Pearl Zane Grey 1872 – 1939
Pearl Zane Grey was an American author best
known for his popular adventure novels and stories that presented an
idealized image of the American frontier.
Riders of the Purple Sage
(1912) was his best-selling book. In addition to the success of his
printed works, they later had second lives and continuing influence when
adapted as films and television productions. As of 2012, 112 films, two
television episodes, and a television series, Dick Powell's Zane Grey
Theater, had been made that were based loosely on his novels and short
stories.
LITERARY WORKS
Grey became one of the first millionaire authors. With his veracity
and emotional intensity, he connected with millions of readers
worldwide, during peacetime and war, and inspired many Western writers
who followed him. Zane Grey was a major force in shaping the myths of
the Old West; his books and stories were adapted into other media, such
as film and TV productions. He was the author of more than 90 books,
some published posthumously and/or based on serials originally published in magazines. His total book sales exceed 40 million.
Grey wrote not only Westerns, but two hunting books,
six children’s books, three baseball books, and eight fishing books.
Many of them became bestsellers. It is estimated that he wrote over nine
million words in his career. From
1917 to 1926, Grey was in the top ten best-seller list nine times,
which required sales of over 100,000 copies each time. Even after his
death, Harper had a stockpile of his manuscripts and continued to
publish a new title each year until 1963.During the 1940s and afterward, as Grey's books were reprinted as paperbacks, his sales exploded.
HOLLYWOOD AND OTHER MEDIA
Grey started his association with Hollywood when William Fox bought the rights to Riders of the Purple Sage for $2,500 in 1916.
The ascending arc of Grey’s career matched that of the motion picture
industry. It eagerly adapted Western stories to the screen practically
from its inception, with Bronco Billy Anderson becoming the first major
western star.
Legendary director John Ford was then a young stage hand and William S.
Hart, who had been a real cowhand, was defining the persona of the film
cowboy.The Grey family moved to California to be closer to the film industry and to enable Grey to fish in the Pacific.
After his first two books were adapted to the
screen, Grey formed his own motion picture company. This allowed him to
control production values and faithfulness to his books. After seven
films he sold his company to Jesse Lasky, who was a partner of the
founder of Paramount Pictures. Paramount made a number of movies based
on Grey's writings and hired him as advisor. Many of his films were shot
at locations described in his books.
In 1936 Grey appeared as himself in a feature film shot in Australia, White Death (1936).
Grey became disenchanted by the commercial
exploitation and pirating
of his works. He felt his stories and characters were diluted by being
adapted to film. Nearly fifty of his novels were converted into over one
hundred Western movies, the most by any Western author. Shortly after
Grey's death, the success of Fritz Lang's Western Union (1941), a
film based on one of his books, helped bring about a resurgence in
Hollywood westerns. Its costars were Randolph Scott and Robert Young.
The period of the 1940s and 1950s included the great works of John
Ford, who successfully used the settings of Grey’s novels in Arizona
and Utah.
The success of Grey's The Lone Star Ranger
(a novel later turned into a 1930 film) and King of the Royal Mounted
(popular as a series of Big Little Books and comics, later turned into a
1936 film), inspired two radio series by George Trendle (WXYZ,
Detroit). Later these were adapted again for television, forming the
series The Lone Ranger and Challenge of the Yukon (Sgt. Preston of the Yukon on TV). More of Grey's work was featured in adapted form on the Zane Grey Show,
which ran on the Mutual Broadcasting System for five months in the
1940s, and the “Zane Grey Western Theatre”, which had a five-year run of
145 episodes.
source : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zane_Grey
THE RUBE
It was the most critical time I had yet
experienced in my career as a baseball manager.
And there was more than the usual reason why
I must pull the team out. A chance for a
business deal depended upon the good-will of the
stockholders of the Worcester club. On the
outskirts of the town was a little cottage that I
wanted to buy, and this depended upon the business
deal. My whole future happiness depended
upon the little girl I hoped to install in that
cottage.
Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team,
I had found a strong aggregation and an
enthusiastic following. I really had a team with
pennant possibilities. Providence was a strong
rival, but I beat them three straight in the opening
series, set a fast pace, and likewise set Worcester
baseball mad. The Eastern League clubs
were pretty evenly matched; still I continued to
hold the lead until misfortune overtook me.
Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid
off. Mullaney got spiked while sliding and was
out of the game. Ashwell sprained his ankle and
Hirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great
pitcher, hurt his arm on a cold day and he could
not get up his old speed. Stringer, who had
batted three hundred and seventy-one and led the
league the year before, struck a bad spell and
could not hit a barn door handed up to him.
Then came the slump. The team suddenly let
down; went to pieces; played ball that would have
disgraced an amateur nine. It was a trying time.
Here was a great team, strong everywhere. A
little hard luck had dug up a slump and now !
Day by day the team dropped in the race. When
we reached the second division the newspapers
flayed us. Worcester would never stand for a
second division team. Baseball admirers, reporters,
fans especially the fans are fickle. The
admirers quit, the reporters grilled us, and the
fans, though they stuck to the games with that
barnacle-like tenacity peculiar to them, made life
miserable for all of us. I saw the pennant slowly
fading, and the successful season, and the business
deal, and the cottage, and Milly
But when I thought of her I just could not see
failure. Something must be done, but what ? I
was at the end of my wits. When Jersey City
beat us that Saturday, eleven to two, shoving us
down to fifth place with only a few percentage
points above the Fall River team, I grew
desperate, and locking my players in the dressing
room I went after them. They had lain down on
me and needed a jar. I told them so straight and
flat, and being bitter, I did not pick and choose
my words.
"And fellows,'' I concluded, "you've got to
brace. A little more of this and we can't pull out.
I tell you you're a championship team. We had
that pennant cinched. A few cuts and sprains
and hard luck and you all quit ! You lay down !
I've been patient. I've plugged for you. Never
a man have I fined or thrown down. But now I'm
at the end of my string. I'm out to fine you
now, and I'll release the first man who shows
the least yellow. I play no more substitutes.
Crippled or not, you guys have got to get in the
game.''
I waited to catch my breath and expected some
such outburst as managers usually get from criticized
players. But not a word! Then I addressed
some of them personally.
"Gregg, your lay-off ends today. You play
Monday. Mullaney, you've drawn your salary
for two weeks with that spiked foot. If you can't
run on it well, all right, but I put it up to your
good faith. I've played the game and I know
it's hard to run on a sore foot. But you can do it.
Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I 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 it comes look out ! As for me, well, my arm isn't right,
but it's acting these warm days in a way that tells
me it will be soon. It's been worked too hard.
Can't you get another pitcher ? I'm not knocking
Herne or Cairns. They're good for their turn,
but we need a new man to help out. And he must
be a crackerjack if we're to get back to the lead.''
"Where on earth can I find such a pitcher ?'' I
shouted, almost distracted.
"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 I
read in one of the papers. It was a brief mention
of an amateur Worcester ball team being shut
out in a game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsville
played Sunday ball, which gave me an opportunity
to look them over.
It took some train riding and then a journey
by coach to get to Rickettsville. I mingled with
the crowd of talking rustics. There was only one
little ``bleachers'' and this was loaded to the
danger point with the feminine adherents of the
teams. Most of the crowd centered alongside and
back of the catcher's box. I edged in and got a
position just behind the stone that served as home
plate.
Hunting up a player in this way was no new
thing to me. I was too wise to make myself
known before I had sized up the merits of my
man. So, before the players came upon the field
I amused myself watching the rustic fans and
listening to them. Then a roar announced the
appearance of the Rickettsville team and their
opponents, who wore the name of Spatsburg on
their Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms of these
country amateurs would have put a Philadelphia
Mummer's parade to the blush, at least for bright
colors. But after one amused glance I got down
to the stern business of the day, and that was to
discover a pitcher, and failing that, baseball talent
of any kind.
Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the
Rickettsville twirler. He was far over six feet
tall and as lean as a fence rail. He had a great
shock of light hair, a sunburned, sharp-featured
face, wide, sloping shoulders, and arms enormously
long. He was about as graceful and had
about as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow.
"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 as a fox on a scent. What
speed he had! I got round closer to him and
watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a
giant. To be sure, he was lean, rawboned as a
horse, but powerful. What won me at once was
his natural, easy swing. He got the ball away
with scarcely any effort. I wondered what he
could do when he brought the motion of his body
into play.
"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 !'' replied this country youngster.
Evidently my question had thrown some implication
upon this particular player.
"I reckon you be a stranger in these parts,''
said a pleasant old fellow. "His name's Hurtle Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He hain't
lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee !
Never pitched any before, nuther.''
Hurtle ! What a remarkably fitting name !
