I hunted up the Rube and bundled him off to the hotel to take dinner
with me.  At first he was glum, but after a while he brightened up
somewhat to my persistent cheer and friendliness. Then we went out on
the hotel 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 when
Milly had me guessing.  You've lost your head over Nan Brown.  That's
not so terrible, though I daresay you think it's a catastrophe.
Because you've quit.  You've shown a yellow streak. You've lain down.

"My boy, that isn't the way to win a girl. You've got to scrap.  Milly
told me yesterday how she had watched your love affairs with Nan, and
how she thought you had given up just when things might have come your
way.  Nan is a little flirt, but she's all right.  What's more, she was
getting fond of you.  Nan is meanest to the man she likes best.  The
way to handle her, Whit, is to master her.  Play high and mighty.  Get
tragical.  Then grab her up in your arms.  I tell you, Whit, it'll all
come your way if you only keep your nerve.  I'm your friend and so is
Milly. 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 sensed
another stage in the evolution of Whit Hurtle.

"I reckon I've taken baseball coachin'," he said presently, "an' I
don'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 right
in.  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 under
the Rube's tan, but he was more composed than I had expected.  Nan got
up from the piano.  She was all in white and deliciously pretty.  She
gave a quick, glad start of surprise.  What a relief that was to my
troubled mind!  Everything had depended upon a real honest liking for
Whit, and she had it.

More than once I had been proud of Milly's cleverness, but this night
as hostess and an accomplice she won my everlasting admiration. She
contrived to give the impression that Whit was a frequent visitor at
her home and very welcome.  She brought out his best points, and in her
skillful hands he lost embarrassment and awkwardness. Before the
evening was over Nan regarded Whit with different eyes, and she never
dreamed that everything had not come about naturally.  Then Milly
somehow got me out on the porch, leaving Nan and 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.  "But
it 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 to
her favorite baseball vernacular.  "You pitched a swell game last
Saturday in Rochester, didn't you?  Not!  You had no steam, no control,
and you couldn't have curved a saucer."

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

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

Then I whispered to Milly that it might be discreet for us to move a
little way from the vicinity.

It was on the second day afterward that I got a chance to talk to Nan.
She reached the grounds early, before Milly arrived, and I found her in
the grand stand.  The Rube was down on the card to pitch and when he
started to warm up Nan said confidently that he would shut out Hartford
that afternoon.

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

"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 magnificent
physical trim, but he can't keep his mind on the game.  He has lost his
head. I've talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no good.  He only
goes down deeper in the dumps. Something is terribly wrong with him,
and if he doesn't brace, I'll have to release----"

Miss Nan Brown suddenly lost a little of her rich bloom.  "Oh! you
wouldn't--you couldn't release him!"

"I'll have to if he doesn't brace.  It means a lot to me, Nan, for of
course I can't win the pennant this year without Whit being in shape.
But I believe I wouldn't mind the loss of that any more than to see him
fall down.  The boy is a magnificent pitcher.  If he can only be
brought around he'll go to the big league next year and develop into
one of the greatest pitchers the game has ever produced.  But somehow
or other he has lost heart.  He's quit.  And I've done my best for him.
He's beyond me now.  What a shame it is!  For he's the making of such a
splendid man outside of baseball.  Milly thinks the world of him.
Well, well; there are disappointments--we can't help them.  There goes
the gong.  I must leave you.  Nan, I'll bet you a box of candy Whit
loses today.  Is it a go?"

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

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

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

But it turned out that I had been a little premature in my elation.  In
two days the Rube went down into the depths again, this time clear to
China, and Nan was sitting in the grand stand with Henderson.  The Rube
lost his next game, pitching like a schoolboy scared out of his wits.
Henderson followed Nan like a shadow, so that I had no chance to talk
to her.  The Rube lost his next game and then another.  We were pushed
out of second place.

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

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

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

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

"What do you know about it?  Mr. Henderson asked me to marry him.  Can
a man do more to show his respect?  Your friend never so much as hinted
such honorable intentions.  What's more--he insulted me!"  The blaze in
Nan's black eyes softened with a film of tears.  She looked hurt.  Her
pride 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 to
kiss him if he beat Hartford that day.  So when he came I--I did. Then
the big savage began to rave and he grabbed me up in his arms.  He
smothered me; almost crushed the life out of me.  He frightened me
terribly.  When I got away from him--the monster stood there and coolly
said I belonged to him.  I ran out of the room and wouldn't see him any
more.  At first I might have forgiven him if he had apologized--said he
was sorry, but never a word.  Now I never will forgive him."

I had to make a strenuous effort to conceal my agitation.  The Rube had
most 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 with
eloquence.  Now I was talking not wholly for myself or the pennant, but
for this boy and girl who were at odds in that strangest game of
life--love.

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

"Take another message to Whit for me," she said, audaciously.  "Tell
him I adore ball players, especially pitchers.  Tell him I'm going to
the game today to choose the best one.  If he loses the game----"

She left the sentence unfinished.  In my state of mind I doubted not in
the least that she meant to marry the pitcher who won the game, and so
I told the Rube.  He made one wild upheaval of his arms and shoulders,
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 big
crowd to see the game; the weather was perfect; Milly sat up in the box
and waved her score card at me; Raddy and Spears declared we had the
game; the Rube stalked to and fro like an implacable Indian chief--but
I was not happy in mind.  Calamity breathed in the very air.

The game began.  McCall beat out a bunt; Ashwell sacrificed and
Stringer laced one of his beautiful triples against the fence.  Then he
scored on a high fly.  Two runs!  Worcester trotted out into the field.
The Rube was white with determination; he had the speed of a bullet and
perfect control of his jump ball and drop.  But Providence hit and had
the luck.  Ashwell fumbled, Gregg threw wild.  Providence tied the
score.

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

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

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

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

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

The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of doubt how baseball fate, in
common with other fates, loved to balance the chances, to lift up one,
then the other, to lend a deceitful hope only to dash it away.

Providence had almost three times enough to win.  The team let up in
that inning or grew over-confident or careless, and before we knew what
had happened some scratch hits, and bases on balls, and errors, gave us
three runs and left two runners on bases.  The disgusted bleachers came
out of their gloom and began to whistle and thump.  The Rube hit
safely, sending another run over the plate.  McCall worked his old
trick, beating out a slow bunt.

Bases full, three runs to tie!  With Ashwell up and one out, the noise
in 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.  A
hit, anything to get Ash to first--and then Stringer!

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

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

Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and struck the ball with a
sharp, solid bing!  It shot toward center, low, level, exceedingly
swift, and like a dark streak went straight into the fielder's hands.
A rod to right or left would have made it a home run.  The crowd
strangled a victorious yell.  I came out of my trance, for the game was
over and lost.  It was the Rube's Waterloo.

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

To my amaze we met Milly and Nan as we entered the lobby.  Milly wore a
sweet, sympathetic smile.  Nan shone more radiant than ever. I simply
stared.  It was Milly who got us all through the corridor into the
parlor.  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 in
the big leagues, but any old ball player or manager knows better.
Where the difference comes in, however, is in the greater excellence
and unity of the major players, a speed, a daring, a finish that can be
acquired only in competition with one another.

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

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

Morrisey's box was very comfortable, and, as I was pleased to note, so
situated that we had a fine view of the field and stands, and yet were
comparatively secluded.  The bleachers were filling. Some of the
Chicago players were on the field tossing and batting balls; the Rube,
however, had not yet appeared.

A moment later a metallic sound was heard on the stairs leading up into
the box.  I knew it for baseball spiked 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 glove
in one huge freckled hand, and a big black bat in the other.

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

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

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

"Well, Whit, this is where you break in," I said.  "Now, tip us
straight.  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 a
little anxious till I warmed up.  But say!  I've got more up my sleeve
today than I ever had."

