up over the infield. 

I was trying to see all the intricate details of the motive and actionon 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, Ikept the tail of my eye on Cogswell. He was prowling up and down thethird-base line. 

He was missing no signs, no indications, no probabilities, nopossibilities. But he was in doubt. Like a hawk he was watching theRube, and, as well, the crafty batters. The inning might not tell thetruth as to the Rube's luck, though it would test his control. TheRube's speed and curves, without any head work, would have made him apitcher of no mean ability, but was this remarkable placing of ballsjust accident? That was the question. 

When Berne walked to the bench I distinctly heard him say: "Come outof it, you dubs. I say you can't work him or wait him. He's peggin''em out of a gun!"

Several of the Quakers were standing out from the bench, all intent onthe Rube. He had stirred them up. First it was humor; then ridicule, curiosity, suspicion, doubt. And I knew it would grow to wonder andcertainty, then fierce attack from both tongues and bats, andlastly--for ball players are generous--unstinted admiration. 

Somehow, not only the first climaxes of a game but the decisions, theconvictions, the reputations of pitchers and fielders evolve around thegreat hitter. Plain it was that the vast throng of spectators, eagerto believe in a new find, wild to welcome a new star, yet loath totrust to their own impulsive judgments, held themselves in check untilonce more the great Lane had faced the Rube. 

The field grew tolerably quiet just then. The Rube did not exerthimself. The critical stage had no concern for him. He pitched Lane ahigh curve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meant to be hit and aball hard to hit safely. Lane knew that as well as any hitter in theworld, so he let two of the curves go by--two strikes. Again the Ruberelentlessly gave him the same ball; and Lane, hitting viciously, spitefully, because he did not want to hit that kind of a ball, sent upa fly that Rand easily captured. 

"Oh, I don't know! Pretty fair, I guess!" yelled a tenor-voiced fan;and he struck the key-note. And the bleachers rose to their feet andgave the Rube the rousing cheer of the brotherhood of fans. 

Hoffer walked to first on a base on balls. Sweeney advanced him. TheRube sent up a giant fly to Callopy. Then Staats hit safely, scoringthe first run of the game. Hoffer crossed the plate amid vociferousapplause. Mitchell ended the inning with a fly to Blandy. 

What a change had come over the spirit of that Quaker aggregation! Itwas something to make a man thrill with admiration and, if he happenedto favor Chicago, to fire all his fighting blood. The players pouredupon the Rube a continuous stream of scathing abuse. They would havemade a raging devil of a mild-mannered clergyman. Some of them wereskilled in caustic wit, most of them were possessed of forked tongues;and Cogswell, he of a thousand baseball battles, had a genius forinflaming anyone he tormented. This was mostly beyond the ken of theaudience, and behind the back of the umpire, but it was perfectly plainto me. The Quakers were trying to rattle the Rube, a trick of the gameas 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 thelion in him was rampant. Fortunately, it was his strange gift to pitchbetter the angrier he got; and the more the Quakers flayed him, themore he let himself out to their crushing humiliation. 

The innings swiftly passed to the eighth with Chicago failing to scoreagain, with Philadelphia failing to score at all. One scratch hit anda single, gifts to the weak end of the batting list, were all the lankpitcher allowed them. Long since the bleachers had crowned the Rube. He was theirs and they were his; and their voices had the peculiarstrangled hoarseness due to over-exertion. The grand stand, slower tounderstand and approve, arrived later; but it got there about theseventh, 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 rememberedto look at the feminine group in our box. Milly was in a mostbeautiful glow of happiness and excitement. Nan sat rigid, leaningover the rail, her face white and drawn, and she kept saying in a lowvoice: "Will it never end? Will it never end?" Mrs. Nelson staredwearily. 

It was the Quakers' last stand. They faced it as a team that had wonmany a game in the ninth with two men out. Dugan could do nothing withthe Rube's unhittable drop, for a drop curve was his weakness, and hestruck out. Hucker hit to Hoffer, who fumbled, making the first errorof the game. Poole dumped the ball, as evidently the Rube desired, forhe handed up a straight one, but the bunt rolled teasingly and theRube, being big and tall, failed to field it in time. 

Suddenly the whole field grew quiet. For the first time Cogswell'scoaching was clearly heard. 

"One out! Take a lead! Take a lead! Go through this time. Gothrough!"

Could it be possible, I wondered, that after such a wonderfulexhibition of pitching the Rube would lose out in the ninth?

There were two Quakers on base, one out, and two of the best hitters inthe league on deck, with a chance of Lane getting up. 

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" moaned Nan. 

I put my hand on hers. "Don't quit, Nan. You'll never forgive yourselfif you quit. Take it from me, Whit will pull out of this hole!"

What a hole that was for the Rube on the day of his break into fastcompany! I measured it by his remarkable deliberation. He took a longtime to get ready to pitch to Berne, and when he let drive it was as ifhe had been trifling all before in that game. I could think of no wayto figure it except that when the ball left him there was scarcely anyappreciable interval of time before it cracked in Sweeney's mitt. Itwas 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 hisgiant frame, the same flinging of long arms and lunging forward, theRube delivered a third drop. And Berne failed to hit it. 

The voiceless bleachers stamped on the benches and the grand standlikewise thundered. 

Callopy showed his craft by stepping back and lining Rube's high pitchto left. Hoffer leaped across and plunged down, getting his glovedhand in front of the ball. The hit was safe, but Hoffer's valianteffort saved a tie score. 

Lane up! Three men on bases! Two out!

Not improbably there were many thousand spectators of that thrillingmoment who pitied the Rube for the fate which placed Lane at the batthen. 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 somethingterrible to Hurtle for his deliberation, yet I knew he was provinghimself what I had always tried to train him to be. 

Then he swung, stepped out, and threw his body with the ball. This washis rarely used pitch, his last resort, his fast rise ball that jumpedup a little at the plate. Lane struck under it. How significant onthe 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 spedit plateward. The great Lane struck out! The game was over--Chicago, 1; Philadelphia, 0. 

In that whirling moment when the crowd went mad and Milly was huggingme, 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 shakinghands with the Rube. Then the hungry clamoring fans tumbled upon thefield and swarmed about the players. 

Whereupon Nan kissed me and Milly, and then kissed Mrs. Nelson. Inthat radiant moment Nan was all sweetness. 

"It is the Rube's break into fast company, " she said. 

THE KNOCKER

"Yes, Carroll, I got my notice. Maybe it's no surprise to you. Andthere'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 bestball players in the game--but you're a knocker!"

Madge Ellston heard young Sheldon speak. She saw the flash in his grayeyes and the heat of his bronzed face as he looked intently at the bigcatcher. 

"Fade away, sonny. Back to the bush-league for yours!" repliedCarroll, derisively. "You're not fast enough for Kansas City. Youlook pretty good in a uniform and you're swift on your feet, but youcan't hit. You've got a glass arm and you run bases like an ostrichtrying to side. That notice was coming to you. Go learn the game!"

Then a crowd of players trooped noisily out of the hotel lobby andswept Sheldon and Carroll down the porch steps toward the waitingomnibus. 

Madge's uncle owned the Kansas City club. She had lived most of hernineteen years in a baseball atmosphere, but accustomed as she was tobaseball talk and the peculiar banterings and bickerings of theplayers, there were times when it seemed all Greek. If a player gothis "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 ofconversation, however, had an unusual interest because Carroll had paidcourt to her for a year, and Sheldon, coming to the team that spring, had fallen desperately in love with her. She liked Sheldon prettywell, but Carroll fascinated her. She began to wonder if there werebad feelings between the rivals--to compare them--to get away fromherself and judge them impersonally. 

When Pat Donahue, the veteran manager of the team came out, Madgegreeted him with a smile. She had always gotten on famously with Pat, notwithstanding her imperious desire to handle the managerial reinsherself upon occasions. Pat beamed all over his round ruddy face. 

"Miss Madge, you weren't to the park yesterday an' we lost without ourpretty mascot. We shure needed you. Denver's playin' at a fast clip. "

"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' youin baseball for years?" questioned Pat, in distress. 

"I know what a knocker is, as everybody else does. But I want to knowthe real meaning, the inside-ball of it, to use your favorite saying. "

Studying her grave face with shrewd eyes Donahue slowly lost his smile. 

"The inside-ball of it, eh? Come, let's sit over here a bit--the sun'sshure warm today. .. . Miss Madge, a knocker is the strangest manknown in the game, the hardest to deal with an' what every baseballmanager hates most. "

Donahue told her that he believed the term "knocker" came originallyfrom baseball; that in general it typified the player who strengthenedhis own standing by belittling the ability of his team-mates, and byenlarging upon his own superior qualities. But there were many phasesof this peculiar type. Some players were natural born knockers; othersacquired the name in their later years in the game when younger menthreatened to win their places. Some of the best players ever producedby baseball had the habit in its most violent form. There were playersof ridiculously poor ability who held their jobs on the strength ofthis one trait. It was a mystery how they misled magnates and managersalike; how for months they held their places, weakening a team, oftenkeeping a good team down in the race; all from sheer bold suggestion oftheir own worth and other players' worthlessness. Strangest of all wasthe knockers' power to disorganize; to engender a bad spirit betweenmanagement and team and among the players. The team which was withoutone of the parasites of the game generally stood well up in the racefor the pennant, though there had been championship teams noted forgreat knockers as well as great players. 

"It's shure strange, Miss Madge, " said Pat in conclusion, shaking hisgray head. "I've played hundreds of knockers, an' released them, too. Knockers always get it in the end, but they go on foolin' me andworkin' me just the same as if I was a youngster with my first team. They're part an' parcel of the game. "

"Do you like these men off the field--outside of baseball, I mean?"

"No, I shure don't, an' I never seen one yet that wasn't the same offthe field as he was on. "

"Thank you, Pat. I think I understand now. And--oh, yes, there'sanother thing I want to ask you. What's the matter with BillieSheldon? Uncle George said he was falling off in his game. Then I'veread the papers. Billie started out well in the spring. "

"Didn't he? I was sure thinkin' I had a find in Billie. Well, he'slost his nerve. He's in a bad slump. It's worried me for days. I'mgoin' to release Billie. The team needs a shake-up. That's whereBillie gets the worst of it, for he's really the makin' of a star; buthe's slumped, an' now knockin' has made him let down. There, MissMadge, that's an example of what I've just been tellin' you. An' youcan see that a manager has his troubles. These hulkin' athletes are alot 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 thebaseball park. She arrived rather earlier than usual to find thegrand-stand empty. The Denver team had just come upon the field, andthe Kansas City players were practising batting at the left of thediamond. Madge walked down the aisle of the grand stand and out alongthe reporters' boxes. She asked one of the youngsters on the field totell Mr. Sheldon that she would like to speak with him a moment. 

Billie eagerly hurried from the players' bench with a look of surpriseand expectancy on his sun-tanned face. Madge experienced for the firsttime a sudden sense of shyness at his coming. His lithe form and hisnimble 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 ofgloom in his eyes and lines of trouble on his face dispelled herconfusion. 

"Billie, Pat tells me he's given you ten days' notice, " she said. 

"It's true. "

"What's wrong with you, Billie?"

"Oh, I've struck a bad streak--can't hit or throw. "

"Are you a quitter?"

"No, I'm not, " he answered quickly, flushing a dark red. 

"You started off this spring with a rush. You played brilliantly andfor a while led the team in batting. Uncle George thought so well ofyou. Then came this spell of bad form. But, Billie, it's only a slump;you can brace. "

"I don't know, " he replied, despondently. "Awhile back I got my mindoff the game. Then--people who don't like me have taken advantage ofmy slump to----"

"To knock, " interrupted Miss Ellston. 

"I'm not saying that, " he said, looking away from her. 

"But I'm saying it. See here, Billie Sheldon, my uncle owns this teamand Pat Donahue is manager. I think they both like me a little. Now Idon't want to see you lose your place. Perhaps----"

"Madge, that's fine of you--but I think--I guess it'd be best for me toleave Kansas City. "

"Why?"

"You know, " he said huskily. "I've lost my head--I'm in love--I can'tthink of baseball--I'm crazy about you. "

Miss Ellston's sweet face grew rosy, clear to the tips of her ears. 

"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 yourtoes! Tear things! Rip the boards off the fence! Don't quit!"

She exhausted her vocabulary of baseball language if not herenthusiasm, and paused in blushing confusion. 

"Madge!"

"Will you brace up?"

"Will I--will I!" he exclaimed, breathlessly. 

Madge murmured a hurried good-bye and, turning away, went up thestairs. Her uncle's private box was upon the top of the grand standand she reached it in a somewhat bewildered state of mind. She had aconfused sense of having appeared to encourage Billie, and did not knowwhether she felt happy or guilty. The flame in his eyes had warmed allher blood. Then, as she glanced over the railing to see the powerfulBurns Carroll, there rose in her breast a panic at strange variancewith her other feelings. 

Many times had Madge Ellston viewed the field and stands and theoutlying country from this high vantage point; but never with the samemingling emotions, nor had the sunshine ever been so golden, the woodsand meadows so green, the diamond so smooth and velvety, the wholescene so gaily bright. 

Denver had always been a good drawing card, and having won the firstgame of the present series, bade fair to draw a record attendance. Thelong lines of bleachers, already packed with the familiar mottledcrowd, sent forth a merry, rattling hum. Soon a steady stream ofwell-dressed men and women poured in the gates and up the grand-standstairs. The soft murmur of many voices in light conversation andlaughter filled the air. The peanut venders and score-card sellerskept up their insistent shrill cries. The baseball park was alive nowand restless; the atmosphere seemed charged with freedom and pleasure. The players romped like skittish colts, the fans shrieked theirwitticisms--all sound and movements suggested play. 