Rickettsville chose the field and the game began.
Hurtle swung with his easy motion. The ball shot
across like a white bullet. It was a strike, and so
was the next, and the one succeeding. He could
not throw anything but strikes, and it seemed the
Spatsburg players could not make even a foul.
Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little
to me. And I was so fascinated by what I saw in
him that I could hardly contain myself. After
the first few innings I no longer tried to. I yelled
with the Rickettsville rooters. The man was a
wonder. A blind baseball manager could have
seen that. He had a straight ball, shoulder high,
level as a stretched string, and fast. He had a
jump ball, which he evidently worked by putting
on a little more steam, and it was the speediest
thing I ever saw in the way of a shoot. He had a
wide-sweeping outcurve, wide as the blade of a
mowing scythe. And he had a drop an unhittable
drop. He did not use it often, for it made
his catcher dig too hard into the dirt. But whenever
he did I glowed all over. Once or twice he
used an underhand motion and sent in a ball that
fairly swooped up. It could not have been hit
with a board. And best of all, dearest to the
manager's heart, he had control. Every ball he threw
went over the plate. He could not miss it. To
him that plate was as big as a house.
What a find ! Already I had visions of the long-
looked-for brace of my team, and of the pennant,
and the little cottage, and the happy light of a
pair of blue eyes. What he meant to me, that
country pitcher Hurtle ! He shut out the Spatsburg
team without a run or a hit or even a scratch.
Then I went after him. I collared him and his
manager, and there, surrounded by the gaping
players, I bought him and signed him before any
of them knew exactly what I was about. I did
not haggle. I asked the manager what he wanted
and produced the cash; I asked Hurtle what he
wanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand,
paid him in advance, and got his name to the
contract. Then I breathed a long, deep breath; the
first one for weeks. Something told me that with
Hurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern
League pennant. Then I invited all concerned
down to the Rickettsville hotel.
We made connections at the railroad junction
and reached Worcester at midnight in time for a
good sleep. I took the silent and backward
pitcher to my hotel. In the morning we had
breakfast together. I showed him about Worcester
and then carried him off to the ball grounds.
I had ordered morning practice, and as morning
practice is not conducive to the cheerfulness
of ball players, I wanted to reach the dressing
room a little late. When we arrived, all the players
had dressed and were out on the field. I had
some difficulty in fitting Hurtle with a uniform,
and when I did get him dressed he resembled a
two-legged giraffe decked out in white shirt, gray
trousers and maroon stockings.
Spears, my veteran first baseman and captain
of the team, was the first to see us.
"Sufferin' umpires !'' yelled Spears. ``Here,
you Micks! Look at this Con's got with him !''
What a yell burst from that sore and
disgruntled bunch of ball tossers ! My players were
a grouchy set in practice anyway, and today they
were in 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 and a bunt. Here, Hurtle,''
I said, drawing him toward the pitcher's
box, ``don't pay any attention to their talk. That's
only the fun of ball players. Go in now and practice
a little. Lam a few over.''
Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervously
over the ball. I thought it best not to say more
to him, for he had a rather wild look. I remembered
my own stage fright upon my first appearance
in fast company. Besides I knew what my
amiable players would say to him. I had a secret
hope and belief that presently they would yell
upon the other side of the fence.
McCall, my speedy little left fielder, led
off at bat. He was full of ginger, chipper as
a squirrel, sarcastic as only a tried ball player
can be.
"Put 'em over, Slats, put 'em over,'' he called,
viciously swinging his ash.
Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box and
seemed to be rolling something in his mouth.
Then he moved his arm. We all saw the ball
dart down straight that is, all of us except
McCall, because if he had seen it he might have
jumped out of the way. Crack! The ball hit him
on the shin.
McCall shrieked. We all groaned. That crack
hurt all of us. Any baseball player knows how it
hurts to be hit on the shinbone. McCall waved
his bat madly.
"Rube ! Rube ! Rube !'' he yelled.
Then and there Hurtle got the name that was
to cling to him all his baseball days.
McCall went back to the plate, red in the face,
mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every time
Rube pitched a ball. He never even ticked one
and retired in disgust, limping and swearing.
Ashwell was next. He did not show much alacrity.
On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flat
in the dust. The ball whipped the hair of his
head. Rube was wild and I began to get worried.
Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but when
he assayed a bunt the gang yelled derisively at
him.
"What's he got ?'' The old familiar cry of
batters when facing a new pitcher !
Stringer went up, bold and formidable. That
was what made him the great hitter he was. He
loved to bat; he would have faced anybody; he
would have faced even a cannon. New curves
were a fascination to him. And speed for him,
in his own words, was ``apple pie.'' In this
instance, surprise was in store for Stringer. Rube
shot up the straight one, then the wide curve, then
the drop. Stringer missed them all, struck out,
fell down ignominiously. It was the first time
he had fanned that season and he looked dazed.
We had to haul him away.
I called off the practice, somewhat worried
about Rube's showing, and undecided whether or
not to try him in the game that day. So I went
to Radbourne, who had quietly watched Rube
while on the field. Raddy was an old pitcher and
had seen the rise of a hundred stars. I told him
about the game at Rickettsville and what I thought
of Rube, and frankly asked his opinion.
"Con, you've made the find of your life,'' said
Raddy, quietly and deliberately.
This from Radbourne was not only comforting;
it was relief, hope, assurance. I avoided Spears,
for it would hardly be possible for him to regard
the Rube favorably, and I kept under cover until
time to show up at the grounds.
Buffalo was on the ticket for that afternoon,
and the Bisons were leading the race and playing
in topnotch form. I went into the dressing room
while the players were changing suits, because
there was a little unpleasantness that I wanted to
spring on them before we got on the field.
"Boys,'' I said, curtly, "Hurtle works today.
Cut loose, now, and back him 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'm handling this team. We're
in bad, I know, but it's my judgment to pitch Hurtle,
rube or no rube, and it's up to you to back
us. That's the baseball of it.''
Grumbling and muttering, they passed out of
the dressing room. I knew ball players. If Hurtle
should happen to show good form they would
turn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in their
rear. He looked like a man in a trance. I wanted
to speak encouragingly to him, but Raddy told me
to keep quiet.
It was inspiring to see my team practice that
afternoon. There had come a subtle change. I
foresaw one of those baseball climaxes that can
be felt and seen, but not explained. Whether it
was a hint of the hoped-for brace, or only another
flash of form before the final let-down, I had no
means to tell. But I was on edge.
Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, and
I sent my team into the field. When that long,
lanky, awkward rustic started for the pitcher's
box, I thought the bleachers would make him drop
in his tracks. The fans were sore on any one
those days, and a new pitcher was 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 got
it; he hit men, walked men, and fell all over
himself trying to field bunts. The crowd stormed and
railed and hissed. The Bisons pranced round the
bases and yelled like Indians. Finally they retired
with eight runs.
Eight runs ! Enough to win two games ! I
could not have told how it happened. I was sick
and all but crushed. Still I had a blind, dogged
faith in the big rustic. I believed he had not got
started right. It was a trying situation. I called
Spears and Raddy to my side and talked fast.
"It's all off now. Let the dinged rube take his
medicine,'' growled Spears.
"Don't take him out,'' said Raddy. "He's not
shown at all what's in him. The blamed hayseed
is up in the air. He's crazy. He doesn't
know what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may be
scared to death, but he's dead in earnest.''
Suddenly I recalled the advice of the pleasant
old fellow at Rickettsville.
"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 a name
that stirs him up.''
"Well, I'll be dinged! He looks it,'' replied
Spears. ``Here, Rube, get off the bench. Come
here.''
Rube lurched toward us. He seemed to be
walking in his sleep. His breast was laboring and
he was dripping with sweat.
"Who ever told you that you could pitch ?''
asked Spears genially. He was master at baseball
ridicule. I had never yet seen the youngster who
could stand his badinage. He said a few things,
then wound up with: "Come now, you cross
between a hayrack and a wagon tongue, get sore and
do something. Pitch if you can. Show us ! Do
you hear, you tow-headed Pogie!''
Rube jumped as if he had been struck. His face
flamed red and his little 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 you dog-goned well how I can
pitch.''
"Good !'' exclaimed Raddy; and I echoed his
word. Then I went to the bench and turned my
attention to the game. Some one told me that
McCall had made a couple of fouls, and after waiting
for two strikes and three balls had struck
out. Ashwell had beat out a bunt in his old swift
style, and Stringer was walking up to the plate
on the moment. It was interesting, even in a losing
game, to see Stringer go to bat. We all
watched him, as we had been watching him for
weeks, expecting him to break his slump with one
of the drives that had made him famous. Stringer
stood to the left side of the plate, and I could
see the bulge of his closely locked jaw. He swung
on the first pitched ball. With the solid rap we
all rose to watch that hit. The ball lined first,
then soared and did not begin to drop till it was
far beyond the right-field fence. For an instant
we were all still, so were the bleachers. Stringer
had broken his slump with the longest drive ever
made on the grounds. The crowd cheered as he
trotted around the bases behind Ashwell. Two
runs.