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

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

"Whit, it's a magnificent sight--that beautiful green field and the
stands.  What a crowd of fans!  Why, I never saw a real baseball crowd
before.  There are twenty thousand here.  And there's a difference in
the feeling.  It's sharper--new to me.  It's big league baseball.  Not
a soul in that crowd ever heard of you, but, I believe, tomorrow the
whole baseball world will have heard of you.  Mr. Morrisey knows.  I
saw it in his face.  Captain Spears knows.  Connie knows.  I know."

Then she lifted her face and, pulling him down within reach, she kissed
him.  Nan took her husband's work in dead earnest; she gloried in it,
and perhaps she had as much to do with making him a great pitcher as
any of us.

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

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

"So these are the champions of last season and of this season, too,"
commented Milly.  "I don't wonder.  How swiftly and cleanly they play!
They appear not to exert themselves, yet they always get the ball in
perfect time.  It all reminds me of--of the rhythm of music.  And that
champion batter and runner--that Lane in center--isn't he just
beautiful?  He walks and runs like a blue-ribbon winner at the horse
show.  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 speak
baseball convictions or gossip without characteristic baseball slang.
"Stuck on themselves!  I never saw the like in my life.  That fellow
Lane is so swelled that he can't get down off his toes.  But he's a
wonder, I must admit that.  They're a bunch of stars.  Easy, fast,
trained--they're machines, and I'll bet they're Indians to fight.  I
can see it sticking out all over them.  This will certainly be some
game with Whit handing up that jump ball of his to this gang of champs.
But, Connie, I'll go you Whit beats them."

I laughed and refused to gamble.

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

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

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

Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leaned over the box-rail and
looked 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 would
see brightening of a great star pitcher on the big league horizon.  It
was bound to be a full hour for me.  I had much reason to be grateful
to Whit Hurtle.  He had pulled my team out of a rut and won me the
pennant, and the five thousand dollars I got for his release bought the
little cottage on the hill for Milly and me.  Then there was my pride
in having developed him.  And all that I needed to calm me, settle me
down into assurance and keen criticism of the game, was to see the Rube
pitch a few balls with his old incomparable speed and control.

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

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

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

The Rube swung his enormously long arm, took an enormous stride toward
third base, and pitched again.  It 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 of
the plate and would have been a strike had not Berne popped it up.

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

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

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

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

Again I took it upon myself to interpret the Rube's pitching mind.  He
had another ball that he had not used, a drop, an unhittable drop.  I
thought he would use that next.  He did, and though Lane reached it
with the bat, the hit was a feeble one.  He had been fooled and the
side 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 batted
left-handed, always found a southpaw a hard nut to crack.  Cogswell,
field manager and captain of the Quakers, kicked up the dust around
first base and yelled to his men:  "Git in the game!"

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

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

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

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

Poole meant to win for the Quakers if his good arm and cunning did not
fail him, and his pitching was masterly.  McCloskey fanned, Hutchinson
fouled out, Brewster got a short safe fly just out of reach, and
Hoffner hit to second, forcing Brewster.

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

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

"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 you
go up!"

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

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

Rand for Chicago opened with a hit, and the bleachers, ready to strike
fire, began to cheer and stamp.  When McCloskey, in an attempt to
sacrifice, beat out his bunt the crowd roared.  Rand, being slow on his
feet, had not attempted to make third on the play.  Hutchinson
sacrificed, neatly advancing the runners.  Then the bleachers played
the long rolling drum of clattering feet with shrill whistling
accompaniment.  Brewster batted a wicked ground ball to Blandy.  He
dove into the dust, came up with the ball, and feinting to throw home
he wheeled and shot the ball to Cogswell, who in turn shot it to the
plate to head Rand.  Runner and ball got there apparently together, but
Umpire McClung's decision went against 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 the
way that Cogswell paced the coaching box that the word had gone out to
look the Rube over seriously.  There were possibilities even in rubes.

Berne carefully stepped into the batter's box, as if he wanted to be
certain to the breadth of a hair how close he was to the plate.  He was
there this time to watch the Rube pitch, to work him out, to see what
was what.  He crouched low, and it would have been extremely hard to
guess what he was up to.  His great play, however, was his ability to
dump the ball and beat out the throw to first.  It developed presently,
that this was now his intention and that the Rube knew it and pitched
him the one ball which is almost impossible to bunt--a high incurve,
over the inside corner. There was no mistaking the Rube's magnificent
control.  True as a plumb line he shot up the ball--once, twice, and
Berne fouled both--two strikes.  Grudgingly he waited on the next, but
it, too, was over the corner, and Berne went out on strikes.  The great
crowd did not, of course, grasp the finesse of the play, but Berne had
struck out--that was enough for them.

Callopy, the famous spiker, who had put many a player out of the game
for weeks at a time, strode into the batter's place, and he, too, was
not at the moment making any funny remarks.  The Rube delivered a ball
that all but hit Callopy fair on the head.  It was the second narrow
escape for him, and the roar he let out showed how he resented being
threatened with a little of his own medicine.  As might have been
expected, and very likely as the Rube intended, Callopy hit the next
ball, a sweeping curve, up over the infield.

I was trying to see all the intricate details of the motive and action
on the field, and it was not easy to watch several players at once.
But while Berne and Callopy were having their troubles with the Rube, I
kept the tail of my eye on Cogswell.  He was prowling up and down the
third-base line.

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

When Berne walked to the bench I distinctly heard him say:  "Come out
of 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 on
the Rube.  He had stirred them up.  First it was humor; then ridicule,
curiosity, suspicion, doubt.  And I knew it would grow to wonder and
certainty, then fierce attack from both tongues and bats, and
lastly--for ball players are generous--unstinted admiration.

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

The field grew tolerably quiet just then.  The Rube did not exert
himself.  The critical stage had no concern for him.  He pitched Lane a
high curve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meant to be hit and a
ball hard to hit safely.  Lane knew that as well as any hitter in the
world, so he let two of the curves go by--two strikes.  Again the Rube
relentlessly gave him the same ball; and Lane, hitting viciously,
spitefully, because he did not want to hit that kind of a ball, sent up
a 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 and
gave the Rube the rousing cheer of the brotherhood of fans.

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

What a change had come over the spirit of that Quaker aggregation!  It
was something to make a man thrill with admiration and, if he happened
to favor Chicago, to fire all his fighting blood. The players poured
upon the Rube a continuous stream of scathing abuse.  They would have
made a raging devil of a mild-mannered clergyman. Some of them were
skilled in caustic wit, most of them were possessed of forked tongues;
and Cogswell, he of a thousand baseball battles, had a genius for
inflaming anyone he tormented.  This was mostly beyond the ken of the
audience, and behind the back of the umpire, but it was perfectly plain
to me.  The Quakers were trying to rattle the Rube, a trick of the game
as fair for one side as for the other.  I sat there tight in my seat,
grimly glorying in the way the Rube refused to be disturbed.  But the
lion in him was rampant. Fortunately, it was his strange gift to pitch
better the angrier he got; and the more the Quakers flayed him, the
more he let himself out to their crushing humiliation.

The innings swiftly passed to the eighth with Chicago failing to score
again, with Philadelphia failing to score at all.  One scratch hit and
a single, gifts to the weak end of the batting list, were all the lank
pitcher allowed them.  Long since the bleachers had crowned the Rube.
He was theirs and they were his; and their voices had the peculiar
strangled hoarseness due to over-exertion. The grand stand, slower to
understand and approve, arrived later; but it got there about the
seventh, and ladies' gloves and men's hats were sacrificed.

In the eighth the Quakers reluctantly yielded their meed of praise,
showing it by a cessation of their savage wordy attacks on the Rube.
It was a kind of sullen respect, wrung from the bosom of great foes.

Then the ninth inning was at hand.  As the sides changed I remembered
to look at the feminine group in our box.  Milly was in a most
beautiful glow of happiness and excitement.  Nan sat rigid, leaning
over the rail, her face white and drawn, and she kept saying in a low
voice: "Will it never end?  Will it never end?"  Mrs. Nelson stared
wearily.