Madge Ellston was somehow relieved to see her uncle sitting in one ofthe lower boxes. During this game she wanted to be alone, and shebelieved she would be, for the President of the League and directors ofthe Kansas City team were with her uncle. When the bell rang to callthe Denver team in from practice the stands could hold no more, and theroped-off side lines were filling up with noisy men and boys. From herseat Madge could see right down upon the players' bench, and when shecaught both Sheldon and Carroll gazing upward she drew back withsharply contrasted thrills. 

Then the bell rang again, the bleachers rolled out their welcomingacclaim, and play was called with Kansas City at the bat. 

Right off the reel Hunt hit a short fly safely over second. The tenthousand spectators burst into a roar. A good start liberated applauseand marked the feeling for the day. 

Madge was surprised and glad to see Billie Sheldon start next for theplate. All season, until lately, he had been the second batter. During his slump he had been relegated to the last place on the battinglist. Perhaps he had asked Pat to try him once more at the top. Thebleachers voiced their unstinted appreciation of this return, showingthat Billie still had a strong hold on their hearts. 

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 desireto see Billie brace up to his old form amazed her. And Carroll's rudewords beat thick in her ears. Never before had Billie appeared soinstinct with life, so intent and strung as when he faced Keene, theDenver pitcher. That worthy tied himself up in a knot, and then, unlimbering a long arm, delivered the brand new ball. 

Billie seemed to leap forward and throw his bat at it. There was asharp ringing crack--and the ball was like a white string marvelouslystretching 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 ballover that fence. It had been deemed impossible, as was attested to bythe many painted "ads" offering prizes for such a feat. Suddenly thefar end of the bleachers exploded and the swelling roar rolled up toengulf the grand stand in thunder. Billie ran round the bases toapplause never before vented on that field. But he gave no sign thatit affected him; he did not even doff his cap. White-faced and stern, he hurried to the bench, where Pat fell all over him and many of theplayers 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 exactingaudience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. The Denver managerperemptorily called Keene off the diamond and sent in Steele, asouth-paw, who had always bothered Pat's left-handed hitters. Thatmove showed his astute judgment, for Steele struck out McReady andretired Curtis and Mahew on easy chances. 

It was Dalgren's turn to pitch and though he had shown promise inseveral games he had not yet been tried out on a team of Denver'sstrength. The bleachers gave him a good cheering as he walked into thebox, but for all that they whistled their wonder at Pat's assurance inputting him against the Cowboys in an important game. 

The lad was visibly nervous and the hard-hitting and loud-coachingDenver players went after him as if they meant to drive him out of thegame. Crane stung one to left center for a base, Moody was out on aliner to short, almost doubling up Crane; the fleet-footed Bluettbunted and beat the throw to first; Langly drove to left for whatseemed a three-bagger, but Curtis, after a hard run, caught the ballalmost off the left-field bleachers. Crane and Bluett advanced a baseon the throw-in. Then Kane batted up a high foul-fly. Burns Carroll, the Kansas City catcher, had the reputation of being a fiend forchasing foul flies, and he dashed at this one with a speed thatthreatened a hard fall over the players' bench or a collision with thefence. Carroll caught the ball and crashed against the grand stand, but leaped back with an agility that showed that if there was any harmdone it had not been to him. 

Thus the sharp inning ended with a magnificent play. It electrifiedthe spectators into a fierce energy of applause. With one accord, bybaseball instinct, the stands and bleachers and roped-in-sidelinesrealized it was to be a game of games and they answered to the stimuluswith a savage enthusiasm that inspired ballplayers to great plays. 

In the first half of the second inning, Steele's will to do and his armto execute were very like his name. Kansas City could not score. Intheir half the Denver team made one run by clean hitting. 

Then the closely fought advantage see-sawed from one team to the other. It was not a pitchers' battle, though both men worked to the limit ofskill and endurance. They were hit hard. Dazzling plays kept thescore down and the innings short. Over the fields hung the portent ofsomething to come, every player, every spectator felt the subtlebaseball chance; each inning seemed to lead closer and more thrillinglyup to the climax. But at the end of the seventh, with the score tiedsix and six, with daring steals, hard hits and splendid plays, enoughto have made memorable several games, it seemed that the greatportentous moment was still in abeyance. 

The head of the batting list for Kansas City was up. Hunt caught thefirst pitched ball squarely on the end of his bat. It was a mightydrive and as the ball soared and soared over the center-field Huntraced down the base line, and the winged-footed Crane sped outward, thebleachers split their throats. The hit looked good for a home run, butCrane leaped up and caught the ball in his gloved hand. The suddensilence and then the long groan which racked the bleachers was greatertribute to Crane's play than any applause. 

Billie Sheldon then faced Steele. The fans roared hoarsely, for Billiehad 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 wastedthree balls, the never-despairing bleachers howled: "Now, Billie, inyour groove! Sting the next one!" But Billie waited. One strike! Twostrikes! Steele cut the plate. That was a test which proved Sheldon'scaliber. 

With seven innings of exciting play passed, with both teams on edge, with the bleachers wild and the grand stands keyed up to the breakingpoint, with everything making deliberation almost impossible, BillieSheldon had remorselessly waited for three balls and two strikes. 

"Now! . .. Now! . .. Now!" shrieked the bleachers. 

Steele had not tired nor lost his cunning. With hands before him hegrimly studied Billie, then whirling hard to get more weight into hismotion, he threw the ball. 

Billie swung perfectly and cut a curving liner between the firstbaseman and the base. Like a shot it skipped over the grass out alongthe foul-line into right field. Amid tremendous uproar Billiestretched the hit into a triple, and when he got up out of the dustafter his slide into third the noise seemed to be the crashing down ofthe bleachers. It died out with the choking gurgling yell of the mostleather-lunged fan. 

"O-o-o-o-you-Billie-e!"

McReady marched up and promptly hit a long fly to the redoubtableCrane. Billie crouched in a sprinter's position with his eye on thegraceful fielder, waiting confidently for the ball to drop. As if therehad not already been sufficient heart-rending moments, the chance thatgoverned baseball meted out this play; one of the keenest, most tryingknown to the game. Players waited, spectators waited, and the instantof that dropping ball was interminably long. Everybody knew Cranewould catch it; everybody thought of the wonderful throwing arm thathad made him famous. Was it possible for Billie Sheldon to beat thethrow to the plate?

Crane made the catch and got the ball away at the same instant Sheldonleaped from the base and dashed for home. Then all eyes were on theball. It seemed incredible that a ball thrown by human strength couldspeed plateward so low, so straight, so swift. But it lost its forceand slanted down to bound into the catcher's hands just as Billie slidover the plate. 

By the time the bleachers had stopped stamping and bawling, Curtisended the inning with a difficult grounder to the infield. 

Once more the Kansas City players took the field and Burns Carroll sangout 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 andkept his catcher continually blocking low pitches and wide curves andpoorly 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 heonce got his hands on the ball he never missed it. It was hisencouragement that steadied Dalgren; his judgment of hitters thatcarried the young pitcher through dangerous places; his lightning swiftgrasp of points that directed the machine-like work of his team. 

In this inning Carroll exhibited another of his demon chases after afoul fly; he threw the base-stealing Crane out at second, and by aremarkable leap and stop of McReady's throw, he blocked a runner whowould have tied the score. 

The Cowboys blanked their opponents in the first half of the ninth, andtrotted in for their turn needing one run to tie, two runs to win. 

There had scarcely been a breathing spell for the onlookers in thisrapid-fire game. Every inning had held them, one moment breathless, the next wildly clamorous, and another waiting in numb fear. What didthese last few moments hold in store? The only answer to that was thedogged plugging optimism of the Denver players. To listen to them, towatch them, was to gather the impression that baseball fortune alwaysfavored them in the end. 

"Only three more, Dal. Steady boys, it's our game, " rolled outCarroll's deep bass. How virile he was! What a tower of strength tothe weakening pitcher!

But valiantly as Dalgren tried to respond, he failed. The grind--thestrain had been too severe. When he finally did locate the plate Bluetthit 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 thelast moment of this nerve-racking game? There was a runner on firstand a runner on second. That was bad. Exceedingly bad was it thatthese runners were on base with nobody out. Worst of all was the factthat Kane was up. Kane, the best bunter, the fastest man to first, thehardest hitter in the league! That he would fail to advance those tworunners was scarcely worth consideration. Once advanced, a fly to theoutfield, a scratch, anything almost, would tie the score. So this wasthe climax presaged so many times earlier in the game. Dalgren seemedto wilt under it. 

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 betaken out. But Pat Donahue made no sign. Pat had trained many apitcher by forcing him to take his medicine. Then Carroll, mask underhis arm, rolling his big hand in his mitt, sauntered down to thepitcher's box. The sharp order of the umpire in no wise disconcertedhim. He said something to Dalgren, vehemently nodding his head thewhile. Players and audience alike supposed he was trying to put alittle heart into Dalgren, and liked him the better, notwithstandingthe opposition to the umpire. 

Carroll sauntered back to his position. He adjusted his breastprotector, and put on his mask, deliberately taking his time. Then hestepped behind the plate, and after signing for the pitch, he slowlymoved his right hand up to his mask. 

Dalgren wound up, took his swing, and let drive. Even as he deliveredthe ball Carroll bounded away from his position, flinging off the maskas he jumped. For a single fleeting instant, the catcher's positionwas vacated. But that instant was long enough to make the audiencegasp. Kane bunted beautifully down the third base line, and thereCarroll stood, fifteen feet from the plate, agile as a huge monkey. Hewhipped the ball to Mahew at third. Mahew wheeled quick as thought andlined the ball to second. Sheldon came tearing for the bag, caught theball on the run, and with a violent stop and wrench threw it like abullet to first base. Fast as Kane was, the ball beat him ten feet. Atriple play!

The players of both teams cheered, but the audience, slower to graspthe complex and intricate points, needed a long moment to realize whathad happened. They needed another to divine that Carroll hadanticipated Kane's intention to bunt, had left his position as the ballwas pitched, had planned all, risked all, played all on Kane's sureeye; and so he had retired the side and won the game by creating andexecuting the rarest play in baseball. 

Then the audience rose in a body to greet the great catcher. What ahoarse thundering roar shook the stands and waved in a blast over thefield! Carroll stood bowing his acknowledgment, and then swaggered alittle with the sun shining on his handsome heated face. Like aconqueror conscious of full blown power he stalked away to theclubhouse. 

Madge Ellston came out of her trance and viewed the ragged score-card, her torn parasol, her battered gloves and flying hair, her generallydisheveled state with a little start of dismay, but when she got intothe thick and press of the moving crowd she found all the women more orless disheveled. And they seemed all the prettier and friendlier forthat. It was a happy crowd and voices were conspicuously hoarse. 

When Madge entered the hotel parlor that evening she found her unclewith guests and among them was Burns Carroll. The presence of thehandsome giant affected Madge more impellingly than ever before, yet insome inexplicably different way. She found herself trembling; shesensed 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 wasover-powering; his great stature seemed to fill the room; his easycareless assurance emanated from superior strength. When he spokelightly of the game, of Crane's marvelous catch, of Dalgren's pitchingand of his own triple play, it seemed these looming features retreatedin perspective--somehow lost their vital significance because heslighted them. 

In the light of Carroll's illuminating talk, in the remembrance ofSheldon's bitter denunciation, in the knowledge of Pat Donahue'sestimate of a peculiar type of ball-player, Madge Ellston found herselfjudging the man--bravely trying to resist his charm, to be fair to himand to herself. 

Carroll soon made his way to her side and greeted her with his oldfamiliar manner of possession. However irritating it might be to Madgewhen alone, now it held her bound. 

Carroll possessed the elemental attributes of a conqueror. When withhim Madge whimsically feared that he would snatch her up in his armsand carry her bodily off, as the warriors of old did with the womenthey wanted. But she began to believe that the fascination heexercised upon her was merely physical. That gave her pause. Not onlywas Burns Carroll on trial, but also a very foolish fluttering littlemoth--herself. It was time enough, however, to be stern with herselfafter she had tried him. 

"Wasn't that a splendid catch of Crane's today?" she asked. 

"A lucky stab! Crane has a habit of running round like an ostrich andsticking out a hand to catch a ball. It's a grand-stand play. Why, agood outfielder would have been waiting under that fly. "

"Dalgren did fine work in the box, don't you think?"

"Oh, the kid's all right with an old head back of the plate. He'swild, though, and will never make good in fast company. I won his gametoday. He wouldn't have lasted an inning without me. It was dead wrongfor Pat to pitch him. Dalgren simply can't pitch and he hasn't sandenough to learn. "

A hot retort trembled upon Madge Ellston's lips, but she withheld itand quietly watched Carroll. How complacent he was, how utterlyself-contained!

"And Billie Sheldon--wasn't it good to see him brace? What hitting! . . . That home run!"

"Sheldon flashed up today. That's the worst of such players. Thistalk of his slump is all rot. When he joined the team he made somelucky hits and the papers lauded him as a comer, but he soon got downto his real form. Why, to break into a game now and then, to shut hiseyes and hit a couple on the nose--that's not baseball. Pat's given himten days' notice, and his release will be a good move for the team. Sheldon's not fast enough for this league. "

"I'm sorry. He seemed so promising, " replied Madge. "I likedBilly--pretty well. "

"Yes, that was evident, " said Carroll, firing up. "I never couldunderstand what you saw in him. Why, Sheldon's no good. He----"

Madge turned a white face that silenced Carroll. She excused herselfand returned to the parlor, where she had last seen her uncle. Notfinding him there, she went into the long corridor and met Sheldon, Dalgren and two more of the players. Madge congratulated the youngpitcher and the other players on their brilliant work; and they, not tobe outdone, gallantly attributed the day's victory to her presence atthe game. Then, without knowing in the least how it came about, shepresently found herself alone with Billy, and they were strolling intothe music-room. 

"Madge, did I brace up?"

The girl risked one quick look at him. How boyish he seemed, howeager! What an altogether different Billie! But was the differenceall in him! Somehow, despite a conscious shyness in the moment shefelt natural and free, without the uncertainty and restraint that hadalways troubled her while with him. 

