player on the team had a word for the Rube. There was no quitting in that bunch, and if I ever saw victory on the stern faces of ball players it was in that moment.
“We haven’t opened up yet. Mebbee this is the innin’. If it ain’t, the next is,” said Spears.
With the weak end of the batting list up, there seemed little hope of getting a run on Vane that inning. He had so much confidence that he put the ball over for Gregg, who hit out of the reach of the infield. Again Vane sent up his straight ball, no doubt expecting Cairns to hit into a double play. But Cairns surprised Vane and everybody else by poking a safety past first base. The fans began to howl and pound and whistle.
The Rube strode to bat. The infield closed in for a bunt, but the Rube had no orders for that style of play. Spears had said nothing to him. Vane lost his nonchalance and settled down. He cut loose with all his speed. Rube stepped out, suddenly whirled, then tried to dodge, but the ball hit him fair in the back. Rube sagged in his tracks, then straightened up, and walked slowly to first base. Score 5 to 5, bases full, no outs, McCall at bat. I sat dumb on the bench, thrilling and shivering. McCall! Ashwell! Stringer to bat!
“Play it safe! Hold the bags!” yelled the coacher.
McCall fairly spouted defiance as he faced Vane.
“Pitch! It’s all off! An’ you know it!”
If Vane knew that, he showed no evidence of it. His face was cold, unsmiling, rigid. He had to pitch to McCall, the fastest man in the league; to Ashwell, the best bunter; to Stringer, the champion batter. It was a supreme test for a great pitcher. There was only one kind of a ball that McCall was not sure to hit, and that was a high curve, in close. Vane threw it with all his power. Carter called it a strike. Again Vane swung and his arm fairly cracked. Mac fouled the ball. The third was wide. Slowly, with lifting breast, Vane got ready, whirled savagely and shot up the ball. McCall struck out.
As the Buffalo players crowed and the audience groaned it was worthy of note that little McCall showed no temper. Yet he had failed to grasp a great opportunity.
“Ash, I couldn’t see ’em,” he said, as he passed to the bench. “Speed, whew! look out for it. He’s been savin’ up. Hit quick, an’ you’ll get him.”
Ashwell bent over the plate and glowered at Vane.
“Pitch! It’s all off! An’ you know it!” he hissed, using Mac’s words.
Ashwell, too, was left-handed; he, too, was extremely hard to pitch to; and if he had a weakness that any of us ever discovered, it was a slow curve and change of pace. But I doubted if Vane would dare to use slow balls to Ash at that critical moment. I had yet to learn something of Vane. He gave Ash a slow, wide-sweeping sidewheeler, that curved round over the plate. Ash always took a strike, so this did not matter. Then Vane used his deceptive change of pace, sending up a curve that just missed Ash’s bat as he swung.
“Oh! A-h-h! hit!” wailed the bleachers.
Vane doubled up like a contortionist, and shot up a lightning-swift drop that fooled Ash completely. Again the crowd groaned. Score tied, bases full, two out, Stringer at bat!
“It’s up to you, String,” called Ash, stepping aside.
Stringer did not call out to Vane. That was not his way. He stood tense and alert, bat on his shoulder, his powerful form braced, and he waited. The outfielders trotted over toward right field, and the infielders played deep, calling out warnings and encouragement to the pitcher. Stringer had no weakness, and Vane knew this. Nevertheless he did not manifest any uneasiness, and pitched the first ball without any extra motion. Carter called it a strike. I saw Stringer sink down slightly and grow tenser all over. I believe that moment was longer for me than for either the pitcher or the batter. Vane took his time, watched the base runners, feinted to throw to catch them, and then delivered the ball toward the plate with the limit of his power.
Stringer hit the ball. As long as I live, I will see that glancing low liner. Shultz, by a wonderful play in deep center, blocked the ball and thereby saved it from being a home run. But when Stringer stopped on second base, all the runners had scored.
A shrill, shrieking, high-pitched yell! The bleachers threatened to destroy the stands and also their throats in one long revel of baseball madness.
Jones, batting in place of Spears, had gone up and fouled out before the uproar had subsided.
“Fellers, I reckon I feel easier,” said the Rube. It was the only time I had ever heard him speak to the players at such a stage
“Only six batters, Rube,” called out Spears. “Boys, it’s a grand game, an’ it’s our’n!”
The Rube had enough that inning to dispose of the lower half of the Buffalo list without any alarming bids for a run. And in our half, Bogart and Mullaney hit vicious ground balls that gave Treadwell and Wiler opportunities for superb plays. Carl, likewise, made a beautiful running catch of Gregg’s line fly. The Bisons were still in the game, still capable of pulling it out at the last moment.
When Shultz stalked up to the plate I shut my eyes a moment, and so still was it that the field and stands might have been empty. Yet, though I tried, I could not keep my eyes closed. I opened them to watch the Rube. I knew Spears felt the same as I, for he was blowing like a porpoise and muttering to himself: “Mebee the Rube won’t last an’ I’ve no one to put in!”
The Rube pitched with heavy, violent effort. He had still enough speed to be dangerous. But after the manner of ball players Shultz and the coachers mocked him.
“Take all you can,” called Ellis to Shultz.
Every pitch lessened the Rube’s strength and these wise opponents knew it. Likewise the Rube himself knew, and never had he shown better head work than in this inning. If he were to win, he must be quick. So he wasted not a ball. The first pitch and the second, delivered breast high and fairly over the plate, beautiful balls to hit, Shultz watched speed by. He swung hard on the third and the crippled Ashwell dove for it in a cloud of dust, got a hand in front of it, but uselessly, for the hit was safe. The crowd cheered that splendid effort.