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

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

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

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

There were two Quakers on base, one out, and two of the best hitters in
the 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 yourself
if 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 fast
company!  I measured it by his remarkable deliberation.  He took a long
time to get ready to pitch to Berne, and when he let drive it was as if
he had been trifling all before in that game.  I could think of no way
to figure it except that when the ball left him there was scarcely any
appreciable interval of time before it cracked in Sweeney's mitt.  It
was the Rube's drop, which I believed unhittable.  Berne let it go by,
shaking his head as McClung called it a strike.  Another followed,
which Berne chopped at vainly.  Then with the same upheaval of his
giant frame, the same flinging of long arms and lunging forward, the
Rube delivered a third drop. And Berne failed to hit it.

The voiceless bleachers stamped on the benches and the grand stand
likewise thundered.

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

Lane up!  Three men on bases!  Two out!

Not improbably there were many thousand spectators of that thrilling
moment who pitied the Rube for the fate which placed Lane at the bat
then.  But I was not one of them.  Nevertheless my throat was clogged,
my mouth dry, and my ears full of bells.  I could have done something
terrible to Hurtle for his deliberation, yet I knew he was proving
himself what I had always tried to train him to be.

Then he swung, stepped out, and threw his body with the ball.  This was
his rarely used pitch, his last resort, his fast rise ball that jumped
up a little at the plate.  Lane struck under it.  How significant on
the instant to see old Cogswell's hands go up!  Again the Rube pitched,
and this time Lane watched the ball go by.  Two strikes!

That whole audience leaped to its feet, whispering, yelling, screaming,
roaring, bawling.

The Rube received the ball from Sweeney and quick as lightning he sped
it plateward.  The great Lane struck out!  The game was over--Chicago,
1; Philadelphia, 0.

In that whirling moment when the crowd went mad and Milly was hugging
me, and Nan pounding holes in my hat, I had a queer sort of blankness,
a section of time when my sensations were deadlocked.

"Oh!  Connie, look!" cried Nan.  I saw Lane and Cogswell warmly shaking
hands with the Rube.  Then the hungry clamoring fans tumbled upon the
field and swarmed about the players.

Whereupon Nan kissed me and Milly, and then kissed Mrs. Nelson.  In
that 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.  And
there's one more thing I want to say.  You're 'it' on this team.
You're the topnotch catcher in the Western League and one of the best
ball players in the game--but you're a knocker!"

Madge Ellston heard young Sheldon speak. She saw the flash in his gray
eyes and the heat of his bronzed face as he looked intently at the big
catcher.

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

Then a crowd of players trooped noisily out of the hotel lobby and
swept Sheldon and Carroll down the porch steps toward the waiting
omnibus.

Madge's uncle owned the Kansas City club. She had lived most of her
nineteen years in a baseball atmosphere, but accustomed as she was to
baseball talk and the peculiar banterings and bickerings of the
players, there were times when it seemed all Greek.  If a player got
his "notice" it meant he would be released in ten days.  A "knocker"
was a ball player who spoke ill of his fellow players.  This scrap of
conversation, however, had an unusual interest because Carroll had paid
court to her for a year, and Sheldon, coming to the team that spring,
had fallen desperately in love with her.  She liked Sheldon pretty
well, but Carroll fascinated her.  She began to wonder if there were
bad feelings between the rivals--to compare them--to get away from
herself and judge them impersonally.

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

"Miss Madge, you weren't to the park yesterday an' we lost without our
pretty 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' you
in baseball for years?" questioned Pat, in distress.

"I know what a knocker is, as everybody else does.  But I want to know
the 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's
shure warm today.... Miss Madge, a knocker is the strangest man
known in the game, the hardest to deal with an' what every baseball
manager hates most."

Donahue told her that he believed the term "knocker" came originally
from baseball; that in general it typified the player who strengthened
his own standing by belittling the ability of his team-mates, and by
enlarging upon his own superior qualities.  But there were many phases
of this peculiar type.  Some players were natural born knockers; others
acquired the name in their later years in the game when younger men
threatened to win their places.  Some of the best players ever produced
by baseball had the habit in its most violent form.  There were players
of ridiculously poor ability who held their jobs on the strength of
this one trait.  It was a mystery how they misled magnates and managers
alike; how for months they held their places, weakening a team, often
keeping a good team down in the race; all from sheer bold suggestion of
their own worth and other players' worthlessness. Strangest of all was
the knockers' power to disorganize; to engender a bad spirit between
management and team and among the players. The team which was without
one of the parasites of the game generally stood well up in the race
for the pennant, though there had been championship teams noted for
great knockers as well as great players.

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

"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 off
the field as he was on."

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

"Didn't he?  I was sure thinkin' I had a find in Billie.  Well, he's
lost his nerve.  He's in a bad slump.  It's worried me for days.  I'm
goin' to release Billie.  The team needs a shake-up. That's where
Billie gets the worst of it, for he's really the makin' of a star; but
he's slumped, an' now knockin' has made him let down.  There, Miss
Madge, that's an example of what I've just been tellin' you.  An' you
can see that a manager has his troubles.  These hulkin' athletes are a
lot of spoiled babies an' I often get sick of my job."

That afternoon Miss Ellston was in a brown study all the way out to the
baseball park.  She arrived rather earlier than usual to find the
grand-stand empty.  The Denver team had just come upon the field, and
the Kansas City players were practising batting at the left of the
diamond. Madge walked down the aisle of the grand stand and out along
the reporters' boxes.  She asked one of the youngsters on the field to
tell Mr. Sheldon that she would like to speak with him a moment.

Billie eagerly hurried from the players' bench with a look of surprise
and expectancy on his sun-tanned face.  Madge experienced for the first
time a sudden sense of shyness at his coming.  His lithe form and his
nimble step somehow gave her a pleasure that seemed old yet was new.
When he neared her, and, lifting his cap, spoke her name, the shade of
gloom in his eyes and lines of trouble on his face dispelled her
confusion.

"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 and
for a while led the team in batting.  Uncle George thought so well of
you. Then came this spell of bad form.  But, Billie, it's only a slump;
you can brace."

"I don't know," he replied, despondently. "Awhile back I got my mind
off the game.  Then--people who don't like me have taken advantage of
my 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 team
and Pat Donahue is manager. I think they both like me a little.  Now I
don't want to see you lose your place.  Perhaps----"

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

"Why?"

"You know," he said huskily.  "I've lost my head--I'm in love--I can't
think 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 your
toes!  Tear things!  Rip the boards off the fence!  Don't quit!"

She exhausted her vocabulary of baseball language if not her
enthusiasm, 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 the
stairs.  Her uncle's private box was upon the top of the grand stand
and she reached it in a somewhat bewildered state of mind.  She had a
confused sense of having appeared to encourage Billie, and did not know
whether she felt happy or guilty.  The flame in his eyes had warmed all
her blood.  Then, as she glanced over the railing to see the powerful
Burns Carroll, there rose in her breast a panic at strange variance
with her other feelings.

Many times had Madge Ellston viewed the field and stands and the
outlying country from this high vantage point; but never with the same
mingling emotions, nor had the sunshine ever been so golden, the woods
and meadows so green, the diamond so smooth and velvety, the whole
scene so gaily bright.

Denver had always been a good drawing card, and having won the first
game of the present series, bade fair to draw a record attendance. The
long lines of bleachers, already packed with the familiar mottled
crowd, sent forth a merry, rattling hum.  Soon a steady stream of
well-dressed men and women poured in the gates and up the grand-stand
stairs.  The soft murmur of many voices in light conversation and
laughter filled the air.  The peanut venders and score-card sellers
kept up their insistent shrill cries.  The baseball park was alive now
and restless; the atmosphere seemed charged with freedom and pleasure.
The players romped like skittish colts, the fans shrieked their
witticisms--all sound and movements suggested play.

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

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

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

Madge was surprised and glad to see Billie Sheldon start next for the
plate.  All season, until lately, he had been the second batter.
During his slump he had been relegated to the last place on the batting
list.  Perhaps he had asked Pat to try him once more at the top.  The
bleachers voiced their unstinted appreciation of this return, showing
that 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 desire
to see Billie brace up to his old form amazed her. And Carroll's rude
words beat thick in her ears. Never before had Billie appeared so
instinct with life, so intent and strung as when he faced Keene, the
Denver pitcher.  That worthy tied himself up in a knot, and then,
unlimbering a long arm, delivered the brand new ball.