"Con, how'd you like that drive ?'' he asked
me, with a bright gleam in his eyes.
"O-h !a beaut !'' I replied, incoherently. The
players on the bench were all as glad as I was.
Henley flew out to left. Mullaney smashed a two-
bagger to right. Then Gregg hit safely, but Mullaney,
in trying to score 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 the box, unmindful of the hooting
crowd and grimly faced Schultz, the first batter
up for the Bisons. This time Rube was deliberate.
And where he had not swung before he now
got his body and arm into full motion. The ball
came in like a glint of light. Schultz looked
surprised. The umpire called "Strike !''
"Wow !'' yelled the Buffalo coacher. Rube sped
up the sidewheeler and Schultz reached wide to
meet it and failed. The third was the lightning
drop, straight over the plate. The batter poked
weakly at it. Then Carl struck out and Manning
following, did likewise. Three of the best hitters
in the Eastern retired on nine strikes! That was
no fluke. I knew what it meant, and I sat there
hugging myself with the hum of something joyous
in my ears.
Gregg had a glow on his sweaty face. "Oh, but
say, boys, take a tip from me ! The Rube's a world
beater! Raddy knew it; he sized up that swing,
and now I know it. Get wise, you its !''
When old Spears pasted a single through shortstop,
the Buffalo manager took Clary out of the
box and put in Vane, their best pitcher. Bogart
advanced the runner to second, but was thrown
out on the play. Then Rube came up. He swung
a huge bat and loomed over the Bison's twirler.
Rube had the look of a hitter. He seemed to be
holding himself back from walking right into the
ball. And he hit one high and far away. The
fast Carl could not get under it, though he made
a valiant effort. Spears scored and Rube's long
strides carried him to third. The cold crowd in
the stands came to life; even the sore bleachers
opened up. McCall dumped a slow teaser down
the line, a hit that would easily have scored Rube,
but he ran a little way, then stopped, tried to get
back, and was easily touched out. Ashwell's hard
chance gave the Bison's shortstop an error, and
Stringer came up with two men on bases. Stringer
hit a foul over the 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' the ball,'' said Spears. Then
to his players: "A little more of that and we're
back in our old shape. All in a minute at 'em
now ! Rube, you dinged 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 more
kinks in his arm and he tried some new balls upon
the Bisons. But whatever he used and wherever
he put them the result was the same--they cut the
plate and the Bisons were powerless.
That inning marked the change in my team.
They had come hack. The hoodoo had vanished.
The championship Worcester team was itself
again.
The Bisons were fighting, too, but Rube had
them helpless. When they did hit a ball one of
my infielders snapped it up. No chances went to
the outfield. I sat there listening to my men, and
reveled in a moment that I 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 team came into its own
again. I sat through it all without another word;
without giving a signal. In a way I realized the
awakening of the bleachers, and heard the pound
of feet and the crash, but it was the spirit of my
team that thrilled me. Next to that the work of
my new find absorbed me. I gloated over his easy,
deceiving swing. I rose out of my seat when he
threw that straight fast ball, swift as a bullet,
true as a plumb line. And when those hard-hitting,
sure bunting Bisons chopped in vain at the
wonderful drop, I choked back a wild 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 to their credit, but not a
runner had got beyond first base. Again Rube
held them safely, one man striking out, another
fouling out, and the third going out on a little fly.
Crash ! Crash ! Crash ! Crash ! The bleachers
were making up for many games in which
they could not express their riotous feelings.
"It's a cinch we'll win !'' yelled a fan with a
voice. Rube was the first man up in our half of
the ninth and his big bat lammed the first ball
safe over second base. The crowd, hungry for
victory, got to their feet and stayed upon their
feet, calling, cheering for runs. It was the moment
for me to get in the game, and I leaped up,
strung like a wire, and white hot with inspiration.
I sent Spears to the coaching box with
orders to make Rube run on the first ball. I
gripped McCall with hands that made him wince.
Then I dropped back on the bench spent and
panting. It was only a game, yet it meant so
much! Little McCall was dark as a thunder cloud,
and his fiery eyes snapped. He was the fastest
man in the league, and could have bunted an
arrow from a bow. The foxy Bison third baseman
edged in. Mac feinted to bunt toward him
then turned his bat inward and dumped a teasing
curving ball down the first base line. Rube ran
as if in seven-league boots. Mac's short legs
twinkled; he went like the wind; he leaped into
first base with his long slide, and beat the
throw.
The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumbling
down. For a moment the air was full of deafening
sound. Then came the pause, the dying away
of clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspended
quiet. Spears' clear voice, as he coached Rube, in
its keen note seemed inevitable of another run.
Ashwell took his stand. He was another left-
hand hitter, and against a right-hand pitcher, in
such circumstances as these, the most dangerous
of men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captain
knew it, as showed plainly in his signal to catch
Rube at second. But Spears' warning held or
frightened Rube on the bag.
Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwell
could not be coaxed. Wearily Vane swung; the
shortstop raced out to get in line for a possible
hit through the wide space to his right,
and the second baseman got on his toes as both
base runners started.
Crack ! The old story of the hit and run game !
Ashwell's hit crossed sharply where a moment
before the shortstop had been standing. With
gigantic strides Rube rounded the corner and
scored. McCall flitted through second, and diving
into third with a cloud of dust, got the umpire's
decision. When Stringer hurried up with Mac
on third and Ash on first the whole field seemed
racked in a deafening storm. Again it subsided
quickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans had
been crushed too often of late for them to be fearless.
But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense
ended. I was like a man clamped in a vise.
Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with the
sprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm
and slowly edged off first. Stringer waited for
one strike and two balls, then he hit the next. It
hugged the first base line, bounced fiercely past
the bag and skipped over the grass to bump hard
into the fence. McCall romped home, and lame
Ashwell beat any run he ever made to the plate.
Rolling, swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feet
could not down the high piercing sustained yell of
the fans. It was great. Three weeks of submerged
bottled baseball joy 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 was broken. This did not
make the Rube let up in their last half inning.
Grim and pale he faced them. At every long step
and swing he tossed his shock of light hair. At
the end he was even stronger than at the beginning.
He still had the glancing, floating airy
quality that baseball players call speed. And he
struck out the last three batters.
In the tumult that burst over my ears I sat
staring at the dots on my score card. Fourteen
strike outs ! one scratch hit ! No base on balls
since the first inning ! That told the story which
deadened senses doubted. There was a roar in
my ears. Some one was pounding me. As I struggled
to get into the dressing room the crowd
mobbed me. But I did not hear what they yelled.
I had a kind of misty veil before my eyes, in
which I saw that lanky Rube magnified into a
glorious figure. I saw the pennant waving, and
the gleam of a white cottage through the trees,
and a trim figure waiting at the gate. Then I
rolled into the dressing room.
Somehow it seemed strange to me. Most of the
players were stretched out in peculiar convulsions.
Old Spears sat with drooping head. Then
a wild flaming-eyed giant swooped upon me. With
a voice of thunder he announced:
"I'm a-goin' to lick you, too !''
After that we never called him any name except
Rube.
THE RUBE'S HONEYMOON
"He's got a new manager. Watch him pitch
now !'' That was what Nan Brown said to me
about Rube Hurtle, my great pitcher, and I took
it as her way of announcing her engagement.
My baseball career held some proud moments,
but this one, wherein I realized the success of my
matchmaking plans, was certainly the proudest
one. So, entirely outside of the honest pleasure
I got out of the Rube's happiness, there was
reason for me to congratulate myself. He was a
transformed man, so absolutely renewed, so wild
with joy, that on the strength of it, I decided the
pennant for Worcester was a foregone conclusion,
and, sure of the money promised me by the
directors, Milly and I began to make plans for
the cottage upon the hill.
The Rube insisted on pitching Monday's game
against the Torontos, and although poor fielding
gave them a couple of runs, they never had a
chance. They could not see the ball. The Rube
wrapped it around their necks and between their
wrists and straight over the plate with such
incredible speed that they might just as well have
tried to bat rifle bullets.
That night I was happy. Spears, my veteran
captain, was one huge smile; Radbourne quietly
assured me that all was over now but the shouting;
all the boys were happy.
And the Rube was the happiest of all. At the
hotel he burst out with his exceeding good
fortune. He and Nan were to be married upon the
Fourth of July !