Carl marched to bat, and he swung his club over the plate as if he knew what to expect. “Come on, Rube!” he shouted. Wearily, doggedly, the Rube whirled, and whipped his arm. The ball had all his old glancing speed and it was a strike. The Rube was making a tremendous effort. Again he got his body in convulsive motion–two strikes! Shultz had made no move to run, nor had Carl made any move to hit. These veterans were waiting. The Rube had pitched five strikes –could he last?
“Now, Carl!” yelled Ellis, with startling suddenness, as the Rube pitched again.
Crack! Carl placed that hit as safely through short as if he had thrown it. McCall’s little legs twinkled as he dashed over the grass. He had to head off that hit and he ran like a streak. Down and forward he pitched, as if in one of his fierce slides, and he got his body in front of the ball, blocking it, and then he rolled over and over. But he jumped up and lined the ball to Bogart, almost catching Shultz at third-base. Then, as Mac tried to walk, his lame leg buckled under him, and down he went, and out.
“Call time,” I called to Carter. “McCall is done. . . . Myers, you go to left an’ for Lord’s sake play ball!”
Stringer and Bogart hurried to Mac and, lifting him up and supporting him between them
with his arms around their shoulders, they led him off amid cheers from the stands. Mac was white with pain.
“Naw, I won’t go off the field. Leave me on the bench,” he said. “Fight ’em now. It’s our game. Never mind a couple of runs.”
The boys ran back to their positions and Carter called play. Perhaps a little delay had been helpful to the Rube. Slowly he stepped into the box and watched Shultz at third and Carl at second. There was not much probability of his throwing to catch them off the base, but enough of a possibility to make them careful, so he held them close.
The Rube pitched a strike to Manning, then another. That made eight strikes square over the plate that inning. What magnificent control! It was equaled by the implacable patience of those veteran Bisons. Manning hit the next ball as hard as Carl had hit his. But Mullaney plunged down, came up with the ball, feinted to fool Carl, then let drive to Gregg to catch the fleeting Shultz. The throw went wide, but Gregg got it, and, leaping lengthwise, tagged Shultz out a yard from the plate.
One out. Two runners on bases. The bleachers rose and split their throats. Would the inning never end?
Spears kept telling himself: “They’ll score, but we’ll win. It’s our game!”
I had a sickening fear that the strange confidence that obsessed the Worcester players had
been blind, unreasoning vanity.
“Carl will steal,” muttered Spears. “He can’t be stopped.”
Spears had called the play. The Rube tried to hold the little base-stealer close to second, but, after one attempt, wisely turned to his hard task of making the Bisons hit and hit quickly. Ellis let the ball pass; Gregg made a perfect throw to third; Bogart caught the ball and moved like a flash, but Carl slid under his hands to the bag. Manning ran down to second. The Rube pitched again, and this was his tenth ball over the plate. Even the Buffalo players evinced eloquent appreciation of the Rube’s defence at this last stand.
Then Ellis sent a clean hit to right, scoring both Carl and Manning. I breathed easier, for it seemed with those two runners in, the Rube had a better chance. Treadwell also took those two runners in, the Rube had a way those Bisons waited. They had their reward, for the Rube’s speed left him. When he pitched again the ball had control, but no shoot. Treadwell hit it with all his strength. Like a huge cat Ashwell pounced upon it, ran over second base, forcing Ellis, and his speedy snap to first almost caught Treadwell.
Score 8 to 7. Two out. Runner on first. One run to tie.
In my hazy, dimmed vision I saw the Rube’s pennant waving from the flag-pole.
“It’s our game!” howled Spears in my ear, for the noise from the stands was deafening. “It’s our pennant!”
The formidable batting strength of the Bisons had been met, not without disaster, but without defeat. McKnight came up for Buffalo and the Rube took his weary swing. The batter made a terrific lunge and hit the ball with a solid crack It lined for center.
Suddenly electrified into action, I leaped up. That hit! It froze me with horror. It was a home-run. I saw Stringer fly toward left center. He ran like something wild. I saw the heavy Treadwell lumbering round the bases. I saw Ashwell run out into center field.
“Ah-h!” The whole audience relieved its terror in that expulsion of suspended breath. Stringer had leaped high to knock down the ball, saving a sure home-run and the game. He recovered himself, dashed back for the ball and shot it to Ash.
When Ash turned toward the plate, Treadwell was rounding third base. A tie score appeared inevitable. I saw Ash’s arm whip and the ball shoot forward, leveled, glancing, beautiful in its flight. The crowd saw it, and the silence broke to a yell that rose and rose as the ball sped in. That yell swelled to a splitting shriek, and Treadwell slid in the dust, and the ball shot into Gregg’s hands all at the same instant.
Carter waved both arms upwards. It was the umpire’s action when his decision went against the base-runner. The audience rolled up one great stenorian cry.
“Out!”
I collapsed and sank back upon the bench. My confused senses received a dull roar of pounding feet and dinning voices as the herald of victory. I felt myself thinking how pleased Milly would be. I had a distinct picture in my mind of a white cottage on a hill, no longer a dream, but a reality, made possible for me by the Rube’s winning of the pennant,
THE RUBE’S HONEYMOON
“He’s got a new manager. Watch him pitch now!” That was what Nan Brown said to me about Rube Hurtle, my great pitcher, and I took it as her way of announcing her engagement.
My baseball career held some proud moments, but this one, wherein I realized the success of my matchmaking plans, was certainly the proudest one. So, entirely outside of the honest pleasure I got out of the Rube’s happiness, there was reason for me to congratulate myself. He was a transformed man, so absolutely renewed, so wild with joy, that on the strength of it, I decided the pennant for Worcester was a foregone conclusion, and, sure of the money promised me by the directors, Milly and I began to make plans for the cottage upon the hill.