Billie seemed to leap forward and throw his bat at it.  There was a
sharp ringing crack--and the ball was like a white string marvelously
stretching out over the players, over the green field beyond, and then,
sailing, soaring, over the right-field fence.  For a moment the stands,
even the bleachers, were stone quiet.  No player had ever hit a ball
over that fence.  It had been deemed impossible, as was attested to by
the many painted "ads" offering prizes for such a feat.  Suddenly the
far end of the bleachers exploded and the swelling roar rolled up to
engulf the grand stand in thunder.  Billie ran round the bases to
applause never before vented on that field.  But he gave no sign that
it affected him; he did not even doff his cap.  White-faced and stern,
he hurried to the bench, where Pat fell all over him and many of the
players grasped his hands.

Up in her box Madge was crushing her score-card and whispering:  "Oh!
Billie, I could hug you for that!"

Two runs on two pitched balls!  That was an opening to stir an exacting
audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm.  The Denver manager
peremptorily called Keene off the diamond and sent in Steele, a
south-paw, who had always bothered Pat's left-handed hitters.  That
move showed his astute judgment, for Steele struck out McReady and
retired Curtis and Mahew on easy chances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billie Sheldon then faced Steele.  The fans roared hoarsely, for Billie
had hit safely three times out of four.  Steele used his curve ball,
but he could not get the batter to go after it.  When he had wasted
three balls, the never-despairing bleachers howled:  "Now, Billie, in
your groove! Sting the next one!"  But Billie waited.  One strike!  Two
strikes!  Steele cut the plate.  That was a test which proved Sheldon's
caliber.

With seven innings of exciting play passed, with both teams on edge,
with the bleachers wild and the grand stands keyed up to the breaking
point, with everything making deliberation almost impossible, Billie
Sheldon 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 he
grimly studied Billie, then whirling hard to get more weight into his
motion, he threw the ball.

Billie swung perfectly and cut a curving liner between the first
baseman and the base.  Like a shot it skipped over the grass out along
the foul-line into right field.  Amid tremendous uproar Billie
stretched the hit into a triple, and when he got up out of the dust
after his slide into third the noise seemed to be the crashing down of
the bleachers.  It died out with the choking gurgling yell of the most
leather-lunged fan.

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

McReady marched up and promptly hit a long fly to the redoubtable
Crane.  Billie crouched in a sprinter's position with his eye on the
graceful fielder, waiting confidently for the ball to drop. As if there
had not already been sufficient heart-rending moments, the chance that
governed baseball meted out this play; one of the keenest, most trying
known to the game.  Players waited, spectators waited, and the instant
of that dropping ball was interminably long.  Everybody knew Crane
would catch it; everybody thought of the wonderful throwing arm that
had made him famous.  Was it possible for Billie Sheldon to beat the
throw to the plate?

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

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

Once more the Kansas City players took the field and Burns Carroll sang
out in his lusty voice: "Keep lively, boys!  Play hard!  Dig 'em up an'
get 'em!"  Indeed the big catcher was the main-stay of the home team.
The bulk of the work fell upon his shoulders.  Dalgren was wild and
kept his catcher continually blocking low pitches and wide curves and
poorly controlled high fast balls. But they were all alike to Carroll.
Despite his weight, he was as nimble on his feet as a goat, and if he
once got his hands on the ball he never missed it.  It was his
encouragement that steadied Dalgren; his judgment of hitters that
carried the young pitcher through dangerous places; his lightning swift
grasp of points that directed the machine-like work of his team.

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

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

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

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

But valiantly as Dalgren tried to respond, he failed.  The grind--the
strain had been too severe. When he finally did locate the plate Bluett
hit safely.  Langley bunted along the base line and beat the ball.

A blank, dead quiet settled down over the bleachers and stands.
Something fearful threatened. What might not come to pass, even at the
last moment of this nerve-racking game?  There was a runner on first
and a runner on second. That was bad.  Exceedingly bad was it that
these runners were on base with nobody out.  Worst of all was the fact
that Kane was up.  Kane, the best bunter, the fastest man to first, the
hardest hitter in the league!  That he would fail to advance those two
runners was scarcely worth consideration.  Once advanced, a fly to the
outfield, a scratch, anything almost, would tie the score. So this was
the climax presaged so many times earlier in the game.  Dalgren seemed
to 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 be
taken out.  But Pat Donahue made no sign. Pat had trained many a
pitcher by forcing him to take his medicine.  Then Carroll, mask under
his arm, rolling his big hand in his mitt, sauntered down to the
pitcher's box.  The sharp order of the umpire in no wise disconcerted
him.  He said something to Dalgren, vehemently nodding his head the
while.  Players and audience alike supposed he was trying to put a
little heart into Dalgren, and liked him the better, notwithstanding
the opposition to the umpire.

Carroll sauntered back to his position.  He adjusted his breast
protector, and put on his mask, deliberately taking his time.  Then he
stepped behind the plate, and after signing for the pitch, he slowly
moved his right hand up to his mask.

Dalgren wound up, took his swing, and let drive. Even as he delivered
the ball Carroll bounded away from his position, flinging off the mask
as he jumped.  For a single fleeting instant, the catcher's position
was vacated.  But that instant was long enough to make the audience
gasp.  Kane bunted beautifully down the third base line, and there
Carroll stood, fifteen feet from the plate, agile as a huge monkey.  He
whipped the ball to Mahew at third.  Mahew wheeled quick as thought and
lined the ball to second.  Sheldon came tearing for the bag, caught the
ball on the run, and with a violent stop and wrench threw it like a
bullet to first base.  Fast as Kane was, the ball beat him ten feet.  A
triple play!

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

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

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

When Madge entered the hotel parlor that evening she found her uncle
with guests and among them was Burns Carroll.  The presence of the
handsome giant affected Madge more impellingly than ever before, yet in
some inexplicably different way.  She found herself trembling; she
sensed a crisis in her feelings for this man and it frightened her.
She became conscious suddenly that she had always been afraid of him.
Watching Carroll receive the congratulations of many of those present,
she saw that he dominated them as he had her.  His magnetism was
over-powering; his great stature seemed to fill the room; his easy
careless assurance emanated from superior strength.  When he spoke
lightly of the game, of Crane's marvelous catch, of Dalgren's pitching
and of his own triple play, it seemed these looming features retreated
in perspective--somehow lost their vital significance because he
slighted them.

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

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

Carroll possessed the elemental attributes of a conqueror.  When with
him Madge whimsically feared that he would snatch her up in his arms
and carry her bodily off, as the warriors of old did with the women
they wanted.  But she began to believe that the fascination he
exercised upon her was merely physical.  That gave her pause. Not only
was Burns Carroll on trial, but also a very foolish fluttering little
moth--herself.  It was time enough, however, to be stern with herself
after 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 and
sticking out a hand to catch a ball.  It's a grand-stand play.  Why, a
good 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's
wild, though, and will never make good in fast company.  I won his game
today. He wouldn't have lasted an inning without me.  It was dead wrong
for Pat to pitch him. Dalgren simply can't pitch and he hasn't sand
enough to learn."

A hot retort trembled upon Madge Ellston's lips, but she withheld it
and quietly watched Carroll.  How complacent he was, how utterly
self-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.  This
talk of his slump is all rot. When he joined the team he made some
lucky hits and the papers lauded him as a comer, but he soon got down
to his real form.  Why, to break into a game now and then, to shut his
eyes and hit a couple on the nose--that's not baseball. Pat's given him
ten days' notice, and his release will be a good move for the team.
Sheldon's not fast enough for this league."

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

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

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

"Madge, did I brace up?"

The girl risked one quick look at him.  How boyish he seemed, how
eager!  What an altogether different Billie!  But was the difference
all in him!  Somehow, despite a conscious shyness in the moment she
felt natural and free, without the uncertainty and restraint that had
always troubled her while with him.

