10028	----	SPALDING'S OFFICIAL ATHLETIC LIBRARY BASEBALL GUIDE 1913 EDITED BY JOHN B. FOSTER PRICE 10 CENTS PUBLISHED BY AMERICAN SPORTS PUBLISHING CO., 21 Warren Street, New York City. [Advertisement] AMERICA'S NATIONAL GAME By A. G. SPALDING PRICE, $2.00 NET A book of 600 pages, profusely illustrated with over 100 full page engravings, and having sixteen forceful cartoons by Homer C. Davenport, the famous American artist. The above work should have a place in every public library in this country, as also in the libraries of public schools and private houses. The author of "America's National Game" is conceded, always, everywhere, and by everybody, to have the best equipment of any living writer to treat the subject that forms the text of this remarkable volume, viz., the story of the origin, development and evolution of Base Ball, the National Game of our country. Almost from the very inception of the game until the present time--as player, manager and magnate--Mr. Spalding has been closely identified with its interests. Not infrequently he has been called upon in times of emergency to prevent threatened disaster. But for him the National Game would have been syndicated and controlled by elements whose interests were purely selfish and personal. The book is a veritable repository of information concerning players, clubs and personalities connected with the game in its early days, and is written in a most interesting style, interspersed with enlivening anecdotes and accounts of events that have not heretofore been published. The response on the part of the press and the public to Mr. Spalding's efforts to perpetuate the early history of the National Game has been very encouraging and he is in receipt of hundreds of letters and notices, a few of which are here given. ROBERT ADAMSON, New York, writing from the office of Mayor Gaynor, says:--"Seeing the Giants play is my principal recreation and I am interested in reading everything I can find about the game. I especially enjoy what you [Mr. Spalding] have written, because you stand as the highest living authority on the game." BARNEY DREYFUSS, owner of the Pittsburg National League club:--"It does honor to author as well as the game. I have enjoyed reading it very much." WALTER CAMP, well known foot ball expert and athlete, says:--"It is indeed a remarkable work and one that I have read with a great deal of interest." JOHN B. DAY, formerly President of the New York Nationals:--"Your wonderful work will outlast all of us." W. IRVING SNYDER, formerly of the house of Peck & Snyder:--"I have read the book from cover to cover with great interest." ANDREW PECK, formerly of the celebrated firm of Peck & Snyder:--"All base ball fans should read and see how the game was conducted in early years." MELVILLE E. STONE, New York, General Manager Associated Press:--"I find it full of valuable information and very interesting. I prize it very highly." GEORGE BARNARD, Chicago:--"Words fail to express my appreciation of the book. It carries me back to the early days of base ball and makes me feel like a young man again." CHARLES W. MURPHY, President Chicago National League club:--"The book is a very valuable work and will become a part of every base ball library in the country." JOHN F. MORILL, Boston, Mass., old time base ball star.--"I did not think it possible for one to become so interested in a book on base ball. I do not find anything in it which I can criticise." RALPH D. PAINE, popular magazine writer and a leading authority on college sport:--"I have been reading the book with a great deal of interest. 'It fills a long felt want,' and you are a national benefactor for writing it." GEN. FRED FUNSTON, hero of the Philippine war:--"I read the book with a great deal of pleasure and was much interested in seeing the account of base ball among the Asiatic whalers, which I had written for Harper's Round Table so many years ago." DEWOLF HOPPER, celebrated operatic artist and comedian:--"Apart from the splendid history of the evolution of the game, it perpetuates the memories of the many men who so gloriously sustained it. It should be read by every lover of the sport." HUGH NICOL, Director of Athletics, Purdue University, Lafayette, Ind.:--"No one that has read this book has appreciated it more than I. Ever since I have been big enough, I have been in professional base ball, and you can imagine how interesting the book is to me." MRS. BRITTON, owner of the St. Louis Nationals, through her treasurer, H.D. Seekamp, writes:--"Mrs. Britton has been very much interested in the volume and has read with pleasure a number of chapters, gaining valuable information as to the history of the game." REV. CHARLES H. PARKHURST, D.D., New York:--"Although I am not very much of a 'sport,' I nevertheless believe in sports, and just at the present time in base ball particularly. Perhaps if all the Giants had an opportunity to read the volume before the recent game (with the Athletics) they might not have been so grievously outdone." BRUCE CARTWRIGHT, son of Alexander J. Cartwright, founder of the Knickerbocker Base Ball Club, the first organization of ball players in existence, writing from his home at Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, says:--"I have read the book with great interest and it is my opinion that no better history of base ball could have been written." GEORGE W. FROST, San Diego, Calif.:--"You and 'Jim' White, George Wright, Barnes, McVey, O'Rourke, etc., were little gods to us back there in Boston in those days of '74 and '75, and I recall how indignant we were when you 'threw us down' for the Chicago contract. The book is splendid. I treasure it greatly." A.J. REACH, Philadelphia, old time professional expert:--"It certainly is an interesting revelation of the national game from the time, years before it was so dignified, up to the present. Those who have played the game, or taken an interest in it in the past, those at present engaged in it, together with all who are to engage in it, have a rare treat in store." DR. LUTHER H. GULICK, Russell Sage Foundation:--"Mr. Spalding has been the largest factor in guiding the development of the game and thus deserves to rank with other great men of the country who have contributed to its success. It would have added to the interest of the book if Mr. Spalding could have given us more of his own personal experiences, hopes and ambitions in connection with the game." _Pittsburg Press_:--"Historical incidents abound and the book is an excellent authority on the famous sport." _Philadelphia Telegraph_:--"In this book Mr. Spalding has written the most complete and authoritative story of base ball yet published." _New York Herald_:--"If there is anyone in the country competent to write a book on base ball it is A.G. Spalding who has been interested in the game from its early beginnings." I.E. Sanborn, Chicago _Tribune_:--"'America's National Game' has been added to the _Tribune's_ sporting reference library as an invaluable contribution to the literature of the national pastime." O.C. Reichard, Chicago _Daily News_:--"It is cleverly written and presents information and dates of great value to the newspaper man of to-day!" George C. Rice, Chicago _Journal_:--"I have read the book through, and take pleasure in stating that it is a complete history of the game from the beginning until the present time." Sherman R. Duffy, Sporting Editor _Chicago Journal_:--"It is a most interesting work and one for which there was need. It is the most valuable addition to base ball literature that has yet been put out." Joseph H. Vila, New York _Sun_:--"I have read it carefully and with much interest. It is the best piece of base ball literature I have ever seen, and I congratulate you on the work." Tim Murnane, Sporting Editor _Boston Globe_:--"You have given to the world a book of inestimable value, a classic in American history; a book that should be highly prized in every home library in the country." Francis C. Richter, Editor _Sporting Life_, Philadelphia:--"From a purely literary standpoint, your work is to me amazing. Frankly, I would not change a line, for the reason that the story is told in a way to grip the reader and hold his interest continually." _Los Angeles Times_ (editorial):--"Spalding's book has been out six months and ninety thousand copies have been sold. We understand there will be other editions. America has taken base ball seriously for at last two generations, and it is time enough that the fad was given an adequate text book." Caspar Whitney, Editor _Outdoor America_, and one of the leading authorities in the world on sport:--"You have made an invaluable contribution to the literature of the game, and one none else could have made. Moreover, you've done some very interesting writing, which is a distinct novelty in such books--too often dull and uninteresting." _New York World_:--"Albert G. Spalding, who really grew up with the sport, has written 'America's National Game,' which he describes as not a history, but the simple story of the game as he has come to know it. His book, therefore, is full of living interest. It is a volume generously illustrated and abounds in personal memories of base ball in the making." _New York Sun_:--"There is a mass of interesting information regarding base ball, as might be expected, in Mr. Spalding's 'America's National Game.' It is safe to say that before Spalding there was no base ball. The book is no record of games and players, but it is historical in a broader sense, and the author is able to give his personal decisive testimony about many disputed points." _Evening Telegram_, New York:--"In clear, concise, entertaining, narrative style, Albert G. Spalding has contributed in many respects the most interesting work pertaining to base ball, the national game, which has been written. "There is so much in it of interest that the temptation not to put it down until it is completed is strong within the mind of every person who begins to read it. As a historical record it is one of those volumes which will go further to straighten some disputed points than all of the arguments which could be advanced in good natured disputes which might last for months." _Providence_ (R. I.) _Tribune_:--"The pictures of old time teams players and magnates of a bygone era will interest every lover of the game, and no doubt start many discussions and recollections among the old timers." _New York Evening Mail_:--"Were it possible to assemble the grand army of base ball fans in convention, their first act probably would be to pass a vote of thanks to Mr. A.G. Spalding for his work 'America's National Game'." _Columbus_ (Ohio) _Dispatch_:--"Never before has been put in print so much of authentic record of this distinctly national game, and it will be long, if ever, until so thoroughly interesting and useful a volume is published to cover the same field." _New Orleans Picayune_:--"The pictures of old time teams, players and magnates of a bygone era will interest every lover of the game. Homer Davenport, America's great cartoonist, has contributed drawings in his inimitable style of various phases of the game." _Indianapolis Star_:--"From cover to cover, the 542 pages are filled with material for 'fanning bees,' which the average 'fan' never before encountered. It is an interesting volume for anyone who follows the national pastime and a valuable addition to any library." _Buffalo News_:--"No book on base ball has ever been written that is superior to this one by A.G. Spalding. The book is admirably written, yet without any frills. Many of the more notable incidents recounted in this book are having wide publication by themselves." _Brooklyn Times_:--"The book is practically a compendium of the salient incidents in the evolution of professional base ball. Mr. Spalding is pre-eminently fitted to perform this service, his connection with the game having been contemporaneous with its development, as player, club owner and league director." _Washington_ (D. C.) _Star_:--"This work appeals with peculiar force to the public. Mr. Spalding's name is almost synonymous with base ball. He has worked to the end of producing a volume which tells the story of the game vividly and accurately. Taken altogether, this is a most valuable and entertaining work." _New York American_:--"One of the best selling books of the season has been 'America's National Game,' by A.G. Spalding. The first edition of five thousand copies has been sold out (in two months) and a second edition of five thousand is now on the press. As a Christmas gift from father to son, it is most appropriate." _Cincinnati Enquirer_:--"As a veteran of the diamond, well qualified to do so, Mr. Spalding has committed to print a professional's version of the distinctly American game. This well known base ball celebrity has a store of familiar anecdotes embracing the entire period of the game as now played and the reader will find it most interesting." _Teacher and Home, New York_:--"Every live father of a live boy will want to buy this book. It is said of some of the 'best sellers' that they hold one to the end. This book holds the reader with its anecdote, its history, its pictures; but it will have no end; for no home--no American home--will be complete hereafter without it." _Buffalo Times_:--"A.G. Spalding, with whose name every American boy is familiar, has been prevailed upon to commit to print events which were instrumental in guiding the destinies of the National League during the trying period of its early days. To write upon base ball in a historical manner, and yet not fall into the habit of quoting interminable statistics, is a feat that few could accomplish." _Cincinnati Times-Star_:--"'America's National Game,' A.G. Spalding's great book upon the diamond sport, is now upon the market and receiving well merited attention. It tells the story as Mr. Spalding saw it, and no man has been in position to see more. When 'Al' Spalding, the sinewy pitcher of nearly forty years ago, came into the arena, the game was young, and through all the changing seasons that have seen it mature into full bloom, its closest watcher and strongest friend has been the same 'Al' Spalding." _Cincinnati Time-Star_:--"The book is at once a history, a cyclopaedia and a most entertaining volume." _New York American_:--"'America's National Game' tells for the first time the history of the national game of base ball." _Portland Oregonian_:--"The book is of rare interest and has such personal value in the story line that one hardly knows where to begin in making quotations from it--all the stories told are so admirable." JOHN T. NICHOLSON, Principal Public School 186, New York:--"It's a great book." REV. W.A. SUNDAY, Evangelist:--"No one in America is better qualified to talk of base ball, from its inception to its present greatness, than A.G. Spalding." WM. L. VEECK and ED. W. SMITH, of the Chicago _American_:--"We have found much enjoyment in reading the book, and it is very valuable in our work." W.H. CONANT, Gossamer Rubber Co., Boston, Mass.:--"I have read the book with great pleasure and it produced a vivid reminiscence of the striking events in base ball, so full of interest to all lovers of the game." JOSEPH B. MACCABE, Editor East Boston (Mass.) _Argus-Advocate_, and ex-President Amateur Athletic Union:--"I want to express my gratitude, as a humble follower of manly sport, for the compilation of this historic work." JOHN A. LOWELL, President John A. Lowell Bank Note Company, Boston, Mass.:--"I have read the book with great interest and it certainly is a valuable compilation of facts relating to the history of base ball, the great national game of America. I prize it very highly." WM. F. GARCELON, Harvard Athletic Association, Cambridge, Mass.:--"I think 'America's National Game' is not only intensely interesting but most valuable, as giving the history of the game. Better still, my nine year old boy is looking forward to the time when he can get it away from me." GUSTAV T. KIRBY, President of the Amateur Athletic Union:--"Not only as a historical sketch of this great national game, but also as a technical dissertation on base ball as it was and is, this book will not only be of interest but of benefit to all of us Americans who are interested in sport--and what American is not interested in sport?--and being interested in sport, chiefly in base ball." EVERETT C. BROWN, Chicago, ex-president of the Amateur Athletic Union of the United States:--"It is very seldom that any history of any sport or anything pertaining to athletics approaches the interest with which one reads a popular work of fiction, but I can truthfully say that I have read the story of the great national game with as much interest as I have read any recent work of fiction." THOMAS F. GRAHAM, Judge Superior Court, San Francisco:--"'America's National Game' contains matter on the origin and development of base ball--the greatest game ever devised by man--that will be of the utmost interest to the base ball loving people, not only of this, but of every English speaking country; and I am sure it will perpetuate the name of A.G. Spalding to the end of time." SPALDING'S OFFICIAL ATHLETIC LIBRARY SPALDING'S OFFICIAL BASE BALL GUIDE Thirty-seventh Year 1913 EDITED BY JOHN B. FOSTER AMERICAN SPORTS PUBLISHING COMPANY 21 Warren Street, New York CONTENTS A Remarkable Base Ball Tournament A World's Series Problem American League Averages, Official American League Season of 1912 Base Ball Writers of the South Base Ball Worth While? Base Ball Playing Rules, Official Index to Playing Ready Reference Index to Base Ball Playing Rules, Spalding's Simplified-- Ball Ball Ground Balls, Providing Balls, Soiling Base Running Rules Bat, Regulation Batting Rules Benches, Players Coaching Rules Definitions, General Field for Play, Fitness of Field Rules Game, Regulation Gloves and Mitts, Regulation Ground Rules Innings, Choice of Players, Numbers and Position of Players, Substitute Pitching Rules Scoring Rules Scoring of Runs Umpires' Authority Umpires' Duties Uniforms Club Rosters of 1912, Official Diagram, Correct, of a Ball Field Editorial Comment Elementary School Base Ball Tournament Introduction John Tomlinson Brush National League Season of 1912 National League Averages, Official National Association of Professional Base Ball Leagues-- American Association Appalachian League Blue Grass League Border League Canadian League Central Association Central Kansas League Central League Cotton States League Eastern Association Illinois-Missouri League Indiana-Illinois-Iowa League International League Kentucky-Ind.-Tenn. League Michigan State League "Mink" League New York State League New England League Nebraska State League North Carolina League Northwestern League Ohio and Pennsylvania League Ohio State League Pacific Coast League South Atlantic League Southeastern League Southern Association Southern Michigan Association Texas League Tri-State League Union Association Virginia League Western Canada League Western League New Faces in the Old League Notes Schedules-- American League International League National League Northwestern League Southern Michigan Texas League The Spalding Base Ball Hall of Fame The World's Series of 1912 The Umpires NOTICE--To give adequate representation to College and School Base Ball Teams, which heretofore has not been possible in the Guide owing to lack of room, "Spalding's Official Collegiate Base Ball Annual" will be issued in February. It will contain complete college records, pictures and information exclusively pertaining to College Base Ball. Price 10 cents. INTRODUCTION In preparing this issue of SPALDING'S OFFICIAL BASE BALL GUIDE for the season of 1913, it has occurred to the Editor that the season of 1912, and the period which followed its completion, have been filled, with a great deal of unusual and uncommon vicissitude. In the first place the personnel of the National League, the oldest Base Ball organization in the world, has been greatly changed by reason of death and purchase of one franchise. New owners have brought new faces into the game, and when the National League starts on this year's campaign there will be some younger but equally as ambitious men at the heads of some of the clubs. The players have effected an organization. That, too, is an incident of interest, for it is well within the memory of the Base Ball "fans" of this day what happened when another organization was perfected in the past. For this organization it may be said that the members promise that it will be their object to bring about better deportment on the part of their own associates and that they will work their best for the advancement of Base Ball from a professional standpoint. If they do this they will be of benefit to the sport. If they work from selfish motives it is inevitable that eventually there will be a clash, as there was in the past. The last world's series which was played was the greatest special series of games which has been played in the history of the national pastime. There may have been single games and there may have been series which have attracted their full measure of interest from the Base Ball "fans," but there never has been a special series so filled with thrills and excitement as that between the New York and Boston clubs. The GUIDE this year enters into the subject thoroughly with photographs and a story of the games and feels that the readers will enjoy the account of the contests. Some innovations have been attempted in this number of the GUIDE which should interest Base Ball readers. Attention is called to the symposium by prominent Base Ball writers which brings up a subject of interest in regard to future world's series. There are other special articles, including something about the Base Ball writers of the South, who have decided to organize a chapter of their own. The year 1912 was one of progress and advancement on the part of Base Ball throughout the world. To-day it not only is stronger than ever as America's national game but it is making fast progress in other countries because of the attractiveness of the pastime. The Editor of the GUIDE wishes its thousands of readers an even more enjoyable Base Ball year in 1913 than they had in 1912. This publication is now one of worldwide circulation, and carries the gospel of Base Ball, not only across the Atlantic ocean, but across the Pacific ocean as well. One of these days it may be its province to report a series for the international championship, and then Base Ball will have become the universal game of the world, a place toward which it is rapidly tending. THE EDITOR. EDITORIAL COMMENT BY JOHN B. FOSTER. PROGRESS OF AMERICA'S NATIONAL GAME Two more nations have been conquered by the national game of the United States; a whole race has succumbed to the fascinations of the greatest of all outdoor sports. Both France and Sweden have announced their intention of organizing Base Ball leagues. That of Sweden is well under way. Indeed, they have a club in Stockholm and there are more to follow, while the French, who have gradually been awakening to the joys of athletic pastime in which they have hitherto chosen to participate in other ways, hope to have a new league by the expiration of the present summer. There is no doubt as to their intention to play Base Ball. They are making efforts to procure suitable players from the United States to coach them and the French promoters of the sport are determined that their young men shall be given every opportunity to take advantage of the game of which they have heard so much, and have seen so little. Last year in the GUIDE it was the pleasure of the editor to call attention to the fact that the Japanese had so thoroughly grasped Base Ball that they were bent on some day playing an American team for the international championship. It is not probable that such a series will take place within the next five years, but not improbable that it will take place within the next decade. When the Japanese learn to bat better, and with more effect, they will become more dangerous rivals to the peace of mind of the American players. They have grasped the general theory of the game amazingly well, and they field well, but they have yet to develop some of those good old fashioned "clean up" hitters in which the "fans" of the United States revel. This season it comes to the attention of the editor of the GUIDE that more progress has been made in China in regard to Base Ball than in any fifty years preceding. True, there was not much Base Ball in the fifty years preceding, but now there is. There is a league at Hong Kong. There are Base Ball teams at Shanghai and other cities. Dr. Eliot, former president of Harvard, who recently returned from a trip around the world, holds that Base Ball has done more to humanize and civilize the Chinese than any influence which has been introduced by foreigners, basing his statement on the fact that the introduction of the sport among the younger Chinese has exerted a tremendous restraint upon their gambling propensities. It is a rather queer fact that where the civilizations are older in the countries of the Occident there is a greater tendency to gamble, especially among the young, than there is in the newer America. Doubtless this is largely due to the lack of athletic pastime. The young of those countries know little or nothing about simple amusements which are so popular in the United States, and acquire from their elders their knowledge of betting and taking part in games of chance, two evils which unquestionably have done much to degrade the race as a whole. Base Ball has caught the fancy of the younger generation and the boys. Once they get a ball and a bat in their hands they are better satisfied with them than with all the gambling devices which have been bequeathed to them by a long and eminent line of forefathers. So it would appear that the introduction of the national game of the United States into China is likely to exert a humanizing influence which shall go further than legislation or sword, and if only the missionaries had grasped earlier the wishes and the tendency of the younger element of the Chinese population, the country might be further along than it is with its progressive movement. In the Philippine Islands the younger generation simply has gone wild over Base Ball. Progress has been noted in the GUIDE from time to time of the increase of interest but it is now at such a pitch that the boys of the islands, wherever Base Ball has been introduced, simply have deserted everything for it. They will play nothing else. The cockfights and the gambling games, which were also a part of the amusement of the younger men, have been given up. The little fellows who wear not much more than a breechclout play Base Ball. They have picked up many of the American terms and one of the most amusing of experiences is to stand outside the walls of old Manila and hear the little brown boys call: "Shoot it over. Line it out," and the like, returning to their native language, and jabbering excitedly in Filipino whenever they arrive at some point of play in which their command of English fails them. Twenty years from now a league including cities of the Philippines, China and Japan, is by no means out of the question, and it may be that the introduction of Base Ball into all three countries will result in a better understanding between the peoples and perhaps bring all three races to a better frame of mind as relates to their personal ambitions and rivalries. In connection with the widespread influence which Base Ball is having on both sides of the world, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean and on those of the Atlantic Ocean the editor would like to call attention to the theory which has been advanced by Mr. A.G. Spalding, the founder of the GUIDE, as to the efficacy of Base Ball for the purpose of training athletes, that has a worldwide application. Mr. Spalding contends that Base Ball has lent no small assistance to the athletes of the United States in helping them to win premier honors at the Olympic Games since their reintroduction. Mr. Spalding was the first American Commissioner to the Olympic Games appointed to that post, the honor being conferred upon him in 1900, when the late President McKinley gave him his commission to represent the United States at Paris in 1900. Mr. Spalding, with his analytical mind has reasoned out a theory which is undoubtedly of great accuracy, and which is further corroborated by an interview given out in London--strangely enough on the same day that Mr. Spalding gave utterance to his ideas in Los Angeles--by Mr. J.E. Sullivan, American Commissioner to the Olympic Games at Stockholm last year, while returning to the United States after witnessing the triumphs of the Americans. Mr. Spalding said: "I cannot say that I am at all surprised at the result at Stockholm. History has been repeating itself in this way ever since the celebration of the Olympic games was inaugurated at Athens. America won the victory there in 1896; she triumphed again at Paris in 1900; our athletes defeated the contestants at St. Louis in 1904; the victory was ours at London in 1908, and it was a foregone conclusion that we would win at Stockholm. "But there is food for thought in this uninterrupted succession of triumphs. Why do our athletes always win? All other things being equal, the contestants in the country holding the event should naturally come to the front. Their numbers are always greater than those from any other country and the home grounds influence is strong. However, that advantage has not in any case prevented American success. "Therefore there must be a cause. What is it? Measured by scale and tape, our athlete's are not so much superior as a class. The theory of 'more beef' must be discarded. We may not lay claim to having all the best trainers of the world. We must look to some other source for American prowess. "I may be a prejudiced judge, but I believe the whole secret of these continued successes is to be found to the kind of training that comes with the playing of America's national game, and our competitors in other lands may never hope to reach the standard of American athletes until they learn this lesson and adopt our pastime. "The question, 'When should the training of a child begin?' has been wisely answered by the statement that it should antedate his birth. The training of Base Ball may not go back quite that far, but it approaches the time as nearly as practicable, for America starts training of future Olympian winners very early in life. Youngsters not yet big enough to attend school begin quickening their eyesight and sharpening their wits and strengthening their hands and arms and legs by playing on base ball fields ready at hand in the meadows of farms, the commons of villages and the parks of cities all over the land. Base ball combines running, jumping, throwing and everything that constitutes the athletic events of the Olympian games. But above all, it imparts to the player that degree of confidence in competition, that indefinable something that enables one athlete to win over another who may be his physical equal but who is lacking the American spirit begotten of base ball. "An analysis of the 1912 Olympian games shows that the American showed to best advantage in contests where the stress of competition was hardest. In the dashes they were supreme; in the hurdles they were in a class by themselves, and in the high jump and pole vault there was no one worthy of their steel. Whenever quick thinking and acting was required, an American was in front. Does not this fact prove that the American game of base ball enables the player to determine in the fraction of a second what to do to defeat his contestant?" * * * * * WHAT A SEASON OF BASE BALL COSTS It may not be out of place to say a few words in regard to the greatly increased cost of Base Ball. There are some sensational writers whose hobby is to inform the public about the great receipts in Base Ball. Usually they exaggerate from twenty-five to thirty-five per cent. Now as to the expense of Base Ball. Figures at an approximate for the National League will be offered. Railroad expenses for mileage alone $300,000, including spring training trips. Hotel bills $65,000. Sleeping cars and meals en route, $80,000. Salaries to players, $480,000. Total, $875,000. Add to this $30,000 for the salaries of umpires and their traveling expenses. That makes $905,000. Now not a penny has been appropriated thus far for the salaries of the president of the National League, the secretary and expenditures of the office nor for the salaries of the business departments of the various clubs, nor for ground rents, taxes and a dozen and one other things, to say nothing of that well-known old item "wear and tear." The receipts of Base Ball barely cover these expenditures. The alleged profits of Base Ball mostly are fanciful dreams of those who know nothing of the practical side of the sport and are stunned when they are made acquainted with the real financial problems which confront club owners. But the money that is contributed to the support of the game almost immediately finds its way back into public channels. Less than thirty per cent. of Base Ball clubs realize what a business man would call a fair return on the amount invested. A well-known writer on economic topics interviewed owners of Base Ball clubs as to their income and outgo. One of the best known of the National League men took the writer into his office and spread the cash book of the club's business before him. "You may go through it if you wish," said the owner, "but here is the balance for the last day of the year." It read as follows: Receipts, $250,505; expenditures, $246,447. "That's answer enough for me," said the writer. "I am through with any more essays on the affluence of Base Ball 'magnates.' I think it would be better to extend them the hand of charity than the mailed fist." * * * * * THE NEW ORGANIZATION OF PLAYERS The formation of an organization on the part of the major league ball players during the closing days of the season of 1912 was looked upon with some misgivings by those who remember only too well what happened when a prior organization of ball players was formed. In the present instance those foremost in perfecting the organization have also been foremost in asserting that the players' organization's principal aim is to co-operate with the club owners. If this object is followed with fidelity and to its ultimate conclusion there is no necessity to fear any grave disturbances, but there is a dread--that dread which is the fear of the child that has had its hands burned by the flame, that a selfish coterie of players might obtain control of the organization, set up a policy of unscrupulous defiance and destructive opposition and retard for a moment the higher development of the game. There is no organization, either of unscrupulous Base Ball players or unscrupulous club owners, which will ever find it possible to destroy organized Base Ball. The results that organized Base Ball have brought about will never be annihilated although grave injury could be temporarily wrought by a force defiant to tie unusual demands made by the sport to perpetuate itself successfully. It is simply out of the question to control Base Ball as one would control the affairs of a department store. Base Ball has its commercial side, but its commercial side cannot maintain it with success. There must be a predominant factor based upon the encouragement that brings forth admiration for a high class sport. This factor can only be fostered by the ability to maintain not one, but a group of high class teams. Any ball player imbued with the idea that the "stars" should be grouped together in the city best able to pay the highest salaries simply is an enemy to his career and to those of his fellow players. Without some handicap to assist in the equalizing of the strength of Base Ball nines of the professional leagues there will be no prosperity for the leagues or the clubs individually. No better evidence may be cited to prove this than the fact, repeatedly demonstrated that in the smaller leagues Base Ball enthusiasts in the city best able to pay the largest salaries frequently withdraw their support of the team because "it wins all the time." To-day Base Ball, in its professional atmosphere, is nearer an ideal sport, a better managed sport, and a more fairly and equitably adjusted sport, than it ever has been, which is manifest proof of its superior evolution. Had results been otherwise it would have retrograded and possibly passed out of existence. Carefully comparing its management with that of all other sports in history the Editor of the GUIDE believes that it is the best managed sport in the world. It is true that improvements can be made. It is evident that there are still commercialized owners not over capitalized with a spirit of sport. It is undeniable that there are ball players not imbued with a high tone of the obligations, which they owe to their employers and to the public, but it is as certain as the existence of the game that progress has been made, and that it has not ceased to move forward. For that reason players and owners must be guided by a sense of lofty ideals and not be led astray by foolish outbursts over trivial differences of opinion, easily to be adjusted by the exercise of a little common sense. * * * * * BASE BALL PLAYED IN SWEDEN In connection with the subject of "Base Ball For All the World," for which the GUIDE expounds and spreads the gospel, the Editor would submit a very interesting letter received by him from Sweden. it reads as follows: Westeras, Sweden, Sept. 14, 1912. To the Editor of the GUIDE: We hereby have the pleasure of sending you two copies of the rules, translated and issued by the Westeras Base Ball Club, into Swedish from the Spalding Base Ball Guide. The work of getting the book out has been somewhat slow on account of that the work of translating, proofreading, etc., all had to be done on our spare time, but it is done now, and I think we have succeeded pretty well, everything considered. The books will be distributed by a well-known book firm, Bjork & Boyeson, Stockholm, and will soon be available in all the bookstores in Sweden. We got some advance copies out just in time for the Olympic Games, and I had the pleasure of presenting some copies to Commissioner Col. Thompson, Manager Halpin and others of the American Olympic Committee. As you know, so did we have a game of Base Ball at Stockholm with one of the Finland teams, and as it may be of some interest to you to know the preliminaries to the game, I am writing to relate how it happened. In trying to arrange for some amusements in the evenings at the Stadium, the Olympic Committee wrote us if we would be willing to take part in a game of Base Ball at Stadium some evening during the Stadium week. As our club this year was in poor condition, on account of some of our best players being out on military duties, we hesitated at first, but then decided to risk it, knowing very well that whoever we would play against, they would not rub in to us too hard. We pointed out to the Olympic Committee that it would not be very hard to get a team of Base Ball players picked out from the American athletes taking part in the contests, but as they would not be prepared for Base Ball, suits and other needed articles had to be provided for. We were then told to get necessary things ordered, and so we did. We ordered suits from a tailor in this town, after a pattern that I got from Spalding's this spring. The suits were of gray flannel, with blue trimmings for our team and red trimmings for the American. I also ordered bats and gloves, and with the things our club already had, we were very well equipped. The Olympic Committee, Stockholm, then received a letter from the Olympic Committee, New York, saying that if a game of Base Ball could be arranged for during the Olympian Games, they would bring two teams along on the Finland. The Olympic Committee cabled to come along, and sent us a copy of Mr. Sullivan's letter. I knew, of course, that if the game could be played by two American teams, it would be a much better game than if our team took part, and told the Olympic Committee, and wanted to withdraw, but as they did not know for sure how it would be, told us to go ahead with the arrangements just the same, and so we did, and by the time the Finland arrived, everything had been arranged for. The Olympic Committee has selected the evening, 7 P.M., of the 10th of July, for the game, and thought that this would be suitable to the Americans, but as some of the players had to take part in the contests, Mr. Halpin would not risk them then, so it was finally decided that a game should be played the 15th, the Americans to play six innings between themselves and then six innings against us. Well, we had a game at the training grounds. We played six innings, and Mr. Halpin was kind enough to let us have a pitcher and catcher from his men. The score was 9 to 3, and it could just as well been 9 to 0, perhaps. Well, at any rate, it was the first Base Ball game, as far as I know, that ever took place in Europe between an American team and a European team, with England possibly excepted. Mr. Halpin said that the Americans were going to play a game the next morning between themselves, but that game did not come off. There was probably no time for it, as the Finland left Stockholm the same day. Very likely the American boys were somewhat disappointed in not being able to play between themselves, as anticipated, and perhaps I should not have pushed our game ahead, but as long as there was a Base Ball team in Sweden, it would have been strange if it had not played, and it gave our boys a chance to see how the game should be played, and they certainly did take it in. Had the game been played as it was intended and advertised, on the 10th in the Stadium, there would very likely have been a bigger crowd present, and the game would also have been more talked about in the papers, but then we will have to be satisfied as it is. Our club has been practicing all summer, twice a week, and on the 24th of August we gave an exhibition game here at Westeras, between two teams from our club, the suits made for the Olympic Games coming in very handy. I send you herewith a clipping from a local paper describing the game, and also a picture of the two teams with myself and the umpire included. At our game here we distributed the "Description of Base Ball," written by you and translated into Swedish, and it came of good use. Next year we intend to have our teams appear in the nearby cities around here, so as to give people a chance to see the game, and it will not be long before they will start it in Stockholm, so I think the game is bound to be popular here also, Mr. George Wright, of Boston, was the umpire at the Stockholm games, and as he was very kind to us, we would like to send him the picture of the club, and hope that you will forward us his address. I am, for Westeras Base Ball Club, Yours truly, EDWIN JOHNSON, Electrical Engineer. * * * * * THE NEW NATIONAL AGREEMENT Unlimited satisfaction must be had by all who are connected with Base Ball over the greatly improved conditions by which the season of 1913 is begun under the new National Agreement. While it perhaps might be exaggerated boastfulness to affirm that Base Ball, as a professionally organized sport, has attained perfection, it is not out of reason-- indeed, quite within reason--to observe that Base Ball never had such a well balanced and perfect organization as that by which it is regulated at the present time. The principal fact of congratulation lies in the safeguards and provisions which have been thrown around the players of the minor leagues and in the equitable and just measures which have been agreed upon to provide for their future. As a general rule it may be taken for granted that the players of the major leagues can take care of themselves. That is to say, their positions, if they are expert in their calling, and conscientious in their deportment, really take care of them. No club owner, unless he is maliciously or foolishly inclined, will jeopardize the interests of his team by acting in a wilfully unjust manner toward a player who is cheerfully and uprightly offering his services. We may hear of occasional exceptions to this condition of things, but if these occasional exceptions chance to arise, it is inevitably certain that the owner in the long run will suffer to a greater degree than the player with whom he deals unfairly. It is the history of Base Ball that more inequitable treatment has arisen by fifty per cent in the minor leagues than has had its origin in the major leagues. The reason for this existed almost wholly in the inability of Base Ball as a whole to bring the minor league owners to a realization of the injury that they might be doing and to extend such punishment and insist upon such regulation as were necessary to change this undesirable condition. By the organization of the National Association of Base Ball clubs the minor leagues, for the first time in their history, placed themselves in a position where they could demand proper enforcement of regulations for the government of the sport, and by their alliance with the major league clubs, under the articles of the National Agreement, a general working basis was effected whereby compliance with rules could be insisted upon. The result of this admirable condition of affairs is that wisdom and equity now rule where there once existed chaos and at times something akin to anarchy in sport. At no time in the history of the game, which is so dear to the hearts of the American people, has the general legislative and executive body been so well equipped by the adoption of pertinent and virile laws to insist upon justice to all concerned as at the present moment. The new National Agreement is an improvement upon the old and the old was a long, long step in advance of anything which had preceded it. The mere fact that club owners and leagues were so willing to adopt a system better than its predecessor wholly confutes the absurd assertions of the radical element that there is no consideration shown for the player. To the contrary, every consideration has been shown to the player, but the latter must not confound with the consideration shown to him the idea that his interests are the only interests at stake in Base Ball. The man who is willing to furnish the sinews of war has as good standing in court as the player who furnishes the base hits and the phenomenal catches. So perfect is the system which is being attempted to be set in force by the new National Agreement that the young man who now essays to play professional Base Ball may be assured of steady advancement in this profession and a generally improving condition if he will be as honest by his employer as he expects his employer to be honest by him. The graduated system of assisting players, step by step, from the least important leagues to the most important is the most perfect plan of its kind that has ever been devised. There may be flaws in it, but if there are they will be remedied, and if modifications are necessary to make it more perfect there is no doubt that such modifications will be agreed upon. As proof of what the new National Agreement may do, although it has barely had time to be considered, the editor of the GUIDE would submit the following for consideration: Ever since the National Agreement was organized the members have always striven to aid the players in their efforts to gain the top rank in the great national game. They have had a hard proposition in handling all of the cases that have been brought to their attention, but their decisions in all cases were absolutely fair and impartial. Then the matter of the new agreement occasioned many hours of laborious work on the part of the members of the Commission, and when the instrument was finally announced it meant that all of the parties to such an agreement were satisfied and that there could be no improvement. There was one detail that covered a wide field, and that was in the matter of players; drafted by the two big leagues and later sent back to the minors. Under the old National Agreement it was possible to pick up a player by means of the annual draft from one of the Class C leagues and just before the opening of the season send him back to the club from whence he came without ever having given him a chance to land with a club in some higher organization. Realizing that such players were not given a chance to advance in the Base Ball profession, this matter was thoroughly thrashed out and the new ruling under which all of the National Agreement clubs operate was adopted. Now it is possible for a player in any of the smaller leagues to be drafted by a major league club, and when the latter party does not care to retain possession of such a player he is first offered to the Class AA clubs. All of these clubs must waive on him before he can be dropped farther down in the list, and if such should be the case he would then be offered to the Class A clubs. In that way the player, although he is not fast enough to remain in the two major leagues, is always given a chance to advance, for if any of the clubs in those classes higher than that from which he came had grabbed him he was bound to receive an increase in salary. That meant that he had his chance to advance, and that was the sole purpose of the National Agreement in drafting such a rule. During the past drafting season there were sixty-nine players drafted by the two major league clubs, and of that number twenty-seven have already been sent back to the minor leagues. The Class AA and A clubs claimed all of these twenty-seven, and it is more than likely that there will also be many more who will be given trials by the big league clubs during the spring training season and who may later be turned back to the minors. Of the twenty-seven players thus far sent back seventeen of them advanced in their profession, a tribute to the sagacity, wisdom and impartiality of the members of the National Commission. The decision, as announced by Chairman Herrmann of the National Commission pertaining to this return of drafted players, is as follows: ------------|-----------------|----------|-----------|-------------- Clubs. | League. | Players. | Drafted | Drafted By | | | From | ------------|-----------------|----------|-----------|-------------- Louisville |American Asso. |Stansbury |Louisville |St. Louis N.L. Chattanooga |Southern Asso. |Balenti |Chattanooga|St. Louis A.L. Sacramento |Pacific Coast |Berghammer|Lincoln |Chicago N.L. Sacramento |Pacific Coast |Orr |Sacramento |Phila. A.L. Sacramento |Pacific Coast |[1]Young |Harrisburg |New York A.L. Sacramento |Pacific Coast |Drohan |Kewanee |Washington. Indianapolis|American Asso. |Berghammer|Lincoln |Chicago N.L. Indianapolis|American Asso. |Cathers |Scranton |St. Louis N.L. Indianapolis|American Asso. |Metz |San Antonio|Boston N.L. Indianapolis|American Asso. |Kernan |Oshkosh |Chicago A.L. New Orleans |Southern Asso. |Bates |Newp't News|Cleveland. New Orleans |Southern Asso. |Wilson |Knoxville |Cleveland. New Orleans |Southern Asso. |Betts |San Antonio|Cleveland. New Orleans |Southern Asso. |Drohan |Kewanee |Washington. New Orleans |Southern Asso. |Williams |Newark, O |Washington. Portland |Pacific Coast |Williams |Newark, O |Washington. Portland |Pacific Coast |Drohan |Kewanee |Washington. Portland |Pacific Coast |Bates. |Newp't News|Cleveland. Portland |Pacific Coast |Grubb |Morristown |Cleveland. Portland |Pacific Coast |Wilson |Knoxville |Cleveland. Portland |Pacific Coast |Betts |San Antonio|Cleveland. Milwaukee |American Asso. |Beall |Denver |Cleveland. St. Paul |American Asso. |Berghammer|Lincoln |Chicago N.L. St. Paul |American Asso. |Miller |Harrisburg |Pittsburgh. St. Paul |American Asso. |Booe |Ft. Wayne |Pittsburgh. St. Paul |American Asso. |House |Kewanee |Detroit. St. Paul |American Asso. |Drohan |Kewanee |Washington. St. Paul |American Asso. |Beall |Denver |Cleveland. St. Paul |American Asso. |Balenti |Chattanooga|St. Louis A.L. St. Paul |American Asso. |Agnew |Vernon |St. Louis A.L. Omaha |Western League |Wilson |Knoxville |Cleveland. Omaha |Western League |Williams |Newark, O |Washington. Omaha |Western League |Betts |San Antonio|Cleveland. Omaha |Western League |Drohan |Kewanee |Washington. Buffalo |Internat'l League|Schang |Buffalo |Phila. A.L. Buffalo |Internat'l League|Dolan |Rochester |Phila. A.L. Buffalo |Internat'l League|Cottrell |Scranton |Chicago N.L. Buffalo |Internat'l League|Clymer |Minneapolis|Chicago N.L. Columbus |American Asso. |Drohan |Kewanee |Washington. Rochester |Internat'l League|Dolan |Rochester |Phila. A.L. Montreal |Internat'l League|Connelly |Montreal |Washington. Toledo |American Asso. |Hernden |[2] |St. Louis. Toledo |American Asso. |Stevenson |Oshkosh |St. Louis N.L. Toledo |American Asso. |Bates |Newp't News|Cleveland. Toledo |American Asso. |Wilson |Knoxville |Cleveland. Denver |Western League |Heckinger |Racine |Chicago N.L. Denver |Western League |Drohan |Kewanee |Washington. --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1: Subject to investigation as to whether New York American League Club has title. 2: Subject to investigation as to whether St. Louis American or National League Club has title to this player and how secured. * * * * * A WORLD'S SERIES PROBLEM Much discussion arose after the finish of the last world's series as to whether the adjustment of dates had worked satisfactorily. The contention was that playing off a tie game on the ground where the game had been scheduled might work some inconvenience to "fans" and result in an inequitable allotment of dates, simply to conform to custom. It was asserted that the importance of the series demanded that it be a home-and-home affair, dates to alternate regularly, regardless of all ties or drawn games. To obtain opinion that is sound and practical the Editor of the GUIDE sent forth the following letter: NEW YORK, January 31, 1913. During the recent world's series it so happened that a tie was played in one of the cities, which compelled both teams to remain in that city for another date. Before the series was over this arrangement resulted in one club having five games on its home grounds and the other club having but three games on its home grounds. It has seemed to some that it is unjust. It is also contended that it is unfair to the patrons of the game to schedule a contest and then not play in the city specified after some had traveled many miles to see it. Will you please give the GUIDE your opinion as to whether a change would be advisable? Very truly yours, JOHN B. FOSTER, _Editor Spalding's Official Base Ball Guide._ Answers were received to the request for a "symposium of opinion" as follows: "So far as having any effect on the chances of the two teams is concerned, I don't think having to play more games on one ground than on the other makes any material difference. Where cities are sufficiently near each other for games to be alternated daily, it would perhaps be fairer to spectators to do so, irrespective of ties; yet it seems to me that a tie on one grounds should be played off the next day in the same city." W.B. HANNA, _New York Sun._ * * * * * "In my opinion the arrangement on tie games in the post-season contests is a poor one. I saw the result of it in the series between the Cubs and White Sox last fall. Two tie games were played and the confusion and inconvenience it caused the fans was deplorable. It is unjust to the followers who support Base Ball. It is also unjust, in a small way, to the club which has to play two or more games on its opponent's field. Players when away from their home grounds, in a fall series, are more or less under a nervous strain. If there was confusion, inconvenience and difficulty in a local series as a result of a tie game, the folly of the arrangement must appear more absurd when towns like New York and Boston are involved. Dates should alternate, tie or not tie." OSCAR C. REICHOW, _Chicago Daily News._ * * * * * "We are in receipt of your favor of the 31st nlt., and wish to thank you for the opportunity presented. "It is our opinion that a tie game was played and it should be considered as a game. Either side had an opportunity to win and any advantage that the home club might have had was lost when it failed to break the tie. "It is, therefore, our belief that this game should have been played in the other city. "As to it being unfair to the patrons who had traveled so far to see the scheduled contest, there is no doubt that they were afforded a sufficient amount of amusement and excitement for their trouble, in witnessing a closely played contest." J. G. T. SPINK, _St. Louis Sporting News._ * * * * * "It seems to me that the game should be alternated between the contending cities regardless of ties. The tie game gave Boston five games on the home grounds, while the Giants had only three. Besides, many persons, who traveled to see the games in New York, were inconvenienced." JOHN E. WHEELER, _New York Herald._ * * * * * "I think that the scheduled programme should be played through irrespective of the results of the respective games, and any extra playing or playing-off should be done after the originally set schedule is completed." H. P. BORCHELL, _Sports Editor New York Times._ * * * * * "I believe it would be inadvisable to change the method that now prevails. While the situation which arose last season did seem unjust to the New York club, I think the very fact that Boston had five games on its home grounds, and the Giants but three on their own diamond, was an answer to those ill-advised skeptics who are always ready to raise the cry of hippodroming. "That same situation is not likely to again arise for a long time, and I believe the rule as it stands is a guarantee to the public of the strict honesty of the world's championship contests." DAMON RUNYON, _The New York American._ * * * * * "A change in the rules regarding world series games would he fairer to the patrons of the sport. Here in Chicago this past fall two ties were played and, as a result, there was considerable confusion over the ticket arrangements. How much more is the case when two cities are involved? A condition which allows five games to be played in one city and only three in another is scarcely fair to the two teams. By making a schedule calling for alternate games in each city, irrespective of ties, everybody--fans and players--would get an even break." MALCOLM MACLEAN, _Base Ball Editor Chicago Evening Post._ * * * * * "I think it might be fairer to both world's series contenders to play a regular schedule, regardless of the fact that any tie games may arise in the series. Under the old system of playing the tie off in the city where the tie game is played, it brings about a great deal of confusion. Many fans make arrangements to see a game on a certain day and are greatly disappointed when the game is played in a different city. Of course, the old rule of playing the play-off game on the same grounds as the tie game, is fair to both contesting clubs, as it is merely a matter of chance where a tie game is played." FRED. G. LIEB, _New York Press._ * * * * * "The rules regarding the manner of scheduling games for the world's series should not be changed. There are times when they apparently work a hardship to one team or the followers of one club, but, after all, they help to throw the necessary safeguards around the contests. As for the argument for not playing off a tie game on the same grounds, thus disarranging the dates and inconveniencing the fans, patrons of the world's series games are accustomed to this, since bad weather frequently cuts into the event and causes postponements. "In a way it does not appear fair that one club should have the privilege of playing five games at home to three games at home for its opponents. The rule of playing off a tie game on the same grounds is a fixture in Base Ball. As to the other game, this was a question of the luck of the toss of the coin. "The fans have to trust to luck as to the number of games they will see in a world's series, this depending upon the number of games played and possibly upon the toss for a seventh battle. In 1905 the fans of Philadelphia saw only two games in a world's series with New York. In 1910 only two games were played here in the series with Chicago. "Any time a club has three games on its own grounds in a series where four victories decide the issue either it or its followers have not much chance to raise an objection." WILLIAM G. WEART, _The Evening Telegraph._ * * * * * "It was, of course, to the disadvantage of the Giants to be obliged to play five of the eight games in the post-season series last fall on the grounds of their opponents, but this came as a result of one tie game on the Boston grounds and being outlucked on the toss to determine where the deciding game should be played. This tie game unquestionably caused much inconvenience to patrons because of the change in the schedule made necessary because of it. "It is not clear to me, however, just now these things can be remedied without disturbing the balance of an even break for both teams more violently than was the case last fall. "I do not believe there will be another series just like the one of 1912, and so, in my opinion, an immediate change in the conditions governing these series would not be advisable. It is not clear to me just what changes could be made. One club or the other is bound to have the advantage of an extra game on its own grounds, providing seven games are necessary. The championship in nine out of ten contests will be decided in seven games or less. "Then, as to having the games played according to an arbitrarily fixed schedule, so as not to inconvenience patrons--that would be out of the question, being open to the objection that it would then be possible to have every game that figures in the result of the series played on the home grounds of one of the contestants. For instance, tie games or unfavorable weather which would prevent a game being played in one city, would throw all the games to the other city where there might be no tie games nor unfavorable weather. That would mean four straight, if it so happened that the home team won the games, and the loser would never have gotten action on its own grounds. That would be considerably worse than five to three. "So it looks to me as if the patrons would have to take their chances in the future as they have in the past." JAMES C. O'LEABT, _Boston Globe._ * * * * * "It seems to me that it would be better to alternate (in case of a tie), as a team able to tie its opponent on a hostile field would be entitled to consideration for this performance. I am very certain, however, that the players of both clubs in the recent world's series were satisfied with an arrangement which minimized the amount of traveling they were called upon to do. "Persons who had seen a five-inning tie game terminated by rain would hardly be satisfied. It seems to me that the rule as to alternating ball parks should be applied strictly, but only in case the tie game involved went nine innings or more." FRANCIS EATON, _Sports Editor Boston Journal._ * * * * * "To me the feasible thing to do appears to be to insert a clause in stipulations covering all short series of a special character, such as intercity, inter-league and world's series, making it compulsory for the teams to alternate between the cities or grounds of the competing clubs." PURVES T. KNOX, _New York Evening Telegram._ * * * * * "Why wouldn't it be a good scheme to toss up for the deciding game only in cases where an equal number of games had been played in each city, and, in cases where one city had seen more games than the other, to play the deciding game in the city which had seen the fewer games? "I do not believe it advisable to change the commission's rule regarding postponed games. The rule now provides that, in case of a postponement, the clubs shall remain in the city in which the game was scheduled until it is possible to play. If this rule were changed and there happened to be a week of bad weather, as in 1911, the teams and many fans might be forced to travel back and forth from one town to another for a week without participating in or seeing a single game; and it might happen some time that the jump would be between St. Louis and Boston." R. W. LARDNER, _Chicago Examiner._ * * * * * "A change in the rule governing the playing-off of tie games in the world's series should be made. The teams ought to appear in each city on the dates named in the schedule drawn up before the series starts, unless the weather interferes." WILLIAM H. WRIGHT, _New York Tribune._ * * * * * "Drawn games are as unavoidable as rainy days in world's series, but not as frequent. They operate the same in their effect on the contest for the world's pennant and in causing confusion among the patrons by disarranging the schedule. It would be manifestly unjust if, after a rain postponement, the competing teams did not remain and play the game off before playing elsewhere. That might result in playing all of the games in one city. Since drawn games are treated like postponed games in the regular season, and are of infrequent occurrence in world's series, any other arrangement than the present does not seem advisable. The patrons, who should be considered always, would be among the first to object if each team did not have an equal show to win. In the last series only four games that counted were played in Boston and three in New York and if New York had won the toss for the deciding game the situation would have been reversed. It would be manifestly fairer to play the seventh game if necessary in some neutral city." L. E. SANBORN, _Chicago Tribune._ NEW FACES IN THE OLD LEAGUE BY JOHN B. FOSTER. Not for some time has there been such a turning over of the leaves of history in the National League as during 1912-13, and because of this there are many new faces peering out of the album. There have also been changes in the minor circuits and one prominent change in the American League. The death of John T. Brush removed from Base Ball a dean of the National League. Wise in the lore of the game, a man more of the future than of the present, as he always foresaw that which some of his contemporaries were less alert in perceiving, it meant no easy task to be his successor. Prior to the death of Mr. Brush there was a great deal of curious and some idle speculation as to his ultimate successor in case of decease, or, in the event of his retirement because of bodily weariness. One or two went so far as to say that upon his death Andrew Freedman would return to prominence in Base Ball, because he was the real owner of the New York club. Once and for all the writer would like to put the personal stamp of absolute denial on the repeated statements made by certain individuals in New York and Chicago that Andrew Freedman retained the control of the New York club after John T. Brush was reported to have purchased it. Mr. Freedman retained nothing of the kind. Not that Mr. Brush objected to him as a partner, but when Mr. Brush purchased the stock he purchased the control outright, although he did request Mr. Freedman to hold a few shares and not give up his personal interest in Base Ball, for Mr. Freedman had a great liking for the game in spite of his stormy career. The assertions that Mr. Freedman was the real owner and Mr. Brush the nominal owner were made with malicious intent, of which the writer has proof, and through a desire, if possible, to combat the popularity and the success of the Giants. This digression has been made to call attention to the fact that while rumor was plentiful as to the future control of the Giants Mr. Brush was carefully "grooming" a young man--his son-in-law, Mr. H. Hempstead--to take his place. To a few it was known that Mr. Hempstead was acquiring such experience and information as would be necessary to assume the control of an undertaking which has grown so big as the organization of the Giants in New York. The business details of the club have quadrupled and the cares and anxieties of the man at the head have increased in proportion. The Giants, as successful as they have been under the control of John T. Brush and John J. McGraw, the men who have been the executive heads in both the business and the playing departments of the game, are as susceptible to reverses as if they were the lowliest club in the organization. It is only by constant and severe application that the club's affairs may be kept at the best pitch. Mr. Hempstead brings to Base Ball the advantage of youth, a keen business sagacity developed beyond his years, coolness, a disposition that is sunny and not easily ruffled, and a reputation for unvarying fairness and the highest type of business and sport ideals. Quite a list of qualities, but they are there. If characteristics of that description fail to maintain the high standard of the New York club, then it will be due to the fact that our standards of business deportment have turned topsy-turvy. William H. Locke is the new president and part owner of the Philadelphia club. He and Mr. Hempstead are the "junior" presidents of the league. There is no necessity for the Editor of the GUIDE to enter into any long and fulsome praise as to William H. Locke. His career speaks for itself and he speaks for himself. A young man of the finest attributes, he has brought nothing to the mill of Base Ball to grind except that which was the finest and the cleanest grain. The writer has known Mr. Locke almost, it seems, from boyhood and esteems him for his worth, not only as one who has administered the affairs of Base Ball with skill and intelligence, but as one who wrote of Base Ball with understanding and excellent taste, for it must not be forgotten that Mr. Locke is a newspaper graduate into the ranks of the great sport the affairs of which fill a little corner of the hearts of so many of America's citizens. Perhaps no young man ever left a newspaper office to become a Base Ball president with more good wishes behind him than William H. Locke. He served his apprenticeship as secretary of the Pittsburgh club and he served it well. He is a high class, delightful young man, every inch of him, and Philadelphia will soon become as proud of him as Pittsburgh is now. Still another newspaper writer has been claimed from the desk by the National League. He is Herman Nickerson, formerly sporting editor of the Boston Journal, who is now the secretary of the Boston National League club. "Nick" is known from one end of the National League circuit to the other as one of the most solid and substantial of the writing force, and also as one of the most demure and modest. In addition to his great fund of information on Base Ball topics he is an author, and "The Sword of Bussy," a book which was published during the winter, is even more clever than some of the author's best Base Ball yarns, and that is saying a great deal in behalf of a man wedded to Base Ball. Another change in the National League was the selection of Frank M. Stevens of New York, as one of the Board of Directors of the New York National League club. This brings into Base Ball one of New York's cleverest and brightest young business men, one who is forging so rapidly to the front in business circles in the big metropolis that many an older head goes to him for advice. Mr. Stevens knows a lot about Base Ball, which is of even greater importance in the game, and is not afraid to swing any venture that will put with fairness a championship team into the big city. He is a son of Harry M. Stevens, whom everybody knows, rich and poor alike. In the American League the death of Mr. Thomas D. Noyes, president of the Washington club, a young man who left behind naught but friends, left a vacancy in the organization which was filled by the selection of Mr. Benjamin S. Minor. The new president of the club has had practical experience in Base Ball and perhaps plenty of it, as almost everybody has had in Washington, but he is a wideawake, progressive and ambitious man, who is of just the type to keep Base Ball going, now that it has struck its gait in the national capital, and the future of the sport looks all the brighter for his connection with it. THE UMPIRES The umpires are always with us, and the umpire problem has been a vexation of Base Ball since the beginning of Base Ball time, yet neither the umpires, the public, the club owners nor the league officials need be discouraged, for it was fully proved in 1912 that umpiring, as a fine art, has advanced a step nearer perfection. We may well doubt that perfection in its every quality shall ever be achieved, but we may all feel sanguine that it is possible to realize better results. It is true that some men make better umpires than others, exactly as some men make better ball players than others, but it is also true that if the men who find it the hardest task to become the most expert umpires would be given a little more encouragement they might be a little more successful. To the staff of umpires of the National League and the American League it is but fair to render a compliment for their work of last season. Some of them made mistakes but the general average of work on the part of the judges of play was excellent. There was less tendency on the part of the umpires to render their decisions without being in a position to follow the play correctly. They were occasionally willing to concede that they might have been wrong when an analysis of the play was brought to their attention and they were firm in asserting discipline without becoming overheated on their own account. To the mind of the Editor of the GUIDE, in the general light of observation, the most serious blunders committed by the umpires in 1912 were in making decisions before the play took place. This did happen and more than once. To illustrate, by an example, the Editor of the GUIDE had exhibited to him some photographs taken during 1912 in which a player had been "waved out" before he actually had arrived at the base. Granting the desire of the umpires to be alert and ready to render decisions promptly, it is equally apparent that giving decisions in advance of the completion of plays is likely to imbue the spectators with an idea that the umpire is either partisan or incompetent. Young umpires, in their haste to "make good" in the major leagues, are apt to overdo rather than fail to be on time. While it is not a pleasant subject to discuss, it is a fact that some umpires had been accustomed to use the very language to players on the field that they were presumed in their official capacity as umpires to correct. The writer knows of instances where this took place. It has ever been the policy of the GUIDE to stand for clean and high class Base Ball. Twenty per cent. more women attend ball games now than did ten years ago. Eighty per cent. more women spectators are likely to attend five years from now. To encourage their attendance every effort should be made to eliminate all disgraceful conversation on the field. Wherever it may be ascertained that an umpire has used profane or vulgar language on the field the editor of the GUIDE believes that he should be fined and punished as sternly as an offending player. It is contended that the position of the umpire has been rendered more arduous by reason of the world's series. The argument is advanced that the players are more intractable, by reason of their eagerness to play in the post-season games. That argument would be stronger were it not for the fact that some of the worst disturbances emanate from the players of the clubs that have no chance to play in the world's series. As a general rule two good reasons may be advanced for disputes on the part of players. First: Desire to "cover up" the player's own blunder. Second: General "cussedness." There are players who make honest objection on the excitement of the moment from sheer desire to win, but their lapses from Base Ball etiquette are so few and far between that their transgressions usually may be forgiven with some grace. The Editor of the GUIDE would offer one suggestion to league presidents and umpires; it is this: whenever two possible plays occur in conjunction, instruct the chief umpire always to turn to the spectators and inform them which player is out. For instance, if a player is at bat and another on the bases and two are out and an attempt is made to steal second, as the chief umpire calls the batter out on strikes the public should be clearly informed that the batter is out. If the play looks close at second base the crowd frequently believes the runner has been called out and resents it accordingly. In line with the same play, when the runner is called out and the fourth ball at the same time is called on the batter, the chief umpire should turn to the spectators and to the press box and make it clearly understood that the batter has been given a base on balls. It saves a great deal of annoyance and fault finding. By the way, although it has been said elsewhere, the Editor of the GUIDE would beg the indulgence of repetition by stating that the work of the umpires during the world's series of 1912 was one of the finest exhibitions of its kind ever seen on a ball field, and somehow it seemed as if the players, would they but deport themselves during all series as they did during the world's series might find that there are more good umpires in the world after all than bad ones. BASE BALL WRITERS OF THE SOUTH While the Base Ball writers of the cities which comprise the Southern Association have no organized membership similar to the Base Ball Writers' Association of the major leagues and the organizations which are best known as the class AA leagues, they are a clever, hard-working group of young men, who have labored in season and out of season, not only to build up Base Ball but to build it up on the right lines. Experience of more than a quarter of a century has most abundantly proved that the standard of Base Ball has steadily been elevated. It needs no compilation of fact nor any dogmatic assertion on the part of the Editor of the GUIDE to attest that fact. It is a present condition which speaks for itself. The general tone of the players is far higher than it was and there has come into evidence a marked improvement in the spirit of the men who own Base Ball clubs. In the earlier history of the sport there was a tendency to win by any means that did not actually cross the line of dishonesty. Later there came a season when the commercial end of the game tended to encroach upon the limits of the pastime. This has been repressed in the last two seasons and to-day the morale of Base Ball is of a higher type than it ever has been in the history of the pastime. It is a high class sport in the main, managed by high class, men for high class purposes. Going through the early stages of building up a successful league, which, by the way, is the severest of all tasks, and even now at intervals confronted with changes in the league circuit, the Southern writers have steadily been sowing the seeds of high class Base Ball and they have seen results prior to this date, for Base Ball has become popular and has been handsomely and loyally supported in sections in which fifteen years ago it would have been considered impossible to achieve such results. It is true that business reverses and adverse conditions have had at times their effect upon Base Ball in the South and possibly may produce similar results again, but the admirable offset to this fact is that none of these conditions at any time has daunted the spirit and the resolution of the young men who have zealously been preaching the cause of clean and healthy Base Ball. Very likely to their zeal, their courage, their tact and their ability it is possible to ascribe the increase in good ball players which is making itself manifest in the South. More high class and attractive athletes are coming from the Southern states in these days than ever was the case before. Base Ball is very glad to have them. When a representative major league team is made up of players who represent every section in the Union, engaged for their skill, it seems as if Base Ball has become nearer an ideal and a national pastime than ever before in the history of the sport. To the Southern writers the members of the Base Ball Writers Association and those of the organizations patterned on like lines send greeting. BASE BALL WORTH WHILE? One of the foremost divines in the East who has a deep concern in Base Ball and Base Ball players is Rev. Dr. Reisner, pastor of the Grace Methodist Episcopal Church, of New York City. Throughout the season he attends the games and is greatly interested in the work of the players. He knows Base Ball well, and in addition to that he knows the environment of Base Ball players and their character and endeavor as well as any person in the United States. It is Dr. Reisner's custom each year to preach a sermon to the Base Ball players and their friends in his church in New York, and the building always is filled to listen to his discourse. In view of the interest which he takes in the national game and because of his excellent knowledge as to the general details of the sport, the Editor of the GUIDE asked him to say a few words to the ball players of the United States through the medium of this publication, and he has graciously consented to do so in the following pithy and straightforward talks: BY THE REV. CHRISTIAN F. REISNER, NEW YORK. The Bible is the Spalding book of rules for the game of life. James B. Sullivan, beloved by all athletes, gave me these rules for athletes: "Don't drink, use tobacco or dissipate. Go to bed early and eat wholesome food!" The boozer gets out of the game as certainly as the bonehead. I have interviewed scores of the most noted players. Every one had a religious training. Many are church members. All avoid old-time drinking, as our fathers did smallpox. Mathewson belongs to the high type now being generally duplicated. He is a modern masculine Christian. Base Ball demands brains as well as brawn. Minds muddled by licentiousness and liquor are too "leady" for leaders. Hotheadedness topples capable players. I am proud to style scores of Base Ball players, I know, as gentlemen. They are optimists. Defect is unrecognized. Team work makes them brotherly. Bickerings break a Baseballist. Every member of the team gives himself wholly to the game. Jeers are as harmless as cheers. Every minute he does his best. He sleeps only at night. To do these things the player must follow Bible rules. If he keeps it up life's success is certain. Governor Tener and Senator Gorman proved it. No wonder "Billy" Sunday wrote me "I would not take a million dollars for my experience on the ball field." It taught him how to knock the Devil out of the box. Base Ball is invaluable to America. It thrills and so rests tired nerves. It brings the "shut-in" man into God's healing out-o'-doors. While yelling he swallows great draughts of lung-expanding, purifying air and forgets the fear of "taking cold." He is pulled out of self-centeredness, while shouting for another. He stands crowd jostling good-naturedly or gets his cussedness squeezed out. He chums up with any one with easy comments and so gets out of his shell and melts again into a real human. Base Ball absolutely pulls the brain away from business. It emphasizes the value of decency and gives healthy and high toned recreation to millions. If kept clean its good-doing cannot be measured. Nothing is worth while that does not do that. THE SPALDING BASE BALL HALL OF FAME (From Spalding's Official Base Ball Record.) New faces enter into the Spalding Base Ball "Hall of Fame" this year. The object of this "Hall of Fame" is not necessarily to portray the very top men of each department of the national game, for it frequently happens in these days, when players take part in only a few innings now and then, that they become entitled to mention in the records, although they do not bear the real brunt of the work. In the "Hall of Fame" will be found the men who might well be termed the "regulars." Day in and day out they were on the diamond, or ready to take their place on the diamond, if they were not injured. NATIONAL LEAGUE. First of all, Daubert has earned his place at first base for the season of 1912. Threatening in other years to become one of the group of leading players, he performed so well in the season past that there is no doubt as to his right. There is a new player at second base. The regularity with which Egan of Cincinnati performed for the Reds earned him a place as the banner second baseman. At third base the honor goes to J.R. Lobert, the third baseman of the Philadelphia club. In this particular instance Lobert was crowded, not for efficiency, but in the number of games played by Byrne, third baseman of Pittsburgh, and Herzog, third baseman of New York. In the matter of chances undertaken on the field, Herzog surpassed both Lobert and Byrne, but, in justice to Lobert, the honor seems to be fairly deserved by him. John H. Wagner, the brilliant veteran of the Pittsburgh club, fought his way to the position of shortstop in 1912. His fielding was better than that of his rivals and at times he played the position as only a man of his sterling worth can play. Owing to the fact that the able secretary of the National League, John A. Heydler, has compiled two methods of comparing pitchers, the "Hall of Fame" in the National League this year will include two faces. They are those of Hendrix of the Pittsburgh club and Tesreau of the New York club. The former won the greater percentage of games under the old rule in vogue of allotting percentage upon victories. Tesreau, however, under a new rule which classifies pitchers by earned runs, easily led the league. The editor of the RECORD is very much inclined toward Mr. Heydler's earned run record; in fact, has suggested a record based upon the construction of making every pitcher responsible for runs and computing his average upon the percentage of runs for which he is responsible. That places Tesreau in the front row, with Mathewson second. There are two catchers who run a close race for the "Hall of Fame" in 1912. They are Meyers of New York and Gibson of Pittsburgh. Meyers caught by far the larger number of games, and, basing the work of catcher upon the average chances per game, seems to lead his Pittsburgh rival. Both men are sterling performers, and Meyers is an instance of the greatest improvement on the part of a catcher of any member of the major leagues. For the position of leading outfielder, all things considered, Carey of Pittsburgh is selected for the "Hall of Fame." Not only did he play in the greatest number of games of any outfielder, but his general work in the outfield was sensational. For the position of leading batsman the "Hall of Fame" honors Zimmerman, the powerful batter of the Chicago club. His work with the bat in 1912 approached in many ways that of the high class and powerful batters of old. He batted steadily, with the exception of one very slight slump, and his work as batter undoubtedly was of tremendous assistance to Chicago. Zimmerman did not shine alone as the best batter, as he was also the leading maker of home runs and the best two-base hitter of the season. That gives him a triple honor. The best three-base hitter of the league was the quiet Wilson of Pittsburgh. Though not so high in rank as a batsman as some of his contemporaries, there was none in the organization who could equal his ability to get to third base on long hits. Bescher, as in 1911, earned in 1912 the position of leading base runner in the National League. He stole more bases than any other player of the league, and was also the best run getter--that is to say, scored more runs than any other player. AMERICAN LEAGUE. First of all comes Gandil for first base. His greater number of games played and his steady work at first almost all of the season, as he did not join the Washingtons at the beginning of the season, places him in the "Hall of Fame" at first base. Rath is a newcomer to the Chicago club, but by all around good work he earned the place at second base. Not so heavy a batter as some of his rivals, he covered a great amount of ground for the Chicagos and steadied the infield throughout the year. For the position of shortstop, McBride of Washington is the logical selection. Day in and day out he was one of the most reliable shortstops in the American League. At third base John Turner of the Cleveland club retains the honor which he earned for himself in 1911, and he is one of the few players who is a member of the "Hall of Fame" two years in succession. In the outfield, for all around work, the place of honor goes to Amos Strunk, the young player of the Philadelphia club. He was in center field and in left field, and he was a busy young man for most of the year. Pitching at a standard higher than the American League had seen for years, Wood of Boston is given the "Hall of Fame" honor as pitcher. His average of winning games was very high, and he was compelled to fight hard for many of his victories. The man who caught him seems entitled to be considered the leading catcher. He is Cady of Boston, although for hard work Carrigan, also of Boston, gives him a close race. Once more Cobb is the leading batsman of the American League. There was none to dispute his right to the title. He was also leading batsman in 1911 and is another American League player who holds a position in the "Hall" two years in succession. The leading home run batter of the American League was Baker of Philadelphia. He earned the same title in 1911. It is a double "Hall of Fame" distinction for him. Jackson of Cleveland enters the "Hall of Fame" by being the leading batter for three-base hits. Speaker of Boston becomes a member of the high honor group by being the leading batter of two-base hits. Lewis of Boston is the leading batter of sacrifice hits. Collins of Philadelphia was the best run getter. Last, but by no means least, of all, Milan, the clever outfielder of Washington, is the best base stealer of the year, and better than all the rest, earns his distinction in joining the "Hall of Fame" by establishing a new record of stolen bases. JOHN TOMLINSON BRUSH BY JOHN B. FOSTER. John Tomlinson Brush was born in Clintonville, N.Y., on June 15, 1845. He died November 26, 1912, near St. Charles, Mo., on his way to California from New York, for his health. Left an orphan at the age of four years, he went to live at the home of his grandfather, in Hopkinton, where he remained until he was seventeen years old. At this age he left school and went to Boston, where he obtained a position in a clothing establishment, a business with which he was identified up to his death. He worked as a clerk in several cities in the East, and finally went to Indianapolis in 1875 to open a clothing store. The store still occupies the same building, and Mr. Brush continued at the head of the business until his death. It was in the early '80s that he first became interested in Base Ball in Indianapolis, and he made himself both wealthy and famous as a promoter. In 1863 Mr. Brush enlisted in the First New York Artillery, and served as a member of this body until it was discharged, at the close of the civil war. He was a charter member of George H. Thomas Post, G.A.R.; a thirty-third degree Scottish Rite Mason, and was also prominently identified with several social and commercial organizations of Indianapolis, notably the Columbia Club, Commercial Club, Board of Trade, and the Mannerchor Society. In New York Mr. Brush took up membership in the Lambs' Club and the Larchmont Club. For several years he made his headquarters at the Lambs' Club. Mr. Brush is survived by his widow, Mrs. Elsie Lombard Brush, and two daughters, Miss Natalie Brush and Mrs. Harry N. Hempstead. His first wife, Mrs. Agnes Ewart Brush, died in 1888. Mr. Brush's career in Base Ball, a sport to which he was devotedly attached, and for which he had the highest ideals and aims, began with the Indianapolis club of the National League. It has been somewhat inaccurately stated that he entered Base Ball by chance. This was not, strictly speaking, the case. Prior to his first immediate association with the national game he was an ardent admirer of the sport, although not connected with it in any capacity as owner. He was what might be called, with accurate description, a Base Ball "fan" in the earlier stages of development. An opportunity presented itself by which it was possible to procure for the city of Indianapolis a franchise in the National League. Mr. Brush was quick to perceive the advantages which this might have in an advertising way for the city with which he had cast his lot and subscribed to the stock. Like many such adventures in the early history of the sport there came a time when the cares and the duties of the club had to be assumed by a single individual and it was then that he became actively identified as a managing owner, as the duty of caring for the club fell upon his shoulders. From that date, until the date of his death, he was actively interested in every detail relating to Base Ball which might pertain to the advancement of the sport, and his principal effort in his future participation in the game was to see that it advanced on the lines of the strictest integrity and in such a manner that its foundation should be laid in the rock of permanent success. Naturally this was bound to bring him into conflict with some who looked upon Base Ball as an idle pastime, in which only the present moment was to be consulted. The earliest environment of Base Ball was not wholly of a substantial nature. It was a game, intrinsically good of itself, in which the hazards had always been against the weak. There was not that consideration of equity which would have been for its best interests, but this was not entirely the fault of the separate members of the Base Ball body, but the result of conditions, in which those whose thought was only for the moment, overshadowed the best interests of the pastime. There was an inequity in regulations governing the sport by which the clubs in the smaller cities were forced, against the will of their owners, to be the weaker organizations, and possibly this was less due to a desire upon the more fortunate and larger clubs to maintain such a state of affairs, than to the fact that the organization generally had expanded upon lines with little regard to the future. The first general complaint arose from the players who composed the membership of the smaller clubs. They demurred at the fact that they were asked to perform equally as well as the players of the clubs in the larger cities at smaller salaries. Not that they did not try to do their best, for this they stoutly attempted under all conditions. It was the effect of a discrimination which was the result of the imperfect regulations that existed relative to the management of the game. This attitude of the players resulted at length in the formation of a body known as the Brotherhood. To offset not the Brotherhood, but the cause which led to its formation, Mr. Brush devised the famous classification plan. Imperfectly understood in what it intended to do for the players, it was seized upon as a reason for the revolt of the players and the organization of the Brotherhood League. At heart it was the idea of Mr. Brush so to equalize salaries that the players of all clubs should be reimbursed in an equitable manner. As always had been the case, and probably always is likely to be, the players who received the larger salaries were in no mood to share with their weaker brothers any excess margin of pay which they thought that they had justly earned, and it was not a difficult matter for them to obtain the consent of players who might really have benefited by the plan to co-operate with them on the basis of comradeship. The motives of Mr. Brush were thoroughly misconstrued by some, and, if grasped by others, they were disregarded, because they conflicted with their immediate temporary prosperity. The dead Base Ball organizer had looked further ahead than his time. His plan was born under the best of intentions, but it unfortunately devolved upon the theory that players would be willing to share alike for their common good. Later in life, through another and unquestionably even better method, he succeeded in bringing forth a plan which attained the very end for which he sought in the '80s, but in the second resort, by a far more efficacious method. The Brotherhood League came into existence and rivaled the National League. The players of the National League and the American Association deserted to join the Brotherhood League, upon a platform that promised Utopia in Base Ball. Unquestionably it was the idea of the general Brotherhood organization that the National League would abandon the fight and succumb, but the National League owners were built of sterner stuff. They fought back resolutely and hard and while for a time they were combated by a fickle opinion, based upon sentiment, it developed within two months that the public had learned thoroughly the reasons for the organization of the new league and declined to lend it that support which had been predicted and expected. Meanwhile, Base Ball had received a setback greater than any which had befallen the sport in an organized sense from a professional standpoint. The Brotherhood League was a pronounced and emphatic failure. This is not the verdict of personal opinion, but a record which is indelibly impressed upon Base Ball history. It was the theory of the Brotherhood League that it, in part, should be governed by representative players, but the players would not be governed by players. Discipline relaxed, teams did pretty much as they pleased, and the public remained away from the games. It may be added with truth that the National League games were not much better patronized, but that was due to the prevalent apathy in Base Ball affairs throughout the United States. When the Brotherhood League was formed and withdrew so many players from the National League the latter organization undertook to strengthen itself where it could and when Brooklyn and Cincinnati applied for membership in the circuit both were admitted. The New York National League club had lost many of its players and, upon the substitution of Cincinnati for Indianapolis in the National League circuit, procured from Mr. Brush many players of note, among them Rusie, Glasscock, Buckley, Bassett and Denny. Relative to the withdrawal of Indianapolis from the circuit it may be said that Mr. Brush flatly refused to give up his club, asserting stoutly that he was perfectly able to continue the fight, but when he felt that the exigencies of the occasion demanded that Cincinnati become a member, he agreed to give up the franchise, providing that he be permitted to retain his membership in the National League, and transfer such of his players as New York desired to the latter city. It has been alleged that he demanded an exorbitant price from New York for the transfer of the players. This is untrue. He asked the price of his franchise, the value of his players, and the worth of giving up a Base Ball year in a city in which there was to be no conflicting club and, as he had expressed full confidence in his ability to make a winning fight for the National League, it was agreed that his rights to be considered could not be overlooked. To retain his National League membership he accepted stock in the New York club. Toward the close of the Base Ball season the Brotherhood League dealt what it believed to be a death blow to the National League by the purchase of the Cincinnati franchise. It proved to be a boomerang, for before the first day of January, 1891, the Brotherhood League had passed out of existence. The backers of the organization, tired of the general conduct of the sport, were only too willing to come to an acceptable agreement and retire. A.G. Spalding, John T. Brush, Frank De Hass Robison, Charles H. Byrne and A.H. Soden were prominent members of the National League to bringing this result about. Of these, Mr. Spalding and Mr. Soden survive, but have retired from active participation in Base Ball affairs. It was through this settlement, resulting upon the Base Ball war, that Mr. Brush's activities were turned toward Cincinnati. The National League had a franchise in that city, but no one to operate it. Mr. Brush agreed to take up the franchise and attempt to operate and rebuild that club. That, however, is a detail which relates purely to the continuance of a major league circuit. The next most noticeable achievement in Mr. Brush's Base Ball career and, to the mind of more than one, the greatest successful undertaking in the history of the game, was a complete revolution in the distribution of financial returns. By his success in effecting this Mr. Brush brought about the very purpose which he had sought to attain by his classification plan. But the method was better, for the instruments of this readjustment of conditions were the owners and not the players. Briefly, it was the following: There was still war in Base Ball between the American Association and the National League. Recognizing that the best method to bring about a cessation of this war was to effect an amalgamation of the conflicting forces Mr. Brush sought, with the assistance of others, to weld both leagues into one. He was aided in this task, though indirectly, because A.G. Spalding was actively out of Base Ball, by that gentleman, Frank De Hass Robison, Christopher Von der Abe, and Francis C. Richter, editor of "Sporting Life" of Philadelphia. The writer also essayed in the task in an advisory capacity. The amalgamation was brought about, though not without some opposition; indeed, much opposition. It was conceded at that time that a twelve-club league, which was the object sought, was cumbersome and unwieldy, but there was no other plan of possible accomplishment which suggested itself. But the principal consideration and the result accomplished in this consolidation of leagues was that all gate receipts should be divided, share and share alike, so far as general admissions were concerned. That was the greatest and most far-reaching achievement in the history of Base Ball. Prior to that time the principle of a fixed guarantee for each game played had given each home club a stupendous bulk of the sums paid by the public toward the maintenance of the sport. The inevitable outcome of such an arrangement was that the clubs in the larger cities completely overshadowed the clubs in the smaller cities. The teams in the cities of less population were expected to try to place rival organizations on the field that would equal in playing strength those of New York, Boston and Chicago, but they were unable to do so unless their owners were willing to go on year after year with large deficits staring them in the face. When Mr. Brush and his associates succeeded in placing Base Ball upon a plane of absolute fairness, so far as the proper distribution of the returns of the sport could be made between clubs, Base Ball began to prosper, and, for the first time in all its history, the owners of so-called smaller clubs felt that they could go forward and try to rival their bigger fellows with equally strong combinations. More than that, and which to the ball player is most important of all, it "jumped" the salaries of the players in the smaller clubs until they were on equal terms with their fellow players in the larger clubs, so that Mr. Brush helped to accomplish by this plan the very aim which he had at heart when he proposed the classification plan--a just, impartial and equal reimbursement to every player in the game, so far as the finances of each club would permit--and without that bane to all players, a salary limit. Thus, while it is always probable that some players may receive more than others, based upon their preponderance of skill, it is now a fact that two-thirds of the major league ball players of the present day owe their handsome salaries to the system which John T. Brush so earnestly urged and for which he fought against odds which would have daunted a man with less fixity of purpose. Having brought forth this new condition in Base Ball, which was so just that its results almost immediately began to make themselves manifest, the owner of the Cincinnati club devoted his time and his energies to the endeavor to place a championship club in Cincinnati. He never was successful in that purpose, although his ill fortune was no greater than that of his predecessors. The time came that Mr. Brush learned that the New York Base Ball Club could be purchased. He obtained the stock necessary to make him owner of the New York organization from Mr. Andrew Freedman, but before he did so another Base Ball war had begun between the National League and the American League, a disagreement starting from the simplest of causes, but which, like many another such disagreement, resulted in the most damaging of conditions to the prosperity of the pastime. As had been the case in the prior war brought about by the organization of the Brotherhood League, Mr. Brush fought staunchly for his rights. Prominent National League players were taken by the American League clubs, and this brought retaliation. At length the National League opened negotiations to obtain certain American League players and succeeded in doing so. Among these were the manager of the Baltimore club, John J. McGraw, who felt that he was acting perfectly within his rights in joining the New York National League club. Directly upon his acceptance of the management of the New York club Mr. Brush became its owner and the era of prosperity was inaugurated in New York, which was soon enjoyed by every club throughout the United States. In its first year under the new management the team was not in condition to make a good fight, but the next year it was ready and since then has won four National League championships and one World's Championship. In the spring of 1911, at the very dawn of the National League season, the grand stand of the New York National League club burned to the ground. A man less determined would have been overcome by such a blow. Nothing daunted and while the flames were not yet quenched, Mr. Brush sent for engineers to devise plans for the magnificent stadium which bears his name and which, on the Polo Grounds in New York, is one of the greatest and the most massive monument to professional Base Ball in the world. In connection with this wonderful new edifice of steel and stone, which is one of the wonders of the new world, it is appropriate to add that two world's series have been played on the field of the Polo Grounds since it has been erected. The rules for these world's series were formulated and adopted upon the suggestion and by the advice of Mr. Brush and since a regular world's series season has been a feature of Base Ball the national game has progressed with even greater strides than was the case in the past. At a meeting of the National League the following resolutions were adopted: _Whereas_, The death of Mr. John T. Brush, president of the New York National League Base Ball Club, comes as a sad blow to organized professional Base Ball and particularly to us, his associates in the National League. As the dean of organized professional Base Ball, his wise counsel, his unerring judgment, his fighting qualities and withal his eminent fairness and integrity in all matters pertaining to the welfare of the national game will be surely missed. He was a citizen of sterling worth, of high moral standards and of correct business principles, and his death is not only a grievous loss to us, but to the community at large as well. Be it, therefore, _Resolved_, That the members of the National League of Professional Base Ball Clubs, in session to-day, express their profound grief at the loss of their friend, associate and counsellor and extend to the members of his bereaved family their sincere sympathy in the great loss which they have sustained by his death. Be it further _Resolved_, That a copy of these resolutions be spread on the records of the league. In connection with the death of Mr. Brush, Ben Johnson, president of the American League, said: "Mr. Brush was a power in Base Ball. He will be missed as much in the American League as in the National League." More than three hundred friends, relatives, business acquaintances, lodge brothers and Base Ball associates attended the funeral of Mr. Brush, on Friday, November 29, at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Indianapolis. Fifty or more of Mr. Brush's Base Ball associates and acquaintances, principally from the East, were present. The service was conducted by the Rev. Lewis Brown, rector of St. Paul's, and was followed by a Scottish Rite ceremony in charge of William Geake, Sr., of Fort Wayne, acting thrice potent master, and official head of the thirty-third degree in Indiana. The Scottish Rite delegation numbered more than 150. There were also in attendance fifty Knights Templars of Rapier Commandery, under the leadership of Eminent Commander E.J. Scoonover. The Grand Army of the Republic, the Indianapolis Commercial Club and a number of local and out-of-town clubs and social organizations of which Mr. Brush was a member also were represented. The Episcopal service was given impressively. The Rev. Dr. Brown, in reviewing the life of Mr. Brush, spoke of him as one of the remarkable men of America, who, in his youth, gave no promise of being in later life a national figure. In the course of his remarks Dr. Brown said: "The death of John Tomlinson Brush removes from our midst one of the most remarkable men of our generation. His life was that of a typical American. He began in the most unpretentious manner and died a figure of national importance. "He went through the Civil War so quietly that the fact was unknown to some of his most intimate friends. He was mustered out with honor and entered the business world in Indianapolis. His labors here put him at the forefront for sagacity, squareness, honorable treatment and generosity. "His love of sport made him a patron of the national game. In a perfectly natural way, he went from manager of the local team to proprietor of the New York Giants. He was a Bismarck in plan and a Napoleon in execution. His aim was pre-eminence and he won place by the consent of all. The recent spectacular outpouring of people and colossal financial exhibit in the struggle for the pennant between New York and Boston were but the legitimate outcome of his marvelous skill. "He was an early member of the Masonic fraternity. He took his Blue Lodge degree in his native town and to demonstrate his attachment he never removed his membership. Where he had been raised to the sublime degree of a master there he wished to keep his affiliation always. "He became a Knight Templar in Rapier Commandery and was one of its past eminent commanders. He was a member of the Scottish Rite bodies in the Valley of Indianapolis in the early days and performed his work with a ritual perfection unsurpassed. He received the thirty-third and last degree as a merited honor for proficiency and zeal. "The conspicuous feature of his life was its indomitable purpose." THE WORLD'S SERIES OF 1912 BY JOHN B. FOSTER. No individual, whether player, manager, owner, critic or spectator, who went through the world's series of 1912 ever will forget it. There never was another like it. Years may elapse before there shall be a similar series and it may be that the next to come will be equally sensational, perhaps more so. Viewed from the very strict standpoint that all Base Ball games should be played without mistake or blunder this world's series may be said to have been inartistic, but it is only the hypercritical theorist who would take such a cold-blooded view of the series. From the lofty perch of the "bleacherite" it was a series crammed with thrills and gulps, cheers and gasps, pity and hysteria, dejection and wild exultation, recrimination and adoration, excuse and condemnation, and therefore it was what may cheerfully be called "ripping good" Base Ball. There were plays on the field which simply lifted the spectators out of their seats in frenzy. There were others which caused them to wish to sink through the hard floor of the stand in humiliation. There were stops in which fielders seemed to stretch like india rubber and others in which they shriveled like parchment which has been dried. There were catches of fly balls which were superhuman and muffs of fly balls which were "superawful." There were beautiful long hits, which threatened to change the outcome of games and some of them did. There were opportunities for other beautiful long hits which were not made. No ingenuity of stage preparation, no prearranged plot of man, no cunningly devised theory of a world's series could have originated a finale equal to that of the eighth and decisive contest. Apparently on the verge of losing the series after the Saturday game in Boston the Giants had gamely fought their way to a tie with Boston, and it was one of the pluckiest and gamest fights ever seen in a similar series, and just as the golden apple seemed about to drop into the hands of the New York players they missed it because Dame Fortune rudely jostled them aside. As a matter of fact the New York players were champions of the world for nine and one half innings, for they led Boston when the first half of the extra inning of the final game was played. Within the next six minutes they had lost all the advantage which they had gained. It was a combination of bad fielding and lack of fielding which cost the New York team its title. And if only Mathewson had not given Yerkes a base on balls in the tenth inning the game might not have been won, even with the fielding blunders, but Mathewson was pitching with all the desperation and the cunning which he could muster to fool the batter and failed to do so. Such sudden and complete reversal on the part of the mental demeanor of spectators was never before seen on a ball field in a world's series. The Boston enthusiasts had given up and were willing to concede the championship to New York. In the twinkling of an eye there was a muffed fly, a wonderful catch by the same player who muffed the ball--Snodgrass--a base on balls to Yerkes, a missed chance to retire Speaker easily on a foul fly, then a base hit by Speaker to right field, on which Engel scored, another base on balls to Lewis and then the long sacrifice fly to right field by Gardner, which sent Yerkes over the plate with the winning run. Before entering upon a description of the games it is appropriate to say that the umpiring in this series was as near perfection as it could be. It was by far the best of any since the series had been inaugurated. The umpires were William Klem and Charles Rigler of the National League and Frank O'Loughlin and William Evans of the American League. FIRST GAME New York, Oct. 8, 1912. Boston 4, New York 3. Hits--Off Wood 8; off Tesreau 5; Crandall 1. Struck out--Wood 11; Tesreau 4; Crandall 2. Bases on balls--Wood 2; Tesreau 4. Attendance 35,722. In the description of the games of the world's series only those innings will be touched upon in which there were men on bases. Tesreau pitched the opening game for New York and the first man to bat for Boston was Hooper. Tesreau gave him a base on balls. The next three batters were retired in succession. Devore and Doyle, the first two batters for New York, were retired and Snodgrass hit cleanly to center field, the first base hit in the series. Murray was given a base on balls, but Merkle flied to short. In the second inning the Bostons started as bravely as they had in the first, as Gardner, the first batter, was safe on Fletcher's fumble. Stahl batted to Tesreau and Gardner was forced out. Wagner was given a base on balls, after Stahl had been thrown out trying to steal second, and Cady flied to Murray. The Bostons started with a man on base in the third. Wood was given a base on balls by Tesreau and Hooper sacrificed. Doyle threw Yerkes out and Speaker was given a base on balls, but Lewis died easily on a weak fly to short. In New York's half of this inning the Giants scored twice. Tesreau, first at bat, struck out. Devore was given a base on balls and Doyle batted wickedly to left field for two bases. Snodgrass was fooled into striking out, but Murray smashed the ball to center field for a single, and sent two men over the rubber, Murray was caught at second trying to get around the bases while Doyle was going home. With one out Herzog hit safely in the fourth inning, but did not score. In the fifth, with two out, Doyle batted safely, but failed to score. In the sixth the Bostons made their first runs on Speaker's triple to left field and Lewis' out. If Snodgrass, in making a desperate effort to catch the fly, had permitted the ball to go to Devore the chances are that Speaker's hit would have resulted in an out, so that New York lost on the play. Snodgrass was safe in the sixth on Wagner's fumble, but was doubled off first when Murray drove a line hit straight to Stahl. The seventh was the undoing of the Giants. With one out Wagner batted safely to center field. Cady followed with another hit to the same place. Wood batted to Doyle, who made a beautiful stop, but with a double play in hand, was overbalanced and unable to complete it. That cost New York three runs, although it was unavoidable. Cady was forced out, but Hooper hit to right field for two bases sending Wagner and Wood home. Yerkes followed with a clean hit to left field for a base and won the first game for Boston with that hit. In New York's half of the inning, with one out, Meyers was hit by a pitched ball, but no damage was done other than to Meyers' feelings. In the ninth Wagner batted Crandall for a two-base hit, Crandall having been substituted for Tesreau in the eighth inning, as McCormick had batted for Tesreau in the seventh. Cady made a sacrifice, but the next two batters were easily retired. Then began the exciting finish, and if the Giants had made but a single more they probably would have begun the series with a victory instead of a defeat. With one out Merkle batted the ball over second base for a single and the spectators, who had started toward the exits, halted. Herzog followed with a slow low fly to right field, which fell safely. Meyers crashed into the ball for a two-bagger that struck the wall in right field and the crowd began to believe that Wood had gone up in "smoke." The Boston players encouraged him with all their best vocal efforts, and when Fletcher came to the plate Wood was using all the speed with which he was possessed. It was evident that Fletcher's sole desire was to bat the ball safely to right field, for if he did so, both of the runners could cross the plate and the Giants would win. Twice he met the ball, and both times it sailed in the right direction, but with no result, as it was foul. Then he struck out. Crandall, perhaps one of the best pinch hitters in the major leagues, also struck out, and the Boston enthusiasts who were present fell back in their chairs from sheer exhaustion, but when they had recovered, with their band leading them, marched across the field and cheered Mayor Fitzgerald of Boston, who was present as a spectator of the contest in company with Mayor Gaynor of New York. Governor Foss of Massachusetts was also present at the opening of the game. Klem umpired behind the bat in this game. SECOND GAME Boston, Oct. 9, 1912. New York 6. Boston 6 (eleven innings). Hits--Off Collins 9, off Hall 2; Mathewson 10. Struck out--Collins 5, Bedient 1; Mathewson 4 Bases on balls--Hall 4, Bedient 1. Attendance 30,148. In the second game of the series, which was played October 9 at Boston, Mathewson pitched for the New York team and Collins, Hall and Bedient for Boston. The game resulted in a tie, 6 to 6, at the end of the eleventh inning, being called on account of darkness by Umpire O'Loughlin, who was acting behind the plate. This contest was remarkable more for the misplays of the New York players, which gave the Bostons a chance to save themselves from defeat, than for any undue familiarity with the pitching of Mathewson. It was the universal opinion of partisans of both teams that Mathewson deserved to win because he outpitched his opponents. The weather was fair and the ground in excellent condition. In the first inning Snodgrass began with a clean two-base hit into the left field seats but neither Doyle, Becker nor Murray was able to help him across the plate. A run scored in that inning, with such a fine start, would probably have won the game for the Giants. In Boston's half Hooper hit safely to center field and stole second base. Yerkes batted a line drive to Fletcher, and had the New York shortstop held the ball, which was not difficult to catch, Hooper could easily have been doubled at second, but Fletcher muffed it. Speaker hit safely toward third base, filling the bases. Lewis batted to Herzog, who made a fine play on the ball and caught Hooper at the plate. This should have been the third out and would have retired Boston without a run. Gardner was put out by a combination play on the part of Mathewson, Doyle and Merkle, scoring Yerkes, and Stahl came through with a hard line hit for a base, which scored Speaker and Lewis. The inning netted Boston three runs, which were not earned. With one out in the second inning Herzog batted for three bases to center field and scored on Meyers' single. Fletcher flied out and Mathewson forced Meyers out. Hooper got a two-base hit in the same inning, but two were out at the time and Fletcher easily threw out Yerkes, who was the next batter. In the fourth inning Murray began with a clean three-base hit to center field. Merkle fouled out to the third baseman, but Herzog's long fly to Speaker was an excellent sacrifice and Murray scored. Meyers again hit for a single, but was left on the bases. The Bostons got this run back in the last half of the fifth. With one out Hooper hit to center field for a base, his third hit in succession against Mathewson. Yerkes batted a three-bagger out of the reach of Snodgrass and Hooper scored. Murray batted safely in the sixth, with one out, but died trying to steal second, Carrigan catching for Boston. In the Boston's half of the sixth Lewis began with a single and got as far as third base, but could not score. The Giants started bravely in the seventh when Herzog hit the ball for a base and stole second. There were three chances to get him home, but Meyers, who had been hitting Collins hard, failed to make a single and Fletcher and Mathewson were both retired. In the eighth the New York players made one of the game rallies for which they became famed all through the series and went ahead of their rivals. Snodgrass was the first batter and lifted an easy fly to Lewis. The Boston player got directly under the ball and made a square muff of it. Doyle followed along with a sharp hit to center field for a base and although he was forced out by Becker, the latter drove the ball hard. Murray came through with a long two-bagger to left center and Snodgrass and Becker scored. That tied the score and also put an end to Collins' work in the box; Stahl took him out and substituted Hall. Merkle fouled weakly to the catcher, but Herzog caught the ball on the nose and hit sharp and clean to center field for two bases, sending Murray home with the run which put the Giants in the lead. Another base hit would have won for New York, but Meyers perished on a hard hit to Wagner, which was fielded to first ahead of the batter. Unfortunately for New York, with two out in the last half of the inning Lewis batted the ball to left field for two bases. Murray made a desperate effort to get it. He tumbled backward over the fence into the bleachers and for a few moments there were some who thought that he had been seriously injured. Gardner followed with a single to center and Stahl hit to right for a base, but Wagner struck out and the Bostons were down with only a run. In the ninth Hall gave a remarkable exhibition. Fletcher and Mathewson were retired in succession. Then Snodgrass, Doyle and Becker were given bases on balls, filling the bags. It seemed certain that a run might score, and perhaps one would have scored had it not been for an excellent stop by Wagner. Murray hit the ball at him like a shot, but he got it and retired Becker at second. The Giants took the lead in the tenth and once more it appeared as if the game would be theirs. Merkle began with a long three-base hit to center field. Herzog batted to Wagner and Merkle played safe, refusing to try to score while the batter was being put out at first. Meyers was given a base on balls and Shafer ran for him. Fletcher lifted a long fly to left field and Merkle scored from third. Mathewson could not advance the runners and died on an infield fly. Yerkes was the first batter for the Bostons and was retired at first base. Speaker hit to deep center field. There were some scorers who gave the batter but three bases on the hit, insisting that Wilson, who was then catching for New York, should have got the throw to the plate and retired the batter. In any event Wilson missed the ball and Speaker scored. Lewis followed with a two-bagger, which would have scored Speaker if the latter had not tried to run home, so Wilson's failure to retrieve the throw became more conspicuous. Other scorers gave Speaker a clean home run and it is not far out of the way to say that he deserved the benefit of the doubt. Neither team scored in the eleventh inning, although Snodgrass was hit by a pitched ball. He was the first batter. He tried to steal second, but failed to make it. This contest was conspicuous because of the wonderfully good fielding of Doyle and Wagner. The former made two stops along the right field line which seemed to be not far from superhuman. Wagner killed at least two safe hits over second base for New York and both of the plays were of the greatest benefit to the Boston team. THIRD GAME. Boston, Oct. 10, 1912. New York 2; Boston 1. Hits--Off Marquard 7; O'Brien 6, Bedient 1. Struck out--Marquard 6, O'Brien 3. Bases on balls--Marquard 1; O'Brien 3. Attendance 34,624. Because of the tie game the teams remained over in Boston and played on the following day, October 10. The pitchers were Marquard for New York and O'Brien and Bedient for Boston. Marquard pitched one of the best games of his career and not a run was made against him until the ninth inning. By far the most notable play of the game on the field was made by Devore in the ninth inning, when he ran for more than thirty feet and caught an almost impossible fly ball which had been batted by Cady. Had he missed it the Bostons might have scored two runs and won. Devore began the first inning with a base hit, but was out trying to steal second. The next two batters were retired. In the second inning Murray batted the ball to center field for two bases. Merkle's clever sacrifice put him on third and Herzog's sacrifice fly sent him over the rubber. Lewis began the inning for Boston with a safe hit, but could not advance further than second. In the third Fletcher started with a base on balls and was sacrificed to second, but was unable to score. In the fourth, with one out, Speaker batted safely, but was forced out at second. Gardner flied to Murray. In the fifth Herzog began with a two-base hit to left field. Meyers died at first, but Fletcher hit safely to right field and Herzog scored. Fletcher stole second and Marquard was given a base on balls. Devore forced him out and stole second and Doyle followed with another base on balls. A long hit would have made the game easy for New York and Snodgrass tried to get the ball into the bleachers, but Lewis caught it. Stahl began the Bostons' half of the fifth with a hit, but was out by ten feet trying to steal second. In the sixth, with two out, Yerkes hit safely, but Speaker fouled out. In the seventh, with two out, Stahl batted the ball to left field for two bases, but Wagner flied to Devore. In the eighth the Giants looked dangerous again. Devore began with a base-hit to left field. Doyle flied to Lewis. Snodgrass hit safely to left field and Murray flied to Lewis. Merkle batted the ball very hard, but Wagner made a good stop and caught Snodgrass at second. With two out Hooper got a base on balls for Boston, but it did Boston no good. In the ninth Herzog was hit by a pitched ball and Meyers swung solidly to center for a single, after Herzog had died trying to steal. Fletcher lined to Speaker and Meyers was doubled. In Boston's half, with one out, Lewis batted to right field for a base. Gardner hit to the same place for two bases and Lewis scored Boston's only run. Stahl rapped a grounder to Marquard, who threw Gardner out at third. Wagner should have been an easy out, and the game would have been over if Merkle had not dropped a throw to first base. Wagner stole second, no attention being paid to him, and then Devore made his wonderfully good catch of Cady's hard drive and the Giants had won their first game in the series. Marquard outpitched both of his Boston rivals and in only two innings were the Bostons able to get the first man on the bases. FOURTH GAME. New York, Oct. 11, 1912. Boston 3, New York 1. Hits--Off Wood 9; off Tesreau 5, Ames 3. Struck out--Wood 8; Tesreau 5. Bases on balls--Ames 1, Tesreau 2. Attendance 36,502. The fourth game of the series was played in New York on the following day. For most of the forenoon it looked as if there would be no game because of rain. Toward noon it cleared up slightly and although the ground was a little soft it was decided to play, in view of the fact that so many spectators had come a long distance to witness the contest. The soft ground was in favor of the Boston players, for the ball was batted very hard by New York most of the afternoon, but the diamond held and the infielders were able to get a good grasp on grounders which would ordinarily have been very difficult to handle. Tesreau pitched for New York and Wood for Boston, as was the case in the opening game of the series. Hooper, who batted with much success on the Polo Grounds, began with a single to center and although Yerkes was safe on Meyers' wild throw the Giants got out of a bad predicament handily because of the excellent stops which were made by Fletcher of hits by Speaker and Lewis. With one out in New York's half of the inning Doyle batted safely, but Snodgrass forced him out. Gardner began the second inning with a three-base hit to right field and scored on a wild pitch. The next three batters were retired in order. With one out for New York, Merkle singled and stole second, but was not helped to get home. The third was started by a single by Wood and Hooper was given a base on balls. Yerkes bunted and Tesreau whipped the ball to third base ahead of Wood. Doyle and Fletcher made two fine stops and Speaker and Lewis were retired. Boston added another run in the fourth inning, being assisted by Tesreau's wildness. Gardner, who batted first, was given a base on balls. Stahl forced him out at second. Then Stahl stole second, to the immediate surprise of the Boston players and the chagrin of the New York catcher. Wagner's out at first helped him along and when Cady pushed a weak single to center field, just out of the reach of the players, Stahl scored. Wood was retired by Murray. With one out in the fifth Yerkes batted for a base, but was thrown out at second on Speaker's grounder and Speaker died trying to steal. New York had one out in the same inning, when Herzog hit safely, but neither Meyers nor Fletcher could help him. In the sixth the New York players began with a rush. Tesreau, the first batter, hit for a base. Devore followed with another single. Doyle with a "clean up" could have won for the Giants, but he lifted a high fly to Yerkes. Snodgrass batted to Yerkes, who made an extraordinarily good stop and threw Devore out at second. Murray forced Snodgrass at second and all. New York's early advantage went for naught. In the seventh the Giants scored their only run. After Merkle had struck out, Herzog batted for a base. Meyers lifted a terrific line drive to center field, but Speaker got under the ball. Fletcher hit hard and safe to right field for two bases and Herzog scored. McCormick batted for a base, but Fletcher, trying to score on the ball, was thrown out at the plate by Yerkes. In the eighth, with two out, Snodgrass was safe on Wagner's fumble. Murray rapped a single to left field but Merkle struck out. With two out for Boston Speaker batted a double to left field and was left. Ames pitched in the eighth for New York. In the ninth the Giants were scored upon again when Gardner hit for a single to center field. Stahl sacrificed, Wagner was given a base on balls and Cady forced Wagner, while Gardner was scoring. FIFTH GAME. Boston, Oct. 12. 1912. Boston 2; New York 1. Hits--Off Mathewson 5; Bedient 3. Struck out--Mathewson 2; Bedient 4. Bases on balls--Bedient 3. Attendance 34,683. The game was played on Saturday with Mathewson in the box for New York and Bedient for Boston. As was the case in the former game pitched by Mathewson in Boston, the verdict was general that perfect support would have won the contest for him, even though the score was but 2 to 1 in favor of Boston. Devore received a base on balls in the first inning and after Doyle was out on a long fly to right was forced out by Snodgrass in a double play. By the way this game was played under very adverse conditions so far as the weather was concerned. It was cold and gloomy. Hooper, the first Boston batter, as usual, began with his single to center field. Yerkes flied out to shortstop. Speaker hit safely and Lewis batted to Herzog, who made a beautiful stop on third, and touched the base ahead of Hooper. Gardner struck out. In the second inning Murray started off with a base on balls and the next three batters were retired in succession. With one out for Boston, Wagner batted safely to right field. The next two men were retired without reaching first. With one out in the third, Mathewson batted a single to center field and Devore followed with a base on balls, but Bedient got the next two batters. The third was the inning which broke the backs of the Giants. Hooper batted the ball to left center for three bases. Yerkes followed with a triple to center and Hooper scored. Speaker contributed with a ground hit, which Doyle should have got, but fumbled. Had he recovered the ball Boston would have made but one run in the inning. As it was, Yerkes scored on the misplay and that run lost the game for the Giants. The next two batters were retired and for the remainder of the contest Boston never had a man on first base, Mathewson pitching marvelous ball, by far the best game of the series, as it should easily have been a one run contest with not a base on balls nor a wild pitch. In the seventh inning Merkle began with a two-base hit to left field Herzog flied out to Wagner. Meyers flied out, but McCormick who batted for Fletcher, made a hit and Merkle scored. That spurt gave the Giants their sole run and they returned to New York that night with the series three to one against them. SIXTH GAME. New York, Oct. 14, 1912 New York 5; Boston 2. Hits--Off Marquard 7; O'Brien 6, Collins 5. Struck out--Marquard 3; O'Brien 1, Collins 1. Bases on balls--Marquard 1. Attendance 30,622. With a Sunday in which to rest the series was resumed in New York on Monday, October 14. Marquard pitched for the Giants and O'Brien for the Bostons. Rest seemed to have recuperated the New York players more than their opponents. In the first inning of the game the Giants scored five runs and the contest was never in doubt after that. O'Brien made a costly balk in the first inning and the Boston players generally seemed to be less energetic and less confident than would have been expected from a team which had but one game to win to make the championship assured. The first inning really settled the outcome of the contest. After the Giants had made five runs Boston played through the other eight innings perfunctorily. The crowd of Boston enthusiasts, which had come to New York to see the finishing touches put on the Giants, was bitterly disappointed, while the New York enthusiasts, not over hopeful on account of the disposition of the Giants to blunder badly at vital moments, were at least in a much better frame of mind because of the rally by their team. Hooper was first at bat and as usual hit for a base. He was caught napping off first. Yerkes was easily retired. Speaker was given a base on balls and Lewis flied out. In New York's half Devore was retired at first. Doyle hit safely to center field. He stole second after Snodgrass struck out. Murray batted a single to left field and Doyle went to third. O'Brien made a palpable balk and Doyle scored from third, Murray going to second. Merkle banged a hard double to right field, Herzog followed with a double to left field, Meyers singled to left field, and actually stole second under the noses of the Boston players. Fletcher singled to right field and Meyers scored the fifth run of the inning; the other men who had crossed the plate being Doyle, Murray, Merkle and Herzog. In Boston's half of the second inning the Boston players scored twice and that was all they made in the game. Gardner was safe at first on Marquard's wild throw; Stahl singled to center. The next two batters were easily retired, but Engle, who batted for O'Brien, hit to left field for two bases, Devore missing the ball by pushing it away from him as he was running into it, and Gardner and Stahl scored. Boston began the third inning and the fourth inning with singles, but the runners failed to get around. In the eighth, with one out, Yerkes made a single, but was unable to score. With one out in the third for New York, Murray singled to right field, but was out trying to stretch the hit. Merkle hit for a base to left field and was out trying to steal. In the fourth, with one out, Meyers batted to left field for three bases, but was unable to score. These latter hits were made against Collins, who had taken O'Brien's place in the box. Devore began the fifth with a hit, but Doyle flied to short, and Devore was doubled off first in a play from right field. Collins continued to be effective in the next three innings, but the mischief had been done, so far as Boston was concerned, and the Red Sox simply did not have a rally in them. The teams again took a special train for Boston after the game and the remainder of the cavalcade followed over at midnight. SEVENTH GAME. Boston, Oct. 15, 1912. New York 11; Boston 4. Hits--Off Tesreau 9; Wood 7, Hall 9. Struck-out--Tesreau 6; Hall 1. Bases on balls--Hall 5; Tesreau 5. Attendance 32,630. The seventh game was played on Fenway Park, with Wood pitching for Boston and Tesreau for the Giants. Wood pitched for one inning and was hammered in every direction by the New York players, who ran riot on the field. They simply overwhelmed Boston and this contest, more than any other in the series, was so "one sided" as to be devoid of interest, except to the New York fans, who were eager to see the Giants win the championship. Devore, the first batter, hit safely to left field. Doyle rapped a single to center. Devore and Doyle made a double steal and that began the fireworks. Snodgrass pushed a double to right field. Murray's hit was a sacrifice. Merkle singled to center field. Herzog batted to Wood and Merkle was run down between second and third. Meyers singled to left field, Fletcher doubled to right field, and Tesreau made his first hit of the series, a single to left field. That counted all told six runs for the Giants and Tesreau added cruelty to the sufferings of the Red Sox by trying to steal second base and almost making it. In the second inning Gardner made a home run. Hall took the place of Wood in the box for Boston and Devore was given a base on balls. He stole second and Doyle got a base on balls. Devore was caught napping, but Snodgrass singled to right, scoring Doyle. The two next batters were retired. In the third Hall was safe on Fletcher's wild throw and Hooper singled but neither scored. Herzog and Meyers began with singles for New York, but neither of them got home. With one out in the fourth, Gardner was hit by a pitched ball and Stahl singled to left field. Neither of these players scored. In the fifth Hall began with a two-bagger to left. Hooper was given a base on balls and was forced out by Yerkes. Speaker was given a base on balls. The next two batters were retired, leaving Hall on third. There were two out for New York when Meyers made his third single, but he failed to get home. With one out in the sixth for Boston Wagner hit safely, but Cady was easily retired. Hall was given a base on balls, but Hooper struck out, ending the inning. In New York's half, with one out, Devore was given a base on balls. Doyle batted the ball over the fence in right field for a home run and Devore scored ahead of him. In Boston's half of the seventh, with one out, Speaker singled to center. Lewis batted to left field for two bases. That put Speaker on third. While Fletcher was getting Gardner out of the way, Speaker scored and Lewis reached home on Doyle's fumble of Stahl's grounder. In New York's half of this inning Merkle began with a single to center. Herzog flied to left field. Meyers made his fourth single of the afternoon, but Fletcher flied to right field. Tesreau hit to right for a base and Merkle scored. In the eighth Doyle muffed Cady's fly. Hall singled to right. Hooper's sacrifice fly gave Cady a run, Doyle began for New York with a single, but the next three batters were retired in order. In the ninth Herzog began with a base on balls. Wilson, who was catching, singled to center. He was doubled up with Fletcher on a long fly hit. Herzog, however, eventually scored his run, which was the seventh of the game for New York. In this contest the Giants ran bases with such daring that they had the Boston players confused and uncertain. Cady did not know whether to throw the ball or hold it, and the general exhibition of speed on the bases which was made by New York was characteristic of the team's dash in the race for the championship of the National League, and a system which the Boston players could not fathom. EIGHTH GAME. Boston, Oct. 16, 1912. Boston 3; New York 2 (ten innings.) Hits--Off Bedient 6, Wood 3; Mathewson 8. Struck out--Bedient 2, Wood 2; Mathewson 4. Bases on balls--Bedient 3, Wood 1; Mathewson 5. Attendance 16,970. On the following day, before the smallest crowd of the series, the final game was played in Boston. Many Boston fans, disgruntled at the manner in which some of them had been seated, deliberately remained away. The air was cold and bleak and in addition to all the rest the enthusiasts of Boston had given up the fight. Which merely goes to show the uncertainty of Base Ball. The New York players unquestionably had the championship won for nine and one half innings of the final game and then, by the simplest of errors, overturned all of the good which they had accomplished in their wonderful rally of the two days preceding. After outplaying the Bostons in a manner which showed some thing of the caliber of the teams when both were going at top speed, the New York team stopped short. As one wit dryly put it: "Boston did not win the championship, but New York lost it." Mathewson pitched for New York and Bedient for Boston until the end of the seventh inning. With two out for the Giants in the first Snodgrass was given a base on balls, but Murray was retired. Two were out for Boston when Speaker hit for a single to right field, but Lewis struck out. Again in the second two were out for New York when Meyers was safe on Speaker's muff. Fletcher singled over second, but Mathewson flied out. Hooper began the third with a base hit, but was left. Devore started for New York with a base on balls. Doyle and Snodgrass were out in succession, Devore advancing, and then Murray doubled to center field and Devore scored. In the fourth Herzog started with a two-bagger and if the ground rule had not been changed he would have had an easy triple, and ultimately a run, which would have changed all the outcome of the game. As it was, he did not score. In the fifth Devore began with a single and was out stealing second after Doyle had flied out and Hooper had made the most wonderful catch of the series, reaching over the right field fence to get the ball with his bare band. Snodgrass singled and Murray fouled out. In the sixth Meyers received a base on balls with two out but did not score. With one out Yerkes singled to right field and Speaker got a base on balls but no run followed. In the seventh Mathewson began with a single and was forced out by Devore, who was left on bases while two batters were retired. For Boston, with one out, Stahl hit safely to center field. It was a pop fly, which fell between three men, Fletcher, Murray and Snodgrass. Wagner was given a base on balls and Cady was an easy out. Henriksen, batting for Bedient, with two strikes against him, drove the ball on a line toward third base. In fact, it hit third base. It bounded so far back that Stahl scored the tieing run of the game. No runs were scored by either team in the eighth or the ninth innings. In the tenth, with one out, Murray lined a double to left field and scored on Merkle's hard single over second. That put the Giants in the lead, with Merkle on second. Herzog struck out and Wood threw out Meyers. The ball had been batted so hard by Meyers to Wood that it crippled the pitcher's hand and compelled him to cease playing. It was fortunate for Boston that the hit kept low. So much speed had been put into it by the stalwart Indian catcher that had the ball got into the outfield it would have gone to the fence. It was the undoing of Wood, but it really led to the victory of Boston. Engle batted for Wood in the tenth. He rapped a long fly to center field which was perfectly played by Snodgrass, but the center fielder dropped the ball. Engle went to second base. On top of his simple muff Snodgrass made a magnificent catch of Hooper's fly, which seemed to be good for three bases. Mathewson bent every energy to strike out Yerkes, but the batter would not go after the wide curves which were being served to him by the New York pitcher and finally was given a base on balls. Speaker hit the first ball pitched for an easy foul which should have been caught by Merkle. The ball dropped between Merkle, Meyers and Mathewson. As was afterward proved the capture of this foul would have saved the championship for the Giants. Speaker, with another life, singled to right and Engle scored the tieing run. The Giants still had a chance, but a feeble one, for Yerkes was on third, with but one out. Gardner flied to Devore. The New York outfielder caught the ball and made a game effort to stop the flying Yerkes at the plate, but failed to do so, and the game was over and the series belonged to Boston. Yet so keen had been the struggle, so great the excitement, so wonderful the rally of the New York club after having once given the series away, that it was the opinion generally that the defeated were as great in defeat as the victors were great in victory. The scores of the games are as follows: FIRST GAME. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Hooper, r.f. 3 1 1 1 0 0 Devore, l.f. 3 1 0 0 0 0 Yerkes, 2b 4 0 1 0 1 0 Doyle, 2b 4 1 2 2 7 0 Speaker, c.f 3 1 1 0 1 0 Snodgrass, c.f. 4 0 1 2 0 0 Lewis, l.f. 4 0 0 2 0 0 Murray, r.f. 3 0 1 1 0 0 Gardner, 3b 4 0 0 1 1 0 Merkle, 1b 3 1 1 12 0 0 Stahl, 1b 4 0 0 6 1 0 Herzog, 3b 4 0 2 1 1 0 Wagner, ss 3 1 2 5 3 1 Meyers, c 3 0 1 6 1 0 Cady, c 3 0 1 11 1 0 Fletcher, ss 4 0 0 3 1 1 Wood, p 3 1 0 1 1 0 Tesreau, p 2 0 0 0 2 0 McCormick[1] 1 0 0 0 0 0 Crandall, p 1 0 0 0 1 0 Becker[2] 0 0 0 0 0 0 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 31 4 6 27 9 1 Totals 33 3 8 27 13 1 1: McCormick batted for Tesreau in the seventh inning. 2: Becker ran for Meyers in ninth inning. Boston 0 0 0 0 0 1 3 0 0 0-4 New York 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 1-3 Sacrifice hits--Hooper, Cady. Two-base hits--Hooper, Wagner, Doyle. Three-base hit--Speaker. Double play--Stahl and Wood. Pitching record--Off Tesreau, 5 hits and 4 runs in 25 times at bat in 7 innings; off Crandall, 1 hit, 0 runs in 6 times at bat in 2 innings. Struck out--By Wood 11, Devore, Snodgrass, Merkle, Herzog, Meyers, Fletcher 3, Tesreau 2, Crandall; by Tesreau 4, Hooper, Speaker, Stahl, Gardner; by Crandall 2, Stahl, Gardner. Bases on balls--By Wood 2, Devore, Murray; by Tesreau 4, Hooper, Speaker, Wagner, Wood. First base on errors--Boston 1, New York 1. Fumbles--Wagner, Fletcher. Hit by pitched ball--By Wood, Meyers. Left on bases--Boston 6, New York 6. Umpires--Klem and Evans; field umpires--Rigler and O'Loughlin. Scorers--Richter and Spink. Time of game--2.10. Weather--Clear and warm. SECOND GAME. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Snodgrass, l.f-r.f 4 1 1 0 0 0 Hooper, r.f. 5 1 3 3 0 0 Doyle, 2b 5 0 1 2 5 0 Yerkes, 2b 5 1 1 3 4 0 Becker, c.f. 4 1 0 0 1 0 Speaker, c.f. 5 2 2 2 0 0 Murray, r.f-l.f 5 2 3 3 0 0 Lewis, l.f. 5 2 2 2 0 1 Merkle, 1b 5 1 1 19 0 1 Gardner, 3b 4 0 0 2 0 0 Herzog, 3b 4 1 3 2 4 0 Stahl, 1b 5 2 2 10 0 0 Meyers, c 4 0 2 5 0 0 Wagner, ss 5 0 0 5 5 5 Fletcher, ss 4 0 0 1 3 3 Carrigan, c 5 0 0 6 4 0 McCormick[1] 0 0 0 0 0 0 Collins, p 3 0 0 0 1 0 Mathewson, p 5 0 0 1 6 0 Hall, p 1 0 0 0 0 0 Shafer[2], ss 0 0 0 0 3 0 Bedient, p 1 0 0 0 0 0 Wilson[3], c 0 0 0 0 1 1 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 40 6 11 33 23 5 Totals 44 6 10 33 14 1 1: McCormick batted for Fletcher in tenth inning. 2: Shafer ran for Meyers in tenth inning and succeeded Fletcher as shortstop in same inning. 3: Wilson succeeded Meyers as catcher in tenth inning. New York 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 3 0 1 0-6 Boston 3 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0-8 Left on bases--New York 9, Boston 6. First base on errors--New York 1, Boston 3. Two-base hits--Snodgrass, Murray, Herzog, Lewis 2, Hooper. Three-base hits--Murray, Merkle. Herzog, Yerkes, Speaker. Stolen bases--Snodgrass, Herzog, Hooper 2, Stahl. Sacrifice hit--Gardner. Sacrifice flies--Herzog, McCormick. Double play--Fletcher and Herzog. Pitching record--Off Collins, 9 hits and 3 runs in 30 times at bat in 7-1/3 innings; off Hall, 2 hits and 3 runs in 9 times at bat in 2-2/3 innings; off Bedient, no hits or runs in 1 time at bat in 1 inning. Struck out--By Mathewson 4, Stahl, Collins 2, Wagner; by Collins 6, Doyle, Merkle, Mathewson 2, Snodgrass; by Bedient 1, Doyle. Bases on balls--By Hall 4, Snodgrass, Doyle, Becker, Meyers; by Bedient 1, Becker. Fumbles--Fletcher 2. Muffed flies--Fletcher, Lewis. Muffed foul fly--Merkle. Muffed thrown ball--Wilson. Hit by pitcher--By Bedient, Snodgrass. Umpires--O'Loughlin and Rigler; field umpires--Klem and Evans. Scorers--Richter and Spink. Time of game--2.38. Weather--Cool and cloudy. THIRD GAME. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Devore, 1.f. 4 0 2 2 0 0 Hooper, r.f. 3 0 0 1 0 0 Doyle, 2b 3 0 0 3 1 0 Yerkes, 2b 4 0 1 3 1 0 Snodgrass, c.f. 4 0 1 0 0 0 Speaker, c.f. 4 0 1 3 1 0 Murray, l.f. 4 1 1 5 0 0 Lewis, l.f. 4 1 2 4 0 0 Merkle, 1b 3 0 0 5 0 1 Gardner, 3b 3 0 1 0 2 0 Herzog, 3b 2 1 1 1 3 0 Stahl, 1b 4 0 2 11 1 0 Meyers, c 4 0 1 8 1 0 Wagner, ss 4 0 0 1 3 0 Fletcher, ss 3 0 1 3 2 0 Carrigan, c 2 0 0 3 1 0 Marquard, p 1 0 0 0 2 0 Engle[1] 1 0 0 0 0 0 O'Brien, p 2 0 0 1 5 0 Ball[2] 1 0 0 0 0 0 Cady, c 1 0 0 0 1 0 Bedient, p 0 0 0 0 0 0 Henriksen[3] 0 0 0 0 0 0 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 28 2 7 27 9 1 Totals 31 1 7 27 15 0 1: Engle batted for Carrigan in eighth inning. 2: Ball batted for O'Brien in eighth inning. 3: Henriksen ran for Stahl in ninth inning. New York 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0-2 Boston 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1-1 Left on bases--New York 6, Boston 7. First base on errors--Boston 1. Two-base hits--Murray, Herzog, Stahl, Gardner. Stolen bases--Devore, Fletcher, Wagner. Sacrifice hits--Merkle, Marquard, Gardner. Sacrifice fly--Herzog. Double play--Speaker and Stahl. Pitching record--Off O'Brien, 6 hints and 2 runs in 26 times at bat in 8 innings; off Bedient, 1 hit and 0 runs in 2 times at bat in 1 inning. Struck out--By Marquard 6, Hooper, Yerkes, Wagner, O'Brien 2, Ball; by O'Brien 3, Devore, Merkle, Meyers. Bases on balls--O'Brien 3, Fletcher, Doyle, Marquard; by Marquard 1, Hooper. Muffed thrown ball--Merkle. Hit by pitcher--By Bedient, Herzog. Umpires--Evans and Klem; field umpires-- O'Loughlin and Rigler. Scorers--Richter and Spink. Time of game--2.16. Weather--Clear and cool. FOURTH GAME. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Hooper, r.f. 4 0 1 1 0 0 Devore, l.f. 4 0 1 0 0 0 Yerkes, 2b 3 0 1 2 5 0 Doyle, 2b 4 0 1 4 1 0 Speaker, c.f. 4 0 1 2 0 0 Snodgrass, c.f. 4 0 0 2 0 0 Lewis, l.f. 4 0 0 1 0 0 Murray, r.f. 4 0 1 3 0 0 Gardner, 3b 3 2 2 0 2 0 Merkle, 1b 4 0 1 8 0 0 Stahl, 1b 3 1 0 9 0 0 Herzog, 3b 4 1 2 2 1 0 Wagner, ss 3 0 0 2 3 1 Meyers, c 4 0 0 5 1 1 Cady, c 4 0 1 10 0 0 Fletcher, ss 4 0 1 3 6 0 Wood, p 4 0 2 0 2 0 Tesreau, p 2 0 1 0 2 0 McCormick[1] 1 0 1 0 0 0 Ames, p 0 0 0 0 1 0 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 32 3 8 27 12 1 Totals 35 1 9 27 12 1 1: McCormick batted for Tesreau in seventh inning. Boston 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 1-3 New York 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0-1 Left on bases--Boston 7, New York 7. First base on errors--Boston 1, New York 1. Two-base hits--Speaker, Fletcher. Three-base hit--Gardner. Stolen bases--Stahl, Merkle. Sacrifice hits--Yerkes, Stahl. Double play--Fletcher and Merkle. Pitching record--Off Tesreau, 5 hits and 2 runs in 24 times at bat in 7 innings; off Ames, 3 hits and 1 run in 8 times at bat in 2 innings. Struck out--By Wood 8, Devore, Snodgrass. Murray 2, Merkle 2, Meyers, Tesreau; by Tesreau 5, Lewis, Stahl, Wagner, Cady 2. Bases on balls--By Tesreau 2, Hooper, Gardner; by Ames 1, Wagner. Fumble--Wagner. Wild throw--Meyers. Wild pitch--Tesreau. Umpires--Rigler and O'Loughlin; field umpires--Evans and Klem. Scorers-- Richter and Spink. Time of game--2.06. Weather--Cool and cloudy, and ground heavy. FIFTH GAME. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Hooper, r.f. 4 l 2 4 0 0 Devore, l.f. 2 0 0 0 0 0 Yerkes, 2b 4 1 1 3 3 0 Doyle, 2b 4 0 0 0 3 1 Speaker, c.f. 3 0 1 3 0 0 Snodgrass, c.f. 4 0 0 2 0 0 Lewis, l.f. 3 0 0 1 0 0 Murray, r.f. 3 0 0 0 1 0 Gardner, 3b 3 0 0 3 2 1 Merkle, 1b 4 1 1 15 0 0 Stahl, 1b 3 0 0 7 0 0 Herzog, 3b 4 0 0 2 3 0 Wagner, ss 3 0 1 1 1 0 Meyers, c 3 0 1 2 0 0 Cady, c 3 0 0 5 0 0 Fletcher, ss 2 0 0 2 2 0 Bedient, p 3 0 0 0 0 0 McCormick[1] 1 0 0 0 0 0 Shafer[2], ss 0 0 0 1 1 0 Mathewson, p 3 0 1 0 3 0 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 29 2 5 27 6 1 Totals 30 1 3 24 13 1 1: McCormick batted for Fletcher in seventh inning. 2: Shafer ran for McCormick in seventh inning and then played shortstop. Boston 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 X--2 New York 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0--1 Left on bases--New York 5, Boston 3. First base on errors--New York 1, Boston 1. Two-base hit--Merkle. Three-base hits--Hooper, Yerkes. Double play--Wagner, Yerkes and Stahl. Struck out--By Mathewson 2, Gardner, Wagner; by Bedient 4, Devore, Snodgrass, Merkle, Mathewson. Bases on balls--By Bedient 3, Devore 2, Murray. Fumbles--Doyle, Gardner. Umpires--O'Loughlin and Rigler; field umpires--Klem and Evans. Scorers--Richter and Spink. Time of game--1.43. Weather--Warm and cloudy. SIXTH GAME. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Devore, l.f. 4 0 1 2 0 1 Hooper, r.f. 4 0 1 2 2 0 Doyle, 2b 4 1 1 1 1 0 Yerkes, 2b 4 0 2 3 1 1 Snodgrass, c.f. 4 0 1 6 0 0 Speaker, c.f. 3 0 0 5 0 0 Murray, r.f. 3 1 2 7 0 0 Lewis, l.f. 4 0 0 0 0 0 Merkle, 1b 3 1 2 4 1 0 Gardner, 3b 4 1 0 0 1 0 Herzog, 3b 3 1 1 1 1 0 Stahl, 1b 4 1 2 8 0 0 Meyers, c 3 1 2 6 0 0 Wagner, 3b 4 0 0 3 0 0 Fletcher, ss 3 0 1 0 2 0 Cady, c 3 0 1 3 2 1 Marquard, p 3 0 0 0 2 1 O'Brien, p 0 0 0 0 1 0 Engle[1] 1 0 1 0 0 0 Collins, p 2 0 0 0 2 0 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 30 5 11 27 7 2 Totals 33 2 7 24 9 2 1: Engle batted for O'Brien in second inning. New York 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 X--5 Boston 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 0--2 Left on bases--Boston 5, New York 1. First base on errors--Boston 1. Two-base hits--Engle, Merkle, Herzog. Three-base hit--Meyers. Stolen bases--Speaker, Doyle, Herzog, Meyers. Double plays--Fletcher, Doyle and Merkle; Hooper and Stahl. Pitching record--Off O'Brien, 6 hits and 5 runs in 8 times at bat in 1 inning; off Collins, 5 hits and 0 runs in 22 times at bat in 7 innings. Struck out--By Marquard 3, Wagner, Gardner, Stahl; by O'Brien 1, Snodgrass; by Collins 1, Devore. Base on balls--By Marquard, Speaker. Fumble--Devore. Wild throw--Marquard. Muffed foul fly--Cady. Balk--O'Brien. Wild throw--Yerkes. Time of game--1.58. Umpires--Klem and Evans; field umpires--O'Loughlin and Rigler. Scorers--Richter and Spink. Weather--Warm and cloudy. SEVENTH GAME. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Devore, r.f. 4 2 1 3 1 1 Hooper, r.h. 3 0 1 1 1 0 Doyle, 2b 4 3 3 2 3 2 Yerkes, 2b 4 0 0 1 4 0 Snodgrass, c.f. 5 1 2 1 0 0 Speaker, c.f. 4 1 1 4 0 1 Murray, l.f. 4 0 0 1 0 0 Lewis, l.f. 4 1 1 3 0 0 Merkle, 1b 5 1 2 10 0 1 Gardner, 3b 4 1 1 2 0 1 Herzog, 3b 4 2 1 0 2 0 Stahl, 1b 5 0 1 11 1 0 Meyers, c 4 1 3 6 0 0 Wagner, ss 5 0 1 4 4 0 Wilson, c[1] 1 0 1 2 0 0 Cady, c 4 1 0 1 2 0 Fletcher, ss 5 1 1 2 4 0 Wood, p 0 0 0 0 1 0 Tesreau, p 4 0 2 0 6 0 Happ, p 3 0 3 0 5 1 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 40 11 16 27 16 4 Totals 36 4 9 27 18 3 1: Wilson relieved Meyers in eighth inning. New York 6 1 0 0 0 2 1 0 1--11 Boston 0 1 0 0 0 0 2 1 0-- 4 Left on bases--New York 8, Boston 12. First base on errors--Boston 1. Stolen bases--Devore 2, Doyle. Sacrifice hit--Murray. Sacrifice fly--Hooper. Two-base hits--Snodgrass, Hall, Lewis. Home runs--Doyle, Gardner. Double plays--Devore and Meyers; Speaker, unassisted. Pitching record--Off Wood, 7 hits and 6 runs in 8 times at bat in 1 inning; off Hall, 9 hits and 5 runs in 32 times at bat in 8 innings. Struck out--By Tesreau 6, Hooper 2, Yerkes, Gardner, Wagner, Cady; by Hall 1, Herzog. Bases on balls--By Tesreau 5, Hooper, Yerkes, Speaker, Lewis, Hall; by Hall 5, Devore 2, Doyle, Herzog, Tesreau. Fumbles--Doyle, Devore. Muffed thrown ball--Gardner. Wild throws--Merkle, Hall, Speaker. Muffed fly--Doyle. Wild pitches--Tesreau 2. Hit by pitched ball--By Tesreau, Gardner. Time of game--2.21. Umpires--Evans and Klem; field umpires--O'Loughlin and Rigler. Scorers--Richter and Spink. Weather--Cold and windy. EIGHTH GAME. BOSTON. AB. R. H. P. A. E. NEW YORK. AB. R. H. P. A. E. Hooper, r.f. 5 0 0 3 0 0 Devore, r.f. 3 1 1 3 1 0 Yerkes, 2b 4 1 1 0 3 0 Doyle, 2b 5 0 0 1 5 1 Speaker, c.f. 4 0 2 2 0 1 Snodgrass, c.f. 4 0 1 4 1 1 Lewis, l.f. 4 0 0 1 0 0 Murray, l.f. 5 1 2 3 0 0 Gardner, 3b 3 0 1 1 4 2 Merkle, 1b 5 0 1 10 0 0 Stahl, 1b 4 1 2 15 0 1 Herzog, 3b 5 0 2 2 1 0 Wagner, ss 3 0 1 3 5 1 Meyers, c 3 0 0 4 1 0 Cady, c 4 0 0 5 3 0 Fletcher, ss 3 0 1 2 3 0 Bedient, p 2 0 0 0 1 0 McCormick[1] 1 0 0 0 0 0 Henriksen[2] 1 0 1 0 0 0 Mathewson, p 4 0 1 0 3 0 Wood, p 0 0 0 0 2 0 Shafer[3], ss 0 0 0 0 0 0 Engle[4] 1 1 0 0 0 0 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 35 3 8 30 18 5 Totals 38 2 9*29 15 2 *: Two out in tenth inning when winning run was scored. 1: McCormick batted for Fletcher in ninth inning. 2: Henriksen batted for Bedient in seventh inning. 3: Shafer player shortstop in tenth inning. 4: Engle batted for Wood in tenth inning. Boston 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 2--3 New York 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1--2 Left on bases--New York 11, Boston 9. First base on errors--New York 1, Boston 1. Two-base hits--Murray 2, Herzog, Gardner, Stahl, Henriksen. Sacrifice hit--Meyers. Sacrifice fly--Gardner. Stolen base--Devore. Pitching record--Off Bedient, 6 hits and 1 run in 26 times at bat in 7 innings; off Wood, 3 hits and 1 run in 12 times at bat in 3 innings. Struck out--By Mathewson 4, Yerkes, Speaker, Lewis, Stahl; by Bedient 2, Merkle, Fletcher; by Wood 2, Mathewson, Herzog. Bases on balls--By Mathewson 5, Yerkes, Speaker, Lewis, Gardner, Wagner; by Bedient 3, Devore, Snodgrass, Meyers; by Wood 1, Devore. Muffed fly--Snodgrass. Muffed foul fly--Stahl. Muffed thrown balls--Doyle, Wagner, Gardner. Fumbles--Speaker, Gardner. Time of game--2.39. Umpires--O'Loughlin and Rigler; field umpires--Klem and Evans. Scorers--Richter and Spink. Weather--Clear and cold. THE COMPOSITE SCORE. Following is a composite score of the eight games played, thus arranged to show at a glance the total work in every department: BOSTON. G. AB. R. H. SB. SH. PO. A. E. Hooper........................ 8 31 3 9 2 2 16 3 .. Yerkes........................ 8 32 3 8 .. 1 15 22 1 Speaker....................... 8 30 4 9 1 .. 21 2 2 Lewis......................... 8 32 4 5 .. .. 14 .. 1 Gardner....................... 8 28 4 5 .. 3 9 12 4 Stahl......................... 8 32 3 9 2 1 77 3 1 Wagner........................ 8 30 1 5 1 .. 24 24 3 Cady.......................... 7 22 1 3 .. 1 35 9 1 Wood.......................... 4 7 1 2 .. .. 1 6 .. Carrigan...................... 2 7 .. .. .. .. 9 5 .. Collins....................... 2 5 .. .. .. .. .. 3 .. Hall.......................... 2 4 .. 3 .. .. .. 5 1 Bedient....................... 4 6 .. .. .. .. .. 1 .. [1]Engle...................... 3 3 1 1 .. .. .. .. .. O'Brien....................... 2 2 .. .. .. .. 1 6 .. [2]Ball....................... 1 1 .. .. .. .. .. .. .. [3]Henriksen.................. 2 1 .. 1 .. .. .. .. .. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 273 25 60 6 8 222 101 14 NEW YORK. G. AB. R. H. SB. SH. PO. A. E. Devore........................ 7 24 4 6 4 .. 10 2 2 Doyle......................... 8 33 5 8 2 .. 15 26 4 Snodgrass..................... 8 33 2 7 1 .. 17 1 1 Murray........................ 8 31 5 10 .. 1 23 1 .. Merkle........................ 8 33 5 9 1 1 83 1 3 Herzog........................ 8 30 6 12 2 2 11 16 .. [4]Becker..................... 2 4 1 .. .. .. .. 1 .. Meyers........................ 8 28 2 10 1 1 42 4 1 Fletcher...................... 8 28 1 5 1 .. 16 23 4 Wilson........................ 3 1 .. 1 .. .. 2 1 1 Shafer........................ 3 .. .. .. .. .. 1 4 .. Tesreau....................... 3 8 .. 3 .. .. .. 10 .. [5]McCormick.................. 5 4 .. 1 .. 1 .. .. .. Crandall...................... 1 1 .. .. .. .. .. 1 .. Mathewson..................... 3 12 .. 2 .. .. 2 12 .. Marquard...................... 2 4 .. .. .. 1 .. 4 1 Ames.......................... 1 .. .. .. .. .. .. 1 .. --- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 274 31 74 12 7[6]22l 108 17 1: Engle batted for Carrigan in eighth inning of third game; for O'Brien in second inning of sixth game, and for Wood in tenth inning of eighth game. 2: Ball batted for O'Brien in eighth inning of third game. 3: Henriksen ran for Stahl in ninth inning of third game; and batted for Bedient in seventh inning of eighth game. 4: McCormick batted for Tesreau in seventh inning of first game; for Fletcher in tenth inning of second game; for Tesreau in seventh inning of fourth game; for Fletcher in seventh inning of fifth game; and for Fletcher in ninth inning of eighth game. 5: Becker ran for Meyers in ninth inning of first game. 6: Two out in tenth inning of eighth game when winning run scored. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 Tl. Boston 3 4 2 1 1 1 6 2 2 3 0--25 New York 11 3 3 1 1 2 3 3 2 2 0--31 Left on bases--Boston 55, New York 53. Two-base hits--Boston: Lewis 3, Gardner 2, Stahl 2, Hooper 2, Henriksen 1, Hall 1, Engle 1, Speaker 1, Wagner 1; total 14. New York: Murray 4, Herzog 4, Snodgrass 2, Merkle 2, Fletcher 1, Doyle 1; total 14. Three-base hits--Boston: Speaker 2, Yerkes 2, Gardner 1, Hooper 1; total 6. New York: Murray 1, Merkle 1, Herzog 1, Meyers 1; total 4. Home runs--Boston: Gardner 1. New York: Doyle 1. Double plays--For Boston: Stahl and Wood 1; Speaker and Stahl 1; Wagner, Yerkes and Stahl 1; Hooper and Stahl 1; Speaker 1 (unassisted). For New York: Fletcher and Herzog 1; Fletcher and Merkle 1; Fletcher, Doyle and Merkle 1; Devore and Meyers 1. Struck out by Boston pitchers--By Wood: Merkle 3, Tesreau 3, Fletcher 3, Devore 2, Snodgrass 2, Herzog 2, Meyers 2, Murray 2, Crandall 1, Mathewson 1, total 21. By Collins: Doyle 1, Merkle 1, Snodgrass 1, Devore 1, Mathewson 2; total 6. By Bedient: Doyle 1, Devore 1, Snodgrass 1, Mathewson 1, Fletcher 1, Merkle 2; total 7. By O'Brien: Devore 1, Merkle 1, Meyers 1, Snodgrass 1; total 4. By Hall: Herzog 1; total 1. Grand total 39. Struck out by New York pitchers--By Tesreau: Hooper 3, Cady 3, Stahl 2, Gardner 2, Wagner 2. Speaker 1, Yerkes 1, Lewis 1; total 15. By Mathewson: Stahl 2, Collins 2, Wagner 2, Gardner 1, Yerkes 1, Speaker 1, Lewis 1; total 10. By Marquard: Wagner 2, O'Brien 2, Hooper 1, Yerkes 1, Ball 1, Gardner 1, Stahl 1; total 9. By Crandall: Stahl 1, Gardner 1; total 2. Grand total 36. Bases on balls off Boston pitchers--Off Wood: Devore 2, Murray 1; total 3. Off Hall: Doyle 2, Devore 2, Snodgrass 1, Becker 1. Meyers 1, Tesreau 1, Herzog 1; total 9. Off Bedient: Devore 3, Becker 1, Murray 1, Snodgrass 1, Meyers 1; total 7. Off O'Brien: Fletcher 1, Doyle 1. Marquard 1; total 3. Grand total 22. Bases on balls off New York pitchers--Off Tesreau: Hooper 3, Speaker 2, Wagner 1, Wood 1, Gardner 1, Yerkes 1, Lewis 1, Hall 1: total 11. Off Marquard: Hooper 1, Speaker 1; total 2. Off Ames: Wagner 1; total 1. Off Mathewson: Yerkes 1, Speaker 1, Lewis 1, Gardner 1, Wagner 1; total 6. Grand total 19. Relief pitchers' records--Off Tesreau, 5 hits, 4 runs, in 25 times at bat in 7 innings; off Crandall, 1 hit, 0 runs, in 6 times at bat in 2 innings in game of October 8. Off Collins, 9 hits. 3 runs, in 30 times at bat in 7-1/3 innings: off Hall, 2 hits, 3 runs, in 9 times at bat in 2-2/3 innings; off Bedient, 0 hits, 0 runs, in 1 time at bat in 1 inning, in game of October 9; off O'Brien, 6 hits, 2 runs, in 26 times at bat in 8 innings; off Bedient, 1 hit, 0 runs, in 2 times at bat in 1 inning, in game of October 10. Off Tesreau, 5 hits, 2 runs, in 24 times at bat in 7 innings; off Ames, 3 hits, 1 run, in 8 times at bat in 2 innings, in game of October 11. Off O'Brien, 8 hits, 5 runs, in 8 times at bat in 1 inning; off Collins, 5 hits, 0 runs, in 22 times at bat in 7 innings, in game of October 14. Off Wood, 7 hits, 6 runs, in 8 times at bat in 1 inning; off Hall, 9 hits. 5 rung, in 32 times at bat in 8 innings, in game of October 15. Off Bedient, 6 hits, 1 run, in 26 times at bat in 7 innings; off Wood, 3 hits, 1 runs, in 12 times at bat in 3 innings, in game of October 16. Wild pitches--Tesreau 3. Balk--O'Brien 1. Muffed fly Balls--Fletcher 1, Lewis 1. Doyle 1, Snodgrass 1; total 4. Muffed foul fly--Merkle 1, Cady 1, Stahl 1; total 3. Muffed thrown balls--Wilson 1, Merkle 1, Gardner 2, Doyle 1, Wagner 1; total 6. Wild throws--Meyers 1, Marquard 1, Yerkes 1, Merkle 1, Hall 1, Speaker 1; total 6. Fumbles--Wagner 2, Fletcher 3, Doyle 2, Gardner 2, Devore 2, Speaker 1; total 12. First base on errors--Boston 11, New York 5. Sacrifice flies--Herzog 2, McCormick 1, Hooper 1, Gardner 1; total 5. Hit by pitcher--By Bedient: Snodgrass 1, Herzog 1. By Wood: Meyers. By Tesreau: Gardner. Umpires--Evans and O'Loughlin, of the American League; Klem and Rigler, of the National League. Official scorers--Francis C. Richter of Philadelphia, and J. Taylor Spink of St. Louis, all games. Average time--2.13 7-8. Average attendance--3l,505. Weather--Clear and cool. INDIVIDUAL BATTING AVERAGES. Following are the official batting averages of all players participating in the World's Championship Series of 1912. They show that New York clearly outhit Boston. The team average of the Giants was 50 points higher than that of Boston. The Boston team had only four batters in the .300 class, while New York had five. Of the men who played all through the series, Herzog was high with .400. The figures are: INDIVIDUAL BOSTON BATTING. G. AB. R. H. SB. SH. PC. Henriksen 2 1 -- 1 -- -- 1000 Hall 2 4 -- 3 -- -- .750 Engle 3 3 1 1 -- -- .333 Speaker 8 30 4 9 1 -- .300 Hooper 8 31 3 9 2 2 .290 Wood 4 7 1 2 -- -- .286 Stahl 8 32 3 9 2 1 .281 Yerkes 8 32 3 8 -- 1 .250 Gardner 8 28 4 5 -- 3 .179 Wagner 8 30 1 5 1 -- .167 Lewis 8 32 4 5 -- -- .156 Cady 7 22 1 3 -- 1 .136 Carrigan 2 7 -- -- -- -- .000 Collins 2 5 -- -- -- -- .000 Bedient 4 6 -- -- -- -- .000 O'Brien 2 2 -- -- -- -- .000 Ball 1 1 -- -- -- -- .000 INDIVIDUAL NEW YORK BATTING. G. AB. R. H. SB. SH. PC. Wilson 2 1 -- 1 -- -- 1000 Herzog 8 30 6 12 2 2 .400 Tesreau 3 8 -- 3 -- -- .375 Meyers 8 28 2 10 1 1 .357 Murray 8 31 5 10 -- 1 .323 Merkle 8 33 5 9 1 1 .273 Devore 7 24 4 6 4 -- .250 McCormick 5 4 -- 1 -- 1 .250 Doyle 8 33 5 8 2 -- .242 Snodgrass 8 33 2 7 1 -- .212 Fletcher 8 28 1 5 1 -- .179 Mathewson 3 12 -- 2 -- -- .167 Becker 2 4 1 -- -- -- .000 Shafer 3 -- -- -- -- -- .000 Crandall 1 1 -- -- -- -- .000 Marquard 2 4 -- -- -- -- .000 Ames 1 -- -- -- -- -- .000 Team batting average: New York, .270; Boston, .220. INDIVIDUAL FIELDING AVERAGES. The individual and team fielding averages show Boston leading by a slight margin of .958 to .951. The figures follow: CATCHERS. G. PO. A. PB. E. PC. | G. PO. A. PB. E. PC. Carrigan 2 9 5 1000|Cady 7 35 9 1 .978 Meyers 8 42 4 1 .979|Wilson 2 2 1 1 .750 PITCHERS. G. PO. A. E. PC. | G. PO. A. E. PC. Tesreau 3 10 1000|Collins 2 3 1000 Crandall 1 1 1000|Bedient 4 1 1000 Mathewson 4 1 12 1000|O'Brien 2 1 6 1000 Wood 4 1 6 1000|Hall 2 5 1 .833 Ames 1 1 1000|Marquard 2 4 1 .800 FIRST BASEMEN. Stahl 8 77 3 1 .988|Merkle 8 83 1 3 .966 SECOND BASEMEN. Yerkes 8 15 22 1 .974|Doyle 8 15 26 4 .911 SHORTSTOPS. Shafer 3 1 4 1000|Fletcher 8 16 23 4 .907 Wagner 8 24 24 3 .941 THIRD BASEMEN. Herzog 8 11 16 1000|Gardner 8 9 12 4 .840 OUTFIELDERS. Murray 8 23 1 1000|Lewis 8 14 1 .933 Becker 1 1 1000|Speaker 8 21 2 2 .920 Hooper 8 16 3 1000|Devore 7 10 2 2 .857 Snodgrass 8 17 1 1 .947| Team fielding average: Boston, .958; New York, .951. THE PITCHERS' RECORDS. The pitching averages show Marquad and Bedient the only pitchers with clean records. Marquad won two games and did not meet defeat, and Bedient won one without a defeat. Wood won three and lost one. Following are the figures: G. W. L. T. TO. PC. H. BB. HB. SO. IP. AB. Bedient 4 1 1 1 1000 10 7 2 7 17 59 Marquard 2 2 1000 14 2 9 18 66 Wood 4 3 1 1 .750 27 3 1 21 22 88 Tesreau 3 1 2 2 .333 19 11 1 15 23 85 Collins 2 1 1 .000 14 6 14-1/3 52 Hall 2 1 1 .000 11 9 1 10-2/3 41 Mathewson 3 2 1 .000 23 5 10 29-2/3 108 Ames 1 .000 3 1 2 8 Crandall 1 .000 1 2 2 6 O'Brien 2 2 2 .000 12 3 4 9 34 Wild pitches--Tesreau 3. Wiltse, Ames, Hall and Crandall did not pitch a full game and are charged with neither defeat nor victory. Tesreau pitched first 7 innings of first game and is charged with defeat. Crandall finished game. Collins pitched first 7-1/3 innings of second game, Hall followed for 2-2/3 innings and Bedient for 1 inning, but as game was tie no one has defeat or victory charged against him. O'Brien pitched 8 innings of third game and is charged with defeat. Bedient pitched in the last inning. In fourth game Tesreau pitched first 7 innings and is marked with defeat. Ames finished the game. In sixth game O'Brien pitched only 1 inning, but lost the game. Collins completed the game. Wood pitched only one inning of seventh game and is charged with a defeat. Hall pitched the last 8 innings. Bedient pitched first 7 innings of eighth game and retired to permit Henriksen to bat for him with New York leading. Boston then tied score and Wood, who succeeded Bedient, finally won out in the tenth inning, Wood getting credit for game. FINANCIAL RESULT. The attendance and receipts of the 1912 World's Championship Series were the highest of any series ever played, excelling even the receipts of the 1911 Athletic-Giant series, which reached proportions of such magnitude that it was thought they would not soon be exceeded, or even equaled. In the 1911 Athletic-Giant series the total attendance was 179,851 paid; the receipts, $342,364; each club's share, $90,108.72; National Commission's share, $34,236.25; the players' share for four days, $127,910.61; each player's share on the Athletic team, $3,654.58; and each player's share on the New York team, $2,436.30. For purposes of comparison we give the official statement of the 1911 World's Series: Attendance. Receipts. First game, New York................ 38,281 $77,359.00 Second game, Philadelphia........... 26,286 42,962.50 Third game, New York................ 37,216 75,593.00 Fourth game, Philadelphia........... 24,355 40,957.00 Fifth game, New York................ 33,228 69.384.00 Sixth game, Philadelphia............ 20,485 36,109.00 --------- ------------- Totals ............................ 179,851 $342,364.50 Each club's share................................ $90,108.72 National Commission's share....................... 34,236.25 Players' share for four games................ 127,910.61 Herewith is given the official attendance and receipts of the Giant-Red Sox world's Series of 1912, together with the division of the receipts, as announced by the National Commission. The players shared only in the first four games, divided 60 percent, to the winning team and 40 per cent, to the losing team. Attendance. Receipts. First game, New York................ 35,722 $75,127.00 Second game, Boston................. 30,148 58,369.00 Third game, Boston.................. 34,624 63,142.00 Fourth game, New York............... 36,502 76,644.00 Fifth game, Boston.................. 34,683 63,201.00 Sixth game, New York................ 30,622 66,654.00 Seventh game, Boston................ 32,630 57,004.00 Eighth game, Boston ................ 16,970 30,308.00 --------- ------------- Totals............................. 251,901 $490,449.00 Each club's share............................... $146,915.91 National Commission's share....................... 49,044.90 Players' share for four games.................... 147,572.28 NATIONAL LEAGUE SEASON OF 1912 BY JOHN B. FOSTER. Spurts of energy on the part of different clubs, unexpected ill fortune on the part of others, and marked variations of form, which ranged from the leaders almost to the lowliest teams of the second division, injected spasmodic moments of excited interest into the National League race for 1912 and marked it by more vicissitudes than any of its immediate predecessors. By careful analysis it is not a difficult matter to ascertain why the New Yorks won. Their speed as a run-getting machine was much superior to that of any of their opponents. Every factor of Base Ball which can be studied demonstrates that fact. They led the National League in batting and they led it in base running. They were keenly alive to the opportunities which were offered to them to win games. Indeed, their fall from the high standard which they had set prior to the Fourth of July was quite wholly due to the fact that they failed to take advantage of the situations daily, as they had earlier in the season, and their return to that winning form later in the season, which assured them of the championship, was equally due to the fact that they had regained their ability to make the one run which was necessary to win. That, after all, is the vital essential of Base Ball. To earn the winning run, not by hook or crook, but to earn it by excelling opponents through superior play in a department where the opponents are weak, is the story of capturing a pennant. They were dangerous men to be permitted to get on bases, and their dearest and most bitter enemies on the ball field, with marked candor, confessed that such was the case. Opposing leaders admitted that when two or three of the New York players were started toward home plate one or two of them were likely to cross the plate and that, too, when one run might tie the score and two runs might win the game. While there were some who were quite sanguine before the beginning of the season that the Giants would win the championship, there were others who were convinced that they would have a hard time to hold their title, and after the season was over both factions were fairly well satisfied with their preliminary forecast. The runaway race which New York made up to the Fourth of July gave abundant satisfaction to those who said they would win, and the setback which the team received after the Fourth of July until the latter part of August afforded solace to those who were certain in their own minds that the New Yorks would have much trouble to repeat their victory of 1911. It must not be forgotten, too, that the New York team had the benefit of excellent pitching throughout the year. In the new record for pitchers, which has been established this season by Secretary Heydler of the National League, and which in part was the outcome of the agitation in the GUIDE for a new method of records, in which the various Base Ball critics of the major league cities so ably contributed their opinions, Tesreau leads all the pitchers in the matter of runs which were earned from his delivery. Mathewson is second, Ames is fifth, Marquard seventh and Wiltse and Crandall lower, and while both the latter were hit freely in games in which they were occasionally substituted for others, they pitched admirably in games which they won on their own account. In the opinion of the writer this new method, which has been put into usage by Secretary Heydler, is far superior to anything which has been offered in years as a valuable record of the actual work of pitchers. It holds the pitcher responsible for every run which is made from his delivery. It does not hold him responsible for any runs which may have been made after the opportunity has been offered to retire the side, nor does it hold him responsible for runs which are the result of the fielding errors of his fellow players. On the other hand, if he gives bases on balls, if he is batted for base hits, if he makes balks, and if he makes wild pitches, he must stand for his blunders and have all such runs charged against him as earned runs. Nothing proves more conclusively the strength of this manner of compiling pitchers' records than that Rucker, by the old system, dropped to twenty-eighth place in the list of National League pitchers, finished third in the earned run computation, showing that if he had been given proper support he probably would have been one of the topmost pitchers of the league, even on the basis of percentage of games won, which is more vainglorious than absolutely truthful. The Giants are to be commended for playing clean, sportsmanlike Base Ball. There were less than a half dozen instances in which they came into conflict with the umpires. The president of the National League complimented Manager McGraw in public upon the excellent conduct of his team upon the field and the players deserved the approbation of the league's chief executive. * * * * * The general work of the Pittsburgh team throughout the year was good. It must have been good to have enabled the players to finish second in the championship contest, but the team, speaking in the broadest sense, seemed to be just good enough not to win the championship. As one man dryly but graphically put it: "Pittsburgh makes me think of a wedding cake without the frosting." Fred. Clarke, manager of the team, adhered resolutely to his determination not to play. It was not for the reason that the impulse to play did not seize upon him more than once, but he had formed a conviction, or, at least, he seemed to have formed one, that it would be better for the organization if the younger blood were permitted to make the fight. It was the opinion of more than one that Clarke incorrectly estimated his own ball playing ability, in other words, that he was a better ball player than he credited himself with being. As batters the Pittsburghs were successful. As fielders they were superior to the team that won the championship. As run-getters they were not the equal of the Giants. In brief, fewer opportunities were accepted to make runs by a much larger percentage than was the case with the New York club, which can easily be verified by a careful study of the scores of the two teams as they opposed one another, and as they played against the other clubs of the league. It took more driving power to get the Pittsburgh players around the bases than it did those of New York. In tight games, where the advantage of a single run meant victory, the greater speed of the New York players could actually be measured by yards in the difference of results. Naturally it was not always easy for the Pittsburgh enthusiasts to see why a team, which assuredly fielded better than the champions and batted almost equally as well, could not gain an advantage over its rivals, but the inability of Pittsburgh Base Ball patrons to comprehend the lack of success on the part of their team existed in the fact that they had but few opportunities, comparatively speaking, to watch the New York players and found it difficult to grasp the true import of that one great factor of speed, which had been so insistently demanded by the New York manager of the men who were under his guidance. Pittsburgh had an excellent pitching staff. Even better results would have been obtained from it if Adams had been in better physical condition. An ailing arm bothered him. While he fell below the standard of other years, one splendid young pitcher rapidly developed in Hendrix, and Robinson, a left-hander, with practically no major league experience, pushed his way to a commanding position in the work which he did. Until the Giants made their last visit to Pittsburgh in the month of August the western team threatened to come through with a finish, which would give them a chance to swing into first place during the month of September, but the series between New York and Pittsburgh turned the scale against the latter. Fired with the knowledge that they were at the turning point in the race the New York players battled desperately with their rivals on Pittsburgh's home field and won. Even the Pittsburgh players were filled with admiration for the foe whom they had met, and while they were not in the mood to accept defeat with equanimity, they did accept it graciously and congratulated the victors as they left Pittsburgh after playing the last game of the season which had been scheduled between them on Forbes Field. First base had long bothered Clarke. Frequent experiments had been made to obtain a first baseman, who could play with accuracy on the field and bat to the standard of the team generally. Clarke transferred Miller from second base to first and the change worked well. More graceful and more accurate first basemen have been developed than Miller, but in his first year of play at the bag he steadied the team perceptibly and unquestionably gave confidence to the other men. But making a first baseman out of Miller took away a second baseman and second base gave Clarke more or less concern all of the season. At that, Pittsburgh was not so poorly off in second base play as some other of the teams of the senior circuit. * * * * * Two important factors contributed to the success of the Chicagos in 1912. For a few days they threatened to assume the leadership of the National League. With the opportunity almost within their grasp the machine, which had been patched for the moment, fell to pieces, and the Cubs, brought to a climax in their work by all the personal magnetism and the driving power of which Chance was capable, were exhausted by their strongest effort. The courage and the wish were there, but the team lacked the playing strength. To return to the factors which contributed to the club's success. They were the restoration to health of Evers, and a complete change in the manner of playing second base, added to the consistent and powerful batting of Zimmerman. The latter led the league in batting and repeatedly pulled his club through close contests by the forceful manner in which he met the ball with men on bases. A third contributing force, though less continuous, was the brief spurt which was made by the Chicago pitchers in the middle of the season. They were strongest at the moment that the New York team was playing its poorest game, and their temporary success assisted in pushing the Chicagos somewhat rapidly toward the top of the league. They were not resourceful enough nor strong enough to maintain their average of victories and finished the season somewhat as they had begun. The most of Chicago's success began to date from the early part of July, when Lavender, pitching for the Cubs, won from Marquard of the Giants, who, to that time, had nineteen successive victories to his credit. Chicago continued to win, and the New York team made a very poor trip through the west. Lavender's physical strength held up well for a month and then it became quite evident that he had pitched himself out. Then was the time that the Chicagos could have used to good advantage two and certainly one steady and reliable pitcher, who had been through the fire of winning pennants and would not be disturbed by the importance which attached to games in which his club was for the moment the runner-up in the championship race. Chicago managed to hold its own fairly well against the New York team. Indeed, the Cubs beat the New Yorks on the series for the season, but there were other clubs, Pittsburgh, St. Louis and Cincinnati, which won from Chicago when victories were most needed by the Cubs, and their hope to capture the pennant deserted them as they were making their last trip through the east. The race was not without its bright side for Chicago. Even if the Cubs did finish third for the first time since Chance had been manager of the organization, it was a welcome sight to see Evers apparently in as good form as ever and Zimmerman so strong with the bat that the leadership of the batters finally returned to Chicago after it had been absent for years. * * * * * Cincinnati, under the management of Henry O'Day, finished fourth in the race. It was by no means a weak showing for the new manager, in view of the team which he was compelled to handle. Until the New York club played its first series in Cincinnati, which began May 18, the Reds were booming along at the top of the league, apparently with no intention that they might ever drop back. It was New York that won three out of the five games played and took the lead in the race, and when that happened Cincinnati never was in front again. To the other managers, who had been watching the work of the Cincinnatis it was apparent that sooner or later the break would have to come for the reason that, as the season progressed, better pitching would have to be faced by the Cincinnati club, while it was doubtful whether the Cincinnati pitchers could do any better than they were doing. The manager seemed to have known this, for when the break did come and the Reds began to totter, he said in reference to their downfall that no team could be expected to win with only ordinary pitching to assist it. In this manner Cincinnati played through the middle of the season always just a little behind most of its opponents. As the latter days of the year began to dawn the Reds began to improve and not the least of which was in the better work of the pitchers. They did well enough to beat Philadelphia for fourth place, and while O'Day did not have the satisfaction of finding his first year as a manager generous enough to him to make him the runner-up for the championship team, he actually put his club in the first division, which is something in which many managers have failed and some of them managers of long experience. * * * * * Misfortune and ill luck always attaches itself in a minor degree to every team which engages in a championship contest, but most assuredly Philadelphia had more of its share of reverses through accidents to players and illness than any team of the National League. Yet the Philadelphias were courageous players from whom little complaint was heard. They took their misfortunes with what grace they could and played ball with what success they could achieve, whether they had their best team in the field or their poorest. Strangely enough they played an important part in the results of the race. Frequently they defeated the Chicagos, all too frequently for the comfort of the Chicago Base Ball enthusiasts, and when the loss of a game or two by the Philadelphias to the Chicagos might have turned the race temporarily one way or the other, the Philadelphias, with decided conviction, refused to lose. It may not be necessary to call attention to the fact of absolute fairness in the contests for championships in the various leagues which comprise Base Ball in its organized form. The day has passed when the Base Ball enthusiast permits his mind to dwell much upon that sort of thing, if ever he did. But if it were necessary to advance an argument as to the integrity of the sport and the high class of the men who are engaged in the summer season in playing professional Base Ball, there could be nothing better to prove that the price of victory is the one great consideration, greater than the fact of Philadelphia's success against a team which was a strong contender against that which finally won the championship. As much as Philadelphia desired that New York should be beaten, for there was no love lost between the teams in a ball playing way, the fighting spirit and the predominant desire to add to the column of victories as many games as possible brought forth the best efforts of the team of ill fortune against Chicago and struck telling blows against Chicago's success at the most timely moments. * * * * * As a whole the St. Louis team did not play as well in 1912 as it did in the preceding year. There was some bad luck for St. Louis as well as Philadelphia. The players did not get started as well as they had in the previous two years. Their spring training was more or less disastrous, for they were one of the clubs to run into the most contrary of spring weather. Perhaps the worst trouble which the St. Louis team had, take the season through from beginning to finish, was in regard to the pitchers. There were two or three young men on the team who seemed at the close of the season of 1911 to be likely to develop into high class pitchers in 1912. They pitched well in 1912 at intervals. One day it seemed as if they at last had struck their stride and the next they faltered and their unsteadiness gave their opponents the advantage which they sought. Perhaps, if the St. Louis team had been a little stronger to batting it would have rated higher among the organization of the National League. Several games were lost which would have been taken into camp by a better display at bat. In fielding the team was much stronger and the success of the infield, combined with some excellent outfield work now and then, frequently held the team up in close battles, but when the pitchers faltered on the path the fielders were not able to bear the force of the attack. * * * * * For three seasons in succession Brooklyn seems to have been fated to start the season with bad luck and misfortune. The spring training trip did not bring to Brooklyn all that had been expected owing to the inclement weather. When the team began the season at Washington Park a tremendous crowd filled the stands. Long before it was time for the game to begin the spectators became unruly and swarmed over the field. It was impossible for the ground police to do anything with the excited enthusiasts and at last the city police were asked to assist. They tried to clear the field, but only succeeded in driving the crowd from the infield. Spectators were so thick in the outfield that they crowded upon the bases and prevented the players from doing their best. For that matter the outfielders could not do much of anything. A ground rule of two bases into the crowd was established, and the New York players, who were the opponents of Brooklyn, took advantage of it to drive the ball with all their force, trusting that it would sail over the heads of the fielders and drop into the crowd. They were so successful that they made a record for two-base hits and Brooklyn was overwhelmed. This unfortunate beginning appeared to depress the Brooklyn team. The players recovered slightly, but had barely got into their stride again when accidents to the men began to happen. Some of them became ill, and the manager was put to his wits end to get a team on the field which should make a good showing. Fighting against these odds Brooklyn made the best record that it could. As the season warmed into the hotter months the infield had to be rearranged. There was disappointment in the playing of some of the infielders. It was also necessary to reconstruct the outfield. Unable to get all of the men whom he would have desired the manager continued to experiment and his experiments brought forth good fruit, for unquestionably the excellent work of Moran, who played both right field and center field for Brooklyn, was a great help to the pitchers. By the time that the Base Ball playing year was almost concluded Brooklyn had so far recovered that it was able to place a better nine on the diamond than had been the case all of the year. Boston never was expected to be a championship organization. The material was not there for a championship organization, but Boston did play better ball than in 1911 and that is to the credit of players, manager and owner. The club had changed hands, but the new owner had not been able to readjust all of the positions to suit him. He put the best nine possible in the field with what he had. Never threatening to become a championship winning team Boston played steadily with what strength it possessed and always a little better than in 1911, so that the year could not fairly be considered unsuccessful at its finish. * * * * * Going back to the beginning of the year and looking over the contest for the National League championship of 1912, it is not uninteresting, indeed it is of much interest to call attention to the remarkably odd record which was made by New York to win the pennant. In that record stands the story of the fight, with striking shifts from week to week. The first game played by the Giants was against Brooklyn, as has been related, and it was won by New York and that, by the way, was the game in which Marquard began his admirable record as a pitcher for the season. The Giants lost the next three games. Two of them were to Brooklyn and one to Boston, and the players of the New York team began to wonder a little as to what had happened to them. Then New York won nine straight games from the eastern clubs, being stopped finally by Philadelphia on the Polo Grounds. But that defeat did not check them. They started on another winning spurt and played throughout the west without a defeat until they arrived in Cincinnati. This total of victories was nine. All of the games on the schedule were not played because of inclement weather. Cincinnati won twice from New York and then the Giants turned the tables on the Reds, who had been leading the league. They threw them out of the lead, which they never regained, and won another succession of nine victories. That made three times consecutively that they had won a total of twenty-seven games in groups of nine, assuredly an unusual result. Losing one game they again entered the winning class. This time they won six games in succession. Then they lost a game. After this single defeat they won but three games. Their charm of games in blocks of nine had deserted them. They were beaten twice after winning three, and Pittsburgh was the team. Then they won another single game and immediately after that victory lost to Brooklyn. But that was the last defeat for a long time. Well into the race, with their condition excellent, and playing better ball than they had played since their wonderful spurt of the month of September in 1911, they won sixteen games in succession. The morning of the Fourth of July dawned hot and sultry. The air was thick and muggy and without life. The Giants were scheduled to play two games that day with Brooklyn, the first in the morning and the second in the afternoon. If they won both of them they would tie a former record, which had been made by the New York team, for consecutive victories. Perhaps it may have been reaction after the long strain of winning or it may have been an uncommonly good streak of batting on the part of Brooklyn. Surely Brooklyn batted well enough, as the morning game went to the latter team by the score of 10 to 4. In the afternoon Brooklyn again beat the Giants by the score of 5 to 2. Wiltse pitched for New York and Stack for Brooklyn. The New York team went to Chicago and won twice. Then it lost. The fourth game was won from Chicago and then the Giants lost two in succession. They won one game and immediately after that lost four in succession. Chicago began to have visions of winning the pennant. From Chicago the Giants went to Pittsburgh, stood firm in a series of three games, winning two and losing one. Their next call was at Cincinnati and beginning with that series they got back to form a trifle and won five games in succession. Returning home they were beaten on the Polo Grounds three games in succession by Chicago. After that New York settled into a winning stride again and won six games in succession. Pittsburgh came to the Polo Grounds and stopped the winning streak of the champions by defeating them three times in succession. That was a hard jolt for any team to stand. Yet the Giants rallied and won the test game of the Pittsburgh series. It was but a momentary pause, for after another victory St. Louis beat New York. The Giants won another game and the next day lost to St. Louis. That finished the home games for New York and the team started west, facing a desperate fight. They lost the first game to Chicago, won the next and lost the third. Going from Chicago to St. Louis they won three games in succession, returning to Chicago, lost a postponed game with the Cubs. From Chicago their path led them to Pittsburgh where they lost the first contest. Then they made the stand of the season when they beat the Pittsburghs four games in succession. Cincinnati turned the tables on the Giants to the consternation of the New York fans and won twice, when it seemed as if the Giants were about to start on a career which would safely land the championship. The Giants returned home and beat Brooklyn in the first game and lost the second. They won the next two and then lost again. The championship was still in abeyance. Again they won and then lost to Philadelphia. Here came another test in a Philadelphia series at Philadelphia which contained postponed games, and once more rallying with all their might, won four games and lost the last of this series of five. Following that they won three games and then lost to St. Louis. They won three times in succession and then lost four games to Chicago and Cincinnati, but all of this time Chicago was gradually falling away because it was necessary that the Cubs should continue to win successive victories if they were to beat New York for the championship. The Giants atoned for the four defeats at the hands of Chicago and Cincinnati by winning the next four games in succession, and while this did not actually settle the championship, that is, the definite championship game had not been played, the race was practically over and all that was left to fight for in the National League was second place, in which Chicago and Pittsburgh were most interested. The pitching staff of the Chicagos had worn out under the strain and the Cubs were beaten out by Pittsburgh. The semi-monthly standing of the race by percentages follows: STANDING OF CLUBS ON APRIL 30. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Cincinnati 10 3 .769 Pittsburgh 5 7 .417 New York 8 3 .727 Philadelphia 4 6 .400 Boston 6 6 .500 St. Louis 5 8 .385 Chicago 5 7 .417 Brooklyn 4 7 .364 STANDING OF CLUBS ON MAY 15. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 18 4 .810 St. Louis 10 16 .385 Cincinnati 19 5 .792 Boston 9 15 .375 Chicago 12 12 .500 Philadelphia 7 13 .350 Pittsburgh 9 12 .429 Brooklyn 7 14 .333 STANDING OF CLUBS ON MAY 31. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 28 7 .800 St. Louis 20 22 .455 Cincinnati 23 17 .675 Philadelphia .14 19 .426 Chicago 19 17 .628 Brooklyn 12 22 .353 Pittsburgh 18 17 .514 Boston 13 26 .333 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JUNE 15. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 37 10 .787 Philadelphia 20 24 .455 Pittsburgh 27 20 .574 St. Louis 23 31 .426 Chicago 26 21 .563 Brooklyn 16 30 .348 Cincinnati 25 23 .553 Boston 16 35 .314 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JUNE 30. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 50 11 .820 Philadelphia 24 33 .421 Pittsburgh 37 25 .597 Brooklyn 24 36 .400 Chicago 34 26 .567 St. Louis 27 42 .391 Cincinnati 35 32 .522 Boston 20 46 .303 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JULY 15. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 58 19 .753 Philadelphia 34 38 .472 Chicago 47 28 .627 St. Louis 34 49 .410 Pittsburgh 45 31 .592 Brooklyn 30 48 .385 Cincinnati 41 39 .513 Boston 22 59 .272 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JULY 31. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 67 24 .736 Cincinnati 45 49 .479 Chicago 57 34 .626 St. Louis 41 55 .427 Pittsburgh 52 37 .684 Brooklyn 35 59 .372 Philadelphia 45 43 .511 Boston 25 66 .275 STANDING OF CLUBS ON AUGUST 15. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 73 30 .709 Cincinnati 50 58 .463 Chicago 69 36 .657 St. Louis 47 60 .439 Pittsburgh 65 40 .619 Brooklyn 39 69 .361 Philadelphia 50 54 .481 Boston 28 76 .269 STANDING OF CLUBS ON AUGUST 31. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 82 36 .695 Cincinnati 57 65 .467 Chicago 79 42 .653 St. Louis 53 59 .434 Pittsburgh 71 50 .587 Brooklyn 44 76 .367 Philadelphia 59 60 .496 Boston 37 84 .306 STANDING OF CLUBS ON SEPTEMBER 15 Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 95 40 .704 Philadelphia 63 70 .474 Chicago 83 61 .619 St. Louis 57 80 .416 Pittsburgh 82 53 .607 Brooklyn 50 85 .370 Cincinnati 68 68 .500 Boston 42 93 .311 STANDING OF CLUBS ON SEPTEMBER 30 Club. Won. Lost. PC. Club. Won. Lost. PC. New York 101 45 .692 Philadelphia 70 77 .476 Pittsburgh 91 57 .615 St. Louis 62 88 .413 Chicago 89 68 .605 Brooklyn 57 91 .385 Cincinnati 74 76 .493 Boston 42 100 .324 STANDING OF CLUBS AT CLOSE OF SEASON. Club. N.Y. Pitts. Chi. Cin. Phil. St.L. Bkln. Bos. Won. PC. New York -- 12 9 16 17 15 16 18 103 .682 Pittsburgh 8 -- 13 11 14 15 14 18 92 .616 Chicago 13 8 -- 11 10 15 17 17 91 .607 Cincinnati 6 11 10 -- 8 13 16 11 75 .490 Philadelphia 5 8 10 14 -- 11 13 12 73 .480 St. Louis 7 7 7 9 11 -- 10 12 63 .412 Brooklyn 6 8 5 6 9 11 -- 13 58 .379 Boston 3 4 6 11 10 10 9 -- 52 .340 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Lost 48 58 59 78 79 90 95 101 The Chicago-Pittsburgh game at Chicago, October 2, was protested by the Pittsburgh club and thrown out of the records, taking a victory from the Chicago club and a defeat from the Pittsburgh club. AMERICAN LEAGUE SEASON OF 1912 BY IRVING E. SANBORN, CHICAGO. Pre-season predictions in Base Ball do not carry much weight individually, but when many minds, looking at the game from different angles, agree on the main points there usually is good reason behind such near unanimity. Outside of Boston it is doubtful if any experienced critic of Base Ball in the country expected the Red Sox to be converted from a second division team into pennant winners in one short season. If such expectancy existed in Boston it was partially a case of the wish fathering the thought. The majority of men believed the machine with which Connie Mack had achieved two league and two world's championships was good for at least one more American League pennant. That expectation was based on the comparative youth of the important cogs in the Athletic machine. Yet this dope went all wrong. The Athletics were beaten out by two teams which were in the second division in 1911, one of them as low as seventh place. The reason for these form reversals were several. The Boston and Washington teams improved magically in new hands, while the Athletics went back a bit, partly because of too much prosperity and partly because of adversity. Having come from behind in 1911 and made a winning from a wretched start, the Mackmen apparently thought they could do it again and delayed starting their fight until it was too late. The loss of the services of Dan Murphy for more than half of the season also was a prime factor. The White Sox were the season's sensations both ways and for a time kept everybody guessing by their whirlwind start under new management. They walked over every opponent they tackled for the first few weeks, then began to slip and it required herculean efforts to keep them in the first division at the finish. The Chicago team always was a puzzle to all parties to the race, including itself. From the outset there was almost no hope for the other four teams in the league. Cleveland and Detroit occasionally broke into the upper circles for a day or two in the early weeks of the season, but not far enough to rouse any false anticipations among their supporters. St. Louis and New York quickly gravitated to the lower strata and remained there, the Yankees finally losing out in their battle with the Browns to keep out of last place. Five American League teams started the season under new managers. One of the three which began the race under leaders retained from the previous year changed horses in mid-stream. Jake Stahl, Harry Wolverton, Clark Griffith, Harry Davis and James Callahan were the new faces in the managerial gallery. Some of them were not exactly new to the job but were in new jobs. Of these Stahl, Griffith and Callahan proved successful leaders and the first named became the hero of a world's championship team when the last ball of the series was caught. Davis resigned during the season and was succeeded by Joe Birmingham, who almost duplicated the feat of George Stovall in 1911, putting new life into the Cleveland team and starting a spurt which made the race for position interesting. Wolverton stuck the season out in spite of handicaps that would have discouraged anybody, then handed in his resignation. Wallace, who started the year at the helm again in St. Louis, cheerfully handed over the management to Stovall, who had been transplanted into the Mound City in the hope of making Davis' task easier in Cleveland. Stovall made the Browns a hard team to beat and had the mild satisfaction of hoisting them out of the cellar which they had occupied for the better part of three seasons. An unpleasant feature of the season, but one which had beneficial results, was the strike of the Detroit players, entailing the staging of a farcical game in Philadelphia between the Athletics and a team of semi-professionals. This incident grew out of an attack on a New York spectator by Ty Cobb while in uniform and the immediate suspension of the player for an indefinite period. The prompt and unyielding stand taken by President Johnson against the action of the Detroit players and the diplomatic efforts of President Navin of that club averted serious or extended trouble and undoubtedly furnished a warning against any similar act in the near future. Another, excellent result was the effort made by club owners to prevent the abuse of the right of free speech by that small element of the game's patronage which finds its greatest joy in abusing the players, secure in the knowledge that it is practically protected from personal injury in retaliation. In the development of new players of note the league enjoyed an average season, and a considerable amount of new blood was injected into the game in the persons of players who made good without attracting freakish attention. The rise of the Washington team from seventh to second place brought its youngsters into the limelight prominently, and of these Foster and Moeller were commended highly. Gandil, who had his second tryout in fast company, plugged the hole at first base which had worried Washington managers for some time. Shanks also made a reputation for himself as a fielder. These men were helped somewhat by the showing of their team, but the case of Gandil would have been notable In any company. His first advent into the majors with the White Sox showed him to be an exceedingly promising player, but for some reason his work fell off until he was discarded into the International League. There he quickly recovered his stride and, when he did come back shortly after the season opened last spring, he demonstrated that he had the ability to hit consistently and proved a tower of strength to Griffith's team. Baumgardner of the St. Louis Browns was an example of a youngster making good in spite of comparatively poor company. His pitching record with a team which finished in seventh place stamps him as one of the best, if not the best, of the slab finds of the year. Jean Dubuc of Detroit was another find of rare value and still another was Buck O'Brien of Boston, but these had the advantage over Baumgardner of getting better support both in the field and at bat. O'Brien in particular was fortunate to break in with a championship team. The White Sox introduced three youngsters who made good and promise to keep on doing so. Two of them, George Weaver and Morris Rath, started the season with Chicago and the third, Baker Borton, joined the team late in the summer. Still later Kay Schalk started in to make what looks like a name for himself as a catcher. * * * * * No better illustration of the slight difference between a pennant winning machine and a losing team in the American League has occurred recently than the Boston Red Sox furnished last year. It did not differ materially from the team of 1910 which compelled the use of the nickname "Speed Boys." Jake Stahl was a member of that team, and except for the absence of Stahl in 1911, the champions of 1912 were composed of practically the same men who finished in the second division only the year before. But for the showing of 1910 the whole credit for last season's transformation might be attributed to Manager Stahl. Much of it unquestionably is his by right, and there is no intent here to deprive him of any of the high honors he achieved. To Stahl's arrangement of his infield probably is due much of the improvement in the team. The outfield trio of wonderful performers did not perform any more wonders last year than in the previous season, but what had been holes on the infield were plugged tightly. Many looked askance when Larry Gardner, supposedly a second baseman, was assigned to third, but the results more than justified the move, and it made room at second for Yerkes, a player who had proved only mediocre on the other side of the diamond. This switch and the return of Stahl, who is a grand mark to throw at on first base, gave the infield the same dash and confidence as the outfield possessed, and the addition of some pitching strength in Bedient and O'Brien did the rest. It is the ability to discover just the right combination that differentiates the real manager from the semi-failure. The Red Sox were in the race from the start, but they were eclipsed for a time by the White Sox. In spite of that the Bostonians never faltered but kept up a mighty consistent gait all the way and wore down all competitors before the finish. Stahl's men never were lower than second place in the race with the exception of three days early in May. when Washington poked its nose in front of the Red Sox and started after the White Sox, only to be driven back into third place by the men of Callahan themselves. For more than a week in April Boston was in the lead. Then Chicago went out and established a lead so long that it lasted until near the middle of June. Boston attended strictly to its knitting, however. Without stopping in their steady stride, the Red Sox hung on, waiting for the Callahans to slump. When their chance came in June the Bostonians jumped into the lead--June 10 was the exact date--and never thereafter did they take any team's dust. By the Fourth of July Boston had a lead of seven games over the Athletics. The Red Sox kept right along at their even gait and a month later were leading by the same margin over Washington, which had displaced the former champions. On September 1 Boston's lead was thirteen games, but it was not until September 18 that the American League pennant was actually cinched beyond the possibility of losing it. All season Stahl's men were known as a lucky ball team. Delving into the files for the dope, revealed the fact that the newspaper reports of about every third game they played on the average contained some reference to "Boston's luck." This does not detract anything from their glory. No team ever won a major league pennant unless it was lucky. No team ever had as steady a run of luck as Boston enjoyed in 1912, unless that team made a lot of its own luck by persistently hammering away when luck was against it and keeping ever on the alert to take advantage of an opening. That is the explanation of the unusual consistency that marked the work of the Red Sox all season and the fact they did not experience a serious slump. In the first month of the season they won twelve games and lost eight. The second month of the race was their poorest one--the nearest they came to a slump. In that month they won eight and lost ten games. In the third month Boston won twenty-three and lost seven games. The fourth month saw them win twenty games and lose eight and in the fifth month their record was twenty victories and five defeats. In the final stages of the race the Red Sox were not under as strong pressure from behind and naturally did not travel as fast after sighting the wire, but the figures produced explain why Boston won the pennant. It started well and kept going faster until there was no longer need for speed. The annexation of the world's championship in a record breaking world's series with the New York Giants was a fitting climax to their season's achievement. * * * * * When Clark Griffith stalked through the west on his first invasion of the season with a team of youngsters, some of them practically unknown, and declared he was going after the pennant, everybody laughed or wanted to. A few weeks later everybody who had laughed was sorry, and those who only wanted to laugh were glad they didn't. For Griffith kept his men keyed up to the fighting pitch during the greater part of the season, and when they did start slumping in September, he made a slight switch on his infield, applied the brakes and started them going up again. The result was that Washington finished second for the first time in its major league history, winning that position in the closing days of the race after a bitter tussle with the passing world's champions. The acquisition of Gandil from Montreal plugged a hole at first base which had defied the efforts of several predecessors to stop and it helped make a brilliant infield, for it gave the youngsters something they were not afraid to throw at. In giving credit for the work of Griffith's infield, the inclination is to overestimate the worth of the new stars. But there was a tower of strength at short in George McBride, who has been playing steadily and consistently at that position for several seasons without being given one-tenth the credit his work has merited. The Washington team at one time or another occupied every position in the race except the first and last. The Senators were in seventh place for a few days in the opening weeks of the season, but not anywhere nearly as long as they were in second place later on. They climbed out of the second division by rapid stages and after May 1 they were driven back into it only once during the rest of the year. That was for three days in the beginning of June. In the meantime they had knocked Boston out of second place for a short while in May and, most of the way, had enjoyed a close fight with Philadelphia for third and fourth spots. Near the middle of June, after the Red Sox had ousted their White namesakes from first place, the Senators also passed Chicago and started after Boston. But the youngsters were not yet hardened to the strain and soon fell back to third and fourth. On July 5 Washington went into second place and held onto it, with the exception of three days, for a period of two months. September brought a slump and Griffith's men surrendered the runner-up position to the Athletics for about two weeks, then came back and took it away from the Mackmen at the end. * * * * * What happened to the world's champion Athletics the public did not really know until after the middle of the season. Then the suspensions of Chief Bender and Rube Oldring blazoned the fact that Manager Mack's splendid system of handling a Base Ball team by moral suasion had fallen down in the face of overconfidence and too much prosperity. Few people saw any reason for changing their belief in the prowess of the Athletics during the first half of the season, because they were in as good position most of the time as they had been the year previous at the same stage of the race. They were expected to make the same strong finish that swept everything before it in 1911. Not until the second half of the season was well under way did the adherents of the Mackmen give up the battle. Philadelphia's sterling young infield seemed to stand up all right all the year, but the outfield and the slab staff gave Connie Mack sleepless nights. When Dan Murphy was injured in Chicago in June it was discovered what he had meant to the team. Dan was what the final punch is to a boxing star. His timely batting was missed in knocking out opponents, and the injury kept him out all the rest of the season. The strain which Jack Coombs gave his side in the world's series of 1911 proved more serious and lasting than was expected, and if Eddie Plank had not come back into grand form it would have been a tougher season than it was for the Athletics. The Mackmen made a bad beginning for champions, and on May 1 were in the second division. During all of May and part of June they climbed into the first division and fell out of it with great regularity. Not until near the middle of June did the Athletics gain a strangle hold on the upper half of the league standing, from that time on they kept above the .500 mark, and toward the end of June they met the White Sox coming back. There was a short scuffle during the early part of July among the Athletics, Senators and White Sox for the possession of the position next to Boston. Then Chicago was pushed back, leaving Philadelphia and Washington to fight it out the rest of the way. Trimming the Phillies four out of five games in their city series did not lessen the gloom of the Athletics. * * * * * The White Sox by their meteoric career demonstrated the value of good condition at the start. Although the Chicagoans experienced tough weather in Texas last spring they fared better than any of the other teams in their league, and that fact, combined with the readiness with which youth gets into playing trim, enabled the White Sox to walk through the early weeks of their schedule with an ease that astonished everybody. Even prophets who were friendly to them had expected no such showing. So fast did the Callahans travel that on May 3 they had lost only four games, having won thirteen in that time. But Boston was hanging on persistently. Chicago's margin over the Red Sox varied from four to five and a half games; during May, on the fourteenth of that month the White Sox had won twenty-one games and lost only five, giving them the percentage of .808. During part of this time they were on their first invasion of the east. May 18 saw the Chicago men five and a half games in the lead and their constituents were dreaming of another world's pennant almost every night. Even the doubters were beginning to believe Manager Callahan had found the right combination. Just then came the awakening. The luck which had been coming their way began breaking against them with remarkable persistency. Plays that had won game after game went wrong and youth was not resourceful enough to offset the breaks. The White Sox began to fall away fast in percentage, but managed to cling to the lead until June 10. Boston passed them right there and the Chicagoans kept on going. By mid-season Manager Callahan was fighting to keep his men in the first division and their slump did not end until they landed in fifth place for a couple of days in August. Then in desperation Callahan began switching his line-up and by herculean effort--and the help of Ed Walsh--climbed back into the upper quartet and stuck there to the finish. It was a desperate remedy to take Harry Lord off third base, where he had played during most of his professional career, and try to convert him into an outfielder, a position in which he had had no experience at all. But Lord was too good an offensive player to take out of the game, in spite of his slump at third base, and he was willing to try the outfield. Results justified the move. Lord learned outfielding rapidly, and Zeider proved that third base was his natural position. The acquisition of Borton for first base enabled Callahan to put Collins in the outfield, and the White Sox in reality were a stronger team when they finished than when they started their runaway race in April. With one more reliable pitcher to take his turn regularly on the slab all season the White Sox would have kept in the race. Callahan's men made up for some of the disappointment they produced by beating the Cubs in a nine-game post-season series, after the Cubs had won three victories. Two of the nine games were drawn and one other went into extra innings, making a more extended combat than the world's series. * * * * * Cleveland's 1912 experience was almost identical with that of 1911, even to swapping managers in mid-season. Harry Davis, for years first lieutenant to Connie Mack, took the management or the Naps under a severe handicap. He succeeded a temporary manager, George Stovall, who had made good in the latter half of the previous season, but who could not be retained without abrogating a previous agreement with Davis. The public did not take kindly to the situation when the Naps failed to get into the fight, and the new management had a pitching staff of youngsters with out much of a catching staff to help them out when in trouble. The Cleveland team never was prominent in the race after the first fortnight, although it retained a respectable position at the top of the second division, with an occasional journey into the first division during the first month or six weeks. In the middle of June the Naps dropped back into sixth place, below Detroit, for a while, then took a brace and reclaimed the leadership of the second squad for part of July. Midway in August found Cleveland apparently anchored in sixth spot and, with the consent of the Cleveland club owners, Manager Davis resigned his position. The management was given to Joe Birmingham, who took hold of it with enthusiasm but without experience, just as Stovall did the previous year. He infused new life into the team, shook it up a bit, and improved its playing so much that Cleveland passed Detroit before the end of the race, and was threatening to knock Chicago out of fourth place at one time. This would have happened but for the brace of the White Sox. Profiting by previous experience the club owners did not look around for a permanent manager until they saw what Birmingham could do, and in consequence were in position to offer him the leadership of the Naps for the season of 1913. * * * * * What was left to Manager Jennings from the great Detroit team that had won three straight pennants was slowing up, with the exception of Tyrus Cobb, who has yet to reach the meridian of his career, and the Georgian got into trouble fairly early in the season, with the result that he was suspended for a considerable period. That and the strike of the Tigers in Philadelphia threw a monkey-wrench into the machinery, resulting in a tangle which Jennings was unable to straighten out all the season. There was a problem at first base which he had a hard time solving. The break in Del Gainor's wrist the season before had not mended as it should have done, and he was unable to play the position regularly. Moriarty was pressed into service there and did good work in an unfamiliar position; then the infield was shifted several times without marked benefit. Donovan, who had always been of great help on the slab in hot weather, was not equal to the task of another year and was made manager of the Providence team. Jean Dubuc was the only one of the young pitchers who proved a star, but his work kept the Tigers from being a lot more disappointing proposition than they were. * * * * * St. Louis and New York were outclassed from the start. Two weeks after the season opened it was apparent they were doomed to fight it out for the last round on the ladder. That the Browns finally escaped the cellar in the closing days of the race was due largely to the efforts of Stovall, who was made manager to succeed Wallace near the middle of the season. As early as the first of May it was seen the Browns and Yankees were destined to trail. The New York team quickly gravitated to the bottom. It started without the services of Catcher Eddie Sweeney, who held out for a larger salary, and it had a manager at the helm who was inexperienced in major league leadership. Not until April 24 did New York win a game and in that time it had lost seven straight, postponements accounting for the rest of the time. St. Louis got a little better start and for a while was inclined to dispute sixth place with Detroit, but on May 1 the Browns found only New York between them and the basement. In the middle of May the Yankees passed St. Louis and ran seventh in the race until July. 4. But accident and injury, and the loss of Cree, shot the Yankees to pieces. For nearly six weeks, however, it was a battle royal between New York and St. Louis to escape the last hole, but in the middle of August the Yankees again established their superiority, retaining seventh place until after the middle of September. In the homestretch the new blood given Stovall enabled him to pull his men out of the last notch just before the schedule ran out. This feat was soon forgotten in the defeat of the Browns by the Cardinals in their post-prandial series for the championship of the Mound City. * * * * * The year was not prolific of freak or record-breaking performances in the American League. Walter Johnson of Washington, and Joe Wood of Boston were credited with sixteen straight victories, which raised the American League record in that respect from fourteen straight, formerly held by Jack Chesbro of the Yankees. Mullin of Detroit and Hamilton of St. Louis added their names to the list of hurlers who have held opponents without a safe hit in nine innings. Mullin performed his hitless feat against St. Louis and Hamilton retaliated by holding Detroit without a safety. The number of games in which pitchers escaped with less than four hits against them was smaller than usual, however. There were only seventy-eight shut-out games recorded last season by comparison with the American League's record of 145. The longest game of the younger league's season lasted nineteen innings, Washington defeating Philadelphia in that combat 5 to 4, and it was played late in September when the two teams were scrapping for second place. The American League record for overtime is twenty-four innings, held by Philadelphia and Boston. There were a lot of slugging games in 1912, but not as many as during the season of 1911. Philadelphia piled up the highest total, 25, in eight innings, but it was made against the semi-professional team which wore Detroit uniforms on the day the Tigers struck. The highest genuine total of hits was twenty-three, made by the Athletics against New York pitchers. The Athletics also run up the highest score of the league's season when they compounded twenty-four runs against Detroit In May. The semi-monthly standing of the race by percentages follows: STANDING OF CLUBS ON MAY 1. Club. Won. Lost. PC. Chicago 11 4 .733 Boston 9 5 .643 Washington 8 6 .615 Cleveland 7 6 .538 Athletics 7 7 .600 Detroit 6 10 .375 St. Louis 5 9 .357 New York 3 10 .231 STANDING OF CLUBS ON MAY 15. Chicago 21 6 .778 Boston 16 8 .667 Washington 12 12 .500 Cleveland 11 11 .500 Detroit 13 14 .481 Athletics 10 12 .466 New York 6 15 .286 St. Louis 6 17 .261 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JUNE 1. Chicago 29 12 .707 Boston 25 14 .641 Detroit 21 20 .512 Athletics 17 17 .500 Cleveland 18 19 .486 Washington 19 21 .476 New York 12 23 .343 St. Louis 12 27 .308 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JUNE 15. Boston 33 19 .635 Chicago 33 21 .611 Washington 33 21 .611 Athletics 27 21 .563 Detroit 26 29 .473 Cleveland 23 28 .451 New York 17 31 .364 St. Louis 15 37 .288 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JULY 1. Boston 47 21 .691 Athletics 39 25 .609 Chicago 38 28 .576 Washington 37 31 .551 Cleveland 33 38 .492 Detroit 33 36 .478 New York 18 44 .290 St. Louis 18 45 .288 STANDING OF CLUBS ON JULY 15. Boston 56 26 .683 Washington 60 33 .602 Athletics 46 36 .668 Chicago 44 35 .567 Cleveland 42 42 .500 Detroit 40 43 .488 New York 22 53 .298 St. Louis 22 56 .282 STANDING OF CLUBS ON AUGUST 1. Boston 67 31 .684 Washington 61 37 .622 Athletics 55 41 .573 Chicago 49 36 .516 Detroit 48 42 .485 Cleveland 45 43 .464 New York 31 53 .333 St. Louis 30 56 .312 STANDING OF CLUBS ON AUGUST 15. Boston 76 34 .691 Athletics 66 43 .606 Washington 67 44 .604 Chicago 54 55 .495 Detroit 55 58 .487 Cleveland 51 59 .464 New York 36 73 .327 St. Louis 36 74 .321 STANDING OF CLUBS ON SEPTEMBER 1. Boston 87 37 .702 Washington 77 49 .611 Athletics 73 50 .593 Chicago 62 61 .504 Detroit 57 70 .449 Cleveland 54 71 .432 New York 45 78 .366 St. Louis 43 82 .344 STANDING OF CLUBS ON SEPTEMBER 15. Boston 97 39 .713 Athletics 81 56 .591 Washington 82 57 .590 Chicago 67 69 .493 Detroit 64 75 .461 Cleveland 62 75 .453 New York 48 88 .353 St. Louis 47 89 .346 STANDING OF CLUBS ON OCTOBER 1. Boston 103 48 .691 Washington 89 60 .567 Athletics 89 60 .567 Chicago 74 76 .493 Cleveland 72 77 .483 Detroit 69 80 .463 St. Louis 52 98 .347 New York 49 100 .329 STANDING OF CLUBS AT CLOSE OF SEASON Bos. Wash. Ath. Chic. Clev. Det. S.L. N.Y. Won PC Boston -- 12 15 16 11 15 17 19 105 .691 Washington 10 -- 7 13 18 14 14 15 91 .599 Athletics 7 18 -- 10 14 13 16 17 99 .592 Chicago 6 9 12 -- 11 14 13 13 78 .506 Cleveland 11 4 8 11 -- 13 15 13 75 .490 Detroit 6 8 9 8 9 -- 13 16 69 .451 St. Louis 5 8 6 9 7 9 -- 9 58 .344 New York 3 7 5 9 8 6 13 -- 50 .329 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Lost 47 61 62 76 78 84 101 102 NATIONAL LEAGUE STANDING OF CLUBS AT CLOSE OF SEASON. N.Y. Pitts.Chi. Cin. Phil.St.L. Bkln. Bos. Won. PC. New York -- 12 9 16 17 15 16 18 103 .682 Pittsburgh 8 -- 13 11 14 15 14 18 93 .616 Chicago 13 8 -- 11 10 15 17 17 91 .607 Cincinnati 6 11 10 -- 8 13 16 11 75 .498 Philadelphia 5 8 10 14 -- 11 13 12 73 .480 St. Louis 7 7 7 9 11 -- 10 12 63 .412 Brooklyn 6 8 5 6 9 11 -- 13 58 .379 Boston 3 4 6 11 10 10 9 -- 52 .340 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- ---- Lost 48 58 59 78 79 90 95 101 The Chicago-Pittsburgh game at Chicago, October 2, was protested by the Pittsburgh club and thrown out of the records, taking a victory from the Chicago club and a defeat from the Pittsburgh club. CHAMPIONSHIP WINNERS IN PREVIOUS YEARS. 1871- Athletics .759 | 1885- Chicago .770 | 1899- Brooklyn .682 1872- Boston .830 | 1886- Chicago .726 | 1900- Brooklyn .603 1873- Boston .729 | 1887- Detroit .637 | 1901- Pittsburgh .647 1874- Boston .717 | 1888- New York .641 | 1902- Pittsburgh .741 1875- Boston .899 | 1889- New York .659 | 1903- Pittsburgh .650 1876- Chicago .788 | 1890- Brooklyn .667 | 1904- New York .693 1877- Boston .646 | 1891- Boston .630 | 1905- New York .668 1878- Boston .683 | 1892- Boston .680 | 1906- Chicago .765 1879- Providence .702 | 1893- Boston .667 | 1907- Chicago .704 1880- Chicago .798 | 1894- Baltimore .695 | 1908- Chicago .643 1881- Chicago .667 | 1895- Baltimore .669 | 1909- Pittsburgh .724 1882- Chicago .655 | 1896- Baltimore .698 | 1910- Chicago .676 1883- Boston .643 | 1897- Boston .795 | 1911- New York .647 1884- Providence .750 | 1898- Boston .685 | INDIVIDUAL BATTING. Following are the Official Batting Averages of National League players who participated in any manner in at least fifteen championship games during the season of 1912: Name and Club G. A.B. R. H. T.B. 2B 3B HR SH SB PC Zimmerman, Chicago 145 557 95 207 318 41 14 14 18 23 .372 Meyers, New York 126 371 60 133 177 16 5 6 9 8 .358 Sweeney, Boston 153 593 84 204 264 81 13 1 33 27 .344 Evers, Chicago 143 478 73 163 211 23 11 1 14 16 .341 Bresnaban, St. Louis 48 108 8 36 50 7 2 1 -- 4 .333 McCormick, New York 42 39 4 13 19 4 1 -- -- 1 .333 Doyle, New York 143 558 98 184 263 33 8 10 13 36 .330 Kuisely, Cincinnati 21 67 10 22 35 7 8 -- 1 3 .328 Lobert, Philadelphia 65 257 37 84 112 12 5 2 10 13 .327 Wiltse, New York 28 46 5 15 17 2 -- -- 1 1 .326 Wagner, Pittsburgh 145 558 91 181 277 36 20 7 11 26 .324 Hendrix, Pittsburgh 46 121 25 39 64 10 6 1 2 1 .322 Kirke, Boston 103 359 53 115 146 11 4 4 9 7 .320 Kelly, Pittsburgh 48 132 20 42 52 3 2 1 7 8 .318 Marsans, Cincinnati 110 416 59 132 168 19 7 1 9 35 .317 Kling, Boston 81 252 26 80 102 10 3 2 7 8 .317 Donlin, Pittsburgh 77 244 27 77 108 9 8 2 10 8 .316 Stengel, Brooklyn 17 57 9 38 22 1 -- 1 1 5 .316 Paskert, Philadelphia 145 540 102 170 221 38 5 1 11 35 .315 Konetchy, St. Louis 143 538 81 169 245 26 13 8 17 35 .314 Crandall, New York 50 80 9 25 25 6 2 -- 3 -- .313 Titus, Philadelphia-Boston 141 502 99 155 224 32 11 5 15 11 .309 Merkle, New York 129 479 82 148 215 22 6 11 8 37 .309 Daubert, Brooklyn 145 559 81 173 232 19 16 3 14 39 .308 W. Miller, Chicago 86 241 45 74 93 11 4 -- 8 11 .307 S. Magee, Phila 132 464 79 142 203 25 9 6 29 30 .306 Wheat, Brooklyn 123 453 70 138 204 28 7 8 7 16 .305 Huggins, St. Louis 120 431 82 131 154 15 4 -- 11 35 .304 Carey, Pittsburgh 150 587 114 177 231 23 8 5 37 45 .302 Edington, Pittsburgh 15 53 4 16 20 -- 2 -- 3 -- .302 Simon, Pittsburgh 42 113 10 34 38 2 1 -- -- 1 .301 
12940	----	THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH OUT FOR THE PENNANT or In the Three Town League by Donald Ferguson CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. Some of the Scranton Boys II. The Man with the Cough III. Hugh has Suspicions IV. The Barnacle that Came to Stay V. Scranton Tackles Bellevue High VI. A Hot Finish VII. What Thad Saw VIII. A Bad Outlook for Brother Lu IX. Setting the Man Trap X. How Jim Pettigrew Fixed It XI. Something Goes Wrong XII. Scranton Fans Have a Painful Shock XIII. Hugh Tries His "Fade-Away" Ball XIV. Farmer Bernard Collects His Bill XV. The Puzzle is Far from Being Solved XVI. An Adventure on the Road XVII. The Wonderful News XVIII. When the Wizard Waves His Wand XIX. Scranton High Evens Matters Up XX. A Glorious Finish---Conclusion CHAPTER I SOME OF THE SCRANTON BOYS "Too bad that rain had to come, and spoil our practice for today, boys!" "Yes, and there's only one more chance for a work-out between now and the game with Belleville on Saturday afternoon, worse luck, because here it's Thursday." "We need all the practice we can get, because if that O.K. fellow, who dropped in to see us from Belleville, tells the truth, both his club and Allandale are stronger than last year. Besides, I hear they have each set their hearts on winning the championship of the Three Town High School League this season." "For one, I know I need more work at the bat. I've improved some, but I'm not satisfied with myself yet." "You've improved a whole lot, Owen!" "That's right, 'Just' Smith, he's made such progress in bunting, and picking out drops and curves and fast ones, under the watchful eye of our field captain, Hugh Morgan here, that several other fellows on the nine are below him in batting average right now, and I regret to say I'm one of the lot." The boy who answered to the name of Owen turned red at hearing this honest praise on the part of his fellow students of Scranton High; but his eyes sparkled with genuine pleasure at the same time. A bunch of well-grown and athletic-looking high-school boys had left the green campus, with its historical fence, behind them, and were on their way home. It was in the neighborhood of two o'clock, with school over for the day. Just as one of them had said, a drizzly rain in the morning had spoiled all chance for that day of doing any practice in the way of playing ball. Mr. Leonard, second principal of the Scranton schools under Dr. Carmack (who was also county supervisor, with dominion over the Allandale and Belleville schools), had consented to act as coach to the baseball team this season. He was a Princeton grad. and had gained quite some little fame as a member of the Tiger nine that swept Yale off its feet one great year. Besides Owen Dugdale, there were "Just" Smith, Thad Stevens, Hugh Morgan, Kenneth Kinkaid and Horatio Juggins in the bunch that started off from the school grounds in company, though they would presently break away as they neared their several homes. "Just" Smith had another name, for he had been christened Justin; but he himself, in answering to the calls for Smith, would always call out "Just Smith, that's all," and in the course of time it clung to him like a leech. Kenneth Kinkaid, too, was known far and wide as "K.K.," which of course was only an abbreviation of his name. Some said he was a great admirer of Lord Kitchener, who had recently lost his life on the sea when the vessel on which he had started for Russia was sunk by a German mine or submarine; and that Kenneth eagerly took advantage of his initials, being similar to those of Kitchener of Khartoum fame. Horatio Juggins was an elongated chap whose specialty, besides capturing balloon fliers out in right field with wonderful celerity, consisted in great throwing to the home plate, and also some slugging when at bat. Thad Stevens was the catcher, and a good one at that, everybody seemed to believe. He, too, could take his part in a "swat-fest" when a rally was needed to pull the Scranton boys out of a bad hole. Thad had always been a close chum of the captain of the team, Hugh Morgan. Together they had passed through quite a number of camp outings, and were said to be like twins, so far as never quarreling went. This same Hugh was really a clever fellow, well liked by most of the Scranton folks, who admired his high sense of honor. He was averse to fighting, and had really never been known to indulge in such things, owing to a promise made to his mother, the nature of which the new reader can learn if he wishes, by securing the first volume of this Series. In so doing he will also learn how on one momentous occasion the peace-loving Hugh was brought face to face with a dilemma as to whether he should hold his hand, and allow a weaker friend to be brutally mauled by the detestable town bully, Nick Lang, or stand up in his defense; also just how he acquitted himself in such an emergency. First "K.K." dropped away from the group as he came to the corner that was nearest his home. Boy-like, he sang out to the rest as he swung aside: "I'm as hungry as a bear, fellows, and I happen to know our hired girl's going to have corned beef and cabbage for noon today. That's said to be a plebeian dish, but it always appeals to me more than anything else." "Huh! you needn't boast, K.K.," said the Juggins boy, "over at _our_ house Thursday is religiously given over to vegetable soup, and I'm good for at least three bowls of it every time. Then it's also a baking day, so there'll be fresh bread rolls, as brown on the outside as nuts in November. Whew! I just can't hold back any longer," and with that Horatio started on a dog-trot through a short cut-off that would take him to a gate in the back fence of his home grounds. So presently when Owen and "Just" Smith had also separated themselves from the balance there were only Thad and Hugh remaining; nor did they waste any time in talking, for a high-school boy is generally ferociously hungry by the time two in the afternoon comes around; although at intermission, around eleven in the morning, in Scranton High they were given an opportunity to buy a lunch from the counter where a few substantial things, as well as fresh milk and chocolate, were dispensed by a woman who was under the supervision of the school directors. "Since our baseball practice is off for today, Thad," remarked Hugh, as they were about to separate, "suppose you drop over and join me. I've got an errand out a short distance in the country, and we can walk it, as the roads are too muddy and slippery for our wheels." "Yes, I have hated riding on slippery roads ever since I had that nasty spill, and hurt my elbow last winter," replied the other, rubbing his left arm tenderly at the same time, as though even the recollection after months had passed caused him to have tender memories of the pain he had endured. "Lucky it wasn't my right wing that got the crack, Hugh, because it sometimes feels sore even now, and I'm sure it would interfere with my throwing down to second. But of course I'll join you. I've nothing else that I want to this afternoon." "Mother asked me if I'd go out to the Sadler Farm for her the first chance I got, and already it's been put off too long, owing to our keeping continually at practice every afternoon this week. She gets her fresh sweet butter from Mrs. Sadler, and their horse is sick, so they don't deliver it nowadays. Look for you inside of half an hour, Thad." "I'll be along, never fear," sang out his chum, as he hurried off, doubtless smelling in imagination the fine warm lunch his devoted mother always kept for him on the back of the stove. Thad was at the back door of the Morgan house inside of the stipulated time, and being perfectly at home there he never bothered knocking, but stalked right in, to find Hugh doing something in his own room. Like most high-school boys' "dens," this apartment was a regular curiosity shop, for the walls were fairly covered with college pennants, and all manner of things connected with athletic sports, as well as pictures that indicated a love for fishing and gunning on the part of the young occupant; but every illustration was well chosen, and free from the slightest taint of anything bordering on the vulgar or the sensational. There was not a single picture of a notorious or famous boxer; or any theatrical beauties, to be seen. Evidently Hugh's fancy ran along the lines of clean sport, and healthy outdoor exercise. So the two chums started off for a walk, their pace a brisk one, because the air after that recent spell of rain was quite cool and invigorating, Indeed, once Thad even deplored the fact that Mr. Leonard had thought it best to call off practice for that afternoon. "Well," remarked Hugh on hearing him say that, "Mr. Leonard was of the opinion we were rather overdoing the matter, and might go stale. He told me so, and said that in his experience he had known more than a few teams to overdo things, and lose their best gait in too much work. He says one more test ought to put the proper fighting spirit in us, and that he feels confident we'll be keyed up to top-notch speed by tomorrow night. I think our pitcher, Alan Tyree, is doing better than ever before in his life; and those Belleville sluggers are going to run up against a surprise if they expect him to be an easy mark." In due time they reached the farm, and securing several pounds of freshly-made butter that had not even been salted, and was called "sweet butter," they started back. Thad proposed that they take a roundabout route home, just for a change; and this small thing was fated to bring them into contact with a trifling adventure that would cause them both considerable bewilderment, and be a cause for conjecture for days and weeks to come. "I smell wood smoke," remarked Thad, after they had gone about a third of the distance; "and as the wind is almost dead ahead the fire must be in that direction. There's no house in that quarter that I remember, Hugh. There, now can see smoke coming out of that thin patch of woods yonder. I wonder if they're meaning to cut those trees down and clear more land?" "No, you're away off there, Thad," remarked Hugh, just then. "I can glimpse the fire now, and there's just one chap hanging over it. Don't you see he's a Weary Willie of a hobo, who's getting his dinner ready with wet wood. Here's a chance for us to see just how the thing is done, so let's make him a friendly call!" CHAPTER II THE MAN WITH THE COUGH Thad seemed quite agreeable. "Do you know I've never come in close contact with any tramp," he went on to remark, as they turned their faces toward the patch of trees where the smoke arose, "and I've always wanted to watch just how they managed. I note that this fellow has a couple of old tomato cans he's picked up on some dump, and they're set over the fire to warm up some coffee, or something he's evidently gotten at a back door. Perhaps he'll be sociable, and invite us to join him in his afternoon meal. I guess they eat at any old time, just as the notion seizes them, eh, Hugh?" "They're a good deal like savages in that respect, I understand," the other told him. "You know Indians often go a whole day without breaking their fast; but when they do eat they stuff themselves until they nearly burst. There, he has seen us coming in, for he's shading his eyes with his hand, and taking a good look." "I hope we haven't given him a scare," chuckled Thad, "under the impression that one of us may be the sheriff, or some indignant farmer who's lost some of his chickens lately, and traced them feathers to this camping spot." The hobo, however, did not attempt to run. He watched their approach with interest, and even waved a friendly hand toward the two lads. "Why, evidently he's something of a jolly dog," remarked the surprised Thad, "and there are no chicken feathers around that I can notice. Hello, bo', getting your five o'clock tea ready, I see." At these last words, called out louder than ordinary, the man in the ragged and well-worn garments grinned amiably. "Well, now, young feller," he went on to say in a voice that somehow was not unpleasant to Hugh's ear, "that's about the size of it. I haven't had a bite since sun-up this morning, and I'm near caving in. Out for a walk, are you, lads?" "Oh! we live in Scranton," Hugh explained, "and I had an errand up beyond. We went by another road, and came back this way, which is why we sighted your smoke. Fact is, Thad, my chum here, has never seen a knight of the railroad ties cooking his grub, and he said he'd like to drop in and learn just how you managed, because he's read so much about how splendidly tramps get on." "That's all right, young feller," said the other, cheerily. "Find seats on that log yonder. I ain't got much in my larder today, but what there is will fill a mighty big vacuum in my interior, let me tell you. This here is coffee in the first can---mebbe not just what you boys is accustomed to at your breakfast tables, but good enough for me when it's piping hot. I don't take any frills with wine either, in the way of cream and sugar, leaving all that for those that sit at white tablecloths and have silver as well as china dishes. In this other can I've got some soup. Never mind where I got it; some ladies, bless their hearts, are pretty kind; and I always make it a point to carry several empty tomater cans with me wherever I go. Besides that, in this newspaper here I've got some bread, and two fine pieces of bologna sausage that I bought in a village I came through. So altogether I'm expecting to have a right swell feast pretty soon." Thad looked interested in these things. He even peeped into the two cans, and decided that wherever the tramp got that coffee it certainly could be no "slops," for it had the real odor. The warmed-over soup, too, smelled very appetizing, Thad admitted. On the whole, he concluded that tramps were able to make out very well, when they knew the ropes of the game, and how to beg at back doors. Hugh, on the other hand, was more interested in the man himself than in his limited possessions. He saw that the other was past middle age, for his face was covered with a bristly beard of a week's growth, verging on gray. His cheeks were well filled out, and his blue eyes had what Hugh determined was a humorous gleam about them, as though the man might be rather fond of a joke. He was the picture of what a regular tramp should be, there could be no getting around that, Hugh determined. He rather believed that, like most of his kind, this fellow also had a history back of him, which would perhaps hardly bear exploiting. Doubtless there were pages turned down in his career, things that he himself seldom liked to remember, giving himself up to a life of freedom from care, and content to take things each day as they came along, under the belief that there were always sympathetic women folks to be found who would not refuse a poor wanderer a meal, or a nickel to help him along his way. Apparently he had been just about ready to sit down and make way with his meal at the time the boys arrived on the scene; for he now took both tin carts from their resting places over the red embers of his fire, and opening the package produced the bread and the bologna. This latter looked big enough to serve a whole family of six; but then a tramp's appetite is patterned very much on the order of a growing boy's, and knows no limit. Having spread his intended food around him as he squatted there, the hobo gave the boys a queer look. "You'll excuse me if I don't ask you to join me, youngsters," he went on to say. "I'd do the same in a jiffy if the supply wasn't limited; besides, I don't know just what sort of a reception I'm going to meet with in your town." "Oh! no apologies needed, old chap," said Thad, quickly. "We had our lunch only an hour or so ago and couldn't take a bite to save us now. But say everything seems mighty good, if the smell counts for much. So pitch right in and fill up. We'll continue to sit here and chat with you, if you don't mind, Bill." "That's all right, governor, only my name don't happen to be Bill, even if I belong to the tribe of Weary Willies. I'm known far and wide as Wandering Lu; because, you see, I've traveled all over the whole known world, and been in every country the sun shines on. Just come from the oil regions down in Texas, because, well, my health is failing me, and I'm afraid I'm going into a decline." At that he started to coughing at a most tremendous rate. Thad looked sympathetic. "You certainly do seem to have a terribly bad cold, Lu," he told the tramp, as the other drew out a suspicious looking red handkerchief that had seen better days, to wipe the tears from his eyes, after he had succeeded in regaining his breath, following the coughing spell. The man put a dirty hand in the region of his heart and winced. "Hurts most around my lungs," he said, "and mebbe I've got the con. I spent some time in a camp where fifty poor folks was sleeping under canvas down in Arizona, and I'm a whole lot afraid I may have caught the disease there. So, being afraid my time would soon come I just made up my mind to look up a sister of mine that I ain't heard a word from for twenty years or more, and see if she was in a position to support me the short time I'd have to live." Thad heard this with evident interest. At the same time it occurred to him the stalwart tramp was hardly a fit subject for a speedy death; indeed, he looked as though he might hold out for a good many years still, except when he fell into one of those coughing spells, and seemed to be racked from head to foot with the exertion. Hugh saw that the fellow had an engaging manner, and a smooth tongue. He was trying to make out just what sort of a man this same Lu might be, if one could read him aright. Was he crooked, and inclined to evil ways; or, on the other hand, could he be taken at face value and set down as a pretty square sort of a fellow? "Listen, young fellers," remarked the still eating hobo, later on, "didn't you tell me you lived in the place called Scranton, when you're to home?" "Yes, that's so," Thad assured him. "Know anybody there, Lu, and do you want us to take him your best compliments?" The tramp grinned amiably. "I reckon you're something of a joker, younker," he went on to say. "Now, about the folks in Scranton, I suppose you boys know about everybody in town?" "Well, hardly that," Hugh told him, "since Scranton is a place of some seven or eight thousand inhabitants, and new people are constantly coming in." "All the same," added Thad, "we do know a good many, and it's just as likely we might be acquainted with your friend. What's his name, Wandering Lu?" "First place, it ain't a he at all, but a lady," the other explained, looking a little serious for once. "Oh! excuse the mistake, will you?" chuckled Thad, highly amused at the airs the disreputable looking grizzled old chap put on when he made this statement. "Well, we have some acquaintance among the ladies of the town also. They're nearly all deeply interested just now in helping Madame Pangborn do Red Cross work for her beloved poilus over in brave France. I suppose now you've traveled through that country in your time, Lu?" "Up and down and across it for hundreds of miles, afoot, and in trains," quickly replied the old fellow, "and say, there ain't any country under the sun that appeals more to me than France did. If I was twenty years younger, hang me if I wouldn't find a way to cross over there now, and take my place in the trenches along with them bully fighters, the French frog-eaters. But I'm too old; and besides, this awful cough grips me every once in so often." Even the mention of it set him going again, although this time the spasm was of shorter duration, Hugh noticed; just as though he had shown them what he could do along such lines, and did not want to exhaust himself further. "But about this lady friend of yours, Lu, would you mind mentioning her name, and then we could tell you if we happen to know any such person in Scranton?" and Thad gave the other a confiding nod as if to invite further confidence. "Let's see, it was so long back I almost forget that her name was changed after she got hitched to a man. Do you happen to know a chap who goes by the name of Andrew Hosmer?" The boys exchanged looks. "That must be the sick husband of Mrs. Hosmer, who sews for my mother," remarked Thad, presently. "Yes, I remember now that his first name is Andrew." "Tell me," the tramp went on, now eagerly, "is his wife living, do you mean, younker, this Mrs. Hosmer, and is her name Matilda?" "Just what it happens to be," Thad admitted. "So she is the lady you want to see, is she, Lu? What can poor old Mrs. Hosmer, who has seen so much trouble of late years, be to you, I'd like to know?" The man allowed a droll look to come across his sun-burned face with its stubbly growth of gray beard. There was also a twinkle in his blue eyes as he replied to this query on the part of Thad Stevens. "What relation, you ought to say, younker, because Matilda, she's my long-lost sister, and the one I'm a-hopin' will nurse me from now on till my time comes to shuffle off this planet and go hence!" The two boys heard this stunning announcement with mingled feelings. Thad looked indignant while Hugh on his part tried to read between the lines, and understand whether there could be any meaning to the tramp's declaration than what appeared on the face of it. CHAPTER III HUGH HAS SUSPICIONS "Well, old man," remarked Thad, "I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment about as soon as you strike Scranton; because if Mrs. Hosmer is your long-lost sister, she isn't in any position to help you pass the time away till you kick the bucket. Why, even as it is, she has a hard time getting along, and my mother as well as some of the other ladies give her sewing to do to help tide over. She can hardly make enough to keep herself and her husband going." The tramp shook his head sadly. "Say, I'm right grieved to hear that, son," he went on to observe, seriously. "Course it's goin' to be a hard blow to poor old Lu, after working his way up here all these months, and nearly coughing his head off at times, to find out that his only relation in the wide world ain't well off in this world's goods. But then Matilda she always was soft-hearted, and mebbe now she might find a hole in her humble home where her poor old brother could stay the short time he's got in this world of trouble and sorrow. I could do with less to eat if I had to, gents; and blood was always thicker'n water with Matilda." Thad felt indignant. The idea of this sleek-looking old rascal settling down on his poor sister, and making her support him, was too much for his temper. "Well, I'd be ashamed if I were you, Wandering Lu, to even think of letting any woman earn my living for me, no matter if she did happen to be a sister. As it is, she's hard pushed at times to get enough food together for herself and her husband." "Why, what's the matter with Andrew; why can't he do his share?" demanded the other, boldly, and Thad thought he looked disgusted at the poor prospect before him. "Mr. Hosmer is really sick," explained the boy; "and there's no humbug about his ailment, either. I heard the doctor tell my mother that it was partly due to a lack of substantial food for years. You see, the woman herself was ill for a long time, and her husband worked himself to skin and bone trying to provide for her. Then she got over her trouble, and now it's his turn to go under. He has tried to work a number of times, but fainted at his bench in the shop from sheer weakness." "Gee! I'm sorry to hear that," muttered the other, shrugging his broad shoulders as he spoke, and shaking his head from side to side, as though he feared some hope he had been cherishing was on the point of vanishing. "But then mebbe Andrew he may get better again, and be able to work at his trade, because if I really got consumption there ain't any chance for me to be doin' in this world." Thad showed signs of growing angry, but pinched his arm, and muttered in his ear: "Just hold your horses, Thad. We can't stop him, if he's set on seeing his sister, you know. And besides, perhaps they'll turn him away from the door. He's a queer sort of a chap, and I just can't quite make out whether he's a scamp or a big joke. Let's keep quiet, and see which way the cat jumps." Thad heaved a sigh, but did not say anything to the tramp that he may have had in his mind, and which possibly Wandering Lu might have resented. The man had continued his meal and was in something of a reflective frame of mind apparently. Hugh supposed he was wondering what he was going to do after coming so far in hopes of finding a snug nest for the remainder of his idle days, and meeting with a possible disappointment. "Say, young fellers, I'm going to ask a favor of you," he suddenly remarked, as he brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, signifying that he had finished his meal, and did this in lieu of using a napkin. "What is it you want?" asked Thad, a bit ungraciously, it must be confessed. "Of course, you know just where Matilda lives in Scranton," observed the man, insidiously; "and mebbe now you wouldn't mind if I walked along with so you point out her home to me when we get near it?" "Ought we do it, Hugh?" flashed Thad, turning toward his chum. "What's the harm?" asked the other, instantly. "He can soon find it by asking at some house, whether we help him or not. Why, yes, we'll accommodate you, Lu; but I wouldn't be too hopeful if I were you, about their asking you to stay over, because the times are out of joint nowadays, food getting higher every day, and money hard to pick up, since Uncle Sam's just jumped into the big war game." "But my sister Matilda she always did have a tender heart, and wouldn't see a poor stray cat go hungry if so be she had a bite of food," the tramp went on to say in the most unblushing way possible. "Unless she's changed a heap she'll let me stay a while with her anyhow. Mebbe I'll pick up some if I get good care, and can go on the road again if the worst comes. But I'm much obliged to you for saying as how you'd show me her humble home. It'll be mighty fine for a poor old rolling stone like me to get under the roof of a blood relative, which ain't been my luck for over twenty years." He hastened to gather his scanty belongings together. When the pack was complete be slung it across his back, and gave Hugh a nod. Somehow even this tramp seemed to understand that Hugh Morgan was the leader among his mates; perhaps it was his expression of firmness that told the story, for there was certainly nothing of the "boss" air about the boy to indicate as much. "I'm all ready, if you are, younkers," the tramp said. "Then we'll be off," remarked Hugh, Putting his words into action. Thad began to wonder what any of their acquaintances would say should they happen to see them in company with Wandering Lu. The tramp looked so utterly disreputable that Thad disliked being discovered with him; and yet Hugh, who looked deeper than his companion, was surprised to notice that this dirt had the appearance of being rather new and fresh. The fact caused him to take further notice of the man, about whom he felt there rested quite a little air of mystery. As they walked along the road headed for town, Thad's curiosity got the better of his dislike and suspicion. "In all this twenty years of knocking about, ail over the world, as you claim, I suppose now there have been times when you've struck pay dirt--what I mean is that I sort of think you haven't always been what you are now, just a tramp? How about that, Wandering Lu?" "What, me?" chuckled the other. "Say, I've dug gold in Alaska, hunted pearls down near Ceylon, been at work in the diamond fields out in South Africa, and in lots of other places in the world took my turn at playing for high stakes with old Dame Fortune. Why, younkers, I've had fortunes several times, and let the same slip out of my hands. Some time, mebbe, if so be, I conclude to stay around this section of country, which pleases me a heap as far as I've seen the same, why I'd like to spin you a yarn or two that'd make your eyes look as big as them there individual butter plates they use in restaurants. I've run up against heaps and heaps of queer adventures. In fact, it's a wonder I didn't die long ago with my boots on. That's what peeves me, to think a feller who's been so close to death by violence so many times should after all be snuffed out with the pesky con." Then he had another spell of violent coughing that quite aroused the sympathy of Thad afresh, while Hugh observed and took note. According to his mind, these fits of near strangulation were almost too methodical to be genuine; still, he did not wish to condemn any one without positive proof, though laboring under the impression that the said Lu could not be as far gone as he tried to make them believe. Presently they arrived in the environs of Scranton. The boys went out of their way to accommodate their disreputable looking companion, for they would have struck across by another street if going home direct. "Mrs. Hosmer lives in that small cottage ahead of us," Hugh was saying, pointing as he spoke. The tramp stared, and nodded his head. "Looks right neat, accordin' to my notion," he said. "Matilda was always a great hand for keeping things clean. Now, I rather reckon I'll like this place a heap." Thad burned with fresh indignation to hear him so coolly signify his intention of burdening the already hard pressed sister with his keep. "Oh! is that so?" he snorted, "then I kind of think you'll have to get a move on you, Wandering Lu, and remove a few pounds of superfluous earth from your face and hands." The man did not show any sign of being offended at this attack; simply looked at his hands, and grinned as he remarked: "Reckon that I will, younker; but then soap is cheap, and I wouldn't want to soil Matilda's clean sheets and towels. Yes, if I'm going to become domesticated and give up all this roving business I suppose I'll just have to clean up a bit. Wonder now if Andrew he would have an extra suit of clothes he could turn over to me. I'd sure hate to make my poor sister blush to introduce her brother looking as tough as I do just now." "There's Mrs. Hosmer coming along the street," said Hugh at that juncture. "She's got a bundle with her, so I expect she's been getting more sewing to do from your mother or mine, Thad. And that's Mr. Hosmer just opened the door to let her in. He's been watching for her, no doubt, because they say he's always been a mighty good husband, and it nearly kills him to see her working so hard while he keeps on being too weak to be at his trade. We'll meet her at the door." They walked along, and stopped just as the good woman came up. Mrs. Hosmer had snow-white hair, and a most amiable countenance. Every one who knew her understood that the poor woman possessed a big heart, and would share her last crust with a hungry man or child. Thad, gritting his teeth at what he anticipated he would see, watched the meeting. Hugh answered her pleasant greeting by saying: "We chanced to come across a man who was inquiring for you, Mrs. Hosmer, and as he asked us to show him where you lived we have fetched him along. He can speak for himself now." The woman turned to look at the tramp. Up to then she had hardly noticed him, but now something seemed to stir within her bosom. They saw her start, and bending, look more closely, at the same time turning paler than usual. "Oh! who can it be?" she said, weakly. "I seem to see something familiar about the figure, and the face, but it's impossible, for my brother Lu has long been dead." "That's where you're mistaken, Matilda, because I'm that same Luther Corbley, and still alive and in the flesh, though pretty far gone, I'm afraid," and he acted as if about to start into one of his hysterical coughing spells, then thought better of it, because Matilda was rushing toward him, dropping her bundle as she came. Paying no attention to his soiled and ragged clothes, the good woman threw her arms about the neck of her long-lost brother, and actually kissed him again and again on his rough cheek. Hugh, watching closely, could see the man assume a pleased look, and once he thought he caught Wandering Lu actually winking his left eye in his direction, as though to say: "You see, she never will let me die on the road!" CHAPTER IV THE BARNACLE THAT CAME TO STAY The man in the doorway, Andrew Hosmer, had watched this remarkable scene with a variety of emotions. He realized that something in the nature of a calamity had come upon them, for if his poor, hard-working wife had found it difficult, even with the generous help of good friends in Scranton, to provide food for the two of them, however could she manage to add still another to the household, and feed a third mouth? Still, this man was undoubtedly Luther Corbley, the brother of whom she had so often talked, and who was believed to be long since dead, because he led such an adventurous life. And surely they could not be so inhuman as to deny him at least temporary shelter, and a share of their slender meals. So, greatly to the disgust of Thad in particular, Mr. Hosmer now came forward to offer his hand to the tramp, who took it eagerly. The look on Brother Lu's face impressed Hugh as one of strange import. He could not make it out at all, and even found himself vaguely wondering whether this man might not after all be some sort of artful impostor, who, having learned about the lost brother, chose to play the part simply to be well taken care of for a time. But then surely Matilda would soon be able to tell, when she got to talking of their childhood days. A thousand things were apt to come up, and even a cunning schemer could not help betraying his vast ignorance along such lines. About this time Brother Lu seemed to have one of his periodical outbursts of violent coughing. Indeed, he rather outdid himself on this occasion, as though determined to make a good showing before his newly-found relatives, and thus enlist their full-fledged sympathy in the start. Matilda seemed fairly shocked as he strained, and writhed, and almost burst a blood vessel with his efforts. Thad stood and watched, his lip curling as though he could no longer be deceived. To him the whole thing was now very much in the nature of a fraud, a delusion, and a snare. He did not doubt the identity of Brother Lu, but as to the genuine nature of his malady, that was another question entirely, and Thad could not be impressed again. He fully believed the man was faking sickness just to gain the sympathy of these simple people, and work out the game he had in view, which Thad was convinced was to make a snug nest for himself during the rest of the summer, perhaps for all time. "Let's be going along, Hugh," he said, as he wheeled on his chum, the light of honest indignation glowing in his eyes; "this thing is making me feel sick, and I can't stand much more of it!" Hugh himself was agreeable. He intended, however, to see considerably more of Brother Lu in the immediate future, and expected to be able to gauge the fellow for what he really was. If he felt positive that there was a chance of his being an impostor, Hugh would consider it his duty to warn Mr. Hosmer, so that with the help of his wife they might catch the fellow in some sort of trap and expose him. Even though he did turn out to be the genuine article, Hugh felt that it would be a shame to have him hanging on the poor couple, and causing Matilda to work harder than ever to provide food, while possibly this able bodied tramp led a lazy sort of an existence. Accordingly the two boys strolled on, not having far to go in order to reach Hugh's home, where he could deliver the "sweet butter" he had gone out to the farm after. Just as Hugh anticipated, Thad "boiled over" as soon as they were out of earshot of the Hosmer cottage. Turning to look back he had seen the wretched hobo being tenderly escorted into the little dwelling, hardly more than a dove-cote in point of size, Matilda on one side, and her husband on the other; and the sight caused Thad to grit his teeth savagely. "I tell you it's a burning shame for that husky fraud to impose himself on that poor old couple the way he has done," grumbled Thad. "He's no more sick than I am. Didn't you see how he devoured all that food at a sitting? No man wasting away with consumption could stuff like that. And see how fat he is in the bargain; why, he'd make two of old Mr. Hosmer. Yet they are ready to take him in, feed him three meals a day, give him the best bed in the house, most likely, and for an indefinite time. Uh! thunder! it makes me furious just to think of it." Hugh was amused at seeing Thad act in this way, because it was so unlike his usual cool demeanor. Undoubtedly he was, as he had said, indignant from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. "We'll both of us keep an eye on Brother Lu," remarked Hugh, "and try to learn his little game. You know he asked us to come over and see him, when he would keep his promise to tell us some thrilling yarns about his adventures in many lands." "Oh! I've no doubt the fellow has a slick tongue in his mouth, and can spin stories that haven't a particle of foundation except in his brain. He's no ignoramus, that's sure, and if he hasn't traveled in all those countries he's read about the same, and can talk everlastingly about things he imagines he's seen." "But all the while we'll be watching to trip him up, don't you see?" the other continued. "I'll set Matilda to fixing a trap or two that will settle the question about his being the man he says he is." "Oh! I'm not thinking so much about that!" burst out Thad, "even if he is Luther Corbley, her own brother, that isn't the main trouble. It's about his fastening himself like a barnacle or a leech on them that I hate to consider. It makes me think of bow the Old Man of the Sea, after being helped by Sindbad the Sailor, refused to get off his benefactor's shoulders when asked. That's what this chap means to do, get so comfortably settled that nothing can dislodge him." "We'll see about that," snapped Hugh, his eyes sparkling now. "Some of the good people of the town who are interested in the welfare of Mr. Hosmer and his wife will object, and so Brother Lu may have to trudge along again." "I'm afraid you'll run up against a snag when you try that sort of thing, Hugh. That snag will be the affection of Matilda. She's _awfully_ tender-hearted, you can see, and would rather go hungry herself than that any one related to her should suffer, even a little. Just think of that beast being installed in their home. Every time he thinks it necessary to stir up a little extra sympathy he'll start that old gag of coughing to work again. Oh! I feel as if I could willingly help duck him in Hobson's Mill-pond, or give him a ride out of town on a rail some fine night." Hugh had to laugh at hearing this honest outburst. "No use talking, you don't seem to have much feeling for the woes of a poor old homeless tramp, Thad," he told his chum. "Well, I haven't, if you want me to give you the honest truth," said Thad, bluntly; "in my humble opinion any husky man who is willing to loaf around and let a delicate woman like Matilda Hosmer labor for his support doesn't deserve a grain of pity. Remember, Hugh, I'm not referring to her husband, who is a good fellow, and doing all he can to get his strength back again, so he can go to his trade, and allow her to take things easier. I'm going to tell my folks all about it. The women of this town ought to do something to influence Mrs. Hosmer, if she persists in letting that hulk of a lazybones stay with her, and be fed at her expense." "That might be a bright idea, in good time," assented Hugh. "Surely our mothers would know how to manage, and could get Matilda to give the man his walking papers; though on second thought I really believe she would refuse, even if they declared they would have to decline to assist her further unless she chased Brother Lu away from her cottage home. He knows her character, too, because you remember how he told us Matilda always was a tender-hearted thing, and would not stand by and see a wretched dog suffer if she could prevent it by any personal sacrifice." Thad did not reply immediately, but made a number of highly significant gestures, of a nature to cause Hugh to fancy the other were punching some fellow's head in a satisfactory fashion. And somehow actions spoke louder than words in that case. "Don't let this queer business weigh too heavily on your mind, Thad," warned the other, as they prepared to separate. "We've got a game ahead of us, remember, and it's mighty important that the catcher behind the bat should keep his wits about him." "I guess I know all that, Hugh," chuckled Thad. "Once I get to playing ball, and there's going to be nothing interfere with my work as a backstop. I'm feeling in tip-top condition right now, and everything working right expect to be a factor in bringing Belleville down into the dust day after tomorrow." "Once we get that game pulled off," observed Hugh, "and we won't have another championship one for two weeks, because Allendale and Belleville meet the next Saturday, though we expect to play another team from Jenkintown, just to keep our hands in, you know. Our next job will be to hustle with that strong Allendale combination, that broke up everything last season, and went through with only one defeat." "But next week, with nothing on our hands, Hugh, we can turn our attention to this miserable business again, can't we?" "Why, I know of no reason to prevent it," observed the other. "Let's hope that by then Brother Lu will have decided town life is too dull for him, and be once more holding down the railroad ties in his journeying through the country. I've read that it's mighty hard for a genuine tramp to settle down to any civilized sort of existence. You see, they're of a sort of migrating gypsy breed, and get as uneasy as a fish out of water when stalled for any length of time." "'Course that would settle it all beautifully," agreed Thad, with a relieved look on his honest face; "but according to my mind it would be too good to come true. That sly chap means to play the game to the limit. As long as he isn't half starved he'll hang on there, and work upon the sympathy of those poor people. The only sure way to get him dislodged would be to cut his rations short; though to do that you'd have to hurt Matilda and her sick husband. But give me a little time, and I'll fix him, that's right, I will!" If Brother Lu could only have seen and heard all this he might have been made a bit uneasy, under the conviction that his soft berth in his sister's home was not going to prove such an easy snap as the conditions seemed to imply. Hugh found himself wondering just how the fellow would take it. Brother Lu was becoming something of a mystery to Hugh, and he was already making up his mind that it would afford him great pleasure to study the rogue still further, and see what that sly gleam or twinkle in his blue eyes really stood for. "Come over tonight, Thad, and we'll talk matters over again---baseball matters, I mean, of course," Hugh called out as his chum started away. "Just as you say, Hugh, though I was expecting that you'd favor me with a call. There are a few little things that had ought to be straightened out before we hit that slugging nine over in Belleville. I hope Alan Tyree keeps up his good work in the box. Lately he's seemed to be doing finely, and Mr. Saunders declares he could mow down a lot of heavy hitters in the college league. Well, we'll know more about a heap of things when Saturday night comes around. See you later, then, Hugh!" CHAPTER V SCRANTON TACKLES BELLEVUE HIGH There was quite a big crowd at Belleville when the time came for the game to start on Saturday afternoon. Scranton had sent a hustling delegation of many hundreds of enthusiastic people, most of whom were young folks, deeply interested in the fortunes of their school team, led by Hugh Morgan. The scene was a pretty one, for, it being a warm day, the girls were out in force, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, and waving their school pennants with a patriotic fervor that did them full credit. Then there were the groups of students belonging to each of the rival high schools, with some fellow to lead them in cheering; they promised to make it a day long to be remembered with their collective noise and hearty concerted shouting. Already the two teams were in evidence, Scranton being at practice, with the use of the field for fifteen minutes. Some were knocking out flies and fierce ground balls to the fielders; while the catcher varied the monotony of things by sending down speedy balls to second to catch an imaginary runner from first, after which Julius Hobson or Owen Dugdale would start the ball around the circuit like lightning before it reached the hand of the batter again. All this preliminary work was being watched with more or less interest by the vast crowd of spectators. There were many who pretended to be able to gauge the capacity and fielding power of a club in this stage, but experienced onlookers knew the fallacy of such a premature decision. Often the very fellows who displayed carelessness in practice would stiffen up like magic when the game was actually started, and never make a sloppy play from that time on, their throwing being like clock-work and their stopping of hard hit bounders simply gilt-edged. The umpire was on the ground, and would soon be donning his mask for work behind the bat. He was a former Yale graduate, and as he lived in Jenkintown, would not be inclined to favor any one of the three clubs representing the High School League. Besides, Mr. Hitchens was a man held high in esteem by everyone who knew him, and his decisions were not likely to be questioned, since everyone felt certain he would be strictly impartial, and say what he believed to be so. When the time limit had expired the players came in, and the two field captains were seen in consultation, as though there might be something in the way of ground rules to be settled before play was called. The crowd was so large that in several places it had worked over into the field, and a rope had to be stretched to keep the spectators from bothering the players. It was understood that a hit in a certain quarter amidst the spectators would be counted a two-bagger. To secure a home run on the Belleville grounds the batter must send his ball in a direct line for center, and far above the fielder's head. The ground has a slight slope there, and once a good start was made it was likely to elude the running fielder long enough to allow a fast sprinter to circle the bases. Hugh had never played on the Belleville grounds before, but he always made it a practice to closely examine every field before starting a game, and discovering its weak spots. Now he realized that Belleville must be well aware of that small slope, and the possibilities it had for a home run. Doubtless the Belleville boys had all been trained to aim their guns in that direction, with the hope of accumulating a number of four-base hits during the progress of a game. The visitors, not being wise to the fact, would waste much of their surplus energy in sending out hits to the side of the field where, no matter how vigorous the wallops might be, still they would only count for two bases. So Hugh gave each and every one of the boys the secret, and the "heavies" were implored to do their utmost to send their hits straight ahead, and high over the head of fielder Major, who did duty in the middle garden. They assured him they would not be found wanting when the time came, though, of course, much must depend on how they were able to gauge the slants and drops of the artful Kinsey, pitcher for Belleville. When the two high-school nines took the field they were found to consist of the following players in their batting order: Scranton High Player Position -------------------------------------- "Just" Smith Left Field Joe Danvers First Base Horatio Juggins Right Field Owen Dugdale Short Stop Hugh Morgan Third Base (Field capt.) "K.K." (Ken Kinkaid) Center Field Julius Hobson Second Base Alan Tyree Pitcher Thad Stevens Catcher Belleville High Player Position -------------------------------------- Conway Left Field Gould First Base Wright Right Field Waterman Shortstop "O.K." Kramer Third Base Major Center Field O'Malley Second Base Kinsey Pitcher Leonard Catcher Of course the home team elected to go into the field in the opening inning. This brought "Just" Smith to the bat to start things moving. Well, he proved to be the "round peg in the round hole," for what did he do but tap the very first ball up for as pretty a single as any one would want to see. This was certainly a good beginning. Joe Danvers "whiffed out" after knocking several foul strikes. That was one down, but the eager Scranton fans were saying to each other: "Notice that our fellows don't seem to have any trouble as yet in getting to Arthur Kinsey this fine afternoon! Oh! wait till they limber up, and you'll see them knock him out of the box." "Yes, just wait," some of the local rooters would call out, "and see how he mows your fellows down in one, two, three style. Arthur always starts in easy and stiffens up as he goes along. He has pitched two games in an afternoon, and won both. They do say he was better at the end of the eighteen innings than when he started. Yes, please don't take snap judgment on our poor pitcher. There, did you see how Joe Danvers nearly broke his back trying to hit a ball that didn't come within a foot of the plate. He'll have them all guessing pretty soon and eating out of his hand. The game is long, my brother, don't settle it in the first inning." Owen got in his little bunt, all right, and succeeded in advancing the runner to second, as well as saving his own bacon. So there were two on the bags, and as many down, when Hugh stepped up and took a chance at the offerings of the wily Kinsey. Hugh managed to pick out a good one and sent it like a bullet straight at the shortstop, who knocked it down; and finding that he could not reach first in time, as Hugh was jumping along like the wind, sent it over to second, where he caught Owen just by a fraction of an inch, and Mr. Hitchens waved him off; so after all the brave start, no score resulted. In their half of the first, Belleville did no better. In fact, they only got a man on first through an error on the part of Joe Danvers, who unfortunately slipped in reaching for the ball, and as his foot was not on the bag the umpire called the runner safe. But he died there, Alan Tyree cutting the next two men down as a mower in the field might the ripe grain with his scythe. Again did Scranton make a bid for a run in the next deal, but once more slipped up when hope had begun to grip the hearts of many of the anxious home rooters. In this inning "K.K." struck out, Julius Hobson was sent to the bench on a foul that Wright out in the field managed to settle under after a lively run; Tyree got a Texas league hit that allowed him to plant himself on first, and Thad slipped one over into the bleachers in right that, according to the ground rules, allowed him to go to second. With men on two bags up came "Just" Smith, who had done so bravely before; but alas! as that Belleville fan had truly said, the local pitcher had tightened up and was not such "easy pickings" now; so Smith only whiffed, and the side was out. Belleville, much encouraged, started hitting in their half of this inning. Two good blows, added to a couple of errors, allowed them to send a brace of runners around the circuit. It began to look serious for Scranton, and Hugh bade his men brace up and do something worth while. With Scranton at the bat Joe Danvers cracked out a clean single, after he had had seven fouls called on him. Juggins tried to do the same but failed to connect. Owen, after two strikes and three balls, again bunted. He succeeded in shoving Joe down to second, but it went as a sacrifice after all, because they got Owen before he could cross the initial sack. Again history repeated itself, and it seemed up to Hugh to do something to save the inning from being a goose-egg again. He braced himself for an effort. Kinsey apparently considered Hugh dangerous, and was for passing him, in hopes of being better able to strike out the next man up, "K.K." But Hugh refused to be denied, and stepping out he smote one of those curves a blow that sent it spinning far out in left, allowing Joe to come in, and placing Hugh on second. Things began to look a bit brighter now. Encouraged by the aspect, and possibly the cheers of the Scranton fans, "K.K." put one over second that allowed Hugh to reach third, no attempt being made to nip the batter at first. Then up stepped Julius Hobson. As he was so fond of saying, it was "Hobson's choice" with him, because he could not bunt, but had to hit out. Well, he succeeded in doing a mighty thing, for the ball went whizzing far over Major's head out in center, and started rolling down the little incline. Hugh and "K.K." raced home amidst thunderous plaudits, and after them came Julius, plodding along "like an ice-wagon," some of the anxious ones declared, though after all he had abundance of time to make the complete rounds. There were no more runs garnered that inning, but then Scranton was not greedy. Four against two looked mighty good to the visitors. So the game went on. It became a regular see-saw sort of affair, first one side being ahead and then the other. At the end of the seventh, after considerable excitement, the two rival nines found themselves just where they had started in the beginning of the game, for they were tied, eight to eight, and both fighting tooth and nail to keep the other from adding to the score, while also endeavoring to secure a few runs on their own account. Both pitchers had warmed to their work, however, and runs were likely to be a scarce article from that time on. When Scranton was going into the field for the beginning of the eighth inning, the vast crowd settled down for an interesting close, because when two teams are as nearly matched as these seemed to be, it is a toss-up which will win the game. CHAPTER VI A HOT FINISH "It's anybody's game so far!" one of the Scranton boys was calling out. "Well, I told you that Kinsey would grow better the longer he was in the box," laughed the local rooter, who had spoken before. "Why, he's just getting warmed up by now. Your fellows will be lucky to touch him again from now on. It's as good as sewed up already." "Don't crow too soon," Scranton told him, unflinchingly, for boys are not to be so easily bluffed; and the Scranton fellows still had great confidence in their team, led by Hugh Morgan, as strong finishers. It began to look very much like a pitchers' battle from that time on. Kinsey was fast becoming invulnerable, and batter after batter failed to connect with his wizard delivery. He would smile at them, and then proceed to give them something they were not expecting, so that the heaviest Scranton batters struck out. On the other hand, Alan Tyree was doing almost as well, and if he fell a trifle short his teammates made up the difference, for they performed splendidly. Several hummers that apparently were ticketed for two-baggers, perhaps more, were hauled down by expert fingers before they could get out of the diamond, while the fielders caught several particularly vicious flies that would have counted heavily against Scranton were they allowed to fall safely. The ninth inning saw no change, for the tie was still unbroken. This sort of thing pleased the crowd immensely, as an extra inning game always means additional excitement, and added thrills for the money. Even the tenth did not break the monotony, although at one time it looked as if Belleville might add a tally to their score, and possibly clinch matters. Leonard, their hard-hitting backstop, sent one out in short center, failing to give it enough force to take advantage of that incline back of "K.K." Then Conway, who had been hitting savagely latterly, tried to knock the cover off the ball, but only succeeded in popping up a high foul which Thad smothered in his big mitt after dancing around for several seconds, as though the twister were difficult to gauge correctly. Gould bunted unexpectedly when the stage was set for a mighty blow, with the fielders playing away out. He advanced Leonard, although caught himself, thanks to the quick work of the pitcher, who closed in on the ball, and tossed it to first ahead of the sprinting Gould. So Leonard was on second, with two out, and another slugger at the plate in the person of Wright, with Waterman to follow. Some of the Belleville boys started cheering and they appeared to be almost certain that a run was as good as counted, but for once they made a mistake, because after Tyree had gotten himself into a bad hole, with three balls and one strike called, he forced the batter to foul, and then shut him out on a dizzy inshoot that he failed to connect with, being called out by the watchful umpire. The eleventh inning saw no difference in the prevailing score, which after both clubs had had a turn at bat remained the same, eight to eight. "Why, anything is possible with those two boys going as strong as they are right now," the Belleville rooter was saying. "That pitcher of yours, Scranton, is no slouch, believe me. He isn't hardly in the same class as Kinsey, but your fellows are supporting him in great shape, and saving many a run by fine field work. But of course we'll win in the end; we're bound to. One of our boys will put in the big wallop and circle the bases on a trot, and then it'll all be over but the shouting. It's no disgrace to be whipped by a Belleville team, Scranton." "Spell able first!" taunted the visiting fan, still filled with implicit faith in his school representatives. It was now the beginning of the twelfth. Hugh had again talked to his fellows, and once more implored them to get busy with their bats. "Don't ever get the notion in your heads that you can't hit Kinsey's shoots and drops!" he told them, as Julius Hobson selected his bat, being the first man up. We've just _got_ to work a man around the circuit this inning." "If we don't we never will next time, because it's the unlucky thirteenth," remarked another, who, like many baseball players, seemed to have a touch of superstition in his make-up. "The thirteenth is as good as any other," Hugh told him, reprovingly; "and if we reach it I hope you'll not lie down on that account. Julius, you're due for a wallop, remember." "Sure thing, Hugh, watch my smoke!" chuckled the other, as he stepped blithely out and tapped his bat several times on the plate after a fashion he had, while Kinsey was eyeing him reflectively, as though trying to remember what the long and short suit of the Hobson boy was. Then he sent in a screamer which Julius as promptly sent far out in the heavens, and started running like mad for first. They could see the long-legged Conway out in left field sprinting like a huge grasshopper in hopes of getting under the soaring ball in time to set himself for the catch. As if by a preconcerted signal everybody in the grandstand and the bleachers stood up, the better to see what happened, because it was a most critical point of the game. Julius was half-way down to second and still going strong when Conway was seen to fairly leap up into the air, then take a headlong fall; after which he hastily scrambled to his feet, holding up his hand to signify that he had a ball, which he then threw in to the pitcher, amidst a roar of cheers. Even Scranton fans joined in the applause, being able to appreciate a fine bit of work, although it gave them the keenest sort of disappointment to realize that after all Julius had had all his run to second for nothing. But at least his mighty blow would serve to encourage some of his team-mates, who latterly had not been doing much with Kinsey's weird offerings. Of course, nothing was expected of the pitcher, for Tyree was a notoriously weak man at the bat. He tried the best he knew how to connect, but after three attempts had to go back to the bench. So two were down, and Thad Stevens at bat. Hugh said something to his chum as the latter stepped forward to the plate. Thad looked very grim as though he felt that the whole fate of the game rested on his young shoulders just then. He waited for his ball, had a strike called, and then connected. The sound of that blow would never be forgotten by those eager Scranton fans. It was as loud and clear as the stroke of a woodsman's ax on a hollow tree. And they saw the ball speeding away out dead ahead. Everybody started up again to watch its course, while shouts rent the air. Major was making along like mad. No use, Major, because that ball is ticketed for a home run, and nothing on earth but a collapse of the part of the fellow spinning around the bases can prevent it. When the ball struck the ground Major was not within thirty feet of it. He did not even attempt to jump up and tag the fleeting sphere as it passed far above his bead, realizing the absurdity of such a proceeding. His business was simply to recover the ball, and get it in home as rapidly as he could. But before this could be accomplished Thad Stevens was lying on the ground among his mates, panting for breath, but a pleased grin on his face, while some of the fellows were patting him happily on the back, and telling him that he had saved the day for good old Scranton High. That ended the scoring for Scranton, although "Just" Smith did manage to get on first by means of a scratch hit. Joe Danvers tried to equal the performance of the backstop, but while he met the ball and sent it far afield, unluckily. It went too high, and this enabled Major to get beneath, with the result that the fly was caught, and the side went out. The excitement started all over again when Belleville came to bat for their turn. It was plain to be seen that they had "blood in their eye," and meant to redouble their efforts to score. An error, together with two fair hits, put a couple of the locals on the bases. Only one man was down in the bargain. Everybody looked anxious on both sides, for the game was likely to be ended, one way or the other, in that same twelfth inning. A single would tie the score, a double give the game to Belleville. Hugh signaled to his infield to play close. He wanted a double play so as to put an end to the intense strain, which was beginning to tell upon every player. It was the great Conway at bat again. He looked particularly dangerous, for he had a way of standing there like a mighty warrior, flourishing his club, and watching the pitcher like a hawk. Conway had shown himself to be the most consistent hitter on the Belleville team when up against the deceptive shoots of Alan Tyree. Would he again succeed in connecting with the elusive ball, and sending one or both runners home? Tyree appeared perfectly cool, but of course he was far from being so. He delivered his first offering, and the umpire called it a ball. A second followed likewise labeled. Some thought he feared Conway so much that he meant to pass him, to take chances with Gould, who had been less able to connect with the ball. But with the third effort they heard again that suggestive "crack" as Conway struck, having finally received the ball he wanted. The crowd gave a convulsive gasp, but that was all; there was no time for anything more, so rapidly did events occur. Three runners were in motion, Conway heading down for first, Leonard making for second and O'Malley beating it along the line full-tilt toward third. Owen Dugdale was seen to leap frantically up into the air, then almost fall over with the force of the ball which he held tightly in his right band. He did not make any attempt to cut the runner down at first, partly because Conway was already out through the catch, and then things were better fixed for him closer at hand. O'malley was coming down like a hurricane. He saw what had happened and tried to get back, but Julius was at the bag and ready to take the toss like lightning. When the spectators saw him touch the bag, and that the umpire had made the motion to indicate that Leonard was easily out, a great shout arose; for the game was over. After all the intense anxiety Scranton had won the first of the series of three games which she expected to play with Belleville, unless the other team failed to take the next one there would be no necessity for playing the "rubber." So Scranton boys were able to wend their way homeward in the coming dusk, singing their school songs, and feeling all the airs of conquerors. A happy crowd it was, taken in all, and rosy visions of the future naturally filled the minds and hearts of those boys who had fought so valiantly that day to overcome the enemy. They could even look forward confidently now to the next game, which would be with Allendale, two weeks off; and some there were who already saw in imagination the championship pennant of the Three Town High School League floating from the flag-pole on the dear old campus during the Fall session of school. CHAPTER VII WHAT THAD SAW Some days passed. As there would be no championship game the coming Saturday for Scranton High the town settled back into its ordinary condition, so far as the young people went. There were afternoons for practice, of course, when the full team was expected to be on deck, and renew their acquaintance with the many intricacies of the game as taught by Coach Saunders. Still every other day the boys were at liberty to go and come as they pleased. Some made it a religious duty, as well as pleasure, to show up regularly at the ball grounds, where there were always enough fellows handy to get up a scrub game, for baseball aspirants were as thick as blackberries in August around Scranton that season. A great revival of interest in outdoor sports had struck the town, and promised to stick far into the fall and winter. On one of these off-days---it was Friday, to be exact---Thad showed up over at the home of his chum, evidently laboring under some unusual stress of excitement. Hugh had walked home with him from school, and being busy with certain things had stayed in his den for two hours or more. Then in burst Thad, his face red with suppressed news. "What's happened now?" demanded Hugh, realizing instantly that the other was in a perfect "sweat" to communicate something he had learned. "Have the Germans landed on the coast, or is little old New York being bombarded from giant airplanes? There's something amiss, I can see from your way of bursting in on me." "Oh! you know what I've been bothering my head over lately, Hugh," snapped the panting Thad. "Of course it's that hobo!" "Meaning Matilda's now quiet and respected brother Lu, eh?" the other chuckled. "Well, what's he been doing now---cut stick, and lit out, as we hoped would be the