The Rube insisted on pitching Monday’s game against the Torontos, and although poor fielding gave them a couple of runs, they never had a chance. They could not see the ball. The Rube wrapped it around their necks and between their wrists and straight over the plate with such incredible speed that they might just as well have tried to bat rifle bullets.
That night I was happy. Spears, my veteran captain, was one huge smile; Radbourne quietly assured me that all was over now but the shouting; all the boys were happy.
And the Rube was the happiest of all. At the hotel he burst out with his exceeding good fortune. He and Nan were to be married upon the Fourth of July!
After the noisy congratulations were over and the Rube had gone, Spears looked at me and I looked at him.
“Con,” said he soberly, “we just can’t let him get married on the Fourth.”
“Why not? Sure we can. We’ll help him get married. I tell you it’ll save the pennant for us. Look how he pitched today! Nan Brown is our salvation!”
“See here, Con, you’ve got softenin’ of the brain, too. Where’s your baseball sense? We’ve got a pennant to win. By July Fourth we’ll be close to the lead again, an’ there’s that three weeks’ trip on the road, the longest an’ hardest of the season. We’ve just got to break even on that trip. You know what that means. If the Rube marries Nan–what are we goin’ to do? We can’t leave him behind. If he takes Nan with us –why it’ll be a honeymoon! An’ half the gang is stuck on Nan Brown! An’ Nan Brown would flirt in her bridal veil! . . . Why Con, we’re up against a worse proposition than ever.”
“Good Heavens! Cap. You’re right,” I groaned. “I never thought of that. We’ve got to postpone the wedding. . . . How on earth can we? I’ve heard her tell Milly that. She’ll never consent to it. Say, this’ll drive me to drink.”
“All I got to say is this, Con. If the Rube takes his wife on that trip it’s goin’ to be an all- fired hummer. Don’t you forget that.”
“I’m not likely to. But, Spears, the point is this–will the Rube win his games?”
“Figurin’ from his work today, I’d gamble he’ll never lose another game. It ain’t that. I’m thinkin’ of what the gang will do to him an’ Nan on the cars an’ at the hotels. Oh! Lord, Con, it ain’t possible to stand for that honeymoon trip! Just think!”
“If the worst comes to the worst, Cap, I don’t care for anything but the games. If we get in the lead and stay there I’ll stand for anything. . . . Couldn’t the gang be coaxed or bought off to let the Rube and Nan alone?”
“Not on your life! There ain’t enough love or money on earth to stop them. It’ll be awful. Mind, I’m not responsible. Don’t you go holdin’ me responsible. In all my years of baseball I never went on a trip with a bride in the game. That’s new on me, an’ I never heard of it. I’d be bad enough if he wasn’t a rube an’ if she wasn’t a crazy girl-fan an’ a flirt to boot, an’ with half the boys in love with her, but as it is—-”
Spears gave up and, gravely shaking his head, he left me. I spent a little while in sober reflection, and finally came to the conclusion that, in my desperate ambition to win the pennant, I would have taken half a dozen rube pitchers and their baseball-made brides on the trip, if by so doing I could increase the percentage of games won. Nevertheless, I wanted to postpone the Rube’s wedding if it was possible, and I went out to see Milly and asked her to help us. But for once in her life Milly turned traitor.
“Connie, you don’t want to postpone it. Why, how perfectly lovely! . . . Mrs. Stringer will go on that trip and Mrs. Bogart. . . . Connie, I’m going too!”
She actually jumped up and down in glee. That was the woman in her. It takes a wedding to get a woman. I remonstrated and pleaded and commanded, all to no purpose. Milly intended to go
on that trip to see the games, and the fun, and the honeymoon.
She coaxed so hard that I yielded. Thereupon she called up Mrs. Stringer on the telephone, and of course found that young woman just as eager as she was. For my part, I threw anxiety and care to the four winds, and decided to be as happy as any of them. The pennant was mine! Something kept ringing that in my ears. With the
Rube working his iron arm for the edification of his proud Nancy Brown, there was extreme likelihood of divers shut-outs and humiliating defeats for some Eastern League teams.
How well I calculated became a matter of baseball history during that last week of June. We won six straight games, three of which fell to the Rube’s credit. His opponents scored four runs in the three games, against the nineteen we made. Upon July 1, Radbourne beat Providence and Cairns won the second game. We now had a string of eight victories. Sunday we rested, and Monday was the Fourth, with morning and afternoon games with Buffalo.
Upon the morning of the Fourth, I looked for the Rube at the hotel, but could not find him. He did not show up at the grounds when the other boys did, and I began to worry. It was the Rube’s turn to pitch and we were neck and neck with Buffalo for first place. If we won both games we would go ahead of our rivals. So I was all on edge, and kept going to the dressing-room to see if the Rube had arrived. He came, finally, when all the boys were dressed, and about to go out for practice. He had on a new suit, a tailor-made suit at that, and he looked fine. There was about him a kind of strange radiance. He stated simply that he had arrived late because he had just been married. Before congratulations were out of our mouths, he turned to me.
“Con, I want to pitch both games today,” he said.
“What! Say, Whit, Buffalo is on the card today and we are only three points behind them. If we win both we’ll be leading the league once more. I don’t know about pitching you both games.”
“I reckon we’ll be in the lead tonight then,” he replied, “for I’ll win them both.”
I was about to reply when Dave, the ground- keeper, called me to the door, saying there was a man to see me. I went out, and there stood Morrisey, manager of the Chicago American League
team. We knew each other well and exchanged greetings.
“Con, I dropped off to see you about this new pitcher of yours, the one they call the Rube. I want to see him work. I’ve heard he’s pretty fast. How about it?”
“Wait–till you see him pitch,” I replied. I could scarcely get that much out, for Morrisey’s presence meant a great deal and I did not want to betray my elation.
“Any strings on him?” queried the big league manager, sharply.