"Oh, Billie, that glorious home run!"

"Madge, wasn't that hit a dandy?  How I made it is a mystery, but the
bat felt like a feather.  I thought of you.  Tell me--what did you
think 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 terrible
baseball hands....  Well, when you made that hit I just collapsed
and 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 she
had been seeking her uncle.  They met him and Pat Donahue, coming out
of 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 shrewd
eyes twinkling.

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

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

"Ellston," said Pat.  "Billie's home-run drive today recalled his
notice an' if I don't miss guess it won him another game--the best game
in 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 a
kindly hand on the young man's arm.  "I'm tickled to death.  That ten
days' notice doesn't go.  See?  I've had to shake up the team but your
job is good.  I released McReady outright an' traded Carroll to Denver
for a catcher and a fielder.  Some of the directors hollered murder,
an' I expect the fans will roar, but I'm running this team, I'll have
harmony among my players.  Carroll is a great catcher, but he's a
knocker."

THE WINNING BALL

One day in July our Rochester club, leader in the Eastern League, had
returned to the hotel after winning a double-header from the Syracuse
club.  For some occult reason there was to be a lay-off next day and
then on the following another double-header.  These double-headers we
hated 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 with
exclamations of pleasure.

After dinner we were all sitting and smoking comfortably in front of
the hotel when our manager, Merritt, came hurriedly out of the lobby.
It struck me that he appeared a little flustered.

"Say, you fellars," he said brusquely.  "Pack your suits and be ready
for the bus at seven-thirty."

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

"I've got a good thing on for tomorrow," continued the manager.  "Sixty
per cent gate receipts if we win.  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 tomorrow
in time for the game. An' we'll hev to hustle."

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

"Cut it out!" said Merritt, getting exasperated. "You'd all lay down on
me--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 you
puffed-up, high-salaried stiffs pack your grips quick.  See?  It'll
cost any fresh fellar fifty for missin' the train."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These long, powerful, big-handed lads evidently did not know the
difference between lacrosse and baseball; but they were quick as cats
on their feet, and they scooped up the ball in a way wonderful to see.
And throw!--it made a professional's heart swell just to see them line
the ball across the diamond.

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

The "rabbit" was a baseball similar in appearance to the ordinary
league ball; under its horse-hide cover, however, it was remarkably
different.

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

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

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

Many as were the country players whom we seasoned and traveled
professionals had run across, this twirler outclassed them for
remarkable appearance.  Moreover, what put an entirely different tinge
to our momentary humor was the discovery that he was as wild as a March
hare and could throw a ball so fast that it resembled a pea shot from a
boy's air gun.

Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the first pitched ball, which
he did not see, and the second, which ticked his shirt as it shot past,
he turned to us with an expression that made us groan inwardly.

When Deerfoot looked that way it meant the pitcher was dangerous.
Deerfoot made no effort to swing at the next ball, and was promptly
called out on strikes.

I was second at bat, and went up with some reluctance.  I happened to
be leading the league in both long distance and safe hitting, and I
doted on speed.  But having stopped many mean in-shoots with various
parts of my anatomy, I was rather squeamish about facing backwoods yaps
who had no control.

When I had watched a couple of his pitches, which the umpire called
strikes, I gave him credit for as much speed as Rusie.  These balls
were as straight as a string, singularly without curve, jump, or
variation of any kind.  I lined the next one so hard at the shortstop
that it cracked like a pistol as it struck his hands and whirled him
half off his feet.  Still he hung to the ball and gave opportunity for
the first crash of applause.

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

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

Doran sent a sizzling grasscutter down toward left.  The lanky third
baseman darted over, dived down, and, coming up with the ball,
exhibited the power of a throwing arm that made as all green with envy.

Then, when the catcher chased a foul fly somewhere back in the crowd
and caught it, we began to take notice.

"Lucky stabs!" said Merritt cheerfully.  "They can't keep that up.
We'll drive him to the woods next time."

But they did keep it up; moreover, they became more brilliant as the
game progressed.  What with Hathaway's heady pitching we soon disposed
of them when at the bat; our turns, however, owing to the wonderful
fielding of these backwoodsmen, were also fruitless.

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

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

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

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

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

With Browning up and me next, the situation looked rather precarious
for 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.  He
placed a slow bunt in the grass toward third and sprinted for first.
The third baseman fielded the ball, but, being confused, did not know
where to throw it.

"Stick it in your basket," yelled Merritt, in a delight that showed how
hard he was pulling for the gate money, and his beaming smile as he
turned to me was inspiring.  "Now, Reddy, it's up to you!  I'm not
worrying about what's happened so far.  I know, with you at bat in a
pinch, 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 no
other thing, gave me the thrilling fire to arise to the opportunity.
Selecting my light bat, I went up and faced the rustic twirler and
softly said things to him.

He delivered the ball, and I could have yelled aloud, so fast, so
straight, so true it sped toward me.  Then I hit it harder than I had
ever hit a ball in my life.  The bat sprung, as if it were whalebone.
And the ball took a bullet course between center and left.  So
beautiful a hit was it that I watched as I ran.

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

On the ball soared, and began to drop; on the fielder sped, and began
to disappear over a little hill back of his position.  Then he reached
up with a long arm and marvelously caught the ball in one hand.  He
went out of sight as I touched second base, and the heterogeneous crowd
knew about a great play to make more noise than a herd of charging
buffalo.

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

"I've sneaked it in," said Merritt, with a low voice.  "Got it to the
umpire on the last passed ball.  See, the 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 as
light as the regulation league ball it could not be thrown with the
same speed and to curve it was an impossibility.

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

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

Hathaway got a safe fly over the infield and two runs tallied.  The
pitcher, in spite of the help of the umpire, could not locate the plate
for Balknap, and gave him a base on balls.  Bases full again!

Deerfoot slammed a hot liner straight at the second baseman, which,
striking squarely in his hands, recoiled as sharply as if it had struck
a wall.  Doran scored, and still the bases were filled.

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

When I came to bat, indications were not wanting that the Canadian team
would soon be up in the air.  The long pitcher delivered the "rabbit,"
and got it low down by my knees, which was an unfortunate thing for
him.  I swung on that one, and trotted round the bases behind the
runners while the center and left fielders chased the ball.

Gillinger weighed nearly two hundred pounds, and he got all his weight
under the "rabbit."  It went so high that we could scarcely see it.
All the infielders rushed in, and after staggering around, with heads
bent back, one of them, the shortstop, managed to get under it.  The
"rabbit" bounded forty feet out of his hands!

When Snead's grounder nearly tore the third baseman's leg off; when
Bane's hit proved as elusive as a flitting shadow; when Lake's liner
knocked the pitcher flat, and Doran's fly leaped high out of the center
fielder's glove--then those earnest, simple, country ballplayers
realized something was wrong.  But they imagined it was in themselves,
and after a short spell of rattles, they steadied up and tried harder
than ever.  The motions they went through trying to stop that jumping
jackrabbit of a ball were ludicrous in the extreme.

Finally, through a foul, a short fly, and a scratch hit to first, they
retired the side and we went into the field with the score 14 to 2 in
our 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 and
captain over the "rabbit."  At the idea of letting those herculean
railsplitters have a chance to hit the rubber ball we felt our blood
run cold.

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

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

"Why did you ring this one in on us?" asked the captain.  "We never
threw out this ball.  We want a chance to hit it."

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

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

Not improbably we all entertained the identical thought that old man
Hathaway was the last pitcher under the sun calculated to be effective
with the "rabbit."  He never relied on speed; in fact, Merritt often
scornfully accused him of being unable to break a pane of glass; he
used principally what we called floaters and a change of pace.  Both
styles 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 not
take any genius to make Deerfoot's ominous prophecy.

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

Crack!

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

The next batter resembled the first one, and the hit likewise, only it
leaped wickedly at Doran and went through his hands as if they had been
paper.  The third man batted up a very high fly to Gillinger.  He
clutched at it with his huge shovel hands, but he could not hold it.
The way he pounced upon the ball, dug it out of the grass, and hurled
it at Hathaway, showed his anger.