case, finding life in and around a sleepy town like Scranton too dull and commonplace to please the fastidious notions of such a wonderful world traveler?" "What! that leech clear out, and free his poor sister from the load he's gone and fastened on her? Well, it's just the contrary; he can't be shaken off, try as you will. Why, Hugh, even my respected Ma and two of her friends couldn't do the first thing toward getting Matilda to say she'd chase him off." "Oh! that's the way the land lies, is it, Thad? Then some of the good ladies of Scranton have been over trying to convince Matilda that blood isn't thicker than water, and that she is under no sort of obligation to give her wanderer of a brother a shelter, either temporary or permanent, under her little roof." "I hurried so after the show was over, Hugh, that I'm out of breath; but I'm getting the same back now, and can soon tell you all about it. In one way, it was as good as a circus, though it did make me grit my teeth to see how that miserable sinner acted. Oh! I just wished for a chance to give him a good kick or two. Why, honest, Hugh, I believe I could willingly assist in tarring and feathering a scamp like Brother Lu, who can settle down on his poor relative, and expect to be waited on and fed and treated like an invalid the rest of his life, while all the time he's as strong as anything, and as sleek as a well-fed rat!" Hugh laughed outright at the comparison. "Go to it, then, Thad, and relieve my curiosity. You've got me so worked up by now that I'll surely burst if you don't spin the whole story in a hurry." "Well, it's this way," began the other, as he fanned his heated face with a paper be picked up from Hugh's table. "I happened to know that Ma and a couple of the other ladies who have been so kind to Matilda during the last year had decided it was a duty they owed her to pay her a visit, take a look for themselves at this Brother Lu, to decide if he was really an object of pity, or a big fraud; and also advise Mrs. Hosmer that she ought to give him his walking papers right away. "Hugh, I decided not to say anything to you about it, because I knew you had laid out something you wanted to do at home this afternoon; but I was resolved to be around the Hosmer shack when the ladies called about three today, and try to learn just how the friendly scheme came out. "They showed up fine and dandy on time. I was hidden behind some bushes close by, and no sooner had they passed inside, Mr. Hosmer coming to the door to welcome them, than I found it convenient to creep up still closer. The window was open, and I could hear the chatter of women's tongues as they chatted away. Mr. Hosmer came out and went downtown on some errand; I suspect that, like the wise man he is, he smelled a rat and wanted to leave a clear field to Ma and Mrs. Lund and Miss Carpenter. Perhaps Mr. Hosmer isn't just as much in favor of entertaining Brother Lu the rest of his natural life as he may have been in the start, for he must know deep down in his man's soul that the fellow is only working his sister for his keep. "Well, anyway, I could hear them talking for a little while, after which who should come out of the house but our former hobo, Brother Lu. Say, he's actually wearing Mr. Hosmer's best suit, would you believe it, and he seems to like to pose as a sort of retired gentleman; it must be nice after getting such a precarious living walking the railway ties, and begging or stealing as he went, to drop down here in a snug nest where he has the best bed, is sure of three meals a day, wears his brother-in-law's only Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, and I guess smokes Andrew's little stock of tobacco in the bargain." Thad certainly did manage to put considerable emphasis and scorn into his vivid description of the contemptible actions of the reformed tramp. Hugh was laughing to himself over his chum's righteous indignation; nor did he have any doubt but that, given the opportunity, Thad would most heartily have assisted in a little operation calculated to furnish the said Brother Lu with a nice warm coat of down from a pillow, plastered on with a liberal coating of sticky black tar. "Of course, after he came on the scene, I lost all interest in the folks inside the cottage, and kept watching his antics," continued Thad, after giving vent to his feelings as he did. "I couldn't make out anything that was said, anyway, but it was easy to tell from the way the voices dropped after he came out that the ladies were getting in their work, and trying to show Matilda she had no business to add to her burdens. "Brother Lu, he acted like a sneak from the Start. I could see that he was taking it for a big joke, because he was grinning like everything. I guess he knew what a grip he'd managed to get on his sister, and felt sure not even a dozen ladies of Scranton could cause her to throw him out. "What did he do but slide around the wall of the house, get down on his hands and knees, and creep right under that open window, where he could hear every word that was said. What do you think of that for meanness, the skunk; now, it never occurred to me to try that dodge, you know." "I could see him as plain as anything, Hugh. He'd listen a bit, and then just as like as not hear something that tickled him a heap, for he'd double up and seem to just shake with silent laughter. Oh! I was just burning like fun, and boiling over, I was so mad to see how he carried on; because I just knew Matilda was holding the fort against all the batteries the three ladies could bring to bear, and telling them that it was her sacred duty to take care of her poor, poor brother in his last sickness, because the rough world had used him so harshly. "Well, in the end he crawled away in a big hurry, so I knew the three ladies must be coming out. Sure enough they came in sight, and both Mrs. Lund and Miss Carpenter were looking as though they felt highly indignant because Matilda she chose to stick by her good-for-nothing brother, even when they told her they could hardly be expected to go to the trouble to furnish sewing just to help feed such a lazy-looking man, and keep him in smoking tobacco. Ma, she seemed dreadfully hurt, and I guess she hardly knew what to do, for she thinks a heap of Matilda and Mr. Hosmer. "They went away, and Matilda, she stood there and looked after them sort of sad like. She knew she had offended three of her best friends, and it cut her to the quick. Still, I could see from her face that she didn't mean to turn on Brother Lu, and tell him he'd have to clear out; for she gave her head a stubborn little flirt as she turned and went indoors again. "Hugh, this thing is really getting serious, seems to me. If those ladies think it their duty to quit giving Matilda work the poor things will starve, because all they've got to depend on now is what she earns by her needle. Something ought to be done to rid her of that wart that's fastened on her bounty; if she won't give him up of her own will, then some of us ought to see to it that he's chased out of the neighborhood." "Hold on, Thad, go slow," warned the more cautious Hugh. "I feel pretty much the same as you do about it, but we mustn't think of trying any White Cap business around such a respectable town as Scranton. There's still lots of time to investigate; and if the worst comes we can appeal to the mayor to help. Perhaps the police could look up the man's record, and make him clear out on the plea that he's got a bad reputation. That would answer our purpose, and at the same time keep within the law." Thad looked wonderfully pleased. "I didn't tell you something more I saw, Hugh," he now went on to say. "When the three ladies came out, Brother Lu he managed to be there in plain sight. He tried to be polite like, and was of course seized with one of those fake fits of coughing right before them. Matilda ran to his side, and put her arm around him looking defiantly at Ma as if to say: 'There, don't you see how far gone he is, and how can you ask me to be so inhuman and unsisterly as to tell him he must go out again into the cold, cruel world that has treated him so badly?' "The ladies looked after Brother Lu as he staggered away, as if they hardly knew what to think. But it happened, Hugh, that I could watch the man from where I was snuggled down, and would you believe me, he had no sooner got behind the little building they use for a woodshed than he started to dance a regular old hoe-down, snapping his fingers, and looking particularly merry. I tell you I could hardly hold in, I was so downright mad; I wanted to rush out and denounce him for an old fraud of the first water. But on considering how useless that would be, besides giving it away that I suspected. him, and was spying on his actions, I managed to get a grip on myself again. "After things had sizzled out, Hugh, I came away, and ran nearly all the distance between the Hosmer cottage and your house, I was that eager to tell you how the land lay. And now, once for all, what can we do to bounce that fraud, and free poor Matilda from the three-big-meals-a-day brother who's fastened on her like a leech?" Hugh nodded his head as though he had been thinking while his chum continued to tell of his experiences. From his manner Thad jumped to the conclusion that Hugh might have something interesting to say, and in this he proved to be right. CHAPTER VIII A BAD OUTLOOK FOR BROTHER LU "Now that you've told me such an interesting thing about this queer tramp we ran across the other day, and who turns out to be Mrs. Hosmer's only brother," Hugh was saying, "I want to return the compliment, and explain that I've been doing a little missionary work or scouting on my own hook." Thad showed signs of intense interest. "I sort of thought you'd be wanting to cultivate his acquaintance so as to study the chap at closer range, Hugh," he hastened to say. "Well, did he entertain you with some accounts of his adventures in different parts of the world, as he promised he'd do if we'd drop around at his new home and see him?" "He certainly can talk a blue streak, once he gets started," admitted Hugh, with a little whistle. "Why, that man would have made a splendid lawyer, if he'd ever had the ambition to try; and as a promoter for land schemes he'd take the cake. But he says he was born with the wanderlust in his veins that would not let him rest anywhere for a decent length of time. No sooner would he get settled nicely, and perhaps own some big piece of land, down in Brazil once, or it may have been out in our own West, than along would come that awful yearning to be on the move again; and so, unable to resist, he would sacrifice his property, and get on the jump again." "If you could only rely on all he says, Hugh," admitted the deeply interested Thad, "he'd be a mighty interesting character; but for one, I firmly believe it's a great big lie; he's never been anywhere but around this country, and that traveling on freight-car beams, and walking the ties." "Well," Hugh went on, "he certainly has a mighty intimate acquaintance with all sorts of countries, for he can describe things in the most minute way you ever heard. He kept me fairly chained while he was talking of Borneo, Sumatra, Hong Kong, China, Japan, the Philippines, and all those far-away countries in the South Seas. If he's only read about them, the man has the most astonishing memory I ever ran across." "Oh! he's no doubt a character," admitted the skeptical Thad, as though he begrudged acknowledging even this much; "but I still believe him to be a fake. Keep right on telling me what you did, Hugh." "For that matter, I didn't do much of anything except listen to his stories, for he kept up a steady stream of talk for a whole hour or more, and covered a wide territory in that time." "I sort of think Brother Lu has conceived a liking for me which is hardly returned in the same ratio; though I confess there's something almost fascinating about the fellow." Thad acted as though alarmed. "Be careful, and keep on your guard, Hugh, or else he'll be hypnotizing you just like he seems to have done with poor Matilda and her husband. That slick tongue of his can do all sorts of stunts. Why if you don't look out we'll have you going around taking up a subscription to fit Brother Lu out with a brand new suit of togs; and perhaps buying the poor chap a bully meerschaum pipe; for it must be dreadful that he is now compelled to use one of Mr. Hosmer's old corncob affairs." His sarcasm was lost upon his chum, for Hugh laughed merrily at the gruesome picture Thad drew of his complete subjugation to the wiles of the schemer. "Of course," he continued, calmly, "I didn't forget what I was there for principally, and all the while he was talking so fluently and holding my interest, I kept watching him and trying to study his real character. Thad, I own up to failure. Once I thought I was a pretty clever hand at that sort of thing, but now I'm mixer-up, and have lost considerable confidence. "I kept changing my mind again and again. When he'd tell some of the most astonishing stories of the strange lands he'd roved through, I'd begin to say to myself that he must surely be just lying. Then the fellow'd mention some little happening that he'd describe so vividly, would you believe it, I felt the tears in my eyes, for it would be sort of pathetic. So during that whole hour I sat there and changed my mind every ten minutes, now blowing hot, and again cold. I came away in as muddled a state as I went there. His actions seem to stamp him a rogue if ever there was one; and yet, Thad, I seemed to see something different in the depths of his twinkling blue eyes." "Oh! thunder! however are we going to get rid of such a sticker?" groaned Thad, as though at a loss to know what next to do. "Listen," resumed Hugh. "Among other things he mentioned was an account of his adventures down in Texas in the big oil field there, where he said men make fortunes one day and lose them the next in speculation. He went into some details to tell me of a strange thing he had witnessed there, and among other names mentioned, he chanced to speak of a Marshal Hastings, who, it seems, is much feared by the bad men of that community. Somehow, I thought I could detect a little quaver in Brother Lu's voice whenever he spoke of this party; and, Thad, do you know, the idea flashed through my brain that perhaps he'd had an unpleasant half hour with that same Marshal Hastings himself." "I take it that you mean the officer may have warned Lu to shake the dust of that region off his brogans, and make himself scarce, if he didn't want to pull hemp; is that your idea, Hugh?" "Something along that order," came the steady reply. "At least he could not think of Marshal Hastings without some memory that was unpleasant, making him shiver." Thad's eagerness increased by jumps, and showed itself on his face, which was now lighted up with anticipation. "I'm beginning to sense something coming, Hugh," he hastened to say. "What you saw gave you a sort of idea, didn't it? You reckon right now that there may be a way to frighten this lazy loafer, so that of his own free will he'll cut stick and clear out. Well, perhaps after all something like that would be the best way to get rid of him. I don't believe the people in this civilized section of country would stand for any night-riding business like they did in the Kentucky tobacco district; or such a thing as that tar and feather picnic. So go on and tell me your scheme." "Well," Hugh continued, "you could hardly call it by such a name as yet, because the idea is hardly more than half hatched. But when he told me about the way the bad men used to shake at mention of that brave marshal's very name, and I saw him doing something along the same order, why, I began to figure out that if only Brother Lu could be made to believe Marshal Hastings was here from Texas, looking for _somebody_ he meant to take back with him, why, he might get such a bad scare he'd skip by the light of the moon between days, and never, never come back again." Thad gave his chum a vigorous pound on the back that made the other wince; but then he was accustomed to taking things of this nature from expressive Thad. "Oh! that sounds good to me, Hugh!" he burst out with. "I honestly believe you are getting close to a bully scheme that may pan out firstclass. Argument and all kinds of pleading wouldn't influence that man a bit, because he's selfish, I know he must be, or else he wouldn't burden his poor sister, and see her working for his miserable comfort every day, and all day long. But, Hugh, he could be moved by fear. If so be he has ever done anything down there in Texas that he could be arrested for, why, just the mere knowledge that this marshal, who always gets those he goes after, has come north, and is looking for some one, ought to start Brother Lu on a gallop for another distant section of country." "It might," said Hugh, reflectively, as though the exuberance of his comrade was having an effect on his mind. "It surely would," repeated Thad, pounding a fist into his other palm to express his convictions. "And, believe me, he wouldn't dare show his smiling face in these parts in a hurry again, because he'd feel pretty sure the marshal would have arranged it with the local police to notify him in case Brother Lu ever turned up. Why, Hugh, we've got the scheme right now; and it ought to work to beat the band. I can see that hobo trailing along over the ties again at a hot pace; and while poor Matilda may grieve for her brother, she'll heave a sigh of relief to know it's all over, and the ladies are her friends again." "Let's go a step further, then," insinuated Hugh, "and if we decide to try out this little plan, which you're good enough to call a scheme, how can we fix it so that the reformed hobo will take the alarm?" "That's where the hitch may come in," agreed the other boy, as he allowed three separate lines of wrinkles to gather across his forehead, which was always reckoned a sure sign that Thad Stevens was concentrating his brain power upon the solution of a knotty problem. "One thing sure, we can't very well up and inform him of the fact ourselves, or he'd understand the motive right away." "And even if a letter could be sent," continued Hugh, "how would we be able to get the right post-mark on the envelope, unless we asked the postmaster down in a town of Texas close to the oil fields to mail it for us?" Suddenly Thad started to smile. The said smile rapidly broadened into a positive grin that spread all over his face, while his eyes fairly sparkled with delight. "Hugh, I've just grabbed a bright idea!" he said, explosively. "Let's hear about it before the same gets away from you, then," his chum advised. "Listen. Perhaps you may know that I used to go some with little Jim Pettigrew more or less before you and I became such chums. Jim is considerably older than me, but his stature always made folks think he was a kid. Well, of course you also know Jim he's graduated into a regular cub reporter, as he's so fond of calling it, because that word _cub_ is used so often in the movies, when they show up a big newspaper office in New York or Chicago, and the latest greenhorn on the staff is given an assignment that allows him to make the greatest news scoop ever heard of. Jim, to tell the truth, works on our local weekly here, the _Scranton Courier_. He rakes the entire country for news, writes things up that have never occurred, so as to fill space, and draw his weekly pay, attends weddings, funerals, and all sorts of events, not forgetting baseball games and such things. "Well, Jim is still a good friend of mine, although he now feels himself so mighty important that even the mayor sends for him to communicate something he wants to appear in the next issue of the paper. The idea that flashed into my brain, you must know, Hugh, is to tell Jim of our great trouble with this pesky hobo, and enlist his aid in scaring Brother Lu off." "Suppose now, in the issue of the _Courier_ that is due tomorrow morning there appeared an interesting write-up about a certain Marshal Hastings who was visiting Scranton, having come all the way from Texas to find and take back a certain party who was badly wanted there for some serious offense; the story could give little hints that would point to Brother Lu as the man, without actually saying so. Hugh, tell me, what do you think of that for a scheme; and might it do the work, would you say?" CHAPTER IX SETTING THE MAN TRAP Hugh jumped up from his chair and clapped a cap on his head. "It's now about four o'clock of a Friday afternoon," he remarked, "and if we could only run across Jim Pettigrew, and he got interested in our story, why it might not be too late to get the little write-up arranged before they went to press tonight." Thad was all animation. "Fine! Let's rush around to the _Courier_ office and see Jim!" he hastened to say. "I've an idea he's a sort of Jack-of-all-trades there, writing up news, setting type in an emergency, and even helping turn off the limited edition of about five hundred copies of the paper that are run every week. So, as Friday night is the climax to their week's work, we're likely to find Jim there with his coat off, and on the job." They soon arrived at the small building on a side street where the local paper had its offices, and, indeed, every other thing connected with it, for that matter. "There's Jim sitting in the editor's chair," observed Thad, looking through a dusty window. "Must be Mr. Adoiphus Hanks, who owns and edits the _Courier_, is out of town just at present. Say, that would just suit us to a fraction, wouldn't it, Hugh?" "It might make things easier for us," admitted the other; and then they burst in on the important if diminutive Jim, who received them with all the airs of a metropolitan editor. "Glad to see you, boys," he told them; "just take seats, will you, and excuse me for three minutes. I'm winding up the main editorial for this week's issue. Hanks is out of town, and has left me in full charge; but then that happens frequently nowadays; and, say, some foolish people have gone so far as to say they can tell when he's absent because, well, the paper shows it; but I tell them they are only saying that to flatter me. Three minutes, boys, and I'll be at your service." Whatever it was Jim was doing on the typewriter, he continued to pound laboriously away for about that length of time. Then finishing he drew the sheet out, glanced over it, made some corrections, smiled as though highly pleased, and called out to a boy who was working a hand press to come and take it to the lone compositor, standing at his case in a distant corner of the den. "That'll make folks sit up and take notice I kind of think," said Jim, swelling out his chest with an air of great importance. "Don't ask me what it is all about, for I want it to be a surprise to the community. Read it in tomorrow's issue of the _Weekly Courier_. Now, what can I do for you, Thad, old scout? Anything connected with the Scranton High baseball team you want written up for next week? I'm always ready to favor the boys, because I used to play ball myself away back." Hugh would have liked to laugh, but he refrained, not wishing to offend Jim, who was evidently suffering from an overweening sense of his own importance, since he had graduated into a temporary occupancy of the editorial chair. Jim was considerably short of twenty at that, so it could not have been more than a year or two since he used to play ball, and train with the other boys of Scranton High. Thad got busy, and began to tell how they had first ran across the strange hobo in his camp, cooking a meal. He continued the story with a description of how the long wandering Brother Lu had been so warmly welcomed by Matilda and her sick husband, and thereupon deliberately settled down to enjoying himself at their expense. Thad was a pretty good hand at narrating a yarn, and he worked the interest up by degrees until he had Jim's eyes as round as saucers, while he hung upon every word that was spoken. Hugh only broke in once in a while to add a few sentences to something his chum said. Finally the climax was reached when Thad explained the scheme he and Hugh had concocted between them, and how much they would appreciate the assistance of Jim in this dilemma. The temporary editor pursed up his lips and looked serious. He was thinking, and gradually a grin began to creep across his thin little face. "Why, I guess it could be worked out, fellows," he finally remarked, greatly to the satisfaction of the eager Thad. "Course I can do the writeup part as easy as falling off a fence, because it comes natural for me to be able to put any old thing down on paper and hash it up in a most interesting way. I'll have a story that will make folks sit up and take notice all right." "I hope, though, Jim," said Thad, "you won't overdo the thing, because you see we haven't a peg to hang it on, since we don't know what sort of a crime the man might have done away down there in Texas to make Marshal Hastings come so far after him. You'll draw it a bit mild, won't you, Jim? Just strong enough to strike terror to the heart of that rascal, Brother Lu?" "That's all right, Thad, you leave it to me," asserted Jim, with a confidence born of experience, as well as reliance on his powers of description and invention. "Yes, I can do the thing to the king's taste. Why, in such a case it's my habit to make myself actually believe in my work. Right now I can actually see the ferocious and not-to-be-denied Marshal Hastings. I could even describe how he looks so that you recognize the picture. And say, I'll give such broad hints, without actually saying it's Brother Lu he wants, that the poor old wretch will bump himself getting out of town on the first freight that pulls in here. It's a scream of a joke; and I'm obliged to you boys for putting me up to it. I need all sorts of practice, you understand, to fit myself for a prominent post down in New York City, where I expect to land a job as a star reporter on one of the big dailies." Of course Thad and Hugh were pleased with matters so far as they had gone. "I'm in with you, boys," continued Jim, as they arose to leave the _Courier_ office, "to the limit; but there's one favor I want to ask of you in return." "Name it, Jim!" cried Thad, grasping the cold hand of the reporter, for just at that moment he felt as though willing to do almost anything in return for this real kindness on the part of his old-time associate. "Listen, then," said the other, briskly, for he at least had a rapid mind, and was in many other ways well qualified for the position which he meant to assume in the world of newspaperdom, besides, an abundance of nerve, or as Thad liked to call it, "cheek,"---"I don't believe Mrs. Hosmer ever sees our sterling paper, because the name isn't on our mailing list, or the carrier's either. But tomorrow morning I'll have Jenkins, our boy here, go around particularly to Matilda's cottage and leave a paper, telling her we are sending out a large number of free complimentary copies, hoping to induce more people to subscribe. Get that, boys?" "Yes, and it sounds good to me, Jim; you know how to work the mill, all right," said the judicious Thad, well aware of the power flattery possesses to grease the wheels of human machinery. "Well, the three of us will be in hiding close by, just as Thad was today when his mother and those other good ladies paid their unprofitable visit to the Hosmer home. If we're lucky we may see Brother Lu come dashing out of the place, and strike a blue streak for the railroad, distant half a mile or so. Should that happen, we can make up our minds it's all serene, and that Scranton, as well as his poor sister, will have seen the last of him. But you must promise to come around here and wait for me, as I may have a little business on my hands. Holding down all the positions on even a local sheet is no easy job, you must know; and I'm the PooBah of this joint right now." Willingly Thad gave the desired promise. He would have done anything else which the autocrat of the enterprise chose to demand just then, since they looked upon Jim as their main reliance. Fortunately the other did not see fit to bind them to any further promises, and when they had left the newspaper office, it was with a sense of elation such as comes after a successful venture. Thad was fairly bubbling over with delight. "Why, Hugh, I think we ought to shake hands, with ourselves over getting up such a smart little scheme as that," he broke out with, as they walked along the main street of Scranton, meeting many persons whom they knew, and most of them ready with a cheery nod or a word of recognition, for both lads were well liked by the best people of the community, and particularly those who knew boy nature best, so that they could appreciate what manly fellows the chums were. "You're a sanguine sort of chap, Thad," laughed Hugh. "Right now you believe we've as good as got Brother Lu on the run for the tall timber. Don't be too sure, or you may be disappointed. There's many a slip, remember, between cup and lip. But Jim took to the game like a terrier does to a rat, didn't he?" "It was right in Jim's favorite line of business," explained the other. "He fairly dotes on writing up imaginary things, and making them seem real. He says it's his long suit, whatever he means by that. I only hope he doesn't make it seem too ridiculous, and so overdo the matter." Hugh seemed to have pretty fair confidence in Jim's judgment. "He's a clever chap," he remarked, "and will know just where to draw the line. I could that already he had drawn upon his imagination to supply him with something in place of facts. It'll be a thrilling bit of reading, and ought to give our pet aversion a cold shiver when he gets its import. Having Marshal Hastings come away up here after him will upset all Brother Lu's plans for a soft berth during the remainder of his fast-ebbing life; and he may suddenly determine that it's better to run away and live to eat another day, than to try and stick it out here, and be landed in a Texas jail." "It'll seem an awful long time till tomorrow comes," sighed the impatient Thad. "We told him we'd be around by nine in the morning, didn't we? Well, let's call it eight-and-a-half, then. He may be able to get off earlier than he expects, and that would cut Brother Lu out of another meal at the expense of Matilda, whose supplies must be running low by now, I should judge, and her money ditto in the bargain." "Have it your own way, Thad, and drop in for me," said Hugh. "In the midst of all this fuss and feathers over that miserable hobo, we mustn't forget we promised to be on hand in the afternoon to play on the team against Mechanicsville; for you know there has been a switch, and the programme changed. That team is considered a strong aggregation from the mills over there, and, we may get our fingers burned unless we are careful. After knocking Belleville down last Saturday, it would look bad for Scranton to be snowed under by an outside nine without any reputation, as they have hardly played together this season so far." "Oh! I haven't forgotten my promise to Mr. Saunders and you, Hugh," protested the reliable backstop of the high-school team "I'm too fond of baseball to neglect any chance for playing. But we'll try and put this other affair over in the A.M., and that'll leave us free to play ball after lunch. I wonder how far away our friend, Brother Lu, will be this time tomorrow?" "Perhaps many miles," suggested Hugh, "and then again he may be taking things as easy as ever over there at Sister Matilda's cottage. It's going to be a toss-up whether our game works as we hope, or falls flat to the ground." CHAPTER X HOW JIM PETTIGREW FIXED IT When Saturday morning came, the two chums of Scranton High met as per arrangement, and as Thad expressed it, made a "bee-line" downtown. They were fairly wild to get bold of the first copy of the _Weekly Courier_ that was placed on sale. As a rule, it was delivered to the several newsstands, and at the railroad station, around eight o'clock. Then the "printer's devil," who was also the carrier, delivering copies to most of the town folks who subscribed in that fashion, would start out with a first bundle in his bag, taking his time about leaving the same at different doors. Perhaps nowadays, however, when there was likely to be a baseball game in the afternoon to enliven things, the said boy might quicken his pace a bit, so as to get through, and have a chance to witness the struggle. They were just in time to see a package delivered at the main news store, where sporting goods could also be purchased. Paul Kramer's was a place most beloved among the boys of Scranton, for the small store held almost everything that was apt to appeal to the heart of the average youth. Besides, all baseball, and in due season, football paraphernalia, as well as hockey sticks, and shin guards, the old storekeeper always carried a well-chosen stock of juvenile fiction in cloth; and those fellows who were fond of spending their spare hours in reading the works of old favorites like Optic and Alger, as well as numerous more recent additions to the ranks of authors, were to be found poring over the contents of numerous book shelves and racks, deciding which volume they would squander their latest quarter for. Then at Kramer's "Emporium" there was always a huge stock of the latest music in cheap form; and the girls had also contracted a habit of dropping in to look this over, with an eye to adding to their lists. So that from early morning until nine in the evening, on ordinary occasions, if a boy could not be found anywhere else it was "dollars to doughnuts," as Thad always said, that he was rummaging at Paul Kramer's, and lost to all the world for the time being. Eagerly, then, did Thad throw down a nickel, and snatch up the first copy of that week's issue sold that morning. It was virtually "fresh from the press"; indeed, the odor of printers' ink could easily be detected in the sheet. There was no difficulty about finding the article they were most deeply interested in. It occupied a leading place on the front page. Jim Pettigrew had certainly seen to it that the head was next door to what is known as a "scare" head; for the type was black and bold enough to attract attention the first thing any one unfolded their copy of the _Courier_. What Mr. Adoiphus Hanks would say was a question, when later on he came to look over the latest issue of the family paper, and discovered such liberties on the part of the "cub" reporter, raised for one day to the responsible position of editor. But then Jim was smooth-tongued enough to settle all that with his boss, for Jim could talk almost anyone into believing that black was white. Possibly he would think it the best policy to confide the whole story to Mr. Hanks, and explain just how it had been done in the public policy. Adoiphus was not such a bad sort of fellow, and really believed that he took a leading part in the upbuilding of the morals of Scranton; so he might forgive Jim's breaking away from the long-established policy of the family paper, which allowed of but little sensationalism. Well, it was a great story! Jim had allowed his imagination full swing, that was certain. He spoke of actually running across the stern official from Texas, and making his acquaintance under rather dramatic conditions connected with a broken-down car on the road. Then he launched forth into a vivid description of how the minion of justice confided to him the reason for his being there so far distant from the field of his customary useful and perilous operations. Sly little hints were conveyed in his mention of the rascal whom he had vowed to find, and take back with him to Texas, there to pay the penalty for breaking the laws. Why, surely the guilty conscience of Brother Lu must discover a description of himself in every word that the imaginary marshal uttered. The two boys finished at about the same time. Their eyes met in a stare, and Thad gave utterance to a whistle. "Whew! Jim is sure a dandy when it comes to write-ups, isn't he, though, Hugh?" he breathed softly, for the proprietor of the "Emporium" happened to be bustling about the place, and was evidently a bit curious to know just what there could be in that week's edition of the _Courier_ to so plainly interest Hugh and his chum. "He certainly is," admitted Hugh. "Why, you can almost see that Marshal Hastings walking before you, and looking as if he had his eagle eye fixed on you for keeps. Jim's described him so smartly that it would apply to almost any Western sheriff or marshal we've ever seen in the movies." "But just think how the cold creeps will chase up and down the spinal column of that miserable sneak of a hobo when he glimpses this article," chuckled Thad. "I can imagine him starting, and his eyes nearly popping out of his head as he gets busy devouring the whole thing. And, then, Hugh, what d'ye reckon his next move will be?" Hugh shrugged his shoulders as he slowly replied: "Honestly now, Thad, I give it up. If he's really guilty, as we believe, why, of course, he'll not wait on the order of his going, but skip out like a prairie fire, and we'll be shut of him. But there's always the doubt. In fact, we never can be sure we've struck the right nail on the head until we see Lu hitting the high places, and never even looking back." "I must read that wonderful article again," quoth the admiring Thad. "It's simply great the way Jim's written it up, and I'm sure that chap is bound to occupy an exalted place in newspaperdom down in New York one of these days when luck comes to him, and he emigrates that way." They scanned it line by line until they could almost repeat the whole story by heart, it made such a great impression on them. Thad seemed more than amused over the idea that the good folks from Scranton would swallow it whole, and believe there was really a Texan marshal in their midst, looking right and left for a desperate character who had dropped down in that quiet and respectable neighborhood, thinking he would be safe from molestation there. "Why, Hugh," he went on to say, exuberantly, "all today I warrant you hundreds of people here, women as well as boys and men, will be scanning every party who happens to be wearing a felt bat anything like the one Marshal Hastings is said to possess; and wondering if the stranger from Mechanicsville, or Allandale, or any other old place can be the wonderful Texan official, who according to Jim's graphic account has notches cut on the stocks of both his big revolvers to indicate just how many bad men he has been compelled to lay low during the course of his long and thrilling public career. Oh! I feel just as if I wanted to drop down and laugh till my sides ached, it's such a rich joke. That Jim will kill me yet with his wonderful write-ups." Hugh was apparently also highly amused, but he did not lose sight of the main facts in the case, as his next remark proved. "Remember we settled it that we'd be around to look Jim up about half-past eight, instead of nine o'clock this morning. Thad, it's getting near that time now, so perhaps we'd better be moving. Jim might feel like starting a bit early, so as to give him more time later on for his regular duties. You see, being left in sole charge of the office while Mr. Hanks is away makes him responsible for even the job printing." Thad was only too glad for an excuse for an earlier start. "If we have to do any loafing," he went on to say, philosophically, "we can put in the time at the _Courier_ office, just as well as anywhere else. I always did want to mosey around that place, and while Mr. Hanks is away, perhaps I'll have a chance to handle a few type, and watch the regular comp work like lightning. The smell of printers' ink seems to draw me, Hugh, to tell you the honest truth." Although Thad possibly did not know it at the time, that fascination has been responsible for many a noted editor's career, as the lure of printers' ink, when it gets a firm hold on any one, can seldom be shaken off in after years. Once a newspaper man and it becomes a lifetime pursuit. But then, of course, Thad might be only imagining such things, and the dim future hold out other possibilities for a career that would be far removed from an editor's chair. They found Jim on deck, and buried up to his ears in work. He seemed to enjoy it to the limit, too, for it made him appear so responsible and tickled his vanity. He grinned at seeing his two young friends. "I suppose now you've read my latest effusion, boys?" Jim remarked, with an assumption of extreme modesty, which, however, hardly suited his usual bold demeanor. Jim had all a reporter's "nerve," and could coolly face a raging subscriber who had dropped in to ask to have his subscription closed because of a certain offensive article in the last issue--yes, and likely as not Jim could soothe the ruffled feathers of the enraged man, show him how he had really been paid a compliment, and finally bow him out of the office with another year's subscription left in the shape of a dollar and a half in good money. "We've fairly _devoured_ it, Jim," frankly admitted Thad. "Why, I can repeat it off-hand right now, I've read it so often. And Jim, I want to say that it's as clever a piece of work as I ever got hold of. That terrible Texan stands out as clear as print. Everybody in Scranton will be rubbering all today, thinking they can see Marshal Hastings in each stranger in town. I congratulate you, Jim; you're a peach at your trade, believe me." Of course that sort of "gush" just tickled Jim immensely. He tried not to show it, but his eyes were twinkling with gratified vanity. It was fine to hear other people complimenting him so warmly, even though they were but boys from Scranton High. Praise is acceptable even from the lowly; and Jim made queer motions with his lips as though he might be rolling the sweet morsel over his tongue. "Glad you like it, fellows," he said, in as unconcerned a voice as he could muster to the fore. "Course there was some hurry, because I'm rushed for time, and I could have done a heap better if I really tried to lay myself out. But I guess that ought to fill the bill, and give Brother Lu a little scare, eh, Thad, old scout?" "I'm expecting he'll shake himself out of his shoes, or rather Brother-in-law Andrew's footwear," exclaimed the eager Thad. "But say, Jim, how about your going out with us, and watching him skip!" Jim looked serious. "H'm! got an awful bunch of work to do, fellows, this morning, as well as hold the editorial desk down for Mr. Hanks; but perhaps the sooner we get that little job over with the better. Yes, I'll call Philip, our boy here, who's rubbing the ink off his face and hands, and we'll all start out to finish Brother Lu's career in Scranton." CHAPTER XI SOMETHING GOES WRONG It was in this confident mood that they made their start. Philip had the copy of the _Courier_, which Jim had deftly folded so that the headlines of his startling article would be seen immediately any one picked the paper up. He was also instructed to simply say that the management of the weekly, wishing to give more citizens of Scranton an opportunity to get acquainted with the feast of good things served up every Saturday, was sending out a supply of sample copies, and that a subscription would be much appreciated. As Philip was a shrewd little fellow he "caught on" to the idea, and would without fail carry it through all right. It was not intended that any occupant of the Hosmer home should suspect the presence of the three who meant to see what happened. Thad knew just how they could advance fairly close without being seen, since he had been "playing spy" before on his own account, and was, therefore, acquainted with every bush capable of affording shelter. Accordingly, when they found themselves drawing near their intended destination, Thad was given charge of the expedition, and he seemed pleased to serve in the exalted capacity of pilot or guide. He led the way, and the other two followed as close to his heels as possible. In this manner they finally found themselves as close to the cottage as circumstances and a scarcity of sheltering bushes would allow. "Here's where I hide," whispered Thad, coming to a sudden pause, and remaining in a crouching position. "We can see everything that goes on outside the house and, if the door should be left open on such a fine warm morning, perhaps hear something that might be said inside." Both Hugh and Jim seemed quite satisfied with the prospect, if their nods could be taken for assurance. "If everything is ready, and the trap set," remarked Jim, softly, "I'll give Philip the signal we agreed on." "Go ahead, then," said Thad, eagerly, his eyes fairly dancing with expectancy; for somehow his heart seemed more than ever set on relieving poor Matilda Hosmer from the fresh load she had taken so generously on her already tired shoulders. Accordingly Jim, without raising his head above the level of the bush that concealed his body, waved his handkerchief three times. He knew that Philip would be waiting and watching for such a sign, because before they left the boy Thad had taken pains to point out to him where they expected to hide. Sure enough, hardly had Jim made the third and concluding wave than the carrier was seen to come in sight, bearing quite a load of papers; which in reality be expected to deliver on his first round to regular customers; for none of them saving that particular one were to be given away free as sample copies; and that had, as Thad expressed it, "a string tied to it." Whistling in the most unconcerned manner possible Philip walked straight up to the cottage door and knocked. The boy was playing his part to perfection, all of them saw, and Jim in particular seemed much impressed. It was Matilda herself who answered the summons. They could see that Philip was getting off the lines which he had committed to memory. Matilda asked him several questions, but she held on to the paper all the same, and seemed quite pleased at being picked out as a possible new subscriber; although times were just then too hard to admit of her indulging in such a luxury. But perhaps she thought it would be such a pleasure for "poor Brother Lu" to forget all his troubles in looking over the town paper. Thad felt sure this must be in the mind of Matilda, for she was one of those persons whose first thought is always of some one beside themselves. Philip having exhausted his schedule hastened to betake himself off before he said too much; because he was a wise boy for his years, Jim allowed. And Matilda went back into the house, glancing at the paper as she vanished from view. "Now let's hope that hammock there will tempt Brother Lu to saunter forth and take things easy while he looks over the paper," said Jim, with just a touch of eagerness discernible in his well-controlled voice; for he prided himself on always "keeping cool" under the most trying conditions. They did not have long to wait. Why, it seemed to Thad that the wonderful Jim must have some peculiar power, as of suggestion, with which he could influence other minds; for as they peeped through openings in the bushes, lo! and behold, out of the cottage door came the object of Thad's especial aversion. Yes, it was the hobo whom they had first met when he was cooking his meal in regular tramp fashion by using discarded tomato cans for receptacles to hold coffee and stew. But Brother Lu was a transformed tramp. He wore the Sunday clothes of Brother-in-law Andrew, and his face was actually as smooth as a razor could make it. In fact, he looked just too sleek and well-fed for anything; and Thad, as usual, gritted his teeth with savage emphasis to think how the fellow was imposing on the good nature of that simple and big-hearted couple. Then, too, he had the paper in his hand, which evidently Matilda had given over to him immediately she entered. He made straight for that hammock, as though he had actually heard Jim suggest such a charming possibility. "Now we're in great luck," Thad breathed, gripping Hugh by the knee, as they crouched in company behind their screen of bushes. "We can watch, and see just what effect that bombshell has on the skunk!" "Keep quiet, Thad," warned Hugh; "or he might hear you." The reformed tramp seemed to be very particular about his comfort nowadays. Time was when he could throw himself down carelessly on the hardest kind of ground and rest easy; but since he had taken to living under a roof things were different. They saw him fix the pillow in the hammock very carefully before he allowed himself to recline there. Then he raised the paper, and seemed to take a careless glance at it. Hardly had he done this than the watchers saw him start upright again. He was undoubtedly devouring the thrilling news item on the front page with "avidity"---at least, that was what Jim Pettigrew would have called it, had he been at his favorite job of "writing up" the doings of Scranton society for the past week. "Now he has got a body blow!" hissed the delighted Thad, unable to keep still any great length of time when his pulses were throbbing like mad, and his eyes round with eagerness. Brother Lu read the article through. Then he lowered the paper and seemed to be meditating, to judge from his attitude. Hugh thought he could detect something akin to a wide grin on the other's face, but then he may have been mistaken. Thad, on his part, was positive that he knew what must be passing through the mind of the man after reading that suggestive news concerning the Texan marshal who never yet allowed an intended victim to elude his clutches, and who meant to get the guilty party so badly wanted "down below." "Say, he's figuring on whether he'd best streak it as he is, or go in and gather a few things together that he may need," continued the irrepressible Thad. Even as he spoke they saw the other scramble hastily out of the comfortable hammock, and start post-haste for the open door of the cottage. Thad was as certain of what was about to happen as that he knew his own name. Hugh suspended judgment, believing that it would be unwise to jump too hastily to a decision. Besides, there were a few little suspicious things connected with the actions of Brother Lu that he did not wholly like. A minute passed, two of them, which doubtless seemed like so many hours to the confident Thad. Then they again saw the late hobo coming out. Thad stared harder than ever, and his heart felt like lead. What did it mean? he asked himself. Brother Lu did not have his hat on, nor was he carrying any sort of hastily thrown together bundle. In fact, he showed not the first sign of the dreadful alarm Thad had anticipated. He still carried the weekly paper in his hand as though he meant to look over that wonderful article of Jim's again. And what he had really darted into the house after was evident; for in the other hand he carried Mr. Hosmer's only good pipe, as well as his tobacco bag, now getting woefully depleted of its prized contents. Then, as if totally unaware of the fact that three pairs of eyes were glued upon his every slightest move, Brother Lu calmly filled the pipe, struck a match on the sole of Brother-in-law Andrew's shoe, applied the flame to the contents of the pipe bowl, and puffed out a cloud of blue smoke with all the assurance in the world. Thad nearly took a fit trying to hold in; the fact was Hugh felt constrained to lay a warning hand on his chum's arm to keep him from bursting out in such a manner as to betray them to the smug hobo. Brother Lu read the article again from beginning to end. Then he smote his knee with his open palm several times, and they could actually hear him chuckle, as if he might be highly amused. All this rather puzzled Jim, who had fully anticipated seeing the intruder making a bee-line for the railroad. Perhaps he even began to wonder whether, after all, he might not have "laid it on a little thicker" when writing up that story about the grim Texan marshal. Presently Matilda was heard calling to Brother Lu, who, leaving his hammock, sauntered into the house with all the airs of one who had arranged to take life easy from that time on. "Hey! let's beat it," mumbled the keenly disappointed Jim Pettigrew. "I've got heaps to do at the office; and I seem to tumble to the fact that, after all, our big game didn't pan out just as was expected." Thad did not have a single word to say just then. He was, in fact, too dazed to collect his thoughts. But Hugh's active mind was grappling with the matter, and he apparently seemed able to figure things out. They retreated in a strategic fashion, so that possibly no one was the wiser for their having been behind the bushes, unless Brother Lu chanced to take a notion to peep from behind some fluttering white dimity curtain. "Well, what does it all mean, do you know, Hugh?" finally burst out Thad, after they had gone far enough away to make it safe to talk in ordinary tones. "I think I have guessed why he seemed so tickled after reading the article which we figured would give him such a bad scare," said Hugh, with a grim smile. "The fact of the matter is he hoodwinked me when he told such whopping yarns about the terrible sheriff of the oil regions. There may be such a chap, all right, but his name isn't Hastings by a long shot. He just invented that name, you see; and when he read Jim's article about his being up here, he tumbled to the game." "Oh! it's rotten luck!" groaned Thad; "after all that beautiful strategy we've fallen down flat. No use talking, Hugh. Jim, that fellow is a sticker, and it begins to look as if he couldn't be budged or pried loose with a crowbar. But I'm not the one to give a thing up because I've failed once or twice; just wait till I get my third wind, and I'll settle Brother Lu's hash for him!" So they wandered back to town, sadder but wiser from their new experience. CHAPTER XII SCRANTON FANS HAVE A PAINFUL SHOCK The nine from Mechanicsburg showed up that afternoon on time. They were a husky-looking lot of young chaps, accustomed to hard toil in the mills, and with muscles that far outclassed the high-school boys. But, as every one knows, it requires something more than mere brawn to win baseball games; often a club that seems to be weak develops an astonishing amount of skill with bat and ball, and easily walks off with the victory. Mechanicsburg was "out for blood" from the very start. They depended a great deal on their slugging abilities, and declared that no pitcher the Scranton players might offer could resist their terrific onslaught. When the first inning was over at last it began to look as if their boast might be made good, for the score stood five to one. Frazer was in the box for Scranton, Hugh not wishing to use his star pitcher unless it was absolutely necessary. He was a bit afraid that something might happen to Tyree that would put him on the bench and thus they would be terribly handicapped in their first game with Allandale on the following Saturday. Now, Frazer was a pretty dependable sort of a slab artist, and if the Scranton boys had not had Alan Tyree they might have believed him a Number One. But while Frazer had a number of good curves and drops, and a pretty fair amount of speed, he seemed only able to deceive those huskies from Mechanicsburg in spurts. Between times they got at him for successive drives that netted two and three bases each. Indeed, in that very first inning the fielders of the home team were kept on the jump at a lively rate chasing smashing blows. To tell the truth, all three outs were made on enormous flies that seemed to go up almost to the very clouds, and gave "K.K." out in the middle garden, and "Just" Smith, who had charge of left field, a big run each time before they could get their hands on and hold the ball. In the second time at bat the visitors did not do as much. Perhaps Frazer managed to tighten up, and pitch better ball. He was very erratic, and could never be depended on to do consecutive good work. In every other inning the heavies could not seem to gauge his work at all, and he mowed them down. Then they would come at him again like furies, and knock his offerings to every part of the field as though he might be an amateur in the box. Hugh watched the fluctuations of the game with more or less solicitude. They could hardly afford to be beaten by a team like Mechanicsburg, he figured, as he saw Frazer "fall down" for the third time, and a catastrophe threaten. It was the sixth inning. Scranton had done more or less scoring on her side, so that the figures were mounting rapidly, and it promised to be an old-fashioned batting bee. It now stood nine to twelve in favor of the visitors; and as they had started another of their rallies no one could say what the result might be by the time Scranton once more came to bat. There was a small but noisy delegation from the other town present, and they kept things pretty lively most of the time, cheering their fellows, and hooting the slightest opportunity when Scranton failed to connect, or one of the high-school boys did not make a gilt-edged pickup. Nor were the Mechanicsburg rooters alone in this jeering. As usually happens, there were a number of fellows in Scranton who entertained feelings of jealousy toward the local nine, based on an idea that they had been purposely overlooked when the choice of players was made. Chief among these malcontents was the town bully, Nick Lang, whose acquaintance the reader has already made in a previous volume, and under exciting conditions. Nick at one time had a good chance of making the nine, for he was a hustler when it came to playing ball, and indeed, in nearly every sport; but as might be expected, he managed to display his nasty temper in practice, and Coach Saunders, who heartily disliked and distrusted the big fellow, speedily turned him down. Nick, as usual, had his two faithful henchmen along with him, Leon Disney and Tip Slavin; and the trio led the hooting whenever a chance came to rub it into Scranton. Some of the visitors hardly liked this; it smacked too much of rank treachery to please them. It was all very well for visitors to deride the home team in order to "rattle" the pitcher; but for fellows living in Scranton to indulge in this sort of thing did not seem right. Hugh believed he had had quite enough of this see-saw business. If Frazer was going to "jump" in that miserable fashion the game was as good as gone. He disliked doing it the worst kind, but he saw the appealing look Frazer shot in his direction on third when the visitors once more started their bombardment. It meant Frazer had lost all confidence in his ability to stop the threatened rally; and that he was making signs for help. So Hugh took him out. It was Alan Tyree who stepped into the box, and began to toss a few balls to the backstop, in order to limber up his arm; while the visiting batsman waited the signal from the umpire to toe the home plate, and get ready to strike. Just three times did Alan send in one of his terrific shoots that fairly sizzled as they shot past; three times the heavy batter cut the thin air with his club, and then walked over to where his companions sat in a clump, watching curiously to see how the change was going to work. Up came the next visitor on the list, who also made light with the offering of poor Frazer. Did he start a batting bee all over again? Well, not that any one could notice it. The best he could do was to fan the air on two successive occasions, and then send up a twisting foul that Thad Stevens managed to hold, after a pretty erratic chase back and forth. Now it was the loyal home fans who began to root long and hard. They scented victory, and it seemed good after so much bitter humiliation at the hands of this newly organized team, most of them strange to their positions, and capable of many fielding errors, but able to remedy this by their ability to bat. The third out followed in quick succession. Scranton sighed with relief, and the fielders had had a rest. They were really getting tired of chasing wildly after all those terrific smashes, and of seeing the big fellows running the bases at will. Hugh led off in the next inning, and the renewed confidence put in the whole team by the change of pitchers showed itself. When that inning was over the locals had reduced the lead of Mechanicsburg to one run; and they fully anticipated wiping that slight advantage out in the next round. Tyree still held them close. They knocked several fouls, and one man actually went out through Juggins in far right, managing to sprint fast enough to grapple with a soaring fly that came his way across the foul line. The rest struck out, being almost like babies in the hands of the wizard Tyree. Well, the locals not only wiped that lead out but went two better, so that it now began to look as though they had the game "sewed up," with Tyree pitching championship brand of ball, and every fellow keyed up to playing his best. Wonderful infield work saved Alan from having the first hit marked up against him in the eighth frame, for several of the hard hitters were up again, and they managed to swat the ball with a vim; but only to have Owen, or it might be Morgan on third, intercept the speeding horsehide, and whip it over to waiting Old Reliable Joe Danvers on first for an out. The game really ended with that inning, for Scranton made five runs, having a nice little batting bee of their own for a change. In the ninth the visitors got a man on first through a juggle on the part of Hobson on second, though Julius was really excusable, for the ball came down to him with terrific speed, and though he knocked it down he could not recover in time to get it across the infield so as to cut off the speedy runner. But when the visitor started to make for second Thad Stevens had him caught by two yards, his throw down being as accurate as a bullet fired from a new Government army rifle. After all, the boys were satisfied to come out of the scrimmage as well as they did, for those big Mechanicsburg chaps were terrors with their bats; and equal to making a home run at any stage of the game. It had been good practice for Scranton, every one admitted, though some confessed that their blood had actually run cold when Frazer gave such palpable signs of distress. Hugh was worried more or less. He wondered what would happen if Tyree could not play in the big game with Allandale. Frazer might redeem himself, it is true, for the pitcher that goes to the well, and is dented on one day, often comes back later on and does wonderful work. Still, as the following week passed day by day, and Saturday came closer, the field captain of the Scranton High team seemed to feel a strange premonition that there was trouble in store for them. And his fears did not prove groundless, after all, as it turned out; for there was trouble a-plenty waiting for the local team, spelled with a capital T in the bargain. The day came, and everything seemed all right as far as the weather went. It was hot enough to make the players feel at their best without causing them to wilt under the burning rays of the sun. Clouds at times also promised relief, and the immense throng that gathered on the open field where Scranton played, for there was no high fence around it, believed they were due to witness a sterling game, with the two teams well balanced. Of course Allandale had beaten unlucky Belleville easily on the preceding Saturday, while Scranton was "toying" with that aggregation of sluggers from Mechanicsburg, and almost getting their fingers burned while doing so. The "Champs," as the visitors delighted to call themselves, seemed to have an air of confidence that impressed many an anxious Scranton rooter, and made him wonder how Tyree would stand up against that mighty slab artist, Big Ed Patterson. This Allandale pitcher seemed capable of outwitting the smartest batter by giving just what he wanted least of all, as if he knew every fellow's weaknesses, and could take advantage of them at will. Then the blow fell. It cast gloom over the whole Scranton camp, as the horrible news was quickly circulated through the various groups. Boys turned to look at one another aghast, and the grins on their faces assumed a sickly yellow hue. Word had been brought to the anxious Hugh that Alan Tyree would be utterly unable to be on the field that day, not to speak of pitching. An unlucky accident after lunch had injured his left leg, and the doctor absolutely forbade his getting into uniform, or even leaving the house, under severe penalty for disobedience. It was in the nature of a dreadful calamity, after the way Frazer had been actually knocked out of the box by those crude players from Mechanicsburg. Still the game must be played, or forfeited to Allandale; and Scranton fellows are not in the habit of giving anything up without the hardest kind of a struggle. So with a sigh, and trying to appear calm, Hugh turned to his second-string pitcher. CHAPTER XIII HUGH TRIES HIS "FADE-AWAY" BALL "Are you game, Frazer, for a desperate fight?" asked Hugh, smiling in a way he hoped would inspire the other with confidence. Frazer was a bit white, but he had his jaws set, and there was a promising flash in his eyes that Hugh liked to see. His Scotch blood was aroused, and he would do his level best to hold the Allandale last-year champions down to few hits. That humiliation which Frazer had suffered in asking to be taken out of the box on the preceding Saturday had burned in his soul ever since; and he was in a fit frame of mind to "pitch his head off" in order to redeem himself. Hugh talked with him a short time. He told him all he knew about the various players on the opposing team, and in this way Frazer might be able to deceive some of the heavy batters when they came up. Unfortunately Frazer could not vary his speed and drops and curves with an occasional deceptive Matthewson "balloon ball," so called because it seems to look as large as a toy hot-air balloon to the batter, but is advanced so slowly that he strikes before it gets within reach. Hugh on his part had always practiced that sort of a ball, and indeed he had nothing else beside fair speed and this "floater." But in practice, when Hugh went into the box, he had been able to fool many of his mates, and have them almost breaking their backs trying to hit a ball that was still coming. As a last resort Hugh meant to relieve Frazer, but only after the game was irrevocably lost; for he wanted to give the other every chance possible to redeem his former "fluke." There was not any great amount of genuine enthusiasm shown by the crowd of local rooters when Frazer walked out to take his place, though many did give him a cheer, hoping to thus hearten the poor fellow, and put some confidence in his soul. If he had not been able to hold those boys from Mechanicsburg, who were reckoned only "half-baked" players, as some of the Scranton fans called it, what sort of a chance would Frazer have against the Champs, who had toyed with Belleville just a week back, and looked tremendously dangerous as they practiced now upon the local field, so as to become a little accustomed to its peculiarities? Ground rules were again in vogue, owing to the great crowd. This gave Scranton a little advantage, since they were used to playing on the home grounds, and would know just where to send the ball---providing they were able to come in contact with it, a matter in which one Big Ed Patterson meant to have considerable to say, judging from his confident manner, and the good-natured smile on his sun-burned face. Scranton fought gamely, every one was agreed to that. They started off well, for Frazer actually got through the first without a hit being made, though twice the visitors met one of his offerings with a vicious smack that sent the ball far out in center, where the watchful and fleet-footed "K.K." managed to capture each fly after a great run. And in their half Scranton did a little hitting, though it was mostly through good luck that they got one run---a Texas leaguer that fell among three players who got their signals crossed; then a poor throw down to second allowing "Just" Smith to land there in safety; a bunt that turned into a sacrifice on the part of Joe Danvers, followed by a high fly that let the runner on third come trooping home, did the business. Owen struck out, and Hugh sent up a mighty foul over in right that was caught in a dazzling fashion by the guardian of that patch. As the two clubs faced each other they ranged after this fashion, and it may be noticed that there was no change in Scranton's line-up except in the pitcher's box. The batting order was not the same, so it must be given as it came on either side: Scranton High Player Position -------------------------------------- "Just" Smith Left Field Joe Danvers First Base Horatio Juggins Right Field Owen Dugdale Short Stop Hugh Morgan (capt.) Third Base "K.K." (Ken Kinkaid) Center Field Julius Hobson Second Base Frazer Pitcher Thad Stevens Catcher Allandale High Player Position -------------------------------------- Farmer Left Field Gould First Base Wright Right Field Waterman Short Stop Norris Third Base Whipple Center Field Brown Second Base Patterson Pitcher Keeler Catcher As the game progressed it became evident that Frazer was "pitching his arm off" in the endeavor to stem the tide of defeat that inning after inning seemed bound to overtake the Scranton nine, despite their most gallant uphill fight. Allandale proved to be all their reputation had boasted, and they seemed able to work a man around the circuit nearly every inning. Splendid fielding on the part of Hugh and his mates kept the score down, but nevertheless it continued to mount, in spite of all their efforts. Frazer was beginning to show signs of exhaustion. He had tried every trick he had in his list on the batters who faced him. They had begun to solve his delivery more and more the oftener they came up. And there was a very demoralizing way about their confident attitude that no doubt added much to poor Frazer's distress. He began to believe they were just playing with him, and at a given time would fall upon his delivery, to knock the ball at will to every part of the field. Hugh knew it was coming, and he hardly felt able to go into the box himself to stem the rising tide; but anything was better than to have Frazer submerged under an avalanche of hits. "Big Ed" seemed to be getting better the longer he pitched, and just the reverse could be said of Frazer, who was on the verge of a total collapse. "Better take me out before I go to the wall, Hugh," begged the other, after the sixth frame showed the score to be six to two, with more runs looming up in the "lucky seventh" in prospect. "I'm ashamed to say I've lost my nerve. Those fellows mean to get at me in the seventh and it will be a Waterloo. I just feel it in my bones they've been waiting to lambast my offerings then, for I've seen them talking together, and laughing, as though they had a game laid out. You go in and feed them those teasers of yours. The boys will take a brace in batting, if you can hold Allandale; and in the end it may not be such a terrible calamity after all." Hugh knew it must be. Frazer had gone to the wall, and would pitch poorly if allowed to go in the box in the next inning. "I hate to do it, Frazer," he told the other, feeling sorry for him; "but any port in a storm; and it may be possible these sluggers will trip up on that balloon ball of mine, though I haven't much else to offer them." That inning the locals did a little batting on their own account, with the result that the score looked a shade better, for it was three to six when once more Scranton went into the field. When it was seen that Hugh walked to the box some of the local rooters cheered lustily, for Hugh was a great favorite. Cat-calls also greeted his appearance, coming principally from Nick Lang and his followers; though they were frowned upon by a crowd of Scranton boys, who threatened to hustle them off the grounds unless they mended their ways. As Hugh left third one of the substitutes, named Hastings, was placed on that sack. Thad gave Hugh a queer look on discovering this, and followed it with a peculiarly suggestive grin; so that Hugh understood how his chum was thinking of another Hastings with whose name they had taken undue liberties. Allandale seemed pleased to know that there was to be a change of slab artists. "All pitchers look alike to us when we've got our batting clothes on!" one of them sang out blithely, as he swung a couple of bats around, being the next man up, and desirous of making himself feel that he held a willow wand in his hands when throwing one aside and wielding the other. He was mistaken. Hugh started in without delay feeding them some of what the boys were pleased to denominate his "teasers." He soon had them hitting at thin air with might and main, and looking surprised because they failed to connect. One man, then two, went out on strikes, and neither had touched the elusive "fade-away" ball made famous by Christy Matthewson in his prime. The crowd sat up and began to take notice. What did it mean? If Hugh could only keep up his good work by varying his offerings, so as to keep those slugging Allandale fellows guessing, and Scranton began to knock the ball around a little on their own account, why, there might be something like a good game yet. The third man got a hit which should really have been an out, for "K.K.," reliable "K.K.," out in deep center, misjudged the blow, and started to run back, when he should have shot forward instantly. He could have scooped it up three feet from the ground had he done so; and while he did manage to keep the ball from getting past, the batter gained first. However, he died there, for Hugh deceived the next fellow as he had done two previous batters, and the side was out. When the eighth inning ended the score was four to six, not so very bad. The local rooters got busy, and gave Hugh a round of hearty cheers when he toed the mark in the box again. Allandale did get a run in this frame, but still Hugh struck two men out. And in their half of the eighth Scranton also tallied, making the score read four to seven. Then came the last inning. Hugh exerted himself to the utmost. One batter failed to connect, but the next got in a blow that netted him two bases. Hugh kept cool and managed to deceive the next one. Then came a mighty heave and when Juggins in far right was seen running like mad it looked as if Allandale had clinched another brace of runs then and there. But Horatio proved himself to be a hero, for he gobbled that drive, and the side was extinguished with no damage done. Scranton tried with might and main to do something wonderful in their last half of the final inning. Indeed, with two out and three on bases it looked as if there might be a fair chance, since a wallop would mean three runs to tie the score, and if Joe Danvers could only get in one of his occasional "homers" it would break up the game in favor of the local team. Joe did connect and drove out a great hit, but alas! for the eccentricities of baseball, Whipple over in right had seen fit to play far back, and after quite a gallop he managed to clutch the ball and hold it. Of course that gave Allandale the game. The Scranton boys seemed pretty "sore" over their first defeat, but considering the hard luck that had been their portion, they felt that they had not done so badly after all. "Just wait!" they told the laughing Allandale fellows, "there's another day coming when you'll have to face Alan Tyree; and the chances are two to one you'll not find that boy such easy picking. You're in great luck today, Allandale; so make the most of it. He laughs longest who laughs last; and Scranton is wagering dollars to doughnuts that it'll be our turn next!" CHAPTER XIV FARMER BERNARD COLLECTS HIS BILL "Come and go along with me, Hugh," Thad Stevens was saying, some days after the defeat suffered by Scranton High at the hands of the Champs, as he bounced into his chum's den about four in the afternoon. "Where to?" demanded the other, looking up with a smile; and then noting the eager expression on Thad's face he hurriedly added: "But I guess I can get pretty close to the mark without your telling me. You're meaning to continue your campaign against our friend, Brother Lu---how about that for a guess, Thad?" "Just what I'm up to, for a fact," asserted Thad, with his jaws shutting in an energetic fashion. "You ought to know that I never give over, once I'm worked up like that business got me. Day and night I've been trying to plan a way of ridding poor deluded Matilda and her sick husband from that sleek rascal who's fastened on them for keeps." "Well, what's new in the game, Thad?" continued Hugh, picking up his cap, and in this way proclaiming his intention of joining his chum. "Several things have happened," admitted Thad, "though honest to goodness I can't say that they have advanced the cause a whit. First of all Mom has capitulated, which word means she couldn't stand the strain any longer, worrying so about Matilda going hungry for lack of sewing to do to earn food for the three of them. So she and some of the other ladies sent out a bundle, and I've got another down at the door right now, to carry over to the Hosmer cottage." "I must say I honor your mother, Thad, for being so tender-hearted," said Hugh, warmly. "Of course you do, Hugh," sighed the other boy, "but it's too bad they had to give in before that big eater was starved out, and took to the road again, where he could always make sure of begging a full meal at back doors. Now he'll just decide to squat down and stick through the summer, yes and winter in the bargain, acting as if he might be almost dying every little while, and then recovering his appetite _wonderfully_ soon again. Oh! it makes me furious, that's what it does." "Well, as you've asked me to go along, Thad, I'll accommodate you; but have you any little scheme on foot today?" continued Hugh, leading the way toward the back door, since he under stood that his chum had left his bundle there before hunting him out. "I wish I did, Hugh," replied the other, eagerly, "but try as I may, it seems to me I just can't think up anything worth while. After that grand scheme of ours fell so flat it took all the wind out of my sails. I'm trusting mostly to luck to have something come up that we can grab hold of, so as to give him a boost." They were soon on their way. Thad talked almost incessantly, and begged his companion to try his hardest to conceive some promising plan that might turn out a shade better than the one connected with that imaginary marshal from Texas. So they presently arrived at the Hosmer cottage. Thad did the knocking. He had decided to go in at the slightest invitation, in hopes of meeting Brother Lu again, and ascertaining what the prospects were for his departing to the other world. To the surprise of both boys, when they were admitted by Matilda they discovered the object of their thoughts seated in a chair, with a thick shawl across his shoulders. He looked as though he might be a trifle ill, too. At the sight of them one of his accustomed grins came over his face, now rough again with a three days' growth of gray beard. "Hello, boys!" the reformed tramp called out, as though really pleased to see them again; "you find me under the weather this time for keeps. Had one of my little bad attacks, and just beginning to feel a shade better. Perhaps I'll go off in one of these spells some fine day, sooner or later. Matilda she's been a good nurse to me, and I'm beginning to believe I did the wisest thing ever when I decided to hunt my last remaining blood relative up, and stay with her till the end came." Matilda looked pained to hear him speak in that way, but Thad was not in the least impressed. According to his mind the other had only caught a little summer cold, and which had caused him considerable distress, with its accompanying sneezing discomforts. He did not believe it was anything serious. Determined, however, to stay a short while and study the man, in hopes of discovering some loophole through which he might be reached and made to give up his soft berth in the Hosmer home, Thad took a chair, and settled himself for a visit. Hugh asked the man a number of questions concerning his illness, and took note of the fact that every time Brother Lu had occasion to glance toward his sister a wonderfully tender gleam would come into his blue eyes. Apparently he had learned what everybody in Scranton always knew, that Matilda Hosmer was the kindest and softest-hearted creature alive. Hugh wondered whether this knowledge might not in time cause the man to feel ashamed of imposing upon her strength and generosity, so that of his own free will he would take his departure for other scenes. "Matilda is going to have a birthday in a few days," he confided to the boys, at a time his sister chanced to be in the kitchen, "and me'n Brother-in-law Andrew, we've made up our minds to surprise her with a little present. 'Course it can't be anything much, because we haven't a superabundance of ready cash; but Matilda, she's stood by her poor old wandering brother so handsomely I'd be glad to give her a whole hundred dollars, if only I possessed that sum." Thad looked surprised, indeed he may have begun to suspect that after all the grizzled old hobo might not be quite so heartless as appearances would indicate. This unexampled spirit of self-sacrifice shown by Matilda was beginning to have its influence on his hard nature. As for Hugh, he listened with considerable interest, listened and sat there, watching the play of emotions across the face of Brother Lu, and forming certain opinions of his own at the same time. While they sat there a heavy knock came at the door. Upon Matilda venturing to open the same a big man pushed his way inside, and started talking roughly in a loud, almost abusive tone. Thad recognized him as a certain well-to-do farmer and dairyman who had an unenviable reputation as a cruel taskmaster with his hired help. He was also known to be exceedingly harsh in his treatment of any with whom he had dealings, who chanced to be unable to meet their obligations to the minute. Because he had been able to accumulate his "pile," Mr. Abel Bernard seemed to believe everyone should be capable of doing the same. If they could not afford a thing they ought to do without it. He never took excuses from anyone. It was all business with Abel---pay up or quit, was his daily motto. Hugh, listening, quickly determined that a little more fresh trouble had dropped down upon the poor head of Matilda. She had been taking a quart of milk a day from Farmer Bernard, and the bill had run two months and more now. He shoved an account at her in a most savage manner, Thad thought, and the boy felt as if he could have kicked the grim dairyman with rare good pleasure to settle the account. As for Hugh, if he had chanced to have the money with him just then he would only too gladly have loaned or given it to Matilda, so that she might get rid of the abusive farmer, whose very tone was harsh and rasping. "It's my rule never to let anybody get away with more than a second month's milk," the big man was saying in that loud, abusive voice of his. "You asked me to let the account go on another spell when I handed you the same before, and now you tell me you haven't got the five dollars it calls for because some old tramp of a brother that you haven't seen for twenty years has dropped down on you, and had to be taken care of. Well, Mrs. Hosmer, I'm not helping to run a hospital, let me tell you; I've got all I can do to look after my own folks. You mustn't expect me to deliver you any more milk till you can pay this; and I hope you'll get the cash soon, too, because I've some accounts of my own I want to settle." Matilda was near tears, for such a scene as this frightened her. Poor old Mr. Hosmer tried to bustle forward and enter into the conversation; but the husky dairyman just brushed him aside as though he were no more than a child. "I'm not talking to you about it, Mr. Hosmer," he went on to say, almost brutally; "it's your wife I do business with. I'll be looking to her to settle my account. And if what I hear honest folks a-sayin' is near true, the sooner she gets rid of her disreputable brother the better for all concerned." Matilda's eyes flashed. "You need not add insult to injury, Mr. Bernard," she flashed, showing a little touch of spirit that Hugh hardly believed she possessed. "He is the only living tie to bind me with my long past childhood. We were once very fond of each other; and now that poor Luther has fallen sick, and fears he has not long to live, I mean to stand by him, no matter how people talk." Brother Lu looked as though this sort of thing gave him something akin to joy. He even shot a tender glance across at Matilda, and then a triumphant one toward the two boys, as though to say: "Didn't I tell you my sister had a tender heart?" Then he got on his feet. He really seemed a trifle weak, showing that he had actually been under the weather latterly. "How much does my sister owe you, man?" he demanded in as stern a voice as he could command. "Oh! does that interest you at all, Mister Weary Willie?" sneered the irate farmer; "well, if you want to know, my account is an even five dollars. Perhaps, now, you'll put your hand into your jeans pocket and hand out that amount with pleasure." "I've got that much tied up in my old bandanna handkerchief, it happens," said Brother Lu, to the astonishment of Thad. "It's true me 'nd Brother-in-law Andrew expected to do something different with my little fortune, but then let that pass. You wait till I get it, you grasping milk raiser." He started from the room, followed by the admiring gaze of Matilda, who evidently saw in this wonderful offer of her brother a full settlement for all the tender care and affection she had bestowed upon him during the past weeks. Presently, after a little delay, the reformed hobo came into the room. Sure enough, he was holding a brand-new five-dollar bill in his extended hand, and there was a look of actual pleasure to be seen on his grizzled face. "There you are, Mister Man," he said as he thrust the money at the farmer; "now you sign that bill in a hurry, and never show your face here again. We'll either find another party to deliver us milk, or go without." Hugh saw something that gave him an unexpected thrill. It was a simple matter, and no doubt escaped Thad's attention entirely, yet it might mean a great deal. As he looked closely at the fresh and new bank bill of the denomination of five dollars, Hugh saw that it had only three distinct creases marked across its face, as though it might have been taken from some flat receptacle like a bill-book; certainly when Brother Lu declared that he had such a bill tied up in his bandanna handkerchief he prevaricated, for it would under such conditions have been crumpled instead of looking so smooth! Hugh from that moment began to smell a rat! CHAPTER XV THE PUZZLE IS FAR FROM BEING SOLVED When, a little later on, the two chums came away from the Hosmer home, Thad seemed unusually quiet, for him. Hugh, noticing this, and wishing to ascertain whether the other had begun to get on the track of the truth, presently remarked: "What makes you so glum, Thad? Coming over you rattled away like a blue streak, and now you haven't so much as said ten words since we started back home?" "Well, to tell you the truth," admitted Thad, shaking his head after the manner of one who is sadly puzzled, "I just don't know what to say, after seeing that little affair." "Do you mean you feel badly because Matilda was so reduced in finances that she couldn't even meet a small account like her milk bill?" asked Hugh, fishing for a bite. "Why, yes, partly that," said Thad, slowly; "but it knocked me all in a heap to see that old rascal of a Brother Lu walk out with the last dollar he had in the wide world, and gladly hand it over to liquidate that same account. Say, if we didn't just know he was a bad one, I'd call that a really generous act." "Oh," chuckled Hugh, "not so very generous, after all, when you come to examine things closer. Don't forget, Thad, that he's been sponging on that poor couple for a good many weeks already; and then, if our calculations are correct, he means to fasten on them for keeps." "That's so," agreed the other, heaving a sigh as though he felt somewhat relieved in his mind to have his comrade point out a solution to the problem. "Of course, he's imposing on his relatives something shameful, and the least he could do was to toe the scratch when an emergency came along. But he did the thing up brown, I must admit." "And then again, how do we know that five dollars was every cent he had in the world?" asked Hugh, insinuatingly. "He said as much," declared Thad, instantly; and then laughed as he hastened to add: "though for that matter what would one little white lie mean to a fellow as case-hardened as an old hobo? There's another thing I'm thinking about, Hugh." "I can guess it," the second boy immediately told him. "You're wondering what it was Brother Lu meant to buy with his little fortune, eh?" "Well, five dollars isn't so _very_ much when you come to think of it, Hugh, but to a tramp it might seem a pile. But didn't he tell us he and Brother-in-law Andrew had some sort of a little scheme hatched up to give Matilda a surprise on her birthday, tomorrow, Saturday?" "Just what he did," admitted Hugh. "They've been plotting how to spend five dollars recklessly, so as to get the most for their money. Such men are apt to find heaps of enjoyment in blowing in their money a dozen times, and changing off just as often. I wouldn't be surprised a bit if they even calculated whether they could run across a nice little home that they could buy and present to Matilda for a birthday present---faithful, big-hearted Matilda." "What! for five dollars!" ejaculated Thad, and then he laughed; "but, of course, you're joking, Hugh. Still, it looks like a big sum to men who've seldom handled as much at a time; and I guess a confirmed tramp never does. I hope, though, he didn't steal that money." "What makes you say that, Thad?" "Oh! I don't know, but it looked so nice and fresh and new. Great Jupiter! Hugh, you don't think for a minute, do you, that it might have been a counterfeit bill?" Hugh shook his head. "Lots of things may turn out to be counterfeit, Thad, men as well as bank bills, but that one was perfectly good. I could even see the colored threads of silk fiber that the Government uses in the paper to protect the currency. So don't let that bother you again." "I'm glad to hear you say so, because it would be terrible if poor Matilda should get into more trouble on account of passing bad money. But is this going to alter our plans any, Hugh?" "I don't see why it should," came the steady reply. "We'll continue to do business at the old stand, shall we, then?" pursued Thad; "and try our level best to find out some way to force that leech to let go the hold he has secured on his sister?" "We'll keep on trying to learn something about Luther that will give us an advantage, so we can make him do just what we want," explained Hugh; and it might have been noticed that he was now very particular just what words he used when he spoke of the reformed tramp. "Huh! there's only one answer to that," grunted Thad; "which is to influence him to move on his way, and clear out. Scranton will never miss Brother Lu; and the wide world he loves so well beckons to him to come on. After all, once a tramp always a tramp, they say; and as a rule such fellows die in the harness." "It's really a disease, I've read, like the hookworm down South, that makes so many of the poor, underfed whites in the mountain districts seem too lazy for any use. It gets in the blood when they are boys, and they feel a strong yearning just to loaf, and knock around, and pick up their meals when and where they can." "Well, I can believe a part of that, Hugh, but the meal end is too much for me to swallow. Whoever heard of a tramp who didn't respond to a dinner-bell on a farm? Eating and sleeping are their long suits, and they can beat the world at both. When it comes to going in swimming now, they draw the line every time, for fear of taking cold, I reckon. But I own up Brother Lu Isn't a bad looker, now that he's reformed far enough to keep his face and hands clean, and wear Mr. Hosmer's Sunday-go-to-meeting suit of clothes, which just fits him by squeezing, and turning up the trouser-legs several inches at the bottom." "Yes, he isn't a bad-looking man, and if we didn't know how fierce he seemed at the time we first ran across him in the patch of woods, we'd hardly dream he'd ever been down and out. Matilda's cooking seems to agree with him." "Shucks! it agrees too well with him, and that's the trouble. Now, I wonder if there could be any way to make him sicken on his bill of fare. I'm going to think it over, and see if I can evolve a scheme along those lines." "You'll find it hard to do," suggested Hugh, "because he eats just what Andrew does, I suppose; as for Matilda, I do believe she stints her appetite so as to be able to give her sick charges their fill." "She does look thinner than before, that's a fact!" exclaimed the indignant Thad. "What a burning shame all this is, Hugh! Surely there must be some remedy for it. I've got a good notion to have a talk with Dominie Pettigrew, and spin him the whole painful story. He might find a way to separate Brother Lu from his quarry." "Take my advice, Thad, and wait a little longer," Hugh told him. "Tomorrow will be Saturday and we play Belleville again in the afternoon. Besides, didn't he tell us it was going to be Matilda's birthday, and that he and Andrew had fixed it to surprise her a little? Well, don't say anything to the Parson until next week, and by that time perhaps we'll know a heap more than we do now." Thad looked keenly at the speaker, but Hugh kept a straight face. If a glimmering suspicion that Hugh might know of something he was averse to confiding to even his best chum darted through Thad's mind just then he allowed it to slip past. "All right, Hugh, I guess it won't do any harm to hold up a few more days. Matilda has stood it so long now that it isn't going to hurt her to endure another week or so of her brother's company, and his appetite in the bargain. I'll try and forget all about it in thinking of our game with Belleville. We've just got to clinch that, as sure as anything, if we hope to have a look-in at that pennant." "We're going to do it, Thad," said Hugh, with set teeth. "Once we put Belleville in the soup for keeps we can devote our undivided attention to Allandale. They have the jump on us, of course, owing to hard luck. But, thank goodness, Alan Tyree is all right again, and he told me this morning he felt that his arm was better than ever before. That means Belleville won't be able to do anything with his delivery tomorrow afternoon." "This time we play on our own grounds," suggested Thad, "and the advantage is all in our favor. Everybody seems to think we should have an easy snap." "I rather think everybody stands for Ivy Middletown, Sue Barnes and Peggy Nolan," jeered Hugh, causing his chum to give a confused little laugh, as though the shot had gone home. "But what do girls know about baseball? It's a game of uncertainties all the way through. Many a time a pitcher, believing himself safe and invincible, because his club is away ahead, has eased up a trifle, and the other fellows start a batting bee that nearly puts the fat in the fire, and gives him the scare of his life. Belleville went down to defeat last Saturday before Allandale, and the score looks rotten, but you remember they fought like tigers." "You're right, Hugh." "And only for some hard luck they would have started a streak of hitting that might have pulled them out of the hole. Half a dozen fierce drives were taken on the run by Allandale fielders, any one of which, if sent ten feet one way or the other, would have counted for a three-bagger easily. That's how luck has a hand in defeating a team, and there's no way of denying it, either." "Well, we mean to put up our best sort of game, and not count it won till the last man goes down in the final inning," avowed Thad. "It's always wise to play safe in baseball," declared the field captain of the Scranton High team, "and take nothing for granted. Hit as hard as you can every time you're at bat, and don't allow yourself to be tempted to ease up out of sympathy for the other fellows. It's scant sympathy they'll show you, once they get at your prize pitcher, to knock him out of the box. Instead it'll be jeers, and taunts, and every sort of thing calculated to sting." "But after the game's been won?" expostulated Thad. "Oh, that's a different thing," admitted his chum. "Then we feel that we can afford to be generous without being put in a possible hole. Every true player is ready to take off his cap and give a beaten rival a hearty cheer. It sort of eases up the sting of defeat a bit, too, as all of us know." As they parted at the gate in front of Thad's home he once more returned to the subject that had such a strong hold on his mind. "If anything crops up that you think would interest me, about that tramp, of course, I mean, Hugh, please give me the sign, won't you?" Thad asked. Hugh did not seem disposed to take his chum into his confidence just then; perhaps he wanted to make more certain that his faint suspicions were well grounded before committing himself to a disclosure. "Sure I will, if I learn anything positive, Thad," he merely said; "and in the meantime we'll keep tabs on Brother Lu's eccentric actions, hoping to catch him off his guard," and later on Thad realized that these last words were rather significant. CHAPTER XVI AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD On Saturday morning Hugh had an errand that took him out of town. Once again it was to the farm where his mother secured that lovely sweet butter, without which the hot biscuits would never taste quite so fine. And as her customary supply had not turned up, with Sunday just ahead, nothing would do but that Hugh must take a little run out on his wheel, and fetch several pounds home with him. It was about half-past eight when he threw himself in the saddle and started. A more charming summer morning could hardly be experienced. The sun might be a bit hot later on, but just then the air was fragrant with the odor of new-mown grass, the neighbors' lawns having been attended to on the preceding day, but not raked up; the birds sang blithely in the hedges and among the branches of the trees, and in Hugh's soul there rested the joy that a tired high-school scholar finds when the end of the week brings a well-deserved holiday. As he rode quietly along, not desiring to be in too great a hurry, Hugh's mind somehow reverted to the last occasion when he had gone out to this same farm, in Thad's company, as it happened. He could again in imagination see the old tramp as he got his solitary meal, with the aid of those useful empty tomato cans, and the little blaze he had kindled among the trees alongside the road. Passing the spot revived these memories vividly. To think that weeks had gone and all that time Brother Lu had stuck to his guns, holding out at the humble Hosmer cottage, and eating the bread of dependence! "But something tells me the end is coming pretty soon now," Hugh muttered, as he continued on his way. It was not so very far beyond that identical spot he discovered a large car standing at one side of the road, where the woods grew quite thickly. The chauffeur sat there, idly waiting, it seemed. Hugh had more than once known the same thing to happen, when parties touring from some neighboring town stopped to eat lunch in a spot they fancied, or, it might be, to gather wild flowers. He was not much interested as he passed, with a nod to the man, who looked around at his approach, save to notice that the car was a pretty fine one, and which he remembered seeing once or twice in Scranton, always empty save for the driver. Hugh had just turned a bend lying a little away from the car when he distinctly saw some one hastily jump aside, and disappear amidst a screen of bushes growing along the road. "Now, that was queer," Hugh told himself; "whoever that fellow could be he didn't want me to see him, it looked like. And by the same token there was something familiar about him, though I only had a faint glimpse, he jumped so fast." As he slowly rode past the bushes he heard no sound. Hugh considered it good policy not to betray the fact that he had noticed anything out of the way; he did not as much as turn in the saddle, but continued to look straight ahead along the dusty white road. There was another bend a short distance away. No sooner had he turned this than Hugh was off his wheel like lightning, and running back to take a look, as though his curiosity might have been aroused. What he saw caused him to give a low whistle. Out of the bushes came a form he recognized. It was a rather compact figure upon which he gazed, and the clothes greatly resembled Brother-in-law Andrew's Sunday-best. Yes, Hugh no longer had any doubts, for the man was no other than the reformed hobo. "I've known that Brother Lu had taken to tramping about the country latterly," he muttered to himself, as he watched the other going off, apparently laughing as though greatly amused, "for a number of people have told me as much. That's all right, but why should he want to hide from me? I've got a good notion to chase after him, once he turns that other bend, and see what it all means." The idea must have appealed more and more strongly to Hugh then, for two minutes afterwards, when the form of the tramp could no longer be seen ahead, he went back to his wheel, mounted, and retraced his course until he arrived at the second abrupt curve. Again he dismounted and crept forward to see what he might discover. Strange to say, Hugh, usually steady-going Hugh, now found himself trembling all over, just as though he anticipated making a startling discovery. Well, he did. Brother Lu was in plain sight. He was just approaching the stalled car that stood at the side of the road. Watching, Hugh saw the chauffeur jump from his seat, and he plainly saluted the other most respectfully. Hugh paid particular attention to that part of the affair, because any pedestrian might have stopped to pass a few words with a car driver, or ask a question; but the pilot would hardly have made that positive sign unless there was a reason for his action. Now they seemed to be talking earnestly. Brother Lu made gestures, and Hugh took notice of the fact that he seemed to be speaking with authority, because the chauffeur constantly nodded his bead, as if to say that he understood. Then the man took something from under the front seat cushion of the car and handed it to Brother Lu. Hugh could not be positive, but he rather fancied it was a packet of folded papers. Plainly, then, there was a conspiracy afloat. Brother Lu was other than he pretended to be, and he was undoubtedly hatching up some sort of plot that had connections with the peace of mind of the two simple Hosmers who had taken him in on the strength of his claim to blood relationship. Hugh was quivering more than ever now, and his breath came in gasps as he continued to keep his eyes glued on the two figures not so far away. He wished that he were gifted with hearing keen enough to pick up what they were saying in such low tones, for then he would know everything; but this was out of the question, and he must await the subsequent turn of events. It might have been noticed, however, that the boy's eyes glistened as with a growing delight, from which it was easy to judge that he did not see anything so very terrible in these strange actions on the part of the reformed tramp. Indeed, Hugh acted very much as though inclined to "shake hands with himself," as Thad was so fond of saying, when he had cause for self-congratulation. How long they were carrying on that conversation! Once another car showed up down the road, and Hugh chuckled to notice how deftly Brother Lu assumed an humble attitude, just as though he might have simply halted to ask a question of the lordly chauffeur of the big and comfortable car. "He's a dandy, that's all I can say," muttered the amused boy, who on his part stood there as the other car whirled past, as if he might be looking for something he had lost; but on the contrary, the opposite was really the truth, because Hugh had made a great discovery and a "find" in the bargain. Now apparently the earnest conversation between chauffeur and Matilda's roving good-for-nothing brother had come to an end. The man entered the car again, turned in the road with the cleverness that comes from long handling of a touring machine, and, with a last respectful salute, his hand going to his cap military fashion, sped down the road, heading toward Scranton. Brother Lu stood there as if lost in meditation. Hugh, still watching closely, and making up his mind to have it out then and there, because he could not stand the weighty load of suspense any longer, was sure the other must be in a merry frame of mind, for he laughed several times, and even slapped his hand against his thigh in a way he had, as if to emphasize his thoughts. "Oh, you sly rascal!" Hugh was saying as he continued to observe all these significant things. "I'm beginning to size you up for what you are, all right. But just think how Thad will be stunned when I tell him all about my adventure! Why, he'll almost believe he's asleep, and dreaming it. There, I do think he's turning around as if he meant to come back this way. That suits me O.K., because I won't have to chase after him." Hugh thereupon prepared a surprise for the reformed hobo. He secured his wheel and stood just around the bend, trying to look severe and knowing, though his heart was beating like a trip-hammer, and he felt that his eyes must be fairly dancing with all the excitement. In imagination he could tell just how near the other man was as the seconds passed. Hugh wondered how Brother Lu would take it upon learning that his deep-laid schemes had been discovered. Apparently the boy did not see anything to fear, or else he would have sped away on his wheel instead of remaining to charge the other with his base deception. Then the sound of footfalls came to the waiting lad. He caught his breath, and his eager gaze was glued on the bend around which the man must speedily appear. As he walked Brother Lu had his head lowered, and consequently did not at once see that some one waited for him in the middle of the road. Indeed, he drew very near, and finally Hugh gave a sudden cough. At that the other quickly looked up, as though startled. When he saw who it was he immediately commenced to grin after his usual custom. Somehow Hugh no longer saw anything to condemn in that broad smile that covered the face of the ex-hobo; just then, in the light of the new revelation, it seemed most kindly and benign; for circumstances alter cases, and a great deal depends upon one's view-point as to whether an expression can be classed as merry or sarcastic. Brother Lu did not seem to be bothered a great deal on making the discovery he did, though he must surely have jumped to the conclusion that the boy had been spying upon his late movements. He continued to advance. Hugh could detect the light of humor in those blue orbs that had always mystified him, even when he believed the other to be the worst kind of an impostor, or human leech, capable of living upon the scanty earnings of his sister Matilda. "Hello, there, Hugh Morgan! so you concluded to turn back, did you?" the man started to say, as though inviting the other to open his batteries at once, and accuse him to his face. "Why, yes," said Hugh, trying to control his trembling voice, "I saw somebody jump into the bushes as if he didn't want me to glimpse him, and of course my curiosity was aroused; so I just dismounted and came back to the other bend. Then, when I recognized you, I determined to follow a bit. You see, Mr. Corbley, I mean to settle certain matters that have been worrying both my chum and myself a heap lately---settle them once and for all." "Which I suppose now you've done for a fact, Hugh?" remarked the other, chuckling. "I believe I have," the boy said, firmly. "You've got me sized up, all right, I imagine, lad," continued Brother Lu. "I've come to the conclusion, sir, that you are a fraud of the first water, if that's what you want to know," Hugh told him, boldly. Strange to say, the ex-tramp, instead of taking umbrage at such language, bent over almost double, and laughed so hard Hugh almost feared he was about to have one of his violent fits of coughing; but he did not. CHAPTER XVII THE WONDERFUL NEWS "I reckon sure my cake is dough now, since you've tumbled to my game, Hugh," the late tramp was saying, presently; "and there's nothing left for me to do but take you into camp, and give you the whole story from beginning to end." "I'd be glad to have you do that, Mr. Corbley," Hugh hastened to tell him. "Then let's walk back a bit. I believe we can find a nice convenient log close to the road, where we'll take things easy while I spin my little yarn. To tell you the truth, Hugh Morgan, I've taken a great liking to you and that chum, Thad. I've been sizing the pair of you up ever since I first ran across you; and say, it's given me a heap of joy to see how solicitous you both were about my hanging out at Sister Matilda's ranch, and eating her hard-earned bread. You boys have got the right kind of stuff in you, that's certain. Why, there were times when I was almost afraid that impulsive chum of yours would be wanting to jump on me, and try by main force to chase me off the ground." "We did make one try that way, as of course you know, sir," ventured Hugh. "Meaning that article in the _Weekly Courier_ about the terrible marshal from Texas, Hastings by name," laughed the other. "I've had lots of fun over that racket, son, I give you my word I have. Of course there's a sheriff down there capable of doing all those stunts your friend on the paper wrote up; but his name chances to be Rawlings and not Hastings. I must have got things a bit mixed when I told you about how he took bad men into camp, and all that. But here's the log, and we can take things easy while I confess how I'm the most tremendous impostor going." Hugh seemed eager to hear about it, nor was he apparently at all afraid. In fact he was looking at the reformed tramp as though he felt a positive affection for him now, in the light of the new revelation. "First of all, Chum Hugh," said the man, after they had settled themselves comfortably, "I want you to know that the stories I told you about my travels in foreign lands were every one of them Gospel truth. I have been all around the whole globe, and seen some queer things in my day. But let that pass, for as we are apt to see considerable of each other after this, there'll be a plenty of time for me to continue that narrative of adventure. "In the course of my travels I've really picked up several fortunes, and then lost them again almost as quickly. It didn't much matter, because I was one of those happy-go-lucky chaps who believe the world owes them a living, and which they can get any time they more than half try. "So the years went on, and all at once I awoke to find that I was getting old and gray. When a man passes sixty, lad, his thoughts begin to travel far back into the days of his childhood. So more and more I got to thinking of those who were everything to me. I knew that all of them had checked in but a sister, and her I hadn't seen for twenty years and more; though I believed she was still living. "It was down in Texas a few months ago that I had a little sick spell, and while I lay there convalescing strange fancies came into my head. I made up my mind the time had come for me to quit this foolish roaming all about the world. I couldn't expect to live a great many years more, and why not settle down to being decent and respectable, as well as do some good with my money before I cashed in? "That idea kept gripping me until I finally made up my mind to sell all my big holdings in the new oil wells. This I did, and banked the cash in New York---I won't tell you what it was, lad, but six figures would be needed to cover it, and maybe seven, if all goes well with my last sale. "But somehow an old distrust of human nature began to get a hold on me. I found myself wondering whether Matilda, if she should still be living, would welcome her long-missing brother for himself alone, or because he was close on a millionaire. "That bothered me a heap, Hugh. Finally a bright idea came to me, and I determined to fix myself up like the worst old tramp going, and pretend to be sick, as well as out of funds. The game appealed to my liking for new adventures, and---well, you know how it succeeded. You boys became connected with the affair from the start, and I'm glad of it, for I like you both. "All through these weeks I've grimly held out, though ready to call the game more than a few times when it seemed that poor Matilda was having a bigger load on her shoulders than she could carry. But I fixed up several little schemes to ease the strain, when I decided to hold back the grand disclosure till her birthday. For one thing, I hid a ten-dollar bill in her Bible, and she never could remember putting the bill there, although she tried her best. Another time I wrote a letter in a disguised hand that was signed by a fictitious name, and which said that in a long-ago deal I had got the better of her, which my conscience wouldn't allow; so to ease my mind I was enclosing a twenty-dollar bill to her to cover interest. "Say, that certainly did make her lie awake and wonder, because, of course, she couldn't remember anything of the sort; nor could Andrew. I used to listen to them talking it over again and again, and I am sure got heaps of enjoyment out of it; but I told them it was perfectly proper for them to use the money, and they did. I ate part of it up myself, Hugh. "Now, I'm getting down to hard facts, boy. I want to let you into the great secret, and your chum ditto. Could you come over to our house, say about ten this morning, and fetch that sharp-eyed Thad along with you? There'll be something about to happen then. We've already fixed it to go on a little picnic excursion and take our simple lunch along with us, just to celebrate Matilda's birthday, you see. And I'll ask you to go along, which you must agree to do, if you want to have the finest surprise of your life. How about it, Hugh?" "There's nothing that I can see to prevent us, Mr. Corbley," the boy assured him, eagerly, "and to tell the truth wild horses couldn't hold me back, after what I've already learned. I must see the end of your queer game, sir. But I'm glad that it isn't likely to interfere with our working in the baseball match, which starts at three this afternoon on the home grounds." "Oh! I assure you we'll be all through long before then, and luncheon eaten in the bargain; though it isn't going to be the simple bill of fare that Matilda'll be putting in the basket we're going to carry with us. Well, Hugh, I'm going to keep you in just a little fever of suspense until then. When you and Thad show up, try to act toward me as you've been doing right along. Don't call me Mr. Corbley, remember, for that might excite suspicions. Even poor simple but good-hearted Andrew, whose best clothes I'm wearing right now with brazen assurance, doesn't dream that I've got more than a few dollars in the wide world. He even begged me not to squander those, saying that we could have a holiday without extra expense; but say, I told him to shut up, that if I chose to spend two dollars on my only sister it was nobody's business. I really think Andrew has come to like me first-rate, though I'm a little afraid he misses his garments and has to curtail his customary smokes on my account." He laughed at the conceit until he shook all over, and Hugh, now alive to the immensity of the great surprise that awaited the gentle couple, found himself obliged to join in the merriment. Shortly afterwards Hugh started off to finish his errand. He rode with speed now because of his eagerness to get back home and look up Thad, upon whom he meant to let loose a bombshell that must fairly stagger him. It was not yet nine o'clock, and ten was the appointed hour when they were expected to join the picnic party. Hugh believed he had never in all his life felt one-half so joyous. If a fortune had come his way he could not have appreciated it as much as he did the knowledge that Matilda and Andrew were going to reap the reward of their long life of tender-heartedness in their relations with their fellows. It was simply grand, and Hugh felt that his mother must know all about it as soon as the affair had developed to the grand finale and Matilda's eyes were opened to the fact that she had all this while been entertaining an angel unawares. Thad was at home and up to his eyes in rewinding a fishing-rod that needed attention. When Hugh burst in upon him with such a glow in his face and a light in his eyes, Thad knew that something bordering on the wonderful must have occurred. Singular to say, his first remark was pretty near a bull's-eye, showing that he must have been thinking about the ex-hobo as he wound the waxed red silk around the guides of his fishing-rod. "What's happened, Hugh? Oh! have you found a way we can get rid of that sticker of a Brother Lu? Something seems to whisper to me you've struck a scheme. Pitch right in and tell me all about it, Hugh." "There has a way come up, sure enough," said Hugh, beaming on his chum, as well might the bearer of such glorious news. "After today that tramp will never eat another mouthful of food at the expense of his poor sister and brother-in-law!" "Then he's going to skip out, is he?" burst from the delighted Thad. "Bully for that! However did it happen, Hugh; and what sort of a hand in it did you have?" "I don't claim the least credit for it," he was firmly told; "and for that matter Mr.---I mean Brother Lu, isn't going to shake the dust of Scranton off his feet, yet awhile at least. Something else has happened to bring about the change. Here, I just can't hold the wonderful news in any longer, Thad. Listen!" Accordingly Hugh started to pour out the story. He had Thad sitting there and almost ceasing to breathe, so deeply interested was he in everything. When Hugh got to where he discovered the ex-tramp talking with the chauffeur of the big touring car, and seemingly with authority, Thad jumped up and began to dance around excitedly. "Oh, joy unconfined! I'm just beginning to glimpse how it's going to turn out, that's what I am, Hugh!" he exclaimed, trembling all over with the violence of his emotions. "Wouldn't that be the limit, though, if this old hobo proved to be the good fairy coming in disguise to prove the worth of the ones he meant to assist? Go on and tell me the rest, like a good fellow, Hugh. Is he very rich; where did he make all his money; was that his fine big car, and his chauffeur; was he just testing Matilda and Andrew to prove how they were true gold? It's the greatest thing that ever happened for Matilda, for Andrew; ditto for you and me, because we've had a hand in it all, haven't we, Hugh?" The rest of the amazing story was soon told. Thad shook hands with his chum again and again. He fairly bubbled over with enthusiasm. "I'm so glad, so glad, for Matilda's sake!" he kept saying. "I warrant you now that fine brother of hers has got some wonderfully big thing up his sleeve; and so we're invited to go along and see the fairy story through, are we, Hugh? How long do we have to wait before making a start for the Hosmer cottage? I wonder if Matilda'll care if we keep company with them on their picnic? First thing she'll do will be to run back and add some more to the basket, because she knows how boys can eat like a house afire. I don't see how I can stand it waiting nearly a whole hour; but then there are a hundred other questions I'm burning to ask you." Time passed while they sat there in Thad's room and talked. Hugh was compelled to relate every little incident over again, and amidst all sorts of comments on the part of the other. Finally Hugh said it was now a quarter to ten, and that they might as well be starting out, which they proceeded to do most eagerly indeed. CHAPTER XVIII WHEN THE WIZARD WAVED HIS WAND "Don't forget for a minute," cautioned Hugh, as they started on their way toward the humble cottage home of Matilda and her husband, "that Brother Lu asked us to act quite natural when we came along." "I'm on," responded Thad, though it was only with the greatest difficulty that he seemed able to repress the glow in his eyes that told of secret joy. "He means by that, you are to ask Matilda whether she's ready for another batch of sewing stuff that both of our mothers have ready, which I happen to know is the case. And then I suppose Brother Lu will ask us to join them on their little holiday outing, since he's made himself master of ceremonies for today. Say, will a hungry fish snap at an angleworm when it's dangled just in front of its nose? Well, we'll thank Brother Lu for being so kind, and as we have nothing else to do we'll accept with celerity, eh, Hugh? Is that the programme?" So talking and laughing, they walked on. Soon they arrived at the cottage, where they found the three inmates just getting ready to start forth. Matilda had a covered basket already packed. She welcomed the two lads with a happy smile. Birthdays came and went in her life just as they did with other people, only as a rule there was scant reason to celebrate them, save as they marked the fact that Matilda was "getting old." But somehow the presence of cheery Brother Lu seemed to have started something. Possibly, although Matilda could not dream of what was coming, some intuition caused her to feel that this day was to be different from any other in her past. A sense of something good impending may have thrilled her poor pulses, though if asked why she found any particular reason for smiling, and throwing off her yoke of worry for a brief spell, she could have given no intelligent answer. Brother Lu bustled up. He seemed very important, indeed. "Glad to see you, boys," he said, holding out his hand, which Thad actually seized eagerly; although just a few hours before he had been telling himself how delighted he would be to form one of a party of determined fellows who might visit the Hosmer cottage at midnight, and warn the ex-hobo to clear out of the neighborhood on penalty of having something decidedly unpleasant happen to him if he refused. But then that was before Thad had heard the wonderful story which Hugh unleashed, and fired at him as he sat there gaping and listening and slyly pinching his thigh so as to learn whether he were awake, or asleep and dreaming. "Looks like you folks might be going on a picnic somewhere?" remarked Hugh, taking his cue from something Brother Lu had said to him before. "Just what we expect to do, lads," hastily replied the other, with a wink, when he believed neither of the Hosmers was looking at him. "You see, this happens to be Tilly's birthday. She hasn't had a real one for ever so long, and Andrew and me, why, we've fixed it that she should take a holiday from her drudgery and we'd all go off for a little lark. Now, perhaps you two would like to keep us company. How about that, boys? You've been pretty kind to my sister, and we all feel that you're our good friends. What do you say about tagging along? In my walks about this section of country, I've chanced to make a few acquaintances. One of these is managing a kind of pretty place about two miles away from here; and he suggested that I fetch my sister and brother-in-law across country today. He reckoned that they'd kind of enjoy looking over the nest his employer has bought and fitted up, though he ain't really taken possession yet. Tilly, tell Hugh and Thad they'll be welcome to a snack with us at noon. This is a day we all want to remember, you know. Let tomorrow and dull care look out for themselves. That's the tramp's motto." Matilda readily complied, and she meant it from the bottom of her heart too, for she was becoming very fond of both boys. Doubtless when she carried the basket back into the house to add to its contents, she must have swept the pantry clean. But as Brother Lu said, why bother about the future when they meant to have a whole day free from carking care. Tomorrow would be time enough to take up the heavy burdens of life again. And so they started forth, chatting, and so far as appearances went, quite happy. Thad was in a fever of suppressed excitement. He felt certain that that splendid car would come into the little drama somehow or other; and for once he guessed aright. "There's a car on the side of the road that has stopped to let the driver do a little repairing, I guess," remarked Brother Lu, quite innocently. "And say, I know that man right well. We've talked several times when I was roving around seeing what the country surrounding Scranton looked like. He even calls me Lu and I know him as Jerry. He's a pretty decent sort of fellow in the bargain. Why, he even said that sometime when he didn't have the boss along with him, he'd like to give all of us a little joy ride. Tilly here told me only yesterday she never had been out in a car except once in a little broken-down flivver; and then she had to walk back home, nearly three miles. I wonder if Jerry wouldn't pick us up and take us over to the Hoover place right now. I've a good mind to ask him. Would you like it, Tilly?" Would she? Matilda's sparkling eyes proclaimed that it would give her infinite delight; and so Brother Lu, with the assurance that every ex-tramp possesses in abundance, stepped up to the man who was putting his tools away in the chest where they belonged. Jerry made an involuntary gesture with his right hand. He had been about to touch his cap respectfully, but caught himself just in time. "Hello, Jerry!" sang out the breezy one, giving the chauffeur a hearty slap on the shoulder that must have somewhat astonished him; "you told me you'd be right glad to give my folks a little joy ride if the chance ever came along. We're heading right now for the Hoover place, and would be obliged to you to give us a lift, because we'll have to walk all the way back; and brother-in-law Andrew here isn't a well man. How about it, Jerry, old top?" Jerry grinned as though enjoying the joke. "Sure I can---Lu," he managed to say, though it evidently came a bit hard for him to be so familiar with his rich employer's first name. "Just bundle in, and we'll take a round-about way there. I can give you half an hour, easy enough, and the old man need never know the difference in the gas supply." They all got in, "old man" and all, for the car had supplementary seats to be used in emergencies, being built for seven passengers. Thad and Hugh were trying hard to keep from exhibiting broad grins on their faces; though, for that matter, neither of those simple, guileless souls would have suspected the least thing had the boys laughed outright in their happiness. They had a splendid ride, and must have covered many miles while that wonderful half-hour was being used up. Matilda looked supremely happy. Now and then Hugh saw her glance rest admiringly on Brother Lu. She must have begun to believe that after all the coming of this poor sick brother of hers, who had appeared so forlorn, and with such a dreadful and alarming cough, was gradually emerging from his chrysalis stage, and becoming a full-fledged magician. Greatly to the amusement of the boys, Brother Lu would every little while ask Matilda how she liked such a car, and seemed to chuckle softly to himself when she rolled up her eyes in an expressive fashion, and declared that it surely must be getting pretty close to Paradise to be able to go about the beautiful country in such a palatial conveyance; poor Matilda had evidently been accustomed to considering it an event when she managed by great good luck to get an invitation to take a ride in an ordinary country buggy or farm wagon. Then finally they passed in through the gate of the Hoover estate. This estate had a reputation in Scranton as being the prettiest little country place around. It had belonged to a wealthy gentleman who had lately died in New York City. There were rumors that it had changed hands, though no one seemed to have heard the name of the new owner. Thad and Hugh could easily understand now why this secrecy had been maintained. They caught many a sly wink from the wizard, who sat back there with his sister and her husband, whenever they looked around. "Let's get out here," announced Brother Lu, with an air of importance that must have further awed both Matilda and Andrew. "There's my friend Billings, coming over to see who we are. I told him I wanted to show you all around this elegant place, and he agreed to pilot us about. Now, to look at him, managing this property, you'd never think that Malcolm Billings was once down and out, and the worst-looking tramp that ever took to the road; but it's true. I remember him well. We first met riding on the rods of a freight car out on the Santa Fe road. You see, some rich fellow took a fancy to Malcolm, and gave him a chance to make good; and I reckon he's a-doing that same, all right." He greeted the other familiarly as "Mal," and having been drilled in his part, the manager of the place called him "Wandering Lu," as though he could not dissociate the other from the roving life of the past. The boys, keenly watching, could see that he quickly turned his eyes on Matilda and Andrew when introduced by Brother Lu; and also that there was a light in their depths that told how he appreciated this little surprise which the other was playing. So they started to see first of all the grounds, which consisted of many acres, all in a high state of cultivation, and with flower gardens, vegetable ditto, and all manner of fine fruits, such as a rich man loves to grow on his own country place. There were even Jersey cows, and fowls of various breeds, as well as a flock of pigeons that gave Matilda more delight than anything else; for secretly it had always been a pet wish of hers to some day have a flock of doves fluttering around her head, just as she had seen the tame ones of St. Mark's in Venice do---in pictures, of course, because Matilda had never been abroad---as yet. Had either of them been in the least suspicious they might have wondered just why Jerry, for instance, had taken the big car over to the garage and started to clean it as though it really belonged there. The boys saw this, but not Matilda or Andrew, who were in a seventh heaven of rapture, and not walking on earth. Then they went to the house, where a matronly woman met them. Brother Lu, more than ever like a magician of the first water, seemed to be friendly with the housekeeper also, for he introduced his sister and the others to Mrs. Husted. She took her cue from Mr. Billings, who was also present, and tried to act as though she were condescending to agree to show these strangers through the beautiful house; but it was an exceedingly hard task for her, because she knew that with the wave of the wizard's wand this lady would henceforth become her mistress. Thad, lingering behind, could hardly contain himself. He would again and again manage to give Hugh a knock with his elbow, and gurgle something half under his breath, only to have the other shake a finger at him, and add a look of reproof. They went through the house from top to bottom. "Now, if you don't mind, Mrs. Husted, I'd like my folks to see the dining-room, for it's the best part of the whole establishment, according to the notion of men like Malcolm and me, who have known what it is to go hungry many a time during our adventurous lives." The obliging housekeeper complied with a degree of alacrity that must have still further astonished Matilda. When they entered the room, to discover a table set for just five persons and fairly groaning beneath the weight of all manner of good things, Thad drew a long breath; for now he knew that the grand announcement could not be much longer delayed. And he also knew that poor Matilda's simple luncheon, resting in the covered basket under the tree outside, would in all likelihood remain untouched. "Why, what do you think of that?" remarked Brother Lu, appearing to be very much surprised. "Here are places for just five, the number we count. Wouldn't it be a great joke now if we had the nerve to sit down, and partake of this little spread. Mrs. Husted, this is my sister's birthday, the only one she's really had, I guess, for more than twenty years. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if we celebrated the event and tried to do justice to this luncheon. Matilda, let me give you this seat of honor at the head of the table. Andrew, old scout, you are to sit opposite your wife Boys, find places, and I'll take this seat." Matilda and Andrew allowed themselves to be almost pushed into their respective chairs. They were dumb, and seemed almost in a dream. Matilda could not take her wondering eyes off this astonishing brother of hers, who now must have looked very like the fairy prince to her. She was an automaton in his hands, and he could have done anything with her. But, of course, presently she would awaken, and find it all one of those amazing dreams that so often come to tantalize the very poor. Now Brother Lu was standing there. He bent forward and looked affectionately at his sister. His eyes were sparkling still, but from quite another cause, Hugh saw; though his own orbs were also dimmed, and he had to wink very rapidly in order to keep the tears from flowing down his cheeks. "Well, Matilda, how do you like your new home?" said Brother Lu; "for henceforth you and your husband are to live here to the end of your days. It has been bought, and placed in your name. Yes, I'm going to own up, sister mine, that Brother Lu had been playing a cruel joke, but with a good object. I'm not a poor, forlorn hobo, as I led you to believe, neither am I dying by inches. I hope to live some years yet, to see the two I love drink heartily from the cup of happiness. All this is but a drop in the bucket to what is coming. You shall make up for some of the lean years you've spent so bravely, buoying up each other's courage. Yes, and that tender heart of yours, Tilly, shall be given plenty of opportunities to bring good cheer to those who are almost down and out. And boys, I'm right glad that you're here with us to see the mask removed, and Brother Lu stand out in his true colors. Matilda has stood the test, and proved to me that her heart is of pure gold. She deserves everything that is coming to her. Now, I know you boys haven't lost your appetites, if the rest of us are too happy to think much of eating; so let's get busy, and do justice to this little spread, given in honor of Tilly's birthday!" Which they accordingly did, and it would hardly be proper in any one to tell how much Thad ate, and how both of them felt that they were seeing one of the most enjoyable occasions in their entire lives. And later on the boys were taken home in the big car, to rest up a bit, so as to be in trim for the game with Belleville that afternoon. CHAPTER XIX SCRANTON HIGH EVENS MATTERS UP The match with Belleville proved a walkover for Scranton, much to the delight of all the local rooters, and the utter humiliation of the boys from the neighboring town. Tyree was at his very best, which meant that few among the Belleville batsmen could touch his slants and drops and speedy balls. They fought gamely to the very last, as all sturdy players of the National game should, hoping for a turn in the tide; but in the end found themselves snowed under by a score of eleven to two. Those runs were actually gifts, for in the end Tyree slowed up, and almost "lobbed" a few over the plate, as though wishing to take a little of the sting of defeat away; though that is never a safe practice for any pitcher to do. Still, eleven to nothing would have been rubbing it into the Belleville fellows pretty roughly. On the following Saturday Allandale had a last whirl at Belleville. This time the boys of the third town took a brace, and for a time put up quite a creditable game. Big Patterson, however, was too much for them, and after the seventh inning they lost all hope of winning. But the score was six to four, which might be considered a little hopeful. So Belleville, having lost all the games thus far played in which she took part, was consequently eliminated as a contending factor in the race for the pennant of the Three Town High School League. This left it between Scranton and Allandale. The latter team had a big advantage to start with, since they were already one game to the good. But Scranton still had faith in Tyree, and if things broke half-way decently in the next game they fully expected to make their adversaries "take their dust," as Thad expressed it. During this time, of course, the wonderful happenings at the Hosmer cottage had become town talk. Everybody was greedily drinking in such details of the story as they could manage to gather up. Acting under the directions of Brother Lu, now known to every one as the rich owner of the Hoover place, Mr. Luther Corbley, Hugh and Thad did not hesitate to relate everything they knew, which, in fact, covered the story from beginning to end. It thrilled all Scranton, and would be related many times over as weeks and months passed by. There had never been anything to compare with it in the annals of all Scranton, or any other town in the county, for that matter. Matilda and Andrew had gone to live in their new home, and the boys were told that they might always "find the latch-string out," as the genial genie of the whole undertaking assured both Hugh and Thad. He seemed to have taken a decided liking for the chums, and could not see enough of them. Many an evening did they spend over at the new home. Thad never seemed to weary of listening to the marvelous stories told by the great wanderer; nor did he any longer have the least doubt regarding their accuracy. Indeed, after seeing what marvels Brother Lu was able to bring to pass in the dull lives of Matilda and her husband, Thad would have been ready to take anything he said as Gospel truth. Then came the Saturday when Allandale had to be met for the second time. Hugh and his fellow players had worked hard through the week, under the fostering care of Coach Leonard, to put themselves in fine fettle for the hard game they anticipated lay ahead of them. Never was a boy more pampered and looked after than Alan Tyree during those last few days before the trial of skill and strategy took place between himself and Big Ed Patterson. They were forever hearing vague reports to the effect that the Allandale pitcher was excelling his own record, and that his speed had reached a point where it was attracting the attention of scouts sent abroad through the land by some of the big teams in the National and American Leagues; so that in all probability Patterson would be offered a contract calling for a stupendous salary before the fall came along. Hugh only laughed whenever these yarns reached him. "Let Patterson keep on improving," he would say lightly, "and no backstop can hold him for a minute any more than he could grapple with cannon balls. We've got some pitcher, also. Tyree is better than ever before in his life. While he may not have all the speed to burn that Patterson has, there are a few tricks in his bag that he means to uncork on Allandale. I'm sorry for those fellows when they run against Alan in his present shape. Tell them so when you see them, please." It would seem from all this talk that the battle was to be one of pitchers, for the most part. And when finally the time came for Scranton to journey over to the rival town, there to take up cudgels with Allandale High, quite a numerous host of the local people went along, bent on learning just how much truth there might be in the stories that had drifted across regarding the invincibility of Big Ed Patterson. As on previous occasions, there was a tremendous outpouring of interested spectators. If anything, it was a record crowd, and far excelled in point of numbers and enthusiasm any gathering that had cheered the Allandale team on in their two contests against Belleville. There was a reason for this, of course, since the latter team had proven to be so woefully weak that they had not thus far managed to win a single game, and were out of the race for the pennant. On the other hand, Scranton, while beaten in the first combat with the locals, had fought gamely, though terribly handicapped by the absence of their regular star pitcher. Besides, they had really beaten Belleville both times as badly as had Allandale. Everybody therefore was anticipating considerable real sport with the two pitchers on the mound pitted against each other, and the regular teams covering the various positions on the diamond. It was a cloudy day, and looked as though it might rain. Hugh noted this fact and understood just what Coach Leonard meant when he told them it would be just as well to start right in, and do some scoring. If the game should be called after a number of innings had been played, whoever was ahead would be adjudged the victor. A threatening day is not a time to put too much faith in a ninth-inning Garrison finish, because the game may never go beyond five or six turns, if the flood-gates above chance to open, and the field be deluged so as to make a continuance of play out of the question. Well, that was just what did happen, as it turned out, and Scranton boys found occasion to thank Coach Leonard for his advice, since it really gave them the decision. Patterson certainly had amazing speed when he started, and for three innings it was next to impossible to touch him; for that matter Tyree was also twirling with considerable effect, though several hits had been made, and an error allowed one run to be tallied. Then in the fourth something happened. Allandale was still striving with might and main to stretch that lone tally into several. They seemed to have a batting rally, and singular to say it was the end of the string usually considered the weakest that came to the fore. Whipple, the right fielder, knocked a terrific fly, but it was taken after a great run by Juggins. Brown followed suit, but also died through clever work on the part of "K.K." out in center. It was supposed that Big Ed Patterson as the next man up would be an easy third, because he had struck out both times at the bat. He surprised everyone, himself included, possibly, by sending out a crack that by bard base running allowed him to reach second. Then Keeler, the Allandale backstop, not to be outdone in the matter, also met one of Tyree's mystifying balls on the tip of his bat; and Patterson, who had not had time to even think of asking to get some one to run for him, had to keep galloping along in mad haste, the coach near third sending him home, which he reached after a slide. Farmer, however, struck out immediately afterwards, so that one tally only resulted from the batting rally. But the mischief had been already done. Big Ed was wheezing badly when he took his place in the box, a fact the vigilant eye of Hugh instantly noted. "This is going to be our one chance to do something, boys," he told his mates as they came in to start the fifth frame. "Big Ed is tired after that running. Work him for a pass, Owen; you know how to do it, all right." Owen apparently did, for shortly afterwards he was perched safely on the initial sack, with Hugh himself at bat, and filled with a grim determination to send the runner along, as well as plant himself on the bag. He picked out a good one, and cracked it out for a double, Owen managing to land on third. All Scranton arose and roared to "K.K." to send them both home, which he obligingly did with the nicest possible little hit that could have been made, he himself reaching second on the throw-in. Julius Hobson was now up, but he struck out, greatly to his chagrin. With the score tied, and the sky looking so threatening, Hugh was more than ever anxious that one more hit should bring in the run that might eventually win the game. Patterson realized his weakness, and tried in various ways to delay the game. He had to tie his shoe once, and then managed to toss the ball again and again to try and nip "K.K." at second. In doing so he actually let the runner make third, as O'Malley on second allowed the ball to slip out of his hands, and the agile "K.K." slid along in safety, making a great slide to the sack. Then Tyree got in the tap that scored the runner, although he himself was caught at first. Thad sent a dandy hit out past short, but was left when "Just" Smith struck out. In their half the Allandale players again tried to delay the game until the umpire threatened to call it off, and proclaim Scranton the winner nine to nothing. Then they went to work, but without avail, for the inning found Scranton just one run to the good. Play was continued, even though a fine drizzle started, that caused hundreds of the spectators to take warning and depart. At the beginning of the seventh inning, with the score the same, the rain came down in torrents and play was discontinued. Later, finding that there was no hope of the game being resumed, the umpire declared it in the favor of Scranton, and those fellows went home happy though soaked to the skin. CHAPTER XX A GLORIOUS FINISH---CONCLUSION The fact that Allandale and Scranton were tied, and that there must be played a deciding game, brought out a clause in the League contract providing for just such a possibility. It would be manifestly unfair to play this game on either grounds, even when tossing a penny for choice; because luck should not enter into such a championship any more than was absolutely necessary. So this last game was to take place on the Belleville grounds, which were adequately supplied with grandstand and bleachers, and really better adapted for holding a record crowd than either of the other fields. It turned out to be a very fine day, for which every one felt thankful, after the bitter experience over at Allandale, when so many summer hats and dresses were ruined by the sudden coming of the storm, and the long ride home. Belleville, while in mourning because of the unexpected weakness developed by her school team, proved to be a loyal sport town, for she opened her arms to the visitors, and many a flag decorated other buildings besides the high school, to prove to Scranton and Allandale folks that no bitterness was felt, since every game had been fairly lost to superior playing. That deciding game proved to be a fierce one, so far as the desperate playing on both sides went, though there was no animosity displayed on either team. All the noise made by the visiting contingents was done in a good-natured spirit of friendly rivalry. And the Belleville rooters acted impartially, cheering first one side and then the other, as good plays happened to come along. Big Ed Patterson may have been as good as ever, but Hugh and his mates seemed to have solved his speedy shoots that came hissing over the plate like cannon balls. At least they did not strike out as often as during that other game. "Familiarity sometimes breeds contempt" with regard to a baseball phenomenon in the way of a pitcher, as well as in other walks of life; and when Hugh found Patterson for a drive in the sixth frame "K.K." took courage and did likewise. Then came Julius Hobson, never having forgiven himself for striking out when the score was tied, and all Scranton had begged him to "tap one out past second, Julius; you know how to work it, old boy; you're a dandy, Julius; now win your game right here!" Julius had his revenge, for what did the boy do but knock a "hummer" clear out in far center, that it seemed the madly running Farmer would never get his hands on; and by the time the ball again entered the diamond three tallies had resulted, Julius having fairly flown the rounds, to throw himself down panting, and as happy as they ever make a baseball player. Three to one it stood now, and those figures looked pretty big to both sides, for the pitchers were doing gilt-edged work and heavy scoring seemed utterly out of the question. Allandale was game to the backbone, and they started a rally of their own when next at the bat. Tyree, however, nipped the same in the bud by getting himself out of two nasty holes when it looked as though the other team must surely push men over the plate. So the game went on, and Tyree gave no sign of falling down, standing the strain wonderfully well. Hugh felt the joyous thrill of coming victory. Many of the wildly cheering Scranton rooters boasted that they could already see Allandale handing over the pennant they had so easily won the previous summer, and which must float from the flag-pole in front of the Scranton high school another season. The finish was highly exciting. Allandale managed actually to tie the score in their half of the ninth, but Scranton still had an inning in which to do something. Thad Stevens led the batting list in the ninth; and some other heavy artillery followed close on his heels. Thad got first on a neat little hit. "Just" Smith advanced him a base with a sacrifice bunt. Then Horatio Juggins, who was seldom ever known to fail when it was up to him to do something, met one of those speedy shoots of Patterson on the end of his bat, and perched on second, while the winning tally came in. That closed the game, since Allandale had already had their turn at bat in the ninth. Juggins was the hero of the occasion, and that glorious hit of his would long place him on a pedestal in the estimation of the Scranton High scholars. Indeed, all sorts of dates would be reckoned back to "that time bully old Jug nearly knocked the cover off the ball, and handed us the championship on a silver plate." Scranton boys were more than satisfied with the success that had attended the baseball rivalry. They would be entitled to fly the pennant of victory for the next season, beginning with the fall session of school. Every student's heart must thrill more or less with honest pride as he looked back to the wonderful way in which, under such a leader as Hugh Morgan, the Scranton High spirit of outdoor sports, which had fallen to a lamentably low figure of late, had been boosted on high, so as to place the locals above every other town worth mentioning in the county. As yet, Hugh was sorry to learn, there did not seem to be much chance of a series of football games being arranged, because somehow that sport had never taken a firm hold upon the boys of the three towns. But encouraging signs gave promise that by another year some thing might be done along such lines. However, there was to be no lack of interesting events occurring in and around Scranton, as the fall came on. For some years now there had been a regular tournament of athletic sports, mostly along the line of running races, of which the boys of Scranton appeared to be especially fond. Mr. Saunders, in his capacity of teacher in the high school under Dr. Carmack, the principal, and also county supervisor, had opportunities to encourage this growing spirit among the pupils, which he did every chance he found. He featured the splendid training resulting from consistent work upon the cinder-path, and by degrees quite a lively interest was created in the idea of having a regular Marathon running race for all high-school boys, no matter where located. That this idea finally seized hold upon the good people of Scranton to such an extent that a splendid prize was offered for the successful competitor, may be guessed from the title of the succeeding story in this Series, which it is to be hoped every one reading this book will wish to secure immediately---_"The Chums of Scranton High on the Cinder-Path; or, The Mystery of the Haunted Quarry."_ THE END 