“Well, Morrisey, not exactly. I can give you the first call. You’ll have to bid high, though. Just wait till you see him work.”
“I’m glad to hear that. My scout was over here watching him pitch and says he’s a wonder.”
What luck it was that Morrisey should have come upon this day! I could hardly contain myself. Almost I began to spend the money I would get for selling the Rube to the big league manager. We took seats in the grand stand, as Morrisey did not want to be seen by any players, and I stayed there with him until the gong sounded. There was a big attendance. I looked all over the stand for Nan, but she was lost in the gay crowd. But when I went down to the bench I saw her up in my private box with Milly. It took no second glance to see that Nan Brown was a bride and glorying in the fact.
Then, in the absorption of the game, I became oblivious to Milly and Nan; the noisy crowd; the giant fire-crackers and the smoke; to the presence of Morrisey; to all except the Rube and my team and their opponents. Fortunately for my hopes, the game opened with characteristic Worcester dash. Little McCall doubled, Ashwell drew his base on four wide pitches, and Stringer drove the ball over the right-field fence–three runs!
Three runs were enough to win that game. Of all the exhibitions of pitching with which the Rube had favored us, this one was the finest. It was perhaps not so much his marvelous speed and unhittable curves that made the game one memorable in the annals of pitching; it was his perfect control in the placing of balls, in the cutting of corners; in his absolute implacable mastery of the situation. Buffalo was unable to find him at all. The game was swift short, decisive, with the score 5 to 0 in our favor. But the score did not tell all of the Rube’s work that morning. He shut out Buffalo without a hit, or a scratch, the first no-hit, no-run game of the year. He gave no base on balls; not a Buffalo player got to first base; only one fly went to the outfield.
For once I forgot Milly after a game, and I hurried to find Morrisey, and carried him off to have dinner with me.
“Your rube is a wonder, and that’s a fact,” he said to me several times. “Where on earth did you get him? Connelly, he’s my meat. Do you understand? Can you let me have him right now?”
“No, Morrisey, I’ve got the pennant to win first. Then I’ll sell him.”
“How much? Do you hear? How much?” Morrisey hammered the table with his fist and his eyes gleamed.
Carried away as I was by his vehemence, I was yet able to calculate shrewdly, and I decided to name a very high price, from which I could come down and still make a splendid deal.
“How much?” demanded Morrisey.
“Five thousand dollars,” I replied, and gulped when I got the words out.
Morrisey never batted an eye.
“Waiter, quick, pen and ink and paper!”
Presently my hand, none too firm, was signing my name to a contract whereby I was to sell my pitcher for five thousand dollars at the close of the current season. I never saw a man look so pleased as Morrisey when he folded that contract and put it in his pocket. He bade me good-bye and hurried off to catch a train, and he never knew the Rube had pitched the great game on his wedding day.
That afternoon before a crowd that had to be roped off the diamond, I put the Rube against the Bisons. How well he showed the baseball knowledge he had assimilated! He changed his style in that second game. He used a slow ball and wide curves and took things easy. He made Buffalo hit the ball and when runners got on bases once more let out his speed and held them down. He relied upon the players behind him and they were equal to the occasion.
It was a totally different game from that of the morning, and perhaps one more suited to the pleasure of the audience. There was plenty of hard hitting, sharp fielding and good base running, and the game was close and exciting up to the eighth, when Mullaney’s triple gave us two runs, and a lead that was not headed. To the deafening roar of the bleachers the Rube walked off the field, having pitched Worcester into first place in the pennant race.
That night the boys planned their first job on the Rube. We had ordered a special Pullman for travel to Toronto, and when I got to the depot in the morning, the Pullman was a white fluttering mass of satin ribbons. Also, there was a brass band, and thousands of baseball fans, and barrels of old foot-gear. The Rube and Nan arrived in a cab and were immediately mobbed. The crowd roared, the band played, the engine whistled, the bell clanged; and the air was full of confetti and slippers, and showers of rice like hail pattered everywhere. A somewhat dishevelled bride and groom boarded the Pullman and
breathlessly hid in a state room. The train started, and the crowd gave one last rousing cheer. Old Spears yelled from the back platform:
“Fellers, an’ fans, you needn’t worry none about leavin’ the Rube an’ his bride to the tender mercies of the gang. A hundred years from now people will talk about this honeymoon baseball trip. Wait till we come back–an’ say, jest to put you wise, no matter what else happens, we’re comin’ back in first place!”
It was surely a merry party in that Pullman. The bridal couple emerged from their hiding place and held a sort of reception in which the Rube appeared shy and frightened, and Nan resembled a joyous, fluttering bird in gray. I did not see if she kissed every man on the team, but she kissed me as if she had been wanting to do it for ages. Milly kissed the Rube, and so did the other women, to his infinite embarrassment. Nan’s effect upon that crowd was most singular. She was sweetness and caprice and joy personified.
We settled down presently to something approaching order, and I, for one, with very keen ears and alert eyes, because I did not want to miss anything.
“I see the lambs a-gambolin’,” observed McCall, in a voice louder than was necessary to convey his meaning to Mullaney, his partner in the seat.
“Yes, it do seem as if there was joy aboundin’ hereabouts,” replied Mul with fervor.
“It’s more spring-time than summer,” said Ashwell, “an’ everything in nature is runnin’ in pairs. There are the sheep an’ the cattle an’ the birds. I see two kingfishers fishin’ over here. An’ there’s a couple of honey-bees makin’ honey. Oh, honey, an’ by George, if there ain’t two butterflies foldin’ their wings round each other. See the dandelions kissin’ in the field!”
Then the staid Captain Spears spoke up with an appearance of sincerity and a tone that was nothing short of remarkable.