After the noisy congratulations were over and
the Rube had gone, Spears looked at me and I
looked at him.
"Con,'' said he soberly, ``we just can't let him
get married on the Fourth.''
"Why not ? Sure we can. We'll help him get
married. I tell you it'll save the pennant for us.
Look how he pitched today ! Nan Brown is our
salvation !''
"See here, Con, you've got softenin' of the
brain, too. Where's your baseball sense ? We've
got a pennant to win. By July Fourth we'll be
close to the lead again, an' there's that three
weeks' trip on the road, the longest an' hardest
of the season. We've just got to break even on
that trip. You know what that means. If the
Rube marries Nan--what are we goin' to do? We
can't leave him behind. If he takes Nan with us why it'll be a honeymoon ! An' half the gang
is stuck on Nan Brown ! An' Nan Brown would
flirt in her bridal veil ! . . . Why Con, we're up
against a worse proposition than ever.''
"Good Heavens ! Cap. You're right,'' I
groaned. "I never thought of that. We've got
to postpone the wedding. . . . How on earth can
we ? I've heard her tell Milly that. She'll never
consent to it. Say, this'll drive me to drink.''
"All I got to say is this, Con. If the Rube
takes his wife on that trip it's goin' to be an all-
fired hummer. Don't you forget that.''
"I'm not likely to. But, Spears, the point is
this will the Rube win his games ?''
"Figurin' from his work today, I'd gamble
he'll never lose another game. It ain't that. I'm
thinkin' of what the gang will do to him an' Nan
on the cars an' at the hotels. Oh ! Lord, Con, it
ain't possible to stand for that honeymoon trip !
Just think !''
"If the worst comes to the worst, Cap, I don't
care for anything but the games. If we get in the
lead and stay there I'll stand for anything. . . .
Couldn't the gang be coaxed or bought off to let
the Rube and Nan alone ?''
"Not on your life ! There ain't enough love or
money on earth to stop them. It'll be awful.
Mind, I'm not responsible. Don't you go holdin'
me responsible. In all my years of baseball I
never went on a trip with a bride in the game.
That's new on me, an' I never heard of it. I'd be
bad enough if he wasn't a rube an' if she wasn't
a crazy girl-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 a little while in sober reflection,
and finally came to the conclusion that, in my
desperate ambition to win the pennant, I would
have taken half a dozen rube pitchers and their
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 was possible, and I went out to see
Milly and asked her to help us. But for 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 and commanded,
all to no purpose. Milly intended to go
on that trip to see the 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 as eager
as she was. For my part, I threw anxiety and
care to the four winds, and decided to be as happy
as any of them. The pennant was mine ! Something
kept ringing that in my ears. With the
Rube working his iron arm for the edification of
his proud Nancy Brown, there was extreme likelihood
of divers shut-outs and humiliating defeats
for some Eastern League teams.
How well I calculated became a matter of
baseball history during that last week of June. We
won six straight games, three of which fell to the
Rube's credit. His opponents scored four runs
in the three games, against the nineteen we made.
Upon July 1, Radbourne beat Providence and
Cairns won the second game. We now had a
string of eight victories. Sunday we rested, and
Monday was the Fourth, with morning and afternoon
games with Buffalo.
Upon the morning of the Fourth, I looked for
the Rube at the hotel, but could not find him. He
did not show up at the grounds when the other
boys did, and I began to worry. It was the Rube's
turn to pitch and we were neck and neck with Buffalo
for first place. If we won both games we
would go ahead of our rivals.
So I was all on edge, and kept going to the 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. He had 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 that he had arrived late because he had just been married. Before congratulations were out of our mouths, he turned to me.
So I was all on edge, and kept going to 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. He had 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 that he had arrived late because he had just been married. Before congratulations 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 three points behind them.
If we win both we'll be leading the league once
more. I don't know about pitching you both
games.''
"I reckon we'll be in the lead tonight then,''
he replied, "for I'll win them both.''
I was about to reply when Dave, the ground-
keeper, called me to the door, saying there was a
man to see me. I went out, and there stood Morrisey,
manager of the Chicago American League
team. We knew each other well and exchanged
greetings.
"Con, I dropped off to see you about this new
pitcher of yours, the one they call the Rube. I
want to see him work. I've heard he's pretty
fast. How about it ?''
"Wait till you see him pitch,'' I replied. I
could scarcely get that much out, for Morrisey's
presence meant a great deal and I did not want
to 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'll have 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 and says he's a wonder.''
What luck it was that Morrisey should have
come upon this day ! I could hardly contain myself.
Almost I began to spend the money I would
get for selling the Rube to the big league manager.
We took seats in the grand stand, as Morrisey
did not want to be seen by any players, and
I stayed there with him until the gong sounded.
There was a big attendance. I looked all over
the stand for Nan, but she was lost in the gay
crowd. But when I went down to the bench I
saw her up in my private box with Milly. It took
no second glance to see that Nan Brown was a
bride and glorying in the fact.
Then, in the absorption of the game, I became
oblivious to Milly and Nan; the noisy crowd; the
giant fire-crackers and the smoke; to the presence
of Morrisey; to all except the Rube and my team
and their opponents. Fortunately for my hopes,
the game opened with characteristic Worcester
dash. Little McCall doubled, Ashwell drew his
base on four wide pitches, and Stringer drove the
ball over the right-field fence three runs !
Three runs were enough to win that game. Of
all the exhibitions of pitching with which the Rube
had favored us, this one was the finest. It was
perhaps not so much his marvelous speed and
unhittable curves that made the game one memorable
in the annals of pitching; it was his perfect
control in the placing of balls, in the cutting
of corners; in his absolute implacable mastery of
the situation. Buffalo was unable to find him at
all. The game was swift short, decisive, with
the score 5 to 0 in our favor. But the score did
not tell all of the Rube's work that morning. He
shut out Buffalo without a hit, or a scratch, the
first no-hit, no-run game of the year. He gave
no base on balls; not a Buffalo player got to first
base; only one fly went to the outfield.
For once I forgot Milly after a game, and I
hurried to find Morrisey, and carried him off to
have dinner with me.
"Your rube is a wonder, and that's a fact,'' he
said to me several times. "Where on earth did
you get him ? Connelly, he's my meat. Do you
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 with his fist and
his eyes gleamed.
Carried away as I was by his vehemence, I was
yet able to calculate shrewdly, and I decided to
name a very high price, from which I could come
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 contract whereby I was to sell my
pitcher for five thousand dollars at the close of
the current season. I never saw a man look so
pleased as Morrisey when he folded that contract
and put it in his pocket. He bade me good-bye
and hurried off to catch a train, and he never
knew the Rube had pitched the great game on his
wedding day.
That afternoon before a crowd that had to be
roped off the diamond, I put the Rube against
the Bisons. How well he showed the baseball
knowledge he had assimilated ! He changed his
style in that second game. He used a slow ball
and wide curves and took things easy. He made
Buffalo hit the ball and when runners got on
bases once more let out his speed and held them
down. He relied upon the players behind him
and they were equal to the occasion.
It was a totally different game from that of
the morning, and perhaps one more suited to the
pleasure of the audience. There was plenty of
hard hitting, sharp fielding and good base
running, and the game was close and exciting up to
the eighth, when Mullaney's triple gave us two
runs, and a lead that was not headed. To the
deafening roar of the bleachers the Rube walked
off the field, having pitched Worcester into first
place in the pennant race.
That night the boys planned their first job on
the Rube. We had ordered a special Pullman
for travel to Toronto, and when I got to the depot
in the morning, the Pullman was a white fluttering
mass of satin ribbons. Also, there was a
brass band, and thousands of baseball fans, and
barrels of old foot-gear. The Rube and Nan
arrived in a cab and were immediately mobbed.
The crowd roared, the band played, the engine
whistled, the bell clanged; and the air was full
of confetti and slippers, and showers of rice like
hail pattered everywhere. A somewhat dishevelled
bride and groom boarded the Pullman and
breathlessly hid in a state room. The train
started, and the crowd gave one last rousing
cheer. Old Spears yelled from the back platform:
"Fellers, an' fans, you needn't worry none
about leavin' the Rube an' his bride to the tender
mercies of the gang. A hundred years from now
people will talk about this honeymoon baseball
trip. Wait till we come back an' say, jest to put
you wise, no matter what else happens, we're
comin' back in first place !''
It was surely a merry party in that Pullman.
The bridal couple emerged from their hiding place
and held a sort of reception in which the Rube
appeared shy and frightened, and Nan resembled
a joyous, fluttering bird in gray. I did not see
if she kissed every man on the team, but she kissed
me as if she had been wanting to do it for ages.