Obviously Hathaway had to stop the throw, for he could not get out of
the road, and he spoke to his captain in what I knew were no
complimentary terms.

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

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

By way of variety, the lambasting Canadians commenced to lambast a few
over the hills and far away, which chased Deerfoot and me until our
tongues 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 team
pranced up and down the side lines, giving a splendid imitation of
cannibals celebrating the occasion of a feast.

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

"You take it!" yelled Gillinger to Bane.

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

Gillinger wandered around under the ball for what seemed an age.  It
dropped as swiftly as a rocket shoots upward.  Gillinger went forward
in a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up his broad hands.  He
misjudged the ball, and it hit him fairly on the head and bounced
almost to where Doran stood at second.

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

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

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

Hathaway's expert contortions saved his head and body on divers
occasions, but presently a low bounder glanced off the grass and
manifested 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, and
Merritt came running on the diamond.

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

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

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

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

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

"Naw!  Naw, you don't.  I saw you change the ball I gave you fer one in
your pocket!  Naw! You don't come enny of your American dodges on us!
Gimmee thet ball, an' you use the other, or I'll stop the game."

Wherewith the shrewd umpire took the ball from Merritt's hand and
fished the "rabbit" from his pocket.  Our thwarted manager stuttered
his wrath.  "Y-you be-be-wh-whiskered y-yap!  I'll g-g-give----"

What dire threat he had in mind never materialized, for he became
speechless.  He glowered upon the cool little umpire, and then turned
grandly toward the plate.

It may have been imagination, yet I made sure Merritt seemed to shrink
and grow smaller before he pitched a ball.  For one thing the plate was
uphill from the pitcher's box, and then the fellow standing there
loomed up like a hill and swung a bat that would have served as a wagon
tongue. No wonder Merritt evinced nervousness.  Presently he whirled
and delivered the ball.

Bing!

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

"Grand, you old skinflint, grand!"

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

"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 slashing
hit 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 his
eagerness 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 hit
a terrific liner right at the pitcher.

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

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

What did we care!  Justice had been done us, and we were unutterably
happy.  Crabe Bane stood on his head; Gillinger began a war dance; old
man Hathaway hobbled out to the side lines and whooped like an Indian;
Snead rolled over and over in the grass.  All of us broke out into
typical expressions of baseball frenzy, and individual ones
illustrating our particular moods.

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

FALSE COLORS

"Fate has decreed more bad luck for Salisbury in Saturday's game with
Bellville.  It has leaked out that our rivals will come over
strengthened by a 'ringer,' no less than Yale's star pitcher, Wayne.
We saw him shut Princeton out in June, in the last game of the college
year, and we are not optimistic in our predictions as to what Salisbury
can do with him.  This appears a rather unfair procedure for Bellville
to resort to.  Why couldn't they come over with their regular team?
They have won a game, and so have we; both games were close and
brilliant; the deciding game has roused unusual interest.  We are
inclined to resent Bellville's methods as unsportsmanlike. All our
players can do is to go into this game on Saturday and try the harder
to win."

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

"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 paid
for the services of distinguished players.  And this in itself rather
inclined Wayne to sympathize with Salisbury.  He knew something of the
struggles of a strictly amateur club to cope with its semi-professional
rivals.

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

"Are yon Mr. Wayne, the Yale pitcher?" he asked eagerly.  He was a
fair-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 learned
you were in town and are going to pitch against us tomorrow.  Won't you
walk out into the grounds with me now? You might want to warm up a
little."

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

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

The field was an oval, green as an emerald, level as a billiard table
and had no fences or stands to obstruct the open view of the
surrounding wooded country.  On each side of the diamond were rows of
wooden benches, 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 ambitious
youngster, and then went into the clubhouse, where Huling introduced
him to several of his players.  After a good rubdown, Wayne thanked
Huling for his courtesy, and started out, intending to go back to town.

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

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

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

Despite Wayne's hesitation, Huling insisted upon introducing him to
friends, and finally hauled him up to a big touring car full of girls.
Wayne, being a Yale pitcher, had seen several thousand pretty girls,
but the group in that automobile fairly dazzled him.  And the last one
to whom Huling presented 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 was
unbecoming to a Yale senior.  But, considering she was the girl he had
been expecting to discover for years, his clumsiness bespoke the
importance of the event.  The merry laughter of the girls rang in his
ears. Presently, a voice detached itself from the others, and came
floating softly to him.

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

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

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

Her white hand lightly touched the Princeton pin at her neck.  Wayne
roused suddenly out of his trance.  The girl was a Princeton girl!  The
gleam of her golden hair, the flash of her blue eyes, became clear in
sight.

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

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

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

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

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

Quite amazed, Wayne turned squarely to look at Miss Huling.  Instead of
disarming his quick suspicion, her cool, sweet voice, and brave, blue
eyes confirmed it.  The charms of the captain's sister were to be used
to win him away from the Bellville nine.  He knew the trick; it had
been played upon him before.

But never had any other such occasion given him a feeling of regret.
This case was different. She was the girl.  And she meant to flirt with
him, to use her eyes for all they were worth to encompass the Waterloo
of the 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 dream
girl from his mind, and determined to meet Miss Huling half way in her
game.  He could not flirt as well as he could pitch; still, he was no
novice.

"Well, Miss Huling, my word certainly is not involved.  But as to
pitching 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 how
you college men are paid big sums.  Our association will not give a
dollar, and, besides, my brother knows nothing of this.  But we girls
are heart and soul on winning this game.  We'll----"

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

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

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

"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 made
Wayne wince.  What a perfect little actress!  But there seemed just a
chance that this was not deceit.  For an instant he wavered, held back
by subtle, finer intuition; then he beat down the mounting influence of
truth in those 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 so
deeply, though it showed him his mistake, as the darkening shadow of
disappointment in her eyes.  If she had been a flirt, she would have
been prepared for rudeness.  He began casting about in his mind for
some apology, some mitigation of his offense; but as he was about to
speak, the sudden fading of her color, leaving her pale, and the look
in her proud, dark 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 wear
Yale blue, and the pale, surprised agreement to his second proposal!
Wayne experienced a strange sensation of personal loss.

While he endeavored to find his tongue, Miss Huling spoke to one of the
boys standing near, and he started off on a run for the field.
Presently Huling and the other players broke for the car, soon
surrounding it in breathless anticipation.

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

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

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

Wayne cursed himself roundly; then he fell into deep thought.  He began
to hope he could retrieve the blunder.  He would win the game; he would
explain to her the truth; he would ask for an opportunity to prove he
was worthy of her friendship; he would not mention the kiss.  This last
thought called up the soft curve of her red lips and that it was
possible for him to kiss her made the temptation strong.

His sleep that night was not peaceful and dreamless.  He awakened late,
had breakfast sent to his room, and then took a long walk out into the
country.  After lunch he dodged the crowd in the hotel lobby, and
hurried upstairs, where he put on his baseball suit.  The first person
he met upon going down was Reed, the Bellville man.

"What's this I hear, Wayne, about your pitching for Salisbury today?  I
got 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 yell
murder.  As it is, we'll trim Salisbury anyway."

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

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

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

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

Dorothy Huling wore a bow of Yale blue upon her breast, and Wayne saw
it 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 it
was he did not know; he saw only the averted face of Dorothy Huling.
And as he returned to the field with a dull pang, he determined he
would make her indifference disappear with the gladness of a victory
for her team.

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

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

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

Wells, the first batter, fouled out; Stamford hit an easy bounce to the
pitcher, 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 amid
vociferous cheering.  He felt that he could beat this team even without
good support.  He was in the finest condition, and his arm had been
resting for ten days.  He knew that if he had control of his high
inshoot, these Bellville players would feel the whiz of some speed
under their chins.

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

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

But the Salisbury players were not proof against the tempting slow
balls that Mackay delivered.  They hit at wide curves far off the plate
and when they did connect with the ball it was only to send an easy
chance to the infielders.