“Reggie, see the sunshine asleep upon yon bank. Ain’t it lovely? An’ that white cloud sailin’ thither amid the blue–how spontaneous! Joy is a-broad o’er all this boo-tiful land today –Oh, yes! An’ love’s wings hover o ‘er the little lambs an’ the bullfrogs in the pond an’ the dicky birds in the trees. What sweetness to lie in the grass, the lap of bounteous earth, eatin’ apples in the Garden of Eden, an’ chasin’ away the snakes an’ dreamin’ of Thee, Sweet-h-e-a-r-t—-”
Spears was singing when he got so far and there was no telling what he might have done if Mullaney, unable to stand the agony, had not jabbed a pin in him. But that only made way for the efforts of the other boys, each of whom tried to outdo the other in poking fun at the Rube and Nan. The big pitcher was too gloriously happy to note much of what went on around him, but when it dawned upon him he grew red and white by turns.
Nan, however, was more than equal to the occasion. Presently she smiled at Spears, such a smile! The captain looked as if he had just partaken of an intoxicating wine. With a heightened color in her cheeks and a dangerous flash in her roguish eyes, Nan favored McCall with a look, which was as much as to say that she remembered him with a dear sadness. She made eyes at every fellow in the car, and then bringing back her gaze to the Rube, as if glorying in comparison, she nestled her curly black head on his shoulder. He gently tried to move her; but it was not possible. Nan knew how to meet the ridicule of half a dozen old lovers. One by one they buried themselves in newspapers, and finally McCall, for once utterly beaten, showed a white feather, and sank back out of sight behind his seat.
The boys did not recover from that shock until late in the afternoon. As it was a physical impossibility for Nan to rest her head all day upon her husband’s broad shoulder, the boys toward dinner time came out of their jealous trance. I heard them plotting something. When dinner was called, about half of my party, including the bride and groom, went at once into the dining-car. Time there flew by swiftly. And later, when we were once more in our Pullman, and I had gotten interested in a game of cards with Milly and Stringer and his wife, the Rube came marching up to me with a very red face.
“Con, I reckon some of the boys have stolen my–our grips,” said he.
“What?” I asked, blankly.
He explained that during his absence in the dining-car someone had entered his stateroom and stolen his grip and Nan’s. I hastened at once to aid the Rube in his search. The boys swore by everything under and beyond the sun they had not seen the grips; they appeared very much grieved at the loss and pretended to help in searching the Pullman. At last, with the assistance of a porter, we discovered the missing grips in an upper berth. The Rube carried them off to his stateroom and we knew soon from his
uncomplimentary remarks that the contents of the suitcases had been mixed and manhandled. But he did not hunt for the jokers.
We arrived at Toronto before daylight next morning, and remained in the Pullman until seven o’clock. When we got out, it was discovered that the Rube and Nan had stolen a march upon us. We traced them to the hotel, and found them at breakfast. After breakfast we formed a merry sight-seeing party and rode all over the city.
That afternoon, when Raddy let Toronto down with three hits and the boys played a magnificent game behind him, and we won 7 to 2, I knew at last and for certain that the Worcester team had come into its own again. Then next day Cairns won a close, exciting game, and following that, on the third day, the matchless Rube toyed with the Torontos. Eleven straight games won! I was in the clouds, and never had I seen so beautiful a light as shone in Milly’s eyes.
From that day The Honeymoon Trip of the Worcester Baseball Club, as the newspapers heralded it–was a triumphant march. We won two out of three games at Montreal, broke even with the hard-fighting Bisons, took three straight from Rochester, and won one and tied one out of three with Hartford. It would have been wonderful ball playing for a team to play on home grounds and we were doing the full circuit of the league.
Spears had called the turn when he said the trip would be a hummer. Nan Hurtle had brought us wonderful luck.
But the tricks they played on Whit and his girl- fan bride!
Ashwell, who was a capital actor, disguised himself as a conductor and pretended to try to eject Whit and Nan from the train, urging that love-making was not permitted. Some of the team hired a clever young woman to hunt the Rube up at the hotel, and claim old acquaintance with him. Poor Whit almost collapsed when the young woman threw her arms about his neck just as Nan entered the parlor. Upon the instant Nan became wild as a little tigress, and it took much explanation and eloquence to reinstate Whit in her affections.
Another time Spears, the wily old fox, succeeded in detaining Nan on the way to the station, and the two missed the train. At first the Rube laughed with the others, but when Stringer remarked that he had noticed a growing attachment between Nan and Spears, my great pitcher experienced the first pangs of the green-eyed monster. We had to hold him to keep him from jumping from the train, and it took Milly and Mrs. Stringer to soothe him. I had to wire back to Rochester for a special train for Spears and Nan, and even then we had to play half a game without the services of our captain.
So far upon our trip I had been fortunate in securing comfortable rooms and the best of transportation for my party. At Hartford, however, I encountered difficulties. I could not get a special Pullman, and the sleeper we entered already had a number of occupants. After the ladies of my party had been assigned to berths, it was necessary for some of the boys to sleep double in upper berths.
It was late when we got aboard, the berths were already made up, and soon we had all retired. In the morning very early I was awakened by a disturbance. It sounded like a squeal. I heard an astonished exclamation, another squeal, the pattering of little feet, then hoarse uproar of laughter from the ball players in the upper berths. Following that came low, excited conversation between the porter and somebody, then an angry snort from the Rube and the thud of his heavy feet in the aisle. What took place after that was guess-work for me. But I gathered from the roars and bawls that the Rube was after some of the boys. I poked my head between the curtains and saw him digging into the berths.
“Where’s McCall?” he yelled.
Mac was nowhere in that sleeper, judging from the vehement denials. But the Rube kept on digging and prodding in the upper berths.
“I’m a-goin’ to lick you, Mac, so I reckon you’d better show up,” shouted the Rube.
The big fellow was mad as a hornet. When he got to me he grasped me with his great fence- rail splitting hands and I cried out with pain.