Milly kissed the Rube, and so did the other women,
to his infinite embarrassment. Nan's effect upon
that crowd was most singular. She was sweetness
and caprice and joy personified.
We settled down presently to something
approaching order, and I, for one, with very keen
ears and alert eyes, because I did not want to
miss anything.
"I see the lambs a-gambolin','' observed McCall,
in a voice louder than was necessary to convey
his meaning to Mullaney, his partner in the
seat.
"Yes, it do seem as if there was joy aboundin'
hereabouts,'' replied Mul with fervor.
"It's more spring-time than summer,'' said
Ashwell, ``an' everything in nature is runnin' in
pairs. There are the sheep an' the cattle an' the
birds. I see two kingfishers fishin' over here.
An' there's a couple of honey-bees makin' honey.
Oh, honey, an' by George, if there ain't two
butterflies foldin' their wings round each other. See
the dandelions kissin' in the field !''
Then the staid Captain Spears spoke up with
an appearance of sincerity and 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 is a-broad o'er all this boo-tiful land today Oh, yes ! An' love's wings hover o 'er the little
lambs an' the bullfrogs in the pond an' the dicky
birds in the trees. What sweetness to lie in the
grass, the lap of bounteous earth, eatin' apples in
the Garden of Eden, an' chasin' away the snakes
an' dreamin' of Thee, Sweet-h-e-a-r-t ''
Spears was singing when he got so far and
there was no telling what he might have done if
Mullaney, unable to stand the agony, had not
jabbed a pin in him. But that only made way for
the efforts of the other boys, each of whom tried
to outdo the other in poking fun at the Rube and
Nan. The big pitcher was too gloriously happy
to note much of what went on around him, but
when it dawned upon him he grew red and white
by turns.
Nan, however, was more than equal to the
occasion. Presently she smiled at Spears, such a
smile! The captain looked as if he had just partaken
of an intoxicating wine. With a heightened
color in her cheeks and a dangerous flash in her
roguish eyes, Nan favored McCall with a look,
which was as much as to say that she remembered
him with a dear sadness. She made eyes at every
fellow in the car, and then bringing back her gaze
to the Rube, as if glorying in comparison, she
nestled her curly black head on his shoulder. He
gently tried to move her; but it was not possible.
Nan knew how to meet the ridicule of half a dozen
old lovers. One by one they buried themselves
in newspapers, and finally McCall, for once utterly
beaten, showed a white 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 day upon
her husband's broad shoulder, the boys toward
dinner time came out of their jealous trance. I
heard them plotting something. When dinner
was called, about half of my party, including the
bride and groom, went at once into the dining-car.
Time there flew by swiftly. And later, when we
were once more in our Pullman, and I had gotten
interested in a game of cards with Milly and
Stringer and his wife, the Rube came marching
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 had entered his stateroom
and stolen his grip and Nan's. I hastened at once
to aid the Rube in his search. The boys swore
by everything under and beyond the sun they had
not seen the grips; they appeared very much
grieved at the loss and pretended to help in
searching the Pullman. At last, with the assistance
of a porter, we discovered the missing grips
in an upper berth. The Rube carried them off to
his stateroom and we knew soon from his
uncomplimentary remarks that the contents of the
suitcases had been mixed and manhandled. But he
did not hunt for the jokers.
We arrived at Toronto before daylight next
morning, and remained in the Pullman until seven
o'clock. When we got out, it was discovered that
the Rube and Nan had stolen a march upon us.
We traced them to the hotel, and found them at
breakfast. After breakfast we formed a merry
sight-seeing party and rode all over the city.
That afternoon, when Raddy let Toronto down
with three hits and the boys played a magnificent
game behind him, and we won 7 to 2, I knew at
last and for certain that the Worcester team had
come into its own again. Then next day Cairns
won a close, exciting game, and following that, on
the third day, the matchless Rube toyed with the
Torontos. Eleven straight games won! I was in
the clouds, and never had I seen so beautiful a
light as shone in Milly's eyes.
From that day The Honeymoon Trip of the
Worcester Baseball Club, as the newspapers
heralded it was a triumphant march. We won
two out of three games at Montreal, broke even
with the hard-fighting Bisons, took three straight
from Rochester, and won one and tied one out of
three with Hartford. It would have been wonderful
ball playing for a team to play on home
grounds and we were doing the full circuit of
the league.
Spears had called the turn when he said the
trip would be a hummer. Nan Hurtle had brought
us wonderful luck.
But the tricks they played on Whit and his girl-
fan bride !
Ashwell, who was a capital actor, disguised
himself as a conductor and pretended to try to
eject Whit and Nan from the train, urging that
love-making was not permitted. Some of the
team hired a clever young woman to hunt the
Rube up at the hotel, and claim old acquaintance
with him. Poor Whit almost collapsed when the
young woman threw her arms about his neck just
as Nan entered the parlor. Upon the instant Nan
became wild as a little tigress, and it took much
explanation and eloquence to reinstate Whit in
her affections.
Another time Spears, the wily old fox, succeeded
in detaining Nan on the way to the station,
and the two missed the train. At first the Rube
laughed with the others, but when Stringer
remarked that he had noticed a growing attachment
between Nan and Spears, my great pitcher
experienced the first pangs of the green-eyed
monster. We had to hold him to keep him from
jumping from the train, and it took Milly and Mrs.
Stringer to soothe him. I had to wire back to
Rochester for a special train for Spears and Nan,
and even then we had to play half a game without
the services of our captain.
So far upon our trip I had been fortunate in
securing comfortable rooms and the best of
transportation for my party. At Hartford, however,
I encountered difficulties. I could not get a special
Pullman, and the sleeper we entered already
had a number of occupants. After the ladies of
my party had been assigned to berths, it was
necessary for some of the boys to sleep double in
upper berths.
It was late when we got aboard, the berths were
already made up, and soon we had all retired.
In the morning very early I was awakened by a
disturbance. It sounded like a squeal. I heard
an astonished exclamation, another squeal, the
pattering of little feet, then hoarse uproar of
laughter from the ball players in the upper berths.
Following that came low, excited conversation
between the porter and somebody, then an angry
snort from the Rube and the thud of his heavy
feet in the aisle. What took place after that was
guess-work for me. But I gathered from the
roars and bawls that the Rube was after some of
the boys. I poked my head between the curtains
and saw him digging into the 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 me with 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 the aisle, a tragically comic
figure in his pajamas. In his search for Mac he
pried into several upper berths that contained
occupants who were not ball players, and these
protested in affright. Then the Rube began to
investigate the lower berths. A row of heads
protruded in a bobbing line 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 a curtain, he was
interrupted by a shriek from some woman assuredly
not of our party.
"Get out! you horrid wretch! Help! Porter!
Help! Conductor !''
Instantly there was a deafening tumult in the
car. When it had subsided somewhat, and I considered
I would be safe, I descended from my
berth and made my way to the dressing room.
Sprawled over the leather seat was the Rube
pommelling McCall with hearty good will. I would
have interfered, had it not been for Mac's
demeanor. He was half frightened, half angry, and
utterly unable to defend himself or even resist,
because he was laughing, too.
"Dog-gone it ! Whit I didn't do it ! I swear
it was Spears ! Stop thumpin' me now or I'll
get sore. . . . You hear me ! It wasn't me, I tell
you. Cheese it !''
For all his protesting Mac received a good
thumping, and I doubted not in the least that he
deserved it. The wonder of the affair, however,
was the fact that no one appeared to know what
had made the Rube so furious. The porter would
not tell, and Mac was strangely reticent, though
his smile was one to make a fellow exceedingly
sure something out of the ordinary had befallen.
It was not until I was having breakfast in
Providence that I learned the true cause of Rube's
conduct, and Milly confided it to me, insisting
on strict confidence.
"I promised not to tell,'' she said. "Now you
promise you'll never tell.''
"Well, Connie,'' went on Milly, when I had
promised, "it was the funniest thing yet, but it
was horrid of McCall. You see, the Rube had
upper seven and Nan had lower seven. Early
this morning, about daylight, Nan awoke very
thirsty and got up to get a drink. During her
absence, probably, but any way some time last
night, McCall changed the number on her
curtain, and when Nan came back to number
seven of course she almost got in the wrong
berth.''
"No wonder the Rube punched him !'' I declared. "I wish we were safe home. Something'll
happen yet on this trip.''
I was faithful to my promise to Milly, but the
secret leaked out somewhere; perhaps Mac told
it, and before the game that day all the players
knew it. The Rube, having recovered his good
humor, minded it not in the least. He could not
have felt ill-will for any length of time. Everything
seemed to get back into smooth running
order, and the Honeymoon 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
I tried 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 to
pitch. Several times during the first two days
the Rube and Nan about half made up their
quarrel, only in the end to fall deeper into it.