"Oh, Billie, that glorious home run!"

"Madge, wasn't that hit a dandy? How I made it is a mystery, but thebat felt like a feather. I thought of you. Tell me--what did youthink when I hit that ball over the fence?"

"Billie, I'll never, never tell you. "

"Yes--please--I want to know. Didn't you think something--nice of me?"

The pink spots in Madge's cheeks widened to crimson flames. 

"Billie, are you still--crazy about me? Now, don't come so close. Can't you behave yourself? And don't break my fingers with you terriblebaseball hands. .. . Well, when you made that hit I just collapsedand I said----"

"Say it! Say it!" implored Billie. 

She lowered her face and then bravely raised it. 

"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 shehad been seeking her uncle. They met him and Pat Donahue, coming outof the parlor. 

"Where have you been all evening?" demanded Mr. Ellston. 

"Shure it looks as if she's signed a new manager, " said Pat, his shrewdeyes twinkling. 

The soft glow in Madge's cheeks deepened into tell-tale scarlet; Billieresembled a schoolboy stricken in guilt. 

"Aha! so that's it?" queried her uncle. 

"Ellston, " said Pat. "Billie's home-run drive today recalled hisnotice an' if I don't miss guess it won him another game--the best gamein life. "

"By George!" exclaimed Mr. Ellston. "I was afraid it was Carroll!"

He led Madge away and Pat followed with Billie. 

"Shure, it was good to see you brace, Billie, " said the manager, with akindly hand on the young man's arm. "I'm tickled to death. That tendays' notice doesn't go. See? I've had to shake up the team but yourjob is good. I released McReady outright an' traded Carroll to Denverfor 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 haveharmony among my players. Carroll is a great catcher, but he's aknocker. "

THE WINNING BALL

One day in July our Rochester club, leader in the Eastern League, hadreturned to the hotel after winning a double-header from the Syracuseclub. For some occult reason there was to be a lay-off next day andthen on the following another double-header. These double-headers wehated next to exhibition games. Still a lay-off for twenty-four hours, at that stage of the race, was a Godsend, and we received the news withexclamations of pleasure. 

After dinner we were all sitting and smoking comfortably in front ofthe 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 readyfor the bus at seven-thirty. "

For a moment there was a blank, ominous silence, while we assimilatedthe meaning of his terse speech. 

"I've got a good thing on for tomorrow, " continued the manager. "Sixtyper cent gate receipts if we win. That Guelph team is hot stuff, though. "

"Guelph!" exclaimed some of the players suspiciously. "Where's Guelph?"

"It's in Canada. We'll take the night express an' get there tomorrowin time for the game. An' we'll hev to hustle. "

Upon Merritt then rained a multiplicity of excuses. Gillinger was notwell, and ought to have that day's rest. Snead's eyes would profit bya lay-off. Deerfoot Browning was leading the league in base running, and as his legs were all bruised and scraped by sliding, a manager whowas not an idiot would have a care of such valuable runmakers for histeam. Lake had "Charley-horse. " Hathaway's arm was sore. Bane'sstomach threatened gastritis. Spike Doran's finger needed a chance toheal. I was stale, and the other players, three pitchers, swore theirarms should be in the hospital. 

"Cut it out!" said Merritt, getting exasperated. "You'd all lay down onme--now, 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 youpuffed-up, high-salaried stiffs pack your grips quick. See? It'llcost any fresh fellar fifty for missin' the train. "

So that was how eleven of the Rochester team found themselves moodilyboarding a Pullman en route for Buffalo and Canada. We went to bedearly and arose late. 

Guelph lay somewhere in the interior of Canada, and we did not expectto get there until 1 o'clock. 

As it turned out, the train was late; we had to dress hurriedly in thesmoking room, pack our citizen clothes in our grips and leave the trainto go direct to the ball grounds without time for lunch. 

It was a tired, dusty-eyed, peevish crowd of ball players that climbedinto a waiting bus at the little station. 

We had never heard of Guelph; we did not care anything about Rubebaseball teams. Baseball was not play to us; it was the hardest kindof work, and of all things an exhibition game was an abomination. 

The Guelph players, strapping lads, met us with every mark of respectand courtesy and escorted us to the field with a brass band that wasloud in welcome, if not harmonious in tune. 

Some 500 men and boys trotted curiously along with us, for all theworld as if the bus were a circus parade cage filled with stripedtigers. What a rustic, motley crowd massed about in and on that ballground. There must have been 10, 000. 

The audience was strange to us. The Indians, half-breeds, French-Canadians; the huge, hulking, bearded farmers or traders, ortrappers, whatever they were, were new to our baseball experience. 

The players themselves, however, earned the largest share of ourattention. By the time they had practiced a few moments we looked atMerritt and Merritt looked at us. 

These long, powerful, big-handed lads evidently did not know thedifference between lacrosse and baseball; but they were quick as catson 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 linethe ball across the diamond. 

"Lord! what whips these lads have!" exclaimed Merritt. "Hope we're notup against it. If this team should beat us we wouldn't draw a handfulat Toronto. We can't afford to be beaten. Jump around and cinch thegame quick. If we get in a bad place, I'll sneak in the 'rabbit. '"

The "rabbit" was a baseball similar in appearance to the ordinaryleague ball; under its horse-hide cover, however, it was remarkablydifferent. 

An ingenious fan, a friend of Merritt, had removed the covers from anumber of league balls and sewed them on rubber balls of his ownmaking. They could not be distinguished from the regular article, noteven by an experienced professional--until they were hit. Then! Thefact that after every bounce one of these rubber balls bounded swifterand higher had given it the name of the "rabbit. "

Many a game had the "rabbit" won for us at critical stages. Of courseit was against the rules of the league, and of course every player inthe league knew about it; still, when it was judiciously and cleverlybrought into a close game, the "rabbit" would be in play, and veryprobably over the fence, before the opposing captain could learn of it, let alone appeal to the umpire. 

"Fellars, look at that guy who's goin' to pitch, " suddenly spoke up oneof the team. 

Many as were the country players whom we seasoned and traveledprofessionals had run across, this twirler outclassed them forremarkable appearance. Moreover, what put an entirely different tingeto our momentary humor was the discovery that he was as wild as a Marchhare and could throw a ball so fast that it resembled a pea shot from aboy's air gun. 

Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the first pitched ball, whichhe 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 next ball, and was promptlycalled out on strikes. 

I was second at bat, and went up with some reluctance. I happened tobe leading the league in both long distance and safe hitting, and Idoted on speed. But having stopped many mean in-shoots with variousparts of my anatomy, I was rather squeamish about facing backwoods yapswho had no control. 

When I had watched a couple of his pitches, which the umpire calledstrikes, I gave him credit for as much speed as Rusie. These ballswere as straight as a string, singularly without curve, jump, orvariation of any kind. I lined the next one so hard at the shortstopthat it cracked like a pistol as it struck his hands and whirled himhalf off his feet. Still he hung to the ball and gave opportunity forthe first crash of applause. 

"Boys, he's a trifle wild, " I said to my team-mates, "but he has themost beautiful ball to hit you ever saw. I don't believe he uses acurve, and when we once time that speed we'll kill it. "

Next inning, after old man Hathaway had baffled the Canadians with hiswide, tantalizing curves, my predictions began to be verified. Sneadrapped one high and far to deep right field. To our infinite surprise, however, the right fielder ran with fleetness that made our ownDeerfoot seem slow, and he got under the ball and caught it. 

Doran sent a sizzling grasscutter down toward left. The lanky thirdbaseman 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 crowdand 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 thegame progressed. What with Hathaway's heady pitching we soon disposedof them when at the bat; our turns, however, owing to the wonderfulfielding of these backwoodsmen, were also fruitless. 

Merritt, with his mind ever on the slice of gate money coming if wewon, began to fidget and fume and find fault. 

"You're a swell lot of champions, now, ain't you?" he observed betweeninnings. 

All baseball players like to bat, and nothing pleases them so much asbase hits; on the other hand, nothing is quite so painful as to sendout hard liners only to see them caught. And it seemed as if every manon our team connected with that lanky twirler's fast high ball and hitwith the force that made the bat spring only to have one of these rubesget his big hands upon it. 

Considering that we were in no angelic frame of mind before the gamestarted, and in view of Merritt's persistently increasing ill humor, this failure of ours to hit a ball safely gradually worked us into akind of frenzy. From indifference we passed to determination, and fromthat to sheer passionate purpose. 

Luck appeared to be turning in the sixth inning. With one out, Lake hita beauty to right. Doran beat an infield grounder and reached first. Hathaway struck out. 

With Browning up and me next, the situation looked rather precariousfor the Canadians. 

"Say, Deerfoot, " whispered Merritt, "dump one down the third-base line. He's playin' deep. It's a pipe. Then the bases will be full an'Reddy'll clean up. "

In a stage like that Browning was a man absolutely to depend upon. Heplaced a slow bunt in the grass toward third and sprinted for first. The third baseman fielded the ball, but, being confused, did not knowwhere to throw it. 

"Stick it in your basket, " yelled Merritt, in a delight that showed howhard he was pulling for the gate money, and his beaming smile as heturned to me was inspiring. "Now, Reddy, it's up to you! I'm notworrying about what's happened so far. I know, with you at bat in apinch, it's all off!"

Merritt's compliment was pleasing, but it did not augment my purpose, for that already had reached the highest mark. Love of hitting, if noother thing, gave me the thrilling fire to arise to the opportunity. Selecting my light bat, I went up and faced the rustic twirler andsoftly said things to him. 

He delivered the ball, and I could have yelled aloud, so fast, sostraight, so true it sped toward me. Then I hit it harder than I hadever 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. Sobeautiful a hit was it that I watched as I ran. 

Out of the tail of my eye I saw the center fielder running. When Irounded first base I got a good look at this fielder, and though I hadseen the greatest outfielders the game ever produced, I never saw onethat covered ground so swiftly as he. 

On the ball soared, and began to drop; on the fielder sped, and beganto disappear over a little hill back of his position. Then he reachedup with a long arm and marvelously caught the ball in one hand. Hewent out of sight as I touched second base, and the heterogeneous crowdknew about a great play to make more noise than a herd of chargingbuffalo. 

In the next half inning our opponents, by clean drives, scored two runsand we in our turn again went out ignominiously. When the first of theeighth came we were desperate and clamored for the "rabbit. "

"I've sneaked it in, " said Merritt, with a low voice. "Got it to theumpire on the last passed ball. See, the pitcher's got it now. Boys, it's all off but the fireworks! Now, break loose!"

A peculiarity about the "rabbit" was the fact that though it felt aslight as the regulation league ball it could not be thrown with thesame speed and to curve it was an impossibility. 

Bane hit the first delivery from our hoosier stumbling block. The ballstruck the ground and began to bound toward short. With every bound itwent swifter, longer and higher, and it bounced clear over theshortstop's head. Lake chopped one in front of the plate, and itrebounded from the ground straight up so high that both runners weresafe before it came down. 

Doran hit to the pitcher. The ball caromed his leg, scooted fiendishlyat the second baseman, and tried to run up all over him like a tamesquirrel. Bases full!

Hathaway got a safe fly over the infield and two runs tallied. Thepitcher, in spite of the help of the umpire, could not locate the platefor 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 strucka wall. Doran scored, and still the bases were filled. 

The laboring pitcher began to get rattled; he could not find his usualspeed; he knew it, but evidently could not account for it. 

When I came to bat, indications were not wanting that the Canadian teamwould 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 forhim. I swung on that one, and trotted round the bases behind therunners while the center and left fielders chased the ball. 

Gillinger weighed nearly two hundred pounds, and he got all his weightunder the "rabbit. " It went so high that we could scarcely see it. All the infielders rushed in, and after staggering around, with headsbent 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; whenBane's hit proved as elusive as a flitting shadow; when Lake's linerknocked the pitcher flat, and Doran's fly leaped high out of the centerfielder's glove--then those earnest, simple, country ballplayersrealized something was wrong. But they imagined it was in themselves, and after a short spell of rattles, they steadied up and tried harderthan ever. The motions they went through trying to stop that jumpingjackrabbit of a ball were ludicrous in the extreme. 

Finally, through a foul, a short fly, and a scratch hit to first, theyretired the side and we went into the field with the score 14 to 2 inour favor. 

But Merritt had not found it possible to get the "rabbit" out of play!

We spent a fatefully anxious few moments squabbling with the umpire andcaptain over the "rabbit. " At the idea of letting those herculeanrailsplitters have a chance to hit the rubber ball we felt our bloodrun cold. 

"But this ball has a rip in it, " blustered Gillinger. He liedatrociously. A microscope could not have discovered as much as ascratch in that smooth leather. 

"Sure it has, " supplemented Merritt, in the suave tones of a stagevillain. "We're used to playing with good balls. "

"Why did you ring this one in on us?" asked the captain. "We neverthrew out this ball. We want a chance to hit it. "

That was just the one thing we did not want them to have. But fateplayed against us. 

"Get up on your toes, now an' dust, " said Merritt. "Take yourmedicine, you lazy sit-in-front-of-the-hotel stiffs! Think of pay day!"

Not improbably we all entertained the identical thought that old manHathaway was the last pitcher under the sun calculated to be effectivewith the "rabbit. " He never relied on speed; in fact, Merritt oftenscornfully accused him of being unable to break a pane of glass; heused principally what we called floaters and a change of pace. Bothstyles were absolutely impractical with the "rabbit. "

"It's comin' to us, all right, all right!" yelled Deerfoot to me, across the intervening grass. I was of the opinion that it did nottake any genius to make Deerfoot's ominous prophecy. 

Old man Hathaway gazed at Merritt on the bench as if he wished themanager could hear what he was calling him and then at hisfellow-players as if both to warn and beseech them. Then he pitched the"rabbit. "

Crack!