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

In the first of the seventh, Barr for Bellville hit a ball which the
third baseman should have fielded.  But he fumbled.  The second batter
sent a fly to shortstop, who muffed it.  The third hitter reached his
base on another error by an infielder.  Here the bases were crowded,
and the situation had become critical all in a moment. Wayne believed
the infield would go to pieces, and lose the game, then and there, if
another hit went to short 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 to
fan the rest of these hitters.  You're doing splendidly.  Now, watch
close for my drop.  Be ready to go down on your knees. When I let
myself out, the 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 whole
Bellville contingent on the side lines rose and yelled and cheered.

Moore was a left handed hitter, who choked his bat up short, and poked
at the ball.  He was a good bunter, and swift on his feet.  Wayne had
taken his measure, as he had that of the other players, earlier in the
game; and he knew it was good pitching to keep the ball in close to
Moore's hands, so that if he did hit it, the chances were it would not
go safe.

Summoning all his strength, Wayne took his long swing and shot the ball
over the inside corner with terrific speed.

One strike!

Wayne knew it would not do to waste any balls if he wished to maintain
that speed, so he put the second one in the same place.  Moore struck
too late.

Two strikes!

Then Burns signed for the last drop.  Wayne delivered it with
trepidation, for it was a hard curve to handle.  Moore fell all over
himself trying to hit it.  Little Burns dropped to his knees to block
the vicious curve.  It struck the ground, and, glancing, boomed deep on
the breast protector.

How the Salisbury supporters roared their approval!  One man out--the
bases full--with Reed, the slugging captain, at bat!

If Reed had a weakness, Wayne had not discovered it yet, although Reed
had not hit safely. The captain stood somewhat back from the plate, a
fact that induced Wayne to try him with the speedy outcurve.  Reed
lunged with a powerful swing, pulling away from the plate, and he
missed the curve by a foot.

Wayne did not need to know any more.  Reed had made his reputation
slugging straight balls from heedless pitchers.  He chopped the air
twice more, and flung his bat savagely to the ground.

"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 of
his team.  Wayne tried to work him on a high, fast ball close in.
Clark swung freely and cracked a ripping liner to left.  Half the crowd
roared, and then groaned, for the beautiful hit went foul by several
yards.  Wayne wisely decided to risk all on his fast drop.  Clark
missed the first, fouled the second.

Two strikes!

Then he waited.  He cooly let one, two, three of the fast drops go by
without attempting to hit them.  Burns valiantly got his body in front
of them.  These balls were all over the plate, but too low to be called
strikes.  With two strikes, and three balls, and the bases full, Clark
had the advantage.

Tight as the place was, Wayne did not flinch. The game depended
practically upon the next ball delivered.  Wayne craftily and daringly
decided to use another fast drop, for of all his assortment that would
be the one least expected by Clark. But it must be started higher, so
that in case Clark made no effort to swing, it would still be a strike.

Gripping the ball with a clinched hand, Wayne swung sharply, and drove
it home with the limit of his power.  It sped like a bullet, waist
high, and just before reaching the plate darted downward, as if it had
glanced on an invisible barrier.

Clark was fooled completely and struck futilely. But the ball caromed
from the hard ground, hit Burns with a resounding thud, and bounced
away. Clark broke for first, and Moore dashed for home. Like a tiger
the little catcher pounced upon the ball, and, leaping back into line,
blocked the sliding Moore three feet from the plate.

Pandemonium burst loose among the Salisbury adherents.  The men bawled,
the women screamed, the boys shrieked, and all waved their hats and
flags, and jumped up and down, and manifested symptoms of baseball
insanity.

In the first of the eighth inning, Mackay sailed up the balls like
balloons, and disposed of three batters on the same old weak hits to
his clever fielders.  In the last of the eighth, Wayne struck out three
more Bellville players.

"Burns, you're up," said Wayne, who, in his earnestness to win, kept
cheering his comrades. "Do something.  Get your base any way you can.
Get in front of one.  We must score this inning."

Faithful, battered Burns cunningly imposed his hip over the plate and
received another bruise in the interests of his team.  The opposing
players furiously stormed at the umpire for giving him his base, but
Burns' trick went through.  Burnett bunted skilfully, sending Burns to
second.  Cole hit a fly to center.  Then Huling singled between short
and third.

It became necessary for the umpire to delay the game while he put the
madly leaping boys back off the coaching lines.  The shrill, hilarious
cheering gradually died out, and the field settled into a forced quiet.

Wayne hurried up to the plate and took his position.  He had always
been a timely hitter, and he gritted his teeth in his resolve to settle
this game.  Mackay whirled his long arm, wheeled, took his long stride,
and pitched a slow, tantalizing ball that seemed never to get anywhere.
But Wayne waited, timed it perfectly, and met it squarely.

The ball flew safely over short, and but for a fine sprint and stop by
the left fielder, would have resulted in a triple, possibly a home run.
As it was, Burns and Huling scored; and Wayne, by a slide, reached
second base.  When he arose and saw the disorderly riot, and heard the
noise of that 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 looked
out across the field toward a white-crowned motor car, and he caught a
gleam of Dorothy Huling's golden hair, and wondered if she were glad.

For nothing short of the miraculous could snatch this game from him
now.  Burns had withstood a severe pounding, but he would last out the
inning, and Wayne did not take into account the rest of the team.  He
opened up with no slackening of his terrific speed, and he struck out
the three remaining batters on eleven pitched balls. Then in the rising
din he ran for Burns and gave him a mighty hug.

"You made the gamest stand of any catcher I ever pitched to," he said
warmly.

Burns looked at his quivering, puffed, and bleeding hands, and smiled
as if to say that this was praise to remember, and reward enough. Then
the crowd swooped down on them, and they were swallowed up in the
clamor and surge of victory.  When Wayne got out of the thick and press
of it, he made a bee line for his hotel, and by running a gauntlet
managed to escape.

Resting, dressing, and dining were matters which he went through
mechanically, with his mind ever on one thing.  Later, he found a dark
corner of the porch and sat there waiting, thinking. There was to be a
dance given in honor of the team that evening at the hotel.  He watched
the boys and girls pass up the steps.  When the music commenced, he
arose and went into the hall. It was bright with white gowns, and gay
with movement.

"There he is.  Grab him, somebody," yelled Huling.

"Do something for me, quick," implored Wayne of the captain, as he saw
the 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, and
he withstood the battery of arch eyes modestly, as became the winner of
many fields.  But even the reception after the Princeton game paled in
comparison 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 face
crowned with golden hair.  Then he was making his way to where she
stood near one of the open windows.

He never knew what he said to her, nor what reply she made, but she put
her arm in his, and presently they were gliding over the polished
floor.  To Wayne the dance was a dream.  He led her through the hall
and out upon the balcony, where composure strangely came to him.

"Mr. Wayne, I have to thank you for saving the day for us.  You pitched
magnificently."

"I would have broken my arm to win that game," burst out Wayne.  "Miss
Huling, I made a blunder yesterday.  I thought there was a conspiracy
to persuade me to throw down Bellville. I've known of such things, and
I resented it. You understand what I thought.  I humbly offer my
apologies, and beg that you forget the rude obligation I forced upon
you."

How cold she was!  How unattainable in that moment!  He caught his
breath, and rushed on.

"Your brother and the management of the club have asked me to pitch for
Salisbury the remainder of the 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--Miss
Huling, you will again wear that bit of Yale blue."

"If, Mr. Wayne, you had very sharp eyes you would have noticed that I
still wear it!"

THE MANAGER OF MADDEN'S HILL

Willie Howarth loved baseball.  He loved it all the more because he was
a cripple.  The game was more beautiful and wonderful to him because he
would never be able to play it.  For Willie had been born with one leg
shorter than the other; he could not run and at 11 years of age it was
all he could do to walk with a crutch.