Then the last straw came in a foolish move on the
part of wilful Nan. She happened to meet Henderson,
her former admirer, and in a flash she
took up her flirtation with him where she had left
off.
"Don't go to the game with him, Nan,'' I
pleaded. "It's a silly thing for you to do. Of
course you don't mean anything, except to torment
Whit. But cut it out. The gang will make
him miserable and we'll lose the game. There's
no telling what might happen.''
"I'm supremely indifferent to what happens,''
she replied, with a rebellious toss of her black
head. "I hope Whit gets beaten.''
She went to the game with Henderson and sat
in the grand stand, and the boys spied them out
and told the Rube. He did not believe it at first,
but finally saw them, looked deeply hurt and
offended, and then grew angry. But the gong,
sounding at that moment, drew his attention to
his business of the day, to pitch.
His work that day reminded me of the first
game he ever pitched for me, upon which occasion
Captain Spears got the best out of him by
making him angry. For several innings Providence
was helpless before his delivery. Then
something happened that showed me a crisis was
near. A wag of a fan yelled from the bleachers.
"Honeymoon Rube !''
This cry was taken up by the delighted fans
and it rolled around the field. But the Rube
pitched on, harder than ever. Then the knowing
bleacherite who had started the cry changed it
somewhat.
"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 been well
if Bud Wiler, comedian of the Providence team,
had not hit upon a way to rattle Rube.
"Nanny's Goat !'' he shouted from the coaching
lines. Every Providence player took it
up.
The Rube was not proof against that. He
yelled so fiercely at them, and glared so furiously,
and towered so formidably, that they ceased for
the moment. Then he let drive with his fast
straight ball and hit the first Providence batter
in the ribs. His comrades had to help him to the
bench. The Rube hit the next batter on the leg,
and judging from the crack of the ball, I fancied
that player would walk lame for several days.
The Rube tried to hit the next batter and sent
him to first on balls. Thereafter it became a
dodging contest with honors about equal between
pitcher and batters. The Providence players
stormed and the bleachers roared. But I would
not take the Rube out and 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 the bench again yelled "Nanny's Goat !''
Straight as a string the Rube shot the ball at
this fellow and bounded after it. The crowd rose
in an uproar. The base runners began to score.
I left my bench and ran across the space, but not
in time to catch the Rube. I saw him hit two or
three of the Providence men. Then the policemen
got to him, and a real fight brought the big
audience into the stamping melee. Before the
Rube was collared I saw at least four blue-coats
on the grass.
The game broke up, and the crowd spilled itself
in streams over the field. Excitement ran
high. I tried to force my way into the mass to
get at the Rube and the officers, but this was
impossible. I feared the Rube would be taken from
the officers and treated with violence, so I waited
with the surging crowd, endeavoring to get
nearer. Soon we were in the street, and it seemed
as if all the stands had emptied their yelling occupants.
A trolley car came along down the street,
splitting the mass of people and driving them back.
A dozen policemen summarily bundled the Rube
upon the rear end of the car. Some of these
officers boarded the car, and some remained in
the street to beat off the vengeful fans.
I saw some one thrust forward a frantic young
woman. The officers stopped her, then suddenly
helped her on the car, just as I started. I
recognized Nan. She gripped the Rube with both
hands and turned a white, fearful face upon the
angry crowd.
The Rube stood in the grasp of his wife and
the policemen, and he looked like a ruffled lion.
He shook his big fist and bawled in far-reaching
voice:
"I can lick you all !''
To my infinite relief, the trolley gathered
momentum and safely passed out of danger. The
last thing I made out was Nan pressing close to
the Rube's side. That moment saw their reconciliation
and my joy that it was the end of the
Rube's Honeymoon.
THE RUBE' PENNANT
"Fellows, it's this way. You've got to win
today's game. It's the last of the season and
means the pennant for Worcester. One more
hard scrap and we're done! Of all the up-hill
fights any bunch ever made to land the flag, our
has been the best. You're the best team I ever
managed, the gamest gang of ball players that
ever stepped in spikes. We've played in the
hardest kind of luck all season, except that short
trip we called the Rube's Honeymoon. We got a
bad start, and sore arms and busted fingers, all
kinds of injuries, every accident calculated to hurt
a team's chances, came our way. But in spite of
it all we got the lead and we've held it, and today
we're still a few points ahead of Buffalo.''
I paused to catch my breath, and looked round
on the grim, tired faces of my players. They
made a stern group. The close of the season
found them almost played out. What a hard
chance it was, after their extraordinary efforts,
to bring the issue of the pennant down to this last
game !
"If we lose today, Buffalo, with three games
more to play at home, will pull the bunting,'' I
went on. "But they're not going to win! I'm
putting it up to you that way. I know Spears is
all in; Raddy's arm is gone; Ash is playing on
one leg; you're all crippled. But you've got one
more game in you, I know. These last few weeks
the Rube has been pitching out of turn and he's
about all in, too. He's kept us in the lead. If he
wins today it'll be Rube's Pennant. But that
might apply to all of you. Now, shall we talk
over the play today ? Any tricks to pull 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 to
suggest that you let me run the team today. I've
talked over the play with the fellers. We ain't
goin' to lose this game, Con. Buffalo has been
comin' with a rush lately, an' they're confident.
But we've been holdin' in, restin' up as much as
we dared an' still keep our lead. Mebbee it'll
surprise you to know we've bet every dollar we could
get hold of on this game. Why, Buffalo money is
everywhere.''
"All right, Spears, I'll turn the team over to
you. We've got the banner crowd of the year out
there right now, a great crowd to play before.
I'm more fussed up over this game than any I
remember. But I have a sort of blind faith in
my team. . . . I guess that's all I want to 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, dead arms,
I sat on the bench.
The Bisons were prancing about the diamond,
and their swaggering assurance was not conducive
to hope for the Worcesters. I wondered
how many of that vast, noisy audience, intent on
the day's sport, even had a thought of what pain
and toil it meant to my players. The Buffalo men
were in good shape; they had been lucky; they
were at the top of their stride, and that made all
the difference.
At any rate, there were a few faithful little
women in the grand stand Milly and Nan and
Rose Stringer and Kate Bogart who sat with
compressed lips and hoped and prayed for that
game to begin and end.
The gong called off the practice, and Spears,
taking the field, yelled gruff encouragement to his
men. Umpire Carter brushed off the plate and
tossed a white ball to Rube and called: ``Play!''
The bleachers set up an exultant, satisfied shout
and sat down to wait.
Schultz toed the plate and watched the Rube
pitch a couple. There seemed to be no diminution
of the great pitcher's speed and both balls cut the
plate. Schultz clipped the next one down the third-
base Line. Bogart trapped it close to the bag, and
got it away underhand, beating the speedy runner
by a nose. It was a pretty play to start with, and
the spectators were not 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 and Worcester.
"Bing one close to his swelled nut !'' growled
Spears to the Rube.
Carl chopped a bouncing grounder through
short and Ash was after it like a tiger, but it was
a hit. The Buffalo contingent opened up. Then
Manning faced the Rube, and he, too, vented
sarcasm. It might not have been heard by the slow,
imperturbable pitcher for all the notice he took.
Carl edged off first, slid back twice, got a third
start, and on the Rube's pitch was off for second
base with the lead that always made him dangerous.
Manning swung vainly, and Gregg snapped
a throw to Mullaney. Ball and runner got to the
bag apparently simultaneously; the umpire called
Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar of
delight.
The next pitch to Manning was a strike. Rube
was not wasting any balls, a point I noted with
mingled fear and satisfaction. For he might have
felt that he had no strength to spare that day and
so could not try to work the batters. Again he
swung, and Manning rapped a long line fly over
McCall. As the little left fielder turned at the
sound of the hit and sprinted out, his lameness
was certainly not in evidence. He was the swiftest
runner in the league and always when he got
going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him.
Mac took that fly right off the foul flag in deep
left, and the bleachers dinned their pleasure.
The teams changed positions. "Fellers,'' said
Spears, savagely, "we may be a bunged-up lot of
stiffs, but, say! We can hit ! If you love your
old captain sting the ball !''
Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work
cut out for him. For one sympathetic moment I
saw his part through his eyes. My Worcester
veterans, long used to being under fire, were
relentlessly bent on taking that game. It showed
in many ways, particularly in their silence,
because they were seldom a silent team. McCall
hesitated a moment over his bats. Then, as he
picked up the lightest one, I saw his jaw set, and
I knew he intended to bunt. He was lame, yet he
meant to beat out an infield hit. He went up
scowling.