The big lumbering Canadian rapped the ball at Crab Bane. I did not seeit, because it went so fast, but I gathered from Crab's actions that itmust have been hit in his direction. At any rate, one of his legsflopped out sidewise as if it had been suddenly jerked, and he fell ina heap. The ball, a veritable "rabbit" in its wild jumps, headed on forDeerfoot, who contrived to stop it with his knees. 

The next batter resembled the first one, and the hit likewise, only itleaped wickedly at Doran and went through his hands as if they had beenpaper. The third man batted up a very high fly to Gillinger. Heclutched 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 grass, and hurledit at Hathaway, showed his anger. 

Obviously Hathaway had to stop the throw, for he could not get out ofthe road, and he spoke to his captain in what I knew were nocomplimentary terms. 

Thus began retribution. Those husky lads continued to hammer the"rabbit" at the infielders and as it bounced harder at every bounce sothey batted harder at every bat. 

Another singular feature about the "rabbit" was the seemingimpossibility for professionals to hold it. Their familiarity with it, their understanding of its vagaries and inconsistencies, their mortaldread made fielding it a much more difficult thing than for theiropponents. 

By way of variety, the lambasting Canadians commenced to lambast a fewover the hills and far away, which chased Deerfoot and me until ourtongues lolled out. 

Every time a run crossed the plate the motley crowd howled, roared, danced and threw up their hats. The members of the batting teampranced up and down the side lines, giving a splendid imitation ofcannibals celebrating the occasion of a feast. 

Once Snead stooped down to trap the "rabbit, " and it slipped throughhis legs, for which his comrades jeered him unmercifully. Then abrawny batter sent up a tremendously high fly between short and third. 

"You take it!" yelled Gillinger to Bane. 

"You take it!" replied the Crab, and actually walked backward. Thatball went a mile high. The sky was hazy, gray, the most perplexing inwhich to judge a fly ball. An ordinary fly gave trouble enough in thegauging. 

Gillinger wandered around under the ball for what seemed an age. Itdropped as swiftly as a rocket shoots upward. Gillinger went forwardin a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up his broad hands. Hemisjudged the ball, and it hit him fairly on the head and bouncedalmost to where Doran stood at second. 

Our big captain wilted. Time was called. But Gillinger, when he cameto, refused to leave the game and went back to third with a lump on hishead as large as a goose egg. 

Every one of his teammates was sorry, yet every one howled in glee. Tobe hit on the head was the unpardonable sin for a professional. 

Old man Hathaway gradually lost what little speed he had, and with ithis nerve. Every time he pitched the "rabbit" he dodged. That wasabout the funniest and strangest thing ever seen on a ball field. Yetit had an element of tragedy. 

Hathaway's expert contortions saved his head and body on diversoccasions, but presently a low bounder glanced off the grass andmanifested an affinity for his leg. 

We all knew from the crack and the way the pitcher went down that the"rabbit" had put him out of the game. The umpire called time, andMerritt came running on the diamond. 

"Hard luck, old man, " said the manager. "That'll make a green andyellow spot all right. Boys, we're still two runs to the good. There'sone out, an' we can win yet. Deerfoot, you're as badly crippled asHathaway. The bench for yours. Hooker will go to center, an' I'llpitch. "

Merritt's idea did not strike us as a bad one. He could pitch, and healways kept his arm in prime condition. We welcomed him into the frayfor two reasons--because he might win the game, and because he might beovertaken by the baseball Nemesis. 

While Merritt was putting on Hathaway's baseball shoes, some of usendeavored to get the "rabbit" away from the umpire, but he was toowise. 

Merritt received the innocent-looking ball with a look of mingleddisgust and fear, and he summarily ordered us to our positions. 

Not far had we gone, however, when we were electrified by the umpire'ssharp words:

"Naw! Naw, you don't. I saw you change the ball I gave you fer one inyour 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 andfished the "rabbit" from his pocket. Our thwarted manager stutteredhis wrath. "Y-you be-be-wh-whiskered y-yap! I'll g-g-give----"

What dire threat he had in mind never materialized, for he becamespeechless. He glowered upon the cool little umpire, and then turnedgrandly toward the plate. 

It may have been imagination, yet I made sure Merritt seemed to shrinkand grow smaller before he pitched a ball. For one thing the plate wasuphill from the pitcher's box, and then the fellow standing thereloomed up like a hill and swung a bat that would have served as a wagontongue. No wonder Merritt evinced nervousness. Presently he whirledand delivered the ball. 

Bing!

A dark streak and a white puff of dust over second base showed how safethat hit was. By dint of manful body work, Hooker contrived to stopthe "rabbit" in mid-center. Another run scored. Human nature wasproof against this temptation, and Merritt's players tendered himmanifold congratulations and dissertations. 

"Grand, you old skinflint, grand!"

"There was a two-dollar bill stickin' on thet hit. Why didn't you stopit?"

"Say, Merritt, what little brains you've got will presently be ridin'on the 'rabbit. '"

"You will chase up these exhibition games!"

"Take your medicine now. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

After these merciless taunts, and particularly after the next slashinghit that tied the score, Merritt looked appreciably smaller and humbler. 

He threw up another ball, and actually shied as it neared the plate. 

The giant who was waiting to slug it evidently thought better of hiseagerness as far as that pitch was concerned, for he let it go by. 

Merritt got the next ball higher. With a mighty swing, the batsman hita terrific liner right at the pitcher. 

Quick as lightning, Merritt wheeled, and the ball struck him with thesound of two boards brought heavily together with a smack. 

Merritt did not fall; he melted to the ground and writhed while therunners scored with more tallies than they needed to win. 

What did we care! Justice had been done us, and we were unutterablyhappy. Crabe Bane stood on his head; Gillinger began a war dance; oldman 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 intotypical expressions of baseball frenzy, and individual onesillustrating our particular moods. 

Merritt got up and made a dive for the ball. With face positivelyflaming he flung it far beyond the merry crowd, over into a swamp. Then he limped for the bench. Which throw ended the most memorablegame ever recorded to the credit of the "rabbit. "

FALSE COLORS

"Fate has decreed more bad luck for Salisbury in Saturday's game withBellville. It has leaked out that our rivals will come overstrengthened 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 collegeyear, and we are not optimistic in our predictions as to what Salisburycan do with him. This appears a rather unfair procedure for Bellvilleto 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 andbrilliant; the deciding game has roused unusual interest. We areinclined to resent Bellville's methods as unsportsmanlike. All ourplayers can do is to go into this game on Saturday and try the harderto win. "

Wayne laid down the Salisbury Gazette, with a little laugh ofamusement, yet feeling a vague, disquieting sense of something akin toregret. 

"Pretty decent of that chap not to roast me, " he soliloquized. 

Somewhere he had heard that Salisbury maintained an unsalaried team. It was notorious among college athletes that the Bellville Club paidfor the services of distinguished players. And this in itself ratherinclined Wayne to sympathize with Salisbury. He knew something of thestruggles of a strictly amateur club to cope with its semi-professionalrivals. 

As he was sitting there, idly tipped back in a comfortable chair, dreaming over some of the baseball disasters he had survived before hiscollege career, he saw a young man enter the lobby of the hotel, speakto the clerk, and then turn and come directly toward the window whereWayne was sitting. 

"Are yon Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher?" he asked eagerly. He was afair-haired, clean-cut young fellow, and his voice rang pleasantly. 

"Guilty, " replied Wayne. 

"My name's Huling. I'm captain of the Salisbury nine. Just learnedyou were in town and are going to pitch against us tomorrow. Won't youwalk out into the grounds with me now? You might want to warm up alittle. "

"Thank you, yes, I will. Guess I won't need my suit. I'll just limberup, and give my arm a good rub. "

It struck Wayne before they had walked far that Huling was an amiableand likable chap. As the captain of the Salisbury nine, he certainlyhad no reason to be agreeable to the Morristown "ringer, " even thoughWayne did happen to be a famous Yale pitcher. 

The field was an oval, green as an emerald, level as a billiard tableand had no fences or stands to obstruct the open view of thesurrounding wooded country. On each side of the diamond were rows ofwooden benches, and at one end of the field stood a little clubhouse. 

Wayne took off his coat, and tossed a ball for a while to an ambitiousyoungster, and then went into the clubhouse, where Huling introducedhim to several of his players. After a good rubdown, Wayne thankedHuling for his courtesy, and started out, intending to go back to town. 

"Why not stay to see us practice?" asked the captain. "We're notafraid you'll size up our weaknesses. As a matter of fact, we don'tlook forward to any hitting stunts tomorrow, eh, Burns? Burns, here, is our leading hitter, and he's been unusually noncommittal since heheard who was going to pitch for Bellville. "

"Well, I wouldn't give a whole lot for my prospects of a home runtomorrow, " said Burns, with a laugh. 

Wayne went outside, and found a seat in the shade. A number of urchinshad trooped upon the green field, and carriages and motors were alreadyin evidence. By the time the players came out of the dressing room, ready for practice, there was quite a little crowd in attendance. 

Despite Wayne's hesitation, Huling insisted upon introducing him tofriends, 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 oneto whom Huling presented him--with the words: "Dorothy, this is Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher, who is to play with Bellville tomorrow; Mr. Wayne, my sister"--was the girl he had known he would meet some day. 

"Climb up, Mr. Wayne. We can make room, " invited Miss Huling. 

Wayne thought the awkwardness with which he found a seat beside her wasunbecoming to a Yale senior. But, considering she was the girl he hadbeen expecting to discover for years, his clumsiness bespoke theimportance of the event. The merry laughter of the girls rang in hisears. Presently, a voice detached itself from the others, and camefloating softly to him. 

"Mr. Wayne, so you're going to wrest our laurels from us?" asked MissHuling. 

"I don't know--I'm not infallible--I've been beaten. "

"When? Not this season?" she inquired quickly, betraying a knowledgeof his record that surprised and pleased him. "Mr. Wayne, I was at thePolo Grounds on June fifteenth. "

Her white hand lightly touched the Princeton pin at her neck. Wayneroused suddenly out of his trance. The girl was a Princeton girl! Thegleam of her golden hair, the flash of her blue eyes, became clear insight. 

"I'm very pleased to hear it, " he replied. 

"It was a great game, Mr. Wayne, and you may well be proud of your partin winning it. I shouldn't be surprised if you treated the Salisburyteam to the same coat of whitewash. We girls are up in arms. Our boysstood a fair chance to win this game, but now there's a doubt. By theway, are you acquainted in Bellville?"

"No. I met Reed, the Bellville captain, in New York this week. He hadalready gotten an extra pitcher--another ringer--for this game, but hesaid he preferred me, if it could be arranged. "

While conversing, Wayne made note of the fact that the other girlsstudiously left him to Miss Huling. If the avoidance had not been somarked, he would never have thought of it. 

"Mr. Wayne, if your word is not involved--will you change your mind andpitch tomorrow's game for us instead of Bellville?"

Quite amazed, Wayne turned squarely to look at Miss Huling. Instead ofdisarming his quick suspicion, her cool, sweet voice, and brave, blueeyes confirmed it. The charms of the captain's sister were to be usedto win him away from the Bellville nine. He knew the trick; it hadbeen 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 withhim, to use her eyes for all they were worth to encompass the Waterlooof the rival team. 

No, he had made a mistake, after all--she was not the real girl. Suddenly conscious of a little shock of pain, he dismissed that dreamgirl from his mind, and determined to meet Miss Huling half way in hergame. He could not flirt as well as he could pitch; still, he was nonovice. 

"Well, Miss Huling, my word certainly is not involved. But as topitching for Salisbury--that depends. "

"Upon what?"

"Upon what there is in it. "

"Mr. Wayne, you mean--money? Oh, I know. My brother Rex told me howyou college men are paid big sums. Our association will not give adollar, and, besides, my brother knows nothing of this. But we girlsare heart and soul on winning this game. We'll----"

"Miss Huling, I didn't mean remuneration in sordid cash, " interruptedWayne, in a tone that heightened the color in her cheeks. 

Wayne eyed her keenly with mingled emotions. Was that rose-leaf flushin her cheeks natural? Some girls could blush at will. Were thewistful eyes, the earnest lips, only shamming? It cost him somebitterness to decide that they were. Her beauty fascinated, while ithardened him. Eternally, the beauty of women meant the undoing of men, whether they played the simple, inconsequential game of baseball, orthe great, absorbing, mutable game of life. 

The shame of the situation for him was increasingly annoying, inasmuchas this lovely girl should stoop to flirtation with a stranger, and thesame time draw him, allure him, despite the apparent insincerity. 

"Miss Huling, I'll pitch your game for two things, " he continued. 

"Name them. "

"Wear Yale blue in place of that orange-and-black Princeton pin. "

"I will. " She said it with a shyness, a look in her eyes that madeWayne wince. What a perfect little actress! But there seemed just achance that this was not deceit. For an instant he wavered, held backby subtle, finer intuition; then he beat down the mounting influence oftruth in those dark-blue eyes, and spoke deliberately:

"The other thing is--if I win the game--a kiss. "

Dorothy Huling's face flamed scarlet. But this did not affect Wayne sodeeply, though it showed him his mistake, as the darkening shadow ofdisappointment in her eyes. If she had been a flirt, she would havebeen prepared for rudeness. He began casting about in his mind forsome apology, some mitigation of his offense; but as he was about tospeak, the sudden fading of her color, leaving her pale, and the lookin her proud, dark eyes disconcerted him out of utterance. 

"Certainly, Mr. Wayne. I agree to your price if you win the game. "

But how immeasurable was the distance between the shy consent to wearYale 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 theboys standing near, and he started off on a run for the field. Presently Huling and the other players broke for the car, soonsurrounding it in breathless anticipation. 

"Wayne, is it straight? You'll pitch for us tomorrow?" demanded thecaptain, with shining eyes. 