“Say! Whit, let up! Mac’s not here. . . . What’s wrong?”
“I’ll show you when I find him.” And the Rube stalked on down the aisle, a tragically comic figure in his pajamas. In his search for Mac he pried into several upper berths that contained occupants who were not ball players, and these protested in affright. Then the Rube began to investigate the lower berths. A row of heads protruded in a bobbing line from between the curtains of the upper berths.
“Here, you Indian! Don’t you look in there! That’s my wife’s berth!” yelled Stringer.
Bogart, too, evinced great excitement.
“Hurtle, keep out of lower eight or I’ll kill you,” he shouted.
What the Rube might have done there was no telling, but as he grasped a curtain, he was interrupted by a shriek from some woman assuredly not of our party.
“Get out! you horrid wretch! Help! Porter! Help! Conductor!”
Instantly there was a deafening tumult in the car. When it had subsided somewhat, and I considered I would be safe, I descended from my
berth and made my way to the dressing room. Sprawled over the leather seat was the Rube pommelling McCall with hearty good will. I would have interfered, had it not been for Mac’s demeanor. He was half frightened, half angry, and utterly unable to defend himself or even resist, because he was laughing, too.
“Dog-gone it! Whit–I didn’t–do it! I swear it was Spears! Stop thumpin’ me now–or I’ll get sore. . . . You hear me! It wasn’t me, I tell you. Cheese it!”
For all his protesting Mac received a good thumping, and I doubted not in the least that he deserved it. The wonder of the affair, however, was the fact that no one appeared to know what had made the Rube so furious. The porter would not tell, and Mac was strangely reticent, though his smile was one to make a fellow exceedingly sure something out of the ordinary had befallen. It was not until I was having breakfast in Providence that I learned the true cause of Rube’s conduct, and Milly confided it to me, insisting on strict confidence.
“I promised not to tell,” she said. “Now you promise you’ll never tell.”
“Well, Connie,” went on Milly, when I had promised, “it was the funniest thing yet, but it was horrid of McCall. You see, the Rube had upper seven and Nan had lower seven. Early this morning, about daylight, Nan awoke very thirsty and got up to get a drink. During her absence, probably, but any way some time last night, McCall changed the number on her
curtain, and when Nan came back to number seven of course she almost got in the wrong berth.”
“No wonder the Rube punched him!” I declared. “I wish we were safe home. Something’ll happen yet on this trip.”
I was faithful to my promise to Milly, but the secret leaked out somewhere; perhaps Mac told it, and before the game that day all the players knew it. The Rube, having recovered his good humor, minded it not in the least. He could not have felt ill-will for any length of time. Everything seemed to get back into smooth running
order, and the Honeymoon Trip bade fair to wind up beautifully.
But, somehow or other, and about something unknown to the rest of us, the Rube and Nan quarreled. It was their first quarrel. Milly and I tried to patch it up but failed.
We lost the first game to Providence and won the second. The next day, a Saturday, was the last game of the trip, and it was Rube’s turn to pitch. Several times during the first two days the Rube and Nan about half made up their quarrel, only in the end to fall deeper into it. Then the last straw came in a foolish move on the part of wilful Nan. She happened to meet Henderson, her former admirer, and in a flash she
took up her flirtation with him where she had left off.
“Don’t go to the game with him, Nan,” I pleaded. “It’s a silly thing for you to do. Of course you don’t mean anything, except to torment Whit. But cut it out. The gang will make him miserable and we’ll lose the game. There’s no telling what might happen.”
“I’m supremely indifferent to what happens,” she replied, with a rebellious toss of her black head. “I hope Whit gets beaten.”
She went to the game with Henderson and sat in the grand stand, and the boys spied them out and told the Rube. He did not believe it at first, but finally saw them, looked deeply hurt and offended, and then grew angry. But the gong, sounding at that moment, drew his attention to his business of the day, to pitch.
His work that day reminded me of the first game he ever pitched for me, upon which occasion Captain Spears got the best out of him by making him angry. For several innings Providence was helpless before his delivery. Then
something happened that showed me a crisis was near. A wag of a fan yelled from the bleachers.
“Honeymoon Rube!”
This cry was taken up by the delighted fans and it rolled around the field. But the Rube pitched on, harder than ever. Then the knowing bleacherite who had started the cry changed it somewhat.
“Nanny’s Rube!” he yelled.
This, too, went the rounds, and still the Rube, though red in the face, preserved his temper and his pitching control. All would have been well if Bud Wiler, comedian of the Providence team, had not hit upon a way to rattle Rube.
“Nanny’s Goat!” he shouted from the coaching lines. Every Providence player took it
up.
The Rube was not proof against that. He yelled so fiercely at them, and glared so furiously, and towered so formidably, that they ceased for the moment. Then he let drive with his fast straight ball and hit the first Providence batter in the ribs. His comrades had to help him to the bench. The Rube hit the next batter on the leg, and judging from the crack of the ball, I fancied that player would walk lame for several days. The Rube tried to hit the next batter and sent him to first on balls. Thereafter it became a dodging contest with honors about equal between pitcher and batters. The Providence players stormed and the bleachers roared. But I would not take the Rube out and the game went on with the Rube forcing in runs.
With the score a tie, and three men on bases one of the players on the bench again yelled “Nanny’s Goat!”
Straight as a string the Rube shot the ball at this fellow and bounded after it. The crowd rose in an uproar. The base runners began to score. I left my bench and ran across the space, but not in time to catch the Rube. I saw him hit two or three of the Providence men. Then the policemen got to him, and a real fight brought the big audience into the stamping melee. Before the Rube was collared I saw at least four blue-coats on the grass.