Vane had an old head, and he had a varied
assortment of balls. For Mac he used an under
hand curve, rising at the plate and curving in to
the left-hander. Mac stepped back and let it go.
"That's the place, Bo,'' cried the Buffalo
infielders. "Keep 'em close on the Crab.'' Eager and
fierce as McCall was, he let pitch after pitch go
by till he had three balls and two strikes. Still
the heady Vane sent up another pitch similar to
the others. Mac stepped forward in the box,
dropped his bat on the ball, and leaped down the
line toward first base. Vane came rushing in for
the bunt, got it and threw. But as the speeding
ball neared the baseman, Mac stretched out into
the air and shot for the bag. By a fraction of a
second he beat the ball. It was one of his demon-
slides. He knew that the chances favored his being
crippled; we all knew that some day Mac
would slide recklessly once too often. But that,
too, is all in the game and in the spirit of a great
player.
"We're on,'' said Spears; "now keep with
him.''
By that the captain meant that Mac would go
down, and Ashwell would hit with the run.
When Vane pitched, little McCall was flitting
toward second. The Bison shortstop started for
the bag, and Ash hit square through his tracks.
A rolling cheer burst from the bleachers, and
swelled till McCall overran third base and was
thrown back by the coacher. Stringer hurried
forward with his big bat.
"Oh ! My !'' yelled a fan, and he voiced my
sentiments exactly. Here we would score, and be
one run closer to that dearly bought pennant.
How well my men worked together ! As the
pitcher let the ball go, Ash was digging for
second and Mac was shooting plateward. They
played on the chance of Stringer's hitting.
Stringer swung, the bat cracked, we heard a thud
somewhere, and then Manning, half knocked over,
was fumbling for the ball. He had knocked down
a terrific drive with his mitt, and he got the ball
in time to put Stringer out. But Mac scored and
Ash drew a throw to third base and beat it. He
had a bad ankle, but no one noticed it in that
daring run.
"Watch me paste one !'' said Captain Spears,
as he spat several yards. He batted out a fly so
long and high and far that, slow as he was, he had
nearly run to second base when Carl made the
catch. Ash easily scored on the throw-in. Then
Bogart sent one skipping over second, and Treadwell,
scooping it on the run, completed a play that
showed why he was 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 a little faster. Ellis
lined to Cairns in right; Treadwell fouled two
balls and had a called strike, and was out; McKnight
hit a low fly over short, then Bud Wiler
sent one between Spears and Mullaney. Spears
went for it while the Rube with giant strides ran
to cover first base. Between them they got Bud,
but it was only because he was heavy and slow
on his feet.
In our half of that inning Mullaney, Gregg and
Cairns went out in one, two, three order.
With Pannell up, I saw that the Rube held in
on his speed, or else he was tiring. Pannell hit
the second slow ball for two bases. Vane sacrificed,
and then the redoubtable Schultz came up.
He appeared to be in no hurry to bat. Then I
saw that the foxy Buffalo players were working
to tire the Rube. They had the situation figured.
But they were 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 late to catch Pannell. Carl
deliberately bunted to the right of the Rube and it
cost the big pitcher strenuous effort to catch his
man.
"We got the Rube waggin !'' yelled a Buffalo
player.
Manning tripled down the left foul line--a hit
the bleachers called a screamer. When Ellis
came up, it looked like a tie score, and when the
Rube pitched it was plain that he was tired. The
Bisons yelled their assurance of this and the
audience settled into quiet. Ellis batted a
scorcher that looked good for a hit. But the fast
Ashwell was moving with the ball, and he plunged
lengthwise to get it square in his glove. The hit
had been so sharp that he had time to get up and
make the throw to beat the runner. The bleachers
thundered at the play.
"You're up, Rube,'' called Spears. "Lam one
out of the lot !''
The Rube was an uncertain batter. There was
never any telling what he might do, for he had
spells of good and bad hitting. But when he did
get his bat on the ball it meant a chase for some
fielder. He went up swinging his huge club, and
he hit a fly that would have been an easy home run
for a fast man. But the best Rube could do was
to reach third base. This was certainly good
enough, as the bleachers loudly proclaimed, and
another tally for us seemed sure.
McCall bunted toward third, another of his
teasers. The Rube would surely have scored had
he started with the ball, but he did not try and
missed a chance. Wiler, of course, held the ball,
and Mac got to first without special effort. He
went down on the first pitch. Then Ash lined to
Carl. The Rube waited till the ball was caught
and started for home. The crowd screamed, the
Rube ran for all he was worth and Carl's throw
to the plate shot in low and true. Ellis blocked
the Rube and 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 Bisons were
losing no chance to wear out my pitcher. Stringer
fouled out with Mac on third, and it made him so
angry that he threw his bat toward the bench,
making some of the boys skip lively.
The next three innings, as far as scoring was
concerned, were all for Buffalo. But the Worcester
infield played magnificent ball, holding their
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 the fence
and tied the score. How the bleachers roared !
It was full two minutes before they quieted down.
To make it all the more exciting, Bogart hit
safely, ran like a deer to third on Mullaney's
grounder, which Wiler knocked down, and scored
on a passed ball. Gregg ended the inning by
striking out.
"Get at the Rube !'' boomed Ellis, the Bison
captain. "We'll have him up in the air soon. Get
in the game 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 of
good luck now would clinch the game for them.
The Rube was beginning to labor in the box; Ashwell
was limping; Spears looked as if he would
drop any moment; McCall could scarcely walk.
But if the ball came his way he could still run.
Nevertheless, I never saw any finer fielding than
these cripped players executed that inning.
"Ash, Mac can you hold out ?'' I asked, when
they limped in. I received glances of scorn for
my question. Spears, however, was not sanguine.
"I'll stick pretty much if somethin' doesn't
happen,'' he said; "but I'm all in. I'll need a
runner if I get to first this time.''
Spears lumbered down to first base on an
infield hit and the heavy Manning gave him the hip.
Old Spears went down, and I for one knew he
was out in more ways than that signified by
Carter's sharp: "Out !''
The old war-horse gathered himself up slowly
and painfully, and with his 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 one on the field.
" Yes,'' snapped Carter.
"What for ? I beat the ball, an' Mannin'
played dirty with me gave me the 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 a decision ?''
"Not mine. Spears, you're delaying the
game.''
"I tell you it was a rotten decision,'' yelled
Spears. The bleachers agreed with him.
Carter grew red in the face. He and Spears
had before then met in field squabbles, and he
showed it.
" 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 with perspiration, his demeanor one
of outraged dignity. The great crowd, as one
man, stood up and yelled hoarsely at Carter, and
hissed and railed at him. When Spears got to
the bench he sat down beside me as if in pain, but
he was smiling.
"Con, I was all in, an' knowin' I couldn't play
any longer, thought I'd try to scare Carter. Say,
he was white in the face. If we play into a close
decision now, he'll give it to us.''
Bogart and Mullaney batted out in short order,
and once more the aggressive Bisons hurried in
for their turn. Spears sent Cairns to first base
and Jones to right. The Rube lobbed up his slow
ball. In that tight pinch he showed his splendid
nerve. Two Buffalo players, over-anxious,
popped up flies. The Rube kept on pitching the
slow curve until it was hit safely. Then heaving
his shoulders with all his might he got all
the motion possible into his swing and let drive.
He had almost all of his old speed, but it hurt
me to see him work with such desperate effort.
He struck Wiler out.
He came stooping into the bench, apparently
deaf to the stunning round of applause. Every
player on the team had a word for the Rube.
There was no quitting in that bunch, and if I ever
saw victory on the stern faces of 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 of getting a run on Vane that
inning. He had so much confidence that he put
the ball over for Gregg, who hit out of the reach
of the infield. Again Vane sent up his straight
ball, no doubt expecting Cairns to hit into a
double play. But Cairns surprised Vane and
everybody else by poking a safety past first base.
The fans began to howl and pound and whistle.
The Rube strode to bat. The infield closed in
for a bunt, but the Rube had no orders for that
style of play. Spears had said nothing to him.
Vane lost his nonchalance and settled down. He
cut loose with all his speed. Rube stepped out,
suddenly whirled, then tried to dodge, but the ball
hit him fair in the back. Rube sagged in his
tracks, then straightened up, and walked slowly
to first base. Score 5 to 5, bases full, no outs,
McCall at bat. I sat dumb on the bench, thrilling
and shivering. McCall ! Ashwell ! Stringer to
bat !
"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 the league;
to Ashwell, the best bunter; to Stringer, the
champion batter. It was a supreme test for a great
pitcher. There was only one kind of a ball that
McCall was not sure to hit, and that was a high
curve, in close. Vane threw it with all his power.