"Surely I will. Bellville don't need me. They've got Mackay, ofGeorgetown, " replied Wayne. 

Accustomed as he was to being mobbed by enthusiastic students andadmiring friends, Wayne could not but feel extreme embarrassment at thereception accorded him now. He felt that he was sailing under falsecolors. The boys mauled him, the girls fluttered about him with gladlaughter. He had to tear himself away; and when he finally reached hishotel, he went to his room, with his mind in a tumult. 

Wayne cursed himself roundly; then he fell into deep thought. He beganto hope he could retrieve the blunder. He would win the game; he wouldexplain to her the truth; he would ask for an opportunity to prove hewas worthy of her friendship; he would not mention the kiss. This lastthought called up the soft curve of her red lips and that it waspossible 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 thecountry. After lunch he dodged the crowd in the hotel lobby, andhurried upstairs, where he put on his baseball suit. The first personhe met upon going down was Reed, the Bellville man. 

"What's this I hear, Wayne, about your pitching for Salisbury today? Igot your telegram. "

"Straight goods, " replied Wayne. 

"But I thought you intended to pitch for us?"

"I didn't promise, did I?"

"No. Still, it looks fishy to me. "

"You've got Mackay, haven't you?"

"Yes. The truth is, I intended to use you both. "

"Well, I'll try to win for Salisbury. Hope there's no hard feeling. "

"Not at all. Only if I didn't have the Georgetown crack, I'd yellmurder. As it is, we'll trim Salisbury anyway. "

"Maybe, " answered Wayne, laughing. "It's a hot day, and my arm feelsgood. "

When Wayne reached the ball grounds, he thought he had never seen amore inspiring sight. The bright green oval was surrounded by aglittering mass of white and blue and black. Out along the foul lineswere carriages, motors, and tally-hos, brilliant with waving fans andflags. Over the field murmured the low hum of many voices. 

"Here you are!" cried Huling, making a grab for Wayne. "Where were youthis morning? We couldn't find you. Come! We've got a minute beforethe practice whistle blows, and I promised to exhibit you. "

He hustled Wayne down the first-base line, past the cheering crowd, outamong the motors, to the same touring car that he remembered. A bevyof white-gowned girls rose like a covey of ptarmigans, and whirledflags of maroon and gray. 

Dorothy Huling wore a bow of Yale blue upon her breast, and Wayne sawit and her face through a blur. 

"Hurry, girls; get it over. We've got to practice, " said the captain. 

In the merry melee some one tied a knot of ribbon upon Wayne. Who itwas 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 hewould make her indifference disappear with the gladness of a victoryfor her team. 

The practice was short, but long enough for Wayne to locate the glaringweakness of Salisbury at shortstop and third base. In fact, most ofthe players of his team showed rather poor form; they wereoverstrained, and plainly lacked experience necessary for steadiness inan important game. 

Burns, the catcher, however, gave Wayne confidence. He was a short, sturdy youngster, with all the earmarks of a coming star. Huling, thecaptain, handled himself well at first base. The Bellville playerswere more matured, and some of them were former college cracks. Waynesaw that he had his work cut out for him. 

The whistle blew. The Bellville team trotted to their position in thefield; the umpire called play, and tossed a ball to Mackay, the long, lean Georgetown pitcher. 

Wells, the first batter, fouled out; Stamford hit an easy bounce to thepitcher, and Clews put up a little Texas leaguer--all going out, one, two, three, on three pitched balls. 

The teams changed from bat to field. Wayne faced the plate amidvociferous cheering. He felt that he could beat this team even withoutgood support. He was in the finest condition, and his arm had beenresting for ten days. He knew that if he had control of his highinshoot, these Bellville players would feel the whiz of some speedunder their chins. 

He struck Moore out, retired Reed on a measly fly, and made Clark hit aweak grounder to second; and he walked in to the bench assured of theoutcome. On some days he had poor control; on others his drop ballrefused to work properly; but, as luck would have it, he had never hadgreater speed or accuracy, or a more bewildering fast curve than onthis day, when he meant to win a game for a girl. 

"Boys, I've got everything, " he said to his fellow-players, callingthem around him. "A couple of runs will win for us. Now, listen, Iknow Mackay. He hasn't any speed, or much of a curve. All he's got isa teasing slow ball and a foxy head. Don't be too anxious to hit. Makehim put 'em over. "

But the Salisbury players were not proof against the tempting slowballs that Mackay delivered. They hit at wide curves far off the plateand when they did connect with the ball it was only to send an easychance to the infielders. 

The game seesawed along, inning after inning; it was a pitcher's battlethat looked as if the first run scored would win the game. Mackaytoyed with the Salisbury boys; it was his pleasure to toss up twisting, floating balls that could scarcely be hit out of the diamond. Waynehad the Bellville players utterly at his mercy; he mixed up his highjump and fast drop so cleverly, with his sweeping out-curve, that hisopponents were unable to gauge his delivery at all. 

In the first of the seventh, Barr for Bellville hit a ball which thethird baseman should have fielded. But he fumbled. The second battersent a fly to shortstop, who muffed it. The third hitter reached hisbase on another error by an infielder. Here the bases were crowded, and the situation had become critical all in a moment. Wayne believedthe infield would go to pieces, and lose the game, then and there, ifanother hit went to short or third. 

"Steady up, boys, " called Wayne, and beckoned for his catcher. 

"Burns, it's up to you and me, " he said, in a low tone. "I've got tofan the rest of these hitters. You're doing splendidly. Now, watchclose for my drop. Be ready to go down on your knees. When I letmyself out, the ball generally hits the ground just back of the plate. "

"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 wholeBellville contingent on the side lines rose and yelled and cheered. 

Moore was a left handed hitter, who choked his bat up short, and pokedat the ball. He was a good bunter, and swift on his feet. Wayne hadtaken his measure, as he had that of the other players, earlier in thegame; and he knew it was good pitching to keep the ball in close toMoore's hands, so that if he did hit it, the chances were it would notgo safe. 

Summoning all his strength, Wayne took his long swing and shot the ballover the inside corner with terrific speed. 

One strike!

Wayne knew it would not do to waste any balls if he wished to maintainthat speed, so he put the second one in the same place. Moore strucktoo late. 

Two strikes!

Then Burns signed for the last drop. Wayne delivered it withtrepidation, for it was a hard curve to handle. Moore fell all overhimself trying to hit it. Little Burns dropped to his knees to blockthe vicious curve. It struck the ground, and, glancing, boomed deep onthe breast protector. 

How the Salisbury supporters roared their approval! One man out--thebases full--with Reed, the slugging captain, at bat!

If Reed had a weakness, Wayne had not discovered it yet, although Reedhad not hit safely. The captain stood somewhat back from the plate, afact that induced Wayne to try him with the speedy outcurve. Reedlunged with a powerful swing, pulling away from the plate, and hemissed the curve by a foot. 

Wayne did not need to know any more. Reed had made his reputationslugging straight balls from heedless pitchers. He chopped the airtwice more, and flung his bat savagely to the ground. 

"Two out--play the hitter!" called Wayne to his team. 

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 ofhis 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 crowdroared, and then groaned, for the beautiful hit went foul by severalyards. Wayne wisely decided to risk all on his fast drop. Clarkmissed the first, fouled the second. 

Two strikes!

Then he waited. He cooly let one, two, three of the fast drops go bywithout attempting to hit them. Burns valiantly got his body in frontof them. These balls were all over the plate, but too low to be calledstrikes. With two strikes, and three balls, and the bases full, Clarkhad the advantage. 

Tight as the place was, Wayne did not flinch. The game dependedpractically upon the next ball delivered. Wayne craftily and daringlydecided to use another fast drop, for of all his assortment that wouldbe the one least expected by Clark. But it must be started higher, sothat in case Clark made no effort to swing, it would still be a strike. 

Gripping the ball with a clinched hand, Wayne swung sharply, and droveit home with the limit of his power. It sped like a bullet, waisthigh, and just before reaching the plate darted downward, as if it hadglanced on an invisible barrier. 

Clark was fooled completely and struck futilely. But the ball caromedfrom the hard ground, hit Burns with a resounding thud, and bouncedaway. Clark broke for first, and Moore dashed for home. Like a tigerthe little catcher pounced upon the ball, and, leaping back into line, blocked the sliding Moore three feet from the plate. 

Pandemonium burst loose among the Salisbury adherents. The men bawled, the women screamed, the boys shrieked, and all waved their hats andflags, and jumped up and down, and manifested symptoms of baseballinsanity. 

In the first of the eighth inning, Mackay sailed up the balls likeballoons, and disposed of three batters on the same old weak hits tohis clever fielders. In the last of the eighth, Wayne struck out threemore Bellville players. 

"Burns, you're up, " said Wayne, who, in his earnestness to win, keptcheering 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 andreceived another bruise in the interests of his team. The opposingplayers furiously stormed at the umpire for giving him his base, butBurns' trick went through. Burnett bunted skilfully, sending Burns tosecond. Cole hit a fly to center. Then Huling singled between shortand third. 

It became necessary for the umpire to delay the game while he put themadly leaping boys back off the coaching lines. The shrill, hilariouscheering gradually died out, and the field settled into a forced quiet. 

Wayne hurried up to the plate and took his position. He had alwaysbeen a timely hitter, and he gritted his teeth in his resolve to settlethis 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 met it squarely. 

The ball flew safely over short, and but for a fine sprint and stop bythe left fielder, would have resulted in a triple, possibly a home run. As it was, Burns and Huling scored; and Wayne, by a slide, reachedsecond base. When he arose and saw the disorderly riot, and heard thenoise of that well-dressed 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 lookedout across the field toward a white-crowned motor car, and he caught agleam of Dorothy Huling's golden hair, and wondered if she were glad. 

For nothing short of the miraculous could snatch this game from himnow. Burns had withstood a severe pounding, but he would last out theinning, and Wayne did not take into account the rest of the team. Heopened up with no slackening of his terrific speed, and he struck outthe three remaining batters on eleven pitched balls. Then in the risingdin he ran for Burns and gave him a mighty hug. 

"You made the gamest stand of any catcher I ever pitched to, " he saidwarmly. 

Burns looked at his quivering, puffed, and bleeding hands, and smiledas if to say that this was praise to remember, and reward enough. Thenthe crowd swooped down on them, and they were swallowed up in theclamor and surge of victory. When Wayne got out of the thick and pressof it, he made a bee line for his hotel, and by running a gauntletmanaged to escape. 

Resting, dressing, and dining were matters which he went throughmechanically, with his mind ever on one thing. Later, he found a darkcorner of the porch and sat there waiting, thinking. There was to be adance given in honor of the team that evening at the hotel. He watchedthe boys and girls pass up the steps. When the music commenced, hearose and went into the hall. It was bright with white gowns, and gaywith movement. 

"There he is. Grab him, somebody, " yelled Huling. 

"Do something for me, quick, " implored Wayne of the captain, as he sawthe young people wave toward him. 

"Salisbury is yours tonight, " replied Huling

"Ask your sister to save me one dance. "

Then he gave himself up. He took his meed of praise and flattery, andhe withstood the battery of arch eyes modestly, as became the winner ofmany fields. But even the reception after the Princeton game paled incomparison with this impromptu dance. 

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 facecrowned with golden hair. Then he was making his way to where shestood near one of the open windows. 

He never knew what he said to her, nor what reply she made, but she puther arm in his, and presently they were gliding over the polishedfloor. To Wayne the dance was a dream. He led her through the halland out upon the balcony, where composure strangely came to him. 

"Mr. Wayne, I have to thank you for saving the day for us. You pitchedmagnificently. "

"I would have broken my arm to win that game, " burst out Wayne. "MissHuling, I made a blunder yesterday. I thought there was a conspiracyto persuade me to throw down Bellville. I've known of such things, andI resented it. You understand what I thought. I humbly offer myapologies, and beg that you forget the rude obligation I forced uponyou. "

How cold she was! How unattainable in that moment! He caught hisbreath, and rushed on. 

"Your brother and the management of the club have asked me to pitch forSalisbury the remainder of the season. I shall be happy to--if----"

"If what?" She was all alive now, flushing warmly, dark eyes alight, the girl of his dreams. 

"If you will forgive me--if you will let me be your friend--if--MissHuling, you will again wear that bit of Yale blue. "

"If, Mr. Wayne, you had very sharp eyes you would have noticed that Istill wear it!"

THE MANAGER OF MADDEN'S HILL

Willie Howarth loved baseball. He loved it all the more because he wasa cripple. The game was more beautiful and wonderful to him because hewould never be able to play it. For Willie had been born with one legshorter than the other; he could not run and at 11 years of age it wasall he could do to walk with a crutch. 

Nevertheless Willie knew more about baseball than any other boy onMadden's Hill. An uncle of his had once been a ballplayer and he hadtaught Willie the fine points of the game. And this uncle's ballplayerfriends, who occasionally visited him, had imparted to Willie thevernacular of the game. So that Willie's knowledge of players andplay, and particularly of the strange talk, the wild and whirling wordson the lips of the real baseball men, made him the envy of every boy onMadden's Hill, and a mine of information. Willie never missedattending the games played on the lots, and he could tell why they werewon or lost. 

Willie suffered considerable pain, mostly at night, and this had givenhim a habit of lying awake in the dark hours, grieving over thatcrooked leg that forever shut him out of the heritage of youth. He hadkept his secret well; he was accounted shy because he was quiet and hadnever been able to mingle with the boys in their activity. No oneexcept his mother dreamed of the fire and hunger and pain within hisbreast. His school-mates called him "Daddy. " It was a name given forhis bent shoulders, his labored gait and his thoughtful face, too oldfor his years. And no one, not even his mother, guessed how that namehurt Willie. 

It was a source of growing unhappiness with Willie that the Madden'sHill boys were always beaten by the other teams of the town. He reallycame to lose his sadness over his own misfortune in pondering on thewretched play of the Madden's Hill baseball club. He had all a boy'spride in the locality where he lived. And when the Bogg's Farm teamadministered a crushing defeat to Madden's Hill, Willie grew desperate. 