19169	----	(This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) BASEBALL ABC McLoughlin·Bros·New·York COPYRIGHTED 1885 BY McLOUGHLIN BROS. * * * * * [Illustration] A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z * * * * * a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z * * * * * [Illustration] A stands for ARTHUR, a boy fond of fun, When Base-Ball he plays, none like him can run. B stands for BALL, for BAT, and for BASE. C stands for CATCHER, with mask on his face. [Illustration] D stands for DIAMOND drawn flat on the ground. E stands for EDWARD, who marks out the bound. [Illustration] F stands for FOUL on which Arthur goes out. G stands for "GO"--How the merry boys shout! [Illustration] H stands for HIGH-BALL, knocked up to the sky. I stands for INNINGS, for which we all try. [Illustration] J stands for "JUDGEMENT," the Base-Keeper's shout. K stands for KARL who so quickly gets out. [Illustration] L stands for LEFT-FIELD, who catches FLY-BALLS. M stands for MUFF, who cannot catch at all. [Illustration] N stands for NORMAN, who knocks the ball high. O stands for OUT, when it's caught on the fly. [Illustration] P stands for PITCHER, a smart boy you see. Q stands for QUICK, which this pitcher must be. [Illustration] R stands for RUNNER, who runs to each base. S stands for SHORT-STOP, the ball he must chase. [Illustration] T stands for THIRD-BASE, looked after by James. U stands for UMPIRE, who judges these games. [Illustration] V stands for VICTOR, the best of the nine. [Illustration] W stands for WILLIAM, who tells us the time. X stands for SCORE-MARK, which errors point out. Y stands for YOUTH, who's been injured no doubt. Z stands for ZENO, this boy rather tall, Who thinks there's no fun like a game of Base-Ball. * * * * * [Illustration] BASE-BALL A. B. C. A stands for ARTHUR, a boy fond of fun, When Base-Ball he plays, none like him can run. B stands for BALL, for BAT, and for BASE. C stands for CATCHER, with mask on his face. D stands for DIAMOND drawn flat on the ground. E stands for EDWARD, who marks out the bound. F stands for FOUL on which Arthur goes out. G stands for "GO"--How the merry boys shout! H stands for HIGH-BALL, knocked up to the sky. I stands for INNINGS, for which we all try. J stands for JUDGEMENT, the Base-Keeper's shout. K stands for KARL, who so quickly gets out. L stands for LEFT-FIELD, who catches FLY-BALLS. M stands for MUFF, who cannot catch at all. N stands for NORMAN, who knocks the ball high. O stands for OUT, when it's caught on the fly. P stands for PITCHER, a smart boy you see. Q stands for QUICK, which this pitcher must be. R stands for RUNNER, who runs to each base. S stands for SHORT-STOP, the ball he must chase. T stands for THIRD-BASE, looked after by James. U stands for UMPIRE, who judges these games. V stands for VICTOR, the best of the nine. W stands for WILLIAM, who tells us the time. X stands for SCORE-MARK, which errors point out. Y stands for YOUTH, who's been injured no doubt. Z stands for ZENO, this boy rather tall, Who thinks there's no fun like a game of Base-Ball. * * * * * [Illustration] 
12690	----	THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER or Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. The Principal Hears Something About Pennies II. Dick Takes Up His Pen III. Mr. Cantwell Thinks Twice---or Oftener IV. Dave Warns Tip Scammon V. Ripley Learns That the Piper Must be Paid VI. The Call to the Diamond---Fred Schemes VII. Dave Talks with One Hand VIII. Huh? Woolly Crocheted Slippers IX. Fred Pitches a Bombshell into Training Camp X. Dick & Co. Take a Turn at Feeling Glum XI. The Third Party's Amazement XII. Trying out the Pitchers XIII. The Riot Call and Other Little Things XIV. The Steam of the Batsman XV. A Dastard's Work in the Dark XVI. The Hour of Tormenting Doubt XVII. When the Home Fans Quivered XVIII. The Grit of the Grand Old Game XIX. Some Mean Tricks Left Over XX. A Tin Can for the Yellow Dog XXI. Dick is Generous Because It's Natural XXII. All Roads Lead to the Swimming Pool XXIII. The Agony of the Last Big Game XIV. Conclusion CHAPTER I THE PRINCIPAL HEARS SOMETHING ABOUT "PENNIES" Clang! "Attention, please." The barely audible droning of study ceased promptly in the big assembly room of the Gridley High School. The new principal, who had just stepped into the room, and who now stood waiting behind his flat-top desk on the platform, was a tall, thin, severe-looking man of thirty-two or three. For this year Dr. Carl Thornton, beloved principal for a half-score of years, was not in command at the school. Ill health had forced the good old doctor to take at least a year's rest, and this stranger now sat in the Thornton chair. "Mr. Harper," almost rasped out Mr. Cantwell's voice, "stop rustling that paper." Harper, a little freshmen, who had merely meant to slip the paper inside his desk, and who was not making a disturbing noise thereby, flushed pink and sat immobile, the paper swinging from one hand. From the principal's attitude and his look of seriousness, something unusual was pending. Some of the girls permitted their apprehension to be seen. On the faces of several of the boys rested a look of half defiance, for this principal was unpopular, and, by the students, was considered unjust. "It being now in the early part of December," went on Mr. Cantwell, "we shall, on Monday, begin rehearsing the music for the special exercises to be held in this school on the day before Christmas. To that end, each of you found, on returning from recess, the new Christmas music on your desk." Mr. Cantwell paused an instant for this important information to sink in. Several slight, little sighs of relief escaped the students, especially from the girls' side of the great room. This speech did not presage anything very dreadful to come. "This sheet music," continued Mr. Cantwell, "is to be sold to the pupils at cost to the Board of Education. This cost price is fifteen cents." Again Mr. Cantwell paused. It was a trick of his, a personal peculiarity. Then be permitted himself a slight smile as he added: "This being Friday, I will ask you all to be sure to bring, on Monday morning, the money, which you will pay to me. Don't forget, please; each of you bring me his little fifteen pennies. Now, return to your studies until the beginning of the fourth period is announced." As he bent his head low behind a bulky textbook, Dan Dalzell, of the sophomore class, glanced over at Dick Prescott with sparkling mischief gleaming in his eyes. Dick, who was now a sophomore, and one of the assured leaders in sports and fun, guessed that Dan Dalzell was hatching another of the wild schemes for which Dalzell was somewhat famous. Dick even guessed that he knew about what was passing in Dan's mind. Though moderate whispering was permitted, at need, in the assembly room, there was no chance for Dick and Dan to pass even a word at this time, for almost immediately the bell for the fourth period of the morning's work sounded, and the sections rose and filed out to the various recitation rooms. To readers of the preceding volume in this series, Dick & Co. will need no introduction. All six of the youngsters were very well introduced in "The High School Freshmen." Such readers will remember their first view of Dick & Co. With brown-haired Dick Prescott as leader, the other members of this unique firm of High School youngsters, were Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell, Harry Hazelton, Gregory Holmes and Dave Darrin. The six had been chums at the Central Grammar School, and had stuck together like burrs through the freshman year at the Gridley High School. In fact, even in their freshmen period, when new students are not expected to have much to say, and are given no chance at the school athletics, Dick & Co. had made themselves abundantly felt. Our readers will recall how the Board of Education had some notion of prohibiting High School football, despite the fact that the Gridley H.S. eleven was one of the best in the United States. Readers will also recall the prank hatched by Dick & Co., by means of which the Board was quickly shown how unpopular such a move would be in the city. Our readers will also recollect that, though freshmen were barred from active part in sports, yet Dick & Co. found the effective way of raising plentiful funds for the Athletics Committee. In the annual paper chase the freshmen hounds, under Dick Prescott's captaincy, beat the sophomore hares---for the first time in many years. In the skating events, later on, Dick and his chums captured, for the freshman class, three of the eight events. From the start, Dick & Co. had shown great ingenuity in "boosting" football, in return for which, many of the usual restrictions on freshmen were waived where Dick & Co. were concerned. In the nearly three months, now, that the new school year had gone along, Dick & Co. had proved that, as sophs, they were youngsters of great importance in the student body. They were highly popular with most of their fellow-students; but of course that very popularity made them some enemies among those who envied or disliked them. For one thing, neither Dick nor any of his partners came of families of any wealth. Yet it was inevitable that some of the boys and girls of Gridley H.S. should come from families of more or less wealth. It is but fair to say that most of these scions of the wealthier families were agreeable, affable and democratic---in a word, Americans without any regard to the size of the family purse. A few of the wealthier young people, however, made no secret of their dislike for smiling, happy, capable Dick & Co. One of the leaders in this feeling was Fred Ripley, son of a wealthy, retired lawyer. During the skating events of the preceding winter, Dick Prescott, aided by his chums, had saved the life of Ripley, who had gone through thin ice. However, so haughty a young man as Fred Ripley, though he had been slightly affected by the brave generosity, could not quite bring himself to regard Dick as other than an interloper in High School life. Ripley had even gone so far as to bribe Tip Scammon, worthless, profligate son of the honest old janitor of the High School, to commit a series of robberies from the locker rooms in the school basement while Dick carried the key as monitor there. The "plunder" had been found in Dick's own room at home, and the young man had been suspended from the High School for a while. Thanks, however, to Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, two girls then freshmen and now sophs, Tip had been run down. Then the police made Tip confess, and he was sent away to the penitentiary for a short term. Tip, however, refused to the last to name his accomplice. Dick knew that Ripley was the accomplice, but kept his silence, preferring to fight all his own battles by himself. So Fred Ripley was now a junior, in good standing as far as scholarship and school record went. So far, during this new year, Ripley had managed to smother his hatred for Dick & Co., especially for Dick himself. Lessons and recitations on this early December morning went off as usual. In time the hands of the clock moved around to one o'clock in the afternoon, at which time the High School closed for the day. The partners of Dick & Co. went down the steps of the building and all soon found their way through the surging crowds of escaped students. This sextette turned down one of the streets and trudged along together. At first several of the other High School boys walked along near them. Finally, however, the crowd thinned away until only Dick & Co. were together. "Dan," said Dick, smilingly, "something struck you hard this morning, when Mr. Cantwell asked us all to bring the music-money on Monday." "He didn't say exactly 'money,'" retorted Dan Dalzell, quickly. "What Prin. did say was that each one of us was to bring fifteen _pennies_." "Yes, I remember," laughed Dick. "Now, we couldn't have held that mob when school let out," pursued Dan. "And now it's too late. But say, if the Prin. had only sprung that on us _before_ recess-----" "Well, suppose he had?" interrupted Greg Holmes, a trifle impatiently. "Why, then," retorted Dan, mournfully, "we could have passed word around, at recess, to have everybody bring just what the Prin. called for---_pennies_!" "Hm!" grinned Dave Darrin, who was never slow to see the point of anything. "Then you had a vision of the unpopular Prin. being swamped under a deluge of pennies---plain, individual little copper cents?" "That's it!" agreed Dan. "But now, we won't see more than a few before we go to school again Monday. Oh---wow! What a chance that takes away from us. Just imagine the Prin. industriously counting away at thousands of pennies, and a long line of boy and girl students in line, each one waiting to pass him another handful of _pennies_! Say, can you see the Prin.---just turning white and muttering to himself? But there's no chance to get the word around, now!" "We don't need to get the word around," smiled Dick. "If we passed the word around, it might get to the Prin.'s ears before Monday, and he'd hatch up some way to head us off." "If you can see how to work the trick at this late hour, you can see further than I can," muttered Dan, rather enviously. "Oh, Dick has the scheme hatching, or he wouldn't talk about it," declared Dave Darrin, confidently. "Why, if all you want is to send the whole student body on Monday morning, each with fifteen copper cents to hand the Prin., that can be fixed up easily enough," Dick pronounced, judicially. "How are we going to do it?" asked Dalzell, dubiously. "Well, let us see how many pennies would be needed? There are close to two hundred and fifty students, but a few might refuse to go into the trick. Let us say two hundred and forty _times_ fifteen. That's thirty-six hundred, isn't it? That means we want to get thirty-six dollars' worth of pennies. Well, we'll get them!" "_We_ will?" demanded Dan, with a snort. "Dick, unless you've got more cash on hand than the rest of us then I don't believe a dragnet search of this crowd would turn up two dollars. Thirty-six? That's going some and halfway back!" "There are three principal ways of buying goods of any kind," Dick continued. "One way is with cash-----" "That's the street we live on!" broke in Harry Hazelton, with a laugh. "The second way," Dick went on, "is to pay with a check. But you must have cash at the bank behind the check, or you get into trouble. Now the third way is to buy goods on credit." "That's just as bad," protested Dan. "Where, in the whole town, could a bunch of youngsters like us, get thirty-six dollars' worth of real credit?" "I can," declared Dick, coolly. "You? Where? With your father?" "No; Dad rarely takes in much in the way of pennies. I don't suppose he has two dollars' worth of pennies on hand at any time. But, fellows, you know that 'The Morning Blade' is a one cent paper. Now, the publisher of 'The Blade' must bank a keg of pennies every day in the week. I can see Mr. Pollock, the editor, this afternoon, right after luncheon. He has probably sent most of the pennies to bank today, but I'll ask him if he'll have to-morrow's pennies saved for us." "Say, if he'll only do that!" glowed Dan, his eyes flashing. "He will," declared Dave Darrin. "Mr. Pollock will do anything, within reason, that Dick asks." "Now, fellows, if I can put this thing through, we can meet in my room to-morrow afternoon at one o'clock. Pennies come in rolls of fifty each, you know. We'll have to break up the rolls, and make new ones, each containing fifteen pennies." Dave Darrin stopped where he was, and began to laugh. Tom Reade quickly joined in. The others were grinning. "Oh, say, just for one look at Prin.'s face, if we can spring that job on him!" chuckled Harry Hazelton. "We can," announced Dick, gravely. "So go home and enjoy your dinners, fellows. If you want to meet on the same old corner on Main Street, at half-past two to-day, we'll go in a body to 'The Blade' office and learn what Mr. Pollock has to say about our credit." "_Your_ credit, you mean," corrected Dave. After dinner Dick & Co. met as agreed. Arrived at "The Blade" office it was decided that Dick Prescott should go in alone to carry on the negotiation. He soon came out again, wearing a satisfied smile and carrying a package under one arm. "If I'm any good at guessing," suggested Dave, "you put the deal over." "Mr. Pollock agreed, all right," nodded Dick. "I have fourteen dollars here. He'll let us have the rest to-morrow." They hurried back to Dick's room, over the bookstore that was run by Mr. and Mrs. Prescott. "Whew, but this stuff is heavy," muttered Dick, dumping the package on the table. "Mr. Pollock sent out to the pressroom and had some paper cut of just the size that we shall need for wrappers." "Did you tell Pollock what we are going to do?" asked Greg Holmes. "Not exactly, but he guessed that some mischief was on. He wanted to know if it was anything that would make good local reading in 'The Blade,' so I told him I thought it would be worth a paragraph or two, and that I'd drop around Monday afternoon and give him the particulars. That was all I said." Inside the package were three "sticks" of the kind that are used for laying the little coins in a row before wrapping. "Now, one thing we must be dead careful about, fellows," urged Dick, as he undid the package, "is to be sure that we get an exact fifteen coins in each wrapper. If we got in more, we'd be the losers. If we put less than fifteen cents in any wrapper, then we're likely to be accused of running a swindling game." So every one of the plotters was most careful to count the coins. It was not rapid work, and only half the partners could work at any one time. They soon caught the trick of wrapping, however, and then the little rolls began to pile up. Saturday afternoon Dick & Co. were similarly engaged. Nor did they find the work too hard. Americans will endure a good deal for the sake of a joke. Monday morning, shortly after half-past seven, Dick and his chums had stationed themselves along six different approaches to the High School. Each young pranker had his pockets weighted down with small packages, each containing fifteen pennies. Purcell, of the junior class, was the first to pass Dick Prescott. "Hullo, Purcell," Dick greeted the other, with a grin. "Want to see some fun?" "Of course," nodded the junior. "What's going?" "You remember that Prin. asked us, last Friday, to bring in our fifteen pennies for the Christmas music?" "Of course. Well, I have my money in my pocket." "_In pennies_?" insisted Dick. "Well, no; of course not. But I have a quarter, and I guess Prin. can change that." Dick quickly explained the scheme. Purcell, with a guffaw, purchased one of the rolls. "Now, see here," hinted Dick, "there'll be such a rush, soon, that we six can't attend to all the business. Won't you take a dozen rolls and peddle them? I'll charge 'em to you, until you can make an accounting." Purcell caught at the bait with another laugh. Dick noted Purcell's name on a piece of paper, with a dollar and eighty cents charged against it. All the other partners did the same with other students. With such a series of pickets out around the school none of the student body got through without buying pennies, except Fred Ripley and Clara Deane. They were not asked to buy. Meanwhile, up in the great assembly room a scene was going on that was worth looking at. Abner Cantwell had seated himself at his desk. Before him lay a printed copy of the roll of the student body. It was the new principal's intention to check off each name as a boy or girl paid for the music. Knowing that he would have a good deal of currency to handle, the principal had brought along a satchel for this morning. First of all, Harper came tripping into the room. He went to his desk with his books, then turned and marched to the principal's desk. "I've brought the money for the music, Mr. Cantwell." "That's right, Mr. Harper," nodded the principal. The little freshman carefully deposited his fifteen pennies on the desk. They were out of the roll. Dick & Co. had cautioned each investor to break the wrapper, and count the pennies before moving on. Two of the seniors presently came in. They settled with pennies. Then came Laura Bentley and Belle Meade. Their pennies were laid on the principal's desk. "Why, all pennies, so far!" exclaimed Mr. Cantwell. "I trust not many will bring coins of such low denomination." A look of bland innocence rested on Laura's face. "Why, sir," she remarked, "you asked us, Friday, to bring pennies. "Did I?" demanded the principal, a look of astonishment on his face. "Why, yes, sir," Belle Meade rattled on. "Don't you remember? You laughed, Mr. Cantwell, and asked each one of us to bring fifteen pennies to-day." "I had forgotten that, Miss Meade," returned the principal. Then, as the sophomore young ladies turned away, a look of suspicion began to settle on the principal's face. Nor did that look lessen any when the next six students to come in each carried pennies to the desk. Twenty more brought pennies. By this time there was a stern look on the principal's white face. During the next few minutes after that only two or three came in, for Dick had thought of a new aspect to the joke. He had sent messengers scurrying out through the street approaches with this message: "We're not required to be in the assembly room until eight o'clock. Let's all wait until two minutes of eight---then go in a throng." So the principal had a chance to catch up with his counting as the minutes passed. So busy was he, however, that it didn't quite occur to him to wonder why so few of the student body had as yet come in. Then, at 7.58, a resounding tread was heard on the stairs leading up from the basement locker rooms. Some two hundred boys and girls were coming up in two separate throngs. They were still coming when the assembly bell rang. As fast as any entered they made their way, with solemn faces, to the desk on the platform. As Mr. Cantwell had feared, the pennies still continued to pour in upon him. Suddenly the principal struck his desk sharply with a ruler, then leaped to his feet. His face was whiter than ever. It was plain that the man was struggling to control himself against an outburst of wrath. He even forced a smile to his face a sort of smile that had no mirth in it. "Young ladies and young gentlemen," Mr. Cantwell rasped out, sharply, "some of you have seen fit to plan a joke against me, and to carry it out most audaciously. It's a good joke, and I admit that it's on me. But it has been carried far enough. If you please---_no more pennies_!" "But pennies are all I happen to have, sir," protested Dave Darrin, stepping forward. "Don't you want me to pay you for the music, sir?" "Oh, well," replied the principal, with a sigh, "I'll take 'em, then." As Dick & Co. had disposed of every one of their little rolls of fifteen, few of the students were unprovided with pennies. So the copper stream continued to pour in. Mr. Cantwell could have called any or all of his submasters and teachers to his aid. He thought of it presently, as his fingers ached from handling all the pennies. "Mr. Drake, will you come to the desk?" he called. So Submaster Drake came to the platform, drawing a chair up beside the principal's. But Mr. Cantwell still felt obliged to do the counting, as he was responsible for the correctness of the sums. So all Mr. Drake could do was check off the names as the principal called them. Faster and faster poured the copper stream now. Mr. Cantwell, the cords sticking out on his forehead, and a clammy dew bespangling his white face, counted on in consuming anger. Every now and then he turned to dump two or three handfuls of counted pennies into his open satchel. Gathered all around the desk was a throng of students, waiting to pay. Beyond this throng, safely out of range of vision, other students gathered in groups and chuckled almost silently. Clatter! By an unintentional move of one arm Mr. Cantwell swept fully a hundred pennies off on to the floor. He leaped up, flushed and angry. "Will the young---gentlemen---aid me in recovering the coins that went on the floor?" he asked. There was promptly a great scurrying and searching. The principal surely felt harassed that morning. It was ten minutes of nine when the last student had paid and had had his name checked off. Mr. Cantwell was at the boiling point of wrath. Just as the principal was putting the last of the coins into his satchel Mr. Drake leaned over to whisper: "May I make a suggestion, sir?" "Certainly," replied the principal coldly. "Yet I trust, Mr. Drake, that it won't be a suggestion for an easy way of accumulating more pennies than I already have." "I think, if I were you, sir, I should pay no heed to this joke-----" "Joke?" hissed the principal under his breath. "It's an outrage!" "But intended only as a piece of pleasantry, sir. So I think it will pass off much better if you don't allow the students to see that they have annoyed you." "Why? Do the students _want_ to annoy me?" demanded Mr. Cantwell, in another angry undertone. "I wouldn't say that," replied Mr. Drake. "But, if the young men discover that you are easily teased, they are sufficiently mischief-loving to try other jokes on you." "Then a good friend of theirs would advise them not to do so," replied Mr. Cantwell, with a snap of his jaws. That closed the matter for the time being. The first recitation period of the morning had been lost, but now the students, most of them finding difficulty in suppressing their chuckles, were sent to the various class rooms. Before recess came, the principal having a period free from class work, silently escaped from the building, carrying the thirty-six hundred pennies to the bank. As that number of pennies weighs something more than twenty-three pounds, the load was not a light one. "I have a big lot of pennies here that I want to deposit," he explained to the receiving teller. "How many?" asked the teller. "Thirty-six hundred," replied Mr. Cantwell. "Are they counted and done up into rolls of fifty, with your name on each roll?" asked the teller. "Why---er---no," stammered the principal. "They're just loose---in bulk, I mean." "Then I'm very sorry, Mr. Cantwell, but we can't receive them in that shape, sir. They will have to be counted and wrapped, and your name written on each roll." "Do you mean to say that I must take these pennies home, count them all---again!---and then wrap them and sign the wrappers." "I'm sorry, but you, or some one will have to do it, Mr. Cantwell." Then and there the principal exploded. One man there was in the bank at that moment who was obliged to turn his head away and stifle back the laughter. That man was Mr. Pollock, of "The Blade." Pollock knew now what Dick & Co. had wanted of such a cargo of pennies. "I can't carry this infernal satchel back to school," groaned the principal, disgustedly. "Some of the boys, when they see me, will realize that the satchel is still loaded, and they'll know what has happened to me at the bank. It will make me look fearfully ridiculous to be caught in that fashion, with the joke against me a second time! And yet I have a class immediately after recess. What can I do?" A moment later, however, he had solved the problem. There was a livery stable not far away, and he knew the proprietor. So to that stable Mr. Cantwell hurried, changing the satchel from one hand to the other whenever an arm ached too much. "This satchel contains a lot of currency, Mr. Getchel," explained the poor principal. "I wish you could do me the favor of having a horse hitched up and take this to my wife. Will you do it?" "Certainly," nodded the liveryman. "Just lock the satchel; that is all. I'll have the bag at your home within fifteen minutes." So during the first period after recess Mrs. Cantwell was visited by Getchel, who handed her the satchel, merely remarking: "Mr. Cantwell left this at my office, ma'am, and asked me to bring it down to you. It contains some money that your husband sent you." Money? The good woman, who "loved" money too well to spend much of it, hefted the satchel. Gracious! There must be a big lot of the valuable stuff. But the satchel was locked. Mrs. Cantwell promptly hunted until she found another satchel key that fitted. Then she opened the bag, staring at the contents with big eyes. "What on earth can my husband have been doing?" she wondered. "Surely he hasn't been robbing the Salvation Army Christmas boxes! And the idea of sending me money all in pennies!" The more she thought about it the more indignant did Mrs. Cantwell become. Finally, a little after noon, Mrs. Cantwell decided to take the stuff to the bank, have it counted and turned over into greenbacks. So she trudged up to the bank with it. The journey was something more than a mile in length. Mrs. Cantwell arrived at the bank, only to make the same discovery that her husband had made about the need of counting and wrapping the money before it could be deposited or exchanged. It was close to one o'clock, and the High School not far away. So, full of ire, Mrs. Cantwell started down to her husband's place of employment. Once school let out for the day, a quarter of a thousand members of the student body went off, full of glee, to spread the news of the joke. As they hurried along many of the students noticed that Mrs. Cantwell was standing not far from the gate and that, at her feet, lay her husband's black satchel. Several of the students were quick to wonder what this new phase of the matter meant. After school was dismissed Fred Ripley remained behind, strapping several books together. Then, as he passed the principal's desk, he remarked: "I suppose, Mr. Cantwell, that some of the students thought that a very funny trick that was played on you this morning. While I am speaking of it, I wish to assure you, sir, that I had no hand in the outrage." "I am very glad to hear you say that, Mr. Ripley. Some day I hope I shall have a notion who _did_ originate the practical joke." "I don't believe you would have to guess very long, sir," Ripley hinted. "What do you mean?" "Why, sir, whenever anything of that sort is hatched up in this school, it's generally a pretty safe guess that Dick & Co. are at the bottom of it all." "Dick & Co.?" repeated Mr. Cantwell. "Dick Prescott and his chums, sir," replied Ripley, rapidly naming the five partners. Then, having accomplished what he wanted, Fred sauntered out. "I'll look into this further," thought Mr. Cantwell, angrily. "If I can satisfy myself that Prescott was at the bottom of this wicked hoax then I---I may find it possible to make him want to cut his High School course short!" Mrs. Cantwell was waiting at the gate. "What on earth, Abner, did you mean by sending me this great cartload of pennies?" demanded the principal's spouse. "Here I've taken it up to the bank, and find they won't accept it---not in this form, anyway. Now, I've carried it this far, Abner, and you may carry it the rest of the way home." "Why---er---er---" stammered the principal. "Mr. Getchel brought the satchel to me, and told me it was money you had sent me. But I want to say, Abner, that of all the-----" At this moment the principal picked up the hateful satchel and the pair passed out of hearing of four young freshmen who had hidden near to learn what the mystery of the satchel meant. It was not long, either, before the further joke had become known to a great many of the students. CHAPTER II DICK TAKES UP HIS PEN Dick had no sooner ventured out on the street after dinner than he encountered the news of Mrs. Cantwell's meeting with her husband. But Dick did not linger long to discuss the matter. His pockets now contained, in place of pennies, a few banknotes and many dimes, pennies and nickels, amounting in all to thirty-six dollars. He was headed for "The Blade" office to settle with Mr. Pollock. "I think I can tell you a little story now, that may be worth a paragraph or two," Dick announced after he had counted out the money and had turned it over to the editor. "You played a little joke on your new and not wholly popular principal, didn't you?" Mr. Pollock asked, his eyes twinkling. "Yes; has the thing reached you already?" "I don't know the whole story of the joke," Mr. Pollock replied, "but perhaps I can tell you one side of it that you don't know." Thereupon the editor described Mr. Cantwell's visit to the bank. "Now, I've got a still further side to the story," Dick continued, and repeated the story told by the freshmen of how Mrs. Cantwell also had carried the money to the bank, and then, still carrying it, had waited for her husband at the school gateway. Editor Pollock leaned back, laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry for the good lady's discomfiture," explained the editor, presently. "But the whole story is very, very funny." "Now, I guess you know all the facts," finished Dick Prescott, rising. "Yes, but I haven't a single reporter about." Then, after a pause, "See here, Prescott, why couldn't you write this up for me?" "I?" repeated Dick, astonished. "I never wrote a line for publication in my life." "Everyone who does, has to make a start some time," replied Mr. Pollock. "And I believe you could write it up all right, too. See here, Prescott, just go over to that desk. There's a stack of copy paper there. Write it briefly and crisply, and, for delicacy's sake, leave out all that relates to Mrs. Cantwell. No use in dragging a woman into a hazing scrape." Dick went over to the desk, picking up a pen. For the fist three or four minutes he sat staring at the paper, the desk, the floor, the wall and the street door. But Mr. Pollock paid no heed to him. Then, finally, Dick began to write. As he wrote a grin came to his face. That grin broadened as he wrote on. At last he took the pages over to Mr. Pollock. "I don't suppose that's what you want," he said, his face very red, "but the main facts are all there." Laying down his own pen Mr. Pollock read rapidly but thoughtfully. The editor began to laugh again. Then he laid down the last sheet. "Prescott, that's well done. There's a good reporter lurking somewhere inside of you." Thrusting one hand down into a pocket Mr. Pollock brought out a half-dollar, which he tendered to Dick. "What am I to do with this?" asked the young sophomore. "Anything you please," replied the editor. "The money's for you." "For me?" gasped Dick. "Yes, of course. Didn't you write this yarn for me? Of course 'The Blade' is only a country daily, and our space rates are not high. But see here, Prescott, I'll pay you a dollar a column for anything you write for us that possesses local interest enough to warrant our printing it. Now, while going to the High School, why can't you turn reporter in your spare time, and earn a little pocket money?" Again Dick gasped. He had never thought of himself as a budding young journalist. Yet, as Mr. Pollock inquired, "Why not?" Why not, indeed! "Well, how do you think you'd like to work for us?" asked Mr. Pollock, after a pause. "Of course you would not leave the High School. You would not even neglect your studies in the least. But a young man who knows almost everybody in Gridley, and who goes about town as much as you do, ought to be able to pick up quite a lot of newsy stuff." "I wonder if I could make a reporter out of myself," Dick pondered. "The way to answer that question is to try," replied Mr. Pollock. "For myself, I think that, with some training, you'd make a good reporter. By the way, Prescott, have you planned on what you mean to be when you're through school?" "Why, it isn't settled yet," Dick replied slowly. "Father and mother hope to be able to send me further than the High School, and so they've suggested that I wait until I'm fairly well through before I decide on what I want to be. Then, if it's anything that a college course would help me to, they'll try to provide it." "What would you like most of all in the world to be?" inquired the editor of "The Blade." "A soldier!" replied young Prescott, with great promptness and emphasis. "Hm! The soldier's trade is rather dull these days," replied the editor. "We're becoming a peaceful people, and the arbitrator's word does the work that the sword used to do." "This country has been in several wars," argued Dick, "and will be in others yet to come. In times of peace a soldier's duty is to fit himself for the war time that is to come. Oh, I believe there's plenty, always, that an American soldier ought to be doing." "Perhaps. But newspaper work is the next best thing to soldiering, anyway. Prescott, my boy, the reporter of to-day is the descendant of the old free-lance soldier of fortune. It takes a lot of nerve to be a reporter, sometimes, and to do one's work just as it should be done. The reporter's life is almost as full of adventure as the soldier's. And there are no 'peace times' for the reporter. He never knows when his style of 'war' will break out. But I must get back to my work. Are you going to try to bring us in good matter at a dollar a column?" "Yes, I am, thank you," Dick replied, unhesitatingly, now. "Good," nodded Mr. Pollock, opening one of the smaller drawers over his desk. "Here's something you can put on and wear." He held out to the boy an oblong little piece of metal, gold plated. "It's a badge such as 'The Blade' reporters wear, and has the paper's name on it," continued the editor. "You can pin it on your vest." "I guess I'd better leave that part out for a while," laughed Dick, drawing back. "The fellows at school wouldn't do a thing to me if they caught me wearing a reporter's badge." "Oh, just as you please about that," nodded Mr. Pollock, tossing the badge back into the drawer. "But don't forget to bring us in something good, Prescott." "I won't forget, Mr. Pollock." As Dick went down the street, whistling blithely, he kept his hand in his pocket on the half-dollar. He had had much more money with him a little while before, but that was to pay to some one else. This half-dollar was wholly his own money, and, with the prospect it carried of earning more, the High School boy was delighted. Pocket money had never been plentiful with young Prescott. The new opportunity filled him with jubilation. It was not long, however, before a new thought struck him. He went straight to his parents' bookstore, where he found his mother alone, Mr. Prescott being out on business. To his mother Dick quickly related his new good fortune. Mrs. Prescott's face and words both expressed her pleasure. "At first, mother, I didn't think of anything but pocket money," Dick admitted. "Then my head got to work a bit. It has struck me that if I can make a little money each week by writing for 'The Blade,' I can pay you at least a bit of the money that you and Dad have to spend to keep me going." "I am glad you thought of that," replied Mrs. Prescott, patting her boy's hand. "But we shan't look to you to do anything of the sort. Your father and I are not rich, but we have managed all along to keep you going, and I think we can do it for a while longer. Whatever money you can earn, Richard, must be your own. We shall take none of it. But I trust you will learn how to handle your own money wisely. _That_ is one of the most valuable lessons to be learned in life." To his chums, when he saw them later in the afternoon, Dick said nothing of Mr. Pollock's request. The young soph thought it better to wait a while, and see how he got along at amateur reporting before he let anyone else into the secret. But late that afternoon Dick ran into a matter of interest and took it to "The Blade" office. "That's all right," nodded Mr. Pollock, after looking over Dick's "copy." "Glad to see you have started in, my boy. Now, I won't pay you for this on the nail. Wait until Saturday morning, cutting all that you have printed out of the 'The Blade.' Paste all the items together, end on end, and bring them to me. That is what reporters call a 'space string.' Bring your 'string' to me every Saturday afternoon. We'll measure it up with you and settle." Dick hurried away, content. He even found that evening that he could study with more interest, now that he found he had a financial place in life. In the morning Gridley read and laughed over Dick's item about the High School hoax. But there was one man who saw it at his breakfast table, and who went into a white heat of rage at once. That man was Abner Cantwell, the principal. He was still at white heat when he started for the High School; though, warned by prudence, he tried to keep his temper down. Nevertheless, there was fire in Mr. Cantwell's eyes when he rang the bell to bring the student body to attention to begin the morning's work. CHAPTER III MR. CANTWELL THINKS TWICE---OR OFTENER "Young ladies and young gentlemen," began the principal, "a very silly hoax was perpetrated on me yesterday. I do not believe you will have any difficulty in understanding what I mean. But the matter went beyond this school room. An account of the hoax was published in the morning paper, and that holds me up to severe ridicule. I trust that we shall not have any repetition of such childish, so-called jokes. I do not know yet what action I may or may not take in this matter, and can promise nothing. I can and do promise, however, that if any more such hoaxes are attempted I shall do all in my power to ferret out and summarily punish the offenders!-----" Here the principal's own sense of prudence warned him that he had gone quite as far as was necessary or prudent. So he choked down his rising words and called for the morning singing. Yet, as Mr. Cantwell uttered his last words his glance fell very sternly on one particular young member of the sophomore class. Dick Prescott. "Prin. has it in for you, old fellow!" whispered Dave Darrin, as he and Dick jostled on the way to a recitation. "But if he has---humph---it won't be long before he finds out that you had some help. You shan't be the scapegoat for all of Dick & Co." "Don't say anything," Dick whispered back. "I'll find a way to take care of myself. If any trouble is to come, I think I can take care of it. Anyway, I won't have anyone else dragged into it." But the principal said nothing more during that school session. In the afternoon, however, when Mr. Cantwell took his accustomed walk after dinner, he met several acquaintances who made laughing or casual references to the yarn in the morning's "Blade." "I've got to stamp this spirit out in the school," decided the principal, again at a white heat. "If I don't I'll soon have some real trouble on hand with these young jackanapes! The idea of their making me---the principal---ridiculous in the town! No school principal can submit to hoaxes like that one without suffering in public esteem. I'll sift this matter down and nip the whole spirit in the bud." In this Mr. Cantwell was quite possibly at error in judgment. Probably the High School boys wouldn't have played such a prank on good old Dr. Thornton, had he still been their school chief. But, if they had, Dr. Thornton would have admitted the joke good-humoredly and would have taken outside chaffing with a good nature that would have disarmed all wit aimed at him. Mr. Cantwell, as will be seen, lacked the saving grace of a sense of humor. He also lacked ability in handling full-blooded, fun-loving boys. Wednesday, just before one o'clock, the principal electrified the assembled students by saying, in a voice that was ominously quiet and cool: "When school is dismissed I shall be glad to have Mr. Prescott remain for a few words with me." "Now it's coming," thought Dick, though without any particular thrill of dismay. He waited while the others filed out. Somehow the big building didn't empty as fast as usual. Had Mr. Cantwell known more about boy nature he would have suspected that several of Dick's friends had remained behind in hiding places of their own choosing. Dick remained in his seat, coolly turning the pages of his text-book on ancient history. "Mr. Prescott," called the principal sharply. "Yes, sir," responded Dick, closing the book, slipping it into his desk, and rising as though to go forward. "No, no; keep your seat until I am ready to speak with you, Mr. Prescott. But it isn't necessary to read, is it?" "I was looking through to-morrow's history lesson, sir," Dick replied, looking extremely innocent. "But, of course, I won't if you disapprove." "Wait until I come back," rapped out the principal, leaving the room. He went out to see that the building was being emptied of students, but of course he failed to discover that a few were hiding as nearly within earshot as they could get. Two or three of the teachers who had remained behind now left the room. The last to go was Mr. Drake, the submaster. As he went he cast a look at Dick that was full of sympathy, though the submaster, who was a very decent man and teacher, did not by any means intend to foster mutiny in the heart of a High School boy. But Mr. Drake knew that Mr. Cantwell was not fitted either to command respect or to enforce discipline in the High School. When Mr. Cantwell came back he and the young soph had the great room to themselves. "Now you may come forward, Mr. Prescott," announced the principal, "and stand in front of the platform." As Dick went forward there was nothing of undue confidence or any notion of bravado in his bearing. He was not one of those schoolboys who, when brought to task by authority, try to put on a don't-care look. Dick's glance, as he halted before the platform and turned to look at Mr. Cantwell, was one of simple inquiry. "Mr. Prescott, you are fully informed as to the hoax that was perpetrated on me yesterday morning?" "You mean the incident of the pennies, I think, sir?" returned the boy, inquiringly. "You know very well that I do, young man," retorted Mr. Cantwell, rapping his desk with one hand. "Yes, sir; I am fully informed about it." "And you know who was at the bottom of it, too, Mr. Prescott?" The principal bent upon the boy a look that was meant to make him quail, but Dick didn't quail. "Yes, sir," he admitted, promptly. "I know at least several that had a hand in the affair." "And you were one of them?" "Yes, sir," admitted the young soph, frankly. "I think I had as much to do with what you term the hoax, sir, as anyone else had." "Who were the others?" fired the principal, quickly and sharply. "I---I beg your pardon, sir. I cannot answer that." "You can't? Why not, Mr. Prescott?" demanded the principal. Again the principal launched his most compelling look. "Because, sir," answered Dick, quietly, and in a tone in which no sign of disrespect could be detected, "it would strike me as being dishonorable to drag others into this affair." "You would consider it dishonorable?" cried Mr. Cantwell, his face again turning deathly white with inward rage. "_You_, who admit having had a big hand in what was really an outrage?" But Dick met and returned the other's gaze composedly. "The Board of Education, Mr. Cantwell, has several times decided that one pupil in the public schools cannot be compelled by a teacher to bear tales that implicate another student. I have admitted my own share in the joke that has so much displeased you, but I cannot name any others." "You _must_!" insisted the principal, rising swiftly from his chair. "I regret to have to say, sir," responded Prescott, quietly, "that I shall not do it. If you make it necessary, I shall have to take refuge behind the rulings of the Board of Education on that point." Mr. Cantwell glared at Dick, but the latter still met the gaze unflinchingly. Then the principal began to feel his wrath rising to such a point that he found himself threatened with an angry outburst. As his temper had often betrayed him before in life, Mr. Cantwell, pointing angrily to Dick's place, said: "Back to your seat, Mr. Prescott, until I have given this matter a little more thought!" Immediately afterward the principal quitted the room. Dick, after sitting in silence for a few moments, drew his history again from his desk, turned over the pages, found the place he wanted and began to read. It was ten minutes later when the principal returned to the room. He had been to one of the class rooms, where he had paced up and down until he felt that he could control himself enough to utter a few words. Now, he came back. "Prescott, I shall have to think over your admission before I come to any decision in the matter. I may not be able to announce my decision for a while. I shall give it most careful thought. In the meantime, I trust, very sincerely, that you will not be caught in any more mischief---least of all, anything as serious, as revolutionary, as yesterday's outrageous impudence. You may go, now---for to-day!" "Very good, sir," replied Dick Prescott, who had risen at his desk as soon as Mr. Cantwell began to talk to him. As young Prescott passed from the room he favored the principal with a decorous little bow. Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, Greg Holmes, Harper and another member of the freshman class, came out of various places of hiding. As he went down the stairs Dick was obliged to tread heavily enough to drown out their more stealthy footfalls. Once in the open, Harper and the other freshman scurried away, their curiosity satisfied. But, a moment later, when Mr. Cantwell looked out of the window, he was much surprised to see four members of Dick & Co. walking together, and almost out through the gate. "Have they been within earshot---listening?" wondered the principal to himself, and jotted down the names of Darrin, Reade and Holmes. The two freshmen, by their prompt departure had saved themselves from suspicion. On Thursday nothing was said or done about Dick's case. When Friday's session drew toward its close young Prescott fully expected to have sentence pronounced, or at least to be directed to remain after school. But nothing of the sort happened. Dick filed out at the week's end with the rest. "What do you imagine Prin. can be up to?" Dave Darrin asked, as Dick & Co. marched homeward that early Friday afternoon. "I don't know," Dick confessed. "It may be that Mr. Cantwell is just trying to keep me guessing." "If that's his plan," inquired Reade, "what are you going to do, old fellow?" "Perhaps---just possibly---I shall fight back with the same weapon," smiled Dick. Mr. Cantwell had, in truth, formed his plan, or as much of it as he could form until he had found just how the land lay, and what would be safe. His present berth, as principal of Gridley H.S., was a much better one than he had ever occupied before. Mr. Cantwell cherished a hope of being able to keep the position for a good many years to come. Yet this would depend on the attitude of the Board of Education. In order not to take any step that would bring censure from the Board, Mr. Cantwell had decided to attend the Board's next meeting on the following Monday evening, and lay the matter before the members confidentially. If the Board so advised, Mr. Cantwell was personally quite satisfied with the idea of disciplining Dick by dropping him from the High School rolls. "I'll protect my dignity, at any cost," Mr. Cantwell, murmured, eagerly to himself. "After all, what is a High School principal, without dignity?" Monday afternoon Dick Prescott stepped in at "The Blade" office. "Got something for us again?" asked Mr. Pollock, looking around. "Not quite yet," Dick replied. "I've come to make a suggestion." "Prescott, suggestions are the food of a newspaper editor. Go ahead." "You don't send a reporter to report the Board of Education meetings, do you?" "No; those meetings are rarely newsy enough to be worth while. I can't afford to take up the evening of a salaried reporter in that way. But Spencer generally drops around, at the time the Board is expected to adjourn, or else he telephones the clerk, from this office, and learns what has been done. It's mostly nothing, you know." "Spencer wouldn't care if he didn't have to report the Board meetings at all?" "Of course not. Len would be delighted at not having anything more to do." "Then let me go and report the meetings for you, on space." "My boy, a reporter would starve on that kind of space work. Why, after you put in the whole evening there, you might come to the office only to learn that we didn't consider any of the Board's doings worth space to tell about them." "Will you let me attend a few of the meetings, and take my chances on the amount of space I can get out of it?" "Go ahead, Prescott, if you can afford to waste your time in that fashion," replied Mr. Pollock, almost pityingly. "Thank you. That's what I wanted," acknowledged Dick, and went out very well contented. When it lacked a few minutes of eight, that evening, all the members of the Board of Education had arrived. It was the same Board as in the year before. All the members had been re-elected at the last city election, though some of them by small majorities. Mr. Gadsby, one of the members who had won by only a slight margin over his opponent, stood with his back to a radiator, warming himself, when he saw the door open. Mr. Gadsby nodded most genially to Mr. Cantwell, who entered. The principal came straight over to this member, and they shook hands cordially. Mr. Gadsby had been one of the members of the Board who had been most anxious about having Cantwell appointed principal; Cantwell was, in fact, a family connection of Mrs. Gadsby's. "Coming to make some report, or some suggestion, I take it, eh, Cantwell?" murmured Mr. Gadsby in a low voice. "Most excellent idea, my dear fellow. Keeps you in notice and shows that your heart is in the work. Most excellent idea, really." "I have a report to make," admitted Mr. Cantwell, in an equally low voice. "I---I find it necessary to make a statement about the doings of a rather troublesome element in the school. Suspension or expulsion may be necessary in order to give the best ideas of good discipline to many of the other students. But I shall state the facts, and ask the Board to advise me as to just what I ought to do in the premises." "Ask the Board's advice? Most excellent idea, really," murmured Mr. Gadsby. "You can't go wrong then. But---er---what's the nature of the trouble? Who is the offen-----" Mr. Gadsby was rubbing his hands, under his coat tails, as he felt the warmth from the steam radiator reach them. "Why, the principal offender is named-----" Here Mr. Cantwell paused, and looked rather astonished. "Tell me, Mr. Gadsby, what is Prescott, of the sophomore class, doing here?" The principal's glance had just rested on Dick, who sat at a small side table, a little pile of copy paper on the table, a pencil in his hand. "Oh---ah---Prescott, Richard Prescott?" inquired Mr. Gadsby. "Some of us were a bit surprised this evening to learn that Prescott, though he will continue to attend High School, has also taken a position with 'The Morning Blade.' Among other things to which he will attend, after this, Cantwell, is the matter of school doings in this city. He is to be the regular reporter of School Board meetings. Rather a young man to wield the power of the press isn't he?" Mr. Gladsby chuckled at his own joke. "'Power of the press'?" murmured Mr. Cantwell, uncomfortably. "Surely you don't mean, Gadsby, that this mere boy, this High School student, is going to be taken here seriously as representing the undoubtedly great power of the press?" "To some extent, yes," admitted Mr. Gadsby. "'The Blade,' as you may know, is a good deal of a power in local politics. Now, some of us---er---did not win our re-elections by any too large margins. A little dangerous opposition to---er---some of us---would mean a few new faces around the table at Board meetings. Mr. Pollock is---er---a most estimable citizen, and a useful man in the community. Yet Mr. Pollock is---er---Cantwell---er---that is, a bit 'touchy.' No matter if Pollock's reporter is a schoolboy, if we treated the boy with any lack of consideration, then Pollock would most certainly take umbrage at what he would choose to consider a slight upon himself, received through his representative. So at these Board meetings, young Prescott will have to be treated with as much courtesy as though he were really a man, for Pollock's hostility would be most disastrous to us---er---to some of us, possibly, I mean. But, really, young Prescott is a most bright and enterprising young fellow, anyway---a very likable boy. _You_ like him, don't you, Cantwell?" "Ye-e-es," admitted the principal, though he added grimly under his breath: "I like him so well that I could eat him, right now, if I had a little Worcestershire sauce to make him more palatable." "The Board will please come to order," summoned Chairman Stone, rapping the table with his gavel. "Mr. Reporter, have you good light over at your table." "Excellent, thank you, Mr. Chairman," Dick replied. "Er---aren't you going to stay, Cantwell?" demanded Gadsby, as the principal turned to leave the room. "No; the fact is---I---well, I want to consider my statement a little more before I offer it to the Board. Good evening!" Mr. Cantwell got out of the room while some of the members were still scraping their chairs into place. Dick Prescott had not openly looked in the principal's direction. Yet the amateur reporter had taken it all in. He was grinning inside now. He had taken upon himself the work of reporting these meetings that he might be in a position to block any unfair move on the part of the principal. "I wonder what Mr. Cantwell is thinking about, _now_?" Dick asked himself, with an inward grin as he picked up his pencil. That Board meeting was about as dull and uneventful as the average. Yet Dick managed to make a few live paragraphs out of it that Guilford, "The Blade's" news editor, accepted. It still lacked some minutes of ten o'clock when young Prescott left the morning newspaper office and started briskly homeward. "I didn't catch that Board-reporting idea a day too soon," the boy told himself, laughing. "Mr. Cantwell was certainly on hand for mischief to-night. But how quickly he made his get-away when he discovered that his culprit was present as a member of the press! I guess Mr. Gadsby must have passed him a strong hint. But I must be careful not to have any malice in the matter. Some evening when Mr. Cantwell does come before the Board with some report I must take pains to give him and his report a nice little notice and ask 'The Blade' folks to be sure to print it. Then---gracious!" Utterly startled, Dick heard and saw an ugly brickbat whizz by his head. It came out of the dark alley that the sophomore was passing at that moment. And now came another, aimed straight for his head! CHAPTER IV DAVE WARNS TIP SCAMMON There wasn't time to jump out of the way of that second flying missile. By an instinct of self-preservation young Prescott, instead of trying to leap out of the way, just collapsed, going down to his knees. As he sank the missile struck the top of his cap, carrying it from his head. "Hi! Stop that, you blamed rascal!" It was Dave Darrin's voice that rang out, as that young man came rushing down the street behind Prescott. Dick in another second was on his feet, crouching low, and running full tilt into the alleyway. It was Dick's way---to run at danger, instead of away from it. At his first bound into the alley, Prescott dimly made out some fellow running at the further end. There was an outlet of escape down there---two of them, in fact, as the indignant pursuer knew. So he put on speed, but soon was obliged to halt, finding that his unknown enemy had gotten away. Here Dick was joined by breathless Dave Darrin, who had followed swiftly. "You go through there, Dave; I'll take the other way," urged Dick, again starting in pursuit. The unknown one, however, had taken advantage of those few seconds of delay to get safely beyond chase. So the chums met, soon, in a side street. "His line of retreat was good," muttered Dick, rather disgustedly. "Who was it, anyway?" Dave indignantly inquired. "I don't know. I didn't see." "Do you suppose it could have been Tip Scammon?" asked Dave, shrewdly. "Is Tip Scammon back from the penitentiary?" "Got back this afternoon, and has been showing himself around town this evening," nodded Dave. "Say, I wonder if he could have been the one who ambushed you?" "I don't like to throw suspicion on anyone," Dick replied. "Still, I can't imagine anyone else who would have as much temptation to try to lay me up. Tip Scammon acted as Fred Ripley's tool, last year, in trying to make me out a High School thief. Tip was sent away, and Fred didn't have to suffer at all, because Tip wouldn't betray his employer. But Tip must have felt sore at me many a time when he was breaking rock at the penitentiary." The two chums walked slowly back to Main Street, still talking. "I saw you ahead of me, on the street," Dave rattled on. "I was trying to overtake you, without calling, when that thing came whizzing by your head. Say, Dick, I wonder---" "What?" demanded Prescott. "Oh, of course, it's a crazy notion. But I was wondering if Mr. Cantwell could have it in for you so hard that he'd put anyone up to lying in ambush for you." Dick started, then thought a few moments. "No," he decided. "Cantwell may be erratic, and he certainly has a treacherous temper, and some mean ways. But this was hardly the sort of trick he'd go in for." "Then it was Tip Scammon, all by himself," declared Darrin, with great conviction. "But to go back to Mr. Cantwell," Dick resumed, with a grin, "I must tell you something really funny. Prin. went to School Board tonight with a long, bright knife sharpened for me. But he didn't do a thing." Then Prescott confessed to being a "Blade" representative, and told of the principal's visit to the Board, and of his hurried departure. Dave laughed heartily, though what seemed to amaze him most of all was that Dick had found a chance to write for pay. "Of course you can do it, Dick," continued his loyal friend, "but I never thought that anyone as young as you ever got the chance." "It came my way," Dick went on, "and I'm mighty glad it did. So-----" "Wow!" muttered Dave, suddenly, then started off at a sprint, as he muttered: "Here's Tip Scammon now!" Both boys moved along on a hot run. Tip was walking slowly along Main Street, giving a very good imitation of one unconcerned. He turned when he heard the running feet behind him, however. His first impulse seemed to be to take to his heels. But the young jailbird quickly changed his mind, and turned to face them, an inquisitive look on his hard cunning face. "Good evenin', fellers. Where's the fire?" he hailed. "In my eyes! See it?" demanded Dave Darrin. His dark eyes certainly were flashing as he reached out and seized Tip by one shoulder. "Now don't ye git festive with _me_!" warned Tip. "Oh, we don't feel ready for anything more festive than a lynching party," muttered Dave, hotly. "See here, you-----" "I s'pose ye think ye can do all ye wanter to me, jest because I've been doin' my stretch?" demanded Tip, aggressively. "But don't be too sure. Take yer hand offen my shoulder!" Dave didn't show any sign of immediate intention of complying. "_Take it off_!" insisted Tip. But Dave met the fellow's baleful gaze with a cool, steady look. Tip, muttering something, edged away from under Dave's extended hand. "Now, ye wanter understand," continued young Scammon, "that I can't be played with, jest because some folks think I'm down. If you come fooling around me you'll have to explain or apologize." "Tip," questioned Dave Darrin, sharply, "why did you just throw two brickbats at Dick Prescott's head?" "I didn't," retorted Tip, stolidly. "You _did_." "I didn't." "Tip," declared Dave, solemnly, "I won't call you a liar. I'll just remark that you and truth are strangers." "I ain't interested in what you fellers got to say," flared Tip, sullenly. "And I don't like your company, neither. So jest skate along." "We're not going to linger with you, Tip, any longer than seems absolutely necessary," promised Dave, coolly. "But what I want to say is this: If you make any more attempts to do Dick Prescott any harm our crowd will get you, no matter how far we have to go to find you. Is that clear?" "I s'pose it is, if you say so," sneered young Scammon. "We'll get you," pursued Dave, "and we'll turn you over to the authorities. One citizen like Dick Prescott is worth more than a million of your stamp. If we find you up to any more tricks against Dick Prescott, or against any of us, for that matter, we'll soon have you doing your second 'stretch,' as you have learned to call a term at the penitentiary. Tip, your best card will be to turn over a very new leaf, and find an honest job. Just because you've been in jail once don't go along with the notion that it's the only place where you can find your kind of company. But whatever you do, steer clear of Dick Prescott and his chums. I think you understand that. Now, go!" Tip tried to brazen it out, but there was a compelling quality in the clear, steady gaze of Dave Darrin's dark eyes. After a moment Tip Scammon let his own gaze drop. He turned and shuffled away. "Poor fellow!" muttered Dick. "Yes, with all my heart," agreed Dave. "But the fellow doesn't want to get any notion that he can go about terrorizing folks in Gridley!" CHAPTER V RIPLEY LEARNS THAT THE PIPER MUST BE PAID Scammon, however, knew one person in Gridley whom he thought he could terrorize. He started in promptly to do it. At three the next afternoon young Scammon loitered under a big, bare oak on one of the winding, little-traveled streets that led from Gridley out into the open country beyond. In summer it was a favorite thoroughfare, especially for young engaged couples who wanted to loiter along the road, chatting and picking wild flowers. In winter, however, the place was usually deserted, being more than a mile out of the city. As Tip lingered he caught sight of haughty Fred Ripley coming down the road at a fast walk. Fred looked both angry and worried. Tip, as soon as he caught sight of the young fellow who imagined himself an "aristocrat," began to grin in his evil way. A dull, sullen, red fired Fred's cheeks when he caught sight of the one who was waiting for him. "Ye're most nearly on time," Tip informed the other. "See here, Scammon, what in blazes did you mean by sending me a note like the one I got from you" demanded Fred? Tip only grinned. "What did you mean, fellow?" Ripley insisted angrily. "I meant to get ye here, to let ye know what I had to say to ye," Scammon retorted. "Why, confound you, fellow---" Fred began, stuttering a bit, but the other cut in on him in short fashion. "None o' that to me, now, Fred Ripley. D'ye hear? Me an' you used to be pretty good pals, once on a time." At this charge, Fred winced very plainly. "And maybe we'll be pals, now, too," Tip pursued, with the air of one who believed himself to be able to dictate terms. "That is, for your sake, I hope we are, Ripley." "What are you talking about? What do you want to see me about? Come to the point in mighty few words," Ripley commanded, impatiently. "Well, now, first-off, last year, before I went away for my health---" Tip grinned in ghastly fashion 'ye hired me to do a certain job for ye. Right, so far, ain't I?" "Possibly," assented Fred, coldly. "Ye hired me to get hold of keys that could be used on one o' the High School locker rooms," Tip went on, cunningly. "Ye hired me to steal some stuff from the coats o' the young gents that study there. Then ye hired me to break inter Dick Prescott's room and get the loot inter his trunk. Right, ain't I?" Tip spoke assertively, making no effort to keep his voice low. "For goodness' sake don't shout it all over four counties," protested Fred Ripley, glancing apprehensively about him. His face was paler, now, from uneasiness. "Oh, I ain't afraid about anyone hearing me," Tip went on, unconcernedly. "D'ye know why, Fred, my boy? Because I done my stretch for the trick, and there ain't nuthin' more comin' to me on that score. If _you're_ 'fraid, jest go an' do yer stretch, like I did, an' then ye won't care who hears or knows!" Tip laughed cunningly. Fred's face darkened. He squirmed, yet found himself afraid to show anger. "So I dropped ye that note, tellin' ye to come here at three this aft'noon," Scammon continued. "I told ye I hoped ye'd find it convenient to come, an' hinted that if ye didn't, ye might wish later, that ye had." "I'm here," retorted the Ripley heir. "Now, what do you want to say to me?" "I'm broke," Tip informed Ripley, plaintively. "Stony! Understand? I hain't got no money." "You don't expect me to furnish you with any?" demanded Fred, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "I paid you, in full, last year." "Ye didn't pay me fer the stretch I done, did ye?" demanded Tip, insolently. "How much did ye pay me for keeping my mouth closed, so you wouldn't have to do your stretch?" Fred winced painfully under that steady, half-ugly glance of the other. "And now," continued Scammon, in a half-hurt way, "ye think it's hard if I tell ye that I want a few dollars to keep food in my insides." "You've got your father," hinted Fred. "Sure, I have," Tip assented. "But it's mighty little he'll do for me until I get a job and settle down to it." "Well, why don't you?" asked Fred Ripley. "That's the surest way to get straight with the world." "When I want advice," sneered Scammon, "I won't tramp all the way out here, an' ask _you_ for it. Nope. I don't want advice. What I want is money." "Oh, well, Tip, I'm sorry for you and your troubles. Here's a dollar for you. I wish I could make it more." Fred Ripley drew out the greenback, passing it over. Tip took the money, studying it curiously. "Ye're sorry just a dollar's worth---is that it? Well, old pal, ye'll have to be more sorry'n that. I'll let ye off fer ten dollars, but hand it over quick!" Fred's first impulse was to get angry, but it didn't take him more than an instant to realize that it would be better to keep this fellow quiet. "I haven't ten dollars, Tip---on my honor," he protested, hesitatingly. "On yer---what?" questioned Scammon, with utter scorn. "I haven't ten dollars." "How much have ye?" There was something in Tip's ugly eyes that scared the boy. Fred went quickly through his pockets, producing, finally, six dollars and a half. "I'll give you six of this, Tip," proposed Fred, rather miserably. "Ye'll give me _all_ of it, ye mean," responded Scammon. "And ye'll meet me to-morrow aft'noon with five more---something for interest, ye know." "But I won't have five dollars again, as soon as that," argued Fred, weakly. "Yes, you will," leered Tip. "You'll have to!" "What do you mean?" demanded Fred, trying to bluster, but making a failure of the attempt. "It'll take five more to give me lock-jaw," declared Scammon. "I'm jest out of prison, and I mean to enjoy myself restin' a few days before I settle down to a job again. So, to-morrow, turn up with the five!" "I don't know where to get the money." "Find out, then," sneered the other. "I don't care where you get it, but you've got to get it and hand it over to me to-morrow, or it'll be too late, an' Gridley'll be too hot a place for 'ye!" "I'll try," agreed Ripley, weakly. "Ye'll do more'n try, 'cause if ye fail me ye'll have no further show," declared Tip, with emphasis. "See, here, Scammon, if I can find another five---somehow---that'll be the last of this business? You won't expect to get any more money out of me?" "The five that you're goin' to bring me tomorrow will be in full payment." "Of all possible claims to date?" Fred insisted. "Yes, in full---to date," agreed Scammon, grinning as though he were enjoying himself. "And there'll never be any further demands?" questioned Fred. "Never again!" Scammon asserted, with emphasis. "You promise that, solemnly?" "On my honor," promised the jailbird, sardonically. "I'll try to get you the money, Tip. But see here, I'll be in front of the drug store next to the post office, at just three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. You stop and look in the same window, but don't speak to me. If I can get the five I'll slip it into your hand. Then I'll move away. You stand looking in the window a minute or so after I leave you, will you?" "Sure," agreed Scammon, cheerfully. "And don't do anything so plainly that any passerby can detect the fact that you and I are meeting there. Don't let anyone see what I slip into your hand." "That'll be all right," declared Tip Scammon, readily enough. "And mind you, that's the last money you're ever to ask me for." "That'll be all right, too," came readily enough from the jailbird. "Then good-bye until to-morrow. Don't follow me too closely." "Sure not," promised Tip. "Ye don't want anyone to know that I'm your friend, and I'm good at keepin' secrets." For two or three minutes young Scammon remained standing under the bare tree. But his gaze followed the vanishing figure of Fred Ripley, and a cunning look gleamed in Tip's eyes. Fred Ripley, when he had heard of Tip going to prison without saying a word, had been foolish enough to suppose that that incident in his own life was closed. Fred had yet to learn that evil remains a long time alive, and that its consequences hit the evil doer harder than the victim. CHAPTER VI THE CALL TO THE DIAMOND---FRED SCHEMES Recess! As the long lines filed rhythmically down from the second floor, thence to the basement, the leaders of the files quickly discovered something new posted on the bulletin board near the boys' locker rooms. As quickly as the files broke, there was such a rush to see the new bulletin that those who got the best places had to read aloud to others. This was what the bulletin proclaimed: Notice. _The gymnasium will be open at 2.30 this afternoon for the gathering of all male students, except freshmen, who may be interested in trying to make either the school or second baseball teams for the coming season. Gridley will have some notable rivals in the field this next year. Information comes that several of school baseball teams will have better material and longer training for next season. It is earnestly desired that all members of the three upper classes who consider themselves capable of making either of the Gridley High School baseball teams be on hand this afternoon, when as full plans as possible will be made. By order of the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association. (signed) Edward Luce, B.B. Coach._ A shout of approval went up from half of those present as Purcell, of the junior class, finished reading. Many of those who had no thought of making the school or second teams were filled with delight at thought of the training season being so soon to open. One of the boys who was pleased was Fred Ripley. He had handed that five-dollar bill to Tip Scammon the afternoon before, and now felt rather certain that he had closed the door on the whole Scammon episode. Like many another haughty, disagreeable person, Ripley had, in spite of his treatment of others, a keen desire to be well thought of. The year before, in the sophomore class, Fred had played as one of the pitchers in the second team, and had done fairly well on the few occasions when he had been given a chance. "There's no good reason why I can't make the post of pitcher on the school team this year," thought young Ripley, with a thrill of hope and expectant delight. "Going to show up this afternoon?" asked Dave of Prescott. "Of course I am, Darrin," answered Prescott, as Dick & Co. met out on the sidewalk. "Going to try to make the regular team?" "Of course I am," declared Dick, smiling. "And so, I hope, are every one of you fellows." "I'd like to," agreed Tom Reade. "Then don't say you'd _like_ to; say you're _going_ to," admonished Dick. "The fellow who doesn't quite know never gets much of any place. Just say to yourself that you're going to be one of the stars on the school team. If you have to fall into the second team---don't be cast down over it---but make every possible effort toward getting on the top team. That's the spirit that wins in athletics," finished Dick, sagely. "I'm going to make the school team," announced Dave Darrin. "Not only that, but I'll proclaim it to anyone who'll be kind enough to listen. The school nine, or 'bust,' for me." "Good enough!" cheered Dick. "Now, then, fellows, we'll all be on hand this afternoon, won't we, and on every other afternoon that we're needed?" Dick & Co. carried that proposition by a unanimous vote. "But see here, fellows," urged Dick Prescott, "just try to keep one idea in mind, please. There's a good deal of objection, every year, that athletics are allowed to interfere with studies. Now, as soon as the end of recess is called to-day, let's every one of us go back with our minds closed to baseball. Let us all keep our minds right on our studies. Why can't we six help to prove that interest in athletics puts the scholarship mark up, not down?" "We can," nodded Dave Darrin. "Good! I like that idea. We'll simply go ahead and put our scholarship away up over where it is at present." To this the other chums agreed heartily. Luce, the coach for baseball, was one of the under submasters. He had made a record at college, for both baseball and scholarship. He was a complete enthusiast on the game of the diamond. The year before he had trained the school nine to a record that beat anything in the High School line in the whole state. His bulletin announced that he intended to try to make the coming nine the best yet. It didn't say that, in so many words, but the bulletin implied it. Fred Ripley did not hit upon the idea of improved scholarship. Instead, that young man went into two classes, after recess, and reported "not prepared." Then he settled back into a brown study of his chances in baseball. "I don't suppose Dick & Co. will have the nerve to try for anything better than the second nine," muttered Fred to himself. "Still, one can never tell what that crowd will have the nerve to do!" School out, Fred hurried home faster than was his wont. He caught his father just as the latter was leaving the lunch table. "Dad, can I have a few minutes' talk with you about one of my ambitions?" pleaded Fred. "Certainly, my boy," replied the wealthy, retired lawyer. "I'm glad, indeed, to hear that you have any ambitions. Come into the library, if you can let your luncheon go that long." "If you don't mind, Dad, I'd rather eat while I talk," urged Fred. "I have to be back at school before three." "What---under discipline?" inquired the lawyer. "No, sir; it's baseball that I wish to talk about." "Well, then, Fred, what is it?" asked his father. "Why, sir, we're going to get together on baseball, this afternoon. The start for the season is to be made early this year. Gridley expects to put forth the finest High School nine ever." "I'm glad to hear that," nodded the lawyer. "School and college athletics, rightly indulged in, give the budding man health, strength, courage and discipline to take with him out into the battle of life. We didn't have much in the way of athletics when I was at college, but I appreciate the modern tendency more than do some men of my age." Fred, though not interested in his father's praise of athletics waited patiently until his parent had finished. "I'm pretty sure, Dad, I can make the chance of being the star pitcher on the school team for this coming season, if only you'll back me up in it." "Why, as far as that goes," replied Lawyer Ripley, "I believe that about all the benefits of school athletics can be gained by one who isn't necessarily right at the top of the crowd." "But not to go to the top of the crowd, and not to try too, Dad, is contrary to the spirit of athletics," argued Fred, rather cleverly. "Besides, one of the best things about athletics, I think, is the spirit to fight for leadership. That's a useful lesson---leadership---to carry out into life, isn't it, sir?" "Yes, it is; you're right about that, son," nodded the lawyer. "Well, sir, Everett, one of the crack pitchers of national fame, is over in Duxbridge for the winter. He doesn't go south with his team for practice until the middle or latter part of February. Duxbridge is only twelve miles from here. He could come over here, or you could let your man take me over to Duxbridge in your auto. Dad, I want to be the pitcher of the crack battery in the school nine. Will you engage Everett, or let me hire him, to train me right from the start in all the best styles of pitching?" "How much would it cost?" asked the lawyer, cautiously. "I don't know exactly, sir. A few hundred dollars, probably." Fred's face was glowing with eagerness. His mother, who was standing just behind him, nodded encouragingly at her husband. "Well, yes, Fred, if you're sure you can make yourself the star pitcher of the school nine, I will." "When may I go to see Everett, sir?" asked Fred, making no effort to conceal the great joy this promise had given him. "Since you're to be engaged for this afternoon, Fred, we'll make it to-morrow. I'll order out the car and go over to Duxbridge with you.". It was in the happiest possible frame of mind, for him, that Fred Ripley went back to the High School that afternoon. He didn't arrive until five minutes before the hour for calling the meeting; he didn't care to be of the common crowd that would be on hand at or soon after two-thirty. When he entered, he found a goodly and noisy crowd of some eighty High School boys of the three upper classes present. Ripley nodded to a few with whom he was on the best terms. Settees had been placed at one end of the gym. There was an aisle between two groups of these seats. "Gentlemen, you'll please come to order, now," called out Coach Luce, mounting to a small platform before the seats. It took a couple of minutes to get the eager, half-turbulent throng seated in order. Then the coach rapped sharply, and instantly all was silence, save for the voice of the speaker. "Gentlemen," announced Mr. Luce, "it is the plan to make the next season the banner one in baseball in all our school's history. This will call for some real work, for constantly sustained effort. Every man who goes into the baseball training squad will be expected to do his full share of general gymnastic work here, and to improve every favorable chance for such cross-country running and other outdoor sports as may be ordered. "To-day, as we are so close to Christmas, we will arrange only the general details---have a sort of mapping-out, as it were. But immediately after the holidays the entire baseball squad that enrolls will be required to start at once to get in general athletic condition. There will be hard---what some may call grilling---gym. work at the outset, and much of the gym. work will be kept up even after the actual ball practice begins. "Early in February work in the baseball cage must begin, and it will be made rather severe this year. In fact, I can assure you that the whole training, this coming year, will be something that none but those who mean to train in earnest can get through with successfully. "Any man who is detected smoking cigarettes or using tobacco in any form, will be dropped from the squad instantly. Every man who enrolls will be required to make a promise to abstain, until the end of the ball season, from tobacco in any form. "In past years we have often been urged to adopt the training table, in order that no greedy man may eat himself out of physical condition. It is not, of course, feasible to provide such a table here at the gym. I wish it were. But we will have training table to just this extent: Every member of the squad will be handed a list of the things he may eat or drink, and another list of those things that are barred. The only exception, in the way of departure, from the training list, will be the Christmas dinner. Every man who enrolls is in honor bound to stick closely to his list of permissible foods until the end of the training season. "Remember, this year's work is to be one of the hardest work and all the necessary self-denial. It must be a disciplined and sustained effort for excellence and victory. Those who cannot accept these principles in full are urged not to enroll in the squad at all. "Now, I will wait five minutes, during which conversation will be in order. When I call the meeting to order again I will ask all who have decided to enter the squad to occupy the seats here at my right hand, the others to take the seats at my left hand." Immediately a buzz of talk ran around that end of the gym. The High School boys left their seats and moved about, talking over the coach's few but pointed remarks. "How do you like Mr. Luce's idea, Dick?" asked Tom Reade. "It's good down to the ground, and all the way up again," Dick retorted, enthusiastically. "His ideas are just the ideas I'm glad to hear put forward. No shirking; every effort bent on excelling, and every man to keep his own body as strong, clean and wholesome as a body can be kept. Why, that alone is worth more than victory. It means a fellow's victory over all sloth and bad habits!" "Luce meant all he said, too, and the fellows know he did," declared Dave Darrin. "I wonder what effect it will have on the size of the squad?" There was a good deal of curiosity on that score. The five minutes passed quickly. Then Coach Luce called for the division. As the new baseball squad gathered at the right-hand seats there was an eager counting. "Forty-nine," announced Greg Holmes, as soon as he had finished counting. "Five whole nines and a few extras left over." "I'm glad to see that Gridley High School grit is up to the old standard," declared Coach Luce, cheerily, after he had brought them to order. "Our squad, this year, contains three more men than appeared last year. It is plain that my threats haven't scared anyone off the Gridley diamond. Now, I am going to write down the names of the squad. Then I will ask each member, as his name is called, to indicate the position for which he wishes to qualify." There was a buzz of conversation again, until the names had all been written down. Then, after Coach Luce had called for silence, he began to read off the names in alphabetical order. "Dalzell?" asked the coach, when he had gone that far down on the list. "First base," answered Dan, loudly and promptly. "Darrin?" "Pitcher," responded Dave. There was a little ripple of surprise. When a sophomore goes in for work in the box it is notice that he has a good opinion of his abilities. A few more names were called off. Then: "Hazelton?" "Short stop," replied Harry, coolly. "Whew!" An audible gasp of surprise went up and traveled around. After the battery, the post of short stop is the swiftest thing for which to reach out. "Holmes?" "Left field." "It's plain enough," sneered Fred Ripley to the fellow beside him, "that Dick & Co., reporters and raga-muffins, expect to be two thirds of the nine. I wonder whom they'll allow to hold the other three positions?" Several more names were called off. Then came: "Prescott?" "Pitcher," Dick answered, quietly. A thrill of delight went through Fred. This was more luck than he had hoped for. What great delight there was going to be in beating out Dick Prescott! "Reade?" "Second base." "Ripley?" "P-p-pitcher!" Fred fairly stuttered in his eagerness to get the word out emphatically. In fact, the word left him so explosively that several of the fellows caught themselves laughing. "Oh, laugh, then, hang you all!" muttered Fred, in a low voice, glaring all around him. "But you don't know what you're laughing at. Maybe I won't show you something in the way of real pitching!" "The first Tuesday after the holidays' vacation the squad will report here for gymnastic work from three-thirty to five," called the coach. "Now, I'll talk informally with any who wish to ask questions." Fred Ripley's face was aglow with satisfaction. His eyes fairly glistened with his secret, inward triumph. "So you think you can pitch, Prescott?" he muttered to himself. "Humph! With the great Everett training me for weeks, I'll make you look like a pewter monkey, Dick Prescott." CHAPTER VII DAVE TALKS WITH ONE HAND The next afternoon Fred and his father went over to Duxbridge. They found the great Everett at home, and not only at home, but willing to take up with their proposal. The celebrated professional pitcher named a price that caused Lawyer Ripley to hesitate for a few moments. Then catching the appealing look in his son's face, the elder Ripley agreed to the terms. The training was to be given at Duxbridge, in Everett's big and almost empty barn. That night Lawyer Ripley, a man of prompt habit in business, mailed his check for the entire amount. Fred, in the privacy of his own room, danced several brief but exuberant jigs. "Now, I've got you, Dick Prescott! And I've not only got you, but if you come in second to me, I'll try to keep in such condition that I pitch every important game of the whole season!" But the next morning the Ripley heir received a sad jolt. In one of his text-books he ran across a piece of cardboard on which was printed, in coarse characters: "Tuday, same plas, same time. Bring ten. Or don't, if you dare!" "That infernal blackmailer, Tip Scammon!" flared Fred indignantly. In the courage of desperation Fred promptly decided that he would ignore the Scammon rascal. Nor did Fred change his mind. Besides, this afternoon he was due at Duxbridge for his first lesson under the mighty Everett. So Tip was on hand at the drug store beside the post office, but no Fred came. Tip scowled and hung about in the neighborhood until after four o'clock. Then he went away, a black look indeed on his not handsome face. Meanwhile, most of the people of Gridley, as elsewhere in the Christian world, were thinking of "Peace on Earth" and all that goes with it. The stores were radiant with decorations and the display of gifts. The candy stores and hot soda places were doing a rushing business. Dick, who had been scurrying about in search of a few news paragraphs, and had found them, encountered Dave Darrin. Being something of a capitalist in these days, when "The Blade" was paying him two and a half to three dollars a week, Prescott invited his chum in to have a hot soda. While they were still in the place Laura Bentley and Belle Meade entered. The High School boys lifted their hats courteously to the girls and Dick invited them to have their soda with Dave and himself. "We hear that baseball is going to be a matter of great enthusiasm during the next few months," said Laura, as they sipped their soda. "Yes; and the cause of no end of heartburnings and envies," laughed Prescott. "From just after the holidays to some time in April every fellow will be busy trying to make the school team, and will feel aggrieved if he hits only the second team." "Who's going to pitch for the school nine?" asked Belle. "Dick Prescott," declared Dave instantly. "I'd like to," nodded Dick, "but I've several good men against me. Darrin may take it all away from me. There are eight men down for pitching, altogether, so it isn't going to be an easy cinch for anyone." "The nine always has more than one pitcher. Why can't _you_ make the position of pitcher, too?" asked Belle, looking at Dave. "Oh, I may make the job of brevet-pitcher on the second nine," Dave laughed goodhumoredly. "The only reason I put my name down for pitcher was so as to make the fight look bigger." "Who are the other candidates for pitcher?" asked Laura. "Well, Ripley's one," replied Dave. "Ripley? Oh, _he_!" uttered Miss Bentley, in a tone of scorn. "I understand he's no fool of a pitcher," Dick remarked. "I congratulate him, then," smiled Laura. "On what?" "Not being a fool in everything," returned Laura. Then she added, quickly: "I'm afraid that expresses my real opinion, but I've no right to say it." "There are two reasons why you shouldn't say it," added Dave, gravely. "What are they?" Laura wanted to know. "First of all---well, pardon me, but it sounds like talking about another behind his back. The other reason is that Ripley isn't worth talking about, anyway." "Now, what are you doing?" demanded Belle. "Oh, well," Dave replied, "Ripley knows my opinion of him pretty well. But what are you doing this afternoon?" "We're going shopping," Laura informed the boys as the quartette left the soda fountain. "Do you care to go around with us and look at the displays in the stores?" "That's about all shopping means, isn't it?" smiled Dick. "Just going around and looking at things?" "Then if you don't care to come with us-----" pouted Miss Bentley. "Stop---please do, I beg of you," Dick hastily added. "Of course we want to go." The two chums put in a very pleasant hour wandering about through the stores with the High School girls. Laura and Belle _did_ make some small purchases of materials out of which they intended to make gifts for the approaching holiday. As they came out of the last store they moved toward the corner, the girls intending to take a car to pay a little visit to an aunt of Laura's before the afternoon was over. Dick saw something in one of the windows at the corner and signed to Dave to come over. The two girls were left, momentarily, standing on the corner. While they stood thus Fred Ripley came along. His first lesson in pitching had been brief, the great Everett declining to tire the boy's arm too much at the first drill. So young Ripley, after a twelve-mile trip in the auto through the crisp December air, came swinging down the street at a brisk walk. Just as this moment he espied the two girls, though he did not see Dick or Dave. Belle happened to turn as Ripley came near her. "Hullo, Meade!" he called, patronizingly. It is a trick with some High School boys thus to address a girl student by her last name only, but it is not the act of a gentleman. Belle resented it by stiffening at once, and glancing coldly at Ripley without greeting him. In another instant Dave Darrin, at a bound, stood before the astonished Fred. Dave's eyes were flashing in a way they were wont to do when he was thoroughly angry. "Ripley---you cur! To address a young woman in that familiar fashion!" glared Dave. "What have you to say about it?" demanded Fred, insolently. "This!" was Dave Darrin's only answer in words. Smack! His fist landed on one side of Fred's face. The latter staggered, then slipped to the ground. "There's the car, Dick," uttered Dave, in a low tone. "Put the girls aboard." Half a dozen passers-by had already turned and were coming back to learn the meaning of this encounter. Dick understood how awkward the situation would be for the girls, so he glided forward, hailed the car, and led Laura and Belle out to it. "But I'd rather stay," whispered Belle, in protest. "I want to make sure that Dave doesn't get into any trouble." "He won't," Dick promised. "It'll save him annoyance if he knows you girls are not being stared at by curious rowdies." Dick quickly helped the girls aboard the car, then nodded to the conductor to ring the bell. A second later Dick was bounding back to his chum's side. Fred Ripley was on his feet, scowling at Dave Darrin. The latter, though his fists were not up, was plainly in an attitude where he could quickly defend himself. "That was an unprovoked assault, you rowdy!" Fred exclaimed wrathfully. "I'd trust to any committee of _gentlemen_ to exonerate me," Dave answered coolly. "You acted the rowdy, Ripley, and you'd show more sense if you admitted it and reformed." "What did he do?" demanded one of the curious ones in the crowd. "He addressed a young lady with offensive familiarity," Dave replied hotly. "What did _you_ do?" demanded another in the crowd. "I knocked him down," Dave admitted coolly. "Well, that's about the proper thing to do," declared another bystander. "The Ripley kid has no kick coming to him. Move on, young feller!" Fred started, glaring angrily at the speaker. But half a dozen pressed forward about him. Ripley's face went white with rage when he found himself being edged off the sidewalk into the gutter. "Get back, there, you, and leave me alone!" he ordered, hoarsely. A laugh from the crowd was the first answer. Then some one gave the junior a shove that sent him spinning out into the street. Ripley darted by the crowd now, his caution and his dread of too much of a scene coming to his aid. Besides, some one had just called out, banteringly: "Why not take him to the horse trough?" That decided Fred on quick retreat. Ducked, deservedly, by a crowd on Main Street, Ripley could never regain real standing in the High School, and he knew that. As soon as they could Dick and Dave walked on to "The Blade" office. Here Darrin took a chair in the corner, occasionally glancing almost enviously at Prescott, as the latter, seated at a reporter's table, slowly wrote the few little local items that he had picked up during the afternoon. When Dick had finished he handed his "copy" to Mr. Pollock, and the chums left the office. "Dick, old fellow," hinted Dave, confidentially, "I'm afraid I ought to give you a tip, even though it does make me feel something like a spy." "Under such circumstances," smiled Prescott, "it might be well to think twice before giving the tip." "I've thought about it _seventeen_ times already," Dave asserted, gravely, "and you're my chum, anyway. So here goes. When we were in the department store, do you remember that the girls were looking over some worsteds, or yarns, or whatever you call the stuff?" "Yes," Prescott nodded. "Well, I couldn't quite help hearing Laura Bentley say to Belle that the yarn she picked up was just what she wanted for you." "What on earth did that mean?" queried Dick, looking almost startled. "It means that you're going to get a Christmas present from Laura," Dave answered. "But I never had a present from a girl before!" "Most anything is likely to happen," laughed Dave, "now that you're a sophomore---and a reporter, too." "Thank goodness I'm earning a little money now," murmured Dick, breathing a bit rapidly. "But, say, Dave!" "Well?" "What on earth does one give a girl at Christmas?" "Tooth-powder, scented soap, ribbons---oh, hang it! I don't know," floundered Dave hopelessly. "Anyway, I don't have to know. It's your scrape, Dick Prescott!" "Yours, too, Dave Darrin!" "What do you mean?" "Why, I saw Belle buying some of that yarny stuff, too." "Great Scott!" groaned Dave. "Say, what do you suppose they're planning to put up on us for a Christmas job? Some of those big-as-all-outdoors, wobbly, crocheted slippers?" CHAPTER VIII HUH? WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS The night before Christmas Dick Prescott attended a ball, in his new capacity of reporter. Being young, also "green" in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he had all the needed data for the brief description that he was to write for "The Blade." Christmas morning the boy slept late, for his parents did not call him. When, at last, Dick did appear in the dining room he found some pleasing gifts from his father and mother. When he had sufficiently examined them, Mrs. Prescott smiled as she said: "Now, step into the parlor, Richard, and you'll find something that came for you this morning." "But, first of all, mother, I've something for you and Dad." Dick went back into his room, bringing out, with some pride, a silver-plated teapot on a tray of the same material. It wasn't much, but it was the finest gift he had ever been able to make his parents. He came in for a good deal of thanks and other words of appreciation. "But you're forgetting the package in the parlor," persisted Mrs. Prescott presently. Dick nodded, and hurried in, thinking to himself: "The worsted slippers from the girls, I suppose." To his surprise the boy found Dave Darrin sitting in the room, while, on a chair near by rested a rather bulky package. After exchanging "Merry Christmas" greetings with Darrin, Dick turned to look at the package. To it was tied a card, which read: "From Laura Bentley and Isabelle Meade, with kindest Christmas greetings." "That doesn't look like slippers, Dave," murmured Dick, as he pulled away the cord that bound the package. "I'll bet you're getting a duplicate of what came to me," Darrin answered. "What was that?" "I'm not going to tell you until I see yours." Dick quickly had the wrapper off, unfolding something woolleny. "That's it!" cried Dave, jubilantly. "I thought so. Mine was the same, except that Belle's name was ahead of Laura's on the card." Dick felt almost dazed for an instant. Then a quick rush of color came to his face. The object that he held was a bulky, substantial, woven "sweater." Across the front of it had been worked, in cross-stitch, the initials, "G.H.S." "Gridley High School! Did you get one just like this, Dave?" "Yes." "But we can't wear 'em," muttered Dick. "The initials are allowed only to the students who have made some school team, or who have captured some major athletic event. We've never done either." "That's just the point of the gift, I reckon," beamed Darrin. "Oh, I see," cried Dick. "These sweaters are our orders to go ahead and make the baseball nine." "That's just it," declared Dave. "Well, it's mighty fine of the girls," murmured Dick, gratefully. "Are you---going to accept yours, Dave?" "Accept?" retorted Dave. "Why, it would be rank not to." "Of course," Prescott agreed.. "But you know what acceptance carries with it? Now, we've got to make the nine, whether or not. We pledge ourselves to that in accepting these fine gifts." "Oh, that's all right," nodded Dave, cheerily. "You're going to make the team." "If there's any power in me to do it," declared Dick. "And you're going to drag me in after you. Dick, old fellow, we've absolutely as good as promised that we will make the nine." Dick Prescott was now engaged in pulling the sweater over his head. This accomplished, he stood surveying himself in the glass. "Gracious! But this is fine," gasped young Prescott. "And now, oh, Dave, but we've got to hustle! Think how disgusted the girls will be if we fail." "We can't fail, now," declared Dave earnestly. "The girls, and the sweaters themselves, are our mascots against failure." "Good! That's the right talk!" cheered Prescott, seizing his chum's hand. "Yes, sir! We'll make the nine or bury ourselves under a shipload of self-disgust!" "Both of the girls must have a hand in each sweater," Dave went on, examining Dick's closely. "I can't see a shade of difference between yours and mine. But I'm afraid the other fellows in Dick & Co. will feel just a bit green with envy over our good luck." "It's a mighty fine gift," Dick went on, "yet I'm almost inclined to wish the girls hadn't done it. It must have made a big inroad in their Christmas money." "That's so," nodded Darrin, thoughtfully. "But say, Dick! I'm thundering glad I got wind of this before it happened. Thank goodness we didn't have to leave the girls out. Though we would have missed if it hadn't been for you." "I wonder how the girls like their gifts?" mused Dick. It was sheer good luck that had enabled these youngsters to make a good showing. A new-style device for women, consisting of heater and tongs for curling the hair, was on the market this year. Electric current was required for the heater, but both Laura and Belle had electric light service in their homes. This new-style device was one of the fads of this Christmas season. The retail price was eight dollars per outfit, and a good many had been sold before the holidays. The advertising agent for the manufacturing concern had been in town, and had presented "The Blade" with two of these devices. Despite the eight-dollar price, the devices cost only a small fraction of that amount to manufacture, so the advertising agent had not been extremely generous in leaving the pair. "What on earth shall we do with them?" grunted Pollock, in Dick's hearing. "We're all bachelors here." "Sell 'em to me, if you don't want 'em," spoke up Dick, quickly. "What'll you take for 'em? Make it low, to fit a schoolboy's shallow purse." "Hm! I'll speak to the proprietor about it," replied Pollock, who presently brought back the word: "As they're for you, Dick, the proprietor says you can take the pair for two-fifty. And if you're short of cash, I'll take fifty cents a week out of your space bill until the amount is paid." "Fine and dandy!" uttered Dick, his eyes glowing. "One's for your mother," hinted Mr. Pollock teasingly. "_But who's the girl_?" "Two girls," Dick corrected him, unabashed. "My mother never uses hair-curlers." "_Two girls_?" cried Mr. Pollock, looking aghast. "Dick! Dick! You study history at the High School, don't you?" "Yes, sir; of course." "Then don't you know, my boy, how often _two girls_ have altered the fates of whole nations? Tremble and be wise!" "I haven't any girl," Dick retorted, sensibly, "and I think a fellow is weak-minded to talk about having a girl until he can also talk authoritatively on the ability to support a wife. But there's a good deal of social life going on at the High School, Mr. Pollock, and I'm very, very glad of this chance to cancel my obligations so cheaply and at the same time rather handsomely." So Laura and Belle had each received, that Christmas morning, a present that proved a source of delight. "Yet I didn't expect the foolish boys to send me anything like this," Laura told herself, rather regretfully. "I'm sure they've pledged their pocket money for weeks on this." When Belle called, it developed that she had received an identical gift. "It's lovely of the boys," Belle admitted. "But it's foolish, too, for they've had to use their pocket money away ahead, I'm certain." Dick and Dave had sent their gifts, as had the girls, in both names. Christmas was a day of rejoicing among all of the High School students except the least-favored ones. Fred Ripley, however, spent his Christmas day in a way differing from the enjoyments of any of the others. A new fever of energy had seized the young man. In his fierce determination to carry away the star pitchership, especially from Dick Prescott, Ripley employed even Christmas afternoon by going over to Duxbridge and taking another lesson in pitching from the great Everett. CHAPTER IX FRED PITCHES A BOMBSHELL INTO TRAINING CAMP "One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! "Halt! Rest!" "Attention! Overhead to front and back. Commence! One, two, three, four!" Coach Luce's voice rang out in a solid, carrying tone of military command. The baseball squad was hard at work in the gymnasium, perspiring even though the gym. was not heated above fifty degrees. Dumb-bell drill was going off with great snap. It was followed by work with the Indian clubs. Then, after a brief rest, the entire squad took to the track in the gallery. For ten minutes the High School young men jogged around the track. Any fellow in the lot would have been ashamed to drop out, short of breath. As a matter of fact, no one was out of breath. Mr. Luce was what the boys called a "griller," and he certainly knew all about whipping a lot of youngsters into fine physical shape. This training work was now along in the third week of the new winter term. Three times weekly the squad had been assembled. On other days of the week, the young men were pledged to outside running, when the roads permitted, and to certain indoor work at other times. Every member of the big squad now began to feel "hard as nails." Slight defects in breathing had been corrected; lung-power had been developed, and backs that ached at first, from the work, had now grown too well seasoned to ache. Every member of the squad was conscious of a new, growing muscular power. Hard, bumpy muscles were not being cultivated. The long, smooth, lithe and active "Indian" muscle, built more for endurance than for great strength, was the ideal of Coach Luce. After the jogging came a halt for rest. Luce now addressed them. "Young gentlemen, I know, well enough, that, while all this work is good for you, you're all of you anxious to see the production of the regular League ball on this floor. Now, the baseball cage will not be put up for a few days yet. However, this afternoon, for the rest of our tour, I'm going to produce the ball!" A joyous "hurrah!" went up from the squad. The ball was the real thing in their eyes. Coach Luce turned away to one of the spacious cupboard lockers, returning with a ball, still in the sealed package, and a bat with well wrapped handle. "I'll handle the bat," announced Mr. Luce, smiling. "It's just barely possible that I, can drive a good liner straighter than some of you, and put it nearer where I want it. Until the cage is in place, I don't like to risk smashing any of the gymnasium windows. Now, which one of you pitchers is ambitious to do something?" Naturally, all of them were. Yet none liked to appear too forward or greedy, so silence followed. "I'll try you modest young men out on my own lines, then," laughed the coach. Calling to one of the juniors to stand behind him as catcher, Luce continued: "Darrin, as you're a candidate for pitcher, show us some of the things you can do to fool a batsman." Dave took his post, his face a bit red. He handled the ball for a few moments, rather nervously. "Don't get rattled, lad," counseled the coach. "Remember, this is just fun. Bear in mind that you're aiming to send the ball in to the catcher. Don't let the ball drive through a window by mistake." A laugh went up at this. Dave, instead of losing his nerve, flashed back at the squad, then steadied himself. "Now, then, let her drive---not too hard," ordered Mr. Luce. Dave let go with what he thought was an outcurve. It didn't fool the coach. He deliberately struck the ball, sending it rolling along the floor as a grounder. "A little more twist to the wrist, Darrin," counseled the coach, after a scout from the squad had picked up the ball and sent it to this budding pitcher. Dave's next delivery was struck down as easily. Then Darrin began to grow a bit angry and much more determined. "Don't feel put out, Darrin," counseled the coach. "I had the batting record of my college when I was there, and I'm in better trim and nerve than you are yet. Don't be discouraged." Soon Dave was making a rather decent showing. "I'll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn the hand in the wrist twist," remarked the coach, as he let Dave go. "You'll soon have the hang of the thing. Now, Prescott, you step into the imaginary box, if you please." Dick took to an inshoot. His first serve was as easily clouted as Dave's had been. After that, by putting on a little more steam, and throwing in a good deal more calculation, Dick got three successive balls by Mr. Luce. At two of these, coach had struck. "You're going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors, I think;" Mr. Luce announced. "I shall pay particular attention to your wrist work." "I'm afraid I showed up like a lout," whispered Dave, as Dick rejoined his chums. "No, you didn't," Dick retorted. "You showed what all of us show---that you need training to get into good shape. That's what the coach is working with us for." "I'm betting on you and Dick for the team," put in Tom Reade, quickly. "Dick will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave," added Harry Hazelton. "I wish I were as sure for myself," muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively. "Oh, well, if I can't make the team," grinned Dan Dalzell, "I'm going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot." "Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!" gibed Hazelton, good-humoredly. Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly. These young men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor. To one of them Mr. Luce tossed the ball. "Now, then," shot out Luce's voice, "this is for quick understanding and judgment. Whoever receives the ball will throw it without delay to anyone I name. So post yourselves on where each other man stands. I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work. But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there. _And vice versa_!" For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of rapidity of motion. Many were the fumbles. A good deal of laughter came from the sides of the gym. "Myself!" shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the ball. The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant. Then, when too late to count, the young man understood and drove the ball for the coach. "Not quick enough on judgment," admonished Mr. Luce. "Now, we'll take another look at the style of an ambitious pitcher or two. Ripley, suppose you try?" Fred started and colored. Next, he looked pleased with himself as he strode jauntily forward. "May I ask for my own catcher, sir?" Fred asked. "Yes; certainly," nodded the coach. "Rip must have something big up his sleeve, if any old dub of a catcher won't do," jeered some one at the back of the crowd. "Attention! Rip, the ladylike twirler!" sang out another teasing student. "Let her rip, Rip!" A good many were laughing. Fred was not popular. Many tolerated him, and some of the boys treated him with a fair amount of comradeship. Yet the lawyer's son was no prime favorite. "Order!" rapped out the coach, sharply. "This is training work. You'll find the minstrel show, if that's what you want, at the opera house next Thursday night." "How well the coach keeps track of minstrel shows!" called another gibing voice. "That was you, Parkinson!" called Mr. Luce, with mock severity. "Run over and harden your funny-bone on the punching bag. Run along with you, now!" Everybody laughed, except Parkinson, who grinned sheepishly. "Training orders, Parkinson!" insisted the coach. "Trot right over and let the funny-bone of each arm drive at the bag for twenty-five times. Hurry up. We'll watch you." So Mr. Parkinson, of the junior class, seeing that the order was a positive one, had the good sense to obey. He "hardened" the funny-bone of either arm against the punching bag to the tune of jeering laughter from the rest of the squad. That was Coach Luce's way of dealing with the too-funny amateur humorist. Fred, meantime, had selected his own catcher, and had whispered some words of instruction to him. "Now, come on, Ripley," ordered Mr. Luce, swinging his bat over an imaginary plate. "Let her come in about as you want to." "He's going to try a spit ball," muttered several, as they saw Fred moisten his fingers. "That's a hard one for a greenhorn to put over," added another. Fred took his place with a rather confident air; he had been drilling at Duxbridge for some weeks now. Then, with a turn of his body, Ripley let the ball go off of his finger tips. Straight and rather slowly it went toward the plate. It looked like the easiest ball that had been sent in so far. Coach Luce, with a calculating eye, watched it come, moving his bat ever so little. Then he struck. But the spit ball, having traveled to the hitting point, dropped nearly twenty inches. The bat fanned air, and the catcher, crouching just behind the coach, gathered in the ball. Luce was anything but mortified. A gleam of exultation lit up his eyes as he swung the bat exultantly over his head. In a swift outburst of old college enthusiasm he forgot most of his dignity as a submaster. "_Wow_!" yelled the coach. "That was a _bird_! A lulu-cooler and a scalp-taker! Ripley, I reckon you're the new cop that runs the beat!" It took the High School onlookers a few seconds to gather the full importance of what they had seen. Then a wild cheer broke loose: "Ripley? Oh, Ripley'll pitch for the nine!" surged up on all sides. CHAPTER X DICK & CO. TAKE A TURN AT FEELING GLUM "What's the matter with Ripley?" yelled one senior. And another answered, hoarsely: "Nothing! He's a wonder!" Fred Ripley was unpopular. He was regarded as a cad and a sneak. But he could pitch ball! He could give great aid in bringing an unbroken line of victories to Gridley. That was enough. By now Coach Luce was a bit red in the face. He realized that his momentary relapse into the old college enthusiasm had made him look ridiculous, in his other guise of High School submaster. But when the submaster coach turned and saw Parkinson butting his head against the punching bag he called out: "What's the matter, Parkinson?" "Subbing for you, sir!" That turned the good-natured laugh of a few on Mr. Luce. Most of those present, however, had not been struck by the unusualness of his speech. Dick and Dave looked hard at each other. Both boys wanted to make the team as pitchers. Yet now it seemed most certain that Fred Ripley must stand out head and shoulders over any other candidates for the Gridley box. Dick's face shone with enthusiasm, none the less. If he couldn't make the nine this year, he could at least feel that Gridley High School was already well on toward the lead over all competing school nines. "I wish it were somebody else," muttered Dave, huskily, in his chum's ear. "Gridley is fixed for lead, anyway," replied Dick, "if Ripley can always keep in such form as that." "Can Ripley do it again?" shouted one Gridley senior. "Try it, and see, Ripley," urged Mr. Luce, again swinging his bat. Fred had been holding the returned ball for a minute or two. His face was flushed, his eyes glowing. Never before had he made such a hit among his schoolmates. It was sweet, at last, to taste the pleasures of local fame. He stood gazing about him, drinking in the evident delight of the High School boys. In fact he did not hear the coach's order until it came again. "Try another one, Ripley!" The young man moistened his fingers, placing the ball carefully. Of a sudden his arm shot out. Again the coach struck for what looked a fair ball, yet once more Mr. Luce fanned air and the catcher straightened up, ball in hand. Pumph! The lazily thrown ball landed in Ripley's outstretched left. He moistened his fingers, wet the ball, and let drive almost instantly. For the third time Mr. Luce fanned out. Then Fred spoke, in a tone of satisfied self-importance: "Coach, that's all I'll do this afternoon, if you don't mind." "Right," nodded Mr. Luce. "You don't want to strain your work before you've really begun it any other candidates for pitching want to have a try now?" As the boys of the squad waited for an answer, a low laugh began to ripple around the gym. The very idea of any fellow trying after Ripley had made his wonderful showing was wholly funny! Coach Luce called out the names of another small squad to scatter over the gym. and to throw the ball to anyone he named. Except for the few who were in this forced work, no attention was paid to the players. Fred Ripley had walked complacently to one side of the gym. A noisy, gleeful group formed around him. "Rip, where did you ever learn that great work?" "Who taught you?" "Say, how long have you been hiding that thousand-candle-power light under a bushel?" "Rip, it was the greatest work I ever saw a boy do." "Will you show me---after the nine has been made up, of course?" "How did you ever get it down so slick?" This was all meat to the boy who had long been unpopular. "I always was a pretty fair pitcher, wasn't I?" asked Fred. "Yes; but never anything like the pitcher you showed us to-day," glowed eager Parkinson. "I've been doing a good deal of practicing and study since the close of last season," Fred replied importantly. "I've studied out a lot of new things. I shan't show them all, either, until the real season begins." Fred's glance, in roaming around, took in Dick & Co. For once, these six very popular sophomores had no one else around them. "Whew! I think I've taken some wind out of the sails of Mr. Self-satisfied Prescott," Fred told himself jubilantly. "We shan't hear so much about Dick & Co. for a few months!" "Well, anyway, Dick," said Tom Reade, "you and Dave needn't feel too badly. If Ripley turns out to be the nine's crack pitcher, the nine also carries two relief pitchers. You and Dave have a chance to be the relief pitchers. _That_ will make the nine for you both, anyway. But, then, that spitball may be the only thing Ripley knows." "Don't fool yourself," returned Prescott, shaking his head. "If Ripley can do that one so much like a veteran, then he knows other styles of tossing, too. I'm glad for Gridley High School---mighty glad. I wouldn't mind on personal grounds, either, if only---if-----" "If Fred Ripley were only a half decent fellow," Harry Hazelton finished for him. Coach Luce soon dismissed the squad for the day. A few minutes later the boys left the gym. in groups. Of course the pitching they had seen was the sole theme. Ripley didn't have to walk away alone to-day. Coach Luce and a dozen of the boys stepped along with him in great glee. "It's Rip! Old Rip will be the most talked about fellow in any High School league this year," Parkinson declared, enthusiastically. Even the fellows who actually despised Fred couldn't help their jubilation. Gridley was strong in athletics just because of the real old Gridley High School spirit. Gridley's boys always played to win. They made heroes of the fellows who could lead them to victory after victory. Fred was far on his way home ere the last boy had left him. "I'll get everything in sight now," Ripley told himself, in ecstasy, as he turned in at the gateway to his home. "Why, even if Prescott does get into the relief box, I can decide when he shall or shall not pitch. I'll never see him get a _big_ game to pitch in. Oh, but this blow to-day has hurt Dick Prescott worse than a blow over the head with an iron stake could. I've wiped him up and put him down again. I've made him feel sick and ashamed of his puny little inshoot! Prescott, you're mine to do as I please with on this year's nine---if you can make it at all!" In truth, though young Prescott kept a smiling face, and talked cheerily, he could hardly have been more cast down than he was. Dick always went into any sport to win and lead, and he had set his heart on being Gridley's best man in the box. But now----- Dick & Co. all felt that they needed the open air after the grilling and the surprise at the gym. So they strolled, together, on Main Street, for nearly an hour ere they parted and went home to supper. The next day the talk at school was mostly about Ripley, or "Rip," as he was now more intimately called. Even the girls took more notice of him. Formerly Fred hadn't been widely popular among them. But now, as the coming star of the High School nine, and a new wonder in the school firmament, he had a new interest for them. Half the girls, or more, were "sincere fans" at the ball games. Baseball was so much of a craze among them that these girls didn't have to ask about the points of the game. They knew the diamond and most of its rules. Incense was sweet to the boy to whom it had so long been denied, but of course it turned "Rip's" head. CHAPTER XI THE THIRD PARTY'S AMAZEMENT Eleven o'clock pealed out from the steeple of the nearest church. The night was dark. Rain or snow was in the air. In a shadow across the street hung Tip Scammon. His shabby cap was pulled down over his eyes, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his ragged reefer. Tip's eyes were turned toward the Ripley home opposite. "To think o' that feller in a fine, warm, soft bed nights, an' all the swell stuff to eat at table!" muttered Tip, enviously. "And then me, out in the cold, wearing a tramp's clothes! Never sure whether to-morrer has a meal comin' with it! But, anyway, I can make that Ripley kid dance when I pull the string! He dances pretty tolerable frequent, too! He's got to do it to-night, an' he'd better hurry up some!" Soon after the sound of the striking clock had died away, Tip's keen eyes saw a figure steal around one side of the house from the rear. "Here comes Rip, now. He's on time," thought Tip. "Huh! It's a pity---fer---him that he wouldn't take a new think an' chase me. But he's like most pups that hire other folks to do their tough work---they hain't 't got no nerve o' their own." Fred came stealthily out of the yard, after looking back at the house. He went straight up to young Scammon. "So here ye are, pal," laughed Tip. "Glad ye didn't keep me waitin'. Ye brought the wherewithal?" "See here, Tip, you scoundrel," muttered Fred, hoarsely, a worried look showing in his eyes, "I'm getting plumb down to the bottom of anything I can get for you." "I told ye to bring twenty," retorted young Scammon, abruptly. "That will be enough." "I couldn't get it," muttered Fred. "Now, see here, pal," warned Tip, threateningly, "don't try to pull no roots on me. Ye can get all the money ye want." "I couldn't this time," Fred contended, stubbornly. "I've got eleven dollars, and that's every bit I could get my hands on." "But I've _got_ to have twenty," muttered Tip, fiercely. "Now, ye trot back and look through yer Sunday-best suit. You have money enough; yer father's rich, an' he gives ye a lot. Now, ye've no business spendin' any o' that money until ye've paid me what's proper comin' to me. So back to the house with ye, and get the rest o' yer money!" "It's no use, Tip. I simply can't get another dollar. Here's the eleven, and you'd better be off with it. I can't get any more, either, inside of a fortnight." "See here," raged young Scammon, "if ye think ye can play-----" "Take this money and get off," demanded Fred, impatiently. "I'm going back home and to bed." "I guess, boy, it's about time fer me to see your old man," blustered Tip. "If I hold off until to-morrer afternoon, will ye have the other nine, an' an extry dollar fer me trouble?" "No," rasped Fred. "It's no use at all---not for another fortnight, anyway. Good night!" Turning, Fred sped across the street and back under the shadows at the rear of the lawyer's great house. "I wonder if the younker's gettin' wise?" murmured Tip. "He ain't smart enough to know that fer him to go to his old man an' tell the whole yarn 'ud be cheapest in the run. The old man 'ud be mad at Rip, but the old man's a lawyer, an' 'ud know how to lay down the blackmail law to me!" Feeling certain that he was wholly alone by this time, Tip had spoken the words aloud or sufficiently so for him to be heard a few feet away by any lurker. Shivering a bit, for he was none too warmly clad, young Scammon turned, making his way up the street. Fully two minutes after Tip had gone his way Dick Prescott stepped out from behind the place where Tip had been standing. There was a queer and rather puzzled look on Dick's face. "So Fred's paying Tip money, and Tip knows it's blackmail?" muttered the sophomore. "That can mean just one thing then. When Tip held his tongue before and at his trial, last year, he was looking ahead to the time when he could extort money by threatening Fred. And now Tip's doing it. That must be the way he gets his living. Whew, but Ripley must be allowed a heap of spending money if he can stand that sort of drain!" How Dick came to be on hand at the time can be easily explained. Earlier in the evening he had been at "The Blade" office. Mr. Pollock had asked him to go out on a news story that could be obtained by calling upon a citizen at his home. The story would be longer than Dick usually succeeded in turning in. It looked attractive to a boy who wanted to earn money, so the sophomore eagerly accepted the assignment. As it happened, Dick had had to wait a long time at the house at which he called before the man he wanted to see returned home. Dick was on his way to "The Blade" office when he caught sight of Tip Scammon. The latter did not see or hear the sophomore approaching. So Dick halted, darting behind a tree. "Now, what's Tip doing down here, near the Ripley place?" wondered Prescott. "He must be waiting to see Fred. Then they must have an appointment. Dave always thought that Tip ambushed me with those brickbats at Fred Ripley's order. There may be something of that sort in the wind again. I guess I've got a right to listen." Looking about him, Prescott saw a chance to slip into a yard, get over a fence, and creep up rather close to Scammon, though still being hidden from that scoundrel. At last Prescott found himself well hidden in the yard behind Tip. So Dick heard the talk. Now, as he hurried back to "The Blade" office the young soph guessed shrewdly at the meaning of what he had heard. "Now, what had I better do about it?" Dick Prescott asked himself. "What's the fair and honorable thing to do---keep quiet? It would seem a bit sneaky to go and tell Lawyer Ripley. Shall I tell Fred? I wonder if I could make him understand how foolish and cowardly it is to go on paying for a blackmailer's silence? Yet it's ten to one that Fred wouldn't thank me. Oh, bother it, what had a fellow better do in a case like this?" A moment later, Dick laughed dryly. "I know one thing I could do. I could go to Fred, tell him what I know, and scare him so he'd fall down in his effort to become the crack pitcher of the nine! My, but he'd go all to pieces if he thought I knew and could tell on him!" Dick chuckled, then his face sobered, as he added: "Fred's safe from that _trick_, though. I couldn't stand a glimpse of my own face in the mirror, afterward, if I did such a low piece of business." Prescott was still revolving the whole thing in his mind when he reached "The Blade" office. He turned in the news story he bad been sent for. As he did so the news editor looked up to remark: "We have plenty of room to spare in the paper to-night, Prescott." "Yes? Well?" "Can't you give us a few paragraphs of real High School news? Something about the state of athletics there?" "Why, yes, of course," the young sophomore nodded. Returning to the desk where he had been sitting, Dick ran off a few paragraphs on the outlook of the coming High School baseball season. "Did you write that High School baseball stuff in this morning's paper, Dick?" asked Tom Reade, the next day. "Yes." "You said that the indications are that Ripley will be the crack pitcher this season, and that he is plainly going to be far ahead of all the other box candidates." "That's correct, isn't it?" challenged Dick. "It looks so, of course," Tom admitted. "But why did you give Ripley such a boost? He's no friend of yours, or ours." "Newspapers are published for the purpose of giving information," Dick explained. "If a newspaper's writers all wrote just to please themselves and their friends, how many people do you suppose would buy the daily papers? Fred Ripley is the most prominent box candidate we have. He towers away over the rest of us. That was why I so stated it in 'The Blade.'" "And I guess that's the only right way to do things when you're writing for the papers," agreed Darrin. "It's a pity you can't print some other things about Ripley that you know to be true," grumbled Hazelton. "True," agreed Dick, thoughtfully. "I'm only a green, amateur reporter, but I've already learned that a reporter soon knows more than he can print." Prescott was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, the night before, between Fred and Tip. After sleeping on the question for the night, Dick had decided that he would say nothing of the matter, for the present, either to the elder or the younger Ripley. "If Fred found out that I knew all about it, he'd be sure that I was biding my time," was what Dick had concluded. "He'd be sure that I was only waiting for the best chance to expose him. On the other hand, if I cautioned his father, there'd be an awful row at the Ripley home. Either way, Fred Ripley would go to pieces. He'd lose what little nerve he ever had. After that he'd be no good at pitching. He'd go plumb to pieces. That might leave me the chance to be Gridley's crack pitcher this year. Oh, I'd like to be the leading pitcher of the High School nine! But I don't want to win the honor in any way that I'm not positive is wholly square and honorable." Then, after a few moments more of thought: "Besides, I'm loyal to good old Gridley High School. I want to see our nine have the best pitcher it can get---no matter who he is!" By some it might be argued that Dick Prescott was under a moral obligation to go and caution Lawyer Ripley. But Dick hated talebearers. He acted up to the best promptings of his own best conscience, which is all any honorable man can do. CHAPTER XII TRYING OUT THE PITCHERS "Oh, you Rip!" "Good boy, Rip!" "You're the winning piece of leather, Rip!" "Get after him, Dick!" "Wait till you see Prescott!" "And don't you forget Dave Darrin, either!" Late in March, it was the biggest day of Spring out at the High School Athletic Field. This field, the fruit of the labors of the Alumni Association for many years, was a model one even in the best of High School towns. The field, some six acres in extent, lay well outside the city proper. It was a walled field, laid out for football, baseball, cricket and field and track sports. In order that even the High School girls might have a strong sense of ownership in it, the field also contained two croquet grounds, well laid out. Just now, the whole crowd was gathered at the sides of the diamond. Hundreds were perched up on one of the stands for spectators. Down on the diamond stood the members of the baseball squad. As far as the onlookers could see, every one of the forty-odd young men was in the pink of physical condition. The indoor training had been hard from the outset. Weeks of cage work had been gone through with in the gym. But from this day on, whenever it didn't rain too hard, the baseball training work was to take place on the field. Coach Luce now stepped out of the little building in which were the team dressing rooms. As he went across the diamond he was followed by lusty cheers from High School boys up on the spectators' seats. The girls clapped their hands, or waved handkerchiefs. A few already carried the gold and crimson banners of Gridley. Besides the High School young people, there were a few hundred older people, who had come out to see what the youngsters were doing. For this was the day on which the pitchers were to be tried out. Ripley was known to be the favorite in all the guessing. In fact, there wasn't any guessing. Some, however, believed that Dick, and possibly Dave, might be chosen as the relief pitchers. Dick himself looked mighty solemn, as he stood by, apparently seeing but little of what was going on. Beside him stood Dave. The other four chums were not far off. Another wild howl went up from the High School contingent when two more men were seen to leave the dressing room building and walk out toward Coach Luce. These were two members of the Athletic Committee, former students at Gridley High School. These two were to aid the coach in choosing the men for the school team. They would also name the members of the school's second team. "Now, we'll try you out on pitching, if you're ready," announced Mr. Luce, turning to a member of the junior class. The young fellow grinned half-sheepishly, but was game. He ran over to the box, after nodding to the catcher he had chosen. Luce took the bat and stood by the home plate. To-day the coach did not intend to strike at any of the balls, but he and the two members of the Athletic Committee would judge, and award marks to the candidates. "Oh, we don't want the dub! Trot out Rip!" came a roaring chorus. Coach Luce, however, from this time on, paid no heed to the shouts or demands of spectators. The candidate for box honors now displayed all he knew about pitching, though some nervousness doubtless marred his performance. "Now, run out Rip!" came the insistent chorus again, after this candidate had shown his curves and had gone back. But it was another member of the junior class who came to the box for the next trial. "Dead ball! Throw wild and cut it short!" came the advice from the seats. Then a sophomore was tried out. But the crowd was becoming highly impatient. "We want Rip! We demand Rip. Give us Rip or give us chloroform!" came the insistent clamor. "We'll come another day to see the dead ones, if you insist." Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded. The tumultuous cheering lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on fans as it wanted to be on players. Fred Ripley was flushed but proud. He tried to hold himself jauntily, with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped in both hands, awaiting the signal. Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself. The advance consciousness of victory thrilled him. He had worked rather hard with Everett; and, though the great pitcher had not succeeded in bringing out all that he had hoped to do with the boy, yet Everett had praised him only yesterday. One reason why Fred had not absolutely suited his trainer was that the boy had broken his training pledge by taking up with coffee. For that reason his nerves were not in the best possible shape. Yet they didn't need to be in order to beat such awkward, rural pitchers as Prescott or Darrin. For a while Coach Luce waited for the cheering for Ripley to die down. Then he raised his bat as a signal. Fred sent in his favorite spit-ball. To all who understood the game, it was clear that the ball had not been well delivered. The crowd on the seats stopped cheering to look on in some concern. "Brace, Ripley! You can beat that," warned the coach, in a low tone. Fred did better the second time. The third ball was nearly up to his form; the fourth, wholly so. Now, Fred sent in two more spitballs, then changed to other styles. He was pitching famously, now. "That's all, unless you wish more, sir," announced Fred, finally, when the ball came back to him. "It's enough. Magnificently done," called Coach Luce, after a glance at the two members of the Athletic Committee. "Oh, you Rip!" "Good old Rip!" The cheering commenced again, swelling in volume. Coach Luce signaled to Dick Prescott, who, coolly, yet with a somewhat pallid face, came forward to the box. He removed the wrapping from a new ball and took his post. The cheering stopped now. Dick was extremely well liked in Gridley. Most of the spectators felt sorry for this poor young soph, who must make a showing after that phenomenon, Ripley. "The first two or three don't need to count, Prescott," called Luce. "Get yourself warmed up." Fred stood at the side, looking on with a sense of amusement which, for policy's sake, he strove to conceal. "Great Scott! The nerve of the fellow!" gasped Ripley, inwardly, as he saw Prescott moisten his fingers. "He's going to try the spit-ball after what I've shown!" The silence grew deeper, for most of the onlookers understood the significance of Dick's moistened fingers. Dick drove in, Tom Reade catching. That first spit-ball was not quite as good as some that Ripley had shown. But Fred's face went white. "Where did Prescott get that thing? He's been _stealing_ from the little he has seen me do." A shout of jubilation went up from a hundred throats now, for Dick had just spun his second spit-ball across the plate. It was equal to any that Ripley had shown. "Confound the upstart! He's getting close to me on that style!" gasped the astonished Ripley. Now, Dick held the ball for a few moments, rolling it over in his hands. An instant later, he unbent. Then he let drive. The ball went slowly toward the plate, with flat trajectory. "Wow!" came the sudden explosion. It was a _jump-ball_, going almost to the plate, then rising instead of falling. Three more of these Dick served, and now the cheering was the biggest of the afternoon. Fred Ripley's mouth was wide open, his breath coming jerkily. Three fine inshoots followed. The hundreds on the seats were standing up now. Then, to rest his arm, Dick, who was wholly collected, and as cool as a veteran under fire, served the spectators with a glimpse of an out-curve that was not quite like any that they had ever seen before. This out-curve had a suspicion of the jump-ball about it. Dick was pitching easily, now. He had gotten his warming and his nerve, and appeared to work without conscious strain. "Do you want more, sir?" called Dick, at last. "No," decided Coach Luce. "You've done enough, Prescott. Mr. Darrin!" Dave ran briskly to the box, opening the wrappings on a new ball as he stepped into the box. After the first two balls Dave's exhibition was swift, certain, fine. He had almost reached Dick with his performance. Ripley's bewildered astonishment was apparent in his face. "Thunder, I'd no idea they could do anything like that!" gasped Fred to himself. "They're very nearly as good as I am. How in blazes did they ever get hold of the wrinkles? They can't afford a man like Everett." "Any more candidates?" called Coach Luce. There weren't. No other fellow was going forward to show himself after the last three who had worked from the box. There was almost a dead silence, then, while Coach Luce and the two members of the Athletics Committee conferred in whispers. At last the coach stepped forward. "We have chosen the pitchers!" he shouted. Then, after a pause, Mr. Luce went on: "The pitchers for the regular school nine will be Prescott, Darrin, Ripley, in the order named." "Oh, you Dick!" "Bang-up Prescott!" "Reliable old Darrin!" "Ripley---ugh!" And now the fierce cheering drowned out all other cries. But Fred Ripley, his face purple with rage, darted forward before the judges. "I protest!" he cried. "Protests are useless," replied Mr. Luce. "The judges give you four points less than Darrin, and seven less than Prescott. You've had a fair show, Mr. Ripley." "I haven't. I'm better than either of them!" bawled Fred, hoarsely, for the cheering was still on and he had to make himself heard. "No use, Ripley," spoke up a member of the Athletics Committee. "You're third, and that's good enough, for we never before had such a pitching triumvirate." "Where did these fellows ever learn to pitch to beat me?" jeered Fred, angrily. "They had no such trainer. Until he went south with his own team, I was trained by-----" Fred paused suddenly. Perhaps he had better not tell too much, after all. The din from the seats had now died down. "Well, Ripley, who trained you?" asked a member of the Athletics Committee. Fred bit his lip, but Dick broke in quietly: "I can tell. Perhaps a little confession will be good for us all around. Ripley was trained by Everett over at Duxbridge. I found out that much, weeks ago." "You spy!" hissed Fred angrily, but Dick, not heeding his enemy, continued: "The way Ripley started out, the first showing he made, Darrin and I saw that we were left in the stable. Candidly, we were in despair of doing anything real in the box, after Ripley got through. But I suppose all you gentlemen have heard of Pop Gint?" "Gint! Old Pop?" demanded Coach Luce, a light glowing in his eyes. "Well, I should say so. Why, Pop Gint was the famous old trainer who taught Everett and a half dozen other of our best national pitchers all they first learned about style. Pop Gint is the best trainer of pitchers that ever was." "Pop Gint is an uncle of Mr. Pollock, editor of 'The Blade,'" Dick went on, smilingly. "Pop Gint has retired, and won't teach for money, any more. But Mr. Pollock coaxed his uncle to train Darrin and myself. Right faithfully the old gentleman did it, too. Why, Pop Gint, today, is as much of a boy-----" "Oh, shut up!" grated Fred, harshly, turning upon his rival. "Mr. Luce, I throw down the team as far as I'm concerned. I won't pitch as an inferior to these two boobies. Scratch my name off." "I'll give you a day or two, Mr. Ripley, to think that over," replied Mr. Luce, quietly. "Remember, Ripley, you must be a good sportsman, and you should also be loyal to your High School. In matters of loyalty one can't always act on spite or impulse." "Humph!" muttered Fred, stalking away. His keen disappointment was welling up inside. With the vent of speech the suffering of the arrogant boy had become greater. Now, Fred's whole desire was to get away by himself, where he could nurse his rage in secret. There were no more yells of "Oh, you Rip!" He had done some splendid pitching, and had made the team, for that matter, but he was not to be one of the season's stars. This latter fact, added to his deserved unpopularity, filled his spirit with gall as he hastened toward the dressing rooms. There he quickly got into his street clothes and as hastily quitted the athletic field. Therein Fred Ripley made a mistake, as he generally did in other things. In sport all can't win. It is more of an art to be a cheerful, game loser than to bow to the plaudits of the throng. "Mr. Prescott," demanded Coach Luce, "how long have you been working under Pop Gint's training?" "Between four and five weeks, sir." "And Darrin the same length of time?" "Yes, sir," nodded Dave. "Then, unless you two find something a whole lot better to do in life, you could do worse than to keep in mind the idea of trying for positions on the national teams when you're older." "I think we have something better in view, Mr. Luce," Dick answered smilingly. "Eh, Dave?" "Yes," nodded Darrin and speaking emphatically. "Athletics and sports are good for what they bring to a fellow in the way of health and training. But a fellow ought to use the benefits as a physical foundation in some other kind of life where he can be more useful." "I suppose you two, then, have it all mapped out as to what you're going to do in life?" "Not quite," Dick replied. "But I think I know what we'd like to do when we're through with our studies." There were other try-outs that afternoon, but the great interest was over. Gridley fans were satisfied that the High School had a pitching trio that it would be difficult to beat anywhere except on the professional diamond. "If anything _should_ happen to Prescott and Darrin just before any of _the big games_," muttered Ripley, darkly, to himself, "then I'd have my chance, after all! Can't I get my head to working and find a way to _make_ something happen?" CHAPTER XIII THE RIOT CALL AND OTHER LITTLE THINGS "To your seat, Mr. Bristow! You're acting like a rowdy!" Principal Cantwell uttered the order sharply. Fully half the student body had gathered in the big assembly room at the High School. It was still five minutes before the opening hour, and there had been a buzz of conversation through the room. The principal's voice was so loud that it carried through the room. Almost at once the buzz ceased as the students turned to see what was happening. Bristow had been skylarking a bit. Undoubtedly he had been more boisterous with one of the other fellows in the assembly room than good taste sanctioned. Just as naturally, however, Bristow resented the style of rebuke from authority. The boy wheeled about, glaring at the principal. "Go to your seat, sir!" thundered the principal, his face turning ghastly white from his suppressed rage. Bristow wheeled once more, in sullen silence, to go to his seat. Certainly he did not move fast, but he was obeying. "You mutinous young rascal, that won't do!" shot out from the principal's lips. In another instant Mr. Cantwell was crossing the floor rapidly toward the slow-moving offender. "Get to your seat quickly, or go in pieces!" rasped out the angry principal. Seizing the boy from behind by both shoulders, Mr. Cantwell gave him a violent push. Bristow tripped, falling across a desk and cutting a gash in his forehead. In an instant the boy was up and wheeled about, blood dripping from the cut, but something worse flashing in his eyes. The principal was at once terrified. He was not naturally courageous, but he had a dangerous temper, and he now realized to what it had brought him. Mr. Cantwell was trying to frame a lame apology when an indignant voice cried out: "_Coward_!" His face livid, the principal turned. "Who said that?" he demanded, at white heat. "_I_ did!" admitted Purcell, promptly. Abner Cantwell sprang at this second "offender." But Purcell threw himself quickly into an attitude of defence. "Keep your hands off of me, Mr. Cantwell, or I'll knock you down!" "Good!" "That's the talk!" The excited High School boys came crowding about the principal and Purcell. Bristow was swept back by the surging throng. He had his handkerchief out, now, at his forehead. "Some of you young men seize Purcell and march him to my private office," commanded the principal, who had lacked the courage to strike at the young fellow who stood waiting for him. "Will you fight Purcell like a man, if we do?" asked another voice. "Run Cantwell out! He isn't fit to be here!" yelled another voice. Mr. Drake, the only submaster in the room at the time, was pushing his way forward. "Calmly, boys, calmly," called Drake. "Don't do anything you'll be sorry for afterwards." But those who were more hot headed were still pressing forward. It looked as though they were trying to get close enough to lay hands on the now trembling principal. Under the circumstances, Mr. Cantwell did the very worst thing he could have done. He pushed three or four boys aside and made a break across the assembly room. Once out in the corridor, the principal dove into his private office, turning the key after him. Secure, now, and his anger once more boiling up, Mr. Cantwell rang his telephone bell. Calling for the police station, he called for Chief Coy and reported that mutiny and violence had broken loose in the High School. "That seems almost incredible," replied Chief Coy. "But I'll come on the run with some of my men." Several of the fellows made a move to follow the principal out into the corridor. Dick Prescott swung the door shut and threw himself against it. Dave Darrin and Tom Reade rushed to his support. The other chums got to him as quickly as they could. "Nothing rash, fellows!" urged Dick. "Remember, we don't make the laws, or execute them. This business will be settled more to our satisfaction if we don't put ourselves in the wrong." "Pull that fellow Prescott away from the door!" called Fred Ripley, anxious to start any kind of trouble against Dick & Co. Submaster Drake, forcing his way through the throng, calming the hottest-headed ones, turned an accusing look on Fred. The latter saw it and slunk back into the crowd. Bristow, still holding his handkerchief to his head, darted out of the building. Submaster Morton and Luce, bearing the excitement, came up from class rooms on the ground floor. They entered by the same door through which Bristow had left. Over on the other side of the room, fearing that a violent riot was about to start, some of the girls began to scream. The women teachers present hurried among the girls, quieting them by reassuring words. "Now, young gentlemen," called Mr. Drake, "we'll consider all this rumpus done with. Discipline reigns and Gridley's good name must be preserved!" This brought a cheer from many, for Mr. Drake was genuinely respected by the boys as a good and fair-minded man. Such men as Drake, Morton or Luce could lead these warm-hearted boys anywhere. Stepping quickly back to the platform, Drake sounded the bell. In an instant there was an orderly movement toward the desks. At the second bell all were seated. "In the absence of the principal," began Mr. Drake, "I-----" A low-voiced laugh started in some quarters of the room. "Silence!" insisted Mr. Drake, with dignity. "School has opened. I-----" He was interrupted by a new note. Out in the yard sounded the clanging of a bell, the quick trot of horses' feet and the roll of wheels. The boys looked at one another in unbelieving astonishment. Then heavy steps sounded on the stairway. Outside Mr. Cantwell's voice could be heard: "I'll take you inside, chief!" In came the principal, his face now white from dread of what he had done, instead of showing the white-heat of passion. After him came Chief Coy and three policemen in uniform. For at least a full half minute Chief Coy stood glancing around the room, where every student was in his seat and all was orderly. The boys returned the chief's look with wondering eyes. Then Mr. Coy spoke: "Where's your riot, principal? Is this what you termed a mutiny?" Mr. Cantwell, who had gone to his post behind the desk, appeared to find difficulty in answering. "Humph!" muttered the chief, and, turning, strode from the room. His three policemen followed. Then there came indeed an awkward silence. Submaster Drake had abandoned the center of the stage to the principal. Mr. Cantwell found himself at some loss for words. But at last he began: "Young ladies and young gentlemen, I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret the occurrences of this morning. Discipline is one of my greatest ideals, and this morning's mutiny-----" He felt obliged to pause there, for an angry murmur started on the boys' side, and traveled over to where the girls were seated: "This morning's mutiny-----" began the principal again. The murmur grew louder. Mr. Cantwell looked up, more of fear than of anger in his eyes. Mr. Drake, who stood behind the principal, held up one hand appealingly. It was that gesture which saved the situation at that critical moment. The boys thought that if silence would please Mr. Drake, then he might have it. "Pardon me, sir," whispered Drake in Cantwell's ear. "I wouldn't harp on the word mutiny, sir. Express your regret for the injury unintentionally done Bristow." Mr. Cantwell wheeled abruptly. "Who is principal here, Mr. Drake?" "You are, sir." "Then be good enough to let me finish my remarks." This dialogue was spoken in an undertone, but the students guessed some inkling of its substance. The submaster subsided, but Mr. Cantwell couldn't seem to remember, just then, what he wanted to say. So he stood gazing about the room. In doing this he caught sight of the face of Purcell. "Mr. Purcell!" called the principal. That young man rose, standing by his seat. "Mr. Purcell, you made some threat to me a few minutes ago?" "Yes, sir." "What was that threat?" "I told you that, if you laid hands on me, I'd floor you." "Would you have done it?" "At the time, yes, sir. Or I'd have tried to do so." "That is all. The locker room monitor will go with you to the basement. You may go for the day. When you come to-morrow morning, I will let you know what I have decided in your case." Submaster Drake bit his lips. This was not the way to deal with a situation in which the principal had started the trouble. Mr. Drake wouldn't have handled the situation in this way, nor would Dr. Thornton, the former principal. But Purcell, with cheerfulness murmured, "Very good, sir," and left the room, while many approving glances followed him. Messrs. Morton and Luce shuffled rather uneasily in their seats. Mr. Cantwell began to gather an idea that he was making his own bad matter worse, so he changed, making an address in which he touched but lightly upon the incidents of the morning. He made an urgent plea for discipline at all times, and tried to impress upon the student body the need for absolute self-control. In view of his own hasty temper that last part of the speech nearly provoked an uproar of laughter. Only respect for Mr. Drake and the other submasters prevented that. The women teachers, or most of them, too, the boys were sure, sided with them secretly. The first recitation period of the morning was going by rapidly, but Mr. Cantwell didn't allow that to interfere with his remarks. At last, however, he called for the belated singing. This was in progress when the door opened. Mr. Eldridge, superintendent of schools, entered, followed by Bristow's father. That latter gentleman looked angry. "Mr. Cantwell, can you spare us a few moments in your office?" inquired Mr. Eldridge. There was no way out of it. The principal left with them. In a few minutes there was a call for Mr. Drake. Then two of the women teachers were sent for. Finally, Dick Prescott and three or four of the other boys were summoned. On the complaint of a very angry parent Superintendent Eldridge was holding a very thorough investigation. Many statements were asked for and listened to. "I think we have heard enough, haven't we, Mr. Eldridge?" asked the elder Bristow, at last. "Shall I state my view of the affair now?" "You may," nodded the superintendent. "It is plain enough to me," snorted Mr. Bristow, "that this principal hasn't self-control enough to be charged with teaching discipline to a lot of spirited boys. His example is bad for them---continually bad. However, that is for the Board of Education to determine. My son will not come to school to-day, but he will attend to-morrow. As the first step toward righting to-day's affair I shall expect Mr. Cantwell to address, before the whole student body, an ample and satisfactory apology to my son. I shall be present to hear that apology myself." "If it is offered," broke in Principal Cantwell, sardonically, but Superintendent Eldridge held up a hand to check him. "If you don't offer the apology, to-morrow morning, and do it properly," retorted Mr. Bristow, "I shall go to my lawyer and instruct him to get out a warrant charging you with felonious assault. That is all I have to say, sir. Mr. Eldridge, I thank you, sir, for your very prompt and kind help. Good morning, all!" "At the close of the session the principal wishes to see Mr. Prescott," read Mr. Cantwell from the platform just before school was dismissed that afternoon. Dick waited in some curiosity. "Mr. Prescott, you write for 'The Blade,' don't you?" asked Mr. Cantwell. "Sometimes, sir." "Then, Mr. Prescott, please understand that I forbid you to write anything for publication concerning this morning's happenings." Dick remained silent. "You will not, will you?" "That, Mr. Cantwell, is a matter that seems to rest between the editor and myself." "But I have forbidden it," insisted the principal, in surprise. "That is a matter, sir, about which you will have to see the editor. Here at school, Mr. Cantwell, I am under your orders. At 'The Blade' office I work under Mr. Pollock's instructions." The principal looked as though he were going to grow angry. On the whole, though, he felt that he had had enough of the consequences of his own wrath for one day. So he swallowed hard and replied: "Very good, then, Mr. Prescott. I shall hold you responsible for anything you publish that I may consider harmful to me." Dick did print an account of the trouble at school. He confined himself to a statement of the facts that he had observed with his own eyes. Editorially "The Blade" printed a comment to the effect that such scenes would have been impossible under the much-missed Dr. Thornton. Mr. Cantwell didn't have anything disagreeable to say to Dick Prescott the next morning. Purcell took up the burden of his studies again without comment. The principal did apologize effectively to young Bristow before the student body, while the elder Bristow stood grimly by. CHAPTER XIV THE STEAM OF THE BATSMAN All of Dick & Co. had made the High School nine, though not all as star players in their positions. Holmes had won out for left field, and Hazelton for shortstop. As far as the early outdoor practice showed, the latter was going to be the strongest man of the school in that important position. Dalzell and Reade became first and second basemen. During the rest of March practice proceeded briskly. Six days in every week the youngsters worked hard at the field in the afternoons. When it rained they put in their time at the gym. On the second of April Coach Luce called a meeting of the baseball squad at the gym. "We're a week, now, from our first game, gentlemen," announced the coach. "I want you all to be in flawless condition from now on. I will put a question to you, now, on your honor. Has any man broken training table?" No one spoke or stirred. Ripley, who had gotten over the worst of his sulks, was present, but he did not admit any of his many breaches of the training table diet that he was pledged to follow at home. "Has any man used tobacco since training began?" continued the coach. Again there was silence. "I am gratified to note that I can't get a response to either question," smiled Mr. Luce. "This assures me that every one of you has kept in the strictest training. It will show as soon as you begin to meet Gridley's opponents in the field. "Faithful observance of all training rules bespeaks a good state of discipline. In all sports, and in team sports especially, discipline is our very foundation stone. Every man must sacrifice himself and his feelings for the good of the team. Each one of you must forget, in all baseball matters, that he is an individual. He must think of himself only as a spoke in the wheel. "During the baseball season I want every man of you in bed by nine-thirty. On the night before a game turn in at eight-thirty. Make up your minds that there shall be no variation from this. In the mornings I want every man, when it isn't raining, to go out and jog along the road, in running shoes and sweaters, for twenty minutes without a break; for thirty minutes, instead, on any morning when you can spare the time. "Whenever you can do so, practice swift, short sprints. Many a nine, full of otherwise good men, loses a game or a season's record just because this important matter of speedy base running has been neglected. "Not only this, but I want every one of you to be careful about the method of sprinting. The man who runs flat-footedly is using up steam and endurance. Run balanced well forward on the balls of your feet. Throw your heels up; travel as though you were trying to kick the backs of your thighs. Breathe through the nose, always, in running, and master to the highest degree the trick of making a great air reservoir of your lungs. We have had considerable practice, both in jogging and in sprinting, but this afternoon I am going to sprint each man in turn, and I'm going to pick all his flaws of style or speed to small pieces. We will now adjourn to the field for that purpose. Remember, that a batsman has two very valuable assets---his hitting judgment and his running steam. Wagons are waiting outside, and we'll now make quick time to the field." Arriving there, Coach Luce led them at once to the dressing rooms. "Now, then, we want quick work!" he called after the sweaters and ball shoes had been hurriedly donned. "Now let us go over to the diamond; go to the home plate as I call the names. Darrin Ripley-Prescott-Reade-Purcell-----" And so on. The young men named made quick time to the plate. "You're up, Darrin. Run! Two bases only. Halt at second! Ripley, run! Reade, run! Not on your flat feet, Ripley. Up on your toes, man! Reade, more steam!" Then others were given the starting word. Coach did not run more men at a time than he could readily watch. "Prescott, throw your feet up behind better. You've been jogging, but that isn't the gait. Holmes, straighten back more---don't cramp your chest!" So the criticisms rang out. Luce was an authority on short sprinting. He had made good in that line in his own college days. "Jennison, you're not running with your arms! Forget 'em!" Jennison promptly let his arms hang motionless at his sides. "Come in, Jennison!" called coach. Jennison came in. "You mustn't work your arms like fly-wheels, nor like piston rods, either," explained Mr. Luce. "Keep your elbows in fairly close to your sides; fists loosely closed and forward, a little higher than your elbows. Now, all runners come in." Gathering the squad about him, and demanding close attention, Mr. Luce showed the pose of the body at the instant of starting. "Now, I'm going to run to first and second," continued the coach. "I want every man of you to watch closely and catch the idea. You note how I hold my body---sloping slightly forward, yet with every effort to avoid cramping the chest. Observe how I run on the forward part of the ball of the foot---not exactly on the toes, but close to it. See just how it is that I throw my feet up behind me. And be very particular to note that I keep my hands and arms in just this position all the way. Now, then, when you strike at a ball, and expect to hit it, have your lungs inflated ready for the first bound of the spurt. Now---watching, all of you?" After an instant Mr. Luce shouted, "Strike!" and was off like a flash. Many of the boys present had never seen coach really sprint before. As they watched during the amazingly few seconds a yell of delight went up from them. This was sprinting! "Did you all find time to observe?" smiled coach, as he came loping in from second base. "We all watched you," laughed Dick. "But the time was short." "You see the true principle of the sprint?" "Yes; but it would take any of us years to get the sprint down that fine," protested Darrin. "Don't be too sure of that," retorted coach. "Some of you will have doubled the style and steam of your sprint by the time you're running in the first game. Now, don't forget a word of what I've said about the importance of true sprinting. I've seen many a nine whose members had a fine battery, and all the fielders good men; yet, when they went to the bat and hit the leather, their sprinting was so poor that they lost game after game. From now on, the sprint's the thing! Yet don't overdo it by doing it all the time. Take plenty of rest and deep breathing between sprints. Usually, a two-bag sprint is all you need. Now, some more of you get out and try it." Rapidly coach called off the names of those he wanted to try out. Some of these young men did better than the starters, for they had learned from the criticisms, and from the showing of Luce's standard form. Presently the young men were standing about in various parts of the field, for none came in until called. "Ripley," said Mr. Luce, turning to that young man, "you have the build and the lines of a good sprinter." "Thank you, sir," nodded Fred. "And yet your performance falls off. Your lung capacity ought to be all right from your appearance. What is the trouble? Honestly, have you been smoking any cigarettes?" "Not one," Fred declared promptly. Mr. Luce lifted the boy's right hand, scanning it. "If I were going to make such a denial," remarked coach coolly, "I'd be sure to have a piece of pumice stone, and I'd use it often to take away those yellowish stains." The light-brownish stains were faint on Fred's first and second fingers. Yet, under careful scrutiny, they could be made out. Ripley colored uncomfortably, jerking his hand away. "Better cut out the paper pests," advised coach quietly. "Only one, once in a while," murmured the boy. "I won't have even that many after this." "I should hope not," replied Mr. Luce. "You're under training pledge, you know." All Fred meant by his promise was that he would use pumice stone painstakingly on his finger tips hereafter. Within the next few days, Dick and Darrin made about the best showing as to sprinting form, though many of the others did remarkably well. "Ripley isn't cutting out the cigarettes," decided Mr. Luce, watching the running of the lawyer's son. "He proves it by his lack of improvement. His respiration is all to the bad." Mr. Luce was shrewd enough to know that, in Fred Ripley, he had a liar to deal with, and that neither repeated warnings nor renewed promises were worth much. So he held his peace. In a few days more, all the members of the Athletics Committee who could attend went to the field. A practice match between the first and second teams had been ordered. Ripley consented to pitch for second, while Dick pitched for the school nine. The latter nine won by a score of eleven to two, but that had been expected. It was for another purpose that the members of the Athletics Committee were present. After the game, there was a brief conference between coach and the committee members. "It is time, now, to announce the appointment of captain," called coach, when he had again gathered the squad. "Purcell, of the junior class, will be captain of the nine. Prescott, of the sophomore class, will be second, or relief captain." Then the announcements were made for the second nine. And now the first game was close at hand. The opponent was to be Gardiner City High School. Gardiner possessed one of the strongest school nines in the state. Coach Luce would have preferred an easier opponent for the first regular game, but had to take the only match that he could get. "However, young gentlemen," he announced to the squad on the field, "the Gridley idea is that all opponents look alike to us. Your city and your school will demand that you win---not merely that you try to win!" "We'll win---no other way to do!" came the hearty promise. CHAPTER XV A DASTARD'S WORK IN THE DARK Thanks to the methods Dick & Co. had started the year before of raising funds for High School athletics through stirring appeal to the local pride of the wealthy residents of the city, the school nine had an abundant supply of money for all needs. Through the columns of "The Blade" Prescott warmed up local interest effectively. Tickets sold well ahead of the time for the meeting with Gardiner City High School. "Prescott, you've been picked to pitch for the Gardiner game," Coach Luce informed the sophomore. "We're going to have almost the hardest rub of the season with this nine, on account of its being our first game. Gardiner City has played two games already, and her men have their diamond nerve with them. Keep yourself in shape, Mr. Prescott. Don't take any even slight chance of getting out of condition." "You may be sure I won't," Dick replied, his eyes glowing. "You know, Mr. Luce, that, though I played some on second football team last fall, this is the first chance I've had to play on the regular team." "As the game is close at hand," continued the coach, "I'd even be careful not to train too much. You're in as fine condition, now, as you can be this season. Sometimes, just in keeping up training, a fellow has something happen to him that lays him up for a few days." "It won't happen to me, sir," Dick asserted. "I'm going to take care of myself as if I were glass, until the Gardiner game is over." "You won't get too nervous, will you?" "I may be a bit, before the game," Dick confessed, candidly. "But after the game starts?" "Once the game opens, I shall forget that there's any such fellow as Prescott, sir. I shall be just a part of Gridley, with nothing individual about me." "Good! I like to hear you talk that way," laughed Mr. Luce. "I hope you'll be able to keep up to it when you go to the diamond. Once the game opens, don't let yourself have a single careless moment. Any single point we can get away from Gardiner will have to be done by just watching for it. You saw them play last year?" "I did," Prescott nodded. "Gridley won, four to three, and until the last half of the last inning we had only one run. I thought nothing could save us that day." "Nothing did," replied the coach, "except the hard and fast can't-lose tradition of Gridley." "We're not going to lose this time, either," Dick declared. "I know that I'm going to strike out a string in every inning. If I go stale, you have Darrin to fall back on, and he's as baffling a pitcher as I can hope to be. And Ripley is a wonder." "He would be," nodded Mr. Luce, sadly, "if he were a better base runner at the same time." It seemed as though nothing else could be talked of in Gridley but the opening game. Just because it was the starter of the season the local military band, reinforced to thirty-five pieces, was to be on hand to give swing and life to the affair. "Are you going, Laura?" Dick asked, when he met Miss Bentley. "Am I going?" replied Laura, opening her eyes in amazement. "Why, Dick, do you think anything but pestilence or death could keep me away? Father is going to take Belle and myself. The seats are already bought." Prescott's own parents were to attend. Out of his newspaper money he had bought them grand stand seats, and some one else had been engaged to attend in the store while the game was on. "You'll have a great chance, Dick, old fellow, against a nine like Gardiner," said Dave Darrin. "And, do you know, I'm glad it's up to you to pitch? I'm afraid I'd be too rattled to pitch against a nine like Gardiner in the very first game of the season. All I have to do is to keep at the side and watch you." "See here, Dave Darrin," expostulated his chum, "you keep yourself in the best trim, and make up your mind that you may _have_ to be called before the game is over. What if my wrist goes lame during the game?" "Pooh! I don't believe it will, or _can_," Dave retorted. "You're in much too fine shape for that, Dick." "Other pitchers have often had to be retired before a game ended," Prescott rejoined, gravely. "And I don't believe that I am the greatest or the most enduring ever. Keep yourself up, Dave! Be ready for the call at any second." "Oh, I will, but it will be needless," Dave answered. Dalzell and Holmes were other members of the school nine squad who had been picked for this first game. Purcell was to catch, making perhaps, the strongest battery pair that Gridley High School had ever put in the field. Half of Dick & Co. were to make up a third of the nine in its first battle. "I'm getting a bit scared," muttered Dan, the Friday afternoon before the Saturday game. "Now, cut all that out," Dick advised. "If you don't I'll report you to the coach and captain." This was said with a grin, and Dick went on earnestly: "Dan, the scared soldier is always a mighty big drag in any battle. It takes two or three other good soldiers to look after him and hold him to duty." "I'll admit, for myself, that I wish the druggist knew of some sort of pill that would give me more confidence for this confounded old first game," muttered Greg Holmes. "I can tell you how to get the pill put up," Prescott hinted. "I wish you would, then." But Greg spoke dubiously. "Tell the druggist to use tragacanth paste to hold the pill together." "Yes?-----" followed Greg. "And tell the druggist to mix into each pill a pound of good old Yankee ginger," wound up Prescott. "Take four, an hour apart before the game to-morrow." "Then I'd never play left field," grinned Greg. "Yes, you would. You'd forget your nervousness. Try it, Greg." The three were walking up Main Street, when they encountered Laura Bentley and Belle Meade. "What are you going to do to-morrow?" asked Laura, looking at the trio, keenly. "Are you going to win for the glory and honor of good old Gridley?" "Dick is," smiled Greg. "Dan and I are going to sit at the side and use foot-warmers." "You two aren't losing heart, are you?" asked Belle, looking at Dick Prescott's companions with some scorn. "N-n-not if you girls are all going to take things as seriously as that," protested Greg. "Every Gridley High School girl expects the nine to win to-morrow," spoke Laura almost sternly. "Then we're going to win," affirmed Dan Dalzell. "On second thought, I'll sell my footwarmers at half the cost price." "That's the way to talk," laughed Belle. "Now, remember, boys---though Dick doesn't need to have his backbone stiffened---if you boys haven't pride enough in Gridley to carry you through anything, the Gridley High School girls are heart and soul in the game. If you lose the game to-morrow don't any of you ever show up again at a class dance!" The girls went away laughing, yet they meant what they said. Gridley girls were baseball fans and football rooters of the most intense sort. Dave wanted to be abed by half past eight that evening, as Coach Luce had requested; but about a quarter past eight, just as he was about to retire, his mother discovered that she needed coffee for the next morning's breakfast, so she sent him to the grocer's on the errand. Dick, while eating supper, thought of an item that he wanted to print in the next day's "Blade." Accordingly, he hurried to the newspaper office as soon as the meal was over. It was ten minutes past eight when Dick handed in his copy to the night editor. "Time enough," muttered the boy, as he reached the street. "A brisk jog homeward is just the thing before pulling off clothes and dropping in between the sheets." As Dick jogged along he remembered having noticed, on the way to the office, Tip Scammon in a new suit of clothes. "Tip's stock is coming up in the world," thought young Prescott. "But I wonder whether Tip earned that suit or stole it, or whether he has just succeeded in threatening more money out of Ripley. How foolish Fred is to stand for blackmail! I wonder if I ought to speak to him about it, or give his father a hint. I hate to be meddlesome. And, by ginger! Now I think of it, Tip looked rather curiously at me. He---oh!---_murder_!" The last exclamation was wrung from Dick Prescott by a most amazing happening. He was passing a building in the course of erection. It stood flush with the sidewalk, and the contractor had laid down a board walk over the sidewalk, and had covered it with a roofed staging. Just as Dick passed under this, still on a lope, a long pole was thrust quickly out from the blackness inside the building. Between Dick's moving legs went the pole. Bump! Down came Dick, on both hands and one knee. Then he rolled over sideways. Away back in the building the young pitcher heard fast-moving feet. In a flash Dick tried to get up. It took him more time than he had expected. He clutched at one of the upright beams for support. Half a dozen people had seen the fall. Stopping curiously, they soon turned, hurrying toward Prescott. Forgotten, in an instant, was the youngster's pain. His face went white with another throbbing realization. "The game to-morrow! This knee puts me out!" CHAPTER XVI THE HOUR OF TORMENTING DOUBT "Oh, no! That mustn't be. I've got to pitch in to-morrow's game!" Prescott ground out the words between his clenched teeth. The consciousness of pain was again asserting itself. "What's the matter, Prescott?" called the first passer-by to reach him. "Matter enough," grumbled Dick, pointing to the pole that lay near him. "See that thing?" "Yes. Trip over it?" "I did. But some one thrust it between my legs as I was running past here." "Sho!" exclaimed another, curiously. "Now, who would want to do that?" "Anyone who didn't want me to pitch to-morrow's game, perhaps," flashed Dick, with sudden divination. "What's this?" demanded a boy, breaking in through the small crowd that was collecting. "Dick---you hurt?" It didn't take Dave many seconds to understand the situation. "I'll bet I know who did it!" he muttered, vengefully. "Who?" spoke up one of the men. But Dick gave a warning nudge. "Oh, well!" muttered Dave Darrin. "We'll settle this thing all in our own good time." "Let me have your arm, Dave," begged young Prescott. "I want to see how well I can walk." The young pitcher had already been experimenting, cautiously, to see how much weight he could bear on his injured left leg. "Take my arm on the other side," volunteered a sympathetic man in the crowd. Dick was about to do so, when the lights of an auto showed as the machine came close to the curb. "Here's a doctor," called some one. "Which one?" asked Dick. "Bentley." "Good!" muttered Dave. "Dr. Bentley is medical examiner to the High School athletic teams. Ask Dr. Bentley if he won't come in here. Stand still, Dick, and put all the weight you can on your sound leg." Prescott was already doing this. Dr. Bentley, a strong looking man of about fifty, rather short though broad-shouldered, took a quick survey of the situation. "One of you men help me put Prescott in the tonneau of my car," he directed, "and come along with me to Prescott's home. The lad must not step on that leg until it has been looked at." Dick found himself being lifted and placed in a comfortable seat in the after part of the auto. Dave and the man who had helped the physician got in with him. Barely a minute later Dr. Bentley stopped his car before the Prescott book store. "You stay in the car a minute," directed the physician. "I want to speak to your mother, so she won't be scared to death." Mrs. Prescott, from whom Dick had inherited much of his own pluck, was not the kind of woman to faint. She quickly followed Dr. Bentley from the store. "I'm hurt only in my feelings, mother," said Dick cheerfully. "I'm afraid I have a little wrench that will keep me out of the game tomorrow." "That's almost a tragedy, I know," replied Mrs. Prescott bravely. The physician directing, the boy was lifted from the car, while Mrs. Prescott went ahead to open the door. Dave Darrin followed, his eyes flashing. Dave had his own theory to account for this state of affairs. Into his own room Dick was carried, and laid on the bed. Mrs. Prescott remained outside while Dave helped undress his chum. "Now, let us see just how bad this is," mused the physician aloud. "It isn't so very bad," smiled Dick. "I wouldn't mind at all, if it weren't for the game to-morrow. I'll play, anyway." "Huh!" muttered Dave, incredulously. Dr. Bentley was running his fingers over the left knee, which looked rather red. "Does this hurt? Does this? Or this" inquired the medical man, pressing on different parts of the knee. "No," Dick answered, in each case. "We don't want grit, my boy. We want the truth." "Why, no; it doesn't hurt," Dick insisted. "I believe I could rub that knee a little, and then walk on it." "I hope that's right," Dave muttered, half incredulously. Dr. Bentley made some further examination before he stated: "I knew there was nothing broken there, but I feared that the ligaments of the knee had been strained. That might have put you out of the game for the season, Prescott." "I'll be able to sprint in the morning," declared the young pitcher, with spirit. "You fell on your hands, as well, didn't you?" asked the physician. "Yes, sir." "That saved you from worse trouble, then. The ligaments are not torn at all. The worst you've met with, Prescott, is a wrench of the knee, and there's a little swelling. It hurt to stand on your foot when you first tried to do so, didn't it?" "Yes, sir." "It would probably hurt a little less, now. No---don't try it," as Dick started to bolster himself up. "You want that knee in shape at the earliest moment, don't you?" "Of course I do, doctor." "Then lie very quiet, and do, in everything, just what you are told." "I've got to pitch to-morrow afternoon, you know, doctor. And I've got to run bases." Dr. Bentley pursed his lips. "There's a chance in a thousand that you'll be able, Prescott. The slight swelling is the worst thing we have to deal with, I'm glad to say. We'll have to keep the leg pretty quiet, and put cold compresses on frequently." "I'll stay here and do it," volunteered Dave, promptly. "You have to pitch to-morrow, Dave, if anything _should_ make the coach order me off the field," interposed Dick, anxiously. "And you ought to be home and in bed now." "If Mrs. Prescott will put on the bandages up to one o'clock to-night that will be doing well enough," suggested Dr. Bentley. "I shall be in to look at the young man quite early in the morning. But don't attempt to get up for anything, do you understand, Prescott? You know---" here Dr. Bentley assumed an air of authority---" I'm more than the mere physician. I'm medical director to your nine. So you're in duty bound to follow my orders to the letter." "I will---if you'll promise me that I can pitch," promised the boy fervently. "I can't promise, but I'll do my best." "And, Dave," pressed Dick, "you'll skip home, now, and get a big night's rest, won't you? There's a bare chance that you _might_ have to throw the ball to-morrow. But I won't let you, if I can stop it," Prescott added wistfully. So Dave departed, for he was accustomed to following the wishes of the head of Dick & Co. in such matters. Mrs. Prescott had come in as soon as the lad had been placed between the sheets. Dr. Bentley gave some further directions, then left something that would quiet the pain without having the effect of an opiate. "It all depends on keeping the leg quiet and keeping the cold compresses renewed," were the medical man's parting words. Twenty minutes later Dave telephoned the store below. Darrin was in a state of great excitement. "Tell Dick, when he's awake in the morning," begged Dave of Mr. Prescott, who answered the call, "that Gridley pitchers seem to be in danger to-night. At least, _two_ of 'em are. I was right near home, and running a bit, when I passed the head of the alley near our house. A bag of sand was thrown out right in front of my feet. How I did it I don't quite know yet, but I jumped over that bag, and came down on my feet beyond it. It was a fearfully close call, though. No; I guess you hadn't better tell Dick to-night. But you can tell him in the morning." Though "The Blade" somehow missed the matter, there were a good many in Gridley who had heard the news by Saturday morning. It traveled especially among the High School boys. More than a dozen of them were at the book store as soon as that place was opened. "How's Dick?" asked all the callers. "Doing finely," replied the elder Prescott, cheerily. "Great! Is he going to pitch this afternoon?" "Um---I can't say about that." "If he can't, Mr. Prescott, that'll be one of Gridley's chances gone over the fence." Dave was on hand as early as he could be. Dick had already been told of the attempt on his chum the night before. "You didn't see the fellow well enough to make out who he was?" Prescott pressed eagerly. "No," admitted Dave, sadly. "After a few seconds I got over my bewilderment enough to try to give chase. But the dastard had sneaked away, cat-foot. I know who it was, though, even if I didn't see him." "Tip Scammon?" "Surely," nodded Darrin. "He's Ripley's right hand at nasty work, isn't he?" "I'd hate to think that Fred had a hand in such mean business," muttered Dick, flushing. "Don't be simple," muttered Dave. "Who wanted to be crack pitcher for the nine? Who pitches to-day, if neither of us can? That would be a mean hint to throw out, if Ripley's past conduct didn't warrant the suspicion." Later in the morning there was another phase of the sensation, and Dave came back with it. He was just in time to find Dick walking out into the little parlor of the flat, Dr. Bentley watching. "Fine!" cheered Dave. "How is he, doctor?" "Doing nicely," nodded Dr. Bentley. "But how about the big problem---can he pitch to-day?" "That's what we're trying to guess," replied the physician. "Now, see here, Prescott, you're to sit over there by the window, in the sunlight. During the first hour you will get up once in every five minutes and walk around the room once, then seating yourself again. In the second hour, you'll walk around twice, every five minutes. After that you may move about as much as you like, but don't go out of the room. I think you can, by this gentle exercise, work out all the little stiffness that's left there." "And now for my news," cried Dave, as soon as the medical man had gone. "Fred Ripley ran into trouble, too." "Got hurt, you mean?" asked Dick quickly. "Not quite," went on Darrin, making a face. "When Fred was going into the house last night he tripped slightly---against a rope that had been stretched across the garden path between two stakes." "But Fred wasn't hurt?" "No; he says he tripped, but he recovered himself." "I'm afraid you don't believe that, Dave?" "I ought to, anyway," retorted Darrin dryly. "Fred is showing the rope." "A piece of rope is easy enough to get," mused Dick. "Yep; and a lie is easy enough for some fellows to tell. But some of the fellows are inclined to believe Rip, so they've started a yarn that Gardiner High School is up to tricks, and that some fellows have been sent over in advance to cripple our box men for to-day." "That's vile!" flushed Prescott indignantly, as he got up to make the circuit of the room. "The Gardiner fellows have always been good, fair sportsmen. They wouldn't be back of any tricks of that sort." "Well, Fred has managed to cover himself, anyway," returned Dave rather disgustedly. "He called his father and mother out to see the rope before he cut it away from the stakes. Oh, I guess a good many fellows will believe Ripley's yarn!" "I'm afraid you don't, Dave;" "Oh, yes; I'm easy," grinned Darrin. "Can you see two young ladies, Richard?" asked Mrs. Prescott, looking into the room. "Certainly, mother, if I get a chance. My vision is not impaired in the least," laughed Dick. Mrs. Prescott stood aside to admit Laura and Belle, then followed them into the room. "We came to make sure that Gridley is not to lose its great pitcher to-day," announced Laura. "Then your father must have told you that I'd do," cried Dick, eagerly. "Father?" pouted Miss Bentley. "You don't know him then. One can never get a word out of father about any of his patients. But he said we might call." The visit of the girls brightened up twenty minutes of the morning. "Of course," said Laura, as they rose to go, "you mustn't attempt to pitch if you really can't do it, or if it would hurt you for future games." "I'm afraid the coach won't let me pitch, unless your father says I can," murmured Dick, with a wry face. Few in Gridley who knew the state of affairs had any idea that Dick Prescott would be able to stand in the box against Gardiner. But the young pitcher boarded a trolley car, accompanied by Dave Darrin, and both reached the Athletic Field before two o'clock. Dr. Bentley was there soon after. In the Gridley dressing room, Dick's left leg was bared, while Coach Luce drew off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Under the physician's direction the coach administered a very thorough massage, following this with an alcohol rubbing. When it was all over Dick rose to exhibit the motions of that leg before the eyes of the doubtful physician. CHAPTER XVII WHEN THE HOME FANS QUIVERED "Is Prescott going to toss!" "They say not." "It's a shame." "And there's a suspicion," whispered one of the High School speakers, "that the other name of the shame is Fred Ripley." "He ought to be lynched!" "But he claims that an attempt was made against him, also." "Ripley never was strong on the truth." Though the gossip about Fred Ripley was not general, the anxiety over Pitcher Prescott was heard on all sides. "It'll be a sure hoodoo if Prescott can't pitch the season's first game," declared a man who seldom missed a High School game on the home diamond. Before three o'clock the grand stand was comfortably filled. The cheaper seats beyond held about as many spectators as they were built to hold. The attendance, that day, was nearly three thousand. Gardiner had sent a delegation of nearly one-tenth of this number. Before three o'clock the band began to play. Whenever the musicians launched into a popular baseball ditty the crowd joined with the words. "Prescott is going to pitch!" "No, he isn't." "The word has just been passed around. Besides, his name's down on the score card." "The score cards were printed yesterday." Finally, curiosity could stand it no longer. A committee left the grand stand to go toward the dressing rooms building. But a policeman waved them back. "None but players and officials allowed in there," declared the officer. "We want to find out whether Prescott is going to pitch," urged the spokesman. "I heard something about that," admitted the policeman. "What was it? Quick!" "Let me see. Oh! Prescott wants to pitch; the coach is half willing, but the doctor ain't certain." This was the best they could do, so the committee returned to their seats. But nothing was settled. At three-twenty, just as the band ceased playing, the compact bunch of Gardiner fans sent up the yell: "Here they come! Our fellows! The only ones!" Using their privilege as visiting team, the Gardiner players were now filing on to the field for a little warming-up practice. "Throw him down, McCluskey!" tooted the band, derisively. But the cheers from the wild Gardiner fans nearly drowned out the instrumental racket. Quickly the visitors had a practice ball in motion. Now the home fans waited breathlessly. At last the band played again. "See the Conquering Hero Comes!" Gridley High School, natty and clean looking in their gray and black uniforms, with black stockings, caps and belts, came out on the field. Instantly there was craning of necks to see if Prescott were among the players. "There he is!" yelled one of the High School fans. "There's our Dick! Wow!" Cheering went up from every Gridley seat. The bleachers contributed a bedlam of noise. "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" blared forth the band. Girls and women stood up, waving fans, handkerchiefs, banners. Another round of cheering started. Dick walked quietly, looking neither to right nor left. Yet the boy was wondering, in astonishment, if kings usually got such a welcome. By the time the cheering had ceased, Fred Ripley, also in uniform, strolled out and walked toward the sub bench. A hiss greeted Ripley. It was not loud, nor insistent, and presently died out. But Fred went as white as a sheet, then, with eyes cast downward, he dropped to his seat at the end of the sub bench. His chest heaved, for the greeting had unnerved him. "I wonder why I usually get that sort of thing, while that fellow Prescott has a band to play him in," muttered Fred. The bulk of the audience was now quiet, while the three hundred visiting fans roared out one of their school yells. Then followed a noisy whooping of the Gridley High School yell. Coach Luce had walked over to a post behind the sub bench. Umpire Foley, his mask dangling from his left hand, now summoned Purcell and the Gardiner captain. A coin spun up in the air. Gardiner's diamond chieftain won the toss, and chose first chance at the bat. Purcell's men scattered to their fielding posts, while the young captain of the home team fastened on his catcher's mask. The umpire took a ball from its package, inspected it, then tossed it to Dick Prescott, who stood in the box awaiting it. There was a moment's tense expectation, followed by the command that set all the real fans wild: "_Play ball_!" Gardiner High School had put up a husky young giant who stood beside the plate, a confident grin on his face as he swung the bat. Dick moistened his fingers. The batsman saw that, and guessed what was coming. He didn't guess quite low enough, however, for, though he stooped and swung the stick lower, the ball went under it by three inches. "Strike one!" called Mr. Foley, judicially. An imperceptible signal told Purcell what was coming next. Then it came---a jump ball. This time Gardiner's batsman aimed low enough but it proved to be a jump ball. "Strike two!" A howl of glee went up from all quarters, save from the Gardiner visitors. Again Dick signaled. His third was altogether different---a bewildering out-curve. Gardiner's batsman didn't offer, but Purcell caught the leather neatly. "Strike three, and out! One out!" announced the umpire. "Whoop!" The joy from the home fans was let loose. With a disgusted look, Gardiner's man slouched back to the players' bench. CHAPTER XVIII THE GRIT OF THE GRAND OLD GAME In that half of the inning it was one, two, three---down and out! Even Fred Ripley found himself gasping with admiration of Prescott's wonderfully true pitching. Yet the joy of the home fans was somewhat curbed when Gridley went to bat and her third man struck out after two of the nine had reached bases. So the first inning closed without score. Gardiner had found that Gridley was "good," and the latter realized that even young Prescott's pitching could not do it all. The first five innings went off quickly, neither side scoring. "It'll be a tie at dark," sighed some of the fans. "Oh, well, a tie doesn't score against Gridley," others added, consolingly. In the five innings Dick Prescott had to run twice. The first time he was left at first base. The second time he had reached second, and was cautiously stealing third, when Gridley's batsman, Captain Purcell, struck his side out on a foul hit. "How's your wrist holding up?" asked Purcell, in a low tone, as Dick came in. "It feels strong. "Do you think Darrin had better have the rest of the game?" "Not on account of my wrist." "But can you run the bases to the end?" "If it doesn't call for any more running than we've had," smiled Dick. Then he caught the ball, held it an instant, signaled, and let drive. It was the same Gardiner batsman whom Prescott had struck out at the opening of the game. This time the young giant got the range of the ball by sheer good guessing. Crack! It soared. Right field ran backward after the ball. Now the Gardiner fans were up and yelling like Comanches. "Leg it, Prendergast!" The runner touched first bag, then darted on for second. Right field was still after the ball. "Whoop! He's pulverized the second bag!" "Just look at third, old man, and come steaming home over the plate!" That runner had been well trained. He was close upon third base and going with unabated speed. He kicked the bag---then a warning cry told him that right field had the ball. A swift look over his shoulder, and Prendergast fell back upon third just before the ball dropped into the third baseman's hands. "Safe on third!" came the umpire's announcement. The ball arched over to Dick Prescott. Purcell signaled him to let the ball come in over the plate. Now the air was all a-tingle. The visitors had a run in sight. Dick felt the thrill, but steeled himself against any impulsiveness or loss of nerve. He signaled the drive, then let go. Three strikes and out, the ball all the while so closely under control that Prendergast fidgeted but did not dare steal far from third. Then came Dowdy to the bat. He was far and away the best batsman from Gardiner. Prendergast began to edge in. "Strike one!" from the umpire. Crack! The leather hung low, a little to the left of shortstop, who raced after it. Prendergast was going in at a tremendous clip. As shortstop reached the ball, he swooped down on it, stopped its rolling, and rising quickly, hurled it in across the plate. Purcell was waiting, and made a good catch. It looked close. Everyone eyed Umpire Foley. "Runner safe home," he decided. There was a gasp of disappointment, but the decision was fair. Prendergast had made good by a fraction of a second---and there was a man on first. "Oh, Dick! Oh, Prescott!" wailed the home fans. "We look to you." Dick's answer was to strike the next man out, with never a chance for the man on first to steal away from Dalzell and make second. Then a short fly filled first and second. Dick struck out a second man---then a third. But this was getting on Gridley's nerves. Despite Prescott's fine pitching, it began to look as though Gardiner High School was fitted for getting the only one or two runs that the game would witness. In the eighth, Gardiner got a second run, but that inning closed with Gridley as much "stumped" as ever. "Why play the ninth?" yelled one of the visitor fans. "Let's go and drink tea. Gridley boys are nice little fellows, but-----" "How's that wrist?" asked Captain Purcell, anxiously, as the players changed places to begin the ninth. Coach Luce had stepped close, too, and looked anxious. "Just a bit lame, of course," Dick admitted. "But I'm going to pull through." "You're sure about it?" Purcell asked. "Sure enough!" The first Gardiner man to bat went out on the third ball sent past him. Then a second. Now came Prendergast to the bat, blood in his eye. He glared grimly at young Prescott, as though to say: "Now, I'll take it out of you for making a comedian of me the first time I held the stick!" Dick felt, somehow, that Prendergast would make good. The first ball that Prescott put over the plate was a called strike. At the second serve--- Crack! and Prendergast was running. Dan Dalzell gauged the flight of that ball better than anyone else on the diamond. He side-stepped like a flash, falling back a couple of paces. Then pulling the leather down out of the air, he leaped back to first. He was holding the ball in his left hand when Prendergast, breathing fast, hopped at the bag. "Runner out!" called Umpire Foley. Prendergast stamped back, with a look of huge disgust. And now Gridley came in at the bat. "It's no use! We're whipped!" That was the comment everywhere as Gridley came in from the field prepared for a last effort. Gridley's first and second men went bad---the first struck out, and the second knocked a foul bit that was caught. "Greg, you've got to go to bat next," whispered Dick to Holmes, just a moment before. "Oh, _don't_ you strike out. Hit something drive it somewhere. Remember Gridley can't and won't lose! Get the Gridley spirit soaked into you instanter. Chase that leather _somewhere_!" Gardiner's pitcher, his face beaming, faced Holmes, whom he did not regard as one of the team's heavyweights in batting skill. Visiting fans were rising, preparing to leave the stand. "Strike one!" "There he goes!" "Strike two!" "It's all over." Crack! Greg was off like a colt. Running was in his line. He had swatted the ball somewhere over into left field, and he didn't care where it landed. Gardiner's left field was forced to pick up the leather. Greg didn't know that anyone had the ball. He didn't care; he had to make first, anyway. He kicked the bag, turning for the second lap. Then he saw the sphere coming through the air, and slid back. "Runner safe on first!" Gridley, with its nerve always on hand, felt that there was a ray of hope. The good, old, strong and fierce school yell went up. The soprano voices of the girls sounded high on the air. Now Dan Dalzell came up to the plate, bat in hand. Dan hadn't hit a thing during the afternoon, but he meant to do so, now. It was either that or the swan-song! "Strike one!---" a groan came from Gridley, a cheer from Gardiner. But Dan was not in the least confused. He was ready for the next ball. _Biff_! It was the pistol shot for Greg, who was off like a two-legged streak, with Dan, ninety feet behind but striving to catch up. The ball came to first only a quarter-second behind Dan's arrival. "Both runners safe!" "Oh, now, _Purcell_!" The man now hovering over the plate knew he simply _had_ to do something. He was captain of the nine. He had caught like a Pinkerton detective all afternoon, but now something was demanded of his brain and brawn. "Strike one!" called the umpire, with voice that grated. "Good-bye!" "Strike two!" came again the umpire's rasping tones. Even now Gridley fans wouldn't admit cold feet, but the chills were starting that way. Crack! "Whoop!" Then the battle-cry of Gridley rose frantically from all the seats---Purcell had made first base. "Prescott!" "It's yours!" "_Don't_ fall down!" Schimmelpodt, a wealthy old German contractor, rose from his seat, shouting hoarsely: "Bresgott I gif fifdy tollars by dot Athletic Committee bis you win der game vor Gridley!" The offer brought a laugh and a cheer. Schimmelpodt rarely threw away money. Dick, smiling confidently, stood bat in hand. Most other boys might have felt nervous with so much depending on them. But Dick was one of the kind who would put off growing nervous until the need of steady nerves was past. It was always impossible for him to admit defeat. The game stood two to nothing in favor of the Gardiner nine, but Gridley had bases full. Dick's help might not have been needed for all the uneasiness that he displayed. There was no pallor about his face, nor any flush. His hands grasped the willow easily, confidently. "Strike one!" Prescott had missed the ball, but it failed to rattle him. "Strike two!" The boy was still undaunted, though he had lost two chances out of the three. Again he tried for the ball. Swish! It was a foul hit, out sidewise. Gardiner's catcher darted nimbly in under the ball. Home fans groaned. As for Dick, he didn't turn his head to look. Catcher had the ball in his fingers, but fumbled it. It slipped. "Hard luck," muttered the standing Gardiner fans, waiting to give their final cheer of victory. Dick's next sight of the ball was when it sailed lazily over his head, into the hands of the man in the box. "I hope Dick is bracing," groaned one of Gridley's subs. "He isn't," retorted Dave Darrin. "He's just on the job, steady as iron, cool as a cucumber and confident as an American." Gardiner's pitcher measured his man critically, then signaled the next ball. It came, just as Dick, closely watching the pitcher, expected it to come, a swift, graceful out-curve. _Bang_! At least it sounded like a gunshot. Dick Prescott struck the ball with all his might. He struck with greatest force just barely below the center of the sphere. It was a fearful crack, aimed right and full of steam and speed. "_Wow_!" Three base-runners, at the first sound had started running for all they were worth. Dick's bat flew like a projectile itself, fortunately hitting no one, and Prescott was running like Greek of old on the Olympic field. One man in! The ball had gone past the furthest limits of outfield. Before it had touched the ground Dick Prescott touched first and started for second. Gardiner right and left fields were running a race with center field. The latter was the one to get it, but his two supporters simply couldn't stand still. Prescott kicked the second bag. Almost at the same instant the second man was in. Score tied! What about that ball? It was rolling on the ground, now, many yards ahead of the flying center-field. Dick was nearing third, the man ahead of him fast nearing the home plate. Centerfield had the ball in his hands, whirling as if on springs. Third man safe home---Dick Prescott turning the third bag and into the last leg of the diamond. Center-field threw with all his might, but the distance was long. Second base had to stoop for the ball. Even at that, it got past his hands. He wheeled, bolted after the ball, got it and made a throw to the catcher. Out of the corner of his eyes, young Prescott saw the arching ball descend, a good throw and a true one. Yet, ere it landed in the catcher's hand, Dick, by the fraction of a second, had sprinted desperately across the home plate. "Runner safe home!" "Whoo-oopee! Wow! wow! wow!" rang the chorus of thousands. "Four to two!" "What about Gridley, _now_?" "What about Dick Prescott?" Then words were lost in volleys of cheers. The Gardiner fans who had risen to cheer slipped dejectedly down from the stand. And Dick Prescott? While running he had given no thought to his knee. Now, as he dashed across the plate, and heard the umpire's decision, he tried to stop, but slipped and went down. He tried to rise, but found it would be better to sit where he was. The game was over. Gridley, having made the winning runs in the last half of the ninth, the rules of the game forbade any further attempts to pile up score. One of the first of the great crowd to leap over into the field and cross the diamond was Coach Luce. He ran straight to the young pitcher's side, kneeling close by him. "You've given your knee a fearful twist, Prescott. I could see it," said Luce sympathetically. "What do I care?" Dick called back, his face beaming. "The score's safe, isn't it?" Had it not been for the state of his knee Prescott would have been snatched up by a dozen hands and rushed across the field in triumph. But Mr. Luce waved them all back. Dick's father and mother came hurrying across the field to see what was wrong with their boy. "Let me lean on you as I get up, Mr. Luce," begged Dick, and the coach was only too quick to help the boy to his feet. Then, with the aid of Luce's arm, Dick was able to show his parents that he could walk without too much of a limp. "You did it for us, Dick, old boy!" greeted Captain Purcell, as soon as he could get close. "Did I?" snorted the young pitcher. "I thought there were four of us in it, with five others helping a bit." "It was the crack you gave that ball that brought us in," glowed Purcell. "Gracious, I don't believe that Gardiner pitcher was ever stung as badly as that before!" The band was playing, now. As the strain stopped, and the young pitcher came across the field, leaning now on Dave Darrin's arm, the music crashed out again into "Hail to the Chief!" "You see, Purcell. You're getting your share of the credit now," laughed Dick. "The band is playing something about a captain, isn't it?" In the dressing room Dick had abundant offers of help. Fred Ripley was the only silent one in the group. He changed his togs for street clothes as quickly as he could and disappeared. Later, Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes helped Dick on to a street car, and saw him safely home. That knee required further treatment by Dr. Bentley, but there was time, now, and no game depending on the result. "Fred, I can't say much for your appetite tonight," remarked his father at the evening meal. "Neither can I, sir," Fred answered. "Are you out of sorts?" "Never felt any better, sir." "Being out in the open air all this April afternoon should have given you an appetite. "I didn't do anything this afternoon, except sit around in my ball togs," Fred grumbled. "I hope you'll have a few good games to pitch this season," his father went on. "You worked hard enough, and I spent money enough on the effort to prepare you." "You can't beat some people's luck---unless you do it with a club," grumbled Fred, absently. "Eh?" asked his father, looking up sharply from his plate. But the boy did not explain. Late that night, however, breaking training rules for the tenth time, Fred was out on the sly to meet Tip Scammon. The pair of them laid plans that aimed to stop Dick Prescott's career as High School pitcher. CHAPTER XIX SOME MEAN TRICKS LEFT OVER Mr. Schimmelpodt had offered that fifty dollars in a moment of undue excitement. For two or three days afterward he wondered if he couldn't find some way out of "spending" the money that would yet let him keep his self-respect. Finding, at last, that he could not, he wrote out the check and mailed it. He pinned the check to a half-sheet of paper on which he wrote, "Rah mit Prescott!" A few days later Mr. Schimmelpodt turned from Main Street into the side street on which Dick's parents kept their store and their home. "Ach! Und dere is de door vot that boy lives by," thought Mr. Schimmelpodt, just before he passed Dick's door. "Yen der game over was, und I saw dot boy go down---ach!" For Mr. Schimmelpodt had suited the action to the word. Out from under him his feet shot. But Mr. Schimmelpodt, being short and flabby of leg, with a bulky body above, came down as slowly as big bodies are supposed to move. It was rather a gradual tumble. Having so much fat on all portions of his body Mr. Schimmelpodt came down with more astonishment than jar. "Ach! Such a slipperyishness!" he grunted. "Hey, Bresgott---! look out!" The door had opened suddenly at this early hour in the morning. Dick, charged with doing a breakfast errand for his mother at the last moment, sprang down the steps and started to sprint away. At the first step on the sidewalk, however, Dick's landing foot shot out from under him. He tried to bring the other down in time to save himself. That, too, slipped. Dick waved his arms, wind-mill fashion in the quick effort to save himself. "Bresgott," observed the seated contractor, solemnly, "I bet you five tollars to den cents dot you-----" Here Schimmelpodt waited until Dick settled the question of the center of gravity by sprawling on the sidewalk. "---Dot you fall," finished the German, gravely. "I---Und I yin!" "Why, good morning, Mr. Schimmelpodt," Dick responded, as he started to get up. "What are you doing here." "Oh, choost vaiting to see bis you do the same thing," grunted the contractor. "It was great sport---not?" "Decidedly 'not,'" laughed Dick, stepping gingerly over a sidewalk that had been spread thinly with some sticky substance. "Can I help you up, Mr. Schimmelpodt?" The German, who knew his own weight, glanced at the boy's slight figure rather doubtfully. "Bresgott, how many horsepower are you alretty?" But Dick, standing carefully so that he would not slip again, displayed more strength than the contractor had expected. In another moment the German was on his feet, moving cautiously away, his eyes on the sidewalk. Yet he did not forget to mutter his thanks to the boy. As Dick now went on his way again, slipping around the corner and into a bakeshop, he noticed that his right wrist felt a bit queer. "Well, I haven't broken anything," he murmured, feeling of the wrist with his left hand. "But what on earth happened to the sidewalk." As he paused before his door on the way back, he looked carefully down at the sidewalk. Right before the door several flags in the walk appeared to be thinly coated with some colorless specimen of slime. "It looks as though it might be soft soap," pondered Prescott, examining the stuff more closely. "It'll be dry in a half an hour more, but I think I had better fix it." In the basement was a barrel of sand that was used for sanding the icy sidewalk in winter. As soon as Dick had run upstairs with the bread he went below, got a few handfuls of sand and fixed the sidewalk. At recess Dick noticed just enough about his wrist to make him speak about it to Submaster Luce. "Let me see it," demanded coach. "Hm!" he muttered. "Another peculiar accident, and only two days before our game with Chichester! See Dr. Bentley about your wrist at his office this afternoon. I'm beginning to think, Prescott, that it's a fortunate thing for you that the medical director is paid out of the fund. You'd bankrupt an ordinary citizen if you're going to keep on having these tumbles." Dr. Bentley's verdict was that, while the wrist was not in a condition that need bother men much in ordinary callings, yet, as a pitcher's wrist, it would need rest and care. "I've just got the tip that I'm to pitch in the Chichester game," said Dave, coming to his chum that afternoon. "Yes; Doe thinks I ought to look after this wrist---that it wouldn't stand extraordinary strain during the next few days. But, Dave, old fellow, watch out! Keep your eye on the sidewalks near your home. Don't prowl in lonely places after dark. Act as if you were made of glass until you get on the field at the Chichester game." Darrin glanced shrewdly at his friend, then nodded. "I'm on, Dick! Confound that fellow, Ripley. And he's as slick and slippery as an eel. I don't suppose there is any way that we can catch him?" "If I knew a way I'd use it," growled Prescott. "I'm sick of having this thing so onesided all the time. Ripley plans, and we pay the piper. The blackguard!" "Then you're sure Ripley is at the bottom of these accidents?" "The accidents are planned," retorted Dick. "Who else would care to plan them, except that disagreeable fellow?" "I'd like to get just proof enough to justify me in demanding that he stand up before me for twenty rounds," gritted Dave Darrin. Dave did take extraordinary care of himself, and was on hand to pitch at the game with Chichester. This game, like the first, was on the home grounds. It was a close game, won by Gridley, two to one. In some respects Chichester's fielding work was better than the home team's. It was undying grit that won the battle---that and Dave Darrin's pitching. As the jubilant home fans left the ball grounds it was the general opinion that Dave Darrin was only the merest shade behind Dick Prescott as a pitcher. "Either one of them in the box," said Coach Luce to a friend, "and the game is half won." "But how about Ripley?" "Ripley?" replied the coach. "He made a good showing in the tryouts, but we haven't had in the field yet. He will be, though, the next game. We play Brayton High School over at Brayton. It's one of the smaller games, and we're going to try Ripley there." Then the coach added, to himself: "Ripley is presentable enough, but I believe there's a big yellow streak in him somewhere. I wouldn't dare to put Fred into one of the big games requiring all the grit that Prescott or Darrin can show!" CHAPTER XX A TIN CAN FOR THE YELLOW DOG With Ripley in the box Gridley won its third game of the season, beating Brayton High School by a score of five to two. "It ought to have been a whitewash against a small-fry crowd like Brayton," Coach Luce confided to Captain Purcell. "What was our weak spot, Coach?" "Have you an opinion, Captain?" asked the coach. "Yes, but I'm afraid I'm wrong." "What is your idea?" "Why, it seemed to me, Mr. Luce, that Ripley went stiff at just the wrong times. Yet I hate to say that, and I am afraid I'm unfair, for Rip surely does throw in some wonderful balls." "You've struck my idea, anyway," responded Mr. Luce. "Please don't say anything about it to the other men. But, between ourselves, Captain, I think we'll do well to give Ripley few and unimportant chances this season. Most people can't see where real grit comes in, in baseball" "Yet you think the lack of grit, or stamina, is just what ails Rip?" asked Captain Purcell keenly. "You can judge, from what I've said," replied Coach Luce. "I'm glad then, Coach, for it shows I wasn't so far off the track in my own private judgment." Yet, to hear Fred Ripley tell about the game, it wasn't such a small affair. He judged his foemen by the fact that they had to contend with _him_. "Five to two is the safest margin we've had yet," he confided to those who listened to him at the High School. "More than that, we had Brayton tied down so that, at no time in the game, did they have any show to break the score against us. Now, if Luce and Purcell fix it up for me to pitch the real games of the season" "Oh, cut it out, Rip," advised one listener, good-naturedly. "Brayton is only a fishball team, anyway. Not a real, sturdy beef-eater in the lot." The season moved on briskly now. Dick pitched two games, and Darrin one in between Prescott's pair. Dick's first game was won by a score of one to nothing; his second game, the return date against Gardiner, was a tie. The game in which Darrin pitched was won by a score of three to two. Then came a game with a team not much above Brayton's standing. "Prescott and Darrin must be saved for some of the bigger games," decided Coach Luce. "Purcell, don't you think it will be safe to trust Ripley to pitch against Cedarville High School?" "Yes," nodded the captain of the nine. "I don't believe Cedarville could harm us, anyway, if we put left field or shortstop in the box." Fred Ripley was notified. At once Cedarville became, in his talk, one of the most formidable nines on the state's High School circuit. "But we'll skin 'em, you'll see," promised Fred, through the week. "Be at the game, and see what I can do when I'm feeling well. Cedarville has no chance." Ripley was in high spirits all through the week. All through that Saturday forenoon he moved about in a trance of exultation. Yet, underneath it all, he was somewhat seedy in a physical sense, for he had been out late the night before to meet Tip and hand over some money. Late that Saturday forenoon, Lawyer Ripley returned from a business trip. Soon after he returned home, and had seen a man in his library, he went in search of his wife. "Where's Fred?" demanded the lawyer. "He went out up the street, to get a good walk," replied Mrs. Ripley. "You know, my dear, he is to pitch for Gridley in one of the biggest games of the season this afternoon." "Hm!" said the lawyer. "Well, see here. Let Fred have his luncheon. Don't say a word until then. As soon as he is over with the meal, send him to me in the library. Don't give him any hint until he has finished eating." "Is---is anything wrong?" asked Mrs. Ripley, turning around quickly. "Just a few little questions I want to talk over with the boy," replied Mr. Ripley. It was shortly after one o'clock when Fred stepped into the library. This apartment was really in two rooms, separated by folding doors. In the front room Mr. Ripley had his desk, and did his writing. Most of his books were in the rear room. At the time when Fred entered the folding doors were closed. "You wished to see me, sir?" Fred asked, as he entered. "Yes," said his father, pointing to a chair; "take a seat." "I hope it isn't anything that will take much time," hinted Fred. "you know, sir, I've got to be at the field early this afternoon. I am to pitch in one of the biggest-----" "I'll try to be very brief," replied the lawyer, quietly. "Fred, as you know, whenever I find I have more money about me than I care to carry, I put it in the private safe upstairs. Your mother and I have a place where we hide the key to that old-fashioned safe. But, do you know, I have been missing some money from that safe of late? Of course, it would be sheer impudence in me to suspect your mother." "Of course it would," agreed Fred, with feigned heartiness. He was fighting inwardly to banish the pallor that he knew was creeping into his cheeks. "Have you any theory, Fred, that would help to account for the missing of these sums of money?" pursued the lawyer, one hand toying with a pencil. "Do you suspect any of the servants?" asked the boy, quickly. "We have had all our servants in the family for years," replied the lawyer, "and it would seem hard to suspect any of them." "Then whom can you suspect, sir?" "Fred, do you know, I have had a quiet little idea. I am well acquainted with the scrapes that young fellows sometimes get into. My experience as a lawyer has brought me much in contact with such cases. Now, it is a peculiar thing that young fellows often get into very bad scrapes indeed in pursuing their peculiar ideals of manliness. Fred, have you been getting into any scrapes? Have you found out where your mother and I hide the key to the safe? Have you been helping yourself to the money on the sly?" These last three questions Lawyer Ripley shot out with great suddenness, though without raising his voice. The effect upon young Ripley was electrical. He sprang to his feet, his face dramatically expressive of a mingling of intense astonishment and hurt pride. "Dad," he gasped, "how can you ask me such questions?" "Because I want the answer, and a truthful one," replied the lawyer, coolly. "Will you oblige me with the answer? Take your time, and think deliberately. If you have made any mistakes I want you to be fair and honorable with me. Now, what do you say, sir?" Fred's mind had been working like lightning. He had come to the conclusion that it would be safe to bluff his denial through to the end. "Father," he uttered, earnestly, in a voice into which he tried to throw intense earnestness and sincerity, "I give you my word of honor, as a Ripley, that I know nothing more about the missing money than you have just told me." "You are sure of that, Fred?" "Sure of it, sir? Why, I will take any oath that will satisfy-----" "We don't want any perjury here," cut in the lawyer, crisply, and touched a bell. The folding doors behind them flew open with a bang. As Fred started and whirled about he beheld a stranger advancing toward them, and that stranger was escorting---Tip Scammon. The stranger halted with his jailbird companion some five or six feet away. The stranger did not appear greatly concerned. Tip, however, looked utterly abashed, and unable to raise his gaze from the floor. "With this exhibit, young man," went on the lawyer, in a sorrowful tone, "I don't suppose it is necessary to go much further with the story. When I first began to miss small sums from the safe I thought I might merely have made a mistake about the sums that I had put away. Finally, I took to counting the money more carefully. Then I puzzled for a while. At last, I sent for this man, who is a detective. He has come and gone so quietly that probably you have not noticed him. This man has had a hiding place from which he could watch the safe. Early last evening you took the key and opened the safe---robbed it! You took four five-dollar bills, but they were marked. This man saw you meet Tip Scammon, saw you pass the money over, and heard a conversation that has filled me with amazement. So my son has been paying blackmail money for months!" Fred stood staggered, for a few moments. Then he wheeled fiercely on Scammon. "You scoundrel, you've been talking about me---telling lies about me," young Ripley uttered hoarsely. "I hain't told nothing about ye," retorted Tip stolidly. "But this rich man's cop (detective) nabbed me the first thing this morning. He took me up inter yer father's office, an' asked me whether I'd let _him_ explore my clothes, or whether I'd rather have a policeman called in. He 'splained that, if he had to call the poor man's cop, I'd have to be arrested for fair. So I let him go through my clothes. He found four five-spots on me, and told me I'd better wait an' see yer father. So I'm here, an' not particular a bit about having to go up to the penitentiary for another stretch." "It hasn't been necessary, Fred, to question Scammon very far," broke in the elder Ripley. "That'll do, now, Haight. Since Scammon volunteered to give the money back, and said he didn't know it had been stolen, you can turn him loose." The detective and Tip had no more than gone when Lawyer Ripley, his face flushed with shame, wheeled about on his son. "So you see, Fred, what your word of honor the word of a Ripley---is sometimes worth. You have been robbing me steadily. How much you have taken I do not know as I have not always counted or recorded money that I put in the safe." Fred's face had now taken on a defiant look. He saw that his father did not intend to be harsh, so the boy determined to brave it out. "Haven't you anything to say?" asked the lawyer, after a brief silence. "No," retorted Fred, sulkily. "Not after you've disgraced me by putting a private detective on my track. It was shameful." That brought the hot blood rushing to his father's face. "Shameful, was it, you young reprobate? Shameful to you, when you have been stealing for weeks, if not for months? It is you who are dead to the sense of shame. Your life, I fear, young man, cannot go on as it has been going. You are not fitted for a home of wealth and refinement. You have had too much money, too easy a time. I see that, now. Well, it shall all change! You shall have a different kind of home." Fred began to quake. He knew that his father, when in a mood like this, was not to be trifled with. "You---you don't mean jail?" gasped the boy with a yellow streak in him. "No; I don't; at least, not this time," retorted his father. "But, let me see. You spoke of an engagement to do something this afternoon. What was it?" "_I was_ to have pitched in the game against Cedarville High School." "Go on, then, and do it," replied his father. "I---I can't pitch, now. My nerves are too-----" "Go on and do what you're pledged to do!" thundered Lawyer Ripley, in a tone which Fred knew was not to be disregarded. So the boy started for the door. "And while you are gone," his father shot after him, "I will think out my plan for changing your life in such a way as to save whatever good may be in you, and to knock a lot of foolish, idle ideas out of your head!" Fred's cheeks were ashen, his legs shaking under him as he left the house. "I've never seen the guv'nor so worked up before---at least, not about me," thought the boy wretchedly. "Now, what does he mean to do? I can't turn him a hair's breadth, now, from whatever plan he may make. Why didn't I have more sense? Why didn't I own up, and 'throw myself on the mercy of the court'?" In his present mood the frightened boy knew he couldn't sit still in a street car. So he walked all the way to the Athletic Field. He was still shaking, still worried and pale when at length he arrived there. He walked into the dressing room. The rest of the nine and the subs were already on hand, many of them dressed. "You're late, Mr. Ripley," said Coach Luce, a look of annoyance on his face. Outside, the first of the fans on the seats were starting the rumpus that goes under the name of enthusiasm. "I---I know it. But---but---I---I'm sorry, Mr. Luce. I---I believe I'm going to be ill. I---I know I can't pitch to-day." So Coach Luce and Captain Purcell conferred briefly, and decided that Dave Darrin should pitch to-day. Darrin did pitch. He handled his tricky curves so well that puny Cedarville was beaten by the contemptuous score of seventeen to nothing. Meanwhile, Fred Ripley was wandering about Gridley, in a state of abject, hopeless cowardice. CHAPTER XXI DICK IS GENEROUS BECAUSE IT'S NATURAL "Say, will you look at Rip?" No wonder Harry Hazelton exploded with wonder as he turned to Dan Dalzell and Greg Holmes. In this warmer weather, the young men loitered in the school yard until the first bell. These three members of Dick & Co. were standing near the gateway when Fred Ripley turned the nearest corner and came on nervously, hurriedly, a hang-dog look in his face. What had caught Harry Hazelton's eye, and now made his comrades stare, was the new suit that Fred wore. Gone was all that young man's former elegance of attire. His stern father had just left the boy, after having taken him to a clothing store where Fred was tricked out in a coarse, ready-made suit that had cost just seven dollars and a half. A more manly boy would have made a better appearance in such clothes, but it was past Fred Ripley. And he was miserably conscious of the cheap-looking derby that rested on his head. Even his shoes were new and coarse. Ripley hurried by the chums, and across the yard, to be met at the door by Purcell, who stared at him in candid astonishment. "Oh, say, Rip!" demanded Purcell. "What's the bet?" "Shut up!" retorted Ripley, passing quickly inside. "Fine manners," grinned Purcell to a girl who had also paused, impelled by excusable curiosity. Dick, when he came along, heard the news from Hazelton and the others. "What can be the cause of it all?" asked Tom Reade, wonderingly. "Oh, some row with his father," decided Dick slowly. "When I was up on Main Street I saw them both going into Marsh's clothing store." "I asked poor old Rip what the bet was," chuckled Purcell as he joined the group. "Say, if you want to have fun at recess," proposed Dan Dalzell, "let's about twenty of us, one after the other, go up and ask Rip what the bet is, and how long it's for?" "Say," retorted Dick sternly, eyeing hapless Dan, "I believe, if you got into a fight and knocked a fellow down, you'd jump on him and keep hammering him." "Not much I wouldn't, old safety-valve," retorted Dan, reddening. "But I see that you're right, Dick. Rip has never been any friend of ours, and to jump him now, when he's evidently down at home, would be too mean for the principles of Dick & Co." "I'd rather give the poor fellow a helping hand up, if we could," pursued young Prescott musingly, "Purcell, do you think there'd be any use in trying that sort of thing?" "Why, I don't know," replied Captain Purcell, easy going and good hearted. "Barring a few snobbish airs, I always used to like Rip well enough. He was always pretty proud, but pride, in itself, is no bar to being a decent fellow. The only fellow who comes to harm with pride is the fellow who gets proud before he has done anything to be proud of. At least, that's the way it always hit me." "Ripley certainly looked hang-dog," commented Hazelton. "And he must feel mightily ashamed over something," continued Dick. "I wonder if his father has found out anything about Tip Scammon and certain happenings of last year. That might account for a lot. But what do you say, fellows? If Ripley has been a bit disagreeable and ugly, shall we try to make him feel that there's always a chance to turn around and be decent?" "Why, I'd believe in trying to point out the better road to Old Nick himself," replied Dave Darrin warmly. "Only, I don't believe in doing it in the preachy way---like some people do." "That's right," nodded Dick. "See here, Purcell, if Ripley is looking down in the mouth at recess, why don't you go up to him and talk baseball? Then call us over, after you've raised some point for discussion. And we'll tip two or three other fellows to join in, without, of course, getting a crowd." "I'll try it," nodded Purcell. "Though I can't guess how it will turn out. Of course, if Rip gives us the black scowl we'll have to conclude that no help is wanted." It was tried, however, at recess. Purcell went about it with the tact that often comes to the easy going and big hearted. Soon Purcell had Dick and Dave with Fred and himself. Then the other chums drifted up. Two or three other fellows came along. After some sulkiness at first Fred talked eagerly, if nervously. On the whole, he seemed grateful. When Dick reached home that day he felt staggered with astonishment. Waiting for him was a note from Lawyer Ripley, asking the boy to be at the latter's office at half-past two. "I shall take it as a very great favor," the note ran on, "and, from what I know of you, I feel certain that you will be glad to aid me in a matter that is of vast importance to me." "What on earth is coming?" wondered Dick. But he made up his mind to comply with the request. Promptly to the minute Dick reached the street door of the office building. Here he encountered Dave Darrin and Dalzell. "You, too?" asked Dick. "It looks as though all of Dick & Co. had been summoned," replied Dave Darrin. On entering the lawyer's office they found their other three chums there ahead of them. Tip Scammon was there, also, looking far from downcast. Lawyer Ripley looked very grave. He looked, too, like a man who had a serious task to perform, and who meant to go about it courageously. "Young gentlemen, I thank you all," said the lawyer slowly. "I am pursuing a matter in which I feel certain that I need your help. There has been some evil connection between Scammon and my son. What it is Scammon has refused to tell me. I will first of all tell you what I _do_ know. I am telling you, of course, on the assumption that you are all young men of honor, and that you will treat a father's confidence as men of honor should do." The boys bowed, wondering what was coming. Lawyer Ripley thereupon plunged into a narration of the happenings of the day before, telling it all with a lawyer's exactness of statement. "And now I will ask you," wound up Mr. Ripley, "whether you can tell me anything about the hold that Scammon seems to have exercised over my son?" "That's an embarrassing question, sir," Dick replied, after there had been a long pause. "Do you know the nature of that hold?" "Yes, sir." "May I ask how you know?" "I overheard a conversation, one night, between your son and Tip Scammon." "What was the substance of that conversation?" pressed the lawyer. "I don't quite see how I can tell you, sir," Dick responded slowly and painfully. "I'm not a tale bearer. I don't want to come here and play the tittle-tattle on your son." "I respect your reluctance," nodded Lawyer Ripley. "But let me put it to you another way. I am the boy's father. I am responsible for his career in this world, as far as anyone but himself can be responsible. I am also seeking what is for the boy's best good. I cannot act intelligently unless I have exact facts. Both my son and Scammon are too stubborn to tell me anything. In the cause of justice, Prescott, will you answer me frankly?" "That word, 'justice,' has an ominous sound, sir," Prescott answered. "It is generally connected with the word punishment, instead of with the word mercy." "I suspect that my son has been your very bitter enemy, Prescott," said the lawyer keenly. "I suspect that he has plotted against you and all your chums. Would you now try to shield him from the consequences of such acts?" "Why, sir, I think any boy of seventeen is young enough to have another chance." "And I agree with you," cried the lawyer, a sudden new light shining in his eyes. "Now, will you be wholly frank with me if I promise you that my course toward my son will be one that will give him every chance to do better if he wants to?" "That's an odd bargain to have to make with a father," smiled Dick. "It _is_," admitted Lawyer Ripley, struck by the force of the remark. "You've scored a point there, Prescott. Well, then, since I _am_ the boy's father, and since I want to do him full justice on the side of mercy, if he'll have it---will you tell all of the truth that you know to that boy's father?" Dick glanced around at his chums. One after another they nodded. Then the High School pitcher unburdened himself. Tip Scammon sat up and took keen notice. When Dick had finished with all he knew, including the tripping with the pole, and the soft-soaping of the sidewalk before his home door, Tip was ready to talk. "I done 'em all," he admitted, "includin' the throwin' of the brickbats. The brickbats was on my own hook, but the pole and the soft soap was parts of the jobs me and Fred put up between us." "Why did you throw the brickbats on your own hook?" asked Lawyer Ripley sharply. "Why, you see, 'squire, 'twas just like this," returned Tip. "After I'd done it, if I had hurt Prescott, then I was goin' to go to your son an' scare 'im good an' proper by threatenin' to blab that he had hired me to use them brickbats. That'd been good fer all his spendin' money, wouldn't it?" "Yes, and for all he could steal, too," replied Lawyer Ripley. "I didn't know nothing about his stealin' money," retorted Tip, half virtuously. "I jest thought he had too much pocket money fer his own good, an' so I'd help him spend some of it. But, see here, lawyer, ye promised me that, if I did talk, nothin' I told yer should be used against myself." "I am prepared to keep that promise," replied Mr. Ripley coldly. The sound of a slight stir came from the doorway between the outer and inner office. There in the doorway, his face ghastly white, his whole body seeming devoid of strength, leaned Fred Ripley. "I had almost forgotten that I asked you to come here," said Mr. Ripley, as he looked up. "How long have you been here?" "Not very long, perhaps, but long enough to know that Dick Prescott and the rest have been doing all they can to make matters harder for me," Fred answered in a dispirited voice. "As it happens, they have been doing nothing of the sort," replied the lawyer crisply. "Come in here, Fred. I have had the whole story of your doings, but it was on a pledge that I would give you another chance to show whether there's any good in you. Fred, I can understand, now that you've always thought yourself better than most boys---above them. The truth is that you've a long way to go to get up to the level of ordinary, decent, good American boyhood. You may get there yet; I hope so. But come, sir, are you going to make a decent apology to Prescott and his friends for the contemptible things you've tried to do to them?" Somehow, Fred Ripley managed to mumble his way through an apology, though he kept his eyes on the floor all the while. Full of sympathy for the father who, if proud, was at least upright, Dick and his chums accepted that apology, offered their hands, then tip-toed out, leaving father and son together. CHAPTER XXII ALL ROADS LEAD TO THE SWIMMING POOL In the next few weeks, if Fred Ripley didn't improve greatly in popularity, he was at all events vastly quieter and more reserved in his manner. Tip Scammon had vanished, so far as common knowledge went. Mr. Ripley, feeling somewhat responsible for that scamp's wrong doing, in that Fred had put him up to his first serious wrong doing, had given Scammon some money and a start in another part of the country. That disappearance saved Scammon from a stern reckoning with Prescott's partners, who had not forgotten him. Fred was again a well-dressed boy, also a well-mannered one. He had very little to say, and he kept his snobbishness, if any remained, well concealed. Dick & Co., after the scene in the lawyer's office, if not exactly cordial with the unhappy junior, at all events remembered that they had agreed to "forget." Nor were Prescott and his chums priggish enough to take great credit to themselves for their behavior. They merely admitted among themselves that any fellow ought to have the show that was now accorded to the younger Ripley. Baseball had gone off with an hurrah this season, though there had been an enormous amount of hard work behind all the successes. Now, but one game remained. Out of fourteen played, so far, only one had resulted in a tie; the others had all been victories for Gridley. With the warm June weather commencement was looming near. One Wednesday morning there was a long and tedious amount of practice over the singing that was to be offered at the close of the school year. "Huh! I thought we'd never get through," snorted Prescott, as he raced out into the school yard. "And we were kept ten minutes over the usual time for recess." "Gee, but it's hot to-day," muttered Tom Reade, fanning himself with his straw hat. "Oh, what wouldn't I give, right now, for a good swim down at Foster's Pond!" muttered Purcell moodily. "Well, why can't we have it?" suggested Gint. "We couldn't get back by the time recess is over," replied Purcell. "The end of recess would be when we _did_ get back, wouldn't it!" asked a senior. "Let's go, anyway!" urged another boy, restlessly. As students were allowed to spend their recess quietly on the near-by streets, if they preferred, the girls generally deserted the yard. The spirit of mischievous mutiny was getting loose among the young men. Nor will anyone who remembers his own school days wonder much at that. In June, when the end of the school year is all but at hand, restraints become trebly irksome. Dick's own face was glowing. As much as any boy there he wanted a swim, just now, down in Foster's Pond. Oh, how he wanted it! "See here, fellows," Prescott called to some of the nearest ones. "And you especially, Charley Grady, for you're studying to be a lawyer." "What has a lawyer to do with the aching desire for a swim?" inquired Grady. "Well, post us a bit," begged Dick. "What was it the great Burke had to say about punishing a community?" "Why," responded Grady thoughtfully, "Burke laid down a theory that has since become a principle in law. It was to the effect that a community cannot be indicted." "All of us fellows---_all_ of us might be called a community, don't you think?" queried Dick. "Why---er---aha---hem!" responded Grady. "Oh, come, now, drop the extras," ordered Dick. "Time is short. Are we a community, in a sort of legal sense? Just plain yes or no." "Well, then, yes!" decided Grady. "Whoop!" ejaculated Dick, placing his straw hat back on his head and starting on a sprint out of the yard. His chums followed. Some of the fellows who were nearer the gate tried to reach it first. In an instant, the flight was general. "Come on, Rip! You're not going to hang back on the crowd, are you?" uttered one boy, reproachfully. "Don't spoil the community idea." So Fred Ripely tagged on at the rear of the flight. "What is it, boys---a fire?" called Laura Bentley. A dozen girls had drawn in, pressing against the wall, to let this whirlwind of boys go by. "Tell you when we get back," Purcell called. "Time presses now." It took the leaders only about four minutes to reach Foster's Pond. Even Ripley and the other tail-enders were on hand about a minute later. There was a fine grove here, fringed by thick bushes, and no houses near. In a jiffy the High School boys were disrobing. "And the fellow who 'chaws' anyone else's clothes, to-day," proposed Dick, "is to be thrown in and kept in, when he's dressed!" "Hear! hear!" Dick was one of the first to get stripped. He started on a run, glided out over a log that lay from the bank, and plunged headlong into one of the deepest pools. Then up he came, spouting water. "Come on, in, fellows! The water's _grand_!" he yelled. Splash! splash! The surface of the pond at that point was churned white. The bobbing heads made one think of huckleberries bobbing on a bowl of milk. Splash! splash! More were diving in. And now the fun and the frolic went swiftly to their height. "This is the real thing!" vented one ecstatic swimmer. "Down with 'do-re--mi-fa-sol!" "As long as we're all to be hanged together, what say if we don't go back at all to-day?" questioned Purcell. There were some affirmative shouts, but Dick, who had just stepped back on the bank for a moment shook his head. "Don't be hogs, fellows!" he urged. "Don't run a good thing into the ground. We'll have our swim, get well cooled off---and then we'd better go back looking as penitent as the circumstances seem to call for." "I guess it's the wise one talking," nodded Purcell, as he climbed to the bank preparatory to another dive. For at least twenty minutes the High School boys remained at their delightful sport. Then cries started here and there: "All out! All out!" Reluctantly the youngsters began to leave the water. "Now, don't let anyone lag," begged Purcell. "As we ran away together, we ought all to go back together." So dressing went on apace. Then the fellows began to look at each other, wonderingly. To be sure, they didn't stand so much in personal awe of the principal. But then Mr. Cantwell had the Board of Education behind him. There was Superintendent Eldridge, also, and back of it all, what parents might---oh, hang it, it began to look just a bit serious now. "Who are the heroes here?" called out one fellow. "Why?" demanded another. "Well, we need our assured brave ones to lead going back." "That's where the baseball squad comes in, then," nodded Purcell. "School nine and subs first, second team following. Then let the chilly-footed ones bring up the rear." "We can go back in column of fours," proposed Dick, as he fastened on his collar, "with no leaders or file-closers. Then it will be hard to guess at any ring-leaders." "That's the best idea yet," agreed Purcell. "Then, fellows, a block from the school, let the baseball squad form first, and then all of the rest of you fall in behind in column of fours, just as you happen along." "And keep good ranks, and march the best you know how," urged Dick. "Unyielding ranks may suggest the community idea to Prin." "Then we won't have to explain it," laughed Grady. "Oh, come, now," shouted another, "don't flatter yourselves that we're going to get out of some tall explaining." A block from the school the order was given to form fours. This was quickly done. Purcell, Dick, Darrin and Dan Dalzell composed the first four as the line turned into the yard. There at the main doorway the culprits beheld the principal. And that gentlemen certainly looked almost angry about something. The weather indications were for squalls in the High School. "Go to your seats in the assembly room," said the principal, coldly, as the head of the line neared him. As the boys wore no overcoats it was not necessary to file down to the locker rooms first. They marched into the hat room just off of the assembly room. And here they found Mr. Drake on duty. "No conversation here. Go directly to your seats," ordered Mr. Drake. The few girls who were not at classes looked up with eyes full of mischievous inquiry when the boys entered the big room. The principal and Mr. Drake took their seats on the platform. The late swimmers reached for their books, though most of them made but a pretense of study. Almost at once there was another diversion made by the girls who were returning from recitations. Then the bell was struck for the beginning of the next period. Out filed the sections. The boys began to feel that this ominous quiet boded them no good. Not until closing time did the principal make any reference to the affair. "The young ladies are dismissed for the day," he remarked. "The young gentlemen will remain." Clang! Then a dead silence fell over the room. It was broken, after a minute, by the principal, who asked: "Where were you, young gentlemen, when the end of recess bell rang this morning!" No one being addressed, no one answered. "Where were you, Mr. Purcell?" "Swimming at Foster's Pond, sir." "All of you?" "All of us, sir, I think." "Whose idea was it?" "As I remember, sir, the idea belonged to us all." "Who made the first proposal?" "That would be impossible to say, now, sir." "Do you remember anything about it?" "Yes, sir." "What was it?" "I believe the fellows voted that Mr. Grady, who is studying to be a lawyer, should represent us as counsel." "Ah! I shall be very glad, then, to hear from Judge Grady," the principal dryly remarked. "Judge" Grady bobbed up, smiling and confident---or he seemed so. As for the rest of the fellows, the principal's frigid coolness was beginning to get on their nerves. "Mr. Principal," began Grady, thrusting his right band in between his vest buttons, "the illustrious, perhaps immortal Burke, once elucidated a principle that has since become historic, authoritative and illuminating. Among American and English jurists alike, Burke's principle has been accepted as akin to the organic law and the idea is that a community cannot be indicted." It was a fine speech, for Grady had real genius in him, and this was the first chance he had ever had. The principal waited until the budding legal light had finished. Then Mr. Cantwell cleared his throat, to reply crisply: "While I will not venture to gainsay Burke, and he is not here to be cross-examined, I will say that the indictment of the community, in this instance, would mean the expulsion of all the young men in the High School. To that form of sentence I do not lean. A light form of punishment would be to prohibit absolutely the final baseball game of the school season. A sever form would be to withhold the diplomas of the young men of the graduating senior class. I think it likely that both forms of punishment will be administered, but I shall not announce my decision to-day. It will come later. The young men are dismissed." Clang! Dismay would have been a mild name for what the fellows felt when they found themselves outside the building. Of the principal, in a rage they were little afraid. But when the principal controlled his temper he was a man in authority and of dangerous power. After his own meal, and some scowling reflection, Mr. Cantwell set out to find his friend and backer in the Board of Education, Mr. Gadsby. That custodian of local education heard Mr. Cantwell through, after which he replied: "Er---um----ah---my dear Cantwell, you can't very well prohibit the game, or talk of withholding diplomas from the young men of the graduating class. Either course would make you tremendously unpopular. The people of Gridley would say that you were lacking in---era sense of humor." "Sense of humor?" raged the principal, getting up and pacing the floor. "Is it humorous to have a lot of young rascals running all over one's authority?" "Certainly not," responded Mr. Gadsby. "You should---er---preserve discipline." "How am I to preserve discipline, if I can't inflict punishments?" insisted Mr. Cantwell. "But you should---er---that is---my dear Cantwell, you should make the punishments merely fit the crimes." "In such an outrageous case as to-day's," fumed the principal, "what course would have been taken by the Dr. Thornton whom you are so fond of holding up to me as a man who knew how to handle boys?" "Dr. Thornton," responded Mr. Gadsby, "would have been ingenious in his punishment. How long were the boys out, over recess time?" "Twenty-five minutes." "Then," returned Mr. Gadsby, "I can quite see Dr. Thorton informing the young men that they would be expected to remain at least five times as long after school as they had been improperly away from it. That is---er---ah---he would have sent for his own dinner, and would have eaten it at his desk, with scores of hungry young men looking on while their own dinners went cold. At three o'clock---perhaps---Dr. Thornton would have dismissed the offenders. It would be many a day before the boys would try anything of that sort again on good old Thornton. But you, my dear Cantwell, I am afraid you have failed to make the boys respect you at all times. The power of enforcing respect is the basis of all discipline." "Then what shall I do with the young men this time?" "Since you have---er---missed your opportunity, you---er---can do nothing, now, but let it pass. Let them imagine, from day to day, that sentence is still suspended and hovering over them." Wily Dick Prescott had been to see Mr. Gadsby, just before the arrival of the principal. In his other capacity of reporter for "The Blade" the High School pitcher had said a few earnest words to his host. Mr. Gadsby, with his eye turned ever toward election day and the press, had been wholly willing to listen. CHAPTER XXIII THE AGONY OF THE LAST BIG GAME "Ya, ya, ya! Ye gotter do somethings!" This from Mr. Schimmelpodt. That gentleman was waving one of his short, fat arms wildly. It may as well be stated that from the smaller extremity of that arm, namely, his hand---a small crimson and gold banner attached to a stick cut circles in the air. "Go to it, Gridley!" "Get busy! You can't take a black eye at this end of the season." Gridley High School with a season's record of one tied game and a long tally of victories, seemed now in dire straits. Sides were changing for the last half of the ninth inning. Gridley had taken seven runs. Wayland High School, with six runs already to their credit, was now going to bat for the last inning unless the score should be tied. The perfect June day, just before commencement, had brought out a host. Wayland had sent nearly four hundred people. The total attendance was past four thousand paid admissions. Herr Schimmelpodt, who, since his first enthusiasm, had not missed a game, was now among the most concerned. The band was there, but silent. The leader knew that, in this state of affairs the spectators wanted to make the noise themselves. "Oh, you Dick!" "Strike 'em out as fast as they come up." "Save Gridley!" "Aw, let somebody have a game," roared a voice from the Wayland seats, "and we need this one!" "Prescott, remember the record!" "No defeats this year!" "Don't give us one, now!" Dick & Co. were in full force on the nine today. True, Dave Darrin sat only on the sub bench to-day, but he was ready to give relief at any moment if Gridley's beloved pitcher, Prescott, went under. Holmes was out in left field; Hazelton was the nimble shortstop; Dalzell pranced at the first bag on the diamond; Tom Reade was eternally vigilant on second base. Gridley's High School girls, devoted feminine fans as any in the world, were breathing soft and fast now. If only Dick, backed at need by the outfield, could keep Wayland from scoring further, then all was well. If Wayland should score even once in this inning, it would make a tie and call for a tenth inning. If Wayland scored twice---but that was too nerve-racking to contemplate. Then a hush fell. The umpire had called for play. Dick let drive with his most tantalizing spitball. The leather fell down gracefully under the Wayland's batsman's guess, and Purcell mitted the ball. "Strike one!" A hopeful cheer went up from Gridley seats, to be met with one word from Wayland fans: "Wait!" Dick served the second ball. Swat! There it went, arching up in the air, a fair hit. As fast as he could leg it went Holmes after it, and with good judgment. But the ball got there before Greg did. In a twinkling, the young left fielder had the ball up and in motion. Tom Reade caught it deftly at second, and wheeled toward first. But the runner saw his error in leaving first, and slid back in season. Turning back, with his lips close together, Dick tried a new batsman. Two strikes, and then the visitor sent out a little pop-over that touched ground and rolled ere Harry Hazelton could race in and get it, driving it on to first base. "Safe at first," called the umpire, and the other Waylander had reached second. "O-o-o-h!" "Don't let 'em have it, Dick---_don't_!" The wail that reached his ears was pathetic, but Prescott paid no heed. He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators. He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the fag-end of the game. The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher's wrist, but Dick nerved himself for better efforts. Despite him, however, a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the bases were full. "_O-o-oh, Dick_!" It was a wail, full of despair. Though he paid no direct heed to it the sorely pressed young pitcher put up his left hand to wipe the old sweat out of his eyes. His heart was pounding with the strain of it. Dick Prescott, born soldier, would have died for victory, _just_ then. At least, that was what he felt. The Wayland man who now stood over the plate looked like a grinning monkey as he took the pitcher's measure. "Go to it, Dickson---kill the ball!" roared the visiting fans. "Just a little two-bagger---that's all!" Dick felt something fluttering inside. In himself he felt the whole Gridley honor and fame revolving during that moment. Then he resolutely choked down the feeling. The umpire was signaling impatiently for him to deliver. Dick essayed a jump ball. With a broadening grin Dickson of Wayland reached for it vigorously. He struck it, but feebly. Another of those short-winded, high-arched pops went up in air. There was no hope or chance for Hazelton to get to the spot in time---and Wayland's man away from third was steaming in while Purcell made the home plate at a bound. Dick raced---raced for all he was worth, though his heart felt as if steam had shut down. Across the grass raced Prescott, as though he believed he could make history in fifths of seconds. In his speed he went too far. The ball was due to come down behind him. There was no time to think. Running at full speed as he was, Pitcher Dick rose in the air. It looked like an incredible leap---but he made it. His hands pulled the slow-moving popball down out of the air. Barely did Dick's feet touch the ground when he simply reached over and dropped the ball at Purcell. The captain of the Gridley nine dropped to one knee, hands low, but he took the leather in---took it just the bare part of a second before the Waylander from third got there. For an instant the dazed crowd held its breath just long enough to hear the umpire announce. "Striker out! Out at home plate. Two out!" Then the tumult broke loose. For an instant or two Dick stood dizzy just where he had landed on his feet. Umpire Davidson came bounding over. "Do you want to call for a relief pitcher, Prescott?" "No---Wayland pitched all through with one man!" Back to the box marched Dick Prescott, but he took his time about it. He had need of a clear head and steadier nerves and muscles, for Wayland had a man again at third, and another dancing away from second. There was plenty of chance yet to lose. "Prescott ought to call you out," whispered Fred Ripley to Dave. "And I'd get out there on the dead run, just as you would, Rip. But you know how Dick feels. Wayland went through on one man, and Dick's going to do it if he lives through the next few minutes!" While that momentary dizziness lasted, something happened that caused the young pitcher to flush with humiliation. Sandwiched in between two strikes were called balls enough to send the new batsman to first, and again the bases were full. One more "bad break" of this kind and Wayland would receive the tie run as a present. And then one more---it would be the High School pitcher handing the only lost game of the season as a gift to the visitors! Dick braced himself supremely for the next man at bat. "Strike one!" It wasn't the batter's fault. A very imp had sat on the spitball that Prescott bowled in. "Strike two!" The batsman was sweating nervously, but he couldn't help it. Dick Prescott had fairly forced himself into the form of the first inning. But it couldn't last. Gink! It was only a little crack at the ball, struck rather downward. A grounding ball struck the grit and rolled out toward right infield. There was no shortstop here. The instant that Prescott took in the direction he was on the run. There was no time to get there ahead of the rolling leather. It was Dick's left foot that stopped it, but in the same fraction of a second he bent and swooped it up---wheeled. Wayland's man from third base looked three fourths of the way in. Captain Purcell, half frantic, was doubled up at the home plate. Into that throw Dick put all the steam he had left in. The leather gone from his hand, he waited. His heart seemed to stop. To half the eyes that looked on, ball and runner seemed to reach the home plate at the same instant. The umpire, crouching, squinting, had the best view of all. It was an age before Dick, with the mists before his eyes, heard the faraway words for which thousands waited breathlessly: "Out at home---three out!" Three disheartened base runners turned and slouched dispiritedly toward the dressing rooms. "You could have hit that ball a better swipe," growled Wayland's captain to the last man at bat. The victim of the rebuke didn't answer. He knew that he had faced a pitcher wholly rejuvenated by sheer grit and nerve force. At its loudest the band was blaring forth "At the Old Ball Game," and thousands were following with the words. Wayland fans were strolling away in dejection, but Gridley folks stood up to watch and cheer. The whole nine had done its duty in fine shape, but Dick Prescott had made himself the idol of the Gridley diamond. When the band stopped, the cheers welled forth. The lion's share was for Prescott, but Darrin was not forgotten. Even Ripley, who had pitched three of the minor games, came in for some notice. Dick? With the strain and suspense gone he felt limp and weak for a few minutes. Under the cold shower he revived somewhat. Yet, when he started homeward, he found that he ached all over. With the last game of the season gone by, Dick half imagined that his right wrist was a huge boil. At the gateway Schimmelpodt, that true devotee of sport, waited. As the young High School pitcher came forth Herr Schimmelpodt rested a fat hand on the boy's shoulder, whispering in his ear: "Ach! But I know vere is dere a _real_ jointed fishpole. It was two dollar, but now it stands itself by, marked to one-nineteen. In der morning, Bresgott, it shall be yours. Und listen!" Dick looked up into the blinking eyes. "Dot fishpole for der summer use is goot fine! Und venever you see me going by bis my vagon, don't you be slow to holler und ask me for a ride!" CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION Commencement Day! For a large percentage of High School boys and girls, the end of the sophomore year marks the end of their schooling. This was true at Gridley as elsewhere. When the crowd came forth from commencement exercises at the Opera House on this bright, warm June afternoon, there were not a few of the sophomores who were saying good-bye to the classic halls of instruction. Not so, however, with Dick & Co. They were bound all the way through the course, and hoped to take up with college or other academic training when once good old Gridley High School must be left behind. "What are you going to do this summer, Prescott?" asked Dr. Bentley, gripping the lad's arm, as Dick stood on the sidewalk chatting with Dave Darrin. "Work, mostly, doctor. I'm getting near the age when fellow should try to bear some of the expense of keeping himself." "What will you work at?" "Why, reporting for 'The Blade.' I believe I can capture a good many stray dollars this summer." "Good enough," murmured Dr. Bentley, approvingly. "But are you going to have any spare time?" "A little, I hope---just about enough for some rest." "Then I'll tell you where you can take that rest," went on the medical man. "My family are going into camp for the summer, in three days. They'll be over at the lake range, on a piece of ground that I've bought there. You can get over once in a while, and spend a night or two, can't you? Mrs. Bentley charged me to ask you and Darrin," added the physician. "Belle Meade is going to spend the summer in camp with Laura." Both boys were prompt with their thanks. "Confound it," muttered Dr. Bentley, "I'm forgetting two thirds of my message at that. The invitation includes all of Dick & Co. Now remember you'll all be looked for from time to time, and most heartily welcome." Both boys were most hearty in their thanks. This took care of whatever spare time they might have, for Dave, too, was to be busy a good deal of the time. He had work as an extra clerk at the express office. Then the two girl chums came along. Dick and Dave strolled along with Laura and Belle. The other partners of Dick & Co. were soon to be seen, their narrow-brimmed straw hats close to bobbing picture hats. "Your father gave us a message, Laura," Dick murmured to the girl beside him. "And you're going to accept it?" asked the girl quickly. "At any chance to be honestly away from work," Dick promised fervently. "Yet at my age a fellow must keep something of an eye toward business, too, Laura." "Yes," she answered slowly, glancing covertly at the bronzed young face and the strong, lithe body. "You're nearing manhood, Dick." "Just about as rapidly as you're growing into womanhood, Laura," answered the boy. Dave and Belle were chatting, too, but what they said wouldn't interest very staid old people. Gridley was prouder than ever of its athletic teams. The great record in baseball, with Dick & Co. in the team, was something worth talking about. Lest there be some who may think that a season of baseball with no defeats is an all but impossible record, the chronicler hastens to add that there are, through the length and breadth of these United States, several High School teams every year that make such a showing. Yet, in baseball, as in everything else, the record is reached only by nines like the Gridley crowd, where the stiffest training, the best coaches and the best individual nerve and grit among the players are to be found. Did Fred Ripley truly make good? What else happened? These and various other burning questions must now be answered in the chronicle of the time to which they belonged. So the reader is referred to the next volume in this series, which is to be published at once under the caption: "_The High School Left End; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron_." At the same time, no interested reader will allow himself to overlook the second volume in the "_High School Boys' Vacation Series_," which runs parallel with this present series. All the wonderful summer vacation adventures that followed the sophomore year of Prescott and his chums will be found in the volume published under the title, "_The High School Boys' In Summer Camp; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven_." It is a thrilling story that no follower of the fortunes of these lads can afford to overlook. THE END 
19975	----	project, http://www.lawsonsprogress.com Base-Ball: How to Become a Player With the Origin, History and Explanation of the Game By John Montgomery Ward of the New York Base-Ball Club PREFACE. The author ventures to present this book to the public, because he believes there are many points in the game of base-ball which can be told only by a player. He has given some space to a consideration of the origin and early history of the game, because they are subjects deserving of more attention than is generally accorded them. His principal aim, however, has been to produce a hand-book of the game, a picture of the play as seen by a player. In many of its branches, base-ball is still in its infancy; even in the actual play there are yet many unsettled points, and the opinions of experts differ upon important questions. The author has been as accurate as the nature of the subject would permit, and, though claiming no especial consideration for his own opinions, he thinks they will coincide in substance with those of the more experienced and intelligent players. To Messrs. A. H. Wright, Henry Chadwick, Harry Wright, and James Whyte Davis, for materials of reference, and to Goodwin & Co., the Scientific American, and A. J. Reach, for engravings and cuts, acknowledgments are gratefully made. JOHN M. WARD. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION. AN INQUIRY INTO THE ORIGIN OF BASE-BALL, WITH A BRIEF SKETCH OF ITS HISTORY CHAPTER I. THEORY OF THE GAME--A CHAPTER FOR THE LADIES. CHAPTER II. TRAINING CHAPTER III. THE PITCHER CHAPTER IV. THE CATCHER CHAPTER V. THE FIRST BASEMAN CHAPTER VI. THE SECOND BASEMAN CHAPTER VII. THE THIRD BASEMAN CHAPTER VIII. THE SHORT-STOP CHAPTER IX. THE LEFT-FIELDER CHAPTER X. THE CENTRE-FIELDER CHAPTER XI. THE RIGHT-FIELDER CHAPTER XII. THE BATTER CHAPTER XIII. THE BASE-RUNNER CHAPTER XIV. CURVE PITCHING INTRODUCTION. AN INQUIRY INTO THE ORIGIN OF BASE-BALL, WITH A BRIEF SKETCH OF ITS HISTORY. It may or it may not be a serious reflection upon the accuracy of history that the circumstances of the invention of the first ball are enveloped in some doubt. Herodotus attributes it to the Lydians, but several other writers unite in conceding to a certain beautiful lady of Corcyra, Anagalla by name, the credit of first having made a ball for the purpose of pastime. Several passages in Homer rather sustain this latter view, and, therefore, with the weight of evidence, and to the glory of woman, we, too, shall adopt this theory. Anagalla did not apply for letters patent, but, whether from goodness of heart or inability to keep a secret, she lost no time in making known her invention and explaining its uses. Homer, then, relates how: "O'er the green mead the sporting virgins play, Their shining veils unbound; along the skies, Tost and retost, the ball incessant flies." And this is the first ball game on record, though it is perhaps unnecessary to say that it was not yet base-ball. No other single accident has ever been so productive of games as that invention. From the day when the Phaeacian maidens started the ball rolling down to the present time, it has been continuously in motion, and as long as children love play and adults feel the need of exercise and recreation, it will continue to roll. It has been known in all lands, and at one time or another been popular with all peoples. The Greeks and the Romans were great devotees of ball-play; China was noted for her players; in the courts of Italy and France, we are told, it was in especial favor, and Fitz-Stephen, writing in the 13th century, speaks of the London schoolboys playing at "the celebrated game of ball." For many centuries no bat was known, but in those games requiring the ball to be struck, the hand alone was used. In France there was early played a species of hand-ball. To protect the hands thongs were sometimes bound about them, and this eventually furnished the idea of the racquet. Strutt thinks a bat was first used in golf, cambuc, or bandy ball. This was similar to the boys' game of "shinny," or, as it is now more elegantly known, "polo," and the bat used was bent at the end, just as now. The first straight bats were used in the old English game called club ball. This was simply "fungo hitting," in which one player tossed the ball in the air and hit it, as it fell, to others who caught it, or sometimes it was pitched to him by another player. Concerning the origin of the American game of base-ball there exists considerable uncertainty. A correspondent of Porter's Spirit of the Times, as far back as 1856, begins a series of letters on the game by acknowledging his utter inability to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion upon this point; and a writer of recent date introduces a research into the history of the game with the frank avowal that he has only succeeded in finding "a remarkable lack of literature on the subject." In view of its extraordinary growth and popularity as "Our National Game," the author deems it important that its true origin should, if possible, be ascertained, and he has, therefore, devoted to this inquiry more space than might at first seem necessary. In 1856, within a dozen years from the time of the systematization of the game, the number of clubs in the metropolitan district and the enthusiasm attending their matches began to attract particular attention. The fact became apparent that it was surely superseding the English game of cricket, and the adherents of the latter game looked with ill-concealed jealousy on the rising upstart. There were then, as now, persons who believed that everything good and beautiful in the world must be of English origin, and these at once felt the need of a pedigree for the new game. Some one of them discovered that in certain features it resembled an English game called "rounders," and immediately it was announced to the American public that base-ball was only the English game transposed. This theory was not admitted by the followers of the new game, hut, unfortunately, they were not in a position to emphasize the denial. One of the strongest advocates of the rounder theory, an Englishman-born himself, was the writer for out-door sports on the principal metropolitan publications. In this capacity and as the author of a number of independent works of his own, and the writer of the "base-ball" articles in several encyclopedias and books of sport, he has lost no opportunity to advance his pet theory. Subsequent writers have, blindly, it would seem, followed this lead, until now we find it asserted on every hand as a fact established by some indisputable evidence; and yet there has never been adduced a particle of proof to support this conclusion. While the author of this work entertains the greatest respect for that gentleman, both as a journalist and man, and believes that base-ball owes to him a monument of gratitude for the brave fight he has always made against the enemies and abuses of the game, he yet considers this point as to the game's origin worthy of further investigation, and he still regards it as an open question. When was base-ball first played in America? The first contribution which in any way refers to the antiquity of the game is the first official report of the "National Association" in 1858. This declares "The game of base-ball has long been a favorite and popular recreation in this country, but it is only within the last fifteen years that any attempt has been made to systematize and regulate the game." The italics are inserted to call attention to the fact that in the memory of the men of that day base-ball had been played a long time prior to 1845, so long that the fifteen years of systematized play was referred to by an "only." Colonel Jas. Lee, elected an honorary member of the Knickerbocker Club in 1846, said that he had often played the same game when a boy, and at that time he was a man of sixty or more years. Mr. Wm. F. Ladd, my informant, one of the original members of the Knickerbockers, says that he never in any way doubted Colonel Lee's declaration, because he was a gentleman eminently worthy of belief. Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, several years since, said to the reporter of a Boston paper that base-ball was one of the sports of his college days at Harvard, and Dr. Holmes graduated in 1829. Mr. Charles De Bost, the catcher and captain of the old Knickerbockers, played base-ball on Long Island fifty years ago, and it was the same game which the Knickerbockers afterward played. In the absence of any recorded proof as to the antiquity of the game, testimony such as the foregoing becomes important, and it might be multiplied to an unlimited extent. Another noticeable point is the belief in the minds of the game's first organizers that they were dealing with a purely American production, and the firmness of this conviction is evidenced by everything they said and did. An examination of the speeches and proceedings of the conventions, of articles in the daily and other periodical publications, of the poetry which the game at that early day inspired, taken in connection with the declarations of members of the first clubs still living, will show this vein of belief running all the way through. The idea that base-ball owed its origin to any foreign game was not only not entertained, but indignantly repudiated by the men of that time; and in pursuing his investigations the writer has discovered that this feeling still exists in a most emphatic form. In view of the foregoing we may safely say that base-ball was played in America as early, at least, as the beginning of this century. It may be instructive now to inquire as to the antiquity of the "old English game" from which baseball is said to have sprung. Deferring for the present the consideration of its resemblance to base-ball, what proof have we of its venerable existence? Looking, primarily, to the first editions of old English authorities on out-door sports, I have been unable to find any record that such a game as "rounders" was known. I may have been unfortunate in my searches, for, though I have exhausted every available source of information, I have not discovered any mention of it. The first standard English writer to speak of rounders is "Stonehenge" in his Manual of Sports, London, 1856. Since then almost every English work on out-door sports describes the "old [with an emphasis] English game of rounders," and in the same connection declares it to be the germ of the American base-ball; and yet, curiously enough, not one of them gives us any authority even for dubbing it "old," much less for calling it the origin of our game. But in 1856 base-ball had been played here for many years; it had already attracted attention as the popular sport, and by 1860 was known in slightly differing forms all over the country. To all these later English writers, therefore, its existence and general principles must have been familiar, and it is consequently remarkable that, in view of their claim, they have given us no more particulars of the game of rounders. Are we to accept this assertion without reserve, when an investigation would seem to indicate that baseball is really the older game? If this English game was then a common school-boy sport, as now claimed, it seems almost incredible that it should have escaped the notice of all the writers of the first half of the century; and yet no sooner does base-ball become famous as the American game than English writers discover that there is an old and popular English game from which it is descended. Many of the games which the earlier writers describe are extremely simple as compared with rounders, and yet the latter game is entirely overlooked! But upon what ground have these later writers based their assumption? Many, doubtless, have simply followed the writings from this side of the Atlantic; others have been misled by their ignorance of the actual age of our game, for there are even many Americans who think base-ball was introduced by the Knickerbocker and following clubs; a few, with the proverbial insular idea, have concluded that base-ball must be of English origin, if for no other reason, because it ought to be. It is not my intention to declare the old game of rounders a myth. There is ample living testimony to its existence as early perhaps as 1830, but that it was a popular English game before base-ball was played here I am not yet ready to believe. Before we accept the statement that base-hall is "only a species of glorified rounders," we should demand some proof that the latter is really the older game. In this connection it will be important to remember that there were two English games called "rounders," but entirely distinct the one from the other. Johnson's Dictionary, edition of 1876, describes the first, and presumably the older, as similar to "fives" or hand-ball, while the second is the game supposed to be allied to base-ball. "Fives" is one of the oldest of games, and if it or a similar game was called "rounders," it will require something more than the mere occurrence of the name in some old writing to prove that the game referred to is the "rounders" as now played. And if this cannot be shown, why might we not claim, with as much reason as the other theory has been maintained, that the "old English game of rounders" is only a poor imitation of the older American game of base-ball? Up to this point we have waived the question of resemblance between the two games, but let us now inquire what are the points of similarity. Are these, after all, so striking as to warrant the assumption that one game was derived from the other, no matter which may be shown to be the older? In each there are "sides;" the ball is tossed to the striker, who hits it with a bat; he is out if the ball so hit is caught; he runs to different bases in succession and may be put out if hit by the ball when between the bases. But with this the resemblance ceases. In base-ball nine men constitute a side, while in rounders there may be any number over three. In base-ball there are four bases (including the home), and the field is a diamond. In rounders the bases are five in number and the field a pentagon in shape. There is a fair and foul hit in base-ball, while in rounders no such thing is known. In rounders if a ball is struck at and missed, or if hit so that it falls back of the striker, he is out, while in base-ball the ball must be missed three times and the third one caught in order to retire the striker; and a foul, unless caught like any other ball, has no effect and is simply declared "dead." In rounders the score is reckoned by counting one for each base made, and some of the authorities say the run is completed when the runner has reached the base next on the left of the one started from. In base-ball one point is scored only when the runner has made every base in succession and returned to the one from which he started. In rounders every player on the side must be put out before the other side can come in, while in base-ball from time immemorial the rule has been "three out, all out." The distinctive feature of rounders, and the one which gives it its name, is that when all of a side except two have been retired, one of the two remaining may call for "the rounder;" that is, he is allowed three hits at the ball, and if in any one of these he can make the entire round of the bases, all the players of his side are reinstated as batters. No such feature as this was ever heard of in base-ball, yet, as said, it is the characteristic which gives to rounders its name, and any derivation of that game must certainly have preserved it. If the points of resemblance were confined solely to these two games it would prove nothing except that boys' ideas as well as men's often run in the same channels. The very ancient game of bandy ball has its double in an older Persian sport, and the records of literary and mechanical invention present some curious coincidences. But, as a matter of fact, every point common to these two, games was known and used long before in other popular sports. That the ball was tossed to the bat to be hit was true of a number of other games, among which were club ball, tip cat, and cricket; in both of the latter and also in stool ball bases were run, and in tip cat, a game of much greater antiquity than either base- ball or rounders, the runner was out if hit by the ball when between bases. In all of these games the striker was out if the ball when hit was caught. Indeed, a comparison will show that there are as many features of base-ball common to cricket or tip cat as there are to rounders. In view, then, of these facts, that the points of similarity are not distinctive, and that the points of difference are decidedly so, I can see no reason in analogy to say that one game is descended from the other, no matter which may be shown to be the older. There was a game known in some parts of this country fifty or more years ago called town-ball. In 1831 a club was regularly organized in Philadelphia to play the game, and it is recorded that the first day for practice enough members were not present to make up town-ball, and so a game of "two-old-cat" was played. This town-ball was so nearly like rounders that one must have been the prototype of the other, but town- ball and base-ball were two very different games. When this same town- ball club decided in 1860 to adopt base-ball instead, many of its principal members resigned, so great was the enmity to the latter game. Never, until recently, was the assertion made that base-ball was a development of town-ball, and it could not have been done had the writers looked up at all the historical facts. The latest attempt to fasten an English tab on the American game is noteworthy. Not content to stand by the theory that our game is sprung from the English rounders, it is now intimated that baseball itself, the same game and under the same name, is of English origin. To complete the chain, it is now only necessary for some English writer to tell us that "in 1845 a number of English gentlemen sojourning in New York organized a club called the Knickbockers, and introduced to Americans the old English game of base-ball." This new departure has not yet gained much headway, but it must be noticed on account of the circumstances of its appearance. The edition of Chambers' Encyclopedia just out, in its article on "base- ball" says that the game was mentioned in Miss Austen's Northanger Abbey, written about 1798, and leaves us to infer that it was the same game that we now know by that name. It was not necessary to go into the realm of fiction to find this ancient use of the name. A writer to the London Times in 1874 pointed out that in 1748 the family of Frederick, Prince of Wales, were represented as engaged in a game of base-ball. Miss Austen refers to base-ball as played by the daughters of "Mrs. Morland," the eldest of whom was fourteen. In Elaine's Rural Sports, London, 1852, in an introduction to ball games in general, occurs this passage: "There are few of us of either sex but have engaged in base- ball since our majority." Whether in all these cases the same game was meant matters not, and it is not established by the mere identity of names. "Base," as meaning a place of safety, dates its origin from the game of "prisoners' base" long before anything in the shape of base-ball or rounders; so that any game of ball in which bases were a feature would likely be known by that name. The fact that in the three instances in which we find the name mentioned it is always a game for girls or women, would justify the suspicion that it was not always the same game, and that it in any way resembled our game is not to be imagined. Base- ball in its mildest form is essentially a robust game, and it would require an elastic imagination to conceive of little girls possessed of physical powers such as its play demands. Besides, if the English base-ball of 1748, 1798, and 1852 were the same as our base-ball we would have been informed of that fact long ago, and it would never have been necessary to attribute the origin of our game to rounders. And when, in 1874, the American players were introducing base-ball to Englishmen, the patriotic Britain would not have said, as he then did, that our game was "only rounders with the rounder left out," but he would at once have told us that base-ball itself was an old English game. But this latest theory is altogether untenable and only entitled to consideration on account of the authority under which it is put forth. In a little book called Jolly Games for Happy Homes, London, 1875, dedicated to "wee little babies and grown-up ladies," there is described a game called "base-ball." It is very similar in its essence to our game and is probably a reflection of it. It is played by a number of girls in a garden or field. Having chosen sides, the "leader" of the "out" side tosses the ball to one of the "ins," who strikes it with her hand and then scampers for the trees, posts, or other objects previously designated as bases. Having recovered the ball, the "scouts," or those on the "outs," give chase and try to hit the fleeing one at a time when she is between bases. There must be some other means, not stated, for putting out the side; the ability to throw a ball with accuracy is vouchsafed to few girls, and if the change of innings depended upon this, the game, like a Chinese play, would probably never end. It is described, however, as a charming pastime, and, notwithstanding its simplicity, is doubtless a modern English conception of our National Game. To recapitulate briefly, the assertion that base-ball is descended from rounders is a pure assumption, unsupported even by proof that the latter game antedates the former and unjustified by any line of reasoning based upon the likeness of the games. The other attempt to declare base-ball itself an out-and-out English game is scarcely worthy of serious consideration. But if base-ball is neither sprung from rounders nor taken bodily from another English game, what is its origin? I believe it to be a fruit of the inventive genius of the American boy. Like our system of government, it is an American evolution, and while, like that, it has doubtless been affected by foreign associations, it is none the less distinctively our own. Place in the hands of youth a ball and bat, and they will invent games of ball, and that these will be affected by other familiar games and in many respects resemble them, goes without saving. The tradition among the earliest players of the game now living, is that the root from which came our present base-ball was the old-time American game of "cat-ball." This was the original American ball game, and the time when it was not played here is beyond the memory of living man. There were two varieties of the game, the first called "one-old-cat," or one-cornered-cat, and the other "two-old-cat." In one-old-cat there were a batter, pitcher, catcher, and fielders. There were no "sides," and generally no bases to run, but in every other respect the game was like base-ball. The batter was out if he missed three times and the third strike was caught, or if the ball when hit was caught on the fly or first bound. When the striker was "put out" the catcher went in to bat, the pitcher to catch, and the first fielder to pitch, and so on again when the next striker was retired. The order of succession had been established when the players went on the field by each calling out a number, as "one," "two," "three," etc., one being the batter, two the catcher, three the pitcher, four the first fielder, etc. Thus, each in order secured his turn "at bat," the coveted position. Sometimes, when the party was larger, more than one striker was allowed, and in that case, not only to give the idle striker something to do, but to offer extra chances for putting him out, one or more bases were laid out, and having hit the ball he was forced to run to these. If he could be hit with the ball at any time when he was between bases he was out, and he was forced to be back to the striker's position in time to take his turn at bat. This made him take chances in running. No count was kept of runs. Two-old-cat differed from one-old-cat in having two batters at opposite stations, as in the old English stool-ball and the more modern cricket, while the fielders divided so that half faced one batter and half the other. From one-old-cat to base-ball is a short step. It was only necessary to choose sides, and then the count of runs made by each would form the natural test of superiority. That base-ball actually did develop in this way was the generally accepted theory for many years. In 1869 an article in The Nation, from A. H. Sedgwick, commenting upon the features of baseball arid cricket as exemplifying national characteristics, said: "To those other objectors who would contend that our explanation supposes a gradual modification of the English into the American game, while it is a matter of common learning that the latter is of no foreign origin but the lineal descendant of that favorite of boyhood, 'two-old-cat,' we would say that, fully agreeing with them as to the historical fact, we have always believed it to be so clear as not to need further evidence, and that for the purposes of this article the history of the matter is out of place." Without going further into a consideration that might be greatly prolonged, I reassert my belief that our national game is a home production. In the field of out-door sports the American boy is easily capable of devising his own amusements, and until some proof is adduced that base-ball is not his invention I protest against this systematic effort to rob him of his dues. The recorded history of the game may be briefly sketched; it is not the object here to give a succinct history: In 1845 a number of gentlemen who had been in the habit, for several years, of playing base-ball for recreation, determined to form themselves into a permanent organization under the name of "The Knickerbocker Club." They drew up a Constitution and By-laws, and scattered through the latter are to be found the first written rules of the game. They little thought that that beginning would develop into the present vast system of organized base-ball. They were guilty of no crafty changes of any foreign game; there was no incentive for that. They recorded the rules of the game as they remembered them from boyhood and as they found them in vogue at that time. For six years the club played regularly at the Elysian Field, the two nines being made up from all the members present. From 1851 other clubs began to be organized, and we find the Washington, Gotham (into which the Washington was merged), Eagle, Empire, Putnam, Baltic, Union, Mutual, Excelsior, Atlantic, Eckford, and many other clubs following in the space of a few years. In Philadelphia town-ball was the favorite pastime and kept out base- ball for some time, while in Boston the local "New England game," as played by the Olympic, Elm Tree, and Green Mountain Clubs, deferred the introduction of base-ball, or, as it was called, "the New York game," until 1857. Base-ball grew rapidly in favor; the field was ripe. America needed a live out-door sport, and this game exactly suited the national temperament. It required all the manly qualities of activity, endurance, pluck, and skill peculiar to cricket, and was immeasurably superior to that game in exciting features. There were dash, spirit, and variety, and it required only a couple of hours to play a game. Developed by American brains, it was flaw to us, and we took to it with all the enthusiasm peculiar to our nature. In 1857 a convention of delegates from sixteen clubs located in and around New York and Brooklyn was held, and a uniform set of rules drawn up to govern the play of all the clubs. In 1858 a second general convention was held, at which twenty-five clubs were represented. A committee was appointed to formulate a Constitution and By-laws for a permanent organization, and in accordance with this "The National Association of Baseball Players" was duly organized. The game now made rapid strides. It was no boys' sport, for no one under twenty-one years of age could be a delegate. Each year a committee of men having a practical knowledge of the game revised the playing rules, so that these were always kept abreast of the time. During 1858 a series of three games between picked nines from New York and Brooklyn was played on the Fashion Course, Long Island. The public interest in these games was very great and the local feeling ran high. The series, which terminated in favor of New York, two to one, attracted general attention to the game. In 1861 a similar game was played called "the silver ball match," on account of the trophy, a silver ball, offered by the New York Clipper. This time Brooklyn won easily, and it is said some 15,000 people were present. At the second annual meeting of the "National Association" in 1860, seventy clubs had delegates present, representing New York, Brooklyn, Boston, Detroit, New Haven, Newark, Troy, Albany, Buffalo, and other cities. During this year the first extended trip was taken by the Excelsior Club, of Brooklyn, going to Albany, Troy, Buffalo, Rochester, and Newburgh. All the expenses of the trip were paid from the treasury of the traveling club, for there were no inclosed grounds in those days and no questions as to percentage or guarantee were yet agitating the clubs and public. The Excelsiors won every game, and their skillful display and gentlemanly appearance did much to popularize the game in the cities visited. Already in 1860 the game was coming to be recognized as our national pastime, and there were clubs in all the principal cities. Philadelphia had forsaken her town-ball, and Boston's "New England" game, after a hard fight, gave way to the "New York" game. Washington, Baltimore, Troy, Albany, Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo, all had their champion teams. From Detroit to New Orleans, and from Portland, Maine, to far-off San Francisco, the grand game was the reigning out-door sport. With the outbreak of the Civil War came a very general suspension of play in the different cities, though the records of occasional games in camp show that "the boys" did not entirely forget the old love. In 1865 the friendly contests were resumed, though the call of the rolls showed many "absent" who had never been known to miss a game. More than one of those who went out in '61 had proven his courage on the crimson field. During the seasons of '65, '66, and '67 amateur base-ball, so-called, was in the height of its glory. At the annual Convention of the National Association in '66 a total of two hundred and two clubs from seventeen States and the District of Columbia were represented; besides, there were present delegates from the Northwestern and Pennsylvania Associations, representing in addition over two hundred clubs. In 1867 the trip of the "Nationals" of Washington was the first visit of an Eastern club to the West, and helped greatly to spread the reputation of the game. For a number of years, however, certain baneful influences had crept into the game and now began to work out their legitimate effect. The greatest of these evils was in the amount of gambling on the results of games. With so much money at stake, the public knew that players would be tampered with, and when finally its suspicions were confirmed, it refused further to patronize the game. The construction of inclosed grounds and the charge of admission proved another danger. No regular salaries were paid, so that the players who were depending on a share of the "gate" arranged to win and lose a game in order that the deciding contest might draw well. Doubtless there were more of these things existing in the public imagination than in actual fact, but distrust once aroused, there was no faith left for anything or anybody. Very early in the history of the Association the practice prevailed among certain clubs of offering inducements to crack players in order to secure them as members. The clubs which could afford this grew disproportionately strong, and in the face of continual defeat the weaker clubs were losing interest. In 1859 a rule was made forbidding the participation in any matches of paid players, but it was so easily evaded that it was a dead letter. In 1866 the rule was reworded, but with no improved effect, and in 1868 the National Association decided, as the only way out of the dilemma, to recognize the professional class of players. By making this distinction it would no longer be considered a disgrace for an amateur to be beaten by a professional nine. For the professionals the change was most beneficial. It legitimized their occupation and left them at liberty to pursue openly and honorably what they had before been forced to follow under false colors. The proud record of the Cincinnati "Reds" in '69 proved that professional base- ball could be honestly and profitably conducted, and from that time forth it was an established institution. But with the introduction of professionalism there began a great competition for players, and this brought in a new evil in the form of "revolvers," or, as they were sometimes called, "shooting stars." Players under contract with one club yielded to the temptations of larger offers and repudiated the first agreements. It became evident that a closer organization was necessary to deal with these affairs. In 1871 the professional and amateur organizations concluded to dissolve partnership. Two distinct associations were formed, and the first regular championship contests were engaged in by the Professional Association. After a few years the Amateur National Association passed out of existence. In 1876 eight clubs of the "Professional National Association" formed an independent body, calling themselves "The National League," and this is the present senior base-ball organization. In 1881 a new body of professional clubs, The American Association, entered the field, and is now, with the National League, one of the controlling factors of the game. There have been a number of other base-ball associations formed from time to time, but, unable to compete with the larger Leagues, and despoiled of their best players, they have been forced to withdraw. Under a new regime there are at present quite a number of these minor organizations, and some of them are in a most flourishing condition. In 1882 the National League, American Association, and Northwestern League entered into what was called the "Triparti Agreement," which the following year was developed into the "National Agreement." The parties to this document, which is become the lex suprema in base-ball affairs, are now, primarily, the National League and the American Association. It regulates the term of players' contracts and the period for negotiations; it provides a fine of five hundred dollars upon the club