The game broke up, and the crowd spilled itself in streams over the field. Excitement ran high. I tried to force my way into the mass to get at the Rube and the officers, but this was impossible. I feared the Rube would be taken from the officers and treated with violence, so I waited with the surging crowd, endeavoring to get nearer. Soon we were in the street, and it seemed as if all the stands had emptied their yelling occupants.
A trolley car came along down the street, splitting the mass of people and driving them back. A dozen policemen summarily bundled the Rube upon the rear end of the car. Some of these officers boarded the car, and some remained in the street to beat off the vengeful fans.
I saw some one thrust forward a frantic young woman. The officers stopped her, then suddenly helped her on the car, just as I started. I recognized Nan. She gripped the Rube with both hands and turned a white, fearful face upon the angry crowd.
The Rube stood in the grasp of his wife and the policemen, and he looked like a ruffled lion. He shook his big fist and bawled in far-reaching voice:
“I can lick you all!”
To my infinite relief, the trolley gathered momentum and safely passed out of danger. The last thing I made out was Nan pressing close to the Rube’s side. That moment saw their reconciliation and my joy that it was the end of the
Rube’s Honeymoon.
THE RUBE’S WATERLOO
It was about the sixth inning that I suspected the Rube of weakening. For that matter he had not pitched anything resembling his usual brand of baseball. But the Rube had developed into such a wonder in the box that it took time for his let-down to dawn upon me. Also it took a tip from Raddy, who sat with me on the bench.
“Con, the Rube isn’t himself today,” said Radbourne. “His mind’s not on the game. He seems hurried and flustered, too. If he doesn’t explode presently, I’m a dub at callin’ the turn.”
Raddy was the best judge of a pitcher’s condition, physical or mental, in the Eastern League. It was a Saturday and we were on the road and finishing up a series with the Rochesters. Each team had won and lost a game, and, as I was climbing close to the leaders in the pennant race, I wanted the third and deciding game of that Rochester series. The usual big Saturday crowd was in attendance, noisy, demonstrative and exacting.
In this sixth inning the first man up for Rochester had flied to McCall. Then had come the two plays significant of Rube’s weakening. He had hit one batter and walked another. This was sufficient, considering the score was three to one in our favor, to bring the audience to its feet with a howling, stamping demand for runs.
“Spears is wise all right,” said Raddy.
I watched the foxy old captain walk over to the Rube and talk to him while he rested, a reassuring hand on the pitcher’s shoulder. The crowd yelled its disapproval and Umpire Bates called out sharply:
“Spears, get back to the bag!”
“Now, Mister Umpire, ain’t I hurrin’ all I can?” queried Spears as he leisurely ambled back to first.
The Rube tossed a long, damp welt of hair back from his big brow and nervously toed the rubber. I noted that he seemed to forget the runners on bases and delivered the ball without glancing at either bag. Of course this resulted in a double steal. The ball went wild–almost a wild pitch.
“Steady up, old man,” called Gregg between the yells of the bleachers. He held his mitt square over the plate for the Rube to pitch to. Again the long twirler took his swing, and again the ball went wild. Clancy had the Rube in the hole now and the situation began to grow serious. The Rube did not take half his usual deliberation, and of the next two pitches one of them was a ball and the other a strike by grace of the umpire’s generosity. Clancy rapped the next one, an absurdly slow pitch for the Rube to use, and both runners scored to the shrill tune of the happy bleachers.
I saw Spears shake his head and look toward the bench. It was plain what that meant.
“Raddy, I ought to take the Rube out,” I said, “but whom can I put in? You worked yesterday– Cairns’ arm is sore. It’s got to be nursed. And Henderson, that ladies’ man I just signed, is not in uniform.”
“I’ll go in,” replied Raddy, instantly.
“Not on your life.” I had as hard a time keeping Radbourne from overworking as I had in getting enough work out of some other players. “I guess I’ll let the Rube take his medicine. I hate to lose this game, but if we have to, we can stand it. I’m curious, anyway, to see what’s the matter with the Rube. Maybe he’ll settle down presently.”
I made no sign that I had noticed Spears’ appeal to the bench. And my aggressive players, no doubt seeing the situation as I saw it, sang out their various calls of cheer to the Rube and of defiance to their antagonists. Clancy stole off first base so far that the Rube, catching somebody’s warning too late, made a balk and the umpire sent the runner on to second. The Rube now plainly showed painful evidences of being rattled.
He could not locate the plate without slowing up and when he did that a Rochester player walloped the ball. Pretty soon he pitched as if he did not care, and but for the fast fielding of the team behind him the Rochesters would have scored more than the eight runs it got. When the Rube came in to the bench I asked him if he was sick and at first he said he was and then that he was not. So I let him pitch the remaining innings, as the game was lost anyhow, and we walked off the field a badly beaten team.
That night we had to hurry from the hotel to catch a train for Worcester and we had dinner in the dining-car. Several of my players’ wives had come over from Worcester to meet us, and were in the dining-car when I entered. I observed a pretty girl sitting at one of the tables with my new pitcher, Henderson.
“Say, Mac,” I said to McCall, who was with me, “is Henderson married?”
“Naw, but he looks like he wanted to be. He was in the grand stand today with that girl.”
“Who is she? Oh! a little peach!”
A second glance at Henderson’s companion brought this compliment from me involuntarily.
“Con, you’ll get it as bad as the rest of this mushy bunch of ball players. We’re all stuck on that kid. But since Henderson came she’s been a frost to all of us. An’ it’s put the Rube in the dumps.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“That’s Nan Brown. She lives in Worcester an’ is the craziest girl fan I ever seen. Flirt! Well, she’s got them all beat. Somebody introduced the Rube to her. He has been mooney ever since.”
That was enough to whet my curiosity, and I favored Miss Brown with more than one glance during dinner. When we returned to the parlor car I took advantage of the opportunity and remarked to Henderson that he might introduce his manager. He complied, but not with amiable grace.