Monday he met Lane Griffith, the captain of the Madden's Hill nine. 

"Hello, Daddy, " said Lane. He was a big, aggressive boy, and in a wayhad a fondness for Willie. 

"Lane, you got an orful trimmin' up on the Boggs. What 'd you wanterlet them country jakes beat you for?"

"Aw, Daddy, they was lucky. Umpire had hay-seed in his eyes! Robbedus! He couldn't see straight. We'll trim them down here Saturday. "

"No, you won't--not without team work. Lane, you've got to have amanager. "

"Durn it! Where 're we goin' to get one?" Lane blurted out. 

"You can sign me. I can't play, but I know the game. Let me coach theboys. "

The idea seemed to strike Capt. Griffith favorably. He prevailed uponall the boys living on Madden's Hill to come out for practice afterschool. Then he presented them to the managing coach. The boys wereinclined to poke fun at Daddy Howarth and ridicule him; but the ideawas a novel one and they were in such a state of subjection from manybeatings that they welcomed any change. Willie sat on a benchimprovised from a soap box and put them through a drill of batting andfielding. The next day in his coaching he included bunting andsliding. He played his men in different positions and for three moredays he drove them unmercifully. 

When Saturday came, the day for the game with Bogg's Farm, a wildprotest went up from the boys. Willie experienced his first bitternessas a manager. Out of forty aspirants for the Madden's Hill team hecould choose but nine to play the game. And as a conscientious managerhe could use no favorites. Willie picked the best players and assignedthem 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 himslated to catch. Tom Lindsay's feelings were hurt because he was not toplay in the infield. Eddie Curtis suffered a fall in pride when hediscovered he was not down to play second base. Jake Thomas, Tay-TayMohler and Brick Grace all wanted to pitch. The manager had chosenFrank Price for that important position, and Frank's one ambition wasto be a shortstop. 

So there was a deadlock. For a while there seemed no possibility of agame. Willie sat on the bench, the center of a crowd of discontented, quarreling boys. Some were jealous, some were outraged, some tried topacify and persuade the others. All were noisy. Lane Griffith stoodby his manager and stoutly declared the players should play thepositions to which they had been assigned or not at all. And he wasentering into a hot argument with Tom Lindsay when the Bogg's Farm teamarrogantly put in an appearance. 

The way that team from the country walked out upon the field made agreat difference. The spirit of Madden's Hill roused to battle. Thegame began swiftly and went on wildly. It ended almost before the Hillboys realized it had commenced. They did not know how they had won butthey gave Daddy Howarth credit for it. They had a bonfire that nightto celebrate the victory and they talked baseball until their parentsbecame alarmed and hunted them up. 

Madden's Hill practiced all that next week and on Saturday beat theSeventh Ward team. In four more weeks they had added half a dozen morevictories to their record. Their reputation went abroad. They gotuniforms, and baseball shoes with spikes, and bats and balls andgloves. They got a mask, but Sam Wickhart refused to catch with it. 

"Sam, one of these days you'll be stoppin' a high inshoot with youreye, " sagely remarked Daddy Howarth. "An' then where'll I get acatcher for the Natchez game?"

Natchez was the one name on the lips of every Madden's Hill boy. ForNatchez had the great team of the town and, roused by the growingrepute of the Hill club, had condescended to arrange a game. When thatgame was scheduled for July Fourth Daddy Howarth set to driving hismen. Early and late he had them out. This manager, in keeping with allother famous managers, believed that batting was the thing which wongames. He developed a hard-hitting team. He kept everlastingly atthem to hit and run, hit and run. 

On the Saturday before the Fourth, Madden's Hill had a game to playthat did not worry Daddy and he left his team in charge of the captain. 

"Fellers, I'm goin' down to the Round House to see Natchez play. I'llsize up their game, " said Daddy. 

When he returned he was glad to find that his team had won its ninthstraight victory, but he was not communicative in regard to the playingof the Natchez club. He appeared more than usually thoughtful. 

The Fourth fell on Tuesday. Daddy had the boys out Monday and he letthem take only a short, sharp practice. Then he sent them home. In hisown mind, Daddy did not have much hope of beating Natchez. He had beengreatly impressed by their playing, and one inning toward the close ofthe Round House game they had astonished him with the way they suddenlyseemed to break loose and deluge their opponents in a flood of hits andruns. He could not understand this streak of theirs--for they did thesame thing every time they played--and he was too good a baseballstudent to call it luck. 

He had never wanted anything in his life, not even to have two goodlegs, as much as he wanted to beat Natchez. For the Madden's Hill boyshad come to believe him infallible. He was their idol. They imaginedthey had only to hit and run, to fight and never give up, and Daddywould make them win. There was not a boy on the team who believed thatNatchez had a chance. They had grown proud and tenacious of theirdearly won reputation. First of all, Daddy thought of his team andtheir loyalty to him; then he thought of the glory lately come toMadden's Hill, and lastly of what it meant to him to have risen from alonely watcher of the game--a cripple who could not even carry abat--to manager of the famous Hill team. It might go hard with the boysto lose this game, but it would break his heart. 

From time out of mind there had always been rivalry between Madden'sHill and Natchez. And there is no rivalry so bitter as that betweenboys. So Daddy, as he lay awake at night planning the system of play hewanted to use, left out of all account any possibility of a peacefulgame. It was comforting to think that if it came to a fight Sam andLane could hold their own with Bo Stranathan and Slugger Blandy. 

In the managing of his players Daddy observed strict discipline. Itwas no unusual thing for him to fine them. On practice days and offthe field they implicitly obeyed him. During actual play, however, they had evinced a tendency to jump over the traces. It had been hisorder for them not to report at the field Tuesday until 2 o'clock. Hefound it extremely difficult to curb his own inclination to startbefore the set time. And only the stern duty of a man to be an exampleto his players kept Daddy at home. 

He lived near the ball grounds, yet on this day, as he hobbled along onhis crutch, he thought the distance interminably long, and for thefirst time in weeks the old sickening resentment at his useless legknocked at his heart. Manfully Daddy refused admittance to that oldgloomy visitor. He found comfort and forgetfulness in the thought thatno strong and swift-legged boy of his acquaintance could do what hecould 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 inattendance, and, besides, there was a sprinkling of grown-up peopleinterspersed here and there around the diamond. Applause greetedDaddy's appearance and members of his team escorted him to the soap-boxbench. 

Daddy cast a sharp eye over the Natchez players practicing on thefield. Bo Stranathan had out his strongest team. They were not aprepossessing nine. They wore soiled uniforms that did not match incut or color. But they pranced and swaggered and strutted! They wereboastful and boisterous. It was a trial for any Madden's Hill boy justto watch them. 

"Wot a swelled bunch!" exclaimed Tom Lindsay. 

"Fellers, if Slugger Blandy tries to pull any stunt on me today he'llget a swelleder nut, " growled Lane Griffith. 

"T-t-t-t-t-te-te-tell him t-t-t-to keep out of m-m-m-my way an' notb-b-b-b-bl-block me, " stuttered Tay-Tay Mohler. 

"We're a-goin' to skin 'em, " said Eddie Curtis. 

"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 withNatchez--had 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 totalk to Muck. Call him a big swelled stiff. Tell him he can't break apane of glass--tell him he can't put one over the pan--tell him it hedoes you'll slam it down in the sand bank. Bluff the whole team. Keepscrappy all the time. See! That's my game today. This Natchez bunchneeds to be gone after. Holler at the umpire. Act like you want tofight. "

Then Daddy sent his men out for practice. 

"Boss, enny ground rules?" inquired Bo Stranathan. He was a big, bushy-haired boy with a grin and protruding teeth. "How many bases onwild throws over first base an' hits over the sand bank?"

"All you can get, " replied Daddy, with a magnanimous wave of hand. 

"Huh! Lemmee see your ball?"

Daddy produced the ball that he had Lane had made for the game. 

"Huh! Watcher think? We ain 't goin' to play with no mush ball likethet, " protested Bo. "We play with a hard ball. Looka here! We'lltrow up the ball. "

Daddy remembered what he had heard about the singular generosity of theNatchez team to supply the balls for the games they played. 

"We don't hev to pay nothin' fer them balls. A man down at the RoundHouse makes them for us. They ain't no balls as good, " explained Bo, with pride. 

However, as Bo did not appear eager to pass over the balls forexamination Daddy simply reached out and took them. They were small, perfectly round and as hard as bullets. They had no covers. The yarnhad been closely and tightly wrapped and then stitched over with finebees-waxed thread. Daddy fancied he detected a difference in theweight of the ball, but Bo took them back before Daddy could be sure ofthat 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 grounds an' we'll use our ownball. Thanks all the same to you, Stranathan. "

"Huh! All I gotta say is we'll play with my ball er there won't be nogame, " said Bo suddenly. 

Daddy shrewdly eyed the Natchez captain. Bo did not look like a fellowwearing himself thin from generosity. It struck Daddy that Bo's habitof supplying the ball for the game might have some relation to the factthat he always carried along his own umpire. There was a strangefeature about this umpire business and it was that Bo's man had earneda reputation for being particularly fair. No boy ever had any realreason to object to Umpire Gale's decisions. When Gale umpired awayfrom the Natchez grounds his close decisions always favored the otherteam, 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 keep your gang of rooters fromcrowdin' on the diamond. "

"Boss, it's your grounds. Fire 'em off if they don't suit you. .. . Come on, let's git in the game. Watcher want--field er bat?"

"Field, " replied Daddy briefly. 

Billy Gale called "Play, " and the game began with Slugger Blandy atbat. The formidable way in which he swung his club did not appear tohave any effect on Frank Price or the player back of him. Frank's mostsuccessful pitch was a slow, tantalizing curve, and he used it. Blandylunged at the ball, missed it and grunted. 

"Frank, you got his alley, " called Lane. 

Slugger fouled the next one high in the air back of the plate. SamWickhart, the stocky bowlegged catcher, was a fiend for running afterfoul flies, and now he plunged into the crowd of boys, knocking themright and left, and he caught the ball. Whisner came up and hit safelyover Griffith, whereupon the Natchez supporters began to howl. Kellysent a grounder to Grace at short stop. Daddy's weak player made apoor throw to first base, so the runner was safe. Then Bo Stranathanbatted a stinging ball through the infield, scoring Whisner. 

"Play the batter! Play the batter!" sharply called Daddy from thebench. 

Then Frank struck out Molloy and retired Dundon on an easy fly. 

"Fellers, git in the game now, " ordered Daddy, as his players eagerlytrotted in. "Say things to that Muckle Harris! We'll walk throughthis game like sand through a sieve. "

Bob Irvin ran to the plate waving his bat at Harris. 

"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 suchbantering. Obviously he was not used to it. His face grew red and hishair waved up. Swinging hard, he threw the ball straight at Bob'shead. Quick as a cat, Bob dropped flat. 

"Never touched me!" he chirped, jumping up and pounding the plate withhis bat. "You couldn't hit a barn door. Come on. I'll paste one amile!"

Bob did not get an opportunity to hit, for Harris could not locate theplate and passed him to first on four balls. 

"Dump the first one, " whispered Daddy in Grace's ear. Then he gave Boba 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, whocould not recover in time to throw, and Bob got to second base. Atthis juncture, the Madden's Hill band of loyal supporters opened upwith a mingling of shrill yells and whistles and jangling of tin cansfilled with pebbles. Grace hit the next ball into second base and, while he was being thrown out, Bob raced to third. With Sam Wickhartup it looked good for a score, and the crowd yelled louder. Sam wasawkward yet efficient, and he batted a long fly to right field. Thefielder muffed the ball. Bob scored, Sam reached second base, and thecrowd yelled still louder. Then Lane struck out and Mohler hit toshortstop, retiring the side. 

Natchez scored a run on a hit, a base on balls, and another error byGrace. Every time a ball went toward Grace at short Daddy groaned. Intheir half of the inning Madden's Hill made two runs, increasing thescore 3 to 2. 

The Madden's Hill boys began to show the strain of such a closecontest. 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 theother hand, Madden's Hill hit Muck Harris hard, but superb fieldingkept runners off the bases. As Daddy's team became more tense andexcited Bo Stranathan's players grew steadier and more arrogantlyconfident. Daddy saw it with distress, and he could not realize justwhere Natchez had license for such confidence. Daddy watched the gamewith the eyes of a hawk. 

As the Natchez players trooped in for their sixth inning at bat, Daddyobserved a marked change in their demeanor. Suddenly they seemed tohave been let loose; they were like a band of Indians. Daddy saweverything. He did not miss seeing Umpire Gale take a ball from hispocket and toss it to Frank, and Daddy wondered if that was the ballwhich had been in the play. Straightway, however, he forgot that inthe interest of the game. 

Bo Stranathan bawled: "Wull, Injuns, hyar's were we do 'em. We'vejest ben loafin' along. Git ready to tear the air, you rooters!"

Kelly hit a wonderfully swift ball through the infield. Bo batted outa single. Malloy got up in the way of one of Frank's pitches, and waspassed to first base. Then, as the Natchez crowd opened up in shrillclamor, the impending disaster fell. Dundon hit a bounder down intothe infield. The ball appeared to be endowed with life. It boundedlow, then high and, cracking into Grace's hands, bounced out and rolledaway. The runners raced around the bases. 

Pickens sent up a tremendous fly, the highest ever batted on Madden'sHill. 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 hecould not judge it. He ran round in a little circle, with hands up inbewilderment. And when the ball dropped it hit him on the head andbounded away. 

"Run, you Injun, run!" bawled Bo. "What'd I tell you? We ain't got'em goin', oh, no! Hittin' 'em on the head!"