violating, and disqualifies the player for the ensuing season; it prescribes the formula necessary to make a "legal" contract; the clubs of each Association are to respect the reservations, expulsions, blacklistments, and suspensions of the clubs of the other; it declares that no club shall pay any salary in excess of two thousand dollars; finally, it provides for a Board of Arbitration, consisting of three duly accredited representatives from each Association, to convene annually, and, "in addition to all matters that may be specially referred to them," to have "sole, exclusive, and final jurisdiction of all disputes and complaints arising under, and all interpretations of, this Agreement." It shall also decide all disputes between the Associations or between club members of one Association and club members of the other. To this main agreement are tacked "Articles of Qualified Admission," by which the minor base-ball associations, for a consideration and upon certain conditions, are conceded certain privileges and protection. These articles are an agreement between the League and American Association, party of the first part, and the minor leagues as party of the second part. The most important feature of the National Agreement unquestionably is the provision according to the club members the privilege of reserving a stated number of players. No other club of any Association under the Agreement dares engage any player so reserved. To this rule, more than any other thing, does base-ball as a business owe its present substantial standing. By preserving intact the strength of a team from year to year; it places the business of baseball on a permanent basis and thus offers security to the investment of capital. The greatest evil with which the business has of recent years had to contend is the unscrupulous methods of some of its "managers." Knowing no such thing as professional honor, these men are ever ready to benefit themselves, regardless of the cost to an associate club. The reserve rule itself is a usurpation of the players' rights, but it is, perhaps, made necessary by the peculiar nature of the base-ball business, and the player is indirectly compensated by the improved standing of the game. I quote in this connection Mr. A. G. Mills, ex-President of the League, and the originator of the National Agreement: "It has been popular in days gone by to ascribe the decay and disrepute into which the game had fallen to degeneracy on the part of the players, and to blame them primarily for revolving and other misconduct. Nothing could be more unjust. I have been identified with the game more than twenty-five years--for several seasons as a player--and I know that, with rare exceptions, those faults were directly traceable to those who controlled the clubs. Professional players have never sought the club manager; the club manager has invariably sought--and often tempted--the player. The reserve rule takes the club manager by the throat and compels him to keep his hands off his neighbor's enterprise." It was not to be expected that club managers of the stamp above referred to would exhibit much consideration for the rights of players. As long as a player continued valuable he had little difficulty, but when, for any reason, his period of usefulness to a club had passed, he was likely to find, by sad experience, that base-ball laws were not construed for his protection; he discovered that in base-ball, as in other affairs, might often makes right, and it is not to be wondered at that he turned to combination as a means of protection. In the fall of 1885 the members of the New York team met and appointed a committee to draft a Constitution and By-laws for an organization of players, and during the season of 1886 the different "Chapters" of the "National Brotherhood of Ball-Players" were instituted by the mother New York Chapter. The objects of this Brotherhood as set forth by the Constitution are: "To protect and benefit its members collectively and individually; "To promote a high standard of professional conduct; "To foster and encourage the interests of 'The National Game.'" There was no spirit of antagonism to the capitalists of the game, except in so far as the latter might at ally time attempt to disregard the rights of any member. In November, 1887, a committee of the Brotherhood met a committee of the League, and a new form of players' contract was agreed upon. Concessions were made on both sides, and the result is a more equitable form of agreement between the club and players. The time has not yet come to write of the effect of this new factor in base-ball affairs. It is organized on a conservative plan, and the spirit it has already shown has given nothing to fear to those who have the broad interests of the game at heart. That it has within it the capacity for great good, the writer has no manner of doubt. And thus the erstwhile schoolboy game and the amateur pastime of later years is being rounded out into a full-grown business. The professional clubs of the country begin to rival in number those of the halcyon amateur days; and yet the latter class has lost none of its love for the sport. The only thing now lacking to forever establish base-ball as our national sport is a more liberal encouragement of the amateur element. Professional base-ball may have its ups and downs according as its directors may be wise or the contrary, but the foundation upon which it all is built, its hold upon the future, is in the amateur enthusiasm for the game. The professional game must always be confined to the larger towns, but every hamlet may have its amateur team, and let us see to it that their games are encouraged. CHAPTER I. THEORY OP THE GAME. A CHAPTER FOR THE LADIES. On account of the associations by which a professional game of base-ball was supposed to be surrounded, it was for a long time thought not a proper sport for the patronage of ladies. Gradually, however, this illusion has been dispelled, until now at every principal contest they are found present in large numbers. One game is generally enough to interest the novice; she had expected to find it so difficult to understand and she soon discovers that she knows all about it; she is able to criticize plays and even find fault with the umpire; she is surprised and flattered by the wonderful grasp of her own understanding, and she begins to like the game. As with everything else that she likes at all, she likes it with all her might, and it is only a question of a few more games till she becomes an enthusiast. It is a fact that the sport has no more ardent admirers than are to be found among its lady attendants throughout the country. Whoever has not experienced the pleasure of taking a young lady to her first game of ball should seize the first opportunity to do so. Her remarks about plays, her opinions of different players and the umpire, and the questions she will ask concerning the game, are all too funny to be missed. She is a violent partisan and at once takes strong sides, and if her favorite team fails to bat well she characterizes the opposing pitcher as a "horrid creature;" or when the teams have finished practicing she wants to know, with charming ingenuousness, "which won." But as she gets deeper into the principles of the game her remarks become less frequent and her questions more to the point, until her well-timed attempts to applaud good plays and the anxious look at critical points of the game indicate that she has at last caught the idea. Unfortunately, some men are not able to intelligibly explain the theory of base-ball, while others are so engrossed with the game that they do not care to be disturbed. For the benefit of those ladies whose escorts either cannot, or will not, answer their questions, I will attempt to set forth as clearly as possible the fundamental principles of the game. There are always two opposing teams of nine players each, and they play on a field laid out in the shape of a diamond, as seen in time diagram on the following page. At each corner of the diamond is a base, and these are known respectively as home base, first base, second base, and third base. One of the teams takes "the field," that is, each of its nine players occupies one of the nine fielding positions shown in the diagram, and known as pitcher, catcher, first base, second base, third base, short stop, left field, centre field, and right field; the other team goes to "the bat" and tries to make "runs." A run is scored in this way: One of the nine batting players takes his position at the home base and endeavors to hit the ball, thrown to him by the opposing pitcher, to some part of the field where it can neither be caught before touching the ground, nor thrown to first base before the batter himself can run there; if he can hit it far enough to allow him to reach not only first base, but second or third or even home, so much the better, for when he has made the complete circuit of the bases his side is credited with one run. If he cannot make home on his own hit he may be helped around by the good hits of succeeding batsmen, for each one of the nine takes his regular turn at the bat. This batting and running goes on until three of the batting side have been "put out," whereupon the batting side take the field and the other team comes in to take its turn at bat and make as many runs as possible. When three of a batting side have been "put out," that side is said to have had its "inning," and each side is entitled to nine innings. A player is "put out" in various ways, principal among which are the following: If he strikes three times at the ball and misses it and on the third strike the ball is caught by the catcher; a ball which passes over the plate between the height of the knee and shoulder and not struck at, is called a strike just as though it had been struck at and missed. The batsman is also "out" if the ball which he hits is caught by some fielder before touching the ground; or if, having touched the ground, it is thrown to time first-baseman before the batter himself can reach that base. He is out if, at any time after having hit the ball, he is touched with it in the hands of a fielder, when no part of his person is touching a base. There are lines drawn from the home base through the first and third- base corners and continued indefinitely into the field. These are called "foul lines," and any hit ball falling outside of them counts as nothing at all, unless, of course, it be caught before touching the ground; in which case it puts the striker "out." Outside of the nine players on each side there is another important personage, known as "The Umpire." He is not placed there as a target for the maledictions of disappointed spectators. He is of flesh and blood, and has feelings just the same as any other human being. He is not chosen because of his dishonesty or ignorance of the rules of the game, neither is he an ex-horse thief nor an escaped felon; on the contrary, he has been carefully selected by the President of the League from among a great number of applicants on account of his supposed integrity of character and peculiar fitness for the position; indeed, in private life he may even pass as a gentleman. His duties are arduous; he must decide all points of play, though taking place on widely separated portions of the field; he determines whether a ball has been fairly pitched over the home-base, whether a hit is "fair" or "foul," or whether a player has been put out in accordance with the rules. In brief, he is expected to see all parts of the field at once and enforce all the principal and incidental rules of the game. It would not be strange, therefore, if he made an occasional mistake or failed to decide in a way to suit all. I have given thus concisely, and with the use of as few technical terms as possible, the first principles of the game. Many things are purposely left for the novice to learn, because any attempt to go into detail would prove confusing. For the instruction of those who wish to master the technical terms generally used, I subjoin some definitions. They are intended for beginners, and though not in all cases covering the entire ground, will yet convey the idea. DEFINITIONS. A batsman, batter, or striker is the player who is taking his turn at bat. A base-runner is what the batter becomes instantly after having hit a fair ball, though for convenience of distinction he is often still called a batter until he has reached first base. A fielder is any one of the nine fielding players. A coacher is one of the batting players who takes his position within certain prescribed limits near first or third base to direct base- runners and to urge them along. A fair hit is, generally speaking, a ball hit by a batsman which falls within the foul lines. A foul hit is one which falls without the foul lines. A base hit is a fair hit by a batsman which can neither be caught before touching the ground nor fielded to first base in time to put out the striker. It may be either a two-base hit, a three-base hit, or a home run, according as two or three or four bases have been made on the hit without an intervening error. An error is made when a fielder fails to make a play that he should fairly have been expected to make. A fly is a hit caught before touching the ground. A muff is made when a "fly" or thrown ball, striking fairly in the hands of a fielder, is not caught. A grounder is a hit along the ground. A steal is made when a base-runner gets from one base to another without the assistance of a base hit or an error. A wild pitch is a ball thrown by the pitcher out of the fair reach of the catcher, and on which a base-runner gains a base. A passed ball is a throw by the pitcher which the catcher should stop but fails, and by his failure a base-runner gains a base. For the purpose of distinction, the nine fielders are subdivided into The Battery, The In-field, and The Out-field. The Battery means the Pitcher and Catcher, the In-field includes the First, Second, and Third Basemen, and the Short-stop; and the Outfield is composed of the Left, Centre, and Right Fielders. As for the theory of the game, remember that there are opposing sides, each of which has nine turns at the bat, i.e., nine innings, and the object each inning is to score as many runs as possible. A run is scored every time a player gets entirely around the bases, either by his own hit alone or by the help of succeeding batters, or by the errors of the opposing fielders, and the team making the most runs in nine innings is declared the winner. An inning is ended when three of the batting side have been "put out," and a player may be put out in various ways, as before enumerated. The umpire is not trying to be unfair, he is doing the best he can, and instead of abuse he is often deserving of sympathy. CHAPTER II. TRAINING. Some one has truthfully said, that ball players, like poets and cooks, are born, not made, though once born, their development, like that of their fellow-artists, may be greatly aided by judicious coaching. Of what this training shall consist becomes then a question of much importance. The only way to learn base-ball is to play it, and it is a trite saying that the best practice for a ball player is base-ball itself. Still, there are points outside of the game, such as the preliminary training, diet, and exercise, an observance of which will be of great advantage when the regular work is begun. The method and style of play and the points of each position are given in the subsequent chapters, so that I shall here speak only of those points which come up off the field and are not included in the game proper. But first of all, let me say, that no one will ever become an expert ball player who is not passionately fond of the sport. Base-ball cannot be learned as a trade. It begins with the sport of the schoolboy, and though it may end in the professional, I am sure there is not a single one of these who learned the game with the expectation of making it a business. There have been years in the life of each during which he must have ate and drank and dreamed baseball. It is not a calculation but an inspiration. There are many excellent books devoted exclusively to the general subject of training, and a careful reading of one such may be of much service in teaching the beginner the ordinary principles of self-care. It will show him how to keep the system in good working order, what are proper articles of diet, how to reduce weight, or what exercises are best calculated to develop certain muscles; but for the specific purposes of a ball player such a book is entirely wanting, for the reason that the "condition" in which he should keep himself, and therefore the training needful, differ from those for any other athlete. To perform some particular feat which is to occupy but a comparatively brief space of time, as to run, row, wrestle, or the like, a man will do better to be thoroughly "fit." But if the period of exertion is to extend over some length of time, as is the case with the ball player, working for six months at a stretch, his system will not stand the strain of too much training. Working solely on bone and muscle day after day, his nervous system will give way. He will grow weak, or as it is technically known, "go stale." This over-training is a mistake oftenest made by the young and highly ambitious player, though doubtless many of the instances of "loss of speed" by pitchers and "off streaks" by older players are really attributable to this cause. The "condition" in which a ball player should keep himself is such that his stomach and liver are in good order, his daily habits regular, his muscles free and firm, and his "wind" strong enough to allow him to run the circuit of the bases without inconvenience. He must not attempt to keep in what is known as "fine" condition. He should observe good hours, and take at least eight hours sleep nightly; and he may eat generously of wholesome food, except at noon, when he should take only a light lunch. There are many players who eat so heartily just before the game that they are sleepy and dull the entire afternoon. The traveling professional player needs to pay particular attention to the kind and quality of his food. The sudden changes of climate, water, and cooking are very trying, and unless he takes great care he will not get through a season without some trouble. Especially should he avoid under or over ripe fruit, for it is likely that many of the prevalent cases of cholera morbus are due to indiscretions in this particular. If he finds it necessary to take some light stimulant, let it be done with the evening meal. Never take any liquor at any other time: I do not favor the indiscriminate use of any drink, but, on the contrary, oppose it as a most harmful practice; I do believe, however, that a glass of ale, beer, or claret with one's meal is in some cases beneficial. A thin, nervous person, worn out with the excitement and fatigue of the day, will find it a genuine tonic; it will soothe and quiet his nerves and send him earlier to bed and asleep. The "beefy" individual, with plenty of reserve force, needs no stimulant, and should never touch liquor at any time. If taken at all, it should be solely as a tonic and never as a social beverage. The force of the above applies with special emphasis to the young professional player. Knowing so well the numberless temptations by which he is surrounded, I caution him particularly against indiscriminate drinking. In no profession in life are good habits more essential to success than in baseball. It is the first thing concerning which the wise manager inquires, and if the player's record in this respect is found good it is the most hopeful indication of his future success. Keep away from saloons. The amount of work necessary to keep a player in the proper form must be determined in each particular case by the individual himself. If he is inclined to be thin a very little will be enough, and he should not begin too early in the spring; while if prone to stoutness he may require a great deal, and should begin earlier. It is scarcely necessary to say that all exercise should be begun by easy stages. Commencing with walks in the open air and the use of light pulley weights or clubs or bells, the quantity of exercise may be gradually increased. Never, however, indulge in heavy work or feats of strength. Such exercise is not good for any one, but especially is it dangerous for ball players. They do not want strength, but agility and suppleness; besides, the straining of some small muscle or tendon may incapacitate one for the entire season, or even permanently. Right here is the objection to turning loose a party of ball players in a gymnasium, for spring practice. The temptation to try feats of strength is always present, and more than likely some one will be injured. The best preliminary practice for a ball player, outside of actual practice at the game, is to be had in a hand-ball court. The game itself is interesting, and one will work up a perspiration without noticing the exertion; it loosens the muscles, quickens the eye, hardens the hands, and teaches the body to act quickly with the mind; it affords every movement of the ball field except batting, there is little danger from accident, and the amount of exercise can be easily regulated. Two weeks in a hand-ball court will put a team in better condition to begin a season than any Southern trip, and in the end be less expensive to the club. But whatever preliminary work is found advisable or necessary to adopt, the player should be particular in the following: Having determined the amount of exercise best suited to his temperament, he should observe regular habits, keep the stomach, liver, and skin healthy, attend carefully to the quality of food taken, and if he takes any stimulant at all let it be with the evening meal. CHAPTER III. THE PITCHER. Of all the players on a base-ball nine, the pitcher is the one to whom attaches the greatest importance. He is the attacking force of the nine, the positive pole of the battery, the central figure, around which the others are grouped. From the formation of the first written code of rules in 1845 down to the present time, this pre-eminence has been maintained, and though the amendments of succeeding years have caused it to vary from time to time, its relative importance is more marked to-day than at any preceding period. In a normal development of the game the improvement in batting would unquestionably have outstripped the pitching, and finally overcome this superiority; but the removal of certain restrictions upon the pitcher's motions, the legalization of the underhand throw instead of the old straight-arm pitch, the introduction of "curve" pitching, and, finally, the unrestricted overhand delivery, have kept the pitching always in the lead. At several different times, notably in the rules of 1887, an effort has been made to secure a more even adjustment, but recent changes have undone the work, and the season of 1888 will see the inequality greater, if anything, than ever. The qualities of mind and body necessary to constitute a good modern pitcher are rarely combined in a single individual. First-class pitchers are almost as rare as prima donnas, and out of the many thousand professional and amateur ball players of the country not more than a dozen in all are capable of doing the position entire justice. Speaking first of the physical requirements, I will not discuss the question of size. There are good pitchers of all sizes, from Madden and Kilroy to Whitney and McCormick, though naturally a man of average proportions would have some advantages. The first thing necessary before one can become a star pitcher is the ability to throw a ball with speed. The rules, which at present govern the pitching, place a premium on brute strength, and unless one has a fair share of this he will never become a leading pitcher. There are a few so-called good professional players whose sole conception of the position is to drive the ball through with all possible speed, while others whose skill and strategy have been proven by long service, are forced out of the position because they have not sufficient speed for the modern game. Next, one must be possessed of more than an ordinary amount of endurance. It is by no means a simple task to pitch an entire game through and still be as effective in the ninth inning as in the first; and when, as sometimes happens, the contest is prolonged by an extra number of innings, the test is severe. This being true of a single game, how much more tiresome it becomes when continued regularly for an entire season, during the chilly days of the spring and fall, and under a broiling July sun, can be appreciated only by one who has gone through it. And what with all day and all night rides from city to city, broken rest and hasty meals, bad cooking and changes of water and climate, the man is extremely fortunate who finds himself in condition to play every day when wanted. Only a good constitution, a vigorous digestion, the most careful habits, and lots of grit, will ever do it. Besides force and stamina, there are certain mental characteristics necessary. A pitcher must be possessed of courage and of self-control. He must face the strongest batter with the same confidence that he would feel against the weakest, for it is only so that he can do himself entire justice; and he must be able to pitch in the most critical situations with the same coolness as at any other stage. He must control his own feelings so as not to be disconcerted by anything that may happen, whether through his own fault, that of a fellow-player, or through no fault at all. He should remember that all are working for a common end, and that the chances of victory will be only injured if he allows his attention to be diverted by unavoidable accidents. And then, too, it is more manly to play one's own game as best one can, no matter what occurs, than to continually display an ugly temper at the little mishaps sure to occur in every game. The next point is to acquire a correct position in the "box," and an easy, yet deceptive, style of delivery. The position is, to a great extent, prescribed by the rules, and so much of it as is not can be learned by observing the different pitchers. The position which seems most natural should be chosen. The ball should be held in exactly the same way, no matter what kind of curve is to be pitched. Being obliged by rule to keep the ball before the body, in sight of the umpire, any difference in the manlier of holding it will be quickly noticed by a clever batter, and if for a particular curve it is always held in a certain way, he will be forewarned of the kind of ball to expect. Some batters pay no attention to these little indications; but the majority are looking for them all the time, and once they detect any peculiarities, they will be able to face the pitcher with much greater confidence. The correct manner of holding the ball for every kind of delivery is between the thumb and the first and middle fingers, as shown in the accompanying cut of Clarkson. It is true there are some curves which may be better acquired by holding the ball differently in the hand, but this fact is outweighed by the other considerations of which I have just spoken. Pitcher Shaw might still be a "wizard" had he not neglected this precaution; by noticing his manner of holding the ball the batter always knew just what was coming; and there are other pitchers yet in the field who would find their effectiveness greatly increased by a closer observance of this point. As for the style of delivery, it should be remembered that the easiest movement is the best. A long, free sweep of the arm, aided by a swing of the body, will give more speed, be more deceiving to the batter, and allow of more work than any possible snap or jerky motion. Facing the striker before pitching, the arm should be swung well back and the body around so as almost to face second base in the act of delivery; this has an intimidating effect on weak-nerved batters; besides, not knowing from what point the ball will start, it seems somehow to get mixed up with the pitcher's arm and body so that it is not possible to get a fair view of it. It will be understood what motion is meant if there is an opportunity to observe Whitney, Clarkson or Keefe at work. Next comes the knowledge of how to throw the different curves. I have yet to see an article written on this subject which is of the least value in instructing a complete novice. In the chapter on "Curve Pitching" will be found the theory of the curve, but as for describing intelligibly the snap of the wrist and arm by which the various twists are imparted to the ball, I am convinced it cannot be done, and will waste no effort in the attempt. To curve a ball is not a difficult feat, and a few practical lessons, which any schoolboy can give, will teach the movement. But, while not attempting myself to tell how this is done, to one already possessed of the knowledge, I may offer some valuable suggestions. Not only must the ball always be held in the same way before pitching, but in the act of delivery the swing of the arm must be identical or so nearly so that the eye of the batter can detect no difference. All this means that the pitcher must not give the striker the slightest inkling of the kind of ball to expect, so that he will have the shortest possible time in which to prepare to hit. I advise against the use of too many different curves. The accomplished twirler can pitch any kind of curve, but there are some which he seldom employs. It is impossible to be accurate when too many deliveries are attempted, and accuracy is of far greater importance than eccentric curves. Almost all professional pitchers now use the overhand delivery and pitch only a fast, straight ball and a curve. The fast ball, on account of its being thrown overhand and the twist thereby given, "jumps" in the air, that is, it rises slightly, while the curve, pitched with the same motion, goes outward and downward. The curve will necessarily be slower than the straight ball, and this will give all the variation in speed needed to unsettle the batter's "eye" and confuse him in "timing" the ball. Some pitchers are able, keeping the same motions, to vary the speed even of the curve and straight balls, but, as before said, this is apt to be at the expense of accuracy, and should not be attempted by the young player. Occasionally, say once an inning, a pitcher may make a round arm or underhand motion simply to mislead the batsman, and if the game is safely won he may use an underhand delivery if he finds it rests his arm, but these are exceptional instances. I have already spoken of the importance of accuracy, but it cannot be too strongly emphasized. The more marked the control of the ball the greater will be the success, for no matter how many wonderful curves he may be able to get, unless he has perfect command he will never be a winning pitcher; seasoned batsmen will only laugh at his curves and go to first on balls. To acquire thorough control requires long and patient practice. A pitcher should always pitch over something laid down to represent a plate, and if possible get a batter to stand and hit against him. Let him practice with some method, pitching nothing but a straight ball, and trying to put it directly over the plate every time. He should not be annoyed if the batter hits him, as he is only practicing. When a pitcher is able to cut the centre of the plate eight times out of ten he may begin with his curve and work it in the same way. Finally, when he can also control the curve, he should try to alternate it with a straight ball. He will find that he cannot do this at first and retain command of each, but he should keep at it, an hour or more regularly every day, till he can. Up to this point he has been learning only the mechanical part of pitching, and if he has learned it well he is now ready to try his skill and mettle on the field of actual contest. And here comes in an element not before mentioned, which is called strategy, or "head-work." It means the attempt to deceive the batter, to outwit him so that he cannot hit safely. This may be accomplished in many ways, though the particular way best suited to each case can only be determined at the time by the pitcher himself. It depends, therefore, upon his own cleverness and wits, and it is not possible for any one else to supply these for him. An intelligent catcher may help him greatly, but there will still remain many points which he himself must decide. I may be able, however, to furnish some hints which will indicate the process of reasoning by which the pitcher may arrive at certain conclusions; I can point out some things he should notice, and describe what these generally mean. SIGNALING. But first as to the question of "signs." Every battery, by which is meant a pitcher and catcher, must have a perfectly understood private code of signals, so that they may make known their intentions and wishes to one another without at the same time apprising the opposing players. The first and, of course, most important of these is the signal by which the catcher is to know what kind of ball to expect. There is no necessity of more than one "sign" for this, because all that any experienced catcher asks is to know when to expect a fast, straight ball; not having received the signal for this, he will understand that a curve is to be pitched, and the difference in curve or speed will not bother him after a few moments' practice. Until within a few years this sign was always given by the pitcher, but now it is almost the universal practice for the catcher to give it to the pitcher, and if the latter doesn't want to pitch the ball asked for he changes the sign by a shake of the head. I think the old method was the better, because it is certainly the business of the pitcher not only to do the pitching, but to use his own judgment in deceiving the batsman. He should not act as a mere automaton to throw the ball; moreover, the catcher has enough of his own to attend to without assuming any of the duties of the pitcher. Of course, if the pitcher is young and inexperienced, while the catcher is seasoned and better acquainted with the weak points of batters, the latter will be the better one to signal. It may be thought that the right of the pitcher to reverse the sign by a shake of the head practically gives him the same control as though he himself gave the signs, but this is not strictly true; it is impossible for the pitcher not to be more or less influenced by the catcher's sign, and he will often pitch against his own judgment. At least I found this to be true in my own experience, and therefore always preferred myself to do the "signing." If the pitcher gives this sign he must be careful to choose one that will not be discovered by the other side, for there are certain players always watching for such points. Some years ago the Chicago Club gave me the roughest kind of handling in several games, and Kelly told me this winter that they knew every ball I intended to pitch, and he even still remembered the sign and told me what it was. Chicago finished first that year and we were a close second. That point which they gained upon me may have cost Providence the championship, for they beat us badly in the individual series. When I suspected a club of knowing my sign I used a "combination," that is, I gave two signs; either one of them given separately was not to be understood as a signal at all, but both had to be given together. I found this to work admirably, and it was never discovered by any club, so far as I know. If it be agreed that the catcher is to give this sign, it is still not necessary that the pitcher be entirely influenced by him. The pitcher should rely upon his own discretion, and not hesitate to change the sign whenever his judgment differs from that of the catcher. There are certain signs which the catcher gives to basemen when there are runners on the bases, and with these, too, the pitcher must be perfectly familiar, so that he may be able to pitch the ball in accordance with what is about to be done. For instance, if the catcher has signaled to the first baseman that he will throw there, he will probably ask the pitcher for an out curve. In order, then, to help him out with the play and give him plenty of room, the pitcher will not only pitch the out curve asked, but he will keep it well out and wide of the plate, so that it can't possibly be hit, and he will pitch it at the height where it may be best handled by the catcher. So, too, if there is a runner on first who is likely to attempt to steal second, he will "pitch for the catcher," and he should shorten his pitching motion so as to give the catcher as much time as possible to throw. When runners "steal" on a catcher it is oftener not so much his fault as the pitcher's. It is almost impossible to make a clean steal of second, even with a very ordinary thrower behind the bat, if the pitcher will not give the runner too much "start." The pitcher should also receive a signal from the catcher notifying him when to throw to second base to catch a runner leading off too far. This point will, however, be noticed more appropriately under the duties of "The Catcher." As for the other bases, first and third, the pitcher should look after them himself without any signal from the catcher. I could always stand in the pitcher's position facing the batter and still see out of "the corner of my eye" how much ground the runner on first base was taking. As the baseman is already on the base, there is no necessity of notifying him of an intention to throw, so, watching the opportunity, I would throw across my body without first having changed the position of my feet or body at all. The throw is, of course, not so swift as by first wheeling toward the base and then throwing, but it will catch a runner oftener. "Smiling Mickey" Welch plays the point to perfection, and last season caught many men "napping" in this way. Its advantage is that it is entirely legitimate. Some pitchers, in order to catch a runner at first, make a slight forward movement, visible to the runner but not to the umpire, as if about to pitch. This, of course, starts the runner, and before he can recover, the pitcher has turned and thrown to first. Notwithstanding the strictest prohibition last season of any motion even "calculated" to deceive the runner, there were umpires weak- kneed enough to allow these balks. The easiest men to catch are the best base-runners, because they are always anxious to "get away," and they take the most chances. An ambitious runner will keep moving up and down the line trying to get his start. The pitcher should not appear to notice him, pretending to be interested only in the batter, but watching the runner closely all the time. Suddenly, and without the least warning, he should snap the ball to the baseman. If the pitcher will choose a time when the runner is on the move away from the base the batter will be off his balance and may be caught before he can recover. For the third base it may be advisable to have a signal with the baseman to notify him of a throw. It is very seldom possible to catch a runner off third by a throw from the pitcher, though it may sometimes be done. Clarkson and Galvin both accomplish it at times, though they always do it by the aid of a "balk." Clarkson's method is this: With a runner on first and one on third, the man on first will usually try to steal second, and if the ball is thrown there to catch him, the runner on third tries to score. In this situation Clarkson makes a slight forward movement of the body as though about to pitch, and the runner on third, being anxious to get all possible ground, moves forward. With the same motion, and before the runner can recover, Clarkson, by a prior understanding with the third baseman, throws to the base, the baseman meets the ball there, and before the runner has quite realized what has happened, he is "out." I have reason to know the working of this little scheme, because I was caught by it in Chicago last season in a very close game. The "balk" was palpable, and I made a strenuous "kick," but the umpire refused to see it that way. A pitcher should not be misled by what I have said into too much throwing to bases. He should throw only when there is a fair chance of making the put-out; for all other purposes, as to hold the runner close to the base, a feint will answer just as well and does not entail the possibility of an error. STRATEGY. A strategic pitcher is one who depends for success not simply on speed and curves, but who outwits the batsman by skill, who deceives his eye, and plays upon his weaknesses. What will be the best method for a particular case must be decided in each instance by the pitcher himself, and his success will depend upon his judgment and cleverness. But while no general rule can be laid down, I may still be able to offer some useful suggestions. Assuming that a pitcher has never seen the batters whom he is about to face, there are certain points to be noted as each of them takes his place at the bat. First, his position and manner of holding his bat should be observed. If he carries it over his shoulder and in an almost perpendicular position, the chances are that he is naturally a high ball hitter and is looking for that kind of a pitch, because that is the position of the bat from which a high ball is most easily hit. If, on the contrary, he carries his bat in a more nearly horizontal position, he is ready either to "chop" over at a high ball, or "cut" under at a low one, the chances being that he prefers the latter. Of still more importance is his movement in hitting, and this the pitcher must try to discover before the batter has hit the ball at all. An out-curve should be pitched just out of his reach; being so near where he wants it, it will draw him out and he will make every movement, except the swing of the bat, as in hitting. This movement should be carefully noted. If, in stepping forward to hit, he also steps away from the plate toward the third base, it is at once a point in the pitcher's favor. The batsman is timid and afraid of being hit. If, however, he steps confidently forward, almost directly toward the pitcher, he is a dangerous man and all the pitcher's skill will be needed to outwit him. Again, if in stepping forward he makes a very long stride, it is another point for the pitcher, because it shows that he is not only anxious to hit but means to hit hard, and such a man is easily deceived. But if he makes a short stride, keeping easily his balance and standing well upright, he is more than likely a good hitter, even though he steps away from the plate, and if in addition to stepping short he also steps toward the pitcher, the pitcher should look out for him. Without going into too much detail I will try to illustrate: If my batter is one who steps away from the plate I will pitch a fast, straight ball in over his shoulder too high and too far in to be hit. The next time he will step still further away, but this time I should put a fast, straight one over the outside corner of the plate. From his position he will probably not be able to reach it at all, or if he does he will hit with no force. I might pitch the next ball in the same place, and then I should consider it time to drive him away from the plate again and I would send the next one in over his shoulder as before. He may hit at one of these high "in" balls, but if he does he will probably not touch it; at any rate, another fast, straight one over the outside corner ought to dispose of him. It will be observed I have not thrown a single curve, nor would I to such a batter except occasionally, say two or three during the game, and then only to keep him "guessing." Taking another kind of hitter, suppose that he steps up in the best form, making a short stride toward the pitcher, keeping his balance well and his form erect. As already said, he is a dangerous batter and likely to hit in spite of my best efforts, but I must do the best I can with him. I therefore observe his manner of holding the bat and note whether he prefers a high or low ball, and we will say that it is a low one. I send a couple of low drop curves just out of his reach. It is just what he wants if he could only get at them, and the next time he steps well in toward the plate. This time, however, I send a fast, straight, high ball over the plate, and if he hits it at all, it will be in the air. Another fast, straight, high one might not escape so easily, but I have two balls called and can't take the chances of giving him his base. I therefore try it again. If he has missed that I now have two strikes, and only two balls, and can afford to throw away a ball or two, which I do as before by pitching a couple of low drop curves out of his reach, until his mind is again fixed upon that point. Then I would probably again try a fast, high ball on the inside corner of the plate. These two cases, are given merely to illustrate the line of reasoning, and in practice each would be governed by its own particular circumstances. To avoid confusing details, I will add only a few observations: A batter who steps away from the plate, should be worked on the outside corner; one who steps in, on the inside corner; one who makes a long, vicious swing at the ball, will be easily deceived by a slow ball, much more readily than one who "snaps" or hits with a short, quick stroke; one who strides long must necessarily stoop or crouch, and is in bad form to hit a high ball; if he swings his bat always in a horizontal plane, he will not be able to hit a shoulder or knee ball as well as one who swings in a perpendicular plane, i.e., who "cuts" under at a low ball and "chops" over-hand at a high ball; there are some batters who prefer to hit only at a fast, straight ball, while others wait for a curve, and in such a case the pitcher may get a strike or two by pitching what he will not care to hit at; some are never ready to hit at the first ball pitched, so that by sending this in over the plate a strike may be secured; some are known as great "waiters," who will only hit when forced, and these should be forced to hit at once; others are anxious and cannot wait, and may be safely "worked" wide of the plate. Then occasionally there will be found a batter who betrays by his manner when he has made up his mind to hit, and in that case he will let go at anything within reach; therefore a ball should be pitched where he will be least likely to hit it. If the pitcher finds a batter facing for a hit to right field, he should not give him the ball out from him, but crowd him with it, keeping it on the inside corner, and it will be almost impossible for him to succeed. It does not do to work the same batter always in the same way, or he will discover a pitcher's method. Sometimes the pitcher must "cross" him and at times it is even advisable to give him a ball just where he would like to have it, but where, for that very reason, he least expects it. Finally, a pitcher should not be in a hurry to deliver the ball. As soon as the catcher returns the ball the pitcher should assume a position as though about to pitch and stand there; he should take all the time the umpire will give him. This will allow him to give and receive any necessary signal from the catcher, it will rest him and thus enable him to hold his speed, and, finally, it will work upon the nerves and eyesight of the batter. The batter will grow impatient and anxious, and unless his eyes are very strong the long strain in a bright light will blear his sight. FIELDING THE POSITION. Some pitchers seem to harbor the impression that nothing else is expected of them but to pitch the ball, and the effect of this opinion is to diminish their worth to a very great extent: A pitcher is just as much a fielder as any of the other players, and may render his side efficient service by his ability to properly care for this part of his work. I have already spoken of throwing to bases to catch runners, and it is unnecessary to say anything further except to again caution against too much of it. A pitcher should throw only when there is a chance of making the put-out. In fielding ground-hits he must exert considerable activity on account of the very short time allowed him. He should have the courage to face a hard hit, because on account of the position of the second baseman and short-stop such a hit will generally be safe if he does not stop it, or at least turn its course. It is his place to get all "bunted" hits. It is a mistake to break up the in-field by bringing a third baseman in close to get hits which a live pitcher should be able to field. When a batter who is likely to bunt the ball comes to the bat, the pitcher must be ready at every ball pitched to move in the direction of the third base line, where such hits are always made. There are some pitchers, such as Galvin and Van Haltren, against whom it is not safe to try a bunt, but, as I have said, many others seem to think they are expected only to pitch. On a hit to the first baseman the pitcher should cover the base, and if the hit is slow or if the baseman fumbles it he may still have time to toss the ball to the pitcher. The pitcher should not wait until he sees the fumble before starting, but the instant the hit is made go for the base; he will then be there and ready to receive the ball and not be forced to take it on the run. So, too, the occasion may arise when he should cover second or third, where some combination of play has taken the baseman away and left the base uncovered. In all cases where a runner is caught between bases the pitcher must take part in the play. If the runner is between first and second, the pitcher will back up the first baseman, leaving the short-stop to back the second baseman; if between second and third, he will back up the third baseman; and if between third and home, he will back the catcher. The pitcher must back up the catcher, the first and third basemen, on all throws from the out field. He must not wait until the throw is made before getting in line, but the moment the probability of such a throw arises, he should get there, and then he can see the entire play, and will be sure to get in a line with the throw. In backing up he must not get too close to the fielder he is backing, otherwise what is a wild throw to him will be likewise to the pitcher. He should keep from fifty to seventy-five feet away. With runners on bases he should be sure that he understands the situation perfectly before pitching, and he must keep it in mind; then, if the ball is hit to him, he need lose no time in deciding upon the proper place to throw it. If his play is to try for a double by way of second base, he should not wait until the baseman gets there and then drive the ball at him with all his might; but he should toss it to the baseman as he runs for the base, timing the speed of the throw so that the baseman and the ball will reach the base together. Thus no time will be lost, and the throw being easy, may be much more quickly and safely handled. In short, a pitcher should make himself useful wherever he can, and use his wits in fielding as well as in pitching. He should not be disheartened by poor support or unavoidable accidents, but should keep up his courage, and the entire team will be infused with his spirit. There are some pitchers who are not hit hard and yet seldom win because they display such a lazy disposition in the box that they put all the other players to sleep; and, again, there are others not so successful in the matter of base hits, who yet win more games, on account of the aggressive spirit they impart to their fellow-players. Let the pitcher be alive, then, and if he has any "heart" let him show it; let him keep up his spirits, have a reason for every ball pitched, and use his brain as well as his muscle, for it is only in this way that he, can ever take a place in the front rank. CHAPTER IV. THE CATCHER. Next after the pitcher, in regular order, comes the catcher. Though the negative pole of "the battery," his support of the pitcher will largely influence the latter's efficiency, and he therefore becomes an important factor in the attacking force. Were it not for the extreme liability to injury, the position of catcher would be the most desirable on the field; he has plenty of work of the prettiest kind to do, is given many opportunities for the employment of judgment and skill, and, what is clearer than all to the heart of every true ball player, he is always in the thickest of the fight. Moreover, his work, unlike that of the pitcher, always shows for itself, and is therefore always appreciated. A pitcher's success depends upon many circumstances, some of which are beyond his own control, so that, no matter how faithfully or intelligently he may work, he must still suffer the annoyance and mortification of defeat. But the catcher has almost complete control of his own play, he is dependent upon no one but himself, and, in spite of everything and everybody, the nature of his work remains the same. There are some cases in which a steady, intelligent catcher is of more worth to a team than even the pitcher, because such a man will make pitchers out of almost any kind of material. Bennett, the grandest of every-day catchers, has demonstrated this fact in many instances, and I have no doubt that much of the success of the St. Louis pitchers has been due to the steady support and judicious coaching of Bushong. There are certain qualifications necessary to produce a good catcher, and if a person has any ambition to play the position, he should first examine himself to see whether he is the possessor of these. Here again the size of the candidate seems not to be of vital importance, for there are good catchers, from the little, sawed-off bantam, Hofford, of Jersey City, to the tall, angular Mack, of Washington, and Ganzell, of Detroit. Still, other things being equal, a tall, active man should have an advantage because of his longer "reach" for widely pitched balls, and on account of the confidence a big mark to pitch at inspires in the pitcher. Besides, a heavier man is better able to stand against the shocks of reckless runners to the home plate. More important than size are pluck and stamina, especially if one contemplates becoming a professional catcher. In every well-regulated team nowadays the pitchers and catchers are paired, and the same pair always work together. Perfect team work involves a perfect understanding by each man of all the points of play of the others, and it is believed that a battery will do better team-work where its two ends are always the same. But to be able to work regularly with one pitcher through an entire season, catching every day when he pitches, a catcher will more than once find his powers of endurance strongly taxed; and if, for real or fancied injuries, he is often obliged to lay off, then, no matter how brilliant his work when he does catch, he will lose much of his value to the team. Certain injuries are inevitable and necessitate a rest, but there are others of minor importance to which some men will not give way. I do not laud this as pure bravado, but because it sets an example and infuses a spirit into a team that is worth many games in a long race. I have the greatest respect and admiration for the Bennetts and the Bushongs of base-ball. But there are other features necessary before a person can hope to become a first-class catcher. As before said, he has many chances offered for the employment of judgment and skill; and to make the best use of these he must be possessed of some brains. The ideal catcher not only stops the ball and throws it well, but he is a man of quick wit, he loses no time in deciding upon a play, he is never "rattled" in any emergency, he gives and receives signals, and, in short, plays all the points of his position, and accomplishes much that a player of less ready perception would lose entirely. Two of the best catchers in the country are neither of them remarkable back-stops nor particularly strong and accurate throwers, and yet both, by their great generalship and cleverness, are "winning" catchers. I refer to Kelly, of Boston, and Snyder, of Cleveland. Ewing, of New York, combines with wonderful skill and judgment the ability to stop a ball well and throw it quicker, harder, and truer than any one else, and I therefore consider him the "King" of all catchers--when he catches. In learning to catch, the first thing, of course, is to acquire a correct style, that is, an approved position of body, hands, and feet, the best manner of catching a ball, the proper place to stand, how to throw quickly, and the best motion for throwing. After this comes the study of the different points of play. There are as many different styles in detail as there are individual catchers, and yet, through all, there run certain resemblances which may be generalized. As to the position of the body, all assume a stooping posture, bending forward from the hips, in order better to get a low as well as a high pitch. Some, like Daily, of Indianapolis, crouch almost to the ground, but such a position must be not only more fatiguing, but destroy somewhat the gauging of a high pitch. A catcher should not stand with his feet too widely apart. It is a mistake some players make, but a little reflection will convince a catcher that a man in such an attitude cannot change his position and handle himself as readily as if he stood with the feet nearer together. Besides, on a low pitched ball striking the ground in front of him, it is necessary to get the feet entirely together to assist the hands in stopping it, and this he cannot do if he is too much spread out. These things may appear to be of minor importance, but it is their observance which often makes the difference between a first-class and an ordinary catcher. A catcher should not stand directly back of the plate, but rather in line with its outside corner; and when he gets (or gives) his sign for the kind of ball to be pitched, he should not, by any movement out or in, indicate to the batter what is coming; there are some batters who glance down at the plate to see, from the corner of the eye, where the catcher is standing. He will have ample time to move after the pitcher has begun his delivery and when the batter's attention is wholly occupied with that. If an out-curve is coming, he should be ready to move out, or if an in-curve, or fast, straight ball, he should be ready to step in. He should not anchor himself and try to do all his catching with his hands, but in every instance, if possible, receive the ball squarely in front of him. Then if it breaks through his hands it will still be stopped by his body. In catching a high ball the hands should be held in the position shown in the following cut of Bushong, the fingers all pointing upward. Some players catch with the fingers pointing toward the ball, but such men are continually being hurt. A slight foul-tip diverts the course of the ball just enough to carry it against the ends of the fingers, and on account of their position the necessary result is a break or dislocation. But with the hands held as in this cut there is a "give" to the fingers and the chances of injury are much reduced. For a low ball the hands should be held so that the fingers point downward, and for a waist ball, by crouching slightly it may be taken in the same manner as a high ball. Some catchers throw more quickly than others because, having seen the runner start, they get into position while the ball is coming. Instead of standing square with the plate, they advance the left foot a half step, and then, managing to get the ball a little on the right side, they have only to step the left foot forward the other half step and let the ball go. To throw without stepping at all is not advisable, because, on account of the long distance, there would not be sufficient speed; to take more than one step occupies too much time, more than is gained by the extra speed obtained; so that the best plan and the one used by the most successful catchers is the one just described. It is not however the speed of the throw alone that catches a base-runner, but the losing of no time in getting the ball on the way. Some very ordinary throwers are hard men to steal on, while others, who give much greater speed to the ball, are not so dangerous. A ball may be thrown under-hand, round-arm, or over-hand. Experience has proven to me that a ball may be thrown a short distance, as from home to second, most accurately by a swing of the arm, half way between a round- arm and over-hand delivery. My natural style was over-hand, but I have cultivated the other until it now comes without difficulty. I was influenced to make the change by noting the styles of other players, particularly of Ewing and O'Rourke. I found that they both got great speed and accuracy, and I also noticed that they seldom complained of "lame arm." By being a more continuous swing, it is a more natural motion, less trying on the muscles, and gives greater accuracy on account of the twist such a swing imparts to the ball, much on the same principle as does the twist to a bullet from a rifled gun. I therefore recommend it for trial at least. When practicing with the pitcher the catcher should be just as careful about his style as he would be in a game, for it is while practicing that his habits are being formed. In returning the ball to the pitcher each time, he should learn to catch it and bring the arm back, with one continuous motion of the hands, without making any stops or angles. A word about high foul flies, since many of the catcher's put-outs are from these hits. A ball thrown directly up into the air by the hand will descend in a direct line, and may be easily "judged," but a pitched ball hit directly up is given a tremendous twist by its contact with the bat, and, in descending, this twist carries the ball forward sometimes as much as ten, or even twenty feet. Consequently we see catchers misjudging these hits time after time because they either do not know this, or fail to take it into consideration. It is also necessary to know the direction and force of the wind, and this should be noted from time to time during the game by a glance at the flags, or in some equally sure way. There is one more point in fielding the catcher's position upon which a few words will not be amiss, that is, as to touching a runner coming home. There is a difference of opinion as to the best place for the catcher to stand when waiting for the throw to cut off such a runner. The general practice is to stand a couple of feet from the plate toward third base and in front of the line. But this necessitates the catcher's turning half-way round after catching the ball before he can touch the runner, and many an artful dodger scores his run by making a slide in which he takes, at least, the full three feet allowed him out of the line. Many a run is scored when the catcher seemed to have had the ball in waiting. I believe the best place to stand is a couple of feet toward third and just back of the line. The pitcher saves the time of turning around and has the additional advantage of having the play in front of him, where he can better see every movement of the runner. When the game is depending upon that one put-out the best place of all to stand is a few feet toward third and directly on the line. From there the catcher can reach the runner whether he runs in front of or behind him, and if he slides he will come against the catcher and may therefore not be able to reach the plate, or, at least, the catcher may delay him long enough to make the put-out. It is an extremely dangerous play for the catcher, however, and one that he will feel justified in attempting only when the game depends upon the put-out. Brown saved the New Yorks a game in New Orleans last winter by this play, though Powell, the base-runner, came against him with such force as to throw him head-over-heels ten feet away. The object in standing a few feet toward third is to avoid close plays, for then if the put-out is made at all there can be no possible chance for the umpire to decide otherwise. SIGNALING. Under the heading of "The Pitcher" I have spoken of the necessity of a private code of signals between pitcher and catcher, and I also said it was the general practice now for the catcher to signify the kind of ball to be pitched, though it is my own opinion that the pitcher should do this, unless there are special reasons why it should be otherwise. In giving this sign the catcher, standing with his hands resting on his knees, makes some movement with the right hand, or a finger of that hand, or with the right foot, to indicate an "out" ball, and some similar movement with his left hand or foot for an "in" ball. Of course, this may generally be plainly seen by every one on the field except the batter, whose back is turned, and this fact has been taken advantage of by some teams. The coacher, standing at first or third, makes some remark with no apparent reference to the batter, but really previously agreed upon, to notify him what kind of ball is going to be pitched. This known, the batter has nothing to do but pick out his ball and lay on to it with all his weight. Some of the New York players had great sport the past winter in this way at the expense of the California pitchers. It is therefore advisable that some sign be used that is not easily detected. There are other signals which a catcher must give to basemen to apprise them of his intention to throw. When there are runners on any of the bases, he should not give the sign to the pitcher to pitch until he has glanced quietly around and seen whether any of the runners are leading too far off the bases, and if so, by a prearranged signal notify the baseman that he will throw. This signal should be known also to the pitcher and by every other fielder who may be interested in the play. The pitcher will now send the catcher the ball wide of the plate and at a height where the catcher can handle it easily. The moment he moves to pitch the baseman starts for his base and the proper fielders get in line to back up the throw, if by accident it should be wild. It is very necessary that the pitcher keep the ball out of the batter's reach, otherwise it may be hit to a part of the field left unguarded by the fielders who have gone to back up the throw; and the fielders must understand the signal or they will not be able to get in line to back up. The complete success of all these plays lies, therefore, in every one knowing and doing his part, and in all working together. A mistake by one, as if the pitcher allows the ball to be hit and it goes safely to a field that would have otherwise been guarded, demoralizes the entire team, and several such mistakes destroy the confidence of the men in team work. In some cases the basemen themselves signal to the catcher for a throw, but in order that every one interested may see the signal and be prepared for the play, it is manifestly better that the catcher alone should give it. A tricky runner on second will sometimes lead well off for the express purpose of having the catcher throw down, whereupon, instead of returning to second he goes on to third. Whenever a catcher has reason to suspect a runner of this intention he should make a feint to throw to second, and if the runner starts for third the catcher then has him between the bases. The feint must be well made and no time lost afterward in getting the ball either to second or third, according to circumstances. The importance of a play such as this rests not only in the single put-out made, but in the respect for the catcher with which it inspires subsequent runners. They will be exceedingly careful what liberties they attempt to take. A very quick-witted runner, seeing himself caught in this way between the bases, will, of course, try by every means to extricate himself. He may, in turn, make a feint as if to return to second, and when the catcher throws there he will still go on to third; or, he may feint to go to third and manage to return to second. To catch such a man it is necessary to make a second feint to throw to the base nearest him, and this will almost invariably force him to go in the opposite direction. Besides, with each feint the catcher has stepped quickly forward and by the time he has finished the second feint he is almost down to the pitcher's position. The runner is then completely at the catcher's mercy and only an error of some kind will allow him to escape. There are not more than a half dozen catchers in the profession who know how to make this play properly, but there are some, as I have learned by sad experience. When there are runners on first and third with second unoccupied, and the runner on first tries to steal second, there are several possible plays. The catcher may throw to second to catch the runner going down; or he may feint to throw there and throw to third to catch that runner leading off; or he may actually throw toward second, but short of the base, so that the baseman will have a less distance to return the ball home, in case the runner on third starts in. Which one of these plays is to be made the catcher must decide beforehand and notify the basemen by signal, and he will be governed in his decision by the circumstances of the case. If the situation of the game is such that it will make little difference whether the runner on third scores or not, the catcher will, of course, throw to second to make that put-out. But if one run is vital there are other things to be considered. If the runner at third is very slow or one not likely to attempt to run home, he may still throw to second to catch the man from first. But if the runner at third is one who will attempt to score, the catcher must either throw short to second or else feint and throw to third. Whatever he is going to do must be understood thoroughly by all the fielders interested, and to this end he will give the proper signal. As the second baseman and shortstop may also take an important part in this play, it will be spoken of later. In conclusion let me say, that in order to accomplish anything by these private signals the catcher must have them in such thorough working order that no mistake can possibly occur. This may come only after long and patient practice; some fielders find it almost impossible to work with signs, but they must be kept at it every day until the code becomes perfectly familiar to them. CHAPTER V. THE FIRST BASEMAN. From the fact that the first baseman has more "chances" to his credit than any other player, it might seem to the casual observer that his is the most difficult position to play; but as a matter of fact most of his chances are of a very simple nature, involving merely the catching of a thrown ball, and an examination of the official averages will show him leading in the percentages year after year. The possibilities of the position, however, have been developing. For many years, and, indeed, until he retired from the diamond, "Old Reliable" Joe Start was the king of first basemen; but, unquestionably, the play of such basemen as Connor, Commisky, and Morrill is a steady improvement, along with the rest of the game. Especially has there been an advance in the direction of fielding ground hits, and it is now not an unusual sight to see a first baseman getting a hit in short right field, and assisting in the put-out at first or second base. The position demands a tall man. Such a one, by his longer reach, will not only save many wide throws, but, because he is a good mark to throw at, will inspire confidence in the throwers. He must be able to catch a thrown ball, whether high, low, or on either side. As to the surest way of catching, opinions differ; but as to the best way, everything considered, I hold the same conditions to be true here as in the case of the catcher; that is, for a high thrown ball the fingers should point not toward the ball, but upward, and for a low thrown ball, just the reverse. If the throw is off to either side, the baseman must shift his position so as to be able to reach it, and if it is so far wide that he must leave the base, he should not hesitate to do so; he should not imagine that he is tied to the bag. Start was the first man I ever saw who knew how to leave the base for a wide throw. He never took the chance of a long reach for the ball, unless, of course, the game depended on that one put-out and there was no time to leave the base and return. He believed, and with reason, that it was better to first make sure of the ball and then touch the base, than, by trying to do both at once, see the ball sailing over into the side seats. It is a difficult play when the throw is to the baseman's left, in toward the runner, because of the danger of a collision with the latter. To the average spectator who may never have had much experience on the field, these collisions between players may seem trifling affairs, but they are not so regarded by the players themselves. In the history of the sport many men have been seriously injured in this way, and a few killed outright. For two weeks once I was obliged to sleep nights in a sitting posture as the result of a shock of this kind, and it was months before I recovered entirely from its effects. To avoid a collision when the ball is thrown in this way many good basemen stand back of the line with the right foot touching the base, and allow the runner to pass in front of them. There was one first baseman who used simply to reach in his left hand and pick the ball from in front of the runner with as much ease and safety as though it were thrown directly to him. I mean McKinnon, poor Al McKinnon! What a flood of affectionate recollections his name brings back. Kind-hearted, full of fun, manly, honest, and straightforward to the last degree, he was one whose memory will always be green in the hearts of those who knew him well. In picking up low thrown balls which strike the ground in front of the baseman, some become much more expert than others. One of the best, I think, is Phillips, who played last season with Brooklyn, and is now with the Kansas City Club. When the bound is what is called a "short bound," that is, where it strikes but a few inches in front of the hands, the play is really not a difficult one if the ground is at all even; but where it strikes from one to three feet beyond the hands, it requires considerable skill to get it, especially if the ground cannot be depended upon for a regular bound. In this latter case the bound is too long for a "pick-up" and too short for a long bound catch; so that the only thing to do is to calculate as nearly as possible where the ball should bound and then try to get the hands in front of it. It will be found easier to reach the hands as far forward as possible and then "give" with the ball, that is, draw the hands back toward the body in the direction the ball should take on its rebound. A player should never turn his face away, even at the risk of being hit, for by watching the ball all the time, he may be able to change the position of the hands enough to meet some slight miscalculation as to the direction of the bound. In fielding ground-hits, the same rule applies to the first baseman as to every other fielder; that he should get every hit he possibly can, with the single qualification that he shall avoid interference with other fielders. But as between a possible interference and a failure to go after a ball that should have been stopped, the interference is much to be preferred. There are some basemen who seem to think there is a line beyond which it is forbidden them to go; they act as though they were tied to the base-post by a twenty-foot lariat. Having fielded a ground-hit, the baseman will usually himself run to the base; but sometimes the hit is so slow or so far toward second or he fumbles it so long that there is no time left for him to do this. In such case he will toss the ball to the pitcher, who has covered the base. In making this play a baseman should not wait until the pitcher reaches the base before throwing, as it loses too much time, and he should not throw the ball at all, because it makes a difficult catch; but he should pitch the ball easily in front of the pitcher so that he and the ball will both meet at the base. A little practice will make this play plain and simple, and the advantage of doing it in this way will easily be seen. There are times when, with runners on the bases, the play will not be to first, but to second, third, or home. With a runner on first, many batters try to hit into right field, because with the second baseman forced to cover second for a throw from the catcher, the space between first and second is left almost unguarded. But if the first baseman will be on the alert for such a hit, and throw the runner out at second, he not only balks the play but frightens following batters from attempting the same hit. With a runner on third and not more than one man out, all the in-fielders will play closer to the bat, so as to throw the runner out at home on an in-field hit; in such case if the batter should strike out, and the third strike be dropped, the first baseman should not go to his base to receive the throw from the catcher, but meet it on the line as near as possible to the plate. He is then able to touch the runner on his way to first and to throw home if the man on third attempts to score on the throw to first. It may be possible to make a double play by first touching the runner to first and then throwing home; but if the runner to first holds back and there is danger of the man from third scoring, it is obviously best to throw home and cut him off, ignoring entirely the runner to first. Another point in which many basemen are remiss is in backing up. On all throws from left or left-centre field to second base he should get in line with the throw, and on all throws from the same fields to the plate he should also assist in backing up, unless there is some special necessity for guarding his own base. There is a prevalent belief that it matters little whether a first baseman can throw well or not, but a moment's consideration will show the fallacy of this. There are some plays in which he needs to be a hard and accurate thrower; with a runner on second and a ball hit to the in- field the runner will sometimes wait until it is thrown to first, and then start for third. In such case only the best kind of a return by the first baseman will head him off. So also in long hits to extreme right field he may have to assist the fielder by a throw to third or home. It will thus be seen that there are points of play at first base which, in the hands of an ambitious fielder, may be developed into very considerable importance. CHAPTER VI. THE SECOND BASEMAN. Second base is the prettiest position to play of the entire in-field. In the number of chances offered it is next to first base, and in the character of the work to be done and the opportunities for brilliant play and the exercise of judgment, it is unsurpassed. It is true the second baseman has more territory to look after than any other in- fielder, but on account of the long distance he plays from the batter he has more time in which to cover it. The last moment allowed a fielder to get in the way of a ball is worth the first two, because one will be consumed in getting under headway. Then, too, the distance of his throw to first is generally short, and this allows him to fumble a hit and still get the ball there in time. So that while much of his work is of a difficult kind, he is more than compensated by certain other advantages, and, so far as the percentage of chances accepted is concerned, he generally leads every one except the first baseman. The position should have a man of at least average physical proportions. There are in every game a number of throws to second from all points of the field, and with a small man there many of them would be "wild," on account of his lack of height and reach; moreover, a larger man offers a better mark to throw at, and the liability to throw wildly is decreased because of the increased confidence on the part of the throwers. Then, too, a small man is not able to stand the continual collisions with base-runners, and as a number of his plays are attempts to retire runners from first, he grows timid after awhile and allows many clever sliders to get away from him. On the other hand, the position requires a very active player, and for this reason, too large a man would not be desirable on account of the large field he has to cover, he must possess the ability to run fast and to start and stop quickly; he must be able to stoop and recover himself while still running, and be able to throw a ball from any position. Not all his throws are of the short order; sometimes he is expected to cut off a runner at third or return the ball to the catcher for the same purpose, and in these cases speed and accuracy are of the utmost importance. Because of the number and variety of plays that fall to his lot, he must be a man of some intelligence. With runners on the bases, the situations of a game change like the pictures in a kaleidoscope, so that there is not always time to consider what is the best play to make; there are times when he must decide with a wit so quick that it amounts almost to instinct, for the loss of a fraction of a second may be the loss of the opportunity, and that one play mean ultimate defeat. The exact spot to play, in order best to cover the position, will be determined by the direction in which the batter is likely to hit, by his fleetness, and by the situation of the game. If there are no runners on the bases the consideration of the batter will alone determine; if he is a right-field hitter the second baseman will play more toward the first baseman, the entire in-field moving around correspondingly; and if he is a left-field hitter he will play toward second and back of the base, in either case playing back of the base line from fifteen to fifty feet, depending upon whether the batter is a very fleet or slow runner. If there are runners on the bases this fact will have to be taken into consideration; for example, with a runner on second the baseman must play near enough to "hold" the runner on the base and not give him so much ground that he can steal third; or if there is a runner on first and the baseman is himself going to cover the base in case of a steal, he must be near enough to get there in time to receive the catcher's throw. On the other hand, he must not play too close or he leaves too much open space between himself and the first baseman; and, though playing far enough away, he should not start for the base until he sees that the batter has not hit. It is not necessary that he be at the base waiting for the throw, but only that he make sure to meet it there. Pfeffer, of Chicago, plays this point better than any one, I think, and in all respects in handling a thrown ball, he is unexcelled. To catch a runner attempting to steal from first, most second basemen prefer to receive the ball a few feet to the side of the base nearest first and in front of the line. The first is all right because it allows the runner to be touched before getting too close to the base and avoids close decisions; but I question the policy of the baseman being in front of the line in every instance. From this position it is extremely difficult to touch a runner who throws himself entirely out and back of the line, reaching for the base only with his hand. With a runner who is known to slide that way, I believe the baseman should stand back of the line; it demoralizes the runner when he looks up and finds the baseman in the path where he had expected to slide, and it forces him to go into the base in a way different from what he had intended and from that to which he is accustomed. The veteran Bob Ferguson always stood back of the line, and more than once made shipwreck of my hopes when I might have evaded him if he had given me a chance to slide. The time taken in turning around and reaching for the runner is often just enough to lose the play, whereas, standing back of the line, this time is saved, and, in addition, the baseman has the play and the runner's movements in front of him. With a runner on third and not more than one out, the batter may try to hit a ground ball to the in-field, sacrificing himself but allowing the runner from third to score. To prevent this the in-fielders will generally play nearer the bat, so as to return the ball to the catcher in time to cut off the runner, and how close they must play will depend, of course, upon the fleetness of the runner. Even then the ball may be hit so slowly or fielded in such a way as to make the play at the plate impossible, in which case the fielder will try to retire the batter at first. With runners on first and third the one on first will often try to steal second, and if the catcher throws down to catch him, the one on third goes for home. To meet this play on the part of the runners is by no means easy, but it can nevertheless be done. If the one run will not affect the general result of the game, it may be well to pay no attention to the runner from third and try only to put out the one from first, thus clearing the bases. But if it is necessary to prevent the run scoring, the second baseman must be prepared to return the ball to the catcher in case the runner starts for home. In order to gain as much time as possible, he should take as position to receive the catcher's throw ten feet inside of the base-line; keeping one eye on the ball and the other on the runner at third, if he sees the runner start for home, he must meet the throw as quickly as possible and return the ball to the catcher; if the runner does not start, the baseman should step quickly backward so that by the time the ball reaches him he will be near enough to the base-line to touch the runner from first. The play is a difficult one and requires more than the ordinary amount of skill and practice. There is another and, I think, better way of making this play, which will be spoken of under "The Short-stop," because that player is principally interested. Before the enactment of the rule confining the coachers to a limited space the coacher at third base sometimes played a sharp trick on the second baseman. When the catcher threw the ball, the coacher started down the base-line toward home, and the sec-mid baseman, seeing only imperfectly, mistook him for the runner and returned the ball quickly to the catcher. The result was that the runner from first trotted safely to second, the runner at third remained there, and everybody laughed except the second baseman. In fielding ground-hits the second baseman, because of his being so far removed from the bat, has a better chance to "judge" a hit. He is able either to advance or recede a step or more to meet the ball on a high bound; and on account of the short throw to first he may take more liberties with such a hit; it is not absolutely necessary that he field every ball cleanly, because he may fumble a hit and still make his play. In general, however, he should meet a hit as quickly as possible, so that if fumbled he may have the greatest amount of time to recover and throw. He should also, if possible, get squarely in front of every hit, thus making his feet, legs, and body assist in stopping the ball in case it eludes his hands. When not possible to get directly in front of the ball he must still try to stop it with both hands or with one, for he may then recover it in time to make the play. Having secured the ball, he should wait only long enough to steady himself before throwing. He should not hold the ball a moment longer than is necessary. In some cases he has not time to straighten up before throwing, but must snap the ball underhand; and where he gets the hit near enough to the base he should not throw at all, but pitch the ball to the baseman; this makes the play much safer. When there is a runner on first and the ball is hit to the second baseman, he tries for a double play, and there are four ways in which it may be made. First, if he gets the ball before the runner from first reaches him he may touch the runner and then throw to first base before the batter gets there. Second, if the runner from first stops so that he can't be touched, the baseman drives him back toward first as far as possible and throws there in time to put out the batter; the other runner, being then caught between the bases, is run down, completing the double. Third, if the hit is near enough to the base he may touch second and then throw to first to head off the batter. And, fourth, he may first pass the ball to the short-stop, who has covered second, and the latter throws to first in time to put out the batter. In nine cases out of ten the last is the safest play; it makes sure of the runner to second and is more likely to catch the batter, because the short-stop is in better shape to throw to first than the baseman would be if he attempted to make the play unassisted. The second baseman should take not only all fly hits in his own territory, but also all falling back of the first baseman, and back of the short-stop toward centre field. In all these cases he gets a better view of the ball than either of the other players named, because, instead of running backward, as they would be obliged to do, he runs to the side, and the catch is thus easier for him. If the hit is one which can be reached by an out-fielder, and the latter calls that he will take it, the second baseman will, of course, give way, because the fielder has the ball in front of him, in a better position even than the baseman. With a runner on second he must be on the lookout for the catcher's signal to the pitcher to throw to second, and on seeing this he must start at once for the base to receive the pitcher's throw. He must also watch for the catcher's sign to the second baseman notifying him of an intention to throw, and while the ball is passing from the pitcher to the catcher, get to the base to receive the throw. He should "back up" throws to the first baseman whenever possible, leaving his own base to be covered by the short-stop. He should assist the right and centre fielders in the return of long hits, running well out into the field to receive the out-fielder's throw. When plays arise other than those here mentioned his judgment must tell him what to do, and, without neglecting his own position, he must not hesitate to take any part to advance his team's interests. CHAPTER VII. THE THIRD BASEMAN. In the early days of the game, when the pitching was slower and "fair- foul" hits were allowed, the third base position was the busiest and most difficult to play of the in-field. But the changes in the rules, which did away with "fair-foul" hitting, and those which introduced the present pace in pitching, have taken away much of the third baseman's importance. Most of the in-field hitting now is toward short-stop and second base, and the best of third basemen are not able to average over three or four chances to a game. But, though the amount of his work has been diminished, it still retains its difficult nature. The length of the throw to first, and the short time given him in which to make it, occasion many wild throws, and if he fumbles the ball at all, the opportunity is lost. Fleet runners who hit left-handed, and others who merely "bunt" the ball, can be caught only by the quickest and cleanest work; so that, everything considered, it is not surprising to find the third baseman generally at the foot of the in-field averages. A third baseman, like a second baseman, should be a man of at least average size, and Denny, who is by long odds the best in the profession, is a large man. He will have a longer reach for both thrown and batted balls, he will be a better mark to throw at, and, by reason of his superior weight, he will have more confidence in the face of reckless base-running. But not every player of proper size who can stop a ball and throw it accurately to first is capable of becoming a good third baseman. The New York team of 1887 demonstrated the odd fact that a man who seemed entirely unable to play second base, could yet play third in good style, while another who was but an average third baseman could take care of second equal to any one. The explanation probably lies in the fact that the positions require men of different temperaments. At second base a player of nervous tendency grows anxious waiting for the ball to come, and by the time it reaches him is unable to get it in his hands, while at third base, where the action is much quicker, such a man is perfectly at home, because he is not given time to become nervous. The same curious fact is seen when an infielder is changed to an out- field position; he finds it impossible, at first, to stop ground-hits, because they seem never to be going to reach him, and he is completely "rattled" by the long wait. For the same reason the most difficult hits which an infielder has to handle are the slow, easy, bounding balls that under ordinary circumstances a child could stop. The proper place for a third baseman to play must be governed by the nature of the case. For an ordinary right-hand batter, likely to hit in any direction, and no one on the bases, he should play from fifteen to twenty feet toward second and several feet back of the base line. For a very fast runner he should move nearer the batter, and, if there is danger of a "bunt," he may even have to play well inside the diamond, though, as before said, all such hits should be attended to by the pitcher. For a batter who hits along the foul-line, he will play nearer his base, and for one who invariably hits toward right-field, he will move around toward second base, going, in some instances, even as far as the short-stop's regular position. For left-hand hitters he will generally have to play nearer the bat, because these players always get to first quicker than right-hand batters. They are five or six feet nearer first base, and by the swing of the bat they get a much quicker start. If there is a runner on third and not more than one out, he will have to play near the base before the ball is pitched, the object being to give the runner as little start as possible, so that he cannot score on a sacrifice hit. When the ball is pitched the baseman runs off to his proper position, unless, of course, he has received a signal from the catcher to expect a throw. The third baseman should go after not only all hits coming within his position proper, but also all slow hits toward short-stop, for the latter is sometimes unable to field such hits in time to make the putout, on account of the longer distance he plays from the home base. The baseman should, however, avoid useless interference with the short- stop, and he should not put down one hand or otherwise balk that player on a hit plainly within the latter's reach. Having stopped a batted ball, he should throw it as quickly as possible after having regained his balance, so that if the aim be slightly inaccurate the first baseman may have time to leave the base and return. If there is a runner on first, the baseman's throw will be to second; this will, at least, cut off the runner from first, and possibly a double play may be made, if the ball can be sent to first ahead of the striker. If there are runners on both first and second at the time of the hit, he may either throw to second for the double play as before, taking the chance of catching two men, or he may make sure of one man by simply touching the third base, forcing out the runner from second. Finally, there may be a runner on third and not more than one out, in which case, if the runner on third starts home, he will usually try to cut him off by a throw to the catcher, though possibly he may still deem it best to throw to some other base. In any case, what is the best play he must determine for himself, and he will expedite his decision by having a thorough understanding of the situation before the play arises. The third baseman should receive a signal from the catcher when the latter intends throwing to him to catch a runner "napping." The runner always takes considerable ground in order to score on a slow hit to the in-field, or on a short passed ball. By a signal, received before the pitcher delivers the ball, the baseman knows that the catcher will throw, and during the delivery he gets to the base to receive it. And here, again, the best base runners are oftenest caught because they take the most ground. If the batter hits at the ball the runner takes an extra start, and a quick throw to the base will very often catch him before he can get back. It should, therefore, be understood that, in every case when the batter strikes at the ball and misses it, the catcher will throw to third, whether or not he has previously given the signal. In touching a runner the baseman must not run away from him; he must expect to get spiked occasionally, for, if he is thinking more of his own safety than of making the put-out, he will lose many plays by allowing runners to slide under or around him. CHAPTER VIII. THE SHORT-STOP. Originally, it is said, the short-stop's chief function was as tender to the pitcher, though this soon became an unimportant feature of his work. The possibilities of the position as a factor in field play were early developed; such fielders as George Wright and Dick Pearce soon showed that it could be made one of the most important of the in-field. But the same legislation which almost crowded the third baseman out of the game, affected materially the short-stop's work, and it is only within the past couple of years that he has regained his former prominent place. During 1887 there was more hitting to short than to any other in-field position; though the second baseman averaged more "total chances," on account of a greater number of "put-outs," the "assists" were in favor of the short-stop. The conception of the position has also undergone some changes, and when, therefore, I say that the position is now played more effectively than ever, it is not to assert that the players of the present are better than those of the past, but simply that these changes have been in the line of improvement, that the short-stop now makes plays never thought of in former years--in short, that the development of the position has kept pace with the rest of the game. In the early days short-stop was played on the base line from second to third, or even several feet inside the diamond; now it is played from ten to twenty and sometimes thirty feet back of the line. The result is a vast increase in the amount of territory covered; hits are now fielded on either side which once were easily safe; short flies to the outfield, which formerly fell between the in and outfielders, are now, many of them, caught; the shortstop backs up the second and third bases, helps "hold" a runner on second, and, on a throw from pitcher or catcher, the second base is covered by him almost as often as by the baseman himself. Playing so much further from the batter, he will make inure errors; he can seldom fumble a hit and still make the play; his throw to first is longer, and must therefore be swifter and more accurate; but for these disadvantages to himself he is repaid many fold by an increased usefulness to his team. All these features together make the position very different from what it was some years ago, and in point of effectiveness it has undoubtedly been improved. A short-stop should be a player of more than ordinary suppleness and activity. He has a large amount of ground to cover; he has to field sharply hit balls on either side, and must therefore be able to start and stop quickly; he is often obliged to stoop, recover himself, and throw while running, and so has no time to get his feet tangled. Moreover, his presence is often required at widely separated portions of the field, with very brief intervals allowed him for making the changes. He may have to field a hit to first from near second base, and at once, in continuation of the same play, back up third on the return of the ball from first base. Or, from a close in-field position one moment, he may be called the next to far left-field to assist in the return of a long hit. So that he needs to be awake all the time and able to transfer himself without delay to that part of the field in which his services are required. On account of the length of his throw to first base, and because he is often expected to assist in the return of a long hit to the out-field, he should be a good, hard thrower. He should also be able to throw from any posture, because there are occasions when he has no time to straighten up and pull himself together before throwing. In chances for skillful plays and the employment of judgment, short-stop is second to no other position on the in-field. He is tied to no base, but is at liberty to go anywhere he may be most needed, and he is thus able to make himself very useful at times, in plays altogether out of his position proper. But to make the best use of these advantages he must be possessed of some intelligence and a wit quick enough to see the point and act before the opportunity has passed. Brains are as much a necessity in base-ball as in any other profession. The best ball players are the most intelligent, though, of course, natural intelligence is here meant and not necessarily that which is derived from books. The proper place for the short-stop to play will be governed always by the particular circumstances, as explained in the preceding chapters with reference to other in-fielders. If there are no runners on the bases, regard for the batter alone will determine, but if there are runners, this fact, and the situation of the game, must be taken into consideration. A glance at the diagram of the field given in Chapter I will show the usual position of all the fielders, but from these points they may greatly vary. If the batter generally hits along the left foul- line, the short-stop will play nearer the third baseman, and if, on the other hand, the batter hits toward right-field, the short-stop will move toward second, even going so far as to be directly back of the pitcher, the entire in-field, of course, moving around correspondingly. If the batter is a heavy runner, the short-stop may play a deep field, because he will still have sufficient time to get the ball to first; and so, also, if there is a runner on first, he may play well back, because his throw then, on a hit, is only to second base. If he is covering second base either to catch a runner from first or to hold a runner on second who has already reached there, he must play near enough to the base to be able to receive the throw. Or, if the attempt is to be made to cut off at the plate a runner trying to score on a sacrifice hit, he will play on the base-line or a few feet inside the diamond. All in-fielders, as well as out-fielders, should be willingly guided as to the position to play by a signal from the pitcher. The latter, knowing what kind of ball he is going to give the batsman to hit, is best able to judge beforehand of the direction of the hit. The short-stop should cover second base in all cases where there is a runner on first and the batter is one likely to hit to right-field. This allows the second baseman to guard the territory between second and first, which he would not otherwise be able to do, and if the ball is hit to him, he throws to the short-stop at second, forcing out the runner from first. He should also guard second when there is a runner on that base and the baseman is obliged to play well off for a hit toward right-field. Of course, he does not play on the base, but near enough to be able to reach it if the pitcher or catcher wishes to throw there. Another instance in which he may take the base is when there are runners on first and third and the runner on first starts for second. One way of making this play was described in speaking of "The Second Baseman," but it is believed that it may be much better done with the assistance of the short-stop. With runners on first and third, the catcher signals whether he will make a long or short throw toward second. When the runner on first starts down, the second baseman runs inside the diamond to a point in line with the base, and the short-stop goes to the base. If the throw is long, the short-stop receives the ball and touches the runner, or returns it quickly to the plate if the runner on third starts in. If the throw is short, the second baseman receives the ball and returns it to the catcher; or, if the runner on third does not start home, the baseman may still have time to turn and toss the ball to the short-stop to catch the runner from first. In deciding to give the signal for a short or long throw, the catcher is guided by the circumstances of the case and the situation of the game. If one run is going to materially affect the result of the game, the throw will be short, so that the ball may be surely returned to the catcher before the runner from third scores. If the run is not vital, the throw may still be short if the runner at third is speedy; but if he is slow and not likely to chance the run home, the throw will be all the way to the shortstop to put out the runner from first. The success of the play lies in the fact that the runner on third can never tell, until too late, whether the throw is to be short or long. The play was first made in this way by Gerhardt and myself in 1886, and during the past two seasons it has been tried in the New York team many tunes with the best results. Each player must, however, understand his part and all work together. In a recent game against Philadelphia, on the Polo Grounds, Crane, who had never taken part in the play before, gave Fogarty a ball within reach and he hit it through the short-stop position, left unguarded by my having gone to cover second base. On all hits to left and left centre-fields, the shortstop should take second, allowing the baseman to back up the throw, and on all hits to right and right centre the baseman will take the base and the shortstop attend to the backing up. In fielding ground hits the short-stop should observe the general principles for such plays. He should, if possible, get directly and squarely in front of every hit, making his feet, legs, and body assist in stopping the ball, in case it gets through his hands. If the ball comes on a "short bound," he should not push the hands forward to meet it, hut, having reached forward, "give" with the ball by drawing back the hands in the direction the ball should bound. In this way if the ball does not strike the hands fairly, its force will at least be deadened so that it will fall to the ground within reach of the player; whereas, if he pushes his hands forward and the ball does not strike fairly, it will be driven too far away. He should meet every hit as quickly as possible, so that if fumbled he may still have time to recover the ball and make the play. In running in to meet the ball, he must not forget the importance of steadiness, and to this end should get himself in proper form just before the ball reaches him. What is meant by "good form" may be seen by the above cut. The feet, legs, hands, arms, and body are all made to assist in presenting an impassable front to the ball. If base-ball diamonds were perfectly true the bound of the ball might be calculated with mathematical precision, but unfortunately they are not, and these precautions become necessary. There should be an understanding between the short-stop and third baseman that the latter is to take all slow hits toward short, and as many hard hits as he can fairly and safely field. The effect of the baseman's covering ground in this way is to allow the short-stop to play a deeper field and farther toward second base. Some players do not like the idea of another fielder taking hits which seem more properly to belong to themselves, but this is the correct way for a short-stop and third baseman to work, and between two men, playing only for the team's success, there will never be any dispute. It is always best, when possible, to use both hands to stop or catch a ball; but sometimes a hit is so far to either side, or so high, that it can only be reached with one hand. Therefore, a short-stop should practice one-hand play so that he may be able to use it when the emergency requires. He should never attempt it at any other time. Having secured a batted ball, he should throw it at once, waiting only long enough to regain his balance and make sure of his aim. The practice of holding the ball for a moment and looking at the runner, whether done to demonstrate the fielder's perfect sang froid, or to make a swift and pretty throw for the benefit of the grand stand, is altogether wrong. Generally, the throw will be to first, though sometimes there will be an opportunity to put out another runner, in which case it will be to some other base. In throwing to second or third, if he is near the base, he should pass the ball to the baseman by an easy, underhand toss. It is a difficult play to catch a thrown ball when the thrower is quite near; besides, in making double plays by way of second base, any time lost in tossing the ball will be more than regained by the quicker handling, and there is the additional inducement of safety. In making double plays to second it is almost always better to pass the ball to the baseman and allow him to throw to first, than for the short- stop to attempt to make the play alone. In 1882, a couple of weeks before the season closed, the Providence Club reached Chicago with the pennant all but won; one game from Chicago would have made it sure. In about the sixth inning of the last game, with the score four to two in our favor, the first two Chicago batters reached their bases. Kelly then hit to George Wright at short, who passed the ball to Farrell, retiring the runner from first, but Jack threw a little high to Start and missed the double. With runners on first and third, the next man, Anson, hit hard to Wright, so that he had plenty of time again for a double. But, this time, instead of passing the ball to Farrell, as before, George attempted to make the play alone. He touched second, but, by the time he was ready to throw Kelly came against him, and the result was a wild throw, and, to complete the disaster, the ball rolled through a small opening under a gate and both runners scored. We were beaten finally six to five, and lost the championship. It should be added that the game would have been won again in the eighth inning but for the unpardonable stupidity of one of the Providence base-runners. By far the most difficult catch on a ball field is that of a ball hit high to the in-field, because of the great "twist" to the ball. The slightest failure to get the ball fairly in the hands will result in a miss, and yet this is always greeted by derisive howls from certain among the spectators. There are various styles of catching these hits, but the position of the hands shown in the accompanying cut is believed to be the best. The hands should be reached well up to meet the ball and then brought down easily in the line of its course. If the hands and arms are held stiff, the ball will rebound from them as though it had struck a stone. The use of a glove on one hand may be found helpful in counteracting the effect of the twist. The short-stop is expected to try for all such hits falling in his own position, and also all falling back of the third baseman and in short left-field. With runners on bases, a double play may sometimes be made by allowing such a hit to first strike the ground. In order that the ball may not bound beyond reach, it should be caught or "picked up" on the short bound, and to do this safely requires a great deal of skill. It is a pretty play, and often of invaluable service, and it should therefore be practiced carefully until it can be made with approximate safety. The short-stop must not betray beforehand his intention, but pretend that he is going to catch the ball on the fly. With all signals given by the catcher to the different in-fielders the short-stop must be perfectly familiar, in order that he may be prepared to do his part. If there is to be a throw to second or third he should know it, so that he can be ready to back up in case the throw is wide or breaks through the baseman's hands. So, too, he must know when to expect a throw if he himself be covering second. In all cases where a runner is caught between bases, the short-stop must take part. If the play is between first and second or between second and third, he and the second baseman alternate in backing one another up on one side of the runner, while the other baseman and the pitcher do the same on the other side. If it is between third and home, he and the third baseman attend to one side, while the catcher and pitcher look after the other. In every case the base runner should be run down as quickly as possible, and always toward the base farthest from the home plate, so that if an error is made the runner will gain no advantage. In backing up other fielders a short-stop may be of great service, and he should do this in every possible case, no matter where the play may be. But the positions which he is specially bound to back up are the second and third bases, not only on all throws from the catcher, but from any other fielder, where it is possible for him to get in line with the throw. He must not get too close to the baseman but keep a sufficient distance back of him to make sure of getting in front of the ball. CHAPTER IX. THE LEFT-FIELDER. The simplest of the three out-field positions is the left-field, and one evidence of this is seen by the fact that a left-fielder almost invariably leads in the averages. If fielding were the only consideration, the man who was the surest catch, who could run the fastest and throw the longest, would be the best man for the left-field position; but other points enter into the question. A team, to win, must have hitters as well as fielders, and it is therefore usual to fill up the outfield with good batters, even at the expense of a slight weakness in fielding. Considered simply as a fielder, the occupant of the left-field should have a good "eye" to "judge" a ball hit in the air. The moment the hit is made he must be able to tell its direction and locate the place where it is going to fall. The best fielders acquire a remarkable skill in this respect and are able to decide these things at a glance. The fielder who is obliged to keep his eye on the ball all the time it is in the air will not cover nearly so much ground as the one who is able to put down his head and run until near the ball. Particularly is this true of a fly hit over the fielder's head. The player who attempts to run backwards or sideways for the ball, or who turns his back to the ball but keeps his head twisted around so as to see it, will not begin to get the hits that a man will who is able to locate the hit exactly and then turn and run until he has reached the spot where the ball is going to fall. If the eyesight is good any fielder can learn to do this, all it requires being sufficient practice and plenty of confidence. Another qualification for a fielder is the ability to start quickly and run fast. The player who excels in these respects will, of course, get more hits than one who starts and runs slowly. Next, he must be a sure catch on a batted ball, no matter in what shape he may be obliged to take it, whether running toward or with the ball, and whether it be high, low, or on either side. Many fielders are sure of a ball if they can get it in a particular position or at a certain height, but this is not enough, for it is not always possible to do this. A player who feels himself weak on any point should practice and practice upon that particular thing until he has mastered it. If he can catch hits on his right better than on his left side, let him practice catching only on the left; if he is weak on hits over his head, he should have some one bat to him thus, until he has overcome the weakness. Any failing of this nature may be corrected by practice. A fly ball should never be caught holding the hands and arms rigid. The fielder should reach up to meet the ball and then bring the hands down easily with it. There are some balls hit to the outfield, as well as to the in-field, which the fielders cannot possibly reach with both hands but may be able to get with one. In a game played to-day (May 7th), between New York and Indianapolis, Hines, of the latter Club, made a marvelous one-hand catch of a hit that would otherwise have been good for three bases; and the effect of that one play off the first New York batter was so bracing to the rest of the Indianapolis team that it probably accounted for the strong and winning game they afterwards played. So that, while discountenancing one-hand plays when two hands may be used, I still think every fielder should practice one-hand catches, to be prepared for such a play when it becomes necessary. In fielding balls hit along the ground, the fielder should not wait until the ball comes to him, but run in to meet it as quickly as possible. Then, if fumbled, he may still have time to get it back to the infield before base runners can take an extra base. The instant an out-fielder gets a ball in his hands he should throw it to some point in the in-field. The habit of holding a ball is extremely dangerous. If the bases are clear and a single base-hit is made the ball should be sent at once to second base. If there is a runner on first, it should be thrown to third base, because if sent to second a bold runner will sometimes keep right on to third. If there is a runner on second when the hit is made and the left-fielder secures the ball quickly, he should throw it to third, because most runners will over-run that base in order to draw the throw to the home plate, and a quick throw to the base will catch them before they can return. The left-fielder is expected to back up the second and third bases on a throw from first base or right-field. He should also back up third on a throw from the catcher, and to this end must be on the look-out for the catcher's signal. He must also back up the centre-fielder when that player runs in to meet a hit, for, though he may not be able to get in front of the ball, he will still be able to recover it quicker than the centre-fielder in case it gets by the latter. He should also get near the centre-fielder when the latter is trying for a high fly, so that if the ball is missed he may assist in sending it quickly to the in-field. As soon as a fielder has decided that he can get to a hit and has made up his mind to take it, he should call out loudly and distinctly, "I'll take it." That gives every one else warning to keep out of the way, and avoids the chance of collisions. On the other hand, if he is running for a hit and hears some other fielder call out, he should reply, quickly and clearly, "Go ahead." That gives the other fielder confidence, and he need not hesitate or take his eye from the ball to learn the location of other fielders. If this very simple rule is observed there will never be any collisions, nor will any hits that should be caught be allowed to drop between fielders. On all long hits out of the fielder's reach he should go after the ball with all possible speed and return it to the in-fielder, who has gone out to help him back with the ball. If he misses a fly he should get after the ball at once and send it to the proper point on the in-field, and not walk after it simply because he has missed it. Andy Leonard, of the old Bostons, was, in his day, one of the best of left-fielders. He was particularly strong on balls hit over his head, which he always took over his shoulder while running with the direction of the hit. He was also a remarkably bard and accurate thrower. CHAPTER X. THE CENTRE FIELDER. Much of what has been said with reference to the left fielder is applicable also to the occupant of the centre field. As a fielder only, it is necessary that he should possess the same powers of "judging" a hit quickly, of starting the instant the hit is made, of running fast until he has reached it, and of catching the ball in any position; but as a fielder and batter as well, his fielding qualities are often overlooked, to a certain extent, in favor of his power as a batter. Many fielders prefer to catch a ball while they are running and so regulate their speed as to be still on the move when they meet the ball. Some of them do this because they can catch a ball better in that way, and others because they think it looks prettier and pleases the grand stand; they are continually making what appear to be difficult catches, and they occasionally fall down and roll over to add to the effect. But while this may deceive the average spectator, it never escapes the other players, and they soon grow extremely weary of such gymnastics. And after awhile the spectators, too, discover his tricks, and then the player will not get credit even for the really good work he may do. Another thing to be said against this grand-stand style of play is that these players sometimes miscalculate the direction or force of a hit just enough to lose it, whereas if they had run hard at first the ball would have been easily caught. The safest plan is to get under the hit as quickly as possible and then there will be time to correct any slight misjudgment. In fielding balls hit along the ground, the outfielder should run in quickly to meet the ball and return it instantly to the proper point on the in-field. I have seen games lost by out-fielders stupidly holding a ball or returning it lazily to the in-field. There is absolutely nothing to be gained but everything to be lost by such plays. In throwing to any point on the in-field, if the throw is at all a long one, the fielder should line the ball in on the bound. An out-fielder should never attempt a long throw on the fly, to first or third or home. A throw on the first bound will reach there just as quickly, more accurately, and with less chance of getting by the fielder to whom it is thrown. The centre fielder must back up second base on all throws from the catcher, and also on throws from any other position, whenever possible. On throws from the direction of first base he will be assisted by the left fielder and from the direction of third base by the right fielder. When a runner is stealing second base and the catcher's throw is wild, the centre fielder must meet the ball quickly so as to prevent the runner from going on to third. In a case of this kind a crafty runner will often make a feint to run to third in order to force the fielder to throw the ball in the hope that he may throw it wild. If there is a probability that the runner actually intends to go to third, there is nothing left the fielder but to throw and take the chance. But if the fielder has good reason to suspect the honesty of the runner's intentions, a quick throw to second, instead of to third, will often catch him before he can return. The centre fielder should also back up the left and right fielders on all hits along the ground which either-of them runs in to meet. It gives one fielder more confidence to go in quickly after a ball if he knows there is another fielder behind him to stop it in case it passes himself. Even on an in-field hit to the second baseman or short-stop the out- fielder should move in at once, so as to be able to recover the ball quickly if it gets through the in-field. When a runner is caught between first and second or second and third bases, the centre fielder should get in line with the play, back of second base. For, while only four players take an active part in such a play others should back up to provide for the possibility of a wild throw. The necessity of "calling" for a fly hit applies with particular force to the centre fielder. As soon as he has seen that he can get to a hit and has decided to take it, he calls out loudly so that every one must hear, "I'll take it," and all the other fielders near him respond, "Go ahead." This will avoid all danger of collisions to which he is specially exposed by having a fielder on either side. On all high flys to another out-fielder he should go near the fielder who is attempting to make the catch, so that if the ball is missed and bounds his way, he can recover it quickly and prevent runners from gaining extra bases. CHAPTER XI. THE RIGHT FIELDER. The right field, when properly played, is the most difficult of the out- field positions. A ball hit in that direction by a right-handed hitter always describes a curve and is therefore very hard to judge. A good right fielder should also throw out many men at first base during a season, and this means that he must possess all the qualifications of an in-fielder. A few years ago it was not an unusual thing to see a batsman thrown out at first on a hit into right field. One of the best fielders for this was George Shaffer, who for several seasons played with the Cleveland Club. Another good man was "Jake" Evans, of the Troy Club, and when with the Providence Club, Dorgan seldom let a game go by without catching one or more men in this way. Of late this is not done so often, for the reason that the right fielder plays a much deeper field now than he did a few years ago. Then, when the "curve" was still a novelty, there were very few hard hits made to right field by right-handed batters. Still, even now, there are many batters for whom there is no reason to play a deep right field, and such a batter should often be thrown out at first. Yet the only player whom I have seen make the play this season was Brown, of Boston, who threw out Titcomb twice in one game on the Polo Ground. All that has been said about the other out-fielders as to judging a hit, starting, running, and catching, may be said of the right fielder. Equally with them he must locate a hit instantly, start quickly, run speedily, and be able to catch the ball in whatever form he may reach it. In judging a hit the fielder always takes into consideration the force and direction of the wind--with the effect of which he has become familiar in the preliminary practice--and the curve which the ball is likely to take if hit by a right-hand batter. In fielding ground-hits he meets the ball quickly, and, where possible to catch the batter at first, he throws there on the fly. The reason for throwing so in this instance is, that if he is near enough to catch the man at all, he is near enough to throw accurately on the fly. But to third base or home he should always throw on the bound. He should back up first base on all throws from the catcher. He also should assist the centre fielder in backing up second base, and to this end run back of the centre fielder when the latter goes in to meet the ball; so that if it passes one, the other will still be there to stop it. He should also back up the centre fielder on all ground-hits to the latter, and on all fly hits to him he should go near so as to quickly recover the ball if it be missed. He should "call" for the ball the moment he has decided to take it, and as between an out-fielder and an in-fielder the former will take any hit he can reach. He is running in for the ball and has it before him all the time, while the in-fielder, running out, is apt to get twisted up and in bad shape to make the catch. Out-fielders, like in-fielders, must change position to correspond with the direction the batsman is likely to hit. For instance, there are some men who are never known to hit to right field, and for such the entire out-field moves toward the left field, the right fielder going almost to centre, the centre fielder to left centre, and the left fielder close to the foul-line. When the fielder knows the batsman, he will change without direction; but in any case he should respond quickly to any signal from the pitcher, because the latter may be going to force the batter to hit in a particular direction. The best fielders make the greatest difference in the positions they play for different batsmen. The right fielder must be on the look-out for the catcher's signal to throw to first or second base, because, in order that he may get in line with the throw, it is necessary that he shall start when the pitcher begins to deliver. He cannot wait until the catcher throws or he will be too late to get in line. CHAPTER XII. THE BATTER. The most unsatisfactory feature in base-ball to the player himself, is batting. In theory it is so simple, yet in practice so difficult, that one is forever finding fault with himself and thinking, when too late, of what he might have done if only he had not done as he did. Of course, the element of chance or "luck," as it is called, enters largely into the question. The hardest hit will sometimes go directly into the waiting hands of a fielder, while a little "punk" hit from the handle or extreme end of the bat may drop lazily into some unguarded spot. But, in the course of a season, these chances should about equalize one another, and, though fate may seem to be against a man for a half dozen or more games, he will be found finally to have benefited as much by "scratch" hits as he has lost in good, hard drives. The theory of batting is simplicity itself. All that is necessary is to wait until the ball comes over the plate and then hit it on a line back into the field. From the grand stand, nothing could be easier. To sit back of the catcher and see the balls come sailing over the plate, one will wonder why they are not hit out of creation, and when some player, who has allowed a couple of balls to pass directly over the plate without making the least attempt to hit at them, finally lets go at one that he could scarcely reach with a wagon tongue, much less with a 36- inch bat, the spectator is likely to question the fellow's sanity. It is amusing to sit in a base-ball crowd and hear the remarks. There are more good batters and umpires and all-round ball players in the grand stand within one's hearing, than are to be found in both the contesting teams. It would be more amusing still if some of these prodigies could be lifted out of their seats and taken down into the field, and, with a bat in hand, made to face some first-class pitcher until they had hit the ball just once. They would be surprised to see how differently it looks. At a distance of only fifty feet from a man who can throw a ball like a streak of lightning, or with the same apparent motion, send it so slowly that one will think it is never going to reach him, who can curve it in or out, up or down, the question of hitting the ball at all becomes one of some doubt, to say nothing of "base hits." And then, add to this the danger of a swift, wild pitch carrying away an arm or burying itself in the batsman's stomach, and the difficulty is greatly increased. Just think of it for a moment. A player who can throw a ball, say one hundred and sixteen and two-thirds yards, goes into the pitcher's box and from a distance of only sixteen and two-thirds yards throws the ball to the batter with all speed. If the throw is wild and the ball hits the batter it strikes him with a force that would have been sufficient to carry the ball one hundred yards further. It would be interesting to know just how many mule power there is behind such a blow. There are a few moments after a man has been hit during which he wishes he had never seen a base-ball, and for the next couple of games, at least, he will think more of escaping a recurrence of the accident than of hitting the ball. Hines, of Indianapolis, has already been hit on the head this season by one of the Chicago pitchers, and the result is a long, ragged-looking scar that he will always carry. An inch lower, and the blow might have cost him his life. The first consideration in learning to bat is to acquire the proper form. By this is not meant the position to be assumed while waiting for the pitch, because each batter may, and generally does have his distinctive style. But when in the act of hitting there is a certain form to be observed, and this, in its salient points, is the same with all good batters. Standing within easy reach of the plate, the batter should hold his bat ready to hit a breast-high ball. It is easier to hit a low ball when expecting a high one than to hit a high ball when a low one was expected, for the reason that it is easier to drop the bat quickly and swing underhand than it is to elevate it and chop overhand. When the ball is pitched be should not move until he has seen where the ball is going. Not until in the act of swinging his bat should he step forward, and then his step should be short, and, generally, directly toward the pitcher. When he hits, the body should be held erect and flung slightly forward, so that when the bat meets the ball the weight is principally on the forward foot. If he steps too soon, his position is taken and he cannot change it to suit any slight miscalculation he may have made in the speed or direction of the ball. Neither should he make too long a stride, for the same reasons given in the preceding paragraph, and also because it puts him in bad form to hit at a high ball. He should generally step directly toward the pitcher, unless he has special reasons for doing otherwise. For instance, if a right-hand hitter wishes to hit to left-field, he had better step so as to face slightly in that direction; and if he wishes to hit to right-field, he will stand farther from the plate and step in with the left foot so as to face somewhat in the direction he intends to hit. The object in standing erect is to keep well the balance and be in a position to cut under or over at a low or high ball. The body is thrown slightly forward so that the weight and force of the body may be given to the stroke. It is not necessary to hit hard, but solidly, and this is done not so much by the swing of the arms as by the push and weight of the shoulder behind it. The accompanying cut of Ewing is an excellent representation of a batter, in the act of hitting. He not only swings the bat with the arms, but pushes it with the weight of the shoulders. The position is a picture of strength. In hitting at a high ball the bat should be swung overhand, in an almost perpendicular plane, and so, also, for a low ball, the batter should stand erect and cut underhand. If the bat is swung in a horizontal plane the least miscalculation in the height of the ball will be fatal. If it strikes above or below the centre line of the bat, it will be driven either up into the air or down to the ground. Whereas, if the bat is swung perpendicularly, the same mistake will only cause it to strike a little farther up or down on the bat, but still on the centre line, and if it misses the centre line it will be thrown off toward first or third, instead of up or down. There are two classes of good batters whose styles of hitting are so different that they may be said to be distinct. The one, comprising such hitters as Connor, Brouthers, Tiernan, Wise, Fogarty, Whitney, Ryan, Denny, and Fred Carroll, use the full length of the bat, and in addition to the push of the shoulders make a decided swing at the ball. In the other, in which are Anson, Kelly, Dunlap, and a few others, the motion is more of a push than a swing. Anson, who, if not the best batter in the country, is certainly the surest, seldom does anything but push the bat against the ball, only occasionally making what might be called a swing. Many of the latter class grasp the bat up short, and some of them keep the hands a few inches apart. If I were advising a novice which style to learn I should say the latter, because it is the surer, though such batters seldom hit as hard as the others. Every ball player who pretends to play the game with his brain as well as with his body, should be able to hit in whatever direction he wishes. It may not be always possible to hit in the exact direction desired, and, of course, he cannot "place" the ball in any particular spot, but he can and should be able to hit either to left field or right, as the occasion demands. The advantage of this to the player himself and to his team cannot be overestimated. For example, there is a runner on first who signals to the batter that he will try to steal second on the second ball pitched. When he starts to run the second baseman goes for his base and the entire field between first and second is left open. Now, if the batter gets a ball anywhere within reach and taps it down toward right field, the chances are that it will be safe, and the runner from first will keep right on to third. Oftentimes, too, the batter himself will reach second on the throw from right field to third to catch the runner ahead of him. Here, now, by a little head-work, are runners on third and second, whereas, an attempt to smash the ball, trusting to luck as to where it should go, might have resulted in a double play or at least one man out and no advantage gained. Many a game is won by such scientific work, and the club that can do the most of it, day after day, will come in the winners in the finish. When a batter is known as one who will attempt a play of this kind, it is usual for the second baseman to play well over into right field, allowing the second to be covered by the short-stop. When the batter discovers such a scheme to catch him he should continue to face toward right field, in order not to betray his intention, but when the ball is pitched, he should turn and hit toward left field. If the short-stop has gone to take the base, the space between second and third is left open just as the other side was. A great fault with many batters is that they try to hit the ball too hard. This is especially true of the younger players, the "colts," as they are called. A young player with a reputation as a hitter in some minor league, goes into a big club and at once thinks he must hit the ball over the fence. The result is that he doesn't hit it at all, and unless he corrects his fault, he goes on "fanning the atmosphere" until he is handed his release. And yet the same player, if he would steady himself down and once get started hitting might do just as well as he did in his former club. And this brings up the reflection that there is a great virtue in confidence. The player who goes timidly to the bat with his mind made up that he can't hit, anyhow, might just as well keep his seat. But the one who walks up, saying to himself, "Other men hit this ball, and I can, too," will be inspired by his own confidence, and for that very reason he will be more likely to hit. So it is that batting goes so much by streaks. A nine that has not made a hit for several innings will suddenly start in and bat out a victory. One player leads off with a good hit and is followed by another and another, each benefited by the confidence and enthusiasm the preceding batters have aroused. It goes without saying that the player's eyesight must be perfect or he can never hope to be a good batter. It requires the keenest kind of an eye to keep track of the ball and tell when it is over the plate and at the proper height. So, too, the nerves must be kept in good condition or the player will be unable to resist the temptation to hit at wide balls. A nervous batter is easily "worked," because he is so anxious to hit that he can't wait for a good ball. But the most important attribute of all in the composition of a good batter is courage. In this term I include the self-control and the resolution by which a man will force himself to stand before the swiftest and wildest pitching without flinching, the fearlessness that can contemplate the probability of a blow from the ball without allowing the judgment to be affected. Out of ten poor batters nine are so because they are afraid of being hit. It is often asked, "Why are pitchers, as a rule, such poor batters?" and to this the answer in my own mind has always been that it is because they know so well the danger which the batter incurs. There is perhaps no such thing as absolute fearlessness; the batter who has once been hit hard--and all of them have--will never quite forget the occurrence, and he will forever after have the respect for the ball that a burned child has for the fire. But some men will not allow this feeling to overcome them. It is absolutely necessary, then, to first conquer one's self, to fight down fear and forget everything except that the ball must be hit. To some, this seems not a difficult matter, to many it comes only after the most determined effort and schooling of the nerves, while to a few it seems to be an utter impossibility. The instinct of self-preservation is such a controlling power with them that unconsciously they draw away from the ball, and, try as they will, they cannot stand up to the plate. The player who cannot overcome this feeling will never be a good hitter, though when he finds that he is a victim he should not give up without a struggle. Some players have broken themselves of the habit of running away from the plate by stepping back with the rear foot, instead of forward with the forward foot, when in the act of hitting. Thompson, of Detroit, who is a remarkably good hitter, steps backward instead of forward. Others, like Hecker, of Louisville, step neither way, but hit as they stand, simply throwing the body forward. Every expedient should be tried before the case is given up as incurable. In my own case I was forced to change from right to left-hand hitting. I had been hit so hard several times that I grew afraid of the ball and contracted the habit of stepping away from the plate. It was a nervous fear over which I had no control, and the habit became so confirmed that I resolved to turn around left-handed. I thought that in learning to hit the new way I could avoid the mistakes into which I had before fallen. It took time and practice to learn, but the result, I think, has been an improvement. While not able to hit so hard left-handed, because the muscles are not yet so strong, I make more single hits, reach first base oftener, and score more runs. CHAPTER XIII. THE BASE-RUNNER. Of the four departments of play, batting, base-running, fielding, and battery work, the most interesting is base-running. It is the most skillful, it calls into play the keenest perception and the soundest judgment, it demands agility and speed, and it requires more daring, courage, and enthusiasm than all the others combined. Its importance as a factor in winning games cannot be estimated. We only know that a team of base-runners wins game after game in which it is out-batted and out-fielded by its opponents. No system of scoring has been or can be devised by which a full record of this kind of work can be kept. The system now in vogue, crediting the number of bases stolen, is all right so far as it goes, but it covers only a small part of the ground. Stealing bases is a part of base-running, but it is a very small part, and to say that the player who steals the most bases is therefore the best base-runner, is an altogether unwarranted statement. A quick starter, speedy runner, and clever slider might easily steal the most bases, and yet in general usefulness fall far behind some other player. Beginning with the more mechanical features, the first qualification for a base-runner is the ability to start quickly. The distances on a ball field have been laid out with such marvelous nicety that every fraction of a second is valuable. Almost every play is close, and the loss of an instant of time is often the loss of the opportunity. But to start quickly means more than a quick action of the muscles; it means also that the brain and body must act together. The base-runner who must wait to be told what to do will always be too late. By the time the coacher has seen the point and called to the runner and the latter has gotten himself into action, the chance has long passed. The player must be able to see the play himself and act upon it instantly, without waiting to be told. Different runners adopt different methods for getting a long start from a base. Some take as much ground as possible before the pitch and then start the moment they see the first motion to deliver. Others stand near the base, and when they think it about time for the pitcher to pitch make a start. If they happen to guess aright they get a running start, which is, of course, a great advantage. And if they guess wrong, the pitcher is so taken by surprise that it is always possible to return to the base before he can throw. Of the two methods I prefer the latter. Remaining near the base disarms suspicion, and the runner is not tired out, by repeated feints to throw, on the part of the pitcher. In either case the practice of standing with the feet wide apart is altogether wrong and in violation of every principle of quick starting. Unlike a sprinter, a base-runner must be in shape to start in either direction, and this can be done best and quickest by standing upright with the feet almost together. A second qualification is speed. While, as before said, mere speed will not make a base-runner, in the full sense of the term, yet, other things being equal, the faster runner will be the better base-runner. Straight away running is something to which ball players do not devote sufficient attention. While, to a certain extent, it is a natural gift, yet every man can improve himself greatly by practice, and if the spring training of players included more of this work, the result would certainly be an improvement in the base-running. Notwithstanding the importance of starting and running and sliding, there is absolutely no attention given these matters, and, consequently, the majority of players seem to be entirely ignorant of the proper "form." It would be a good investment for some clubs to employ a professional sprinter to teach their men how to stand, in order to start quickly, and how to put one foot in front of the other in the approved form. An important aid also to successful base-running is the knack of sliding well. A player skillful in this respect will often save himself when he seems caught beyond escape. Every runner should know how to slide if he expects to accomplish anything at all, and every man will slide who has the proper interest in his work. Some players do not do so because they have never learned and are afraid to try, while others seem to care so little for the team's success that they are unwilling to take the chances of injury to themselves. As for the former class, a half hour's practice on sawdust or soft earth will show them how easily it is learned, and as for the latter, they should be made to slide, even if it be found necessary to persuade them through their pockets. Sliding, as an art, is of recent growth, though it has long been the practice of base-runners to drop to avoid being touched. In view of its present importance it is amusing to read, in an article written on the subject some years ago, an argument against the practice indulged in by a few players of sliding to the base in order to avoid being touched by the ball. The old style of sliding was with the feet foremost, but there are now various methods employed. Many runners now slide head foremost, throwing themselves flat on the breast and stomach. Some keep to the base-line and slide direct for the base, while others throw the body and legs out of the line and reach for the base with a hand or foot. Among those who always slide feet first and direct for the base, Hanlon is the most successful. He doesn't go down until quite close to the base, and then does not at all slacken his speed. Connor also slides feet foremost, but instead of throwing himself at full length, he maintains a sitting posture, and each of his slides is the signal for a laugh from the crowd. On account of his size and the weight behind his spikes, he is always given the entire base-line without dispute. Williamson is a very successful slider. He runs at full speed until near the base and then throws his body away from the baseman and his feet at the base. The successful runners who slide flat on the stomach are Fogarty, Tiernan, Miller, Andrews, Brown and others. Of those who go in head foremost but throw the body out of the line and away from the baseman, are Ewing, Glasscock, Pfeffer, Dalrymple and some others. An expert base-runner will confine himself to no particular style, but, being familiar with all, will use, in each instance, the one best suited. Sometimes one style is best and sometimes another, depending upon where the ball is thrown and the position of the baseman. I consider Kelly the best all-round slider in the League, because he can, and does, use every style with equal freedom. The American Association has some of the finest runners in Nicoll, Latham, Stovey, Purcell, and many others, but I have, unfortunately, not seen enough of their work to speak accurately of their methods. Though stealing bases is only a part of base-running, yet even this requires considerable skill, and it is by no means always the fastest runner who succeeds the oftenest. Much depends on the start, and much, too, on the slide. I may be permitted to outline my own method: Having reached first, I signal to the next batter when I am going to steal. Then, standing near the base, well upright and with my feet together, I try to get a running start on the pitcher; that is, when I think he is about to pitch, though he has yet made no motion, I make my start. If he does pitch I get all the ground that I would have had by playing off the base in the first place, and I have, besides, the advantage of being on the move. Every one who knows anything of sprinting will appreciate the advantages of such a start. If the pitcher does not pitch I usually manage to return to the base in safety. Having secured my start, I expect that the batter will hit the ball, if it is a good one, into right-field, in which case I will keep right on to third base; or, if it is a bad ball, the batter will at east hit at it, in order, if possible, to blind the catcher and help me out. In any event I put down my head and run direct for the base, and in no case do I attempt to watch the ball. It is a foolish and often fatal mistake for a runner to keep his head turned toward the catcher while running in another direction. If the ball is hit I listen for the coacher's direction, but if it is not, I keep my eye on the baseman, and by watching his movements, the expression of his face, and the direction he is looking, I can tell as certainly just where the throw is going as though I saw the ball. If he stands in front of the line I run back of him, and if he is back of the line I slide in front. In every case, and whether I go in head or feet foremost, I throw my body away from the baseman so as to give him the least possible surface to touch with the ball. There is an advantage in sliding head foremost, in that the runner, by falling forward, gains the length of his body and the reach of his arm, whereas in sliding feet foremost, he loses this. But if one always goes in head foremost, the baseman, knowing what to expect and standing in no fear of injury, will block the base-line. It seems necessary to occasionally throw the spikes in first in order to retain one's right to the line and command a proper respect from opposing basemen. In order that the runner may not be continually cut and bruised by gravel or rough ground he should protect his hips and knees by pads. Some have the padding stitched to the inside of the pants, and for the knees this is the better plan, though it interferes somewhat with the washing of the uniform. But for the hips I prefer the separate pads, which may be bought at any store for the sale of base-ball goods. The best make is buttoned to a strap which hinds tightly the lower portion of the body, and this latter feature is itself of great advantage; not only as a matter of comfort and safety, but also for the sake of decency, every player should wear one of these straps, the same as athletes do in other branches of sport. But, after all, the important factors in successful base-running are yet to be spoken of, and the foregoing points are merely mechanical aids. There is no other department of play in which intelligence plays so important a part, and no matter how clever the player as a starter, runner, or slider, these faculties will be of little value unless directed by a quick perception and sound judgment. Indeed, they will often serve only as traps to lead him into difficulty. By its very nature a quick perception is an inborn faculty of the mind, and while it may be developed by constant use, no amount of coaching can create it. There are some players who are no more capable of becoming good base-runners than of living under water, so unfitted are they by nature. The power of grasping a situation and acting upon it at once is something which cannot be taught. In order, however, to know when a fair opportunity presents itself, the runner must be familiar with the chances of play, and this comes only from experience and close observation. A runner who is thoroughly alive to all the possibilities of the game will see a chance and gain a point where another of less ready perception would find no opening. The former has learned to marshal at a glance all the attendant probabilities and possibilities and to estimate, in the same instant, the chances of success or failure. It is not, however, always best to accept an opportunity when presented, even where the chances of success are largely in the runner's favor. The stages of the game must be taken into consideration, and what may be a perfectly commendable play in one situation may be altogether reckless and foolhardy in another. Therefore, the most important faculty of all, the pendulum which regulates, and the rudder which guides, is judgment. An illustration may make my meaning clear. In the ninth inning, with a runner on first base and the score a tie, it may be a good play for the runner to attempt to steal second, because from there a single hit may send him home. But suppose that, instead of the score being a tie, the side at bat is four or five runs behind, of what possible use will the steal be now, even if successful? One run will do no good, and the only chance of victory is in the following batters also getting around the bases. But the hits or errors by which this must be accomplished will also send the first runner home without a steal, so that in attempting to steal he takes a chance which is of no advantage if successful, and perhaps a fatal mistake if not. Again, suppose there is a runner on third and none out and the batter hits a short fly to the out-field, on the catch of which it is doubtful whether the runner can score. If the next batter is a good hitter, he will not make the attempt, trusting to the next hit for a better chance. But if the next batter is weak and not likely to offer as good a chance he may decide to try for the run on the small chance already presented. These are only given as examples and they might be multiplied, because the same problem will always present itself in a more or less imperative form every time the runner has a play to make. The question he must always decide is, "Is this the best play, everything considered?" It goes without saying that he must answer this for himself. In conclusion, I will describe some plays that may arise and venture some observations, running through which the reader may discern the general principles of base-running. There is an element in base-ball which is neither skill nor chance, and yet it is a most important factor of success. It is the unseen influence that wins in the face of the greatest odds. It is the element, the presence of which in a team is often called "luck," and its absence a "lack of nerve." It is sometimes spoken of as "young blood," because the younger players, as a general rule, are more susceptible to its influence. Its real name is enthusiasm, and it is the factor, in the influence of which, is to be found the true explanation of the curious standing of some clubs. Between two teams of equal or unequal strength the more enthusiastic will generally win. The field work may be slow and steady, but at the bat and on the bases there must be dash and vim. If, for example, it be found that a catcher is a poor thrower, or a pitcher slow in his movements, every fair runner reaching first should immediately attempt to steal second, and even third. This style of play will demoralize an opposing team quicker than anything else, and even if unsuccessful at first, and the first few runners be caught, it should still be kept up for a couple of innings, because it will, at least, affect the nerves of some of the opposing players, and if a break does come, the victory will be an easy one. Every batter should be ready to take his place quickly at the bat, and hit at the first good ball; every runner should be on the move; and with plenty of coaching, and everybody full of enthusiasm, it is only necessary to get the run-getting started in order to have it go right along. This is the game that is winning in base-ball to-day, as every observant spectator knows. Base-running begins the moment the ball is hit. There are some players who don't know how to drop their bats and get away from the plate. Some stand until they see whether the hit is safe, and they run to first with the head twisted around to watch the ball. The instant the ball is hit, no matter where it goes, the batter should drop the bat and start for the base; leaving the ball to take care of itself, he should put down his head and run, looking neither to the right nor the left. Every foot gained may be of vital importance, for in most cases the runner is thrown out by the distance of only a few feet. Some runners make a mistake in jumping for the base with the last step. It not only loses time but makes the decision so plain to the umpire that the runner fails to receive his fair share of benefit from close plays. A runner to first on a base hit or fly to the outfield should always turn first base and lead well down toward second, so that if the ball is fumbled or handled slowly or missed, he may be able to reach second. And by hurrying the out-fielder he increases the probability of an error. A runner should always run at the top of his speed, except in the single case where he feels himself to be clearly within reach of his base and then slackens up in order to draw the throw. At no other time is there anything to be gained by slow running, and often there is much to be lost. In the game spoken of elsewhere in this book, between Providence and Chicago, which virtually decided the championship for 1882, Hines was on first when Joe Start hit what looked like a home-run over the centre-field fence. The wind caught the ball and held it back so that it struck the top of the netting and fell back into the field. Hines, thinking the hit perfectly safe, was jogging around the bases when the ball was returned to the in-field. Start had run fast and overtaken Hines, and the result was that instead of a run scored, a man on third and no one out, both runners were put out and we lost the game by one run, and the championship by that one game. A player has no right to "think this or that;" his sole duty is to run hard until the play is over. When a runner is on first and a hit is made he should run fast to second, and if possible force the throw to third. Every such throw offers an opportunity for error, and the more of these the runner can force the more chances there will be in his favor. By getting quickly to second he is in a position to go on to third if the ball is fumbled or slowly handled, or returned to the wrong point on the in-field. So, too, a runner on second, when a hit is made, should always force the throw to the home plate, even if he does not intend to try for the run. In order to do this he must run hard to third and turn the base as though he really meant to go home. Any hesitation or looking around will fail of the object. The throw home gives the player who hit the ball a chance to reach second base. In a game where there is plenty of hitting runners should obviously take fewer chances than where the hitting is light. It is usually advisable for a good runner, who leas reached first with two men out, to attempt to steal second, because then one hit will likely bring him home; whereas if he stays on first it will require two hits, or two errors in succession, and these are not likely to come, with two men already out. The only times to steal third are, first, when there is only one out, for then a hit, a sacrifice, or a long fly will score the run. If there is no one out, the chances are that a runner on second will eventually score anyhow, and if there are two out there is little advantage gained by stealing third. It still requires a hit or an error to score the run, and the same would probably score it from second as easily as from third. Second, it may sometimes be advisable for a runner on second base to steal third, even when there are two out, provided there is also a runner on first. Because, if successful, the runner on first also gets to second, and the result is two stolen bases front the one chance, and a hit will now likely score two runs instead of one. When there is a runner on second or third with no more than one out, and the batter makes what is apparently a long, safe hit, the runner should hold the base until he has seen, beyond a doubt, that the hit is safe. If safe, he will still have ample time to reach home, while if, by any chance, it be caught, he will nevertheless get third or home, as the case may be. A couple of seasons back a New York runner was on third, with no one out, when the batter made what looked like a home-run hit. The runner on third, instead of waiting to make sure, started home; the ball was caught and, though he managed to return to third, he did not score, as he otherwise might easily have done. The next two batters went out, the score was left a tie, and we finally lost an important game. Succeeding base-runners should have private signals so that they may communicate their intentions without apprising the opposing players. A runner on first who intends to steal second should inform the batter, so that the batter may hit the ball, or at least strike at it. A runner on second should notify a runner on first of his intention to steal third, so that the other may at the same time steal second. When there are runners on first and third each should understand perfectly what the other purposes doing so they can help one another with the play. In such a situation the runner on first will generally attempt to steal second, and if the catcher throws down to catch him there are several things which the runner on third may do. First, as soon as he sees the throw to second he may start for home, and if he has previously decided to do this, he should take plenty of ground front third base. Second, he may not start for home on the throw, but if the runner from first gets caught between first and second, it will then be necessary for him to try to score. For this purpose he carefully takes as much ground from third as possible, while the other player is being chased backward and forward. Finally, when the ball is tossed by the second baseman to the first baseman, he makes a dash for home. The idea of waiting until the ball is thrown to the first baseman is because the latter has his back to the plate, and not only cannot see the play so well but must turn around to throw. Third, if the circumstances are such that he thinks best not to try to score on the throw, he should, at least, on seeing the throw to second, make a strong feint to run in order to draw the second baseman in and allow the runner from first to reach second. There is a pretty play by which one run may be scored when there are runners on first and second. It is, however, a desperate chance and should only be resorted to in an extremity. The runner on first leads off the base so far as to draw the throw from the catcher, and, seeing the throw, the runner on second goes to third. Then, while the first runner is playing between first and second, the runner now on third scores as described in the preceding play, waiting until the ball is passed to the first baseman. If the second baseman is a poor thrower it may be best to make the dash for home when the ball is thrown to him. A runner on second may receive a signal from the batsman that the latter intends to try a "bunt," in which case the runner will try to steal third. If the bunt is made the runner reaches third, but if the bunt does not succeed, the attempt draws the third baseman in close and leaves the base uncovered for the runner. Without particularizing further, it will be seen that a base-runner must not only have some wits but he must have them always with him. Exactly the same combinations never conic up, new ones are continually being presented, and in every case he must decide for himself what is best. In view of all the circumstances, he makes a quick mental estimate of the chances and acts accordingly. Sometimes for-time will be against him, but if his judgment is sound he is sure to be successful in the majority of attempts. CHAPTER XIV. CURVE PITCHING. Curve pitching is a scientific fact, the practice of which preceded the discovery of its principle. For a long time after its existence was familiar to every ball-player and spectator of the game, there were wise men who proclaimed its impossibility, who declared it to be simply an "optical delusion," and its believers the victims of the pitcher's trickery. It was only after the curve had been practically demonstrated to them, in a way which left no room for doubt, that they consented to find for it a scientific explanation. The discovery of the curve itself was purely an accident. During the years from 1866 to 1869 the theory was held by many pitchers that the more twist imparted to a pitched ball, the more difficult it would be to hit it straight out. It was thought that even if it were struck fairly, this twist would throw it off at an angle to the swing of the bat. One writer on the game declared strongly against this practice of the pitchers on the ground that, though this twist did do all that was claimed for it, it at the same time caused the ball, when hit, to bound badly, and thus interfered with good fielding. Of course, both of these theories become absurd in the light of the present, but it was doubtless the belief in the former that led to the introduction of the curve. In 1869 Arthur Cummings, pitching for the Star Club, noticed that by giving a certain twist to the ball it was made to describe a rising, outward curve, and his remarkable success with the new delivery soon led to its imitation by other pitchers, and finally to the general introduction of curve pitching. The philosophy of the curve is, in itself, quite simple. A ball is thrown through the air and, at the same time, given a rotary motion upon its own axis, so that the resistance of the air, to its forward motion, is greater upon one point than upon another, and the result is a movement of the ball away from the retarded side. Suppose the ball in the accompanying cut to be moving in the direction of the arrow, B C, at the rate of 100 feet per second. Suppose, also, that it is rotating about its vertical axis, E, in the direction of I to H, so that any point on its circumference, I H D, is moving at the same rate of 100 feet per second. The point I is, therefore, moving forward at the same rate as the ball's centre of gravity, that is, 100 feet per second, plus the rate of its own revolution, which is 100 feet more, or 200 feet per second; but the point D, though moving forward with the ball at the rate of 100 feet per second, is moving backward the rate of rotation, which is 100 feet per second, so that the forward motion of the point D is practically zero. At the point I, therefore, the resistance is to a point moving 200 feet per second, while at D it is zero, and the tendency of the ball being to avoid the greatest resistance, it is deflected in the direction of F. In the Scientific American of August 28th, 1886, a correspondent gave a very explicit demonstration of the theory of the curve, and, as it has the virtue of being more scientific than the one given above, I append it in full. "Let Fig. 3 represent a ball moving through the air in the direction of the arrow, B K, and at the same time revolving about its vertical axis, U, in the direction of the curved arrow, C. Let A A A represent the retarding action of the air acting on different points of the forward half or face of the ball. The rotary motion, C, generates a current of air about the periphery of the ball, a current similar to that caused by the revolving flywheel of a steam engine. "If, now, at a point on the face of the ball we let the arrow, R, represent the direction and intensity of this rotary current of air, and if at the same point we let the arrow, A, represent the direction and intensity of the retarding action of the air, then we will find by constructing a parallelogram of forces that the resultant or combined effect of these two currents acts in the direction indicated by the dotted arrow, T. In other words, we have a sort of compression, or force of air, acting on the face of the ball in the direction indicated by the arrow, T. This force, as we can readily see, tends, when combined with the original impetus given to the ball, to deflect or cause time ball to curve in the direction of the dotted line, B P, instead of maintaining its right line direction, B K. If the ball rotate about its vert axis in the opposite direction, the curve, B N, will be the result." To the above demonstrations it is only necessary to add an explanation of one other feature. The question has arisen why it is that the ball apparently goes a part of its course in a straight line and then turns off abruptly. One might suppose at first thought that the greater speed at the beginning would create the greater resistance and consequently cause the greatest deflection. This, however, is not true. The difference between the resistance upon opposite points of the ball in the circumference of its rotation always remains the same, no matter how great the force of propulsion, and therefore the increased force of the latter at the beginning has no effect on the curve. But while the force of the twist itself is not affected by the rate of the forward movement, its effect upon the ball is greatly nullified. The force of propulsion being so great at first, drives the ball through the air and prevents it from being influenced by the unequal resistance. It is only when the two forces approach one another in strength that the latter begins to have a perceptible effect. As soon, however, as it does, and the course of the ball begins to change, the direction of the dotted arrow, T, begins to change likewise. It follows the course of the ball around, and the more it curves the more this resultant force tends to make it curve, and this continues until the ball has lost either its twist or its forward motion. Having established the fact that a ball will curve in the direction of the least resistance, it is only necessary to alter the direction of the axis of rotation in order to change the direction of the curve. Thus, if in the cut first given the ball were rotating in the direction of D H I instead of I H D, the ball would curve, not toward F, but to the right. So, also, if the axis of rotation is horizontal instead of vertical, and the greatest resistance is made to come on top, the ball will curve downward, or "drop." And in the same way, by imparting such a twist that the resistance falls on some intermediate point the ball may be made to take any of the combination curves known as the "outward drop," the "rising out-curve," and so on through the entire category. 