So I chatted with Nan Brown, and studied her. She was a pretty, laughing, coquettish little minx and quite baseball mad. I had met many girl fans, but none so enthusiastic as Nan. But she was wholesome and sincere, and I liked her.
Before turning in I sat down beside the Rube. He was very quiet and his face did not encourage company. But that did not stop me.
“Hello, Whit; have a smoke before you go to bed?” I asked cheerfully.
He scarcely heard me and made no move to take the proffered cigar. All at once it struck me that the rustic simplicity which had characterized him had vanished.
“Whit, old fellow, what was wrong today?” I asked, quietly, with my hand on his arm.
“Mr. Connelly, I want my release, I want to go back to Rickettsville,” he replied hurriedly.
For the space of a few seconds I did some tall thinking. The situation suddenly became grave. I saw the pennant for the Worcesters fading, dimming.
“You want to go home?” I began slowly. “Why, Whit, I can’t keep you. I wouldn’t try if you didn’t want to stay. But I’ll tell you confidentially, if you leave me at this stage I’m ruined.”
“How’s that?” he inquired, keenly looking at me.
“Well, I can’t win the pennant without you. If I do win it there’s a big bonus for me. I can buy the house I want and get married this fall if I capture the flag. You’ve met Milly. You can imagine what your pitching means to me this year. That’s all.”
He averted his face and looked out of the window. His big jaw quivered.
“If it’s that–why, I’ll stay, I reckon,” he said huskily.
That moment bound Whit Hurtle and Frank Connelly into a far closer relation than the one between player and manager. I sat silent for a while, listening to the drowsy talk of the other players and the rush and roar of the train as it sped on into the night.
“Thank you, old chap,” I replied. “It wouldn’t have been like you to throw me down at this stage. Whit, you’re in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Can I help you–in any way?”’
“I reckon not.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. I’m a pretty wise guy, if I do say it myself. I might be able to do as much for you as you’re going to do for me.”
The sight of his face convinced me that I had taken a wrong tack. It also showed me how deep Whit’s trouble really was. I bade him good night and went to my berth, where sleep did not soon visit me. A saucy, sparkling-eyed woman barred Whit Hurtle’s baseball career at its threshold.
Women are just as fatal to ball players as to men in any other walk of life. I had seen a strong athlete grow palsied just at a scornful slight. It’s a great world, and the women run it. So I lay awake racking my brains to outwit a pretty disorganizer; and I plotted for her sake. Married, she would be out of mischief. For Whit’s sake, for Milly’s sake, for mine, all of which collectively meant for the sake of the pennant, this would be the solution of the problem.
I decided to take Milly into my confidence, and finally on the strength of that I got to sleep. In
he morning I went to my hotel, had breakfast, attended to my mail, and then boarded a car to go out to Milly’s house. She was waiting for me on the porch, dressed as I liked to see her, in blue and white, and she wore violets that matched the color of her eyes.
“Hello, Connie. I haven’t seen a morning paper, but I know from your face that you lost the Rochester series,” said Milly, with a gay laugh.
“I guess yes. The Rube blew up, and if we don’t play a pretty smooth game, young lady, he’ll never come down.”
Then I told her.
“Why, Connie, I knew long ago. Haven’t you seen the change in him before this?”
“What change?” I asked blankly.
“You are a man. Well, he was a gawky, slouchy, shy farmer boy when he came to us. Of course the city life and popularity began to influence him. Then he met Nan. She made the Rube a worshipper. I first noticed a change in his clothes. He blossomed out in a new suit, white negligee, neat tie and a stylish straw hat. Then it was evident he was making heroic struggles to overcome his awkwardness. It was plain he was studying and copying the other boys. He’s wonderfully improved, but still shy. He’ll always be shy. Connie, Whit’s a fine fellow, too good for Nan Brown.”
“But, Milly,” I interrupted, “the Rube’s hard hit. Why is he too good for her?”
“Nan is a natural-born flirt,” Milly replied. “She can’t help it. I’m afraid Whit has a slim chance. Nan may not see deep enough to learn his fine qualities. I fancy Nan tired quickly of him, though the one time I saw them together she appeared to like him very well. This new pitcher of yours, Henderson, is a handsome fellow and smooth. Whit is losing to him. Nan likes flash, flattery, excitement.”
“McCall told me the Rube had been down in the mouth ever since Henderson joined the team. Milly, I don’t like Henderson a whole lot. He’s not in the Rube’s class as a pitcher. What am I going to do? Lose the pennant and a big slice of purse money just for a pretty little flirt?”
“Oh, Connie, it’s not so bad as that. Whit will come around all right.”
“He won’t unless we can pull some wires. I’ve got to help him win Nan Brown. What do you think of that for a manager’s job? I guess maybe winning pennants doesn’t call for diplomatic genius and cunning! But I’ll hand them a few tricks before I lose. My first move will be to give Henderson his release.
I left Milly, as always, once more able to make light of discouragements and difficulties.
Monday I gave Henderson his unconditional release. He celebrated the occasion by verifying certain rumors I had heard from other managers. He got drunk. But he did not leave town, and I heard that he was negotiating with Providence for a place on that team.
Radbourne pitched one of his gilt-edged games that afternoon against Hartford and we won. And Milly sat in the grand stand, having contrived by cleverness to get a seat next to Nan
Brown. Milly and I were playing a vastly deeper game than baseball–a game with hearts. But we were playing it with honest motive, for the good of all concerned, we believed, and on the square. I sneaked a look now and then up into the grand stand. Milly and Nan appeared to be getting on famously. It was certain that Nan was flushed and excited, no doubt consciously proud of being seen with my affianced. After the game I chanced to meet them on their way out. Milly winked at me, which was her sign that all was working beautifully.
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!”