Bill dropped a slow, teasing ball down the third-base line. JakeThomas ran desperately for it, and the ball appeared to strike hishands and run up his arms and caress his nose and wrap itself round hisneck and then roll gently away. All the while, the Natchez runnerstore wildly about the bases and the Natchez supporters screamed andwhistled. Muck Harris could not bat, yet he hit the first ball and itshot like a bullet over the infield. Then Slugger Blandy came to theplate. 

The ball he sent out knocked Grace's leg from under him as if it were aten-pin. Whisner popped a fly over Tay Tay Mohler's head. Now Tay Taywas fat and slow, but he was a sure catch. He got under the ball. Itstruck his hands and jumped back twenty feet up into the air. It was astrangely live ball. Kelly again hit to shortstop, and the ballappeared to start slow, to gather speed with every bound and at last todart low and shoot between Grace's legs. 

"Haw! Haw!" roared Bo. "They've got a hole at short. Hit fer thehole, fellers. Watch me! Jest watch me!"

And he swung hard on the first pitch. The ball glanced like a streakstraight at Grace, took a vicious jump, and seemed to flirt with theinfielder's hands, only to evade them. 

Malloy fouled a pitch and the ball hit Sam Wickhart square over theeye. Sam's eye popped out and assumed the proportions and color of ahuge plum. 

"Hey!" yelled Blandy, the rival catcher. "Air you ketchin' with yermug?"

Sam would not delay the game nor would he don the mask. 

Daddy sat hunched on his soap-box, and, as in a hateful dream, he sawhis famous team go to pieces. He put his hands over his ears to shutout some of the uproar. And he watched that little yarn ball fly andshoot and bound and roll to crush his fondest hopes. Not one of hisplayers appeared able to hold it. And Grace had holes in his hands andlegs and body. The ball went right through him. He might as well havebeen 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 jack-rabbit, and went swifter and higher at every bound. It was here, there, everywhere. 

And it became an infernal ball. It became endowed with a fiendishpropensity to run up a player's leg and all about him, as if trying tohide in his pocket. Grace's efforts to find it were heartbreaking towatch. Every time it bounded out to center field, which was offrequent occurrence, Tom would fall on it and hug it as if he weretrying to capture a fleeing squirrel. Tay Tay Mohler could stop theball, but that was no great credit to him, for his hands took no partin 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 Taysaw it coming he dropped on his knees and valorously sacrificed hisanatomy to the cause of the game. 

Daddy tried not to notice the scoring of runs by his opponents. But hehad 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 wenton, a terrible fusilade of wicked ground balls that baffled any attemptto field them. Then, with nineteen runs scored, Natchez appeared totire. Sam caught a foul fly, and Tay Tay, by obtruding his wide personto the path of infield hits, managed to stop them, and throw out therunners. 

Score--Natchez, 21; Madden Hill, 3. 

Daddy's boys slouched and limped wearily in. 

"Wot kind of a ball's that?" panted Tom, as he showed his head with abruise as large as a goose-egg. 

"T-t-t-t-ta-ta-tay-tay-tay-tay----" began Mohler, in great excitement, but as he could not finish what he wanted to say no one caught hismeaning. 

Daddy's watchful eye had never left that wonderful, infernal littleyarn ball. Daddy was crushed under defeat, but his baseball brainsstill continued to work. He saw Umpire Gale leisurely step into thepitcher's box, and leisurely pick up the ball and start to make amotion to put it in his pocket. 

Suddenly fire flashed all over Daddy. 

"Hyar! Don't hide that ball!" he yelled, in his piercing tenor. 

He jumped up quickly, forgetting his crutch, and fell headlong. Laneand Sam got him upright and handed the crutch to him. Daddy began tohobble out to the pitcher's box. 

"Don't you hide that ball. See! I've got my eye on this game. Thatball was in play, an' you can't use the other. "

Umpire Gale looked sheepish, and his eyes did not meet Daddy's. ThenBo came trotting up. 

"What's wrong, boss?" he asked. 

"Aw, nuthin'. You're tryin' to switch balls on me. That's all. Youcan't pull off any stunts on Madden's Hill. "

"Why, boss, thet ball's all right. What you hollerin' about?"

"Sure that ball's all right, " replied Daddy. "It's a fine ball. An' wewant a chanst to hit it! See?"

Bo flared up and tried to bluster, but Daddy cut him short. 

"Give us our innin'--let us git a whack at that ball, or I'll run youoff Madden's Hill. "

Bo suddenly looked a little pale and sick. 

"Course youse can git a whack at it, " he said, in a weak attempt to benatural and dignified. 

Daddy tossed the ball to Harris, and as he hobbled off the field heheard Bo calling out low and cautiously to his players. Then Daddy wascertain 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 youwhat. Last innin' Bo's umpire switched balls on us. That ball waslively. An' they tried to switch back on me. But nix! We're goin' togit a chanst to hit that lively ball, An' they're goin' to git a doseof their own medicine. Now, you dead ones--come back to life! Show mesome hittin' an' runnin'. "

"Daddy, you mean they run in a trick on us?" demanded Lane, withflashing eyes. 

"Funny about Natchez's strong finishes!" replied Daddy, coolly, as heeyed his angry players. 

They let out a roar, and then ran for the bats. 

The crowd, quick to sense what was in the air, thronged to the diamondand manifested alarming signs of outbreak. 

Sam Wickhart leaped to the plate and brandished his club. 

"Sam, let him pitch a couple, " called Daddy from the bench. "Mebbewe'll git wise then. "

Harris had pitched only twice when the fact became plain that he couldnot throw this ball with the same speed as the other. The ball washeavier; besides Harris was also growing tired. The next pitch Sam hitfar out over the center fielder's head for a home run. It was a longerhit than any Madden's Hill boy had ever made. The crowd shrieked itsdelight. 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 chanstto roast us now. Slam the first ball!"

The aggressive captain lined the ball at Bo Stranathan. The Natchezshortstop had a fine opportunity to make the catch, but he made aninglorious muff. Tay Tay hurried to bat. Umpire Gale called the firstpitch a strike. Tay slammed down his club. "T-t-t-t-to-to-twasn'tover, " he cried. "T-t-t-tay----"

"Shut up, " yelled Daddy. "We want to git this game over today. "

Tay Tay was fat and he was also strong, so that when beef and muscleboth went hard against the ball it traveled. It looked as if it weregoing a mile straight up. All the infielders ran to get under it. They got into a tangle, into which the ball descended. No one caughtit, and thereupon the Natchez players began to rail at one another. Bostormed at them, and they talked back to him. Then when Tom Lindsay hita little slow grounder into the infield it seemed that a justretribution had overtaken the great Natchez team. 

Ordinarily this grounder of Tom's would have been easy for a novice tofield. But this peculiar grounder, after it has hit the ground once, seemed to wake up and feel lively. It lost its leisurely action andbegan to have celerity. When it reached Dundon it had the strange, jerky speed so characteristic of the grounders that had confused theMadden's Hill team. Dundon got his hands on the ball and it would notstay in them. When finally he trapped it Tom had crossed first baseand another runner had scored. Eddie Curtis cracked another at Bo. The Natchez captain dove for it, made a good stop, bounced after therolling ball, and then threw to Kelly at first. The ball knockedKelly's hands apart as if they had been paper. Jake Thomas batted lefthanded and he swung hard on a slow pitch and sent the ball far intoright field. Runners scored. Jake's hit was a three-bagger. ThenFrank Price hit up an infield fly. Bo yelled for Dundon to take it andDundon yelled for Harris. They were all afraid to try for it. Itdropped safely while Jake ran home. 

With the heavy batters up the excitement increased. A continuousscream and incessant rattle of tin cans made it impossible to hear whatthe umpire called out. But that was not important, for he seldom had achance to call either ball or strike. Harris had lost his speed andnearly every ball he pitched was hit by the Madden's Hill boys. Irvinecracked one down between short and third. Bo and Pickens ran for itand collided while the ball jauntily skipped out to left field and, deftly evading Bell, went on and on. Bob reached third. Grace hitanother at Dundon, who appeared actually to stop it four times beforehe could pick it up, and then he was too late. The doughty bow-leggedSam, 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 hecould not fool a one-eyed batter. But Sam swooped down and upon thefirst ball and drove it back toward the pitcher. Muck could not getout of the way and the ball made his leg buckle under him. Then thathit glanced off to begin a marvelous exhibition of high and erraticbounding about the infield. 

Daddy hunched over his soap-box bench and hugged himself. He wasfarsighted and he saw victory. Again he watched the queer antics ofthat little yarn ball, but now with different feelings. Every hitseemed to lift him to the skies. He kept silent, though every time theball fooled a Natchez player Daddy wanted to yell. And when it startedfor Bo and, as if in revenge, bounded wickeder at every bounce to skipoff the grass and make Bo look ridiculous, then Daddy experienced thehappiest moments of his baseball career. Every time a tally crossedthe plate he would chalk it down on his soap box. 

But when Madden's Hill scored the nineteenth run without a player beingput out, then Daddy lost count. He gave himself up to revel. He satmotionless and silent; nevertheless his whole internal being was in thestate of wild tumult. It was as if he was being rewarded in joy forall the misery he had suffered because he was a cripple. He could neverplay baseball, but he had baseball brains. He had been too wise forthe tricky Stranathan. He was the coach and manager and general of thegreat Madden's Hill nine. If ever he had to lie awake at night again hewould not mourn over his lameness; he would have something to thinkabout. To him would be given the glory of beating the invincibleNatchez team. So Daddy felt the last bitterness leave him. And hewatched that strange little yarn ball, with its wonderful skips anddarts and curves. The longer the game progressed and the wearierHarris grew, the harder the Madden's Hill boys batted the ball and thecrazier it bounced at Bo and his sick players. Finally, Tay Tay Mohlerhit a teasing grounder down to Bo. 

Then it was as if the ball, realizing a climax, made ready for a finalspurt. When Bo reached for the ball it was somewhere else. Dundoncould not locate it. And Kelly, rushing down to the chase, fell allover himself and his teammates trying to grasp the illusive ball, andall the time Tay Tay was running. He never stopped. But as he washeavy and fat he did not make fast time on the bases. Frantically theoutfielders ran in to head off the bouncing ball, and when they hadsucceeded Tay Tay had performed the remarkable feat of making a homerun on a ball batted into the infield. 

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 Samhad pounced upon it and given it safely to Daddy. Bo made one sullendemand for it. 

"Funny about them fast finishes of yours!" said Daddy scornfully. "Say! the ball's our'n. The winnin' team gits the ball. Go home an'look up the rules of the game!"

Bo slouched off the field to a shrill hooting and tin canning. 

"Fellers, what was the score?" asked Daddy. 

Nobody knew the exact number of runs made by Madden's Hill. 

"Gimme a knife, somebody, " said the manager. 

When it had been produced Daddy laid down the yarn ball and cut intoit. The blade entered readily for a inch and then stopped. Daddy cutall around the ball, and removed the cover of tightly wrapped yarn. Inside was a solid ball of India rubber. 

"Say! it ain't so funny now--how that ball bounced, " remarked Daddy. 

"Wot you think of that!" exclaimed Tom, feeling the lump on his head. 

"T-t-t-t-t-t-t-ta-tr----" began Tay Tay Mohler. 

"Say it! Say it!" interrupted Daddy. 

"Ta-ta-ta-tr-trimmed them wa-wa-wa-wa-with their ownb-b-b-b-b-ba-ba-ball, " finished Tay. 

OLD WELL-WELL

He bought a ticket at the 25-cent window, and edging his huge bulkthrough the turnstile, laboriously followed the noisy crowd toward thebleachers. I could not have been mistaken. He was Old Well-Well, famous from Boston to Baltimore as the greatest baseball fan in theEast. His singular yell had pealed into the ears of five hundredthousand worshippers of the national game and would never be forgotten. 

At sight of him I recalled a friend's baseball talk. "You remember OldWell-Well? He's all in--dying, poor old fellow! It seems young Burt, whom the Phillies are trying out this spring, is Old Well-Well's nephewand protege. Used to play on the Murray Hill team; a speedy youngster. When the Philadelphia team was here last, Manager Crestline announcedhis intention to play Burt in center field. Old Well-Well was too illto see the lad get his tryout. He was heart-broken and said: 'If Icould only see one more game!'"

The recollection of this random baseball gossip and the fact thatPhiladelphia was scheduled to play New York that very day, gave me asudden desire to see the game with Old Well-Well. I did not know him, but where on earth were introductions as superfluous as on thebleachers? It was a very easy matter to catch up with him. He walkedslowly, leaning hard on a cane and his wide shoulders sagged as hepuffed along. I was about to make some pleasant remark concerning theprospects of a fine game, when the sight of his face shocked me and Idrew back. If ever I had seen shadow of pain and shade of death theyhovered darkly around Old Well-Well. 

No one accompanied him; no one seemed to recognize him. The majorityof that merry crowd of boys and men would have jumped up wild withpleasure to hear his well-remembered yell. Not much longer than a yearbefore, I had seen ten thousand fans rise as one man and roar agreeting to him that shook the stands. So I was confronted by asituation strikingly calculated to rouse my curiosity and sympathy. 

He found an end seat on a row at about the middle of the right-fieldbleachers and I chose one across the aisle and somewhat behind him. Noplayers were yet in sight. The stands were filling up and streams ofmen were filing into the aisles of the bleachers and piling over thebenches. Old Well-Well settled himself comfortably in his seat andgazed about him with animation. There had come a change to his massivefeatures. The hard lines had softened; the patches of gray were nolonger visible; his cheeks were ruddy; something akin to a smile shoneon his face as he looked around, missing no detail of the familiarscene. 

During the practice of the home team Old Well-Well sat still with hisbig hands on his knees; but when the gong rang for the Phillies, hegrew restless, squirming in his seat and half rose several times. Idivined the importuning of his old habit to greet his team with theyell that had made him famous. I expected him to get up; I waited forit. Gradually, however, he became quiet as a man governed by severeself-restraint and directed his attention to the Philadelphia centerfielder. 