Nevertheless Willie knew more about baseball than any other boy on
Madden's Hill.  An uncle of his had once been a ballplayer and he had
taught Willie the fine points of the game.  And this uncle's ballplayer
friends, who occasionally visited him, had imparted to Willie the
vernacular of the game.  So that Willie's knowledge of players and
play, and particularly of the strange talk, the wild and whirling words
on the lips of the real baseball men, made him the envy of every boy on
Madden's Hill, and a mine of information.  Willie never missed
attending the games played on the lots, and he could tell why they were
won or lost.

Willie suffered considerable pain, mostly at night, and this had given
him a habit of lying awake in the dark hours, grieving over that
crooked leg that forever shut him out of the heritage of youth.  He had
kept his secret well; he was accounted shy because he was quiet and had
never been able to mingle with the boys in their activity. No one
except his mother dreamed of the fire and hunger and pain within his
breast.  His school-mates called him "Daddy."  It was a name given for
his bent shoulders, his labored gait and his thoughtful face, too old
for his years.  And no one, not even his mother, guessed how that name
hurt Willie.

It was a source of growing unhappiness with Willie that the Madden's
Hill boys were always beaten by the other teams of the town.  He really
came to lose his sadness over his own misfortune in pondering on the
wretched play of the Madden's Hill baseball club.  He had all a boy's
pride in the locality where he lived.  And when the Bogg's Farm team
administered a crushing defeat to Madden's Hill, Willie grew desperate.

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 way
had a fondness for Willie.

"Lane, you got an orful trimmin' up on the Boggs.  What 'd you wanter
let them country jakes beat you for?"

"Aw, Daddy, they was lucky.  Umpire had hay-seed in his eyes!  Robbed
us!  He couldn't see straight.  We'll trim them down here Saturday."

"No, you won't--not without team work.  Lane, you've got to have a
manager."

"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 the
boys."

The idea seemed to strike Capt. Griffith favorably.  He prevailed upon
all the boys living on Madden's Hill to come out for practice after
school.  Then he presented them to the managing coach.  The boys were
inclined to poke fun at Daddy Howarth and ridicule him; but the idea
was a novel one and they were in such a state of subjection from many
beatings that they welcomed any change.  Willie sat on a bench
improvised from a soap box and put them through a drill of batting and
fielding.  The next day in his coaching he included bunting and
sliding.  He played his men in different positions and for three more
days he drove them unmercifully.

When Saturday came, the day for the game with Bogg's Farm, a wild
protest went up from the boys.  Willie experienced his first bitterness
as a manager.  Out of forty aspirants for the Madden's Hill team he
could choose but nine to play the game.  And as a conscientious manager
he could use no favorites.  Willie picked the best players and assigned
them to positions that, in his judgment, were the best suited to them.
Bob Irvine wanted to play first base and he was down for right field.
Sam Wickhart thought he was the fastest fielder, and Willie had him
slated to catch. Tom Lindsay's feelings were hurt because he was not to
play in the infield.  Eddie Curtis suffered a fall in pride when he
discovered he was not down to play second base.  Jake Thomas, Tay-Tay
Mohler and Brick Grace all wanted to pitch.  The manager had chosen
Frank Price for that important position, and Frank's one ambition was
to be a shortstop.

So there was a deadlock.  For a while there seemed no possibility of a
game.  Willie sat on the bench, the center of a crowd of discontented,
quarreling boys.  Some were jealous, some were outraged, some tried to
pacify and persuade the others.  All were noisy.  Lane Griffith stood
by his manager and stoutly declared the players should play the
positions to which they had been assigned or not at all.  And he was
entering into a hot argument with Tom Lindsay when the Bogg's Farm team
arrogantly put in an appearance.

The way that team from the country walked out upon the field made a
great difference.  The spirit of Madden's Hill roused to battle.  The
game began swiftly and went on wildly.  It ended almost before the Hill
boys realized it had commenced. They did not know how they had won but
they gave Daddy Howarth credit for it.  They had a bonfire that night
to celebrate the victory and they talked baseball until their parents
became alarmed and hunted them up.

Madden's Hill practiced all that next week and on Saturday beat the
Seventh Ward team.  In four more weeks they had added half a dozen more
victories to their record.  Their reputation went abroad.  They got
uniforms, and baseball shoes with spikes, and bats and balls and
gloves.  They got a mask, but Sam Wickhart refused to catch with it.

"Sam, one of these days you'll be stoppin' a high inshoot with your
eye," sagely remarked Daddy Howarth.  "An' then where'll I get a
catcher for the Natchez game?"

Natchez was the one name on the lips of every Madden's Hill boy.  For
Natchez had the great team of the town and, roused by the growing
repute of the Hill club, had condescended to arrange a game.  When that
game was scheduled for July Fourth Daddy Howarth set to driving his
men. Early and late he had them out.  This manager, in keeping with all
other famous managers, believed that batting was the thing which won
games.  He developed a hard-hitting team.  He kept everlastingly at
them to hit and run, hit and run.

On the Saturday before the Fourth, Madden's Hill had a game to play
that did not worry Daddy and he left his team in charge of the captain.

"Fellers, I'm goin' down to the Round House to see Natchez play.  I'll
size up their game," said Daddy.

When he returned he was glad to find that his team had won its ninth
straight victory, but he was not communicative in regard to the playing
of the Natchez club.  He appeared more than usually thoughtful.

The Fourth fell on Tuesday.  Daddy had the boys out Monday and he let
them take only a short, sharp practice.  Then he sent them home. In his
own mind, Daddy did not have much hope of beating Natchez.  He had been
greatly impressed by their playing, and one inning toward the close of
the Round House game they had astonished him with the way they suddenly
seemed to break loose and deluge their opponents in a flood of hits and
runs.  He could not understand this streak of theirs--for they did the
same thing every time they played--and he was too good a baseball
student to call it luck.

He had never wanted anything in his life, not even to have two good
legs, as much as he wanted to beat Natchez.  For the Madden's Hill boys
had come to believe him infallible.  He was their idol. They imagined
they had only to hit and run, to fight and never give up, and Daddy
would make them win.  There was not a boy on the team who believed that
Natchez had a chance.  They had grown proud and tenacious of their
dearly won reputation.  First of all, Daddy thought of his team and
their loyalty to him; then he thought of the glory lately come to
Madden's Hill, and lastly of what it meant to him to have risen from a
lonely watcher of the game--a cripple who could not even carry a
bat--to manager of the famous Hill team. It might go hard with the boys
to lose this game, but it would break his heart.

From time out of mind there had always been rivalry between Madden's
Hill and Natchez.  And there is no rivalry so bitter as that between
boys. So Daddy, as he lay awake at night planning the system of play he
wanted to use, left out of all account any possibility of a peaceful
game.  It was comforting to think that if it came to a fight Sam and
Lane could hold their own with Bo Stranathan and Slugger Blandy.

In the managing of his players Daddy observed strict discipline.  It
was no unusual thing for him to fine them.  On practice days and off
the field they implicitly obeyed him.  During actual play, however,
they had evinced a tendency to jump over the traces.  It had been his
order for them not to report at the field Tuesday until 2 o'clock. He
found it extremely difficult to curb his own inclination to start
before the set time.  And only the stern duty of a man to be an example
to his players kept Daddy at home.

He lived near the ball grounds, yet on this day, as he hobbled along on
his crutch, he thought the distance interminably long, and for the
first time in weeks the old sickening resentment at his useless leg
knocked at his heart.  Manfully Daddy refused admittance to that old
gloomy visitor. He found comfort and forgetfulness in the thought that
no strong and swift-legged boy of his acquaintance could do what he
could do.

Upon arriving at the field Daddy was amazed to see such a large crowd.
It appeared that all the boys and girls in the whole town were in
attendance, and, besides, there was a sprinkling of grown-up people
interspersed here and there around the diamond.  Applause greeted
Daddy's appearance and members of his team escorted him to the soap-box
bench.

Daddy cast a sharp eye over the Natchez players practicing on the
field.  Bo Stranathan had out his strongest team.  They were not a
prepossessing nine.  They wore soiled uniforms that did not match in
cut or color.  But they pranced and swaggered and strutted!  They were