Carter called it a strike. Again Vane swung and
his arm fairly cracked. Mac fouled the ball. The
third was wide. Slowly, with lifting breast, Vane
got ready, whirled savagely and shot up the ball.
McCall struck out.
As the Buffalo players crowed and the audience
groaned it was worthy of note that little McCall
showed no temper. Yet he had failed to grasp a
great 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 get
him.''
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 slow
curve and change of pace. But I doubted if Vane
would dare to use slow balls to Ash at that critical
moment. I had yet to learn something of Vane.
He gave Ash a slow, wide-sweeping sidewheeler,
that curved round over the plate. Ash always
took a strike, so this did not matter. Then Vane
used his deceptive change of pace, sending up a
curve that just missed Ash's bat as he swung.
"Oh ! A-h-h ! hit !'' wailed the bleachers.
Vane doubled up like a contortionist, and shot
up a lightning-swift drop 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 stood tense and alert, bat on his
shoulder, his powerful form braced, and he
waited. The outfielders trotted over toward right
field, and the infielders played deep, calling out
warnings and encouragement to the pitcher.
Stringer had no weakness, and Vane knew this.
Nevertheless he did not manifest any uneasiness,
and pitched the first ball without any extra
motion. Carter called it a strike. I saw Stringer
sink down slightly and grow tenser all over. I
believe that moment was longer for me than for
either the pitcher or the batter. Vane took his
time, watched the base runners, feinted to throw
to catch them, and then delivered the ball toward
the plate with the limit of his power.
Stringer hit the ball. As long as I live, I will
see that glancing low liner. Shultz, by a wonderful
play in deep center, blocked the ball and
thereby saved it from being a home run. But
when Stringer stopped on second base, all the
runners had scored.
A shrill, shrieking, high-pitched yell ! The
bleachers threatened to destroy the stands and
also their throats in one long revel of baseball
madness.
Jones, batting in place of Spears, had gone
up and fouled out before the uproar had subsided.
"Fellers, I reckon I feel easier,'' said the Rube.
It was the only time I had ever heard him speak
to the players 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 the Buffalo list without any
alarming bids for a run. And in our half, Bogart
and Mullaney hit vicious ground balls that gave
Treadwell and Wiler opportunities for superb
plays. Carl, likewise, made a beautiful running
catch of Gregg's line fly. The Bisons 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 so still was it that the field
and stands might have been empty. Yet, though
I tried, I could not keep my eyes closed. I opened
them to watch the Rube. I knew Spears felt the
same as I, for he was blowing like a porpoise and
muttering to himself: "Mebee the Rube won't
last an' I've no one to put in !''
The Rube pitched with heavy, violent effort.
He had still enough speed to be dangerous. But
after the manner of ball players Shultz and the
coachers mocked him.
" Take all you can,'' called Ellis to Shultz.
Every pitch lessened the Rube's strength and
these wise opponents knew it. Likewise the Rube
himself knew, and never had he shown better head
work than in this inning. If he were to win, he
must be quick. So he wasted not a ball. The first
pitch and the second, delivered breast high and
fairly over the plate, beautiful balls to hit, Shultz
watched speed by. He swung hard on the third
and the crippled Ashwell dove for it in a cloud
of dust, got a hand in front of it, but uselessly,
for the hit was safe. The crowd cheered that
splendid effort.
Carl marched to bat, and he swung his club over
the plate as if he knew what to expect. "Come
on, Rube !'' he shouted. Wearily, doggedly, the
Rube whirled, and whipped his arm. The ball
had all his old glancing speed and it was a strike.
The Rube was making a tremendous effort.
Again he got his body in convulsive motion two
strikes ! Shultz had made no move to run, nor
had Carl made any move to hit. These veterans
were waiting. The Rube had pitched five strikes could he last ?
"Now, Carl !'' yelled Ellis, with startling
suddenness, as the Rube pitched again.
Crack ! Carl placed that hit as safely through
short as if he had thrown it. McCall's little legs
twinkled as he dashed over the grass. He had to
head off that hit and he ran like a streak. Down
and forward he pitched, as if in one of his fierce
slides, and he got his body in front of the ball,
blocking it, and then he rolled over and over. But
he jumped up and lined the ball to Bogart, almost
catching Shultz at third-base. Then, as Mac tried
to walk, his lame leg buckled under him, and down
he went, and out.
" Call time,'' I called to Carter. "McCall is
done. . . . Myers, you go to left an' for Lord's
sake play ball !''
Stringer and Bogart hurried to Mac and, lifting
him up and supporting him between them
with his arms around their shoulders, they led
him off amid cheers from the stands. Mac was
white with pain.
" Naw, I won't go off the field. Leave me on
the bench,'' he said. "Fight 'em now. It's our
game. Never mind a couple of runs.''
The boys ran back to their positions and Carter
called play. Perhaps a little delay had been helpful
to the Rube. Slowly he stepped into the box
and watched Shultz at third and Carl at second.
There was not much probability of his throwing
to catch them off the base, but enough of a
possibility to make them careful, so he held them
close.
The Rube pitched a strike to Manning, then
another. That made eight strikes square over the
plate that inning. What magnificent control! It
was equaled by the implacable patience of those
veteran Bisons. Manning hit the next ball as
hard as Carl had hit his. But Mullaney plunged
down, came up with the ball, feinted to fool Carl,
then let drive to Gregg to catch the fleeting Shultz.
The throw went wide, but Gregg got it, and, leaping
lengthwise, tagged Shultz out a yard from the
plate.
One out. Two runners on bases. The bleachers
rose and split their throats. Would the inning
never end ?
Spears kept telling himself: " They'll score,
but we'll win. It's our game !''
I had a sickening fear that the strange confidence
that obsessed the Worcester 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 little base-stealer close to second, but,
after one attempt, wisely turned to his hard task
of making the Bisons hit and hit quickly. Ellis
let the ball pass; Gregg made a perfect throw to
third; Bogart caught the ball and moved like a
flash, but Carl slid under his hands to the bag.
Manning ran down to second. The Rube pitched
again, and this was his tenth ball over the plate.
Even the Buffalo players evinced eloquent appreciation
of the Rube's defence at this last stand.
Then Ellis sent a clean hit to right, scoring both
Carl and Manning. I breathed easier, for it
seemed with those two runners in, the Rube had a
better chance.
Treadwell also took those two runners in, the Rube had a way those Bisons waited. They had their reward, for the Rube's speed left him. When he pitched again the ball had control, but no shoot. Treadwell hit it with all his strength. Like a huge cat Ashwell pounced upon it, ran over second base, forcing Ellis, and his speedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell.
Treadwell also took those two runners in, the Rube had a way those Bisons waited. They had their reward, for the Rube's speed left him. When he pitched again the ball had control, but no shoot. Treadwell hit it with all his strength. Like a huge cat Ashwell pounced upon it, ran over second base, forcing Ellis, and his speedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell.
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 the flag-pole.
``It's our game !'' howled Spears in my ear,
for the noise from the stands was deafening.
``It's our pennant !''
The formidable batting strength of the Bisons
had been met, not without disaster, but without
defeat. McKnight came up for Buffalo and the
Rube took his weary swing. The batter made a
terrific lunge and hit the ball with a solid crack
It lined for center.
Suddenly electrified into action, I leaped up.
That hit ! It froze me with horror. It was a
home-run. I saw Stringer fly toward left center.
He ran like something wild. I saw the heavy
Treadwell lumbering round the bases. I saw Ashwell
run out into center field.
``Ah-h!'' The whole audience relieved its
terror in that expulsion of suspended breath.
Stringer had leaped high to knock down the ball,
saving a sure home-run and the game. He recovered
himself, dashed back for the ball and shot
it to Ash.
When Ash turned toward the plate, Treadwell
was rounding third base. A tie score appeared
inevitable. I saw Ash's arm whip and the ball
shoot forward, leveled, glancing, beautiful in its
flight. The crowd saw it, and the silence broke
to a yell that rose and rose as the ball sped in.
That yell swelled to a splitting shriek, and
Treadwell slid in the dust, and the ball shot into
Gregg's hands all at the same instant.
Carter waved both arms upwards. It was the
umpire's action when his decision went against
the base-runner. The audience rolled up one great
stenorian cry.
"Out !''
I collapsed and sank back upon the bench. My
confused senses received a dull roar of pounding
feet and dinning voices as the herald of victory.
I felt myself thinking how pleased Milly would be.
I had a distinct picture in my mind of a white
cottage on a hill, no longer a dream, but a reality,
made possible for me by the Rube's winning of
the pennant.