At a glance I saw that the player was new to me and answered thenewspaper description of young Burt. What a lively looking athlete!He was tall, lithe, yet sturdy. He did not need to chase more than twofly balls to win me. His graceful, fast style reminded me of the greatCurt Welch. Old Well-Well's face wore a rapt expression. I discoveredmyself hoping Burt would make good; wishing he would rip the boards offthe fence; praying he would break up the game. 

It was Saturday, and by the time the gong sounded for the game to beginthe grand stand and bleachers were packed. The scene was glittering, colorful, a delight to the eye. Around the circle of bright facesrippled a low, merry murmur. The umpire, grotesquely padded in frontby his chest protector, announced the batteries, dusted the plate, andthrowing out a white ball, sang the open sesame of the game: "Play!"

Then Old Well-Well arose as if pushed from his seat by some strongpropelling force. It had been his wont always when play was ordered orin a moment of silent suspense, or a lull in the applause, or adramatic pause when hearts heat high and lips were mute, to bawl outover the listening, waiting multitude his terrific blast:"Well-Well-Well!"

Twice he opened his mouth, gurgled and choked, and then resumed hisseat with a very red, agitated face; something had deterred him fromhis purpose, or he had been physically incapable of yelling. 

The game opened with White's sharp bounder to the infield. Wesley hadthree strikes called on him, and Kelly fouled out to third base. ThePhillies did no better, being retired in one, two, three order. Thesecond inning was short and no tallies were chalked up. Brain hitsafely in the third and went to second on a sacrifice. The bleachersbegan to stamp and cheer. He reached third on an infield hit that thePhiladelphia short-stop knocked down but could not cover in time tocatch either runner. The cheer in the grand stand was drowned by theroar in the bleachers. Brain scored on a fly-ball to left. A doublealong the right foul line brought the second runner home. Followingthat the next batter went out on strikes. 

In the Philadelphia half of the inning young Burt was the first man up. He stood left-handed at the plate and looked formidable. Duveen, thewary old pitcher for New York, to whom this new player was an unknownquantity, eyed his easy position as if reckoning on a possibleweakness. Then he took his swing and threw the ball. Burt never moveda muscle and the umpire called strike. The next was a ball, the next astrike; still Burt had not moved. 

"Somebody wake him up!" yelled a wag in the bleachers. "He's fromSlumbertown, all right, all right!" shouted another. 

Duveen sent up another ball, high and swift. Burt hit straight over thefirst baseman, a line drive that struck the front of the right-fieldbleachers. 

"Peacherino!" howled a fan. 

Here the promise of Burt's speed was fulfilled. Run! He was fleet as adeer. He cut through first like the wind, settled to a driving stridesrounded 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 hima generous hand-clapping. 

Old Well-Well appeared on the verge of apoplexy. His ruddy face turnedpurple, then black; he rose in his seat; he gave vent to smotheredgasps; 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, withthe chances against retiring a runner at the plate. Philadelphia couldnot tally again that inning. New York blanked in the first of thenext. For their opponents, an error, a close decision at secondfavoring the runner, and a single to right tied the score. Bell of NewYork got a clean hit in the opening of the fifth. With no one out andchances for a run, the impatient fans let loose. Four subway trains incollision would not have equalled the yell and stamp in the bleachers. Maloney was next to bat and he essayed a bunt. This the fans deridedwith hoots and hisses. No team work, no inside ball for them. 

"Hit it out!" yelled a hundred in unison. 

"Home run!" screamed a worshipper of long hits. 

As if actuated by the sentiments of his admirers Maloney lined the ballover short. It looked good for a double; it certainly would advanceBell to third; maybe home. But no one calculated on Burt. Hisfleetness enabled him to head the bounding ball. He picked it upcleanly, and checking his headlong run, threw toward third base. Bellwas half way there. The ball shot straight and low with terrific forceand beat the runner to the bag. 

"What a great arm!" I exclaimed, deep in my throat. "It's the lad'sday! He can't be stopped. "

The keen newsboy sitting below us broke the amazed silence in thebleachers. 

"Wot d'ye tink o' that?"

Old Well-Well writhed in his seat. To him if was a one-man game, as ithad come to be for me. I thrilled with him; I gloried in the makinggood of his protege; it got to be an effort on my part to look at theold man, so keenly did his emotion communicate itself to me. 

The game went on, a close, exciting, brilliantly fought battle. Bothpitchers were at their best. The batters batted out long flies, lowliners, and sharp grounders; the fielders fielded these difficultchances without misplay. Opportunities came for runs, but no runs werescored for several innings. Hopes were raised to the highest pitchonly to be dashed astonishingly away. The crowd in the grand standswayed to every pitched ball; the bleachers tossed like surf in a storm. 

To start the eighth, Stranathan of New York tripled along the left foulline. Thunder burst from the fans and rolled swellingly around thefield. Before the hoarse yelling, the shrill hooting, the hollowstamping had ceased Stranathan made home on an infield hit. Thenbedlam broke loose. It calmed down quickly, for the fans sensedtrouble between Binghamton, who had been thrown out in the play, andthe umpire who was waving him back to the bench. 

"You dizzy-eyed old woman, you can't see straight!" called Binghamton. 

The umpire's reply was lost, but it was evident that the offendingplayer had been ordered out of the grounds. 

Binghamton swaggered along the bleachers while the umpire slowlyreturned to his post. The fans took exception to the player'sobjection and were not slow in expressing it. Various witty enconiums, not to be misunderstood, attested to the bleachers' love of fair playand their disgust at a player's getting himself put out of the game ata critical stage. 

The game proceeded. A second batter had been thrown out. Then twohits in succession looked good for another run. White, the nextbatter, sent a single over second base. Burt scooped the ball on thefirst bounce and let drive for the plate. It was another extraordinarythrow. Whether ball or runner reached home base first was mostdifficult to decide. The umpire made his sweeping wave of hand and thebreathless crowd caught his decision. 

"Out!"

In action and sound the circle of bleachers resembled a long curvedbeach with a mounting breaker thundering turbulently high. 

"Rob--b--ber--r!" bawled the outraged fans, betraying their marvelousinconsistency. 

Old Well-Well breathed hard. Again the wrestling of his body signifiedan inward strife. I began to feel sure that the man was in a mingledtorment of joy and pain, that he fought the maddening desire to yellbecause he knew he had not the strength to stand it. Surely, in allthe years of his long following of baseball he had never had theincentive to express himself in his peculiar way that rioted him now. Surely, before the game ended he would split the winds with hiswonderful yell. 

Duveen's only base on balls, with the help of a bunt, a steal, and ascratch hit, resulted in a run for Philadelphia, again tying the score. How the fans raged at Fuller for failing to field the lucky scratch. 

"We had the game on ice!" one cried. 

"Get him a basket!"

New York men got on bases in the ninth and made strenuous efforts tocross the plate, but it was not to be. Philadelphia opened up with twoscorching hits and then a double steal. Burt came up with runners onsecond and third. Half the crowd cheered in fair appreciation of theway fate was starring the ambitious young outfielder; the other half, dyed-in-the-wool home-team fans, bent forward in a waiting silent gloomof fear. Burt knocked the dirt out of his spikes and faced Duveen. The second ball pitched he met fairly and it rang like a bell. 

No one in the stands saw where it went. But they heard the crack, sawthe New York shortstop stagger and then pounce forward to pick up theball and speed it toward the plate. The catcher was quick to tag theincoming runner, and then snap the ball to first base, completing adouble play. 

When the crowd fully grasped this, which was after an instant ofbewilderment, a hoarse crashing roar rolled out across the field tobellow back in loud echo from Coogan's Bluff. The grand standresembled a colored corn field waving in a violent wind; the bleacherslost all semblance of anything. Frenzied, flinging action--wildchaos--shrieking cries--manifested sheer insanity of joy. 

When the noise subsided, one fan, evidently a little longer-winded thanhis comrades, cried out hysterically:

"O-h! I don't care what becomes of me--now-w!"

Score tied, three to three, game must go ten innings--that was theshibboleth; that was the overmastering truth. The game did go teninnings--eleven--twelve, every one marked by masterly pitching, full ofmagnificent catches, stops and throws, replete with recklessbase-running and slides like flashes in the dust. But they wereunproductive of runs. Three to three! Thirteen innings!

"Unlucky thirteenth, " wailed a superstitious fan. 

I had got down to plugging, and for the first time, not for my hometeam. I wanted Philadelphia to win, because Burt was on the team. With Old Well-Well sitting there so rigid in his seat, so obsessed bythe playing of the lad, I turned traitor to New York. 

White cut a high twisting bounder inside the third base, and before theball could be returned he stood safely on second. The fans howled withwhat husky voice they had left. The second hitter batted atremendously high fly toward center field. Burt wheeled with the crackof the ball and raced for the ropes. Onward the ball soared like asailing 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 ropesinto the crowd. White had leisurely trotted half way to third; he sawthe catch, ran back to touch second and then easily made third on thethrow-in. The applause that greeted Burt proved the splendid spirit ofthe game. Bell placed a safe little hit over short, scoring White. Heaving, bobbing bleachers--wild, broken, roar on roar!

Score four to three--only one half inning left for Philadelphia toplay--how the fans rooted for another run! A swift double-play, however, ended the inning. 

Philadelphia's first hitter had three strikes called on him. 

"Asleep at the switch!" yelled a delighted fan. 

The next batter went out on a weak pop-up fly to second. 

"Nothin' to it!"

"Oh, I hate to take this money!"

"All-l o-over!"

Two men at least of all that vast assemblage had not given up victoryfor Philadelphia. I had not dared to look at Old Well-Well for a long, while. I dreaded the nest portentious moment. I felt deep within mesomething like clairvoyant force, an intangible belief fostered by hope. 

Magoon, the slugger of the Phillies, slugged one against the left fieldbleachers, but, being heavy and slow, he could not get beyond secondbase. Cless swung with all his might at the first pitched ball, andinstead of hitting it a mile as he had tried, he scratched a mean, slow, teasing grounder down the third base line. It was as safe as ifit had been shot out of a cannon. Magoon went to third. 

The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities; sharp commands camefrom the players' bench. The Philadelphia team were bowling andhopping on the side lines, and had to be put down by the umpire. 

An inbreathing silence fell upon stands and field, quiet, like a lullbefore a storm. 

When I saw young Burt start for the plate and realized it was his turnat bat, I jumped as if I had been shot. Putting my hand on OldWell-Well's shoulder I whispered: "Burt's at bat: He'll break up thisgame! I know he's going to lose one!"

The old fellow did not feel my touch; he did not hear my voice; he wasgazing toward the field with an expression on his face to which nohuman speech could render justice. He knew what was coming. It couldnot be denied him in that moment. 

How confidently young Burt stood up to the plate! None except anatural hitter could have had his position. He might have been Wagnerfor all he showed of the tight suspense of that crisis. Yet there wasa tense alert poise to his head and shoulders which proved he was aliveto his opportunity. 

Duveen plainly showed he was tired. Twice he shook his head to hiscatcher, as if he did not want to pitch a certain kind of ball. He hadto use extra motion to get his old speed, and he delivered a highstraight ball that Burt fouled over the grand stand. The second ballmet a similar fate. All the time the crowd maintained that strangewaiting silence. The umpire threw out a glistening white ball, whichDuveen rubbed in the dust and spat upon. Then he wound himself up intoa knot, slowly unwound, and swinging with effort, threw for the plate. 

Burt's lithe shoulders swung powerfully. The meeting of ball and batfairly cracked. The low driving hit lined over second a risingglittering streak, and went far beyond the center fielder. 

Bleachers and stands uttered one short cry, almost a groan, and thenstared at the speeding runners. For an instant, approaching doom couldnot have been more dreaded. Magoon scored. Cless was rounding secondwhen the ball lit. If Burt was running swiftly when he turned first hehad only got started, for then his long sprinter's stride lengthenedand quickened. At second he was flying; beyond second he seemed tomerge into a gray flitting shadow. 

I gripped my seat strangling the uproar within me. Where was theapplause? The fans were silent, choked as I was, but from a differentcause. Cless crossed the plate with the score that defeated New York;still the tension never laxed until Burt beat the ball home in asbeautiful a run as ever thrilled an audience. 

In the bleak dead pause of amazed disappointment Old Well-Well liftedhis hulking figure and loomed, towered over the bleachers. His wideshoulders spread, his broad chest expanded, his breath whistled as hedrew it in. One fleeting instant his transfigured face shone with aglorious light. Then, as he threw back his head and opened his lips, his face turned purple, the muscles of his cheeks and jaw rippled andstrung, the veins on his forehead swelled into bulging ridges. Eventhe back of his neck grew red. 

"Well!--Well!--Well!!!"

Ear-splitting stentorian blast! For a moment I was deafened. But Iheard the echo ringing from the cliff, a pealing clarion call, beautiful and wonderful, winding away in hollow reverberation, thenbreaking out anew from building to building in clear concatenation. 

A sea of faces whirled in the direction of that long unheard yell. Burt had stopped statue-like as if stricken in his tracks; then he camerunning, darting among the spectators who had leaped the fence. 

Old Well-Well stood a moment with slow glance lingering on the tumultof emptying bleachers, on the moving mingling colors in the grandstand, across the green field to the gray-clad players. He staggeredforward and fell. 

Before I could move, a noisy crowd swarmed about him, some solicitous, many facetious. Young Burt leaped the fence and forced his way into thecircle. Then they were carrying the old man down to the field andtoward the clubhouse. I waited until the bleachers and field wereempty. When I finally went out there was a crowd at the gatesurrounding an ambulance. I caught a glimpse of Old Well-Well. He laywhite and still, but his eyes were open, smiling intently. Young Burthung over him with a pale and agitated face. Then a bell clanged andthe ambulance clattered away.