13898	----	Proofreading Team DON STRONG PATROL LEADER By WILLIAM HEYLIGER Author of "Don Strong of the Wolf Patrol" 1918 FOREWORD Tempting boys to be what they should be--giving them in wholesome form what they want--that is the purpose and power of Scouting. To help parents and leaders of youth secure _books boys like best_ that are also best for boys, the Boy Scouts of America organized EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY. The books included, formerly sold at prices ranging from $1.50 to $2.00 but, by special arrangement with the several publishers interested, are now sold in the EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY Edition at $1.00 per volume. The books of EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY were selected by the Library Commission of the Boy Scouts of America, consisting of George F. Bowerman, Librarian, Public Library of the District of Columbia; Harrison W. Craver, Director, Engineering Societies Library, New York City; Claude G. Leland, Superintendent, Bureau of Libraries, Board of Education, New York City; Edward F. Stevens, Librarian, Pratt Institute Free Library, Brooklyn, N.Y., and Franklin K, Mathiews, Chief Scout Librarian. Only such books were chosen by the Commission as proved to be, by _a nation wide canvas_, most in demand by the boys themselves. Their popularity is further attested by the fact that in the EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY Edition, more than a million and a quarter copies of these books have already been sold. We know so well, are reminded so often of the worth of the good book and great, that too often we fail to observe or understand the influence for good of a boy's recreational reading. Such books may influence him for good or ill as profoundly as his play activities, of which they are a vital part. The needful thing is to find stories in which the heroes have the characteristics boys so much admire--unquenchable courage, immense resourcefulness, absolute fidelity, conspicuous greatness. We believe the books of EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY measurably well meet this challenge. BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA, James E. West Chief Scout Executive. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE WOLF PATROL ELECTS II. THE FIRST CLASH III. TIM STANDS BY IV. DANGER MOUNTAIN V. A PLEA ON THE ROAD VI. SPROUTING SEEDS VII. CROSS CURRENTS VIII. DON'S CHOICE IX. THE FIGHT IN THE WOODS X. GOOD LUCK AND BAD XI. CLOSE QUARTERS XII. OUT OF THE WOODS DON STRONG, PATROL LEADER CHAPTER I THE WOLF PATROL ELECTS A baseball rose gracefully in the air, carried on a way, and dropped. Three scouts back from a hike halted under the maple tree that bordered the village field, and unslung their haversacks. "Gee!" cried Fred Ritter. "Did you see Ted Carter make that catch?" "And did you see Tim Lally get that one?" demanded Wally Woods. Andy Ford grinned. "Ted's the boy to keep them working. Chester will have a real town team this year." "You bet." Ritter unscrewed the top of his canteen. "Anyway, Ted and Tim are about the whole team." "Hold on there," Andy protested. "Where do you leave Don Strong?" "It's Tim's catching that makes him a pitcher," Ritter answered seriously. "Who says so?" "Why, Tim says so." "O--h!" Andy began to laugh. "And you swallowed that?" "Sure," said Ritter. "A catcher ought to know just how good a pitcher he is. Tim says--" But what Tim said was not told just then. A small, wiry boy steered his bicycle up on the sidewalk and pedaled toward the tree. "Hey, fellows!" he shouted. "Did you hear the latest? Mr. Wall is going to give a cup to the best patrol and Phil Morris is moving to Chicago." The three scouts surrounded the bicycle. "Who told you about the cup?" Andy Ford demanded. "Mr. Wall told me," Bobbie Brown answered. "It's a contest, with points for everything--attendance at meeting, neatness, obeying orders, all that. There's going to be a contest every month, and at the end of three months a big scout game for points. Isn't that swell?" Three heads nodded. Ritter plucked at Bobbie's sleeve. "How do you know Phil Morris is moving?" "Mr. Wall told me that, too." "Then the Wolf patrol elects a new leader," said Ritter. He glanced out toward where Tim Lally was catching. Andy's eyes puckered, and a swift change came over Bobbie Brown's face. The practice ended. Tim came across the grass with a big mitt under his arm. Ritter and Wally went forward to meet him. "Tim won't get my vote," said Bobbie. "The patrol leader ought to be a fellow who's up in things, like Don, or Alex Davidson, or you--" "Don and Alex have it all over me," said Andy. They watched the field. Tim was walking now with Ritter and Wally. Bobbie reached a foot for the nearest pedal. "Guess I'll ride along," he said. As he turned the corner he glanced back across his shoulder. Tim and Ritter and Wally were talking to Andy. Bobbie rode faster. Presently he came in sight of a house with a white-washed fence in front and a sign rising above the lawn grass: ROBERT STRONG & SON CARPENTERS AND JOINERS WINDOW SCREENS AND SCREEN DOORS BIRD-HOUSES A boy who whistled as he worked was tacking wire to a door frame. Bobbie opened the gate and pushed through with his bicycle. The whistling boy glanced up. "Hello, Bobbie." "Hello, Don. Phil Morris is moving to Chicago." "To Chi--" Don Strong paused with his tack hammer raised. "That means a new patrol leader, doesn't it?" The hammer fell and the work went on. "Tim Lally wants it," said Bobbie. A thoughtful expression came to Don's face. He went on tacking the wire until it was all tight and snug. Still thoughtful, he cut the molding and nailed it fast. From under one of the two wooden horses on which the door lay, he took a can of green paint. "Tim wouldn't make a good patrol leader, would he, Don?" "Easy, there," Don warned. Bobbie flushed. "Well, he always wants to boss things and you know it." Don said nothing. "Doesn't he?" Bobbie insisted. Don dodged the question and demanded that Bobbie show him how he was progressing with his semaphore. Bobbie retreated to the fence and sent the message that was given him. "Was that right, Don?" he asked eagerly. "Right," said Don. He was on the point of sending the boy off with another message when the gate clicked. Tim Lally advanced as though he had important business on his mind. "Hello," said Tim, and rubbed his fingers across the door. "Gee! Why didn't you tell me the paint was wet? Give it a rub or two; that will fix it up again. Did you hear about Phil Morris?" Don nodded. "I guess I'll take a crack at being patrol leader," said Tim. Bobbie looked up quickly. Don stood the door aside to dry, went down to his father's basement workshop and came up with another frame. "I guess I'll take a crack at being patrol leader," Tim repeated. "I have two votes already, Ritter and Wally Woods. My own, of course, is three. All I need is another. Now, how about you fellows?" "I'm going to vote for Alex Davidson," said Don. Bobbie scarcely breathed. A spot of red flamed in each of Tim's cheeks. "What's the matter with me?" he demanded. "Don't you think I'm good enough?" He swung around. "How about you, Bobbie?" Bobbie swallowed hard. "Why, Tim, I--I--I--" "Well, how about it?" Bobbie looked appealingly at Don. Don laid down the tack hammer. "Is that fair, Tim?" he asked quietly. "Why isn't it?" Tim bristled. And yet, after a moment, his eyes fell. He knew what Don meant. Bobbie was the "baby" of the troop, the smallest and the youngest scout. He walked out of the yard and slammed the gate defiantly. "I'll get it without you," he called over the fence. Don didn't do any more whistling that day. And after supper, as he heard the details of the contest for the Scoutmaster's Cup, the concerned look on his face deepened. The patrol leader, he thought, should be a fellow who was heart and soul in scouting--a fellow who could encourage, and urge, and lend a willing hand; not a fellow who wanted to drive and show authority. If Tim, with his temper and his eagerness to come to blows, should take command--Don shook his head. Why did Phil Morris have to move away? All next morning he built bird-houses. He had developed quite a business with Audubon societies and it took a lot of work to keep up with his orders. After dinner he trudged off to the village field. Tim greeted him as though nothing had happened. Don was delighted at this turn of affairs. When the work ended and he saw Tim following his steps he waited. "You can vote for me now," Tim said confidently. "I saw Alex today. He won't have time to be patrol leader. He goes to work for the Union grocery store next Monday." Don felt that everything had been turned upside down. So this was why the other boy had been so friendly! Of course, he could go home and let Tim think that the vote was his. But that would be cowardice. That would not be a scout's way of meeting the situation. "I'm going to vote for somebody else," he said uneasily. Tim's good humor vanished. "You are?" Don nodded. "You're too hot-tempered," he said. "You always get things stewed up. You--" "I don't see any wings on you or Alex," Tim cried wrathfully. "What kind of a game is this?" Don said nothing. What was the use, he thought. He walked on; and after a moment Tim stood still and let him go his way. Next morning a letter came from the Scout Scribe announcing the terms of the contest for the Scoutmaster's Cup. The competition would start at Friday night's meeting. For each scout present a patrol would be awarded a point, while for each scout absent it would lose a point. Another point would be lost for each scout who came to meeting with buttons off his uniform, or with scout pin missing, or with hair uncombed, or shoes muddy. Any patrol that did not live up to its orders from the Scoutmaster would be penalized from five to ten points. At the end of the first month there would be a contest in advanced first aid, and points would be awarded to the patrols that came in first and second. Don read the letter twice and sat on one of the wooden horses and stared at the ground. His sister Barbara, anxious to show a berry cake, had to call to him three times before he heard her. "What's the matter, Don?" she asked. "Tim Lally wants to be patrol leader," he answered. "Oh!" Barbara gave him a quick, understanding look. Tim did not have a word to say to him that afternoon. Next day he worked steadily helping his father on a rush order and did not get to the field at all. When the work was done, he went upstairs and washed, dressed in his scout uniform and came down to the dining-room. Barbara came in from the kitchen to set the table. "Hungry?" she asked. Then, after a moment: "Isn't Tim your catcher on the town team?" Don nodded. Barbara put her head close to his. "Scouting isn't all fun, is it?" "It wouldn't be worth shucks if it was," Don said stoutly. And yet, as he walked toward troop headquarters after supper, his steps were slow. The command "Attention," came from Mr. Wall's lips as he entered the meeting place. He hurriedly joined his patrol. The color guard and the troop bugler stepped to the front, and the brassy notes of "To the Colors" rose and fell. Standing stiffly at salute, the troop pledged allegiance to the flag, and repeated the scout oath. The bugler stepped back to the ranks. Slowly Mr. Wall made his tour of inspection. When it was finished, the scouts waited breathlessly. For the first time Don noticed a small blackboard nailed against the wall: PATROL POINTS Eagle Fox Wolf "The Eagle patrol," Mr. Wall said, "has one scout absent and two scouts untidy--thirteen points." The Scout Scribe wrote the points upon the board. "The Fox patrol, all scouts present and two scouts-untidy--fourteen points. The Wolf patrol a perfect score--sixteen points." Silence in the patrols. "Break ranks," the Scoutmaster ordered. Instantly there was a babel of excited talk. Scouts who had cost their patrols points through untidiness were upbraided by their comrades. Andy caught Don's arm. "We're off in the lead," he chuckled. "It's staying in the lead that counts," said Don. The shrill of Mr. Wall's whistle brought the scouts to attention again. "Tonight we take up the theory of building a bridge with staves and cords," the Scoutmaster said. "The Fox patrol was to have provided two logs." The Fox patrol hustled outdoors and returned in a moment with their burden. The scouts set to work to build a bridge from one log to the other. Mr. Wall walked about, watching but offering no advice. After an hour the bridge was completed. "Scouts Lally and Davidson," said Mr. Wall, "see if it will hold you." Tim and Alex stepped out on the structure. It held. A cheer started and died. For the bridge was sagging. Abruptly it gave. "Ten minutes for examination to see where the fault lies." The Scoutmaster took out his watch. "Next meeting we'll try again." Ten minutes later the lashings were untied, the staves were back in their wall racks, and the logs were outdoors. Each scout was sure he knew just what was wrong with that bridge and no two scouts agreed. "Squat!" came the next order. There was a rush for camp stools piled in a corner. Still grouped by patrols, the scouts faced Mr. Wall. "The Wolf patrol," he said, "is to select a new leader. So long as Patrol Leader Morris will not serve under his successor, the Council of Patrol Leaders feels that he should not vote in this election. The Scout Scribe will distribute pencils and paper. Each member of the Wolf patrol will write the name of his candidate. When I call his name, he will deposit his ballot, folded, in my hat. The patrol leaders will count the ballots." Don's throat was dry. When he received his paper and pencil his hand shook. He wrote "Andy Ford" quickly, and folded the paper. He caught a glimpse of Tim sending sharp glances from face to face. "Assistant Patrol Leader Ford," Mr. Wall called. Andy went up and dropped his ballot. "Scout Lally." Tim voted, came back to his stool and sat biting his lips. Finally all the votes were in. The patrol leaders carried the hat aside, counted the votes, and came back to Mr. Wall. "The result is--" The Scoutmaster paused. "Scout Lally, three votes; Scout Strong, three votes; Assistant Patrol Leader Ford, one vote. As no candidate has received a majority, another ballot is necessary." Don wondered if he had heard the Scoutmaster correctly. Three votes for him? He saw Tim eye him with dark suspicion. Andy's voice sounded in his ear: "Did you vote for me?" He nodded. "Well, cut it out. Next time vote for yourself." Don shook his head slowly. This thing of voting for himself did not appeal. "If you vote for me," Andy said sharply, "this will be a tie until the cows come home. Don't be a chump. Tim is voting for himself." Still Don was undecided. Besides, he could not get over the wonder of finding himself with three votes. "How about a man who runs for president of the United States?" Andy insisted. "Do you think he votes for his opponent?" "We are ready to ballot again," said Mr. Wall. "Wake up," said Andy. Don did not know what to do. There was no use in voting for Andy. Alex would not take the place and Bobbie Brown was altogether too young a scout. What should he do? "Assistant Patrol Leader Ford," called the Scoutmaster. Don, in desperation, wrote his own name. This time, when the patrol leaders brought Mr. Wall the result, they put the hat out of the way, and the troop knew that it would not be needed again. "Scout Lally," Mr. Wall read, "three votes; Scout Strong, four votes, Scout Strong is elected patrol leader of the Wolves." Five minutes later the meeting was over. Don had been formally saluted by the Foxes and the Bears, and a patrol leader's stripes had been pinned, temporarily, to his sleeve. Flushed and excited, and still amazed at the turn fortune had taken, he faced about to where his own patrol was gathered. All at once the flush died out of his cheeks. "When I asked Bobbie for his vote," said Tim, "it wasn't fair. But you could ask the fellows, couldn't you?" "I didn't ask anybody," said Don. Tim laughed. "When do you think I was born--yesterday? How did you get the votes if you didn't ask for them? We'll see about this." He walked out of headquarters. Ritter and Wally Woods whispered together, looked at Don, and seemed unable to make up their minds. Finally they edged their way toward the door. There was work for Don to do--checking up what property the Wolf patrol owned and signing that he received it in good condition. But all joy was gone from the honor that had come to him. The Wolves were divided among themselves! What chance would they have for the Scoutmaster's Cup? CHAPTER II THE FIRST CLASH Barbara and Mr. Strong were sitting on the porch when Don reached home. He reclined on the top step and fanned himself with his hat. "Was Tim elected?" Barbara asked. "No," said Don; "I was." "Don!" The girl sprang to her feet. "Isn't that fine! We must celebrate with a piece of berry cake--" But Don said gloomily that he did not feel like celebrating. He told about having won through the aid of his own ballot. Barbara, concerned, looked at her father. "Was it wrong for Don to vote for himself?" "Not at all," said Mr. Strong. "A candidate always votes for himself on a secret ballot." Don felt a load leave his heart. He decided that perhaps he would like some berry cake. While he ate he told himself that there was no sense in worrying about Tim. Tim might get over his disappointment and not make a bit of trouble. Next morning, while he built bird-houses, his mind was busy with eager plans for his patrol. The first-aid contest would really be a test of skill. With the exception of Bobbie Brown and Wally Woods, every member of the Wolves was a first-class scout. They knew the theory of their first aid. The thing to do was to make them freshen up in the actual work of doing. "We'll have to get on the job at once," Don told himself. "I'll call a patrol meeting for Monday night. If Bobbie comes around--" Bobbie rode up to the gate. "Hello, Don." "Hello, Bobbie. I was just hoping you'd show up. Take a scout message for me?" "Sure!" The boy held on to the palings of the fence and did not dismount. "Pass the word that there'll be a patrol meeting at my house Monday night." Bobbie rode away as though the message had to be delivered within the next five minutes. Don smiled, and then grew thoughtful. Wouldn't it be fine if all scouts were as keen and as alert as that? Tim did not come to the field that afternoon. On the way home Don met Mr. Wall. "Well," the Scoutmaster smiled, "how's the new patrol leader?" "All right, sir." "Think you're going to like it?" "Yes, sir." "It has its hard spots," Mr. Wall said seriously, "just like any other job. It isn't all milk and honey. There are lots of things you could do when you were a scout that you cannot do now. Not that they are exactly forbidden by the scout laws. They're forbidden by you, yourself. Do you understand?" The boy nodded soberly. "I think so. You mean that when I was a plain scout I could skylark and cut up a bit, but that now I must be out in front setting the pace. I can't ask any of the fellows to be what I am not myself." "Exactly. And there's another thing. Don't get discouraged when your plans go wrong. Get your grip and hold on. Scouts are only human. They're not angels." Don smiled. "I mean that. Scouting wasn't made for angels. It was made for everybody, fellows like you and me. And just because we're not angels, we sometimes kick things around and don't seem to play fair. When that happens--" "Yes, sir?" said Don. "That's the time we need scouting most," Mr. Wall said gravely. It seemed to Don that the Scoutmaster was giving him a warning. But though he puzzled his head and wondered, he could not fathom what Mr. Wall might mean. He told Barbara and his mother about Monday night's meeting and said that he would take the scouts up to his room out of the way. Barbara told him indignantly that he would do nothing of the kind. The scouts would meet, she announced, in the cool dining-room. Monday, as soon as supper was over, she began to prepare for the coming of the patrol. Don wanted to help, but she routed him from the place. He went out to the porch and sat there in the gathering darkness. A vague sense of uneasiness stole over him. Presently Bobbie Brown rode up and left his bicycle inside the gate. Soon he was followed by Alex Davidson and Andy Ford. Then came a long wait. At length two figures loomed in the dusk. "Who's there?" Don called eagerly. "Ritter and Woods," came the answer. Don suddenly knew the cause of that vague uneasiness. The meeting had been called for eight o'clock, and it was now five minutes after, and there was no sign of Tim. But none of the others seemed to think of the missing scout. Alex was bubbling over with the wonder of his first day in business. He told of how many orders he had delivered, and how much money he had collected, and how careful he had to be in making change. Don listened nervously. By and by he struck a match and glanced at his watch. "Quarter past eight," he said. "How about starting?" said Andy. Don led the patrol indoors. The dining-room lamp shed a soft glow over the table. Chairs were drawn up, and at each place was a sharpened pencil and a few sheets of paper. "I'll bet Barbara thought of that," said Andy, At any other time praise of Barbara would have brought a quick smile to Don's face. Now, however, he sat down soberly and gave the order to call the roll. Andy cleared his throat. "Patrol Leader Strong." "Here," said Don. "Assistant Patrol Leader Ford. No doubt about me being here." "Scout Davidson." "Here," said Alex. "Scout Ritter." "Here." "Scout Lally." Silence. All at once an uneasy feeling crept around the table. Alex forgot his business adventures of the day and glanced quickly from face to face. "Tim may come later," he said. Don looked at Bobbie. "Did you tell him?" Bobbie nodded. "What did he say?" "N--nothing." Every scout knew at once that Tim had said something. Don shut his lips tightly. "I guess Tim forgot," Andy suggested. Don grasped at this straw. Not that he believed it, for he didn't; but it gave him a chance to ease the tension. He forced a smile and said that Tim might come bolting in at the last minute. The moment the roll call was completed, he turned the talk to the Scoutmaster's Cup. He didn't want to give the scouts a chance to sit there and think. "We're in the lead now," he said, "and it's up to us to stay there. It will be easy if every fellow will do his part. Attend every meeting and come ready for inspection. When Mr. Wall gives us a job to do as a patrol, let us dig in and do it right. And let us work hard so that we'll stand a good chance of winning the monthly contests." "The first contest is easy," said Ritter. "We all know our first aid." "We know it," said Don. "But can we do it? That's what counts." "It's like riding a bicycle," Ritter argued. "You never forget." Don had not expected anything like this. He didn't want the patrol to be cocksure--he wanted it to work. But there would be small chance of work if each scout was going to think that practice was unnecessary. "Wait until I get some bandages," he said. He ran up to his room and came down with a little white roll. Ritter smiled confidently. "Let's see you make a spiral reverse bandage," Don invited. Ritter took the bandage and went to work on Alex's arm. Presently, after having gone half way to the elbow, he flushed and pulled the bandage off. "It's sloppy," he said. "I see your point. I need practice." "We all need practice," said Don. There were no further objections to hard work. The talk became eager as details were planned. The patrol would practice Wednesday afternoon at troop headquarters. Don would work with Ritter on splints, and Tim and Andy and Bobbie would form a team for artificial respiration, fireman's lift and stretcher work. Wally and Alex would practice straight bandaging at night after Alex had finished his labors at the Union grocery store. Bobbie accepted the arrangement in silence. As the meeting broke up and the scouts crowded into the hall, he pulled at Don's sleeve. "Must I work with Tim?" he asked. "Tim's strong and you're light," Don explained. "You can be handled easily on the fireman's lift and stretcher work." Bobbie wet his lips and seemed to want to say something more. Abruptly, though, he turned away and followed the others out to the porch. "How about Tim?" Ritter asked. "Shall I tell him about Wednesday?" Conversation stopped. The feeling of tension came back. "I'll see him at the field tomorrow," said Don. "I'll tell him myself." Alex looked at him sharply, and the look said as plainly as words, "Going to make him toe the mark?" Don lingered on the porch until the last footstep had died away in the distance. Then he went up to his room and stared out of the window. Thunder! Why couldn't Tim stick to his patrol and play fair, and not spoil all the fun? He had an uneasy feeling about the morrow's interview. Once he had heard Mr. Wall say that there is something wrong when a patrol leader and his scouts live at loggerheads. He did not want to start wrong, he did not want to quarrel. But what could he do if a scout made up his mind to stay away from meetings and be nasty? A dozen times he tried to picture what he would say to Tim and what Tim would say to him. At last, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, he began to undress for bed. "Tim may be as nice as pie," he muttered. "He may not say a word." Which was exactly what happened. Tim listened in silence to a report of what the patrol meeting had decided, nodded shortly when told of Wednesday's practice, and then moved off a few steps and called for the ball. Don found himself, all at once, wishing that this refractory scout had spoken his mind. As things stood now he did not know what to expect. Tim might come to the practice, or he might stay away. Twice, that afternoon, he walked toward the other boy, resolved to ask him point blank what he intended to do. Twice he paused and turned away. Perhaps it might be bad to let Tim see that he was worried. Wednesday he was the first scout to reach troop headquarters. Inside, on the wall, was the slate: PATROL POINTS Eagle 13 Fox 14 Wolf 16 Don stared at the sign a long time. What an honor it would be to win! Not the mere honor of getting a prize--he didn't mean that. But the honor of being the best scouts in the troop, the honor of achievement, the honor of something well done. He heard a noise at the door. It was Andy Ford. "Any trouble with Tim?" Andy asked at once. Don shook his head. "Did you tell him? What did he say?" "Nothing." Andy puckered his eyes. "What's the matter with Tim, anyway? Is he going to grouch just because he wasn't elected patrol leader? He has the makings of a good scout." There was the sound of a step outside. "Sssh!" Don said softly. Tim put his head in through the doorway. "Are we the only fellows here?" he demanded. "I want to get to the field and do some ball playing." Don said that Ritter and Bobbie would be along any minute. Tim came in and sauntered around the room. He banged his mitt against the scout staves in the racks and seemed to find pleasure in the noise. Finally he brought up in front of the slate. "Think we can stick in the lead?" Andy asked. "Cinch!" said Tim. "What other patrol has anything on us?" "It means work," said Don. "If we practice once or twice every week--" "Once or twice?" Tim cried. "Gee! Have a heart. Isn't that rubbing it in?" "We've got to be perfect," Andy said quickly, "and we're depending on you for the big stuff." "What big stuff?" Tim asked. "Stretcher work, fireman's lift, artificial respiration. The hard stuff, Tim." "Oh well--" The praise seemed to have soothed Tim's feelings. "Maybe I could find time." Andy winked. Don walked to the door. Was that the way to handle this hot-tempered scout--humor him a bit, praise him a little, give him the important assignments? "Here come Bobbie and Ritter," said Andy. The two scouts arrived, somewhat breathless from running, and the work started. Don took splints and bandages from the troop's medicine chest. Tim and Andy fashioned a stretcher from staves and coats. "Try it again," said Tim. "Too slow." "Let Bobbie button as soon as the first coat goes on," said Andy. "Let Bobbie keep out of the way," said Tim. Don looked up quickly. However, the work seemed to be going on satisfactorily. He brought his attention back to the splint he was adjusting. After that, from time to time, he walked over to see how Tim and Andy and Bobbie were making out. Twice he thought that Andy frowned at him and gave a cautious movement with his head. "Ouch!" Bobbie cried toward the finish. "You're hurting, Tim." "You can't help hurting a fellow a little on artificial respiration," Tim answered gruffly. Don frowned. Had Andy been signaling to him? Had something been going on over there? When the work ended the staves and the splints and the bandages were put away. Tim mopped his face and breathed heavily. Bobbie Brown edged over toward the farthest window. "How about another session Friday?" Don asked. "Can't," said Tim. "Saturday we play our first game. Ted Carter wants everybody out for practice Friday afternoon. He told me to tell you." "Well--" For the moment Don wasn't interested in baseball. "How about Monday?" Monday, it appeared, would be all right. Tim put on his coat and walked toward the door. "You're forgetting your mitt," Don called. "I'm not going to the field," said Tim. There was something peculiar in the way he said it. Don looked inquiringly at Andy. The assistant patrol leader nodded toward the window. "Anything wrong, Bobbie?" Don asked. Bobbie gave a start, and smiled and shook his head. "Guess I'll go along," he said; but he made no move to leave the place. Something was wrong. Andy sauntered down to the door, peered at the woodwork as though examining it, scratched with his finger-nail, and then began to tap with his knuckle. Don wrinkled his forehead. Why did Andy tap like that--two taps, pause, another tap--over and over again? Suddenly he understood. Andy was sending him a message in Morse, and the first letter was C. He looked up, caught Andy's eye, and nodded. The tapping went on. ".." "O," whispered Don. "- -" "M." "." "E. Come." A pause, longer than the other. The tapping began again. ".. ..-- ... .. -.. ." "Come outside," Don muttered. He strolled toward the door. The moment he passed out of troop headquarters, Andy caught his arm. "Did you see Tim roughing Bobbie all afternoon?" "Hurting him?" Don asked quickly. "Not really hurting him, but pulling his hair, and twisting his ears, and things like that. Bobbie's frightened. It's going to spoil all our first aid." Don's mouth twitched. He had congratulated himself that the work had gone so well. And all the while trouble had been lurking at his elbow. He walked back into troop headquarters with his head bent. If one scout was going to nag another there would be no harmony, no pulling together, no striving toward a common goal. It would be good-by to the Wolf patrol so far as the Scoutmaster's Cup was concerned. He paused in front of the slate. What should he do? If he went to Tim and told him plump and plain to cut it out, there might be a ruction. If he allowed the nagging to go on, there would be tension and unrest within the patrol. No matter which way he turned, disorder and adversity loomed. He walked to the window where Bobbie stood. Suddenly he stiffened. "Isn't that Tim down the road--that fellow leaning against the fence?" Bobbie nodded nervously. Don drew a deep breath. He knew what was happening. Tim was waiting to continue his plaguing. "I--I guess I'll go," said Bobbie again. "Wait," said Don. "I'm going down that way." There was no help for it. He had no choice. He couldn't let Bobbie go out and get his hair pulled and his ears twisted. He'd have to see him past the danger. There was vast relief on Bobbie's face as they came out of troop headquarters. But Don's face was grave. It took but a minute to walk down the road to the fence. Bobbie's steps unconsciously became slower. He edged out toward the curb. Tim saw him and instantly became alert. "Here, now," he called; "don't try to dodge past. Come over here and--" "Hello, Tim," said Don. Tim stopped short. His eyes darkened suspiciously, as though he suspected that Don was acting as guardian. For a moment he seemed to be debating what he should do; and while he paused, Bobbie edged past. "Don't forget Monday," said Don. He wanted to shift the other boy's thoughts. "I may be busy Monday," Tim answered scowlingly. He took a step after Bobbie, but found the patrol leader in his way and stopped short. Don continued on down the road. He knew that Tim was aware why he had walked with Bobbie, and he knew that Tim resented it. After all, what had he gained? He couldn't be with Bobbie always. If Tim wanted to plague, he could catch the little scout alone almost any day. Abruptly Don swung around and went back. Tim, seeing him coming, set his feet farther apart. It was a fighting pose. Don's heart fluttered. "Look here, Tim," he said; "what's the use of stewing around this way? Why can't we all pull together?" "Did I do anything to you?" Tim asked. "No, but--What's the use of tormenting Bobbie?" "Gee! Are you the keeper of the whole patrol?" Don bit his lips. The talk wasn't going at all the way he wanted. "We've got to work together," he said, "or we won't have a chance for the cup." "Don't you worry about me," Tim said airily. "I'll do my share. Didn't I show up for practice today?" "Yes." "Well, what more do you want?" Don hesitated. Tim began to grin. He walked back to the fence and leaned there carelessly. "It--it's going to muss the practice if you tease Bobbie," Don said slowly. "He'll be edging away from you, not knowing what moment you'll twig him, and it will spoil the work. You can't give him a good fireman's lift if he's hanging back." "What are you doing," Tim demanded, "asking me to let up on him or telling me?" "I'm asking you," Don said slowly. "Oh! Well, that's all right." Tim's grin grew broader. "I won't bother him." All the way home Don was haunted by that grin. He knew what it meant. Tim thought he had started back to lay down the law and had wilted. Tim thought he was afraid. Don swallowed a lump in his throat. There was no use in trying to disguise the truth. Deep in his heart he didn't know whether he was or not. CHAPTER III TIM STANDS BY It was a very quiet Don who sat down to supper that night. He had the uncomfortable conviction that he had blundered. Having started to see Bobbie past trouble, he should have seen him past with quiet firmness. It had been a mistake to try to bargain. Regrets, though, would do him no good. What was past was past. It was the future that troubled him the most. Tim, he was sure, would now carry a chip on his shoulder. And if he tried to make him keep step with the other scouts of the patrol, and if Tim did not want to keep step-- "You're not eating, Don," said Barbara. He came to himself with a start, smiled sheepishly, and gave thought to his supper. But for the rest of the meal he could see Barbara watching him. There was also a concerned look in the eyes of his sister Beth. Why had he gone back that time? And having gone back, why had he not told Tim, bluntly and plainly, that he would have to let Bobbie alone? Had there been a clash of wills, it would all be over with now. Instead, the time of decision had been put off. It might come any day. And because he had hesitated to meet it once, it would be all the harder to meet it in the future. "I don't think Don is hungry," said Beth. He came to himself with a start and found that he was again staring fixedly at his plate. He was glad when the meal came to an end. He went up to his room. There were two letters he ought to write to Audubon societies that had ordered bird-houses. But, though he drew out paper and ink and envelopes, he could not concentrate his thoughts on what he had to say. At last he went downstairs and sat on the porch. He was discouraged. Under Phil Morris, the Wolf patrol had been strong and vigorous. Phil had refused to stand for any nonsense. "I guess--I guess I haven't the spunk Phil had," Don told himself. In the kitchen the sounds of dish-washing ceased. Presently Barbara came out on the porch. The chair in which he sat was wide. She touched his arm. "Push over, Don." He made room for her. "Well," she asked, "what's the scout trouble now?" He could always talk to Barbara as though she were an older brother. Now he told her about his meeting with Tim, and of the sorry way he had handled himself. "And now," he ended, "Tim will think I'm scared of him and that he can do just as he pleases." "Will he think that?" Barbara asked. "Well, won't he?" The girl did not answer. After a moment she asked: "How about good turns, Don? Does Tim do any?" "Of course he does. Isn't he a scout?" "What kind of good turns?" "Well--" Don thought. "Remember last winter when Mr. Blair was sick?" "Yes." "Tim looked after their furnace three times a day." "Don," Barbara said, "don't you think he's all right at heart if he does acts like that?" Don stared. This was putting things in a new light. Then he thought of Tim riding rough-shod, and tormenting Bobbie, and wanting his own way in everything. "Maybe Tim's all right at heart," he said dubiously, "but he's always making trouble just the same. I'm not going to let him stew up my patrol. I'll go to Mr. Wall--" "Don!" The sharp note of disappointment in Barbara's voice sent the blood into his cheeks. "Stand on your own feet," she said. "What would Mr. Wall think of you? Did the old-time scouts like Daniel Boone go running for help every time they found themselves in trouble?" The boy did not answer. There was a long silence. Barbara touched his arm. "Angry, Don?" "No. I--I guess I'll fight my own way," he said. Somehow, that determination seemed to lighten his worries. He went upstairs and wrote his letters. Afterward he picked up his Handbook and idly turned the pages. Presently his eyes fell on the tenth law: "He has the courage to face danger in spite of fear ... and defeat does not down him." Next he read the fourth law, "He is a friend to all and a brother to every other scout." And then he closed the book and for a long time stared straight ahead. Friday brought a busy day--bird-houses all morning, baseball practice in the afternoon, and a troop meeting at night. During the morning, as Don planed, and sawed, and hammered, he whistled a gay air. But after dinner, as the time for baseball practice approached, the whistle became subdued and at last stopped. Up to now he had pitched against high-school boys, lads of his own age. Tomorrow, though, he was to face a town team with its older, more experienced players. He wondered if he would be able to make good. And he wondered, just a little, how he and Tim would work together. He might have saved himself the worry of wondering about Tim, for that afternoon's practice gave no time for anything save work. Ted Carter drove the players with a high-strung, nervous vim. He seemed to find time for everything--first a signal drill, then fielding, then sliding into bases. Don was kept on the jump. As soon as his arm was warm and limber Ted hustled him to the mound, and for fifteen minutes he stood there and threw to bases as signals were flashed to him. Then Ted gave him ten minutes of fielding bunts. By that time the sweat was running down his face and his breath was coming hard. "Get into a sweater," Ted ordered. "I'll want you back here in ten minutes. Now, Tim, I'm going to let some of the fellows steal bases. Let's see you throw them out." Don was glad of the respite. He retired beyond the foul lines and watched. There was no doubt but that Tim knew his job. Short and stocky and agile, he seemed made in a catcher's mold. He could reach second base with a forearm throw while squatting on his heels, and a snap of the wrist was enough to send the ball to first or to third. "He's got an awfully strong arm," said Don to himself. "All right, Don," called Ted. He shed his sweater and went back to the mound. One by one the batters were called in to hit against him. He watched for Tim's signals, and tried to put the ball where Tim wanted it. The batters hit him freely. When the practice ended he was worried. If older players could hit him like that-- "Forget it," said Ted. "Fielding bunts for ten minutes took a lot of your sap. You'll go in fresh tomorrow. Isn't that right, Tim?" "Sure," said the catcher. "And another thing," said the captain. "Toward the end there you were shaking your head to Tim's signals and pitching what you wanted. None of that tomorrow. Let Tim judge the batters. This is his second year against town teams; he knows their game better than you." Tim swelled out his chest and swaggered. "All right," said Don. If Ted thought nothing of the way he had been batted, why, everything must be all right. He walked home gayly. "Scout meeting tonight?" his father asked. "Yes, sir," said Don, and ran upstairs to dress. He wondered if the Wolf patrol would get another perfect score. He paused in the act of brushing his hair. A thought that he could not push aside popped into his brain. Would Tim come spick and span? Tim, Andy, Alex and Ritter were at headquarters when he arrived, and Tim was as clean as any. "We've been inspecting each other," Andy laughed. "Look at those fellows over there." The Fox patrol had a box of blacking and a brush, and two scouts were polishing their shoes. The Eagles had a needle and thread, and one scout, under the watchful eye of his patrol leader, was sewing on a button. "This is going to be a fight," Andy went on. "Those scouts are in earnest." "That's the way for a scout to be," said Don. The prospect of a struggle sent a sparkle into his eyes. "We'll have to do that." "Needles and thread and shoe-brushes?" Tim demanded. Don nodded. "Not for me," said Tim. "I'm no kid. Nobody has to tell me to clean myself." Don said nothing. Why, he wondered, did Tim seem to take such a delight in going against everybody else? He was sure now that what Barbara said was right. Tim was sound at heart. Look how clean he came to tonight's meeting. And yet-- "Going to get needles and thread and things?" Andy whispered. Don nodded. Oh, yes; he'd get them. What was the use of letting the other patrols prepare for the unexpected and doing nothing yourself? The Scoutmaster's whistle called the patrols to attention. Don gave a quick glance as his patrol took its station. His heart sank. Bobbie Brown was not in place. Mr. Wall walked down the line of scouts. He was halfway through inspection when Bobbie burst into the room. He checked himself when he saw what was going on, came to salute, and quietly tiptoed to his place. But his face was flushed from running, and his hair was awry. Don hoped Bobbie might be able to make himself presentable before Mr. Wall got that far. Then common sense told him that that was impossible. The troop was at attention. Bobbie could not lift a hand even to touch his hair. He had to stand there stiffly as he was. The inspection came to an end, Mr. Wall faced the waiting lines. Don held his breath. _Would_ the Wolf patrol-- "Fox patrol," Mr. Wall announced, "a perfect score. Eagle patrol, all present, all clean, but one scout talking in ranks, one-half point off. Wolf patrol, one scout untidy, one scout late, one and one-half points off." A moment later the lines were broken. Tim turned to the unhappy Bobbie. "See what a fine fix you got us in!" he demanded angrily. "I couldn't help it," Bobbie explained. "My mother didn't know she was out of sugar, and the man in the store had to open a new barrel, and he couldn't find his hatchet, and I had to wait." "You should have gone for the sugar this afternoon," Tim insisted. "The rest of us take the trouble to come here right and then you spoil things." "I couldn't help it," Bobbie said miserably. "I--" "It's all right, Bobbie," said Don. "Don't let it happen again." He was disappointed, but what was the use of jumping on a scout who was trying to do right? "What's the use of me slicking up," Tim scowled, "if other fellows are going to do as they please?" The scout scribe walked toward the slate. Instantly Bobbie and his lapse were forgotten. Every eye in the room watched while the scribe rubbed out and wrote. Soon he stepped away from the slate. There was the new standing: PATROL POINTS Eagle 28-1/2 Fox 30 Wolf 30-1/2 The Wolves were still in the lead, but Don did not feel the least like cheering. For the next hour, while the troop worked at signaling, and map-reading, and advanced knot-tying, he did his part and forgot to be despondent. He even brightened when the logs were brought in and the theory of bridge building was applied. But when the bridge was done--this time it held--he lost interest. "The Wolf patrol--" he heard Mr. Wall say. He roused himself and listened. "The Wolf patrol has the assignment of having headquarters clean for the next meeting," the Scoutmaster announced. The session was over. Don told his patrol not to forget Monday's practice and walked out alone. He had gone but a short distance when running footsteps sounded in his rear. "Don!" It was Bobbie. "I'm sorry--" The patrol leader forced a smile. "You only lost us a point and a half, Bobbie. Maybe you'll get that back in the first aid contest." Bobbie's mouth tightened. "It won't be because I'm not trying," he said; and Don went home telling himself that he knew one scout the Wolf patrol could count on through thick and thin. Next morning he tried to build bird-houses, but for once he could find no pleasure in the work. His thoughts were turned on the afternoon. The Glenrock team had a reputation as hitters, and he wondered, in spite of what Ted had said, whether he would be able to hold his own. When Ted had asked him to pitch for the Chester town team, he had protested that he was only a high school player. Ted, however, had told him earnestly that many town team pitchers were no better. Besides, wouldn't it be fine experience to pitch against stronger batters? Weeks ago that argument had won, but now Don made a wry face. "Fine lot of experience it will be if they knock me out of the box," he said. The game had been well advertised. The Chester _Chronicle_ had carried a story, and notices had been chalked on the bulletin board at the railroad station. Don was sure that there would be quite a crowd. Nor was he mistaken. Early as it was when he came to the field, spectators were already gathering. Ted, a seasoned veteran, was calm and undisturbed, but there was a noticeable tension among most of the other players. Don sat on the rough bench and waited for the signal to warm up. Presently the Glenrock players arrived. He looked at them closely and his nerves jumped. Gosh! didn't they look big! And what big black bats! "All right, Don," said Ted. "Warm up. Take it easy. These fellows can strike out and pop up flies just as easily as anybody else." Don tried to smile as he took his place. By this time a solid wall of spectators ran along the base-lines and down toward the foul flags. There was another gathering under the maple tree; and out in deep center a third group lounged on the grass and waited for the call of "Play ball!" Don began to throw. His first few pitches went wide, and Tim glanced at him sharply. The catcher was almost as cool as Ted, and to show his calmness, he began to toss the ball into the air as he caught it and then catch it again in his bare hand as it came down. As soon as his arm felt right, Don tried out his curves. His drop, his best ball, worked nicely, but his in-curve and his out-curve were only fair. He kept trying them, and became worried, and went back to his drop and found that he had lost his control of this curve, too. What was the matter? Was he getting stage fright? "That's enough," called Ted. He walked toward the bench. Tim hurried to his side. "Scared?" the catcher asked. Don nodded. "Gee!" said Tim. "I thought you had more nerve than that. Just go out there and stick it over. You don't see me getting rattled." "You don't have to serve the ball," said Don. "No," said Tim; "but I'm the fellow who has to decide what balls they get. I guess that's some responsibility. You pitch the way I tell you to and we'll be all right." Glenrock was still practicing in the field. Don sat on the bench and watched. They handled the ball well, but not any better than Chester. If their hitting had been overrated-- "They're through," said Ted. "Come on, Don. Don't get excited now. Watch Tim's signals and give him what he signals for. We're in back of you." "That's what I've been telling him," said Tim. A minute later Don faced the first batter. Tim squatted, rose up on his toes, stuck his mitt between his legs, laid a finger on the mitt, and then spread his hands wide. "Come on, Don," he called. "Easy-picking here; easy picking. Put it right over." Tim had signaled for the drop. Don swallowed a lump in his throat. Would the ball break true? Would this broad-shouldered young man who stood so confidently at the plate hammer it a mile? "Come on, now," cried Tim. Don pitched. The batter swung and missed. "Easy picking," chanted Tim. "He couldn't hit it with a fence post. Come on, now." The second signal was for an in. Don pitched. The batter tightened his muscles to swing, changed his mind, and allowed his arms to grow limp. And the ball that looked as though it would be outside the plate, suddenly broke inward and crossed the corner. "Strike two!" ruled the umpire. The batter looked annoyed. And as for Don, a wave of gladness ran through his veins. His curves were working, and this batter didn't seem to be any harder to pitch to than some high school players he had faced. Tim called for pitch-outs on the next two, hoping that the batter would "bite." The Glenrock player, though, seemed to have become cautious. Then Don pitched a drop, and the batter hit a bit too high and sent a grounder toward third base, and was thrown out. The next batter caught the first ball pitched and hammered it to center field for a base. Don's lips twitched. He wondered if the runner would try to steal, and if he would be too green to hold him close to the bag. Ted motioned him to play the plate. Tim signaled for a pitch-out, or waste ball. He pitched. The catcher had shrewdly judged that Glenrock would try to steal the moment she got a runner on. He saw the runner break for second. He got the ball, drew back his arm, and shot the sphere down without rising from his squat. It was a beautiful throw, and the runner was out by a yard. "Try to get fresh with the kid pitcher, eh?" yelled Tim. "That's turning them back," shouted Ted Carter. "Get this fellow, Don." Don "got" him on an in-curve that was hit for a puny infield pop. Glenrock was out. She had had her first inning and had not scored. Ted came running in to the bench, calling instructions to Chester's first hitter. Don drew on a sweater and sat down. "Well," said Ted, "they aren't giant-killers, are they?" "Tim saved me that time," Don answered. His pulse was still throbbing. "Sure I did," said Tim. "That's what I'm there for." Don tried to tell himself that it was only Tim's way to be so cocksure and chesty; and yet, in a small corner of his brain, was the thought that it might have been just as well had the runner not been thrown out. In spite of himself, he was beginning to resent the catcher's air of superiority. He admitted that he was lucky to have escaped during that first inning. But he was not so lucky in the innings that followed. Two runs were scored by Glenrock in the third, one in the fifth, two in the seventh, and one in the eighth. Five runs was all that Chester could gather. The end of the game found her one run behind. Don was disheartened. He put on his sweater and started to leave the field. Ted called him, and he waited. "Down in the mouth?" the captain asked. "Forget it. I knew you'd have trouble today. You were worried, weren't you?" Don nodded. "And yet they beat you only six to five. That's all right. Next time you won't be so nervous and you'll do better." "Will I?" Don asked. "You're not fooling me, Ted?" "Oh, Tim." Ted called to the catcher. "What did I tell you about this game?" "That you'd be satisfied if Don held them to a respectable score," Tim answered. "You told me to hold him up and keep him going--" "All right," Ted said quickly. He turned to Don. "Does that look as though I'm stringing you? Next week you pitch against Springfield--and next week you're going to win." Don drew a deep breath. A big part of his courage had come back. Now, if Tim would only stop saying how important _he_ was-- "I know those Springfield batters," said Tim. "I'll signal him what to throw." Don turned away. Was Tim going to act like that all summer? Monday the Wolf patrol had its second first-aid practice. This time there was no trouble. Tim appeared, and did his work, and then went shouting and hallooing down the street. Andy Ford laughed and shook his head. "He's a wild Indian, Don. You can't do much with him." "I--I can't do anything with him," said Don. The days that followed were busy ones. There was a rush of orders for window screens, and he dropped his bird-houses and helped his father. Twice he went to the field. Once he met Tim there, and Tim caught his delivery and called instructions in a breezy, high-handed way. Andy Ford was right, Don thought. A wild, untamed, careless, unthinking Indian! Friday, in response to Don's orders, the patrol came to headquarters to clean up for that night's meeting. Tim brought with him an impish, reckless desire for fun. While the others tried to sweep, he lined up a string of camp stools and played leap-frog down the length of the meeting-place, and got in everybody's way. "Come on, Tim," Don called. "Cut it out!" "Cut what out?" Tim asked innocently. "That jumping. You're scattering the dust. Put the stools away and get a broom." Tim shook his head, and sat on the nearest stool, and looked as though he was going to dispute the order. Andy and Ritter nudged him and told him to be a good sport and help. He looked at them doubtfully, and then, apparently convinced, he piled the stools in a corner and got a broom. Only for a short time, though, did he apply himself to the work in hand. Soon a voice shouted, "Behold a knight of old!" and when the scouts looked around there was Tim with the broom as a sword and a galvanized water bucket over his head. Even Don laughed. Next Tim sent the pail clattering across the floor, and Bobbie had to jump to avoid being hit in the shins. After that this troublesome scout insisted on fighting a broom duel with Wally Woods, and a collection of dirt that had been swept into a pile was scattered right and left. "Tim!" cried Don. Tim stopped. "What's the matter?" "Look at that dirt. We'll never get cleaned up this way." "Oh, forget it," said Tim. "Can't a fellow have a little fun? I'll sweep it up again," and he attacked the pile. Ten minutes later he was chasing Ritter around the room for a piece of cake, and a pail of water that Andy had just brought in was upset over the floor. "Yah!" shouted Tim. "Swim for your life." He swished his broom through the water and swished too hard, and the dirty water flew far and high and spattered the walls. "Now look what we've got to clean," cried Andy. "Gee!" said Tim. "I didn't know it was going to do that. What did you want to leave the pail there for?" "What did you go cat-acting for?" Don demanded. He was exasperated. He felt like telling Tim to go out and let them finish the job themselves. But--There was the rub. What would happen then? Suppose Tim got hot-headed and wouldn't go? Or suppose he went, glad to be relieved of his share of the job? Or suppose he walked out sullen and grumbling, and stayed away from the meeting or came late or came untidy--and the Wolves lost points? Don was bewildered. He wanted to do what was best--for Tim, for himself, for the patrol--but what was best? Was it best to let Tim run on in the hope that he'd be shamed into a better spirit by the other scouts? Phil Morris would have said, very quietly, "Hey, there, Tim!" and that would have been the end of it. Don sighed. "I wish I was as big as Phil," he muttered. For a time it seemed as though Tim had been sobered by the accident to the water pail. He worked with Andy trying to clean the walls. It seemed, though, that there were a thousand spatters. "Gee!" said Tim. "Mr. Wall surely likes to stick a fellow. This is no cinch." "It's your own fault," Andy grunted, trying to reach a high spot. "Aw! shut up," cried Tim; "you fellows are always preaching. You fellows never do anything. I'm tired and I'm going to rest." He brought out a camp stool and sat down. Don bit his lips and went on working. The other scouts cast covert glances at the stool and its occupant. By and by it began to grow dark. The floor had been swept and mopped, but the walls still had dirty sections and there were the two windows to do. "We're not going to get this clean in time," said Andy. Tim stirred from the chair and came over and helped. The light failed rapidly. The lamps were in the troop "treasure chest," and Don though a patrol leader, had not yet received a key to the locker. "No use wasting any more time here," he said at last. "Let's do the windows." "Maybe we have the walls all clean," said Andy. Ritter struck a match. By the feeble flame they looked intently, but could not be sure. They did the windows. Tim was silent and apparently not anxious to attract attention to himself. It was almost dark when the last window had been finished. "Could we try the walls again?" Bobbie asked. "Too late," Don answered. "They may be all right. We'll know tonight, anyway. Everybody on time tonight, and everybody clean." He walked off with Andy. The assistant patrol leader said after a moment: "I think Tim's sorry now." "What good does it do to be sorry now?" Don asked bitterly. As soon as his supper was over, he hurried back to headquarters. Nobody was there yet. Presently the patrol leader of the Foxes, a boy named Kearney, came along, whistling shrilly. He opened the treasure chest and brought out the lamps, cleaned the chimneys and lighted them. "Hello!" he said. "Wasn't it the turn of your patrol to clean house?" Don nodded miserably. One patch of wall, by a window, was a mess. The windows themselves, cleaned in semi-darkness, were streaked. And some of the floor, down by the door, had not been mopped at all. Scouts began to arrive. Bobbie brought a shoe brush and a can of blacking, and Ritter brought a hair brush and a comb. Andy brought needles and khaki-colored thread. These things were laid quietly in the patrol's locker. Nobody said anything about the walls. By and by Tim arrived. He looked around and his face became red. Don gave him a quick glance. He met it and his flush grew deeper, and all at once he seemed to force his shoulders back and his eyes became defiant. "He's stung, all right," thought Don, "but he doesn't want to show it." Mr. Wall called the patrol leaders forward to discuss the plans for a hike. Don scarcely heard the details. All he knew was that somebody said, "Wednesday, then," and the Scoutmaster's whistle shrilled, and the troop lined up by patrols. Slowly the inspection was made--first the scouts, then the room. Don forced himself to keep his eyes level, but he felt like hanging his head. "Every scout present," Mr. Wall announced, "and every scout clean. Each patrol is awarded sixteen points." Fleeting smiles through the ranks of the Foxes and the Eagles. Sober faces among the Wolves. "However," the Scoutmaster went on, "the Wolf patrol had the detail of cleaning the meeting place. I am sorry to say that the patrol has been derelict. I am, therefore, compelled to fine the Wolf patrol five points." Don's heart was like lead. He knew what the slate would show; and yet, when it was changed, he stared at it miserably: PATROL POINTS Eagle 44-1/2 Fox 46 Wolf 41-1/2 The meeting was over at last. He ordered his patrol to wait. The other scouts, looking at the Wolves queerly, went out into the night and scattered. Mr. Wall passed out. "Good night, scouts," he called. "Good night," they answered, and looked at Don. "We're going to clean this place," he said. "Get some water." There was a rush for pails. Tim hesitated. He knew he was the cause of the disaster that had overtaken the patrol, but he had the mistaken idea that it would seem babyish and weak to jump in and show contrition. He had always been looked upon as a little "hard." This, he thought, was soft--and he didn't want anybody to regard him as a softy. "Aw!" he said, "what's the use? We've lost the points, haven't we?" "Is that your idea of being a scout?" Don asked. Tim flushed again. For a few minutes he lounged around; then, looking ill at ease, he slouched out. "I didn't think he'd do that," Andy said thoughtfully. Don's lips had gone a little white. He turned toward the spattered wall and stopped all at once. For Tim was coming back through the doorway. "I'm as good a scout as you," Tim said passionately. "If you say I'm not, I'll bang you in the eye." Don said nothing. While Tim selected a pail and a floor cloth, Don rubbed away at the wall. Slowly a little smile spread across his face. He was quite content the way things had gone. What did five points amount to, if their loss would make Tim a better scout? CHAPTER IV DANGER MOUNTAIN Next day Don pitched his second game for Chester. His pulse was steady, his control was good, and the Springfield batters seemed unable to do much with his drop. When the score-keeper marked the last play and closed his book, Chester had won 5 runs to 3. "Didn't I tell you?" Ted Carter cried jubilantly. "Some pitching!" "Sure," said Tim. "I doped out what the batters couldn't hit, and he threw me what I wanted." "There's a lot of pitchers can't do that," the captain said lightly, and shot a quick look at the pitcher. Don pretended that he had not heard; but he could not keep the color from rising in his cheeks. All during the game Tim had seemed to rasp him a bit--not enough to spoil his work, but enough to keep him on edge. He had thought, after last night's meeting, that there would be a big change in Tim. Instead, it began to look as though Tim would continue to be the same wild, heedless, quarrelsome lad he had always been. "Today's tussle will give you confidence," said Ted in his ear. "You'll be able to give them all a fight now." Don flashed a smile, and then the smile was gone. So was the thrill of his triumph. It was hard, this thinking you had weathered a storm and then finding that you hadn't. At supper Barbara and his father asked him about the game. He told of his success, but with none of the flash and fire of a conqueror. Barbara caught his glance and smiled at him understandingly. "More trouble with Tim?" she asked. "N--no; not exactly trouble. You see--" And then he related what had happened last night, and the great hopes that had come, and how Tim had acted today. "Don," said Mr. Strong, "do you remember when you learned to pitch an outcurve?" "Yes, sir." "You used to pitch to Alex Davidson out there in the yard. One day you came running into the shop and shouted that you had it, and I went out to watch, and you couldn't throw the curve again." "But I got it again next day," Don said quickly. "And now you can pitch it any time you want to," said his father. Don frowned. This was too deep! He saw Barbara smiling and nodding as much as to say, "Think it out, Don." Suddenly he straightened. "You mean that because Tim played fair that once--" "Just the way you pitched your curve that once," said his father. Don sighed. It was funny how his troubles dropped away when he brought them home. Monday there was another patrol meeting. Tim attended, but an imp of perverseness seemed to rule him. It was the first time he had seen the patrol as a group since Friday night. At first he looked hot and uncomfortable. After a while he began to scrape his feet and drum on the table. He seemed anxious to have it understood that, regardless of what had happened, no one need think that he was going to be bossed. "Oh, keep your feet still!" Alex Davidson said at last. Tim rolled a page of his pad into a ball and shot it across the table. The missile struck Ritter on the nose. Tim giggled, and made another ball, and shot this one at Andy Ford. "Cut it out!" Andy said good-naturedly. "You'll get papers all over the floor." Tim grinned, and rolled another cartridge. Don caught his bold, sidelong glance--a glance that seemed to say, "Well, what are you going to do about it?" Others around the table caught that look, too. Don's face grew hot. In an effort to keep the scouts from paying attention to Tim, he talked rapidly about the first aid contest, now two weeks off. The Eagles and the Foxes, he said, were working hard, and the Wolves would have to give more time to practice. "We're behind," Don finished, "and we must catch up." Somehow, what he said sounded strained, and forced, and lame. Every scout felt it--even Tim. Andy Ford's eyes snapped. He didn't look good-humored now. "We're not getting any better on our stretcher work," he said bluntly. "We need practice there." Tim stopped rolling his pad page. "That's a crack at me, isn't it?" he demanded. "I'm in the stretcher work, too," said Andy. "Aw, you're too clever," Tim flared. "I know what you mean." He shot the ball, and it whizzed past the assistant patrol leader's ear. The meeting was spoiled. Tim glanced defiantly around the table. Alex Davidson tried to get the talk going again, but discussion seemed to lag. And then, just when Don, in his disgust, was ready to adjourn, the door opened and Barbara came into the room. She had glasses and cake, and a pitcher of lemonade. Soon a filled glass was in front of each scout. "How is that for a good turn?" she smiled. "Why so many sober faces? What's the matter with you, Tim?" Tim flushed, and looked down at the floor. "He won't tell me," Barbara cried gayly. "That's what I get for being a girl--can't learn any boy scout secrets. Have a piece of cake, Tim." "Thank you," said Tim bashfully. The plate was passed around the table. Tim's eyes were still downcast. At the door Barbara paused. "Don't leave those papers on the floor, boys," she said. "Next time I come in I want to see you all smiling." Tim ate his cake and drank his lemonade. The talk started again, a little brisker now, and a little more hopeful. Plans were made for two practice periods during the week. "Will that be all right for you, Tim?" Don asked. "Don't worry about me," the red-haired boy answered shortly. "I'll be there." He arose, went around to the other side of the table and stooped to pick a paper ball from the floor. A soft smile touched Andy's mouth. "Aw! what are you laughing at?" Tim cried. "I'm not laughing, Tim," Andy protested. "Honest." But, for all that, Tim was furious when he left the meeting. The others stood on the porch and chatted a moment; he strode out the gate and down the dark road. "Gee!" he said in disgust. "They'll think I'm a little Janie." Letting a girl make him do things! It stung his pride. Friday night he had said no, and had changed his mind and had scrubbed with the others. Tonight he had grinned when told about papers on the floor--and had ended by picking them up. Everything had gone wrong, Tim told himself, since Don had become patrol leader. He began to blame Don for all his troubles. Don had upbraided him when the patrol had lost points. It was at Don's house that Barbara had made him pick up papers. His cheeks burned. "I'll show them!" he vowed wrathfully. He would redeem himself in the only way he knew. He would "start something." He started it by picking at Don all during next day's practice. "What's the matter with you?" Ted Carter demanded sharply. "Are you sick?" "Don's pitching like a freak," Tim answered. "It's Saturday's pitching that counts," said Ted. "You fellows have had enough warm-up. Go out in the field, Don, and catch fungoes." Don was glad to get away. When the work was over Ted ran to the outfield and took him by the arm and led him toward the road. "Have you and Tim been scrapping?" the captain asked. Don shook his head. "You fellows are in the same scout troop. Do you pull?" "N--no." "What's the matter; did Tim want to be patrol leader?" Don nodded. Ted slapped his glove against his thigh and whistled thoughtfully. At the corner he paused. Don halted, too. "Look here," Ted said suddenly. "You know that Tim is a harum-scarum, don't you?" "Everybody knows that," said Don. Ted broke into a relieved laugh. "Well, if you know it, what's the use of paying any attention to him? Just let him beef along until he gets tired. He can't hurt you." Don tried to wrest some comfort from the captain's words--and failed. True, Tim couldn't hurt him, but he could make things mighty unpleasant, and that was almost as bad. At home he found a post-card from Mr. Wall: The troop will assemble tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock. Light marching order. Don forgot all about Tim. Light marching order meant that this would not be an overnight hike, and a blanket was unnecessary. Haversack, cooking kit and rations for one meal would constitute the load. Ordinarily, hikes were arranged in advance and discussed at troop meetings. But sometimes Mr. Wall did the unexpected. He had said once that it added spice to scouting, and the scouts had agreed. It gave them practice, too, in assembling at a few hours' notice. But the scouts did not think of that. Don hustled upstairs and overhauled his haversack. His eating things were in their places. Frying-pan and two sauce-pans intact, can-opener, matches, salt-- "Got to get some salt," he said, and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Barbara called that supper was ready. He scooted upstairs, washed, and came down to the dining-room. "Hiking tomorrow?" Mr. Strong asked. "Don will be too excited to eat," Barbara said with a laugh as Don nodded in reply to the question. But she was mistaken. Don ate a supper of healthy size. Afterward he went out to the porch and squinted up at the sky. Stars dotted the black heavens like so many small windows. Now, if it didn't rain-- It didn't; not during the night, anyway. Don awoke with the morning sun in his face. In a moment he was out of bed and into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he was downstairs. His breakfast was merely a bite and a promise. There were too many things to do and too much to think about! What should he take along to cook at noon? "There's some lamb chops in the ice-box," said Barbara. Two of the chops went into the haversack. Then potatoes, and six slices of bread, and some coffee wrapped in a paper, and a small can of evaporated milk. He strapped the haversack, and suddenly remembered that he had forgotten salt, after all, and unstrapped it again. Barbara stuck in two apples, and by the time the load was slung from his shoulder, whistles and calls sounded from the gate. Andy Ford, Ritter and Bobbie Brown were waiting impatiently. Bobbie was sure that they would be late, and kept saying that everybody knew that Mr. Wall started promptly on the minute. Don winked at the others and led the way toward troop headquarters. They were not late. Mr. Wall's watch, hanging from a screw hook in the door, told them that they still had ten minutes. Don opened the patrol locker. "Who'll carry the ax?" he asked. "I will," said a voice. He turned. Tim Lally was waiting with outstretched hand. "Oh!" said Don uncertainly. Tim took the tool and strapped its leather sheath to his belt. He seemed to have forgotten all about his grouch. Everything was noise and bustle and confusion. The Eagles and the Foxes were grouped in front of their patrol lockers. There were cries of, "Hey, Jimmy! what did you bring to cook? What did you bring, Charlie?" Suddenly the silver notes of a bugle arose above the clamor. Assembly! Lockers were banged shut. Scouts scurried outdoors and fell into their places. "Column twos," came Mr. Wall's voice. "Forward! March!" Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded eager feet. Down to Main Street and then to the left. Alex Davidson waved to them from the door of the grocery store. "I wish Alex were with us," Don said wistfully. "I guess Alex wishes he was, too," Andy answered. "But nobody'll ever catch him wearing a long face just because he must work. He isn't that kind." The troop approached the turnpike. "Column left!" came the order. They knew where they were going up--up toward Gipsy Grove. The place had gotten its name from the fact that whenever a gipsy tribe came to the neighborhood it pitched its tents there. It was an ideal camping ground, with plenty of firewood, a clean, running stream, and just enough open timber to let the sunlight through. Presently they were away from the village and out in open country. The discipline of the march was dropped. In a straggling, merry line they moved along. Twice the Scoutmaster called rest halts, and each time there was a short talk on roadside flowers, and trees, and weeds. The morning wore away. By and by the sun was almost directly overhead, and Gipsy Grove was at last in sight. There was a race to see which patrol could get all its fires going first. Each scout was to cook for himself. "I'll chop," cried Tim. "Somebody get my fire going." His strong, muscular arms made short work of the dry dead wood that littered the ground under the trees. "We win," shouted the Foxes. But their last fire went out as it was lighted, and a flustered scout prepared to try again amid cries of, "Not more than two matches." This time his wood took the flame. But now the Eagles and the Wolves also had their fires going. Mr. Wall declared the race a triple tie. Haversacks were unpacked. Frying-pans and pots were dragged forth. Potatoes were laid among hot coals. Mr. Wall had chopped some wood and had his own fire going. Now he walked among the boys. "You're getting your fire too big," he warned Bobbie. "You don't need much of a blaze to cook." "How's mine?" said Tim. "Fine!" said the Scoutmaster. "Keep it that way." "Sure," said Tim. "I'll show some of these other fellows how to do theirs." Andy Ford gave a low groan. "Good night; now we're in for it." Tim wasted no time. He approached Ritter. That scout eyed him suspiciously. "You let my fire alone," he warned. "Go chase yourself. Mr. Wall told me to show you fellows--" "Tim!" Don chided. Tim flashed the patrol leader an angry glance. "I said I was going to show the fellows, didn't I? He didn't tell me not to. Anyway, Ritter's fire sprawls out too much. Wait until I get a stick. Now, all you have to do is to pull out these pieces, and--" "You're raking out my potatoes," cried Ritter. "It won't kill you to put them back," said Tim. He tossed the stick away and turned toward Bobbie. "Your fire's all right now, Bobbie," Don said distinctly. Tim turned up his nose and faced in Wally Woods's direction. But Wally's fire, small and compact, gave him no excuse to tinker. He advanced to where Andy Ford was preparing to fry his meat. "Gee!" he said. "That sure is one sick-looking fire." "Suits me," said Andy. He laid the meat in the pan. Tim began to prod the fire with his foot. The flame, which had been low and even, began to flare and smoke. Andy dropped his frying-pan and sprang forward. "Get away from there," he cried. His rush caught Tim and pushed him back. Then the red-haired boy braced, and there was a scuffle. Andy's fire was scattered. "What's the meaning of this?" came Mr. Wall's voice. Instantly the boys separated. Andy hung his head as though ashamed. Tim carried an injured air. "Andy pitched into me," he complained. "He was interfering with my fire," Andy answered. "I wasn't. I was only showing him." "Andy is a first-class scout," said Mr. Wall quietly. "If he doesn't know how to build a fire and cook a meal I have blundered as Scoutmaster in awarding him his first-class badge." Tim looked away. This was putting the whole thing in a new light. He dug the toe of one shoe into the ground, and kept twisting and turning it nervously. Mr. Wall's voice softened. "You go off the handle too quickly, Tim. You've ruined Andy's fire. What do you think you should do--the square thing?" "I'll finish my cooking over Don's fire," Andy said quickly. Mr. Wall never made the mistake of continuing a lecture to the point where it lost its force. He knew when to stop. This flurry was over. "All right, scouts," he said, and went back to his own cooking. Tim shuffled off and squatted down beside his own blaze. Andy rounded up his potatoes. They were cold and discouraged looking. "I've enough potatoes for us both," said Don. "What kind of meat have you?" "Sausage." "Gosh! That ought to be fine. Let's go whack--half my lamb chops for half your sausage." Soon eager nostrils were sniffing the glorious odor of sizzling meat touched with the tang of wood smoke. Don and Andy finished their cooking in silence. They began to eat. All over the camp scouts drew together and pooled their rations. Tim Lally sat by his fire, alone. "He's beginning to look good and sore," Andy said in a low voice. Don glanced toward the red-haired scout. Tim caught his eye and made a derisive face, and then turned his back and began to whistle as though he was having a gloriously good time. But Don was not fooled. Tim was lonesome. He felt that he was frozen out. But what could Tim expect if he was going to antagonize everybody? By and by cooking utensils were cleaned and put away. The fires were smothered. Haversacks were slung across strong young shoulders. The troop marched away. Up a winding road the scouts went, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting boisterously, sometimes silent. Suddenly they came out in a clearing. To the right was Danger Mountain; to the left was Lonesome Woods. The scouts spoke in subdued voices. Danger Mountain! They all knew how it had come by its name. A man had tried to climb one of its high, rocky walls and had fallen to his death. And Lonesome Woods. There was another name to make scouts edge closer to one another. Three miles wide it was, and about seven miles long, and dark and dense with thick growth. The gipsy caravans kept away from it. Passing tramps gave it a wide berth. From time to time boys dipped into its edges, but soon came out. Lonesome Woods, indeed! "We'll have to explore that some day," said Mr. Wall. "The mountain?" Tim asked eagerly. "The woods," the Scoutmaster answered. A shout broke from the troop. With Mr. Wall along there would be nothing to fear. When would they go? Next week? "We'll take it up at Friday night's meeting," the Scoutmaster promised. "Why can't we do the mountain?" Tim demanded. "Because Danger Mountain is a bad spot. Broken bones are a heavy price to pay for foolish daring." Tim stared off at the mountain. "It doesn't seem so hard," he said, and his eyes lighted with eagerness. Mr. Wall's face became grave. The hike home was all downhill. The scouts swung along gayly. The prospect of penetrating Lonesome Woods shortened the miles. What would they find? What strange adventures would befall them? "Adventure? Piffle!" said Tim. "Give me Danger Mountain." "Sssh!" warned Ritter. "Mr. Wall will hear you." "Gee! Can't I even say what I'd like?" Off in the distance a dog barked. Tim barked in reply. The dog answered. It became a duel of sound. Tim was in his glory. Weird, nerve-racking screeches came from his throat. Presently the uproar became unbearable. Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled. The noise stopped. "What's the matter back there?" Mr. Wall demanded. "Can't the patrol leader keep order?" "Cut it out, Tim," said Don. "Go on!" Tim answered sullenly. "Say it louder so Mr. Wall will hear you." He slouched through what was left of the hike and did not speak a word to anyone. "He surely can make things pleasant," said Andy. "Some day he'll go too far and Mr. Wall will bundle him out of the troop, and it will be good riddance." Don said nothing. He wanted to be relieved of the burden of Tim's trouble-making, but not by expulsion. That, he thought, was no way for a fellow to end as a scout. If Tim would only be a little bit more like the other fellows in the patrol! But the chances of Tim doing that seemed remote. He had his good moments--times when it seemed that he had struck the right road and was on his way to better things. Always, though, something happened to turn him aside. Next day there was baseball practice. Don came to the field eager for a warm-up. He nodded hopefully to Tim, and took his place, and noticed that Ted Carter was loitering near by. "Come on," cried Tim. "Let's see if you can do a little better pitching today." Don bit his lips. Evidently, Tim was in one of his sour, irritating moods. He served the ball and resolved to pay no attention to the catcher. By and by he threw his first curve. "They'd kill that," said Tim. Don pitched again. "Oh, come on! _Come on!_" Ted Carter walked out between the boys, "That will be all from you, Tim. When you come out on this field, you come out to play ball. If you can't play ball, you quit." Slowly Tim pulled off his mitt. He was the only regular catcher. Ted was trying to bluff him. And his temper was flaring because he had been rebuked in front of Don. "Think you can get anybody to play any better for you than I play?" he asked flippantly. "You bet I can," said Ted. "I can use a fellow who'll be in the game every minute." "Get him," Tim said indifferently. "I will," said Ted. "You're through. Get off the field." Tim was jarred. He hadn't expected anything like this. He looked at Ted. There could be no escaping what he saw--the captain meant it. "Where--where are you going to get another catcher?" he asked weakly. "Is it worrying you?" Ted asked. "I'll go behind the bat myself. I guess I can get somebody to play first base. Now get off the field; you're in the way." Tim walked over to the maple tree and stood there in its shade. He was raging. Chased from the field! Routed out as though he didn't amount to a rap, and he the best catcher in the village! "I'll play with some of the other teams," he vowed. "I'll offer to catch for them. I'll come here and make these fellows feel sick. I'll--" But he knew that he'd do nothing of the sort. Breaking into teams out of your own town was almost impossible. He was out of it, on the shelf, discarded. "I ought to go out there," he muttered fiercely, "and whack Don one in the eye." He saw the pitcher begin to throw to Ted. The sight was too much for him. He swung around and plunged down the road, the big mitt under his arm, and did not once look back. Had he stayed, he would have seen that Ted Carter called the pitching to a halt in a very few minutes. The captain was no fool. The first six balls Don threw him proved to him that the pitcher was upset. "Don't let this bother you," he said. "Tim had it coming to him. It wasn't your fault. Go home and forget it, and tomorrow you and I'll work out and get acquainted." Don went home, but he did not forget. He was sure that this latest twist would only pile up trouble for him as patrol leader. Next morning the news was all over the village. Don heard it when he went on an errand for his father. Afterward he worked on his bird-houses and tried to brush aside the worried thoughts that plagued him. Andy Ford came to the yard, and was followed by Bobbie Brown and Wally Woods. The three boys looked at Don, and looked at each other, and looked away. "Was Tim chased?" Andy asked at last. Don laid down his plane. "Fellows," he said seriously, "if you hear any talk about Tim just--just keep your mouths shut. Talk always makes things worse and--and we're after the Scoutmaster's Cup." The three boys nodded that they understood. There wasn't much to say after that. One by one they went their way and left Don alone. Late in the afternoon he went to the field. He did not see Tim, and at once a weight seemed taken from his heart. He pitched to Ted. His control was better now, and presently he found himself enjoying the work. His curves broke well, and Ted kept calling, "That' a boy, Don; that' a boy!" and he felt a thrilling desire to give Ted the best he had. Tim never made him feel like that. Next night came the troop meeting. He wondered if Tim would carry his bad temper so far as to come carelessly dressed. Evidently others shared his anxiety, for as soon as he reached headquarters Andy asked him anxiously if Tim would be "all right." Tim came to the meeting as clean as any scout in the troop. The patrol leader of the Foxes had left the key of his locker at home, and Fox patrol scouts who had expected to brush their shoes before the meeting was called found themselves face to face with a difficulty. The "fall in" signal came all too soon for the flustered Foxes. Quietly Mr. Wall walked down the line of stiff-backed, silent boys. "A perfect score for the Wolves," he said. "Four points off the Foxes for untidiness. Two points from the Eagles for a scout absent." Up went the new standing: PATROL POINTS Eagle 58-1/2 Fox 58 Wolf 57-1/2 "Gosh!" breathed Andy. "We're close now, aren't we?" "It's all in sticking together," said Don. In spite of himself his voice trembled. He looked at Tim. The trouble-making scout was staring at the board with puckered eyes. Don would have given much to know of what he was thinking. There was a lot of work that night--knot-tying, drowning grips and how to break them, identifying leaves from trees and bushes, and map reading. Finally that part of the meeting was over. A voice cried, "How about Lonesome Woods?" There were cheers and shouts. There wasn't much debate about the trip. There was, however, a hot wrangle about the day. Finally it went to a vote, and Thursday was selected. "Gee!" said Tim. "I bet that will be a great hike." The meeting adjourned. A scout of the Eagle patrol caught Don's arm. "What team do you pitch against tomorrow?" he asked. "Little Falls," said Don. Tim's face lost its animation and grew dark. He walked toward the door. And Don, watching him, wondered why it was that fellows were always asked questions at the wrong time. By this time Don knew that Tim, whenever anything peeved him, could be counted on to display a reckless streak. For a moment this worried him; then he brushed the thought aside. He was always fretting about Tim, and nothing serious was ever happening. He had planned to mow the lawn and spade the flower beds next morning. It was well that he went early to his task, for at ten o'clock Ted Carter came for him. "You had better come to the field," the captain said. "No pitching--just a little throwing to bases. I've dug up a fellow named Marty Smith to cover first. I want you to get used to each other." Don evened off the flower beds, carried the raked-up grass around to the chickens, and put the gardening tools away. "Dinner at twelve sharp," Barbara called after him. At first he felt odd, throwing to the bag and not finding Ted there. He made some crazy tosses. But Marty's long reach always saved him, and Marty's cheery voice kept calling, "That's the stuff; that's what will get them." Another first-baseman, Don thought, would be scolding about the throws. His heart warmed to the newcomer. He began to feel at home. His throws steadied and became sure. "That's enough," Ted called. "Nobody'll get much of a lead on you fellows. Now for some fielding." Don walked over to the shade of the maple tree. Intent on watching the field, he did not notice the small figure that took a place at his side. "Hello, Don," said a voice. "Oh! Hello, Bobbie! What's the matter, you look worried?" "I'm all right," Bobbie said hastily. Don turned his eyes to the field. Even though his interest was completely absorbed, he thought, subconsciously, that the boy at his elbow was very restless. By and by the dwindling tree shadows warned him that it was time he started for home. He walked out to the road. Bobbie walked with him. "Going my way?" he asked. "Y-yes," said Bobbie. They passed one corner, then another. "I--I want to ask you something," Bobbie said haltingly. "If a scout knows that some other scout is going to do something--something dangerous, maybe--is it blabbing if he tells?" Don stopped short. "Who's doing something dangerous?" "Is it carrying tales?" Bobbie insisted. Don thought a moment. "I don't think so, Bobbie." "But when a fellow tells about other things--" "Could you stop this scout from doing something dangerous if you told?" Don asked. "I--I think so." "Does he know it's dangerous?" Bobbie nodded slowly. "Then you ought to tell," said Don. Bobbie looked at the ground. "Tim Lally is getting up a party to go to Danger Mountain today," he said. A shiver ran through Don's nerves. "Where's Tim now?" he asked. "Home, getting ready." Don turned back toward the ball field. Past the maple tree he strode. A factory whistle sounded the noon hour. He broke into a run. Two blocks farther on he stopped short. Tim was coming toward him carrying an oil can. "Are you going to Danger Mountain?" Don demanded. Tim put down the can and cocked his cap over one eye. "Sure. Why?" "You can't. Mr. Wall said it's a bad spot." "He didn't say we couldn't go." "That's what he meant." "How do you know?" "Everybody knows. That's why he won't take us there. He said you could get broken bones." "I'm not afraid." Tim picked up the can and swung it carelessly. "I guess Mr. Wall was trying to scare little fellows like Bobbie. He didn't mean a big fellow like me." Don knew that arguing with Tim would be useless. And yet, as the trouble-maker stepped around him, he made a last plea. "You'll get the patrol in trouble, Tim, and we're only one point behind the Eagles." "I knew you weren't worrying about _me_," said Tim. Don followed slowly. He had pleaded for the troop thinking that that might win where all else had failed. And, as usual, Tim had misunderstood. At the corner he paused. New thoughts were crowding through his brain. Tim's recklessness was jeopardizing not only himself--it was threatening the entire troop. Suppose he fell and broke an arm, or a leg, or--or worse. People would say, "There; that's what comes from letting boys become scouts and go hiking." Boys would be taken from the troop. The troop might even break up. All Mr. Wall's plans for the future would be ruined. "It isn't fair," Don told himself bitterly. "If there was somebody who could make him stay home--" His eyes puckered and his mouth grew tight. He had told Bobbie that this wasn't carrying tales. It wasn't. Suddenly he turned to his left and went up a side street. A few minute's later he rang the doorbell of a plain, pleasant-looking house. The screen door opened. "Good afternoon, Donald," said a woman's voice. "Are you looking for Mr. Wall?" "Yes, Mrs. Wall." Don's cap was in his hand. "Is he home? Could I see him right away?" Mrs. Wall shook her head. "He went to the city this morning. I do not expect him until evening. Is there anything I can do for you?" "N-no," said Don. He went down the stoop, stumbling on the last step, and walked slowly toward home. CHAPTER V A PLEA ON THE ROAD Dinner was almost over when Don reached home. Barbara brought his food from the kitchen where she had kept it warm. "Didn't you hear me say twelve sharp?" she scolded. Don told of Bobbie's message, of his interview with Tim, and of his fruitless trip to Mr. Wall's house. Barbara, engrossed in the tale, dropped into her own seat and listened intently. Mr. Strong shook his head soberly. "Going to Danger Mountain will be a foolhardy trick," he said. "I wish Mr. Wall were home," said Don. He had lost appetite for his dinner and pushed his plate away. "I did right to go to him, didn't I, dad?" "You'd have been foolish not to go," said his father. Don stared hard at the tablecloth. He had entered joyously on his duties as patrol leader, but one disagreement after another with Tim had roughened his road. And now--now that he seemed powerless to stay this latest folly--he suddenly felt very, very tired. "Why will Tim be so headstrong?" cried Barbara. "It's a way some boys have," Mr. Strong explained. "Tell them not to do a thing, and immediately that is the one thing they want to do. As for Tim--Well, I fancy he's disgruntled because Ted Carter dropped him. He doesn't want to sit around and watch baseball today. He probably figured that the best way was to go off and pretend he didn't care. If he could add spice to the going off, it would make it seem all the more as though he was really having a good time." "And won't he have a good time?" Barbara asked. "No boy really enjoys himself, when he knows he's doing wrong," Mr. Strong answered. Don roused himself from his dull, discouraged mood. "Is there anything I could try, dad, to stop him? Just one more trial?" "You might take him by the back of the neck and tell him you're boss." "I would," Don said slowly, "if I were able." He went upstairs and got into uniform--all except his spiked shoes. He would put those on on the porch where there was no carpet to rip and tear. He went over to the window and looked down at the yard. Nothing was there but grass, and hedge, and a small bed of flowers. And yet he saw a steep side of Danger Mountain, and khaki-clad boys climbing that steep side and missing their steps. "Twenty minutes of two, Don," Barbara called. He carried the spiked shoes down to the porch. He was angry now. Why should he worry when he had done the best he could? He _wouldn't_ worry. He'd pitch his game and have a good time. If Tim wanted to get hurt, that was his funeral. In this mood he walked to the field. The practice had already started. He gave the Little Falls players a casual glance. Visiting teams no longer worried him--not before the umpire's cry of "Play ball!" anyway. He had had his baptism of fire. He was a veteran. "I was just going to send somebody to look you up," said Ted. "Everything all right? Good! Shoot away." Thoughts of Tim came, but Don thrust them aside and shook his head stubbornly. What had happened was no fault of his. He had done his best. Now he was going to enjoy himself. "Great stuff," said Ted when the warm-up was over. "Sting them in like that during the game and there'll be nothing to it." Don laughed and walked toward the bench. His eyes scanned the spectators. It was just possible that Tim had changed his mind-- "I don't care whether he did or not," the pitcher muttered hotly. He drew on a sweater and took a seat on the bench, and stared out toward center field. By and by it was time to start the game. Ted cried, "Come on, now; everybody get into this." Don dropped his sweater on the bench and walked out toward the mound. The Little Falls coachers began a sharp rattle of talk. Don glared at them coldly. Up went his arm--and down. "Strike one!" Don pitched again. The batter hit a twisting, difficult fly, but Marty Smith ran back and caught it deftly. "Yah!" cried Ted. "That's getting them." It was clever fielding. Don seemed to catch the contagion of its worth. Why, with support like that a pitcher ought to do wonders. He pitched again. "Strike!" ruled the umpire. "Wow!" Ted said softly. "He surely has stuff on the ball today." Two more pitches, and the batter was out on strikes. The next player fouled to Ted. Little Falls' first turn at bat had been a sorry failure. Cheers came from the spectators as Don walked to the bench. Somebody yelled, "Take off your hat, kid." He flushed, and doffed his cap, and sat down with crimson face. "Come on," cried Ted. "Give Don a run and this game will be sewed up." But it wasn't until the third inning that Chester tallied. Then she scored three runs in a rush. Ted led off with a three-bagger. After that came a single, an out, a base on balls, another out, and a long two-bagger. Marty Smith, with the crowd imploring him to keep up the good work, struck out on three pitched balls, and not one of them was worth offering at. "Too bad," said Ted. "If that fellow could only hit he'd be a star." Meanwhile, Little Falls had not yet scored. Nor did she tally in the fourth. Don, today, was master of the situation. He came to the bench. Up to this point, the touch and go of battle had held him at a tension. Now, with the game comparatively safe, he relaxed. He paid attention to things he had been too busy to notice before--the afternoon shadows, for instance. The shadows told his practiced scout eyes that it was about four o'clock. Unconsciously he began to figure. If Tim had started at one o'clock, he should have reached Danger Mountain an hour ago-- "Here!" Don told himself abruptly. "I must stop thinking of this." Chester scored two more runs. He went out, jauntily, to pitch the fifth inning. Before he had hurled three balls he knew that something was wrong. He had lost the razor edge of pitching perfection. He staggered through the fifth inning without being scored on, but it was ticklish work. Little Falls hit him hard. With the bases full and two out, Marty Smith sprang sideways, made a blind stab, scooped the ball and touched the bag for the third out. Cries of chagrin came from the Little Falls bench. "Oh, you lucky dubs," called one of the coachers. "That was horseshoes." Don smiled mechanically. It was his turn to go to bat; and after he was thrown out he came to the bench and fought stubbornly to keep his thoughts on the game and away from Tim. Grimly he stuck to his task. When it came time to start the seventh inning, he was almost master of himself. He found his drop ball working again. "Yah!" cried Ted. "Here's where we get in the game again." Little Falls, following that turbulent sixth inning, expected to go right on with her hitting. Instead, her batters found themselves once more helpless. Three players stepped to the plate and were thrown out in order. Don's spirits had risen. He walked toward the bench with a springy stride. The spectators in back of third base began to cheer. He glanced at them with a smile--and then his face sobered. Bobbie Brown was pushing his bicycle hurriedly along in the rear of the watchers. His attitude said plainly that he had come with a message. Don walked past the bench and waited. Bobbie came directly to him. "Tim just started," he said. "He had to do chores for his mother and couldn't get away earlier." "It will be almost dark when he gets there," Don cried. "Tim went just the same," Bobbie answered. "He told the fellows they could hurry and get there before sunset, and then start back after taking a little look around." Don could understand harum-scarum Tim refusing to give up a plan. But as for his companions-- "What fellows are with him?" he asked. "Not scouts?" Bobbie nodded, "Any from our patrol?" "Ritter." Don caught his breath. "There's a scout from the Foxes and one from the Eagles, too," said Bobbie. But Don could find no consolation in the fact that other than Wolf patrol scouts were derelict. "I think they wanted to quit," Bobbie went on, "but Tim jawed them--you know--and they went along." Don could find no comfort in that, either. The inning was over. It was Little Falls' turn to go to bat. He took a few steps toward the diamond, and paused. "Come on, Don," called Ted. He turned back. "Wait here with your bike," he said quickly. "Have you a wrench? Raise the seat." There was no use pretending that he did not care. And his duty, he thought, was clear. He could ride after Tim and overtake him before he had gone very far. What sort of patrol leader would he be to let two of his scouts break faith with the Scoutmaster and not fight to the very last to bring them back? For it was breaking faith. Mr. Wall had not dreamed that they would do anything like this. He was on fire now for the game to end. In his eagerness he began to pitch wildly. The first batter got a base on balls. Ted walked down to him. "Steady, there; you're pitching too fast." Don saw that if he gave bases on balls he would prolong the struggle. Though it was torture for him to go slow, he fought his desire to hurry. But it was impossible to lose himself in the game. The edges of his skill were blunted. Little Falls began to hit freely again. Two runs came over the plate before the third player was out. The score was now 5 to 2. "Arm tired?" asked Ted. Don shook his head. Why wouldn't the batters hurry? When the third Chester boy was thrown out he sprang to his feet and strode to the mound. Desperately he worked, trying to retire Little Falls' batters in order. But Little Falls, in that last inning, had tasted blood. Now she would not be denied. Three runs were scored. The game was a tie. Ted came to the bench with puckered eyes. Here was something he couldn't understand. It was a common thing to see pitchers gradually weaken, but Don had lost his effectiveness all in a moment. He dropped down on the bench and motioned for Don to sit beside him. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "Nothing," said Don. What was the use of worrying Ted, he thought. He had not deceived the captain in the least. Ted leaned back and sighed. He knew that here was a ball game that was lost. The ninth inning was a slaughter. Little Falls scored four times. Each hit, each run, made the game last that much longer. Don labored grimly to reach the end. Ted asked him no questions when he came in from the mound. In fact, the captain only half-heartedly urged his players to make a rally. The leaderless, dispirited team fell easy victims to the rival pitcher's curves. The moment the last player was out, Don hurried to where Bobbie waited with the wheel. He threw one leg over the frame. His foot found the toe-clip. "Got your scout whistle?" he asked. Bobbie handed it over. Don thrust it in his pocket and was off. Shading his eyes, Bobbie watched wheel and rider fly down the road. A hand touched his shoulder. "What's Don rushing off for?" Ted asked. Bobbie told about Tim's journey to Danger Mountain. Ted's eyes snapped. "Think Don'll catch him?" he asked. "Sure he will." "I hope," said the captain, "I hope he gives him a beating to remember." But Don, as he pedaled down the road, was not thinking of fight. Into the Turnpike he raced at an angle of forty-five degrees. The dry dust sifted up from under the spinning tires. It powdered his legs, and burned his eyes, and parched his throat. Half an hour later he came to where Christie's Brook crossed the Pike. It was clean water, and safe. He threw himself on his stomach and reached down with his lips. His whole body cried out to him to drink, drink, drink. But he was too wise a scout not to know the dangers of such a course. He rinsed his mouth and throat, and swallowed a few drops, mounted again and rode off. Another twenty minutes, and he came slowly to the top of a ridge. Down below dark forms moved along the road. He gripped the handle-bars hard and coasted. A few minutes later he had almost reached them. They heard the whir of his chain and looked back. Then they stopped. "It's only Don," Tim said carelessly. Ritter shrank back as though he wanted to hide. Up to this point Don had thought only of overtaking the hikers. Now he was face to face with the problem of what he should say to them. He laid his bicycle at the side of the road and advanced with fast-beating heart. "How many of you scouts told Mr. Wall you were going on this trip?" he demanded. "Wasn't necessary," Tim answered promptly. "Mr. Wall didn't say we couldn't go." "Mr. Wall didn't expect that any scout would go." "How do you know what Mr. Wall expected? Did he tell you?" It was a losing argument. Don could see the other scouts looking at Tim and nodding their heads as though agreeing with his logic--all except Ritter, who was looking at the ground. Don's mind worked feverishly. They were scouts. They were breaking the scout law that said that a scout was trustworthy. He tried to grasp words that would make them feel what he felt, but the words would not come. "We can't stay here all day," Tim hinted. The sound of a locomotive came faintly. Perhaps it was the train bringing Mr. Wall back from the city. All at once Don's mind, groping, searching, caught the first vague outline of an idea. "Wait a minute, fellows." His eyes were on fire. "If you thought Mr. Wall would have no objection to a Danger Mountain hike, why did you wait until you got him out of the village?" "What do you mean by that?" Tim asked suspiciously. "Why did you wait until he went away for the day and then sneak off on this hike?" Indignant cries broke from Tim and from the scouts. They had not known that Mr. Wall had gone to the city. Ritter caught Don's arm. "Is Mr. Wall away today, Don? Honest?" "Yes." "How do you know?" Tim asked. "I went to his house at noon to tell him about this hike." Silence fell over the group. The scout from the Eagle patrol took off his hat and fanned his face. "Mr. Wall won't think we sneaked off just because he was away," he said uneasily. "Why shouldn't he think it?" cried Don. One of the party was weakening, anyway. He pressed his advantage. "You fellows know what he said on the last hike--that Danger Mountain was a bad place. And the moment he leaves town, a bunch of scouts start for the mountain. How does that look?" It looked distinctly bad. Tim's carelessness vanished. "Well," he demanded of Ritter angrily, "what are you looking at me for? _I_ didn't know he had gone to the city." The hikers were demoralized and leaderless. The right word now-- "Fellows," said Don, "let us show Mr. Wall that he can leave the village as often as he pleases and not have to worry about a single scout of Chester troop." Ritter took a step toward him. But the others were still just a bit uncertain. Don almost held his breath. There was nothing more for him to say. He ran a nervous hand into the pocket of his sweater. His fingers closed on some cord, and something round and hard. Bobbie's whistle! He put it to his lips and blew a long, shrill blast. It was the voice of authority--the scout signal for attention. Instinctively the boys straightened and looked alive. "We're going home," said Don. "We're going to show that a scout is trustworthy. Forward!" An air of suspense seemed to come down over them there in the road. Don's pulse throbbed. Would they obey? "March!" he ordered. The die was cast. Three of the boys swung forward. Tim stood with his feet spread apart, frowning and glum. Presently, when the others had gone several hundred yards, he hunched his shoulders sheepishly and slowly followed after. CHAPTER VI SPROUTING SEEDS Don had pitched a full game that day. He was tired. Yet, as he slowly rode the bicycle, he scarcely felt the weary complaint of his muscles. A great peace lay over the road. The air was soft with summer's glory. Faces that had been turned toward Danger Mountain were now turned toward Chester, and that made all the difference in the world. At first the journey back was something like a funeral. Tim shuffled along in the rear. Ritter and the two other scouts had nothing to say. Then by degrees the tension wore off. Tim still clung to the rear, but the others began to laugh and to talk. Half way back to town they saw a man in the distance riding toward them. "Isn't that Mr. Wall?" Ritter asked anxiously. It was Mr. Wall. Tim hurried up from the rear. He wanted to be where he could hear what was said when scouts and Scoutmaster met. Mr. Wall seemed to be riding hard. Suddenly, as he saw them, his pace slackened. "He's going to dismount," said Ritter. "He's waiting for us," said the Eagle patrol scout. Their steps unconsciously became slower, Don jumped from the bicycle and walked with them. He studied Mr. Wall's face. Did Mr. Wall know? He had gone to the Scoutmaster's house that morning ready to tell. Now, though, he thought he faced a different situation. He was sure that the Danger Mountain hike had been blocked--not for today alone, but for all the days of the future. To bring it up again would be like trying to re-heat a stale pie. He had faced the situation alone. By luck--he called the use he had made of Mr. Wall's absence a lucky stroke--he had conquered. What had happened had been among scouts. They had settled it among themselves. He felt, dimly, that a great lesson had been learned. Maybe it would be better to leave things as they were. The Scoutmaster's greeting was cheery. "Hello there, hikers! How did you find the going?" Ritter and the others glanced at one another sideways. "Pretty dusty," Don said promptly. "That's how I found it. How far did you go?" "About a mile past Christie's Brook." "Who was the star cook?" "We didn't cook anything today." "Cooking ought to be a part of every hike," the Scoutmaster said pleasantly. He felt his tires. "I guess I've worked up an appetite for supper. I'm going back. Want to ride in with me, Don?" The patrol leader of the Wolves hesitated. Did Mr. Wall suspect something and intend to question him? "I--I guess I'll stick with the fellows," he said. Mr. Wall called a good-by and rode off. A few minutes later his retreating figure was outlined against a patch of bronze evening sky. Ritter drew a deep breath. He hadn't exactly expected Don to tell, and yet-- "Phew!" said the Eagle patrol scout, "That was a close shave." "Close shave nothing," cried Tim, "He's wise. Four scouts in uniform, and a patrol leader in baseball clothes and spiked shoes, and riding a bicycle. What does that look like?" "Well, what does it look like?" Ritter demanded. "It looks as though somebody jumped on a bicycle and rode after us, you gilly." "Gee!" said the scout from the Eagles. "Mr. Wall will want to know--" "Mr. Wall doesn't go snooping around," cried the scout from the Foxes. "And Don could have told him right here, had he wanted to," said Ritter. Tim said nothing. The march home started again. Don, embarrassed, rode far in the van. Twice, looking back over his shoulder, he saw Tim trudging with the others, but with his hands in his pockets and his head bent thoughtfully. For the second time that day Don was late for a meal. His father, his mother and his sister Beth had gone off to a church social. Barbara gave him his supper; and while he ate, he told her how the scouts had turned back when they learned that Mr. Wall was away. "They must be all right at heart, Don," said Barbara. "Of course they're all right," said Don. Barbara went out to the kitchen for a piece of cake. He sighed, and relaxed in his chair, and waited. It seemed that she was gone a long time. Suddenly he gave a start, and jerked open his eyes, and looked up to find her shaking his shoulder. "Better eat your cake tomorrow, Don. You're falling asleep." He stumbled upstairs and went to bed. As he lay there, on the borderland of sleep, his thoughts drifted back to Tim walking with the others with his hands in his pockets--the way no scout who was alert and alive should walk. "Wonder what Tim was thinking about," he muttered sleepily. Tim had been thinking about a boy who could have made it hot for him--and who hadn't. He had expected Don to tell. He had hurried forward ready to argue heatedly in his own defense. And instead, Don had plainly tried to shield him. He slouched his shoulders with an air of hard toughness, but deep inside he felt small and cheap. He was used to wrangling and boisterous striving for what he wanted. Yet, for all of his roughness, a finer streak of his nature could, on occasion, respond to fair dealing. Squareness--being white--was something he could understand. Don had been white. He found himself wishing, as he walked along, that he had never started the hike. He had seen Mr. Wall's eyes travel in his direction as though picking him out as the ringleader in whatever mischief had been afoot. He wondered what the Scoutmaster thought of him. "Aw!" he told himself uncomfortably, "I'm a mutt." For the time being, at least, his hot blood was chastened. He had gone off that afternoon and had left several chores undone. When he reached home his mother scolded and his father threatened. It was no new experience. Nevertheless, he finished the neglected work in silence, and in silence he ate his supper. It had begun to dawn on him that he was spoiling things for himself. He wasn't getting any fun out of scouting. He had been banished from baseball. If Ted Carter stayed behind the bat, and if he didn't get another chance to play-- "It's coming to me," he said, and his eyes blinked. The time he had ruined Andy's fire Mr. Wall had said, "What do you think a scout should do--the square thing?" He was confronted with the same question now. What should he do--the square thing? All of Sunday he wrestled with the problem. Monday afternoon he went to the field early. He was the first boy there. He sat under the tree; and when he saw Ted coming, he stood up slowly and went forward to meet the captain. "Say, Ted, any chance for me to get back?" Ted glanced at him sharply. "Get back for what?" "To play ball." The captain tossed him the mitt. "Sure. Here comes Don. Catch him. No curves--he worked nine innings Saturday. Just a little warm-up." It was an awkward moment for Tim. He was not used to knuckling under. He swallowed a lump in his throat; but Don acted as though there had never been a change in the team. Slowly his restraint wore away. The other players took him back without question; nobody mentioned Saturday's disastrous game. Tim went home from the practice whistling shrilly. There was a patrol meeting at Don's house that night. He arrived on time. The others talked eagerly of the first aid contest that was scheduled for Friday night. For once he listened without trying to break into the conversation and monopolize it, and gradually a little frown of worry wrinkled his forehead. The dining-room table was pushed up against the wall. "No fooling tonight, fellows," said Don. "Let's see how much work we can do." Tim worked as faithfully as any of the others. In a corner Don and Ritter practiced with splints, and over by the bay window Wally and Alex did their bandaging. He and Andy and Bobbie had the center of the floor for artificial respiration, stretcher work, and fireman's lift. He worked feverishly. Something whispered to him, "Why didn't you work hard before? You're too late now." Presently it was nine o'clock and the work was over. "How does it look?" Don asked eagerly. "All right here," said Wally. Tim and Andy were silent. Don's eyes clouded. The meeting broke up. The boys passed out through the hall calling back good night. Andy stayed behind. "Tim's going to fall down," he said bluntly, "and fall down hard." Don slowly returned the bandages to the first aid kit. "He was trying tonight." "Sure he was--tonight. Why didn't he try at the other meetings and cut out his fooling?" Don closed the kit and pushed it aside. "If he practiced a couple of times this week--" "How are you going to get him to practice?" Andy demanded. "Ask him." "Mackerel! Ask _him_ to do extra work? Can't you imagine what he'll tell you?" Don could imagine it without much trouble. But he remembered how his last appeal, when everything seemed lost, had stopped the Danger Mountain hike. It cost nothing to try. He had no love for the job of intimating to Tim that his work was not satisfactory. And yet was it fair for him to keep silent? Was it fair to those scouts who had labored with a will? He went out to the porch and lifted his voice. "Tim! O Tim!" An answering cry came faintly. "Now for the fireworks," said Andy. Tim came through the gate and advanced as far as the porch steps. "How about you and Andy and Bobbie practicing a couple of times before Friday?" Don asked. There was a long interval of silence. "All right," said Tim at last. He swung around and walked out the gate. "Mackerel!" said Andy. "I thought he'd go up in the air." Wednesday morning Tim practiced at troop headquarters. Thursday afternoon, as soon as the baseball drill was over, he practiced again. Friday morning he was even ready for more; but that morning Bobbie had to weed the vegetable garden in back of his house and could not come around. Tim went home vaguely disappointed. That afternoon, at the baseball field, he played a butter-fingered game. He could not hold the ball, and his throws to bases were atrocious. "Hi, there!" called Ted. "Go take a walk around the block." Tim was frightened. "Don't you want me to play tomorrow?" "Sure I do. Tomorrow you'll be all right. This is your bad day. Go off by yourself and get the air." Tim went off to the maple tree and sat down. And by and by he found himself wondering, not what kind of baseball he would play on the morrow, but whether he would be good or bad in first aid that night. He came to troop headquarters after supper with a queer, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Outside, the Eagles were making one last hurried practice of the business of making a coat stretcher. Tim wished he could do a little practicing, too; but when he went inside and joined his patrol, he shrank from asking Andy and Bobbie to work with him. The hands of the clock crept around to the hour of eight. The Eagles came inside. Mr. Wall called the patrol leaders. "We don't want any lagging or fooling," he announced. "Have your scouts move lively." "Yes, sir." The leaders went back to their patrols and repeated what the Scoutmaster had said. Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled. The bugle sounded "To the Colors." Fifteen minutes later the inspection was over. Each patrol had a perfect score. The result was marked on the board: PATROL POINTS Eagle 74-1/2 Fox 74 Wolf 73-1/2 It was now time for the contest. An air of tension ran through the troop. Each patrol kept to itself. There was a deal of husky excited whispering. Of all the Wolf patrol, Tim alone was silent. The muscles of his mouth twitched. How he wished he could have back those afternoons he had wasted! "Scouts!" called Mr. Wall. The room became silent. "First in each division of work," he said, "will count five points, second three points, and third one point. The patrol having the greatest number of points at the finish will have five credits to its blackboard score; the second patrol, three points; the third patrol nothing. Two things will count, speed and neatness--and, oh yes, care. I say speed, but I also warn you to use your heads." Use their heads? What did that mean? But before the scouts had much time to think about it, the first event was called. This was bandaging. Two scouts from each patrol stepped forward, ready. Wally and Alex represented the Wolves. "Arm sling," called Mr. Wall. Quickly, deftly, the slings were made. There was little to choose, it seemed to the watching scouts. "Head bandage," called the Scoutmaster. Again there was quick work. But this time the Fox boys slipped a moment. Warning calls came from their patrol. Bobbie yelled a "Go it, Wally." The Fox scouts finished only a second behind the others. "Broken collar bone," was the next command. This time one of the Eagles dropped a bandage. There was a shout from the scouts. The shouting increased as the Fox bandager fumbled the binding knots. Wally worked coolly and rapidly. He was the first to finish in this particular test. "We're going to get bandaging points sure," cried Andy. "Bully work, Wally; bully work." "Foot bandage," said Mr. Wall. The three teams finished only seconds apart. The triangular bandage was now discarded. "Spiral bandage," ordered Mr. Wall. Here, for the first time, Wally ran into trouble. The bandage became flabby. Quickly he pulled it apart and began again. The Fox and Eagle patrols jumped to their feet and pleaded for their respective teams to hurry. Wally calmly ran the bandage up the calf of Alex's leg. "Finished," cried the Foxes and the Eagles. "Finished," cried Wally. "Gosh!" whispered Bobby. "His bandage looks neater than theirs." Then came a spiral reverse, and after that a complete spiral for all the fingers. When this last job was finished, Mr. Wall smiled, as though well pleased. "Pretty work," he said. "That will be all." The contestants walked back to their troops, and he figured on a pad. "Wonder if he'll tell us now," whispered Bobbie. "Of course he will," Andy answered. "That's what makes things exciting, knowing that you are behind or ahead--" "Sssh!" Don cautioned. "I'll award the points now," said Mr. Wall. "Later you can look over my scoring pad and see how I scored each individual test. Wolf patrol five points--" "Wow!" yelled Bobbie. Andy dug him in the ribs. "Shut up, you shrimp. Want Mr. Wall to put us out?" But Mr. Wall only smiled at the excited scout. "--Eagles," he went on, "three points, and Foxes, one point." The Foxes seemed glum. The Eagles clamored about their patrol leader. Don felt like dancing. "Fine start," he said to Tim; and Tim nodded and swallowed a lump in his throat. He was used to having his pulse throb during the heat of a baseball game. He was used to the wild urge to win that stirred him on the diamond. But the breathless anxiety that ran through him now was something new. He ached to get in and do something for his patrol. Splints came next. This time Don and Ritter represented the Wolves. Mr. Wall's first order was for a broken thigh. The watching scouts were silent. All three teams worked rapidly. There was a hush as the Scoutmaster examined the patients. "Too tight," he said when he examined Ritter's thigh. Tim squirmed in his seat. Don took off the splints and looked down at the floor. Broken leg splints came next, then broken arm splints, and then applying a tourniquet. On this the Eagle scouts failed dismally. Don and Ritter came back to the patrol. "How does it look?" Andy demanded. Don shook his head. He was afraid of that first tight splint. It was no surprise to him when Mr. Wall gave first place to the Foxes. But his heart leaped as he heard the Wolves rated second. "We're ahead," Alex cried jubilantly. He pushed a paper in front of Don's eyes. Wolf 8 Fox 6 Eagle 4 Tim wet his lips. His turn was next--his, and Bobbie's, and Andy's. "Artificial respiration," called Mr. Wall. Bobbie lay on the floor, face down, and stretched his arms above his head. Andy held his wrists lightly. Tim knelt astride the prone figure and placed trembling hands between the short ribs. Mr. Wall, holding a watch, walked back and forth. Tim's heart thumped. Would he go too fast or too slow? He wondered how the other patrols were making out, but he dared not look. Presently the Scoutmaster called, "That's enough," and he scrambled to his feet. "Gosh!" Bobbie said ruefully. "You surely put some pressure on." "Wonder how we made out," said Andy. Tim wondered, too. When the call came for a demonstration of fireman's lift, he shut his teeth hard. He wouldn't fall down on this! Two minutes later the lift was over. "You were quicker than any of them," cried Andy in his ear. "Stretchers," called Mr. Wall. "Lift the patient in and stand at attention. Patients must not help themselves. Got your staves? Ready? Go!" A yell burst from the watchers. "Go on, you Eagles!" "Chew them up, Foxes; chew them!" "Faster, Tim; faster!" Tim's coat was off and on the staves. His fingers fumbled with the buttons. "I'm ready," came Andy's voice. "Ready, Tim." His fingers hesitated. Were the buttons all right? He saw the Eagle stretcher-makers begin to straighten up. He swung around to Bobbie. "All right, Andy, lift him. Up! Now down on the stretcher. Quick! There go the Eagles. Lift it. _Lift it!_" They lifted their burden. Mr. Wall came down to inspect. "Buttons out," cried a voice from the watchers. "Buttons out on the Wolf stretcher." It was true. Tim's coat, under Bobbie's weight, had popped open. Tim's face turned fiery red. Was he always going to be the fellow who made his patrol lose? Why hadn't he made sure of those buttons instead of taking a chance? "Maybe some of the others have coats open," Bobbie whispered. But none of the other coats were open. Somebody cried that the contest was over. The scouts formed a pushing, excited ring around Mr. Wall and the stretchers. The Scoutmaster shook his head gravely. "I'm afraid I cannot make a decision yet. Each patrol has excelled in some one thing and has done poorly in some other." The pushing and the clamor ceased. "One more test," Mr. Wall added. The scouts fell back. The big moment of the night had come. This next event would probably seal the doom of some one patrol. "Each team," said Mr. Wall, "will go to the rear of the room down near the door. At the word it will make its stretcher, lift in the patient, and bring him to me as though I were the doctor. Understand?" "Yes, sir." "Clear the room." The watchers pushed back along the side wall in a straggling line. There was no such thing now as each scout keeping with his own patrol. Eagles, Wolves and Foxes found themselves hopelessly mixed. Don squeezed in next to Alex Davidson. "Look at Tim," said Alex. Tim's lips were stern. Here was _the_ chance. The palms of his hands began to sweat. If they could win this-- "Watch your buttons," whispered Andy. "Go!" came the word of command. This time Tim took no chances. His fingers were cold, and every nerve cried to him to go faster, faster, faster, but he forced himself to make sure that every button was snug. Then he hitched forward on his knees and helped Andy. "All right," Andy cried excitedly. "Get him by the shoulders, Tim." It took them but a moment to lay Bobbie in the stretcher. Tim sprang to the front of the staves, Andy to the rear. They swung the stretcher from the ground. "'Ray for the Wolves!" cried Wally's voice. All Tim thought about was getting to Mr. Wall with his burden. He broke into a walk that was almost a run. "Look at the Wolves!" The cry could be heard above the noise. "That's no way to carry an injured person." Tim looked around, startled. What was wrong? He saw the Eagles and the Foxes carrying their loads slowly, with precious care. All at once he understood. Oh, what a blunder he had made! He slowed up abruptly. He could hear tense voices shouting that the Wolves were out of it. He came to a stop in front of Mr. Wall. The scouts rushed forward from the wall. Somebody's hot breath was on his neck and a squirming elbow was poked in his side. He did not look around. Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled, and the gathering became quiet. "I am glad this happened," the Scoutmaster said. "I do not mean I am glad because a patrol has failed, but glad because now the lesson will be driven home. An injured person must always be carried carefully. That's what I had in mind when I said speed would count, but that I wanted you to think." Tim's cheeks burned. There was more to what Mr. Wall said, but he scarcely heard. The points were awarded--Fox patrol, first; Eagles, second; Wolves, last. Bobbie slipped out of the stretcher and Tim turned away forlornly. Don gripped his arm. "That gives us second place, anyway, Tim. The Foxes have 11 points, and we have 9, and the Eagles have 7." But Tim could take no comfort. He had fallen down again. Bonehead! That's what he was--a bonehead! The blackboard was changed: PATROL POINTS Eagle 74-1/2 Fox 79 Wolf 76-1/2 "Gosh!" cried Bobbie. "Before inspection we were third, and only one point behind first place. Now we're second and two and a half points behind. Funny, isn't it?" Tim didn't think it was funny at all. His scout honor, not yet fully awake, throbbed with a sense of guilt. Every other fellow in the troop had worked hard. Even Alex, after finishing in the grocery store, had worked at night. And yet in spite of how hard they had tried, his lapse had blackened every one of them, just as though they had been skulkers and shirkers. Just staying around where the others were made him hot and uncomfortable. While the room rang with cheers for the victorious Foxes he slipped out of the door and melted away in the darkness. Suddenly the fact that he was sneaking away struck him like a blow. Sneaking away! He stopped. With a careless, cocky swagger he had always, before this, stood up to his troubles. "I'll go back," he said defiantly. "I'm not afraid." He wasn't afraid. That was true. If any fellow there had threatened to punch his head he would have peeled off his coat in an instant. He was not scared of physical force; but he was afraid of what every scout in the room might be thinking--that Tim Lally had spoiled things again. He leaned against a tree, pulled a tender twig, and chewed it thoughtfully. He could see the glowing windows of troop headquarters, and a bright light streamed out through the open door. Shouts, and cheers, and laughter, came faintly to his ears. The whole troop seemed to be having a good time congratulating the victor without envy. He was the only boy who had slipped away. All at once, as he watched, a great longing arose in his heart to be like other scouts. He was tired of being picked on, and blamed for everything, and spoken of with a doubtful shake of the head. Once he had not minded these things. Now he hungered wistfully for his share of what scouting had to offer: fun, and whole-hearted work, and--and respect. The noise became subdued. The scouts began to leave. One group, talking excitedly, passed him and he drew back behind the tree. Then a man stepped out through the doorway and came his way. Tim drew a quick breath and walked out into the roadway. "Hello, Mr. Wall." "Hello, Tim. Coming my way?" "Yes, sir." They fell into step. "It was my fault the Wolves lost tonight," the boy said huskily. "Anybody can make that mistake--once," Mr. Wall told him. "It was my fault," Tim said stubbornly. What he wanted to say next didn't come so easily. "How--" He hesitated. "How does a fellow get to be a better scout?" Mr. Wall's hand fell on his shoulder. "Tim, it's all in the way a fellow handles the laws and the oath. If he lives up to them, he's all right. He's a real scout." "But if I had somebody to go to when I got stuck--" "Go to your patrol leader, Tim. He's the one to help you." That night, long after going to bed, Tim lay awake. Well, if speaking to Don was the right way, he'd do it. But it wasn't easy. When he reached Don's yard next morning, he sat on the grass and tried to scare up courage to say what was in his mind. "Signaling contest next month," Don told him, "Were you there when Mr. Wall made the announcement?" Tim shook his head. "Three kinds," Don explained; "telegraph, semaphore, and Morse. Which can you do best, Tim?" "I don't know." "Andy and Wally are down for telegraphy. How about you and Alex Davidson taking Morse?" Morse was harder than semaphore. Tim didn't want to fail again. Neither did he want to dodge something just because it was hard. "Alex works," he said hesitatingly. "If I had somebody to practice with in the daytime--" Don's heart leaped. Could this be rough-and-tumble Tim? "I'll practice with you now," he cried. "Wait until I get flags." A minute later he was out of the house. Tim went down near the gate. They began to wig-wag. At first the work was rusty. By degrees, though, as they corrected each other's mistakes, smoothness came and a measure of speed. Tim's eyes danced. Gee! but wasn't this fun? He wig-wagged, "Don't give up the ship," and was delighted when he found that his sending had been so sure that Don had caught every letter. By and by Bobbie appeared and leaned over the gate. "Hello, Tim," he called. Tim nodded shortly. He was too much engrossed in what he was doing to have thought for anything else. Don sent him, "Give me liberty or give me death." He stumbled and slipped through the words, threw his cap on the grass and yelled to Don to send it again. Factory whistles sounded, and Barbara called that dinner was ready. Tim put down the flag regretfully and mopped the sweat from his face. It was Saturday, and this afternoon the nine had a game. But as he turned toward the gate, baseball was very, very far from his thoughts. Bobbie joined him on the sidewalk. Tim strode off briskly, and Bobbie, shorter of leg, almost had to run. "Getting ready for the signal contest, Tim?" Tim nodded. "I bet you won't make any mistakes next time." Poor Bobbie meant no harm, but it was about the worst thing he could have said. From Andy, or Alex, or any of the bigger scouts, Tim would not have minded so much. But to have little Bobbie hold up his shortcomings was like drawing a match across sandpaper. "Gee!" Bobbie rattled on; "aren't you glad Don is going to show you how to do things?" "Say," Tim said ominously, "you shut up and run along or I'll twist your ears around your head. Go on, now." He gave the astonished boy a push. Then, scowling blackly, he passed him and went down the street with steps that had lost their lightness and their spring. CHAPTER VII CROSS CURRENTS In the days that followed, Tim became as restless as a caged animal. He had had a taste of the fun of being a real scout. He knew the dissatisfied emptiness of not pulling with his patrol. He wanted to play fair, but his high-strung nature could not shake off the dread of having anybody think that Tim Lally could be led around by the nose. That morning's signal drill with Don had opened the door to a strange, delightful country. He tried to find the same zest when they practiced again. It was gone. Suspicious thoughts sneaked through his brain, whispering, "Maybe Don likes this because it gives him a chance to be a big fellow." He had spells of moody silence during which he was dissatisfied with himself and his whole small world in general. The news of what he was doing had spread through the patrol. The third time he worked with Don, Andy, Ritter and Bobbie all watched from the fence. After he was gone there was a hubbub of excited talk. Gee! Tim was getting to be a peachy scout, wasn't he! Don took the signal flags and walked thoughtfully toward the cellar. He had begun to notice a change. Two days later Tim came back by appointment. His work was listless and dead. The next time he did not come at all. That evening Don met him on Main Street. "I guess I can do all right now working nights with Alex," Tim said uneasily. "All right," Don agreed. "Any time you want to come around, though--" He waited, but Tim said nothing. Don went home feeling rather blue. "I suppose he'll start scrapping with everybody all over again," he muttered. But he was wrong. Tim went his way moody and silent, but with no chip on his shoulder. He came to the next troop meeting clean and tidy, and on time. Each patrol won a perfect score. The blackboard read: PATROL POINTS Eagle 90-1/2 Fox 95 Wolf 92-1/2 "Still two and one-half points behind," Don sighed. Wasn't it hard to catch up? If the Wolves could win the next contest on signaling--But he wasn't going to think of that, now that Tim had become balky. The other scouts spoke of it, though. Alex said earnestly that Tim was really practicing this time. Andy grinned and said that the Eagles and the Foxes had better watch out because they were heading straight for trouble. Don walked with them and said not a word. Five days later the patrol awoke to the fact that Tim no longer practiced in Don's yard. Andy and Bobbie came around and sat on the front stoop with the patrol leader. "Mackerel!" said Andy, "but he's a queer fish. Was there any scrap?" Don shook his head. "Didn't he say anything?" Another shake. "Just quit, eh?" Don nodded. Andy whistled softly, took a scout whistle from his pocket and examined it. "How is that going to hit our signaling chances?" he asked. "Alex says Tim works all right with him," Don answered. "That's all right, but--" Even Bobbie knew what he meant, that the right kind of stick-together was better than all kinds of practice. "Something must have bit him," Andy went on. "If he liked practicing here at first--He did like it, didn't he?" "You bet," said Bobbie. "Even if he did push me and tell me to run along." Andy sat up straight. "When was that?" "The first day he practiced here. I asked him wasn't it fine to have Don showing him--" "Oh!" Andy said softly. "He liked it all right," said Bobbie. Neither of the other boys made any comment. By and by Bobbie went off. Don looked at his assistant patrol leader. "Think that could be it?" he asked. "Maybe." Andy puckered his eyes. "How is he on the ball field; all right?" "Fine. His hitting won last Saturday's game." "Maybe it isn't that," Andy said doubtfully. He was so used to Tim being grouchy when anything displeased him that he could not grasp the thought that perhaps there had been some little change. By this time the troop contest had every scout on his toes. Friday night's meeting saw each patrol win another perfect score. Don decided gloomily that there wasn't much chance to get ahead by being clean and on time for roll call--every scout in the troop was clean and on time. It was the monthly contests that would decide the winner of the Scoutmaster's Cup. Before going home he studied the changed figures on the blackboard: PATROL POINTS Eagle 106-1/2 Fox 111 Wolf 108-1/2 "Tim's doing fine on signaling," said Alex in his ear. Don drew a deep breath. Well, maybe everything would be all right, after all. Next day the Chester nine played St. Lawrence. It was touch and go from the start. Now Chester led; now the visitors led. The eighth inning found Chester in front by a 6 to 5 score. All during the game Don had felt the strength of Tim's support. Not once had the catcher's playing faltered. Don, waiting on the bench, allowed his thoughts to wander. If Tim would plunge into scouting like that-- "Come on, Don," called Ted Carter. "Ninth inning." The first Chester batter doubled. Instantly all stray thoughts were swept from Don's mind. The next player fouled out. Then came a long fly to the right-fielder and the runner ran to third after the catch. Any kind of a dinky hit would score the tying run. Don pitched to the batter. Without shifting his position, Tim snapped the ball to third base. The runner, caught asleep, scrambled frantically for the bag. "Out!" ruled the umpire. The game was over. Don ran to the bench. "Pretty work, Tim," he cried. "I guess I don't need anybody to show me how to play baseball," said Tim. Don paused in the act of reaching for his sweater. Tim's eyes met his, a bit uncertain, a bit defiant. Ted Carter, laughing and happy, romped in between them. "You fellows are one sweet battery," he cried joyously. Other members of the team crowded around the bench. Tim, with his mitt under his arm, walked away. Slowly Don buttoned his sweater. Tim's change of heart was a mystery no longer. At the edge of the field he found Andy Ford waiting. "Mackerel!" cried the assistant patrol leader; "wasn't that a corking game? When Tim made that throw--Hello! What's the matter?" "Tim's sore because of what Bobbie said." "How do you know?" Don related what had happened at the bench. "Well, the big boob!" Andy gave a snort of anger. "Doesn't he know any better than to pay attention to a kid like Bobbie?" "Tim's always been that way," said Don. "He's sensitive." "Sure; but he isn't sensitive about his patrol, is he?" Don sighed. No; Tim wasn't very sensitive about that. After supper he came out of the house and walked down to the fence. He had an idea that Andy would be around; and when presently the assistant patrol leader came down the dark street, he held open the gate. They sat on the grass and talked in low tones. "I've doped it out," said Andy. "Why don't you shift--you and Tim do the Morse instead of Tim and Alex?" Don shook his head--slowly. "Why not?" Andy demanded. "If you worked with him and let him do things his own way wouldn't he get over his grouch?" "I don't know. Would he?" "Sure he would. Suppose some day when we were all hanging around you asked him to show you how to do something." "Gee!" cried Don. "That would get him, wouldn't it?" Andy grinned. "I guess we'll tame that roughneck, what?" Don always rested his arm after a game. He had not planned to go to the baseball field until Tuesday. But his business with Tim was too important to wait. Monday afternoon he put away his tools and his bird-houses, and went off to the village green. "Hello!" called Ted Carter. "What are you doing around here on a Monday?" "I want to see Tim," Don answered. He took the catcher off to one side. "We're making some changes," he said. "Alex will work with Ritter on semaphore signaling." Tim's eyes grew suspicious. "Who'll work with me on Morse?" "I will," said Don. Tim's eyes snapped. "So that's the game, is it?" he asked darkly. "What's the first order I get; practice tomorrow?" "That's up to you," said Don. "When do you want to practice?" Tim was taken aback. He had expected to be told, not asked; ordered, not consulted. He mumbled that tomorrow would do, and went back to practice. He could not get his thoughts back on the work. Once, when the ball was traveling around the bases, his attention wandered, and when somebody threw the sphere home, it almost struck him in the head. "Let's call it a day," cried Ted Carter, "before Tim gets killed." Tim smiled absently. He looked around for Don. The patrol leader was gone. He walked away slowly, turning one question over and over in his puzzled mind. What new trick was this, anyway? Next morning he went around to Don's house. He was still sure that something had been hidden, and that at the proper moment the surprise would be sprung. He was watchful and cautious. The practice ran its course serenely. Barbara came out, and after watching awhile, wrote a four-word message and asked Tim to send it. Don received it without a mistake. "Isn't that splendid?" she cried. "The Wolf patrol will surely win points in the signaling, won't it?" "We'll give them a fight," said Don. Tim said nothing. But the fire to be something more than the Wolf patrol failure began to burn again. When the last message had flashed back and forth, he handed Don his flag. "We'll get down to real work after this," said the patrol leader. Ah! So here was the trick. Tim waited. "Sending messages back and forth," Don went on, "is all right while we're brushing up the code. We know the code now. It's time to begin to specialize for the contest. One of us will have to do nothing but send, and the other nothing but receive." Still Tim waited. "Which do you want to do, send or receive?" "I--I'll send," said Tim. He felt like a boy who had squeezed his fingers in his ears and had waited for a gun to go off, and had then found that the gun was not loaded. He was bewildered, lost, confused. Wednesday he came again. And still there was no bossing, no giving orders, no high hand of authority. Perhaps there was no trick. "Ah!" Tim told himself, "there must be. Why did he shift me here? Why didn't he let me stay with Alex? There's a reason, all right." And so, whenever he and Don were together, on the baseball field or in Don's yard, he found himself weighing every word and act. Friday night's meeting brought no change in the score. Each troop, eager and keen, reported faultlessly. The blackboard read: PATROL POINTS Eagle 122-1/2 Fox 127 Wolf 124-1/2 Tonight there was silence when the scores were posted. The contest had grown too tight for mere noise and bluster. A false step now by any patrol might drop it hopelessly to the rear. When Mr. Wall's commands still held the scouts in ranks, the faces they turned to him were boyishly sober. "I am going to keep a promise," the Scoutmaster said, "that I made some time ago. Next week's meeting will be held in Lonesome Woods." The sober faces were suddenly aglow. "Attention!" came the low voices of the patrol leaders. The ranks stood firm. "It will be part of an overnight hike. We will leave here Thursday afternoon at one o'clock." A quick murmur--then silence. "The signaling contests will be held in the woods. Break ranks." The pent-up enthusiasm swelled up in a wild cheer. The Scoutmaster found himself pushed and jostled. A dozen boys tried to shout questions at once. He laughed and covered his ears with his hands. When he brought them away Don spoke quickly: "How about telegraphy, sir?" "Each patrol will bring its own wire and rig its own instruments," was the answer. Why, this was just like war--signaling from hidden places, and running telegraph wires over tree limbs and across the ground. Tim's adventurous blood quickened. The troop meeting seemed tame and prosaic. He went through his setting-up exercises mechanically. He could almost smell the tang of a wood fire burning. There was work tonight in identifying leaves and barks of trees, and stems of plants. Tim twisted restlessly. The moment the meeting was over he followed Don down the room. "How far apart will they put us in the woods?" he demanded. Don didn't know. "We'd better get out among some trees and practice," Tim said. The suggestion was good. Don said so. Tim's face flushed. Patrols were clamoring around their patrol leaders. How much wire would be needed? Tim went back to where he had left his hat. And there, on his way out, Mr. Wall paused a moment. "How's everything, Tim?" "All right, sir." "Good!" The Scoutmaster's hand ran gently over his head. Their eyes met. There were no questions of, "Did you go to your patrol leader, Tim?" Mr. Wall seemed to be the kind who understood without asking questions. "Tim," he said, "I think we're going to be proud of you some day." "I hope so," Tim said huskily. His heart beat faster as he turned back to his patrol. And then he heard Ritter's voice. "Say, how is Tim going? Has Don got him working?" "Stop that, Ritter," Don cried angrily. Gosh! couldn't some fellows ever learn to hold their tongues? His eyes sought Tim; one look told him enough. Tim had heard. Here was another mess, and right on the eve of the big overnight hike. Don made up his mind that he'd square things with Tim tomorrow when they reported at the field for the regular Saturday game. A mix-up like this couldn't be neglected. But there was a heavy fall of rain that night, and more rain the next morning. By noon the village field was flooded. Ted Carter sent word that the game had been called off. At two o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. From the porch Don had watched the weather restlessly. The moment the sun appeared he hurried off toward the field. There was just a possibility that Tim might come around. He had to speak to him. Tim came at last, but without his catcher's mitt. He stood around with his hands in his pockets and had very little to say. His mouth was a trifle tight, and his eyes rather hard. "When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?" Don asked. Tim shrugged his shoulders. "Monday or Tuesday?" But Tim was still indifferent. Don came nearer. "If you're sore about what Ritter said--" "Me sore? Why should I get sore? I'm used to it." "Now, Tim--" Tim walked away. He told himself that he was through. Not through with the scouts, but through with going down to Don's yard as though he were a poodle dog being taught new tricks. He would not stop practicing. Nobody was going to get a chance to say that _he_ was to blame if anything happened this time. All next morning he wig-wagged in his yard. After dinner he went at it again. The work was cruelly monotonous. "There," he said grimly, when at last he quit; "I bet Don didn't practice that much today." All at once a voice whispered to him, "How could Don practice? He receives. He must have somebody to send to him." "Aw!" Tim growled, "let him go get somebody to send to him." Somehow, that didn't seem to answer. Next afternoon, when he began his self-imposed task of signaling, the flag seemed like lead in his hands. He sat on the chopping block outside the kitchen door and stared ahead. A long time later he sighed and walked around to the front gate. "I'm a boob for doing it," he said, and stopped short. In a minute he went on again, slowly, doubtfully--but on. All the way to Don's house the old questions pricked him sharply. Why _had_ he been shifted? Just to be watched? What would Don say to him now? Don, working on the lawn, said: "Hello, Tim. Wait until I tack on this screening, will you?" But the patrol leader's heart was beating fast. If Tim was ready to smile and dig in, the Wolves' chances were improved 50 per cent. But though Tim was ready to work, he was far from being in a friendly state of mind. His flag wig-wagged short three-and four-word messages that Don could carry in his head without resorting to pad and pencil. At four o'clock the work was over. "Want to go to the woods tomorrow?" Tim asked gruffly. Don nodded eagerly. "All right; I'll be around at one o'clock." He turned on his heel and was gone. Don went indoors dejectedly. Barbara was mixing biscuit batter in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway and blurted out the doings of the past few days. "Nothing there to worry about," Barbara said brightly. "Be honest, now. How did Tim act a couple of months ago whenever anything displeased him?" "He kicked things around." "And now he comes here and works." "Gosh!" said Don in a relieved voice, "that's so. I didn't think of it like that." He went back to his screens for another hour of work before supper, and as he measured and cut molding, his whistle was cheery and good to hear. Even Tim's crabbiness on the next day's trip did not dampen his spirits. There was a thicket a mile from town. They selected this spot for their work. The light was different from the open. Somehow everything seemed changed. Messages were harder to read. It was fine practice. "I'm glad you thought of that," Don said on the way home. Tim's stiffness melted a little. It was hard to be stand-offish with a boy who kept praising your judgment. As though by instinct, that night saw a gathering of the patrols at troop head-quarters. Telegraph instruments, and dry batteries, and coils of wire, were laid together for the morrow's hike. The trek wagon was hauled from the old barn in back of Mr. Wall's house. The tents were carried from the same place and laid in the wagon. The lanterns, swinging underneath, were cleaned and filled and put back on their hooks. At first Tim had hung on the outskirts of the crowd. But it was impossible to resist for long the glamour of these preparations. The trek wagon, the tents, the night lanterns, all helped to stir his quick blood. They whispered of evening, and night fires springing to light, and white tent walls showing ghostly through the dusk. "Say!" called a voice, "how are you Wolves going to manage about Alex Davidson? He works in the store. Is he going on the hike?" "No," said Don. "Well, how about the signaling?" "He has half a day off Friday. He'll come out Friday afternoon." The nine o'clock fire bell sent the scouts scurrying for home. The trek wagon was left against the wall of troop headquarters. Next morning the patrols assembled early. Mr. Wall dispatched a scout to the baker's for two dozen loaves of bread. Another boy hurried off to the grocer's shop for molasses, cocoa, and evaporated milk. When these had been put safely in place, the last strap was adjusted. The trek wagon was ready for the journey. "You fellows get home," Mr. Wall ordered, "and get back here on time. Remember, the same rule as always--individual cooking. Two or three scouts or a whole patrol can team up, but each scout must bring enough food to feed himself for three meals--supper tonight, and breakfast and dinner tomorrow. The troop treasury furnishes the bread, molasses and cocoa. Everybody understand?" "Yes, sir." "All right. We leave here at one o'clock sharp." The Scoutmaster could have saved himself the warning. At 12:30 o'clock the last scout was there, haversack and blanket on his back, ax and canteen on his hip. At 12:55 the bugle blew. The scouts fell into line. "Each patrol," said Mr. Wall, "will take its turn hauling the trek wagon. The Wolves first." Don's patrol dropped back. At one o'clock the bugle sounded again. "Forward!" cried Mr. Wall. "March!" "Forward!" echoed the patrol leaders. "March!" Chester troop was off. Small boys followed along the sidewalk and on past the village limits. After that, one by one, they dropped back, and at last the troop swung on through the early afternoon alone. Tim threw himself joyously into the work of hauling the wagon. When Mr. Wall ordered route step, and the discipline of the hike gave way to laughter and song, Tim's voice rose above all the rest. He felt like dancing in the road. The first hill found him impatient to run the wagon to the top. His zeal caused a quickened pace. Oh! there was no loafing or shirking today. At the end of a half-mile the Foxes took the load. Tim strode on with a swinging step. His doubts were vanishing. Not once had Don tried to force him to do what he did not want to do. If there was some hidden reason for switching him from Alex, it should show itself now, shouldn't it? Maybe he had been wrong all along. Don fell into step with him. "How about some practice in the woods this afternoon, Tim?" "Sure." Tim's eyes danced. "We'll be first if we win this time." Now it was Don who felt like dancing in the road. Tim, for some reason, had had another change of heart, and was once more eager. Soon the whole patrol was walking with Don and Tim. And Tim, light-hearted, irrepressible, kept the talk flying merrily. When the call came for the Wolves to take the wagon again, he was the first to reach the shafts. "Come on, slaves," he called. Andy winked at Don. Don clutched the assistant patrol leader's arm and squeezed hard. Tim made lively work of the next half-mile. The relief found Bobbie Brown gasping and wilted. "Gee!" said Tim; "you're packing too heavy a load for a runt. Here, I'll take your blanket." Bobbie straightened his shoulders. "I'm all right. I--" "Aw! forget it." Tim turned him around, unstrapped the blanket, and stuck it under his arm. "Feels better, doesn't it?" "Y-yes," said Bobbie. Mr. Wall, coming down the line to watch for stragglers, saw what happened, smiled quietly, and went back to the head of the column. After a time the jokes and the laughter stopped. They were approaching Lonesome Woods. Of course, this was going to be all kinds of fun, but--but--Well, Lonesome Woods was Lonesome Woods, wasn't it? A mile from camp Mr. Wall halted the column. "Volunteers to go forward and cut firewood," he called. But though the scouts might draw together a bit, here was too good an adventure to be missed. There was a rush for the Scoutmaster. Tim got there first. "The Wolves have it," Mr. Wall decided. "Little more load for the Eagles and the Foxes," sang Tim, and pitched his blanket and haversack into the trek wagon. Don and the others unslung theirs. Two minutes later the Wolf patrol was running in advance of the column with only their axes and canteens. They plunged into the woods with a whoop. Presently they all drew together and listened. The place was still--ghostly still. The air was cooler, and heavier, and--and different. "Gee!" said Bobbie. "It _is_ lonesome in here, isn't it?" Tim shrugged his shoulders. "Come on. Let's get firewood." The sound of the axes chased away the quiet. The firewood became a small pile, a great pile, and then a fat, clumsy pyramid. "Hello there, Wolves," came a faint hail. The troop had arrived. Soon the woods rang with high-pitched shouts and cries. The problem now was to find a camp site. Scouts swung out in all directions. One group tried to advance the wagon. Now the wheels would get tangled in clumps of underbrush, and now there would be seemingly no way to squeeze through the trees. At last it could be advanced no further. The Foxes had found a clearing on sloping ground. A brook ran at one end. The ground slope insured good drainage in case of rain. The Wolves went back to bring in their firewood, and the Eagles and the Foxes carted tents and equipment from the trek wagon. Tim's blood ran riot in his veins. As he carried in the last of the kindling, the second tent arose against the background of trees. "Say," he called eagerly, "let's help there." The tent squad made a place for him. He seemed tireless. By and by, with the last tent up and the last rope guyed, he wiped the sweat from his face and grinned. "Doesn't look like Lonesome Woods now, does it?" Mr. Wall's watch showed four o'clock. Supper cooking would start at five. There was an hour in which to string telegraph wires. "The messages," Mr. Wall said, "will be received here. Do not get too close to each other with your instruments." Scouts hustled out to the trek wagon for batteries, wire and instruments. Tim staked a claim for the Wolves' receiving station. "How much wire must each patrol have out?" Andy Ford asked. "Two hundred feet," was the answer. Eagles and Foxes gathered and broke into clamorous discussion. How should the wire be measured? Don gathered his patrol and took it to one side. "Andy has a fifty-foot tape. We'll measure as we unwind. Bobbie, you stay here and hold this end. Come on, fellows." Into the dense growth of trees they wormed their way. It was slow work passing the wire through the branches of trees. Tim climbed and shinned his way from limb to limb like a monkey. Wherever the wire was laid, it was fastened in place with rubber tape. About one hundred and twenty-five feet were out when the Scoutmaster's whistle sounded the recall. The scouts came back to camp. There was a comparison of results. The Eagles had strung about seventy feet of wire, and the Foxes less than sixty. "We'll have ours finished before the others know what's happening," chuckled Andy. "And then we'll get in some practice." "Tim and I are going to get some practice after supper," said Don. "Sure thing," said Tim. Fires were lighted and pots and pans appeared. Somebody yelled that cocoa was ready. The Foxes dished it out, and Mr. Wall distributed bread thickly covered with molasses. "Some feast," said Tim. He took his place in the circle of Wolves. He was one of them--at home. There was still some daylight left after dishes had been washed and put away, and the supper refuse burned. Tim and Don walked off a way with their flags. Teams from the other patrols scrambled for their flags, too, and practiced until the last light began to go. The night-fire grew brighter in the darkness. A hush fell over the camp. The boys formed a circle about the blaze. Where they sat there was light and warmth, but ten feet back were the trees, and darkness, and the melancholy whispering of the breeze through stirring branches. There was sober discussion of the morrow's contest. No voice lifted itself loudly. Mr. Wall told an Indian story. The scouts drew closer to the fire, and Bobbie glanced back over his shoulder. After a time heads began to nod. "Time to turn in," said the Scoutmaster. "Better fill your canteens. You may want a drink during the night." The brook was a hundred yards away, out in the darkness--and this was Lonesome Woods. Bobbie said he never took a drink during the night. "Aw!" cried Tim. "Let's go down there and fill them up." He led the way. Bobbie decided that he might need a drink after all. Twenty minutes later they were all in the tents. Out at the dying camp-fire the bugler sounded "taps." As the mournful notes echoed, more than one scout, under his blanket, felt goose-flesh. Ordinarily, in camp, the first night is one of restlessness. But Chester troop was tired. For a while voices sounded faintly. They grew fitful and yawny. Finally they ceased. The camp was asleep under the stars. And then the bugle blew again. Reveille! The scouts tumbled out to a new world. The darkness was gone. Lonesome Woods was no longer spooky. The whole world smelled clean, and green, and damp, and sweet. Breakfast was rushed. The Foxes were the first to get away from camp. The Wolves were next. They finished stringing their wire, adjusted a sender, and came back to install the receiver. As soon as everything was ready, Wally went off to the end of the line to send to Andy Ford. The Foxes were the next to get rigged. The Eagles rushed in almost on their heels. Morse and semaphore teams practiced frantically. Over everything lay a fever of preparation. At ten o'clock Mr. Wall sent a squad to take down the tents and pack them away in the trek wagon. Another squad brought wood and water. The camp prepared for dinner. It was a happy, noisy, high-strung meal. "Clean camp for the contests," Mr. Wall ordered next. Empty cans and refuse went flying into the fire, to be raked out later and buried. Presently the last sign of litter was gone. The scouts waited expectantly. "Telegraphy first," said the Scoutmaster. He handed a sealed envelope to each sender. "There's your message. Read it when you get to your instrument. Off you go. A bugle blast will be the signal to start. Speed and accuracy will count." Wally Woods ran off with Andy yelling after him to take his time and not get rattled. Then came a wait. Mr. Wall nodded to the bugler. The woods echoed to a sharp blast. Almost at once telegraph instruments began to click. Andy, with puckered eyes, bent down and wrote slowly. The scout at the Fox receiver was supremely confident, but the Eagle scout seemed worried and harassed. To the watching boys it was impossible to tell who was ahead. The minutes passed, the excitement grew. All at once the Fox scout sprang to his feet and came running to Mr. Wall with his paper. "Shucks!" said Tim. "He may have it all mixed up. Look at Andy." The assistant patrol leader of the Wolves was now running toward the Scoutmaster. Two minutes later the Eagle scout came forward reluctantly. "It's fierce," he said in disgust. "It doesn't make sense nohow." The message had been, "A hundred men searched the hills for the Indian." The Fox scout had made but one error. Andy had made four, and the Eagle scout had twisted the message into a knot. "Well," said Tim, "that gives us three points for second place. Now, if Alex gets here--" The calling cry of the Wolves sounded faintly. "That's him," said Tim, and shrieked an answer. Andy and Bobbie went out to meet the newcomer and show him the way. Presently they led him into camp. He had ridden to Lonesome Woods on his bicycle, and had ridden hard. He was hot, dusty and thirsty. After half an hour's rest on the grass he was ready. The semaphore signaling started. All three patrols scored perfect messages, but the Foxes finished first, the Wolves second, and the distracted Eagles last. "That gives the Foxes 10 points and us 6," said Bobbie. "The Eagles have 2." Don shook his head uneasily. The Foxes had been in the lead ever since the last contest. If they won again, they would be out so far in front that it would be almost impossible to catch them. It was time for the Morse. Tim put his flag under his arm and went out to his station. Ritter went along to read the message to him, word for word, so that there would be no loss of time. Bobbie, at the receiving end, was to write the message as Don called him the letters. Ritter tore open the envelope and took out the paper. "How long?" Tim demanded. "Eleven words." Tim reached out his hand and Ritter drew back. "Never mind reading it. Just send what I give you. You won't get twisted thinking about the next word, because you won't know what it is." Tim did not argue. He could see Bobbie lying on the ground with pad and pencil, and Don crouched on one knee above him. Gee! when would the bugle blow? "Don't go too fast," Ritter said huskily. Tim scarcely heard. He and Don had made no mistakes the last time they practiced. How would it be now on the day of the real thing? "T-a-a-a-a, ta, ta," sounded the bugle. "Every--" cried Ritter. Tim sent the word. His hands gripped the flag staff with a nervous, straining strength. "--patriot--" This word followed the first. "--places--his--all--" Tim was breathing hard. "--at--the--service--" His throat was dry. "--of--his--" Tim's arms trembled. Was there much more? "--country," said Ritter, as though he couldn't get the word out fast enough. "End of message." Tim fronted his flag three times. He saw Bobbie hand the message to Don, and Don race over to Mr. Wall. "We're first in," cried Ritter. "Come on, Tim." But Tim was suddenly afraid. He dropped the flag and pretended that his shoe-laces were loose. Ritter ran ahead. Tim fussed with the laces a long time--was still fussing, in fact, when cries of "O you Foxes! What's the matter with the Foxes?" brought him to his feet. This time he walked in hurriedly. Ritter met him. "You had three mistakes, Tim," he said sadly. "_I_ had three mistakes?" Tim cried angrily. "Well, we had three mistakes. The Foxes were perfect again. They're sharks on signaling. The Eagles were last." Tim went over to Don. "Let's see that message." He read it under his breath. "Every batriot blaces his all at the sereice of his country." The Foxes were still skylarking when he handed back what Bobbie had written. He looked around at the members of his own patrol. Bobbie shifted his eyes. Wally tried to smile that it wasn't a bad showing at all. Tim turned away slowly, went over to his equipment, and began to roll his blanket for the homeward march. All the sunshine, and the frolic, and the outdoor freshness was gone from the day. He was sure that he had sent the message right. He couldn't send an e for a v, because e was the simplest letter in the Morse alphabet--just a single dot. And as for sending two b's where he should have sent two p's-- "I didn't," he muttered wrathfully. "They think I did because--" His face clouded with swift suspicion, and the blanket dropped from his hands. He had been telling himself for two days that there had been no hidden reason for Don taking him as a partner, but now that was all swept aside. Don had wanted him as the goat. If any mistakes were made he would be the one to be blamed--just as he was being blamed. Wasn't he Tim Lally, the fellow who always spoiled things? Oh, what a woodenhead he had been not to see it all before! CHAPTER VIII DON'S CHOICE The jubilant Foxes found enough flour to make a paste, and enough paper to stick on a blanket and make a sign. The sign read: Eagles 122-1/2 Foxes 132 Wolves 127-1/2 They carried it, spread out like a banner, all the way home. The hike back to Chester was a bit one-sided. The Foxes enjoyed themselves hugely, but every other scout was sober with his own thoughts. The Eagles were convinced that they were out of the race. Don and Andy Ford were trying to take some comfort from the fact that they had four weeks yet in which to overtake the Foxes. Nobody noticed that Tim, a bubbling source of energy yesterday, was now sour and glum. It was not until next day that Don noticed any change. In the regular weekly game on the village field Tim backed him up faultlessly; but on the bench the catcher edged away and sat at the end with the score-keeper. "Good night!" Don murmured. "What is it this time?" He was becoming used to Tim's blowing hot one minute and cold the next. He didn't worry so much over Tim's moods. By tomorrow, he reflected, this rather uncertain scout would probably be running around again like a loose cyclone. Besides, Don had something to worry about just then, something so acute that it could not be shared with another worry. His pitching was undergoing violent assault. He was sure he had plenty of stuff on the ball. Nevertheless, the rival team was lacing his best efforts to all parts of the field. The end of the game returned him a loser. "Can't win them all," Ted Carter said philosophically. "They seemed to hit everything today, Tim, didn't they?" "Everything," said Tim. He took his sweater from the bench and started for home. Don had a notion to follow. Instead, after a moment, he walked off with several of the players. So long as Tim was losing his scrappiness, what was the use of fussing over him? Probably by tomorrow, or Monday, whatever was biting him would have stopped, and he would come around to discuss the ifs of the contest, and the what-might-have-happened. It occurred to Don, vaguely, that he had not yet heard Tim say a word about what had happened at Lonesome Woods. Tim did not come around--neither on Monday nor Tuesday. Wednesday Don met him at the field for the regular mid-week practice. "Where have you been keeping yourself, Tim?" "No place." "You haven't been around since--" "No," Tim broke in bitterly, "and I'm not coming around. Nobody can make a booby out of me twice." Don's face sobered. This wasn't the Tim of passing moods. This was more like the blustering Tim who had once overawed the Wolf patrol. "Who made a boob of you?" "You did. Oh, don't look so innocent; you can't work it the second time. Take me for a partner. Then, if anything went wrong in the contest, everybody would say that Don Strong couldn't have made a mistake--oh, no. It must have been Tim Lally because he's always queering things. And they did say it!" "Who did?" "Ritter. 'Too bad you made those mistakes, Tim.' I ought to have whanged him one in the eye. How did he know whether I made any mistakes?" Gone was Don's thought that Tim would be all right in a day or so. If this firebrand scout convinced himself that he had been tricked, and if he kept thinking so-- "You've got this wrong," Don cried. "I--" "Sure I've got it wrong," Tim mocked. His voice changed wrathfully. "But I didn't have the message wrong, and don't you forget it. I know my code. I sent the message right. Do you think I'd send an e for a v?" "Do you think I wouldn't know an e?" Don asked. Tim was staggered. He hadn't thought of that--that an e would be as simple to Don, receiving, as it would be to him, sending. "Aw!" he said recklessly, "it's a trick. You can't fool me again. If you're going to pitch, get busy, else I'll go home." Don pitched. He decided that there was no use in arguing with Tim now. Besides, he wanted time to think. He had saved the message that Bobbie had written. That night he took it from his bureau drawer. "Every batriot," he read aloud, "blaces his all at the sereice of his country." Funny there should be two b's instead of two p's. He repeated the letters slowly, thoughtfully. "B, p; b, p--Gosh! I'll bet I know what happened." He jumped up and paced the room excitedly. It was clear now. Tim had sent p, and he had called p, but p and b sound almost the same and Bobbie, tense and excited, had caught the wrong sound. "E and v are almost the same, too," Don cried. "I'll tell Tim tomorrow." Next day he sought Tim eagerly. Tim gave him a sarcastic sidelong glance. "B and p do sound alike," Don said sharply. "I'm going to ask Mr. Wall to take me out of the Wolf patrol," was Tim's response. He meant it. He thought Don's explanation sounded fishy. Why should it take six days to discover that b and p sounded almost the same? He quite forgot that he had not thought of b and p sounding the same at all. Don did not bother him again. Friday night he came to the troop meeting. His resolution to ask for a transfer from the Wolves had weakened. In the past he had never paid much attention to Mr. Wall, accepting him as a matter of course--every troop had to have a Scoutmaster. Now, somehow, the thought of Mr. Wall strangled his desire to complain. The Scoutmaster had said only two weeks before, "I think we're going to be proud of you some day." A queer little lump came up into Tim's throat and made him swallow hard. He did not think Mr. Wall would like it if he asked to be changed, and--and he wouldn't ask. The entire patrol saw that he avoided Don, for he made no effort to hide his feelings. He left the meeting as soon as it was over. Andy Ford and Alex Davidson glanced questioningly at the patrol leader. "He thinks I took him as a partner so that he'd be blamed if the Morse signaling went wrong," Don explained. "Oh, the mule!" Andy cried. "Why doesn't he wait until somebody blames him?" "He says Ritter blamed him for the three mistakes." "Good night!" Andy breathed. Alex walked over and stared at the score-board. The Foxes had a scout absent and had been penalized two points. As a result, the Wolves had recovered the ground they had lost at Lonesome Woods. The new score read: PATROL POINTS Eagle 138-1/2 Fox 146 Wolf 143-1/2 "Tim gets some crazy hunches," Alex said, after a time, "but I don't think he'll lose any points for us--not any more." "Let him go fish then," Andy cried. "We should worry. How about it, Don?" Don shook his head slowly. "I'm patrol leader of the Wolves." "And he's a Wolf scout," Andy nodded thoughtfully. "I see what you mean. I guess you're right. What are you going to do?" "Nothing. Maybe by next Friday he'll be over it." But next Friday found Tim unchanged. He mingled with the other scouts, but from his patrol leader he held aloof. A Fox scout reported late, and the Foxes lost a half-point. The score read: PATROL POINTS Eagle 154-1/2 Fox 161-1/2 Wolf 159-1/2 "Wow!" cried Bobbie. "Only two points behind now." A gain by the Wolves meant little to Don just now. A belief was slowly growing in his mind that Tim had the makings of one of the best scouts in the troop. The right kind of patrol leader, he thought, would have had Tim where he belonged before this. He felt that he had been a failure. He longed for advice and the wisdom of an older head. Barbara or his father would not do tonight; he wanted somebody who knew scouting. When the meeting was over he went slowly to Mr. Wall with his troubles. "The little blue bugs surely have you tonight," the Scoutmaster said cheerily. "Let's reason this out. A month or so ago a frightened scout told me that some of my boys were off for Danger Mountain. Remember?" Oh, yes, Don remembered. "Tim led that expedition. Do you think he'd do a stunt like that now?" "No, sir." "Nor I," the Scoutmaster said gravely. "He's swinging around, probably because he's tied up with fellows who want to be real scouts. Would you call that failure?" The boy was silent several minutes. "No, sir," he said at last. Mr. Wall clapped his shoulder. "Then there's nothing left to worry about, is there?" Don was somewhat surprised to find that there was not. The cloud had vanished. He went home with his mind at peace. He had given Tim his own head of late, and even Mr. Wall said that Tim was coming around. He'd give him his head again, and wait for the sulks to wear off. But it was hard to work with Tim all next day against the Ironside nine, and to find him, even in the heat of the struggle, stiff and unbending. And it was harder still to see the days of the next week pass and bring no change. For a rumor had gone through the troop that the reason Mr. Wall had announced no contest for this month was because he was going to uncover a surprise. Don could not help feeling that the Wolves would stand very little chance. Tim, at odds with his patrol leader, would surely lack the zest and the spirit necessary to cope with unexpected orders. Over Friday night's meeting hung the promise of something to happen. Roll-call and inspection brought to light no derelicts. The score board read: PATROL POINTS Eagle 170 1/2 Fox 177 1/2 Wolf 175 1/2 The ranks broke. Usually there was play for a few minutes. Mr. Wall rapped for order at once. "Next week," he said, "the contest for the Scoutmaster's Cup comes to an end. The final ordeal will start Friday. It will be a two-day test of your mettle. It will take place at Lonesome Woods. A treasure has been hidden there, and blazed trails will lead to the hiding place." The room was still--startlingly still. "This time," Mr. Wall went on, "we will have a real test of scouting. For that reason, I have decided to award ten points to the winning patrol. There will be no second or third points." The troop stirred. Ten points! That gave every patrol a chance. Even the Eagles, if they won, would be tied with the Foxes for winning honors. "Each patrol leader will select a scout to accompany him into the woods. They will enter Friday afternoon at 3:30 o'clock. Each patrol will start from a different part of the woods. They will find trees blazed with whitewash. They will follow this blaze. When night comes they will camp." "Each two scouts by themselves?" asked a voice breathlessly. "By themselves," the Scoutmaster answered, "unless they desire to risk capture." The patrols murmured softly. Gosh! This was a real stunt. "Each of the three trails leads toward the treasure; it has been hidden. When a patrol comes to a blaze mark that has a circle around it, they will know that that is the last blaze, and that the treasure is near. Two things they must then do--search for the treasure, and avoid capture by another patrol. Any patrol surprised by another patrol will be considered captured and out of the contest." "But suppose a patrol finds the treasure, what then?" called another voice. "Then that patrol must make its way safely from the woods and avoid capture. If it is captured, it surrenders the treasure to the captors." "Why," cried Don, "that's just like old-fashioned Indian warfare." Mr. Wall smiled. "I think you'll like it. There will be another meeting Wednesday night. I want every scout to notify his patrol leader in writing whether he will be allowed to make the trip if he is chosen. Wednesday night each patrol leader will announce the name of the scout who will accompany him into the woods. I think you're too excited to do scout work tonight. Would you prefer to talk this over?" "Yes, sir," came a roar. Mr. Wall laughed and waved his hands. Instantly the room broke into riot. A night camp at Lonesome Woods, a blazed trail, a buried treasure and a threat of sudden capture! This was great! "Will trails cross?" cried the leader of the Foxes. "Must we watch out for Eagles and Wolves even before we get to the treasure?" "Perhaps," the Scoutmaster answered. Here was uncertainty--and uncertainty made the game all the more fascinating. Tim's breath came fast. If he could get into a thing like that-- "Aw!" he told himself hopelessly, "Don would never take me." He stood around listening to every word, but saying little. His heart ached with an empty longing. Once he caught Don's eye, and flushed and turned away his head quickly. And Don, who had been as high-strung as any of the others, suddenly became sober and grave. Next day, between innings, he sat on the bench and studied his catcher. If they should go into the woods together--He sighed, and shook his head, and thought of Andy Ford. Andy would pull with him. Perhaps Andy would expect the place. Over Sunday Wally and Ritter brought around written consents, and Bobbie announced gloomily that his father would not let him go. Monday morning Andy brought his paper. "Seen Tim yet?" he asked. "No?" He fell to whistling softly. Late that afternoon Tim appeared. "There's mine," he said defiantly. There was an awkward silence. Presently Tim walked out through the gate and was gone. Don sat beside his work and pondered. As a patrol leader, what should he do? What was expected of a patrol leader--that he strive heart and soul to bring victory to his patrol, or that he stake everything on making one boy the kind of scout he ought to be? Victory for the Wolves, he suspected, would soon be forgotten. That was how it was with baseball victories. Suppose he took Tim into the woods and nothing came of it. But suppose something did come of it--something big. "I wonder," Don mused, "I wonder what Andy thinks." Tuesday passed. Wednesday came drearily with rain and chill. That night Don purposely delayed his arrival at the troop meeting. He did not want scouts looking at him and almost asking for the chance. Mr. Wall was calling the gathering to order as he entered. He slid into a seat and stole a look around. Andy was calmly making notes in a diary. Tim was plainly trying hard to keep his shoulders back and to appear unconcerned. "I call on the Eagles," said Mr. Wall, "to announce their team." The Eagle patrol leader chose his assistant. "Foxes." The leader of the Foxes picked the oldest boy in his patrol. "Wolves." Don stood up. He saw Tim bite his lips and stare at the ceiling. Perhaps he was making a mistake, but it seemed to him that one true scout was worth all the prize cups in the world. "I pick Tim Lally," he said clearly. And then a wonderful thing happened. Andy Ford threw down the diary and gave him a wide, approving, understanding grin. CHAPTER IX THE FIGHT IN THE WOODS Slowly Tim's eyes came away from the ceiling. His heart stood still. Was this a joke? Eager hands fell on him from the rear--Wally's, Ritter's, Alex Davidson's. There could be no doubt after that. His heart began to thump. Chairs were pushed back, and patrols clamored around their teams. He found himself next to Don with one of Andy's arms around his shoulders. "You fellows bring that treasure out," Andy threatened, "or you'll wish you had stayed there. Hear me?" Tim's eyes were unusually bright, but his heart had begun to drop to normal. A sudden decision had come not to let this prospect run away with him. He knew the bitter taste of disappointment and he wanted no more of it. He had started for Lonesome Woods in high spirits the last time, and had come home in the dumps. There'd be an understanding before this start. There'd be an understanding tonight. He stuck close to Don, waiting for the moment when they could be alone. It came. "Look here," he said sharply; "why did you pick me?" Don was startled. "Why--why--" How could he tell the real reason without setting a new spark to the gunpowder in Tim's nature. "I thought you were the fellow to go," he ended. It sounded lame even to Don. It sounded like an evasion to Tim. Why couldn't he be told the truth? What was there that had to be hidden? He went back to the patrol. The thrill had begun to weaken. He tried desperately to call it back. He wasn't going to be cheated out of a good time. By and by, through dint of striving, he roused a new spirit of anticipation. Don walked with him as the scouts crowded toward the door. "Better come around tomorrow, Tim, and talk over what we'll take," he said, and wondered if Tim would offer any objection. "Right-o!" said Tim almost cheerily. Outside Don mopped his face. When he expected Tim to be all right, Tim was nasty; when he expected him to be surly, he was all right. "Well," he said in relief, "it didn't last long that time, anyway." But Tim wasn't over it. A new thought had caused him to change tactics. What was the use of his spoiling his own fun? He'd get his good time regardless of what Don had up his sleeve. He'd throw himself into this treasure hunt heart and soul. He'd work as hard as any scout could work. But once they were in Lonesome Woods he'd do what he thought was best. If Don tried to interfere with him there'd be trouble. Next day he found the whole patrol, with the exception of Alex, at Don's yard. Ritter called him a lucky stiff, and Wally looked at him with envy. They made him feel, for the first time, that he was one of the "big" scouts. There wasn't going to be much cooking stuff taken along. A little coffee and a little bacon--nothing else. Perhaps they would not have time to cook even that much. If they reached the treasure place and found the treasure gone, they would have to try to overtake the finders before they got out. That would mean hustle. They decided on pilot biscuit and the always dependable beans. A blanket each and a poncho, a watch and a compass. Tim was for leaving the poncho out and taking a chance on rain, but Don said no. "Ax," said Tim. "We'll need that, anyway. I'll go home and put an edge on mine." He ground it until it was almost razor sharp. That night he dreamed that he was a scout of the old days and that Indians in their war-paint were stalking him through the forest. Next morning he prepared his haversack, and rolled his blanket and strapped it. Several times he cocked his eyes at the sky. Finally he did the unheard-of thing of going down to the station and spending three cents for a city paper. On the first page was news that was worth many times three cents. It read: "Weather: Fair today and tomorrow; southwesterly winds." There was nothing to do now but wait for dinner. Twenty minutes past noon he had his arms through the straps of the haversack and was on his way to headquarters. The troop had already assembled. The scouts were feverish. It still lacked fifteen minutes of one o'clock when Mr. Wall appeared. "All here?" the Scoutmaster asked. "Care to start now?" The patrol leaders jumped to line up their patrols. The treasure-hunting teams were treated as something precious on the way out. Scouts took turns carrying their packs so as to have them fresh when they entered the woods. Just as on their first trip, Tim wanted to leap and run. But he knew that would be folly. Besides, Mr. Wall held them down to a steady, even pace that ate up distance but did not tire. In the general excitement the miles slipped away unnoticed. All at once the woods were ahead. Mr. Wall halted the column and called the teams. "I want you to compare your watches with mine." The Scoutmaster's timepiece said ten minutes of three. Don and the others set their watches. "At 3:30," Mr. Wall continued, "each team will enter the woods. Some place near where it enters it will find the first blaze. At 3:30. Is that clear?" They said it was. He led them to a point a quarter of a mile on. "Here's where the Wolves go in. Foxes and Eagles, follow me." The other patrols went on, nervous, high-strung. The Wolves were left alone. Tim tried to stretch off on the ground and lie there quietly. With his head pillowed on his arm he could see the group that followed Mr. Wall. On they went, on, on--and then a turn hid them. Everything from now on would be mysterious, unknown. Lying there quietly became impossible. He jumped to his feet and walked up and down. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. Ten after, fifteen, twenty. "Better get on our haversacks," said Don. They waited. Twenty-five after. Tim felt the throb of his pulse. "Another minute," said Ritter. Don stood with his watch in his hand. All at once he put it away. "Three-thirty, Tim." They walked toward the woods. The patrol followed them to the edge and stopped. There were cries of good luck. They waved their hands and stepped among the trees. Twice they looked back; the first time the scouts were visible, the second time they were gone. The cries of good luck grew fainter and ceased. They were alone. "There's one of two things to do," said Don, in a voice that trembled with excitement. "We do not know whether our trail crosses the others. We must either go cautiously, or go fast in the hope that they don't cross. If we go fast we may get to the treasure first." "All right," said Tim; "fast. Let's find that blaze. If you get it, give a low whistle." They separated and worked among the trees. A long time later, it seemed, Tim found the blaze. It pointed north. He whistled softly, cautiously. A whistle answered him. Don's footsteps sounded frightfully loud in the stillness. They started north as fast as they could go. Three hundred feet on they found the second blaze. They lost the third and had to retrace their steps before finding it. The fourth was easy, but on the way after that they encountered a patch of dense undergrowth and a section of fallen trees. Here they had to separate and search once more. This time it was Don who found the mark. Their watches said ten minutes of five. "Let's go on until almost dark," Tim whispered. There was a sound off on their right. He clutched Don's arm, and they stood like statues and listened, scarcely daring to breathe. By and by they relaxed. "Must have been a squirrel or something," said Tim. They advanced cautiously. The fright had thrown them out of their reckoning. They did not remember in which specific direction they had been heading. After a while they had the uncomfortable feeling that they had gone on farther than the ordinary distance between blazes. "Have to search," said Don. So they began again. They worked at a tension, running when they could. It did not take long to get out of sight of each other. This time it was Tim who finally found the blaze. He whistled--no answer. He whistled again--still no answer. He'd have to make a louder sound. It was growing dusky, and he did not want to become separated from Don for the night. He put his fingers between his lips. He did not mean to whistle loudly but, in the quiet woods, his summons echoed shrilly. His heart gave a frightened leap. Gee! Suppose anybody was near? Don came crashing through the woods. "For the love of Mike, Tim, why did you do that?" he asked sharply. Tim bristled. It was one thing for him to blame himself; it was another for Don to find fault. "I wanted you to hear me," he answered shortly. "I did hear you!" "Well, why didn't you answer?" "I thought I heard something else. You'll have every Eagle and Fox around us." "_I'll_ have every Eagle and Fox around us," Tim thought. "See! _I'm_ the one who's spoiling things." They started again. Don was sorry he had spoken so hastily. So far Tim had been a real partner. He made up his mind that he'd think twice before he spoke sharply again. You had to handle a fellow like Tim with gloves. As for Tim, the hot, angry blood was still in his cheeks. What did Don mean by jumping on him? He wouldn't stand for it. He was to blame! How about Don being to blame for not answering the signal? "Tim!" Don called from the rear. "How about making camp? It's getting late." "Nothing doing," said Tim. "We're between blazes. In the morning we wouldn't know which way to start." "We have compasses," said Don. Tim was just stubborn enough to refuse to listen to reason. Besides, he felt that his judgment was questioned. "We'll camp at the next blaze," he said. "Then we'll know where we are." After a moment of hesitation Don followed. The easiest way was best. They soon reached the blaze. Tim began to gather leaves and young twigs for his bed. Before long he knew that he had blundered again. It took time to make a camp bed properly, and the failing light would not give him the time. He had made camp too late. The knowledge of his second mistake increased his ill humor. He spread his poncho and sat on the bed. Don still gathered leaves. "Trying to rub it in," Tim reflected. "Just like telling me, 'See, why didn't you camp when I said so?'" Don turned from his bed, dived into his pack and brought out a can. "How about eats, Tim?" Tim was disgusted with the whole adventure. In this black mood he did not relish the thought of cold food in the dark. He wanted light, and a hot drink--something to chase away the gloom. He kicked together some wood. He found small twigs, broke them and made a pile. Then he drew out matches. Don was opening a can. "What's wrong, Tim?" "I'm going to have a fire." "Fire?" Don dropped the can. "Good night! do you want the Eagles and Foxes coming down and gobbling us?" "Piffle!" said Tim. "Do you think _they'll_ sit around in the dark? Anyway, I want a cup of coffee." Don drew a deep breath. Why hadn't he brought Andy Ford! However, it was too late for regrets. Once Mr. Wall had said that sometimes a fellow had to brace his legs and stand firm. One of those times had come. "There'll be no fire," he said in a voice he did not recognize as his own. "There will be a fire," Tim retorted. "I worked as hard as you today. You can't say I didn't. But I'm not going to put up with crazy notions. Who ever heard of a night camp and no fire?" Don's fingers twitched. He was the leader here and he had said no fire. The scout law read obedience. And yet, if Tim insisted, what was he to do? Oh, it wasn't fair for a fellow to get bull-headed and smash the rules. Tim scraped the match. It burst into a tiny flame. Don took a step forward. "Tim--" "Oh, forget it," said Tim. He was going to light that fire, even if he put it out a moment afterward. He shielded the match with his hands and bent over the wood. There was no other way--not if Tim was twice as big. Don's heart was in his throat. He was afraid. Nevertheless, without hesitation, he knocked Tim's hands apart and the match went out. "You will, will you?" cried Tim. He scrambled to his feet and rushed. There was not much light. What there was aided Don, for Tim could not make full use of his superior weight and strength. One rush followed another. Don kept striking out and stepping aside. Sometimes a fist came through his guard and stung him and made him wince. Always, ever since becoming patrol leader, he had feared that he and Tim would some day clash. Now the fight was on. Slowly, as blows stung him, his blood quickened. The boy in front of him had spoiled so much scouting. If he could only give him the thrashing he deserved! If he only could! He set his teeth. He would thrash him. He swung, and felt a sharp pain in his knuckles. "I'll get you for that," roared Tim. Don, aroused now, scarcely felt the blows. A hard knock caught him off his balance and sent him sprawling. "Got enough?" Tim demanded, breathing heavily. Don, battle mad, sprang to his feet and rushed. That rush was a mistake. Tim's fist caught him as he came in and staggered him. Another blow shook him up. And then a third blow sent him to the ground again. He was beaten, winded, and all but sobbing. "I guess you've got enough now," said Tim. There was no answer. He turned away and found his matches. The sound of the match box being opened brought Don to his knees. Tim, muttering, scraped the tip. Don struggled to his feet. The tiny flame seemed to fill him with a new strength. If necessary he would fight again, and again, and again. An iron doggedness was in his blood--the same doggedness that nerves men to sacrifice everything for principle. The lot had fallen to him to face Tim on a matter of scout discipline. Tim might thrash him again--_but he could not light that fire!_ "Drop it!" he cried. Tim guarded the match. "Want more?" he demanded. "Drop it, or I'll fight you again." "And I'll lick you again," said Tim. He touched the flame to the dry leaves. Don sprang forward and scattered the fire with a kick. Tim leaped to his feet. He was furious. This time he'd see that he wasn't bothered again. The scattered fire was burning fitfully in two or three clumps. There was just light enough to see things hazily. Tim, his fist drawn back, caught a glimpse of Don's white face. He stared, relaxed, and continued to stare, and his hands fell to his sides. He was not afraid--and yet the fire went out of his blood. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and small, and beaten. The fitful blazes dwindled and went out. The woods were in darkness. After a time Tim turned away. He dropped down on his poncho and sat with his face in his hands. Gee! What wouldn't he give to have the last hour back again. CHAPTER X GOOD LUCK AND BAD There was not much sleep that night. The beds were too uncomfortable. Tim, lying awake, had lots of time to think, and as he tossed in the darkness, the voice of his conscience reproached him sternly. He wondered what would happen in the morning. So great was his concern that he forgot that his was a forest bed and that all around him were strange noises of the night. At the first gray light he was out of bed. Last evening the trail had crossed running water. He went back, filled his canteen and washed. The water was like ice. The early morning air had a biting edge. Shivering, he rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his collar snug and wished that the sun was up. Don was about when he got back to camp. One of the patrol leader's lips was puffed. Tim looked away quickly. A cup of hot coffee would have put the early morning chill to route, but not for anything would he have suggested a fire. He pretended to poke through his things, trying to kill time, trying not to look at his companion, trying to figure out how they were going to get through breakfast. That Don was sore on him for keeps he did not doubt. Don pulled a towel from his haversack. "How's the water?" he asked. His voice was forced, as though he had strained himself to speak. Tim's mouth dropped. Gee! was this--was this real? He caught Don's eyes. "Cold," he gulped. "Look for dry pine. Pine doesn't make much smoke." Tim gathered wood, and his face burned. He saw what the patrol leader meant--a fire stood a good chance of passing unnoticed now. Flame would not reflect and smoke would mingle with the rising mist. Last night a fire would have been madness. He could see it all now and he could see, too, the sorry part he had played. "I always was a bonehead," he told himself bitterly. The feeling that he had been brought into the woods for some selfish purpose dwindled and died. Perhaps what had happened in the signaling test had been an honest mistake, just as Don said. He began to sense dimly that in all the troubled weeks of the contest the patrol leader had been working for something big, something clean. He had everything ready for the match long before Don came back from the brook. They made a small, cautious fire. The water came to a boil. They hastened to fry bacon before the fire died out. There was still some heat when the bacon was done and they dumped their beans into the hot pan. Then, quickly, they killed the fire with dirt and water, and the discovery from that source was over. The hot coffee routed the morning chill. Not once were last night's happenings mentioned. Tim breathed with relief as the minutes passed. They took the trail. Before they had gone far the sun broke over the horizon and faintly touched the tops of the trees. There was still some restraint between them. The scars of last night's fight could not heal in a moment. But as they hurried among the trees, Don gave thanks that he had forced himself to speak and had broken the ice. For Tim was almost pathetically eager to show good will--picking the hardest tasks and the roughest paths, and squirming unbidden into doubtful corners to sound them out. Every step now increased their chances of encountering the other patrols. They passed the fourth blaze since leaving camp, and then the fifth. The trees became thicker, the foliage denser. The sun was almost shut out. Even the sounds of the birds were hushed. Don halted. "We must be getting near the end of the trail. We've come about a mile." Tim's voice trembled. "Let's make a rush for it." Don shook his head. "Too dangerous. We'll go ahead, stop and listen, and go ahead again." "Gee!" said Tim. "Like stalking an Indian in Colonial days." Now listening breathlessly, now darting forward, now creeping, they slowly forged ahead. Two more blazes were passed. They found the next. It was marked: -O- "The end of the trail," said Don in a whisper. "Maybe we're here first," said Tim. But they dared not take the chance of haste. Rival scouts might be waiting, hidden, to pounce on them. They listened, while their hearts beat heavily. "I'm going forward," said Tim at last, and edged out. Soon they knew that neither the Eagles nor the Foxes had yet reached the goal. Then began a frantic search. They wanted to find the treasure and away. Not a sound broke the stillness but bird calls and their own footsteps. Yet they knew that, from some place among the trees, scouts were stealing toward them. They went out in a wide circle, worked in, and found nothing. "Mr. Wall wouldn't make this too hard," said Tim. "He's left some sign. How could he hide it?" "Among tree branches," said Don, "or in a tree hollow, or in the ground--" "That's it," cried Tim. "Burying would leave a sign--freshly turned earth. Come on." They searched again in nervous hurry, and kept looking over their shoulders as though trying to peer through the veil of trees. Don saw no earth that looked fresh, but he did see a suspicious mound near a tree. He put his feet on the spot. His heel sank softly. "Tim!" he called. Tim came running. "That's it. Why didn't we bring a trowel?" He dug at the earth with his ax. Don unslung his haversack, pulled out the frying-pan, and scooped with the pan handle. The sweat rolled into their eyes. They worked feverishly. All at once Tim's ax hit something softer and more yielding than the earth. "She's here, Don! Gee! she's here!" He dropped the axe and worked with his hands; by degrees the top of a pasteboard box appeared. They loosened the earth around the sides, found grips for their fingers, and pulled. The box came out. It was tied with string and could have been in the ground only a few days. The prize was theirs. In their excitement they hugged each other joyously. "You did it, Tim!" cried Don. "You get the credit." "You found it," Tim said huskily. "You'd have found it without me. You--" Something he had kept bottled all morning, something he had never expected to say, tumbled from his lips. "You should have knocked my block off last night." "Forget it," Don muttered lamely, but his eyes flamed with a new light. He knew now that he had made no mistake in bringing Tim into the woods. They stood with that queer awkwardness that moves boys when they bare their hearts. Tim fingered the string around the box. "Say, if we could open this--" The spell was broken. They cut the string and lifted the cover. Inside, packed in a soft bed of cotton, was a prize that shone out at them with a soft splendor--the Scoutmaster's Cup! "One little beauty," breathed Tim. "Who ever thought Mr. Wall would hide it like that. If we lost it!" "Let's get out of here," Don cried in fright. He ran for his haversack. They took the back trail. "We had better go easy," Tim said in a low voice, "until we're sure there's no chance of meeting the Eagles or the Foxes--" "Sssh!" Don caught his arm. Was that a noise? After a time it came again--the dry swish of dead leaves and the sharp crackle of dead wood under a weight. Tim put his lips to Don's ears. "Over there--to the right." Another silence. Then the noise again, farther off. "They're at the last blaze," Tim whispered. "This is too close for comfort." They made off with stealthy caution. Whenever they found clear ground they hurried, but for the most part it was slow work. All at once came a faint cry. "They've found the empty hole," cried Tim. "Now they'll be after us." "How will they know which way we went?" Don asked. Nevertheless, he hurried. Ten minutes later they paused to listen. Far back of them they heard something which made them look at each other anxiously. "Can't waste time here," said Tim. At first, when they paused again, there was silence. Then came that which told them of pursuit. Don's pulse quickened. "They've got our trail, Tim." "They're following our blazes," said Tim. "We'll fool them. Let's strike off here to the east." They swung off at a right angle. The blazed trail they knew, but necessity counseled that they face the unknown. Tim pulled out his compass. When next they listened the sounds of pursuit were gone. "We've shaken them," said Don, and drew a long breath of relief. An hour later they came to a slight ravine with a brook flowing along the bottom. They squatted on the bank and opened their beans, but beans and pilot biscuit made dry eating, and soon the canteens were empty. "I'll fill them," said Don, and scrambled down the bank. A stone slipped under his foot; he fell, cried out sharply, and rolled to the bottom. When Tim reached him he was sitting up and unlacing one shoe. It did not take them long to know the truth. The ankle was sprained. Tim dipped his scarf in the water and wrapped it around the hurt. Of course, it might be a slight sprain, or it might be severe. Don kept staring at the foot and frowning. Tim, whistling softly under his breath, changed the compress twice. "It hasn't swollen much," said Don. "Maybe I could walk on it." "Here," said Tim; "lean on my arm." Don hobbled. The pain was slight. He could walk on the foot if he favored it carefully, but speed was out of the question. He let go of the supporting arm and sank to the ground. He was a hindrance--just so much dead weight. Sooner or later the pursuing scouts would find that they were on a false scent, and would begin to scour the woods. Mr. Wall had said that the treasure had to be brought out safely, but he did not say that two scouts had to bring it out. Don bent over the ankle. "You'd better make a run for it, Tim." "What's that?" Tim's eyes opened wide. "How about you?" "Bring the fellows back for me after you get out. Hurry." But instead of hurrying, Tim stood still. "Nothing doing," he said. "You'd stick to me if I were in a fix. I'd be a fine scout to run away, wouldn't I?" Don bent lower over the ankle. Once Tim would have gone off promptly and have taken glory out of individual achievement. Now he stuck. Oh, but scouting was a great game when fellows played it right! CHAPTER XI CLOSE QUARTERS After a while they bandaged the ankle tightly with wet cloths. Don put on his shoe but did not lace it. He tried to climb the ravine bank, but that was a bit too rough. Tim picked him up with a fireman's lift and surged with him to the top. That experience set Tim to shaking his head. He could carry the patrol leader easily enough on the level, but climbing was a vastly harder job. "Wait here," he said. "I'll see how the ground looks ahead." In ten minutes he was back. "Two or three ravines. You couldn't make them on that foot. We'll strike north and follow the brook." Don puckered his eyes. "If the Eagles and Foxes get scouting around that will throw us right into them." "All right," said Tim. "Maybe we'll capture some Eagles and Foxes along with the cup." He wasn't going to get scared until there was something to be scared of. At first Don limped along with one hand on Tim's shoulder. By and by he found a tree limb that would answer as a cane, and let go the shoulder. "You scout ahead," he told Tim. "You've got to be the eyes of this party. We can guard against surprise better if we separate. Wait for me every little while. Whistle twice if anything goes wrong." "How about one whistle if everything's all right?" Tim asked. "Then you'll know where I am if I change direction." "All right," Don agreed, and Tim slipped away among the trees. After that Don followed the sound of soft, guarded whistles. The combination of a cane and a bad foot made it slow work. Once he tried to hurry, and the ankle stabbed him cruelly. He was all right so long as he used the foot carefully, and he sighed and resigned himself to a snail's pace. Every now and then he would come upon Tim, standing like a statue--waiting and listening. Once Tim took off the bandages, wet them, and put them back. When the job was finished, Tim gave him a hand and helped him up. They stood looking at each other. Each boy read something in the other boy's eye. An embarrassed grin twisted Tim's mouth. "You're all right," Don said suddenly. "Well--" Tim looked away. "I'm going to be." The flight with the treasure was resumed. Tim disappeared ahead. Almost immediately he was back. "We've got to swing out," he said. "There's a lot of tangled underbrush near the brook. We'll go more to the west." "That will carry us over toward our old trail," said Don. Tim nodded. They both knew what that meant. Either Eagles or Foxes had been following the blaze. The dangers of a meeting were increased. They had completely lost track of distance. They did not know how far they were from the edge of Lonesome Woods. They did not even know where they were. The flight slowed down to a cautious advance. So slow did they go that Don's tender foot scarcely impeded them. Tim would go out in front and come back, and then go off to the sides. He ranged about tirelessly. And always his whistle, low, soft, kept guiding. There came a time when for a quarter of an hour the whistle did not sound. Don became alarmed. Which way to continue he did not know. In doubt he stopped. He heard a stirring off to his right, and quickly faced that way. Tim stole toward him. "I think I heard something," he whispered. They listened, but heard only forest noises. "Careful," warned Tim, and slipped away once more. Don watched him until he disappeared. Following, he made sure not to stray from the direction Tim had taken. He limped around trees, and tried to avoid places where there were deep leaves and dead branches, because leaves and branches made noise. Suddenly a sound halted him abruptly--two low, short whistles--the signal of danger. Tim came back with concern on his face. "They're over there, Don. Quick! this way." They changed their course to the east again. After a while they halted. For a moment they heard nothing. Then, to the left, came unmistakably the faint sound of voice. Again they changed their course. Each step now was made with caution. By and by, when they thought they were safe, they stood still and strained their ears. This time the sound was even nearer. "We can't go back deeper into the woods," Tim argued breathlessly. "Your ankle won't stand it. We've got to get out. We can't go to our right--there's the ravine and the underbrush. If we keep going ahead they'll overtake us. If we try to get off to the left, we're sure to cross them on an angle." "Never mind me," Don urged. "Make a dash for it." Tim shook his head stubbornly. "Wouldn't it be fine for a scout to leave his patrol leader in the lurch? Maybe we'll think of something. Come on; no use of standing here." They wormed their way forward. They began to meet patches of thick brush. All at once Tim gave a suppressed cry. "Look at that brush, Don. If we can get them off on a false scent--Where are they?" The sound was still off to the left. "Give me your haversack." Tim shed his own. "Now your canteen. Now over there. Lie behind that brush. Quick." Don hobbled over to the dense growth. Watching, he saw Tim go off a short distance and drop a haversack; going on, he dropped a canteen and disappeared. Don expected him to come back the way he had gone. Instead, Tim made a wide swing and approached the brush from the rear. He stretched off on his stomach alongside the patrol leader. "I laid the canteens and the haversacks in a row," he whispered, "about a hundred feet apart toward the ravine. They'll think we went that way in a hurry and dropped our things so as to travel light. It will take them time to search that underbrush. As soon as they pass we'll go off to the left. Every minute we'll be getting farther away from them." "Why won't they think we dropped the haversacks while heading the other way?" Don asked. "What, toward them?" Tim grinned. "That would have walked us right into their arms." Don thought it out. Through a peephole in the brush he could see the first haversack on the ground. "Suppose they find it out there, Tim, and don't see the canteen?" "Well, what of it?" "Suppose they start to search right around here?" "Gee!" Tim gave a low whistle. "I hadn't thought of that. How's this: if we see them coming, jump up and surprise them and yell 'Capture!'" "Suppose they yell, too?" Don asked. "Mr. Wall may say that two sound scouts would have a better chance to capture than a team with one limping scout." That was reasonable. The situation became tense. If the searchers took the false trail and went on, all right. If they started to search--good night! They lay behind the brush and waited. It seemed, after a while, that they had been there an hour. Don had just begun to believe that the pursuit had gone off in a new direction, when Tim's hand grasped his shoulder with a convulsive pressure. There had been a faint sound of cracking wood. Nearer it came, almost directly in front of them. Then another sound echoed off to one side. All at once a khaki-clad figure slipped between two trees. Tim's hand grew rigid. Don tried to flatten himself into the earth. They knew the boy--Larkins, patrol leader of the Foxes. On he came. Suddenly he saw the haversack. He halted and jumped sideways behind a tree. Don and Tim knew what that meant. Larkins thought it might be a trap. It was not going to be easy to fool him. Would he never come out from behind the tree? They had heard, after he disappeared, a queer woody sound that somehow did not seem out of place. Now they heard it again and recognized its source. Larkins was hitting a stick of light wood against other wood. At the first signal, the echoing sounds they had heard off to the side had ceased. At this new signal it began again. Larkins walked out and picked up the haversack. A moment later another khaki figure came into view. It was Rood, another Fox scout. "It's Don's," Larkins said in excitement; "here's his name." "Maybe they're hiding around here," said Rood. Don's heart almost stood still. "Maybe." Larkins stood up and walked slowly toward the brush. Don felt Tim gather his muscles. He knew what that meant. If discovery was certain, Tim was prepared to spring out and cry "Capture!" and let Mr. Wall decide. "Say," Rood called, "what's that?" Larkins paused suspiciously. "What's what?" "Down there. Looks like a canteen." "Get it." Larkins turned quickly from the brush. Don buried his face in his arm so that the searcher would not hear his sigh of relief. Rood brought back the canteen. "I could see another haversack, too. I bet they heard us and are making a run for it after dropping everything." His voice shook with excitement. "We've got to get on then," cried Larkins. "Where's the other haversack? Which way? Never mind bothering with it. Spread out. No use being cautious--not until we think we're getting close." He ran straight on. Rood sprinted off at an angle. Behind the brush Don and Tim waited. The sounds of feet crashing through the forest grew fainter and at last ceased. Tim jumped to his feet. "That settles the Foxes," he cried. "Now if we can duck the Eagles we're all right." CHAPTER XII OUT OF THE WOODS Joyously Don broke from cover. The Eagles might threaten later, but just now the field was clear. He took great breaths of the fresh air. It was good to breathe deeply after having been almost afraid to breathe at all. Tim brought back the haversacks and canteens and pushed them out of sight behind the wall of brush. After a moment's thought he changed his mind and pulled out one of the canteens. "That ankle may need another wetting," he said. "For the rest of the way we'll travel light. We should have dropped that load long ago." "How will we find it again?" Don asked. "There's lots of brush." Tim took out a handkerchief and tied it where it could be plainly seen. "Believe me," he said, "we're some team. What one forgets the other thinks about." Some team! Don smiled. He had never thought to hear Tim say a thing like that. All at once the troubles that Tim had given him in the past seemed as nothing. That was what a patrol leader was for--to stand up under thoughtless knocks from wayward scouts and to bring them back. They struck off north. Tim had decided that the Eagles could not be in this neck of the woods, else they would have run into the Foxes and somebody would have been captured. He led the way more boldly, with a swing to his shoulders. Don, watching him, smiled again, this time wistfully. What a dandy patrol leader Tim would make--now. At the first rest, while the red-haired boy poured water over the ankle bandages, Don said: "You've heard about the new patrol, haven't you?" Tim shook his head. "It came up in the last patrol leader's meeting. We've had six fellows on the waiting list for a long time. Mr. Wall's going to organize a fourth patrol and take them in. There's a big chance for you." Tim looked up quickly. "For patrol leader?" "Yes." Tim knelt motionless. After a while he slung the canteen on his back and slowly shook his head. "Nothing doing. What a fine mess I'd have made if I had become patrol leader of the Wolves! I can see it now." "Just the same," said Don, "I'm going to recommend you." Tim stared away through the trees. Patrol leader! He had always wanted that. As for Don recommending him--Gee! wasn't that a hot one? "If I get it," he said in a low voice, "will you stand by me if I get stuck? I'm an awful bonehead sometimes." "Every patrol leader in the troop will be glad to help," said Don. "I know." Tim nodded. "But I'd sooner go to you." Their course still carried them north. By degrees, as they advanced, Tim's boldness became tinged with caution. They had gone quite some distance from their hiding place; there might be Eagles around. The old whistling signals were resumed. Tim would slip off through the trees and whistle after a while, and Don would go forward and join him. There seemed to be no end to the trees. Were they never going to get out? The third time Don went forward, Tim was frowning and biting his lips. "I thought I heard something again," he said nervously. "It can't be that the Foxes swung down and around and headed us off. Wait here; I'll sneak closer." When the whistle sounded, several minutes later, Don limped forward eagerly. "I knew I heard something," Tim warned. "Listen, now." They held their breaths. Voices! No doubt of it. And then, faintly from a distance, a call of: "Bobbie! O Bobbie! Bob--bie!" Don forgot that he was a woods fugitive. "That's Andy's voice," he shouted. "We're almost out. Come on, Tim. Rush for it." They gave no care now to what noise they made. Don felt Tim take his arm to help him. He hobbled and hopped and squirmed, and only paused when the tender ankle brought him up wincing and shivering. "Easy," said Tim. "No hurry. See that opening? We're almost out. Easy now." But Don found it agony to go slow. Suppose they were gobbled here within sight of victory! He took another chance on a hobbling run. Around a clump of trees, straight ahead, another turn--and there was the wide, free outside in front of them. "Safe!" gasped Don. No need to hurry now. He sank to the ground and rested his injured ankle. The Scoutmaster's Cup was theirs! Three scouts, walking together, were disappearing over a knoll of ground in the distance. "Andy!" Tim bellowed. "Andy Ford!" One of the scouts looked around and pointed. He shouted to someone in the distance. Then he and his companions came forward on a wild run. Tim pulled the cup from the box and held it up for them to see. At that the wild run became a desperate sprint. "Ours, ours, ours!" cried Andy. The other scouts, Ritter and Wally Woods, caught Tim's arms and poured out a stream of questions. What had become of the haversacks and blankets? Had they been afraid in the woods? Had they seen the Foxes? Where had they found the cup? Another scout came over the knoll--Bobbie Brown. After that came a rush of Fox scouts and Eagle scouts, and finally Mr. Wall. Scout whistles began to blow a salute and a welcome. Cheers came in ringing waves. Tim, his eyes bright with excitement, stood close to Don. Oh, but this was great! Mr. Wall shook hands. His grip was hard and strong and gloriously friendly, and his smile made their blood run warmly. He stepped back and looked at them, and his gaze seemed to rest on Don's puffed lip. Tim caught his breath. "How do you like it?" the Scoutmaster asked. "Great!" said Don. "Wasn't it, Tim?" Tim nodded. "Who found the cup?" "Tim did." "I didn't," cried Tim. "You found the place." "But you said it had probably been buried and to look for freshly turned dirt. And if you hadn't stuck to me when I hurt my ankle we'd been captured sure. And when the Eagles were trailing us you threw them off the scent--" "Aw!" said Tim, "you deserve all the credit for limping along on that bum foot." A light of satisfaction leaped into Mr. Wall's eyes. There was little that went on in Chester troop of which he was in ignorance. He had known what that trip into the woods meant, and he had wondered many times that morning what would come of it. From the look of Don's lip and from a lumpy look above one of Tim's eyes, he would say there had been a fight. He proposed, though, to ask no questions. Whatever had happened, the atmosphere was clear. The Tim who had come out was a vastly different boy from the Tim who had gone in, and that was all that mattered. He slipped off Don's shoe and examined the foot. "Nothing much," he said. "A couple of days' rest and you'll be as good as new." As he stood up his hand rested in the old familiar way on Tim's shoulder. "I told you it would happen some day, Tim." Tim looked up timidly. "What, sir?" "That we'd be proud of you." Tim's eyes dropped. A thrill ran through his veins. Not because he had been praised--paugh! that didn't mean so much--but because Mr. Wall seemed to speak to him as man scout to boy scout. He was accepted without question as worthy. He could see it in the eyes of Andy Ford and of every scout there. Gee! what a difference it made. The scouts had been shrilling a succession of short, sharp blasts, the rallying signal. Now Larkins and Rood burst out of the woods. When they saw Don and Tim their faces lengthened, but they came forward and offered their congratulations. The whole story had to be told. Don related how they had followed the trail, he told of finding the treasure, of getting away and learning of pursuit, of cutting away from their trail, and of his tumble at the ravine, and of how Tim had refused to leave him. "Good boy," cried Andy. Next Don described their journey with Tim ranging around as scout. When he told of laying out the haversacks Larkins' face went red. "Were you fellows hiding behind that brush?" he demanded. "You bet," said Don. "We hid the haversacks there after you went on. You'll find Tim's handkerchief tied there now." A grudging look of admiration came into the Fox leader's eyes. "It was some plan," he admitted, "and it surely fooled us. That's one we owe you, Tim." Tim laughed. The story was over at last, and the position of the sun warned the troop that it was time to start for home. At Mr. Wall's orders a coat stretcher was made and Don was lifted in. Just before the start he thought of something. "What became of the Eagles?" he demanded. "Shucks!" said Larkins. "They built a fire the first night, and we sneaked up and bagged them." Tim looked at Don miserably, and Don flashed a glance that told him to forget it. It was their secret. Nobody would ever know. Tim walked a step behind the stretcher, with his head bent thoughtfully. What a good scout Don was--fair, and square, and willing to be white where another fellow would hold a grudge! Tim sighed. He wasn't built like that. He scrapped and got himself in Dutch, and let himself think things that he shouldn't think. Well, he was going to stop that. He had thought of the laws and the oath back there in the woods and they had begun to mean something serious. Fellows like Andy, and Alex Davidson, and Don showed what the laws and the oath were. Some day--The muscles in Tim's jaw hardened. Some day he would be that kind of scout, too. 
32044	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: "Now kick his shins"] JIMMY KIRKLAND AND THE PLOT FOR A PENNANT BY HUGH S. FULLERTON ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES PAXSON GRAY PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1915, by JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY PRINTED IN U. S. A. To CHARLES A. COMISKEY The man to whom, more than all others, the honesty and high standard of professional baseball is due, this little volume is dedicated with the sincere regard of a student to his preceptor. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. PANTHERS OR BEARS? II. A MIRACLE CALLED MCCARTHY III. HOPE FOR THE BEARS IV. "KOHINOOR" MEETS BETTY V. THE TEMPTER VI. ADONIS MAKES A DEAL VII. MCCARTHY MEETS HELEN VIII. IN THE DEEPER WATERS IX. BALDWIN GETS INTO THE PLOT X. WILLIAMS CAUGHT IN THE NET XI. MCCARTHY IN DISGRACE XII. MCCARTHY DEFIES BALDWIN XIII. MCCARTHY BALKS THE PLOTTERS XIV. "TECHNICALITIES" ON THE JOB XV. BALDWIN BAITS A TRAP XVI. MCCARTHY MAKES A CALL XVII. THE FIGHT IN THE CAFÉ XVIII. TWO MISSING MEN XIX. SWANSON TO THE RESCUE XX. HIDDEN FOES XXI. FAIR PLAY XXII. A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT XXIII. KIDNAPPED XXIV. BAITING A TRAP XXV. MCCARTHY DISAPPEARS XXVI. BALDWIN SHOWS HIS HAND XXVII. SEARCHING XXVIII. WILLIAMS STANDS EXPOSED XXIX. FOUND XXX. A RACE TO SAVE THE DAY XXXI. THE PLOTTERS FOILED XXXII. REJOICING ILLUSTRATIONS "NOW KICK HIS SHINS" . . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece BALDWIN STARED AT THE SLENDER YOUTH THE MEN LEAPED OUT "FOURTEEN MILES IN TWENTY-ONE MINUTES" JIMMY KIRKLAND AND A PLOT FOR A PENNANT CHAPTER I _Panthers or Bears?_ The defeat in the opening game of the final series of the season between the Panthers and Bears had been a hard blow to the championship hopes of the Bears, and its effect was evident in the demeanor of the players and those associated with them. It was the second week in September. Since early in May the Blues, the Panthers and the Bears, conceded to be the three strongest teams in the league, had struggled day by day almost upon even terms, first one team leading by a narrow margin, then another, until the interest of the country was centered upon the battle for supremacy. Then, with the Blues holding the lead by the narrowest of margins, Maloney, their premier pitcher, strained his arm, and the Blues, in despair, battled the harder only to overtax the strength of the remaining pitchers, so that the team dropped rapidly into third place, still hoping against hope to get their crippled pitching staff back into condition for the finish. It seemed that the four-game series between the Bears and Panthers probably would prove the crisis of the year's efforts, and decide the question of supremacy. On the eve of the commencement of that series the Bear hopes had received a shock. Carson, the heaviest batter, the speediest base runner and one of the most brilliant outfielders in the league, had fractured a leg in sliding to a base, and was crippled so seriously that all hope of his recovery in time to play again that year was abandoned. Until the day the news that Carson could not play again during the season became public, the Bears had been favorites, but with their hardest batter crippled, and Holleran, the substitute, known to be weak against curve pitching, their hope seemed destroyed. Manager William Clancy, of the Bears, his kindly, weather-beaten face wearing a troubled expression, in place of his customary cheerful grin, was investigating. The defeat of the Bears in the first game with the Panthers had revealed to all the vital weakness of the holders of the championship, and Clancy, as he sat nibbling the end of his penholder in the writing room of the hotel, faced a discouraging situation. Across the table from him a slender girl, attired in a close-fitting street gown, was writing rapidly, covering many sheets of hotel stationery with tall, angular hieroglyphics as she detailed to her dearest friend at home the exciting events of the day. "Betty," said Manager Clancy, looking up, "if you and Ellen are ever going to get ready you'll have to start." "I'm ready now, Mr. Clancy," the girl responded brightly, lifting her head until she revealed the perfect curve of her firm chin, and smiled, "I left Mother Clancy in the rooms sewing on some buttons. She will be ready soon." At that moment a slender youth, easy in movement, almost graceful in his confident carriage, entered the hotel lobby. Something in his bearing gave evidence that he was accustomed to association with persons of refinement. His closely cropped, curling hair, sandy to the point of redness, attracted attention to his well-formed head, set well upon a pair of shoulders so wide as to give him the appearance of strength, in spite of the slenderness of his waist and the lightness of his body. His face was freckled and the uplift of his nose added to the friendly impression created by his blue eyes. His clothes were almost threadbare and his shoes were worn, but his linen was clean and his appearance neat. The youth hesitated, glancing from group to group of the players, as if trying to decide which one to approach. "Silent" Swanson, the giant shortstop, who had earned his nickname because he was the noisiest player on the field, was standing talking with "Noisy" Norton, the second baseman, so called because he seldom spoke either on or off the field, and Adonis Williams, the star left-handed pitcher of the team. The newcomer's eyes fell upon this group, and his face lighted as he observed that Williams's hair was only a shade darker than his own. As if deciding quickly, he walked toward the group. "You are Williams, are you not?" he inquired easily, smiling in a friendly manner. "That's my name, but most people add a mister to it," responded Williams sneeringly. The red-headed youth flushed and the smile died out of his eyes. "I beg pardon, Mister Williams," he said, quietly; "I was seeking Manager Clancy. Perhaps you can tell me where to find him?" "It isn't very hard to find Clancy," responded Williams. "We can't lose him." "Perhaps you would be so kind as to point him out to me. I never have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Clancy." Neither of them had observed that Swanson and Norton had drawn aside to permit the girl who had been in the writing room to pass on her way to the elevator. Evidently she overheard the youth's inquiry, for she hesitated just as Williams laughed in an ugly manner and said: "If you don't know him you'd better peddle yourself somewhere else. He won't be in a mood to talk to hoboes to-night." Before the slender youth could speak, the girl stepped forward and said quietly: "Pardon me, but I overheard you inquiring for Manager Clancy. He is in the writing room." Her brown eyes flashed with anger, her lips were set tight and her sun-browned cheeks flushed as she passed quickly on toward the elevator, not waiting to respond to the thanks of the slender youth, who had removed his hat quickly to utter his gratitude. Then, turning toward Williams, who stood flushed and angry, his blue eyes narrowed and he said: "Just for that, I'll kick you on the shins in the club house and dare you to fight." "What? You will, huh?" spluttered the astounded pitcher. He would have said more, but before he could recover, the newcomer, smiling oddly, turned and walked toward the writing room and held out his hand to the famous Clancy, for six years leader of the Bears. The slender youth stood with extended hand while Manager Clancy gazed up from his writing. "Mr. Clancy?" he asked, smiling. "Yes. Sit down," responded Clancy, his intention of rebuffing the intruder changing as he saw the smile. "What can I do for you?" "I read in the evening papers," replied the youth, still smiling easily, "that Carson broke a leg, and that, to win the pennant, you must find an outfielder who can hit." "Perhaps you also read that I'd like to find a diamond about the size of my head," responded Clancy, sarcastically. "The paper also said that you might switch Pardridge from third base to the outfield if you could find a hard-hitting infielder." "Possibly the paper also said that if I found the diamond I'd move my gold mine to make room for it." Clancy restrained himself from further comment, feeling uncertain because of the quiet confidence of his visitor. There was a pause, the veteran manager studying his caller and the slender youth sat smiling as if expecting Clancy to resume the conversation. "Well?" said Clancy, glancing at his half-finished letter as if to hint that his time was entirely too valuable to be wasted discussing academic impossibilities with entire strangers. "Well," replied the visitor, smiling, "I'm it." "You're what?" asked the astonished manager. "The third baseman who can hit." "When shall I move the gold mine?" Clancy's voice was dangerously quiet. "To-morrow, if you like." Clancy sat gazing at his visitor as if undecided as to whether he should explode in wrath, laugh at some joke too deep for him, or believe the slender youth was in earnest. "Say, kid," he said slowly after studying the youth for a moment, "I admire your nerve, anyhow. If you have half the confidence on a ball field that you have off it, you'll be a wonder. Where did you ever play ball?" A troubled expression came over the boy's face. "Mr. Clancy," he said, quietly, "if you take me you'll have to do it without asking questions. I can play ball, and it's up to me to make good at something. All I ask is a chance to prove to you I can play. It will not cost you a cent to find out." "Done anything?" Clancy asked, sharply. "Criminal? No," responded the boy, flushing. "Ever signed a professional contract?" "No." Clancy studied him as if trying to decide what to do. Then, raising his voice, he called: "Oh, Sec. Come here a minute." A tall man, his hair gray, his face wearing a frown of perpetual worry, came from the hotel lobby. "Mr. Tabor," said Clancy, without rising, "this is Mr. Jimmie McCarthy, who is to have a try-out with us at third base. Room him with the players. You aren't stopping anywhere else, are you?" The last question was directed to the surprised youth. "No--I'm broke," answered the youth, flushing quickly. "I'll fix you up in a moment," said the secretary in friendly tones as he shook hands with the youth. "Wait until I finish settling up with the baggage man." The secretary hastened from the room, and the boy turned impulsively to the manager. "Mr. Clancy," he said in a tone of gratitude, "I want to thank you--I don't know how. I was broke--ball playing is about all I'm good at. How did you know I didn't want to use my own name?" "I figured you might want to forget it for a time, anyhow," said Clancy. "McCarthy is a good name and it fits your eyes." "I can't tell you how grateful I am," said the boy impetuously. "I'll make good for you. I've failed trying to make a living. Baseball is the only thing they taught me at college that I'm good at, and when I read that you needed a third baseman I"---- "College man, eh?" asked Clancy quickly. "Well, I won't hold that against you or tip it off. Don't thank me. If you make good I'll be the one to give thanks." The youth turned to follow the secretary as if to hide a little mist that came into his eyes, and he left Manager Clancy gazing thoughtfully after him and nibbling the end of his penholder. "It would be a miracle," said Clancy to himself. "But I've got a hunch it will come true. He's bred right--tell it from his looks. He's game, light on his feet; good shoulders, and--and--and a pair of eyes." CHAPTER II _A Miracle Called McCarthy_ Thirty thousand persons, banked in the great grandstands and massed upon the field seats, roared with increasing excitement as from every direction solid streams of humanity poured toward the park to witness the second game of the series between the Bears and the Panthers. The batting practice of the teams had ended and the Bears trotted out upon the field. "Who is that red-head practicing at third?" inquired "Chucky" Rice, the veteran reporter of the Panthers. "Name is McCarthy, a busher Clancy picked up somewhere. He is to have a trial this fall--after the pennant fight is over," said Koerner, of the _Globe_, who traveled with the Bears. "Looks sweet on ground balls," commented Rice, watching the slender, graceful athlete, who was occupying Pardridge's place at third base. "Where did Clancy find him, Tech?" The question was addressed to "Technicalities" Feehan, the odd little reporter who had traveled with the Bears for twenty years. "I have not been informed," responded Feehan, adjusting his glasses and watching McCarthy closely. "He came to the hotel last night and asked for a try-out. Did you see him hit?" "Yes," replied Rice. "Hits right-handed and he cracked two on the nose. Will he play?" "Clancy hardly will take a chance with him at this stage," replied Koerner. McCarthy tossed his glove to the veteran third baseman and ran toward the plate to bat grounders to the infielders. He was not aware of the fact, but Clancy had been watching him keenly during the entire practice and had asked Kennedy, the star catcher, to keep an eye on the recruit and report how he liked his actions. "Handles himself like a ball player," commented the catcher. "He hit a curve ball {22} with a snap swing that had a lot of drive in it and he gets the ball away like a flash when it hits his hands." "He takes things easily," said the manager. "I haven't seen him fight a ball yet. Blocks it down and recovers in plenty of time. If this game didn't mean so much"---- The game went against the Bears from the start, the break of the luck seeming always to favor the Panthers. Twice, with runners perched on second and third, Holleran had hit feeble grounders to the infield, one resulting in a runner being caught at the home plate and one in an easy out at first that finished an inning in which the Bears had threatened to amass a half dozen runs. The seventh inning started with the Panthers leading 3 to 1, and the Bears seemingly beaten beyond hope of recovery. An error, followed quickly by a base on balls and a successful sacrifice bunt put Bear runners on second and third bases with but one out and Holleran coming to the bat. Clancy signaled him, and an instant later Umpire Maxwell announced: "McCarthy batting for Holleran. McCarthy will play third base, Pardridge in left field." McCarthy came to the batter's box quickly, swinging a long, light bat. He let a fast ball cut across the plate just at his shoulders and only glanced inquiringly at the umpire when it was called a strike. The next one was a quick-breaking curve, seemingly coming straight at him. He stepped slightly forward, snapped the long bat against the ball and drove it down the left field foul line; two runners sprinted across the plate, and the score was tied. "That auburn baby can hit them curves," commented Rice. "He certainly called the turn and waded into that one." The game went into the ninth, then the tenth, the pitchers working harder and harder and the teams batting behind them without a break to bring the victory that meant so much to them. Jimmy McCarthy was the first batter for the Bears. From an unknown recruit he had become the sensation of the game, and thousands were asking who he was. Twice he had hit Cooke's fast "hook curve," and hit it hard, and Cooke, remembering, shook his head as his catcher signaled for another curve. The recruit watched him, and, with a sudden jerk of his belt, he stepped into position. The first ball was fast and across his shoulders, as Cooke had placed it twice before. This time instead of taking the first strike McCarthy met the ball squarely and drove it on the line over the first baseman's head. He turned first base, going at top speed, although already McKeever, the Panther's right fielder, known as one of the greatest throwers in the league, was in position to field the ball. The roar that arose from the crowd was chopped short as McCarthy sprinted for second base. An instant of tense uncertainty was followed by a swelling murmur of protest, disappointment and rage. From the dust cloud just commencing to settle around second base two forms were emerging, and, as the dust drifted away, the crowd had a glimpse of a tableau. Tommy Meegher, second baseman of the Panthers, was disentangling his stocky form from the knot of arms and legs, and arising from the prostrate body of McCarthy, whose desperate slide had turned a base hit into a two-bagger. Stooping over them, his hands outspread, signifying that the runner had reached the base in safety, was Randy Ransom, crouching, in order better to see under the dust cloud raised by the hurtling bodies of the players. A salvo of grudging applause greeted McCarthy as he arose and brushed the dust from his gray striped traveling uniform, an outburst that was followed by a frenzied spasm of enthusiasm from the Bear followers. On the Bears' bench Manager Clancy grinned for the first time in three days. "I believe that kid will do," he said to Kennedy. "He called the turn on that fast ball, just met it, and turned first on his stride. He slid under Meegher clean. Lay one down now," he added, addressing the order to Norton. The skill of Noisy Norton as a sacrifice hitter was well known to the spectators in the stands, but better known to the tense, anxious infielders of the Panthers, who crouched, watching his every motion as he came to the batter's position. Norton stepped into position, shortened his hold upon the bat and glanced quickly around the infield as if noting the position of each man. Suddenly he started, as if in surprise, and glanced toward the Bears' bench. Manager Clancy nodded his head affirmatively and again Norton crouched, shortening his grip upon the bat still more, and slowly churned the inoffensive air with it. The Panther infielders, alert to detect the plan of attack to be tried by the Bears, had caught the rapid exchange of glances, and they crept a step or two closer to the batter, poising ready to leap forward to field any ball pushed toward them from Norton's bat. The plan of assault to be tried seemed clear to the thousands of spectators. It appeared certain that a sacrifice bunt was to be attempted; that the third baseman of the Panthers was to pretend to field the ball, but that, instead, he would return to third base the moment Norton bunted, permitting Cooke, the pitcher, to try to reach the ball in time to throw to third to catch McCarthy there instead of throwing to first to retire Norton. Cooke pitched fast and straight over the plate, intending to make Norton push the ball back to him, or into the air for a fly out. Norton, however, struck viciously, but without making an effort to hit the ball, swinging his bat in order to handicap the catcher in his effort to catch the ball and make a throw. McCarthy had started at full speed the instant Cooke had commenced to wind up to pitch the ball, and was in full flight toward third base. Before Nixon's throw, delayed and hampered by Norton's tactics in striking, reached third, McCarthy slid behind the base, his feet outstretched to hook the bag as he threw his body outward to prevent Randall, the third baseman, from exercising his deadly skill in blocking runners away from the base. A moment later Norton drove a long fly to the outfield, and McCarthy, waiting until it was caught, sprinted across the plate with what proved to be the winning run. "Crossed--and by a busher," lamented Kincaid, of the Panthers, as the teams started off the field after the finish of the game, walking slowly because of the press of humanity overflowing from the stands. "What do you think of that kid, Slats?" inquired Manager Clancy, as they walked together toward the club house. "He's a ball player, if he don't swell," responded Hartman, laconically. "He pulled that steal of third wise. He figured we wouldn't expect a busher to try to steal at that stage--and we didn't. He's a wise head for a kid." "Looks good to me," replied Clancy. "He slipped Norton a signal not to hit, but to let him steal--and I almost fell off the bench when I saw it. I expected him to toss the game away." "Where'd you get him?" demanded Hartman. "He wished himself onto me," grinned Clancy. "He told me he could play ball and I believed him." A swarm of reporters descended upon the headquarters of the visiting team, striving to discover something of the history of the slender, red-haired youngster whose coming had revived the waning pennant hopes of the Bears. McCarthy was not to be found. He had slipped away after dinner without telling anyone his plans. The reporters descended upon Manager Clancy, demanding information concerning his find. "It's a secret, boys," responded Clancy to their insistent questions. "He is nom de plume and habeas corpus. The only place I ever heard of him playing ball was in Cognito." "Suppress the comedy and ease us the legit," pleaded Riley, who wrote theatricals when he was not inventing English in the interest of baseball. "I can't find any record that will fit him." "Boys," said the veteran manager, growing serious, "I don't know a thing more about him than you do. I don't know where he ever played; it never was in organized ball, or I would know where he comes from and who he is. He strolled in here last night, told me he could play ball and wanted a chance to show me that he could." "That was considerable demonstration to-day," commented Rice. "How do you know he's square?" "By looking at him," replied Clancy steadily. "If I needed any more evidence, he was offered $500 to sign a Panther contract after to-day's game and told them he'd stick to me--and we haven't even talked about salary." "What'll we call him?" asked one reporter. "Say," replied Clancy, enthusiastically, "I dreamed last night that I had found a pot of gold wrapped up in a million-dollar bill, with a diamond as big as my hand on top of it. Call him Kohinoor." So Kohinoor McCarthy sprang into fame in a day as the mystery of the league. CHAPTER III _Hope for the Bears_ The Bears were joyous again. They scuffled, joked, laughed and romped joyously as the team gathered in the railway station to make a hurried departure for the city of the Pilgrims on the evening after the final game of the series with the Panthers. Three victories out of four games played with the Panthers instead of the dreaded three defeats had lifted the Bears back practically to even terms with their rivals. All they had hoped for after the injury of Carson was to divide the series with the Panthers, and it was due to the sudden appearance of Kohinoor McCarthy that the victories were made possible. All the notoriety that suddenly was thrust upon McCarthy had failed to affect him, although Manager Clancy watched his "find" anxiously, and pleaded with the newspaper men not to spoil him. No trace of the dreaded affliction known as "swelled head" had revealed itself, and because McCarthy was able to laugh over the wild stories printed concerning him, Clancy breathed more easily. During the celebration McCarthy, who had made it possible, stood apart from the others, feeling a little lonely. McCarthy stood watching them, smiling at their antics with a feeling that he was an intruder. The truth was that the Bears had welcomed him from the start. He had won their admiration on the field and the undying friendship of Silent Swanson by his conduct in the club house on the afternoon after the close of his first game. It was that incident that made for him a chum and an enemy, who were destined to play a big part in his career. When the players raced off the field after that victory, striving to escape being engulfed in the torrent of humanity that poured from the stands, McCarthy was caught, with a few others, and delayed. When he reached the club house the substitutes and the reserve pitchers already were splashing and spluttering under the showers. McCarthy walked to where Adonis Williams, already stripped to the waist, was preparing to take his shower, and without a word he kicked the pitcher on the shins, a mere rap, but administered so as to leave no doubt as to its purpose. "Here----. What did you do that for?" demanded Williams. "I told you in the hotel, when you insulted me, that I'd do it. Will you fight?" McCarthy's blue eyes had grown narrower, and a colder blue tint came into them. "I'll break you in pieces, you ---- ---- ---- you," Williams spluttered with rage. "Drop that talk and fight," challenged McCarthy, stepping into a fighting attitude. Just then McCarthy received help from an unexpected source. Swanson, the giant of the team, broke through the circle of players that had formed in expectation of seeing a fight. "You're all right, Bo," he roared, throwing his huge arm around the shoulders of the recruit. "You're perfectly all right, but he won't fight you." "I'll smash"---- "Naw, you won't, Adonis," said the giant, contemptuously. "I think he can lick you, anyhow, but you had it coming. Now kick his other shin, and after that Adonis will apologize." The suggestion raised a laugh, and eased the situation. The battle light in McCarthy's face changed to a smile. "I'll forego the kick," he said. "I had to make good after what I told you in the hotel. I'm perfectly willing to let it drop and be friends." He extended his hand frankly, but Williams, still scowling, did not take it. "Never mind the being friends part of it," he said. "But if you don't want trouble, just lay away from me after this." "Here, young fellow," said Clancy, who had arrived at the club house in time to see the finish of the altercation; "I'll do all the fighting for this club. Understand?" "Yes," replied McCarthy, slowly, without attempting to explain. "What do you think of my gamecock, Bill?" asked Swanson, enthusiastically. "Adonis insulted him in the hotel last night and the kid promised to kick him on the shins. He was just making good. He offered to shake hands and call it all off, but Adonis wouldn't do it. He's my roommate from now on. I'll have to take him to keep him from fighting every one." The giant's remark caused another laugh, as his record for fights during his earlier career as a ball player had given him a reputation which obviated all necessity of fighting. The majority of the Bears had accepted McCarthy as one of their own kind after that, and Swanson adopted him. With Swanson he seemed at home, but the others found him a trifle shy and retiring. He was friendly with all excepting Williams and Pardridge, who resented his occupation of third base while pretending to be pleased. Yet with the exception of Swanson and Kennedy he made no close friends. The admiration of the rough, big-hearted Swede shortstop for the recruit approached adoration and he was loud and insistent in voicing his praises of McCarthy. The train which was bearing the Bears away from the city of the Panthers drew slowly out of the great station, plunged through a series of tunnel-like arches under the streets, and rattled out into the suburbs, gathering speed for the long night run. Inside the cars the players were settling themselves for an evening of recreation. Card games were starting, the chess players were resuming their six-month-long contest, and McCarthy sought his berth and sat alone, striving to read. In the berth just ahead of his seat the quartette commenced to sing. The Bears possessed a quartette with some musical merit and musical knowledge. Kennedy, the quiet, big catcher, had a good baritone voice and it showed training. Norton, who seldom spoke, but always was ready to sing, led, and Swanson was the bass, his voice deep and organ-like, making up in power and richness much that it lost in lack of training. Madden, the tenor, was weak and uncertain yet, as Swanson remarked, "He can't sing much, but he is a glutton for punishment." When the quartette started to sing, McCarthy dropped his book and sat gazing out into the gathering twilight, listening to the strong, healthy voices. Lights commenced to flash out from the farm houses and the haze settled in waving curtains over the ponds and the lowlands. He was lonely, homesick at thought of other voices and other scenes and the joyousness of his new comrades seemed to depress rather than to lift his spirits. Berths were being prepared for the night. Already in several the weary and the lame were reclining, reading. Others, worn by the strain of the day's game, were getting ready to draw their curtains. The trainer and his assistant were passing quietly from berth to berth, working upon aching arms and bruised muscles, striving to keep their valuable live stock in condition to continue the struggle. The quartette sang on and on, regardless of the lack of an audience, for no one in the car appeared to be listening. They sang tawdry "popular" songs for the most part, breaking into a ribald ragtime ditty, followed by a sickly sentimental ballad. Kennedy's voice, without warning, rose strong and clear almost before the final chord of the song over which the quartette had been in travail had died away. Kennedy had a habit, when he wearied of the songs they sang, of singing alone some song the others did not know; some quaint old ballad, or oftener a song of higher class. For a moment the others strove vainly to follow. Then silence fell over them as Kennedy's voice rose, clearer and stronger, as he sang the old words of Eileen Aroon. "Dear were her charms to me." His voice was pregnant with feeling. "Dearer her laughter--free." Kennedy was singing as if to himself, but as he sang a voice, strong and fresh, like a clear bell striking into the music of chimes, joined his and sang with him the words: "Dearer her constancy." The card players suddenly lost interest in their game, dropped their hands and turned to see who was singing. Players who had been reading and those who had been vainly striving to sleep poked their heads between curtains of the berths, the better to listen. On and on through the haunting, half-pathetic minors of the old song the clear, sweet tenor and the strong, well-modulated voice of Kennedy carried the listeners. McCarthy, leaning toward the window and gazing out upon the moonlight as if under its spell, sang on in ignorance of the interest his voice had aroused in the car. The song ended. For a moment the silence in the car was so complete that the clicking of the wheels upon the fish plates sounded sharply. Then Swanson, with a yell, broke the spell. Hurdling the back of the berth he descended upon the startled McCarthy, who seemed dazed and bewildered by the outburst and the pattering applause that it started. "Yeh, Bo," yelled Swanson, giving his diamond war cry. "Yeh, Bo, you're a bear. Hey, you folks, throw Maddy out of the window and make room for this red-headed Caruso. Why didn't you tell me you could sing? The quartette is filled at last!" Flushed and laughing in his embarrassment, McCarthy was borne up the aisle and deposited in the place of honor in the quartette. Suddenly the scuffling and boisterous laughter ceased, and the players drew aside, apologetically, to make room for an eager, bright-eyed girl, whose face was flushed with pleasure, but who advanced toward McCarthy without a trace of embarrassment. McCarthy, glancing at her, recognized the girl who had directed him to Manager Clancy on the evening of his first appearance in the Bear camp. "I was coming to say good-night to father," she said quickly, "and I heard you sing. I want to thank you." She extended her hand and smiled. McCarthy stared at her in a bewilderment. Some memory of long ago stirred within him. He recalled in a flash where he had seen the face before; the face that had come into his boyhood at one of its unhappiest hours. He had dreamed of the face, and the memory of the kind brown eyes, filled with sympathetic tenderness, never had left him. She was the same girl. He realized suddenly that he was staring rudely and strove to stammer some reply to her impulsive thanks. "Oh, I say," he protested. "It was nothing--I wasn't thinking"---- "You sang it beautifully," she interrupted. "The song is one of my favorites. I did not know Mr. Kennedy knew it." "Used to sing it at home," said Kennedy, as if indifferent. "Thank you," McCarthy stammered, partly recovering his poise. "It is good of you to like it. I seldom sing at all. The song made me forget where I was." "You must sing for us," she said simply. "The boys will make you. I am certain that after you feel more at home among us you will give us that pleasure. Good-night--and thank you again." The girl smiled and McCarthy, stuttering in his effort to reply, managed to mutter good-night as she passed into the next car. "It's a pink Kohinoor now," said the relentless Swanson, as he observed the flushed face of the recruit. "All fussed up, isn't he?" "Oh, cut it out," retorted McCarthy, striving to cover his embarrassment by ball field conversational methods. "A fellow might be expected to be a little bit embarrassed with a lot of big stiffs like you standing around and never offering to introduce a fellow." "I forgot it, Kohinoor," said Kennedy quickly. "I forgot you never had met her. She is Betty Tabor, Sec's daughter, and one of the best little women in the world. Even Silent is a gentleman when she is with the team." "I'm always a gent, Bo," declared Swanson indignantly. "I took a night school course in etiquette once. Any one that ain't a gent when she is around I'll teach to be a gent--and this is the perfessor." He exhibited a huge, red fist and smote the cushions of the berth with a convincing thud. "I'll introduce you properly to-morrow," volunteered Kennedy. "Come on and get into the quartette. We'll try you out." McCarthy surrendered more to conceal his agitation than because he felt like singing. The quartette sang until the bridge players grew weary of the game and the tired athletes who preferred sleep to the melody howled imprecations upon the vocalists. For a long time after McCarthy climbed into his berth he remained staring into the darkness, striving to recall the outlines of a face set with a pair of friendly brown eyes that lighted with a look of eager appreciation. He remembered the little dimples at the corners of the mouth, and the wealth of soft, brown hair that framed the oval of her face. He blushed hotly in the darkness at the thought of his own rather threadbare raiment, and he decided that he would evade an introduction until he could secure money from Manager Clancy and recover the clothes he had left in an express office. He found himself striving to compare her face with that of another. "She is not as pretty as Helen is," he told himself. "But it's different somehow. Helen never seemed to feel anything or to understand a fellow, and I'm sure Betty--Betty? I wonder if that is her real name--I'll sing for her as often as she will listen." And, after a long reviewing of the past that was proving such a mystery and which the baseball reporters were striving in vain to explore, McCarthy muttered: "I've made a fool of myself," and turned over and slept. CHAPTER IV _"Kohinoor" Meets Betty_ The train was speeding along through the upper reaches of a beautiful valley when McCarthy awoke. As he splashed and scraped his face in the washroom he found himself torn between desire to hasten the introduction which Kennedy had promised and to avoid meeting the girl. He glanced down at his worn garments, wondering whether or not the girl had observed them. He went forward to the dining car with sudden determination to avoid the introduction. The dining car was crowded, and the table at which Swanson was eating was filled. McCarthy stopped, looked around for a vacant seat. There seemed to be only one--and at that table Miss Betty Tabor was breakfasting with Manager Clancy and his wife. "Good morning," said the girl, smiling brightly. "There is a seat here. My father had to hurry away. Mr. Clancy will introduce us." Clancy suspended his operations with his ham and eggs long enough to say: "Miss Taber, Mr. McCarthy. Kohinoor, this is the old lady." "I heard Mr. McCarthy sing last night," said the girl, acknowledging the informal presentation. "He sings well." "So I should guess," remarked Clancy dryly. "Swanson has been bellowing his praise of it until everyone on the train thinks we have grabbed a grand opera star who can hit 400." McCarthy found himself talking with Miss Taber and Mrs. Clancy and laughing at the quaint half brogue of the manager's buxom wife as if they had known each other all their lives. Clancy himself had little to say. The conversation had drifted to discussion of the country through which the train was running and McCarthy suddenly ceased talking. "I always have loved this part of the valley," said Miss Taber. "When I was a little girl father brought me on a trip and I remember then picking out a spot on the hills across the river where, some day, I wanted to live. I never pass it without feeling the old desire. Have you been through this country before?" The question was entirely natural, but McCarthy reddened as he admitted it was his first trip. "And what part of the world do you come from?" asked Mrs. Clancy. "I'm from the West," he responded. "Probably that is why I admire this green country so much." "What is your home town?" persisted Mrs. Clancy. Miss Taber, scenting an embarrassing situation, strove to change the subject, but Mrs. Clancy refused to be put off. "Why is it you are ashamed of your home and play under another name, boy?" she demanded. "Why do you think my name isn't McCarthy?" he parried. "The McCarthys aren't a red-headed race," she said, her brogue broadening. "Ye have Irish in ye, but ye're not Irish. Is baseball such a disgraceful business ye are ashamed to use your name?" "Of course not, Mrs. Clancy," he responded indignantly. "It is a good enough business--but--but--Oh, I can't explain." "This mystery business is a big drawing card," remarked Manager Clancy, endeavoring to ease the situation. "They flock to see him because each one can make up his own story. Let him alone, mother. Don't spoil the gate receipts." "Let him alone, is it?" she asked, turning upon her husband. "'Tis for his own sake I'm speaking. They'll be saying you've done something bad and wicked and are afraid to use your own name." "What isn't true cannot hurt anyone," he replied quickly. "I have not committed any crimes." "Mother is a good deal right about it," remarked Clancy quietly. "A baseball player is a public person. The fans are likely to say anything about a player, and the less they know the more they will invent." "I believe Mother Clancy is right," said Miss Taber, seeing that her effort to turn the conversation had failed. "But there really isn't anything to tell--anything any one would be interested in. It's a private matter," protested McCarthy. "Listen, boy," said the manager's wife. "I've been with the boys these many years. They are all my boys, even the bad ones, and I don't want any of them talked about." "There is nothing to talk about," he contended, irritated by the persistency of the manager's wife. "They're already saying things," she responded, leaning forward. "They're a saying that you've done something crooked--that you've thrown ball games----" "Oh," ejaculated Miss Taber. "They wouldn't dare!" "I'd like to have someone say that to me," McCarthy said, flushing with anger. "Hold on, mother," interrupted Clancy. "I'm managing this team----Let up on him. Where do you hear that kind of talk?" "I heard it in the stands," she argued earnestly. "They were saying you knew all about it. If you deny it they'll tell another story and if you keep quiet they'll think its a confession. Tell them what you are and where you came from, boy." Her voice was pleading and her interest in his welfare was too real not to affect him. "I'm sorry, Mother Clancy," he said gratefully, unconsciously adopting the term he had heard Betty Tabor use. "There is nothing I can tell them--or anyone--now." "It's sorry I am, Jimmy," she responded sadly. "If it's anything ye can tell me come to me." "I see I have another adopted son," remarked Clancy teasingly as he winked at Miss Tabor. "Ellen mothers them all, as soon as she learns their first names--even the Swede." "'Tis proud I'd be to have a son like Sven," she said, defendingly. The breakfast ended rather quietly and McCarthy returned to his seat in the players' car dispirited. In his heart he knew that Mrs. Clancy had spoken the truth. He knew, too, that Betty Tabor held the same opinion and, somehow, her opinion of him counted more than that of all the others. "If I only could explain," he kept thinking. "They have no right to ask," he argued with himself. "Why do they suspect a man just because he refuses to tell them all his private affairs?" McCarthy was settling himself to resume reading when Adonis Williams came down the aisle and sat down in the other half of the seat. Williams looked at him patronizingly for an instant, and in a rather sneering tone said: "Just a friendly little tip, young fellow. Keep off my preserves and you'll get along better with this club." "I don't quite understand you," replied McCarthy, his eyes narrowing with the anger aroused by the air of superiority assumed by the pitcher. "I was watching you during breakfast," said Williams. "Don't get it into your head that because you happened to play a couple of good games of ball you can run this club and do as you please." "Hold on a minute," retorted McCarthy, flushing with anger. "If you have any grievance against me say so. Don't beat around the bush. I don't know what you are talking about." "I wanted to tip you off to keep away from the young woman you ate breakfast with." McCarthy's eyes flashed angrily, and he started to rise, but controlled himself with an effort. "Only muckers discuss such things," he said, coldly. "Well, we're going to discuss it," retorted Williams, who rapidly was working himself into a rage. "That young lady is going to be my wife, and I don't care to have her associating with every hobo ball player that joins the team." McCarthy clenched his fists and started to his feet, but gritted his teeth and kept control of his temper. "You're to be congratulated--if it is true," he said slowly, his tone an insult. "Men cannot fight over a woman and not have her name dragged into it. Drop that part of it and to-night I'll insult you and give you a chance to fight." "Any time you please," replied Williams, rather taken aback. "I think you're yellow and won't dare fight." He swaggered down the aisle, leaving McCarthy angry, helpless and raging. He was boiling with inward anger when Swanson slid down into the seat with him as the train entered the suburbs of the Pilgrim City. "Smatter, Bo?" asked Swanson, quickly observing that something was wrong. "I saw Williams talking with you. Has he been trying to bluff you? Don't mind him. He has been as sore as a Charley horse ever since you joined the team, and he won't overlook a chance to start trouble." "He has started it all right," replied McCarthy, savagely. "We're going to fight to-night and I'll"---- "Steady, Bo, steady," warned Swanson, dropping his voice. "That's his game, is it? He won't fight any one. He heard Clancy warn you not to fight and he is trying to get you in bad. I know his way." "I told him I'd fight," responded McCarthy, worriedly. "Now I'll have to. I don't know anything I'd enjoy better." "I'd like to second you and make you do it," responded the giant. "But it would be playing into his hands if you punched him. Leave him to me. I'll fix his clock." Swanson's methods were all his own. The repairing of Williams's timepiece took place in the big auto 'bus that carried the players from the train to their hotel. Swanson, wise with long experience in such matters, secured a seat across the 'bus from Williams, and when the vehicle rolled onto smoother streets he addressed the pitcher. "Hey, Adonis," he said in tones Manager Clancy could not fail to hear, "trying to take out your grouch on Kohinoor, eh? You lay off him or count me in on anything that comes off." "That sneak been tattling and crying for help, eh?" sneered Williams. "I wasn't going to hurt him." "You're right, you're not," retorted Swanson. "He didn't tell me. I saw you trying to start something with him, and I've seen you do it to too many other kids not to know what you were up to." "Who's talking fight?" demanded Clancy sharply, turning to scan the players until his eyes rested upon Williams's flushed and angry face. "Nobody is going to fight," said Swanson easily. "Adonis has been trying to bully Kohinoor and stir him up. I guess he thought he could put over his bluff because you told Kohinoor not to fight." "Adonis, you cut that stuff out or I'll take a hand in it myself," said Clancy, whose ability and willingness to fight had earned him a reputation during his playing days. "You've had a grouch for a week or more. As for you, Kohinoor, don't think you can fight your way through this league. The first thing you have to do is to learn to stand punishment and keep your temper." "No fresh prison pup can swell up and try to cut into my affairs," muttered Williams, sullen under the rebuke. McCarthy sprang up to avenge the fresh insult, but before he could act or speak he was forestalled. "Oh," said Clancy sharply. "So you're the fellow who has been making that kind of talk? I've been trying to find out where it came from. One more bit of that kind of conversation will cost you a bunch of salary." "I've heard it everywhere," muttered Williams, taken aback by the sudden defense of the recruit by the manager. "Well, don't hear any more of it," snapped Clancy, and McCarthy, feeling he had emerged with the honors, discretely maintained silence. "What started Adonis after you this morning?" asked Swanson, as he hurled garments around the room and wrought disaster to the order of his trunk as he hunted pajamas. "Guess he was just trying to start something," responded McCarthy, still reading. "Girl?" inquired Swanson. "What makes you think that?" "He was mad when he saw you at breakfast with Betty. He's jealous of everyone who talks to her." "She's a dandy girl," said McCarthy, generously. "I don't much blame a fellow for being jealous when he is engaged to a girl like that." "Engaged to Betty Tabor? That stiff?" ejaculated Swanson. "Say, did he spring a line of talk like that on you? Why, he has been crazy about her for three years, but she knows what he is, and she won't talk to him any more than to be polite." "I thought it was odd," commented McCarthy, his heart becoming strangely lighter. "Don't make any mistake, though," added Swanson earnestly, as he turned out the lights. "You've stirred up a bad enemy. He won't fight you openly; but keep an eye on him." Swanson's warning fell upon deaf ears. McCarthy's attack of blues was cured, and he fell asleep to the music of street car wheels that seemed to say: "She isn't engaged, she isn't engaged," as they rolled past the hotel. CHAPTER V _The Tempter_ The Bears were coming into their hotel after the first game of the series with the Pilgrims. The throng in the lobby pressed forward, forming a lane through which they were compelled to run the gauntlet of curious and admiring eyes. Easy Ed Edwards was smiling sardonically as he noted the little display of hero-worship, and he watched the procession of battle-stained athletes until Adonis Williams entered. The handsome, arrogant pitcher was laughing as he strutted for the benefit of the onlookers, but, as his eyes met the cold, steady gaze of the gambler, his laugh gave way to a look of alarm. Edwards nodded coldly and motioned with his head for the player to come to him. Williams crossed the lobby to the cigar stand and held out his hand. Edwards did not seem to observe the extended hand, but turned coldly to the case and said: "Have a cigar?" "Thanks," said Williams, nervously. "What brings you out here, Ed?" "Business," replied the gambler chillingly. "Business concerning you--and others. Come to my room to-night." "Can't--I was going out. Had an engagement," Williams faltered, as he dropped his eyes to avoid meeting those of Edwards. "I want you in my room to-night," said Edwards coldly, ignoring the refusal. "You seem to think you have a mortgage on my life," said Williams, angered by the tone and manner of the gambler. "Well--on your baseball life, I have," responded the gambler without changing a muscle of his face. The pitcher started to flare into anger, then paled and his eyes dropped under the gambler's steady gaze. "Well," he said, uncertainly, "I've got to dress, I'll see you later." "Better drop in early. You'll probably pitch to-morrow and you must keep in condition." Edwards' tone was ironic as he added for the benefit of the clerk who was handing him his change: "The race is getting warm and you can't be too careful of your condition." What happened in the gambler's room that evening was never known to any save the two who were present, but shortly after 11 o'clock Williams came downstairs white and shaking with passion, and went in to the bar. He emerged nearly an hour later, flushed and unsteady, just in time to encounter Manager Clancy, his wife, Miss Taber and McCarthy, chatting and laughing as the men bade the women good-night at the elevators. Clancy, catching sight of him, remarked: "Hello, Adonis. Better hit the hay. You work to-morrow." Williams turned away and said: "All right." But when the manager and McCarthy entered the elevator Williams returned to the barroom, and when, at 1 o'clock, the bar closed, he went unsteadily to his room, after informing the bartender that he was the best pitcher in the world. The Bears faced the Pilgrims for the third game of the series before a huge Saturday crowd, attracted by the announcement that Puckett, the star pitcher of the Pilgrims would pitch against Adonis Williams. The teams battled brilliantly for three innings, although Williams was wild and unsteady. Twice sharp work by the infielders prevented the Pilgrims from scoring, and when the fourth inning commenced the crowd was cheering the Pilgrims wildly and encouraging them to drag down the Bears from their proud position at the head of the-league. Manager Clancy, crouching forward near the players' bench, was watching Williams closely, and every few moments his worried frown and quick gesture showed that he was not pleased with the manner in which his best left-hander was working. Between innings the manager talked in low tones with Kennedy, who was catching, seeking to discover why Williams seemed wild and what was the matter with his curve ball. "Get out there and warm up a bit, Will," said Clancy to Wilcox, his reliable veteran. "They're likely to get after Adonis any minute." To those in the stands it seemed as if Williams was pitching just as well as was his rival, but both teams knew that he was not in his best form, and that it was luck and fast fielding, rather than good pitching, that was saving him from being batted hard. The Pilgrims attacked him in each inning with confidence born of the certainty that sooner or later their hard drives would begin to fall in safe ground, while the Bears played the harder to prevent the start of a rally. The break came in the sixth inning. A base on balls to the first batter gave the Pilgrims the opening for which they had been waiting and they rushed to the assault like soldiers upon a breached wall. Douglass, the next batter, hit a line single to right so hard that the runner going from first was compelled to stop at second. Instead of delaying and steadying himself while planning a system of defense, Williams commenced pitching as rapidly as he could get the ball away from his hand. Almost before the batter was in position he pitched a fast ball straight over the plate and the batter bunted down toward shortstop. McCarthy was racing upon the ball, ready to scoop it in perfect position for a throw. Williams attempted to field the ball which either McCarthy or Swanson could have handled. Williams touched the ball with his groping fingers just before McCarthy, stooping and going at full speed, scooped it and tried to snap it to second base. The ball left his hand just as he crashed with terrific force into Williams. Both men reeled and went down, stunned and dazed. The ball flew wild and rolled on into right field. One Pilgrim progressed to the plate. Douglass, who had been on first, dived safely to third, while only Swanson's fast recovery drove the batter back to first. Williams arose, hurt and furious, and while McCarthy was striving to struggle to his feet the pitcher aimed a vicious blow at his head. Swanson's arm was interposed just in time to stop the blow, and before Williams could strike again players of both teams and the umpires rushed in and prevented further hostilities. The shaken and bruised players recovered and resumed play in a short time, and another safe hit and an out sent two more of the Pilgrims scurrying across the plate. Against the three run lead caused by the mix-up between the pitcher and third baseman the Bears fought desperately. Puckett was pitching one of his cleverest, most studious games and, although the Bears strove again and again to start a counter rally, he held them helpless and the Pilgrims won the game 3 to 1. A sore and disappointed team crowded into the big auto 'bus after the game. They were depressed and silent, for the Panthers had won and the teams again practically were tied for the lead of the championship race. This knowledge that they had thrown away a game to a second division team which they expected to beat four times was bad enough, but that the Pilgrims should have won from Williams for the first time in two seasons made the dose more bitter. No word of blame for any one was uttered. But McCarthy, bruised and nursing a cut on his forehead, grieved and refused to be comforted. "That was a great play you tried to make, Kohinoor," remarked Manager Clancy just before the 'bus reached the hotel. "I like to see a player try to get the runners nearest home. If you had forced that fellow at second, as you tried to do when Adonis cut into the play, the next hit never would have got through the infield, and the chances are we'd have had a double play and won the game." These were the first words of praise Manager Clancy ever had said to him, and he felt better. The players had been invited to attend a performance at a theater that evening. After dinner they were grouped around the lobby of the hotel, when Edwards strolled through, going toward the desk. Manager Clancy glanced at him in surprise and a worried look came over his face. "I wonder what that crook is doing out here?" he remarked to a group of players. "You fellows keep away from him. It's worth a player's reputation for honesty to be seen with him." As Edwards turned from the desk he glanced quickly at Williams, caught his eye and beckoned slightly with his head. Williams suddenly pleaded that he was too weary to attend the performance and remained in the hotel, declaring his intention of retiring early. As soon as Manager Clancy, escorting the women of the party, left the hotel, Williams ascended to Edwards' room. "See here, Ed," he said, "you're putting me in a dickens of a hole. Clancy is sore on you. He said he would fine any player who talked to you. I was afraid he'd see you tip me to come up. If he gets on I'll lose a bunch of salary. I had to sneak to come up here." "I wanted to talk to you," replied the gambler. "I told you last night that the Panthers must win this pennant. I stand to lose close to $80,000 if they don't. Of course they may beat you, but I want to make it a sure thing and clean up on it." "You ought to be feeling better about it to-day," said the pitcher, in an aggrieved tone. "We lost to a dub club with me pitching. What more do you want?" "It wasn't your fault that you lost," retorted the gambler coldly. "You tried hard to win it and you might have won if you had kept away from that bunted ball." "I'd have thrown him out at first easily if that four-flush third baseman hadn't bumped me," snapped Williams, his pride hurt. "Sure you would," sneered the gambler. "You'd have thrown me out of about $160,000 just to have a better average. You had a chance to lose that game without any trouble and you're sore because you did lose it." "Why shouldn't I be?" demanded Williams. "If we win my part of the world's series money will be close to $4,000--enough to settle what I owe you and pay my bills." "Now look here, Williams," said the gambler, laying aside his cigar and leaning forward across the table. "You stand to win just enough to pay your debts and you'll be broke all winter, without a sou to show for a year's work. If the Bears lose I'll cancel all you owe me and make you a present of as much as the winning players get out of the world's series. You get me?" "Why, you d--d crook." Williams leaped from his seat threateningly. "You want me to throw the championship?" "Sit down, you fool," snarled the gambler, viciously. "Do you want me to let Clancy know who tipped it off that Carson's leg was broken? Do you want me to tell him you got $500 for tipping it to that Panther bunch of gamblers?" "Now listen to sense," continued Edwards, more quickly, "you saw to-day how easily you can lose a game and blame the other fellow. You can use your head and get rich instead of being in debt. If you don't like McCarthy, all you have to do is to make him lose games for you. The papers will yell, 'Hard luck,' you'll get money and I'll clean up a fortune." "You can't make a crook of me," whined Williams. "Wanting me to throw down a bunch of good fellows"---- "Oh, shut up. You make me sick," sneered the gambler. "All you have to do is to make a sure thing out of a doubtful one. You'll be protecting yourself and getting even with a fellow you hate." "I won't do it." Williams was at bay and defiant. "All right," said Edwards sharply, "then to-morrow Clancy will get some news that will start something." "Aw, say, Ed, you wouldn't cross a fellow like that?" whined Williams. "Wouldn't I? Perhaps you think I'll let go of all that money and not fight? I'm starting home to-morrow. I won't see you any more. I am depending on you to deliver--or I'll protect myself." "I won't do it." Williams was desperately defiant. "Yes you will--when you think it over," Edwards replied easily. "Let's have a drink." He rang the bell and smoked in silence while Williams sat sullenly defiant. "I tell you I wouldn't do it for all the money in the game," declared the pitcher. "Here comes the boy," said the gambler. "I'll watch the score of the next game you pitch to see what you do." CHAPTER VI _Adonis Makes a Deal_ The after theater crowd was trooping into the lobby of the hotel in laughing, chattering groups and drifting steadily toward the café, in which already gay parties were gathered at the tables. Manager Clancy and his wife, with Secretary Taber and his daughter, came together and they stood undecided, the men urging that they go to the restaurant for a lunch before retiring, and Miss Taber, laughing, declaring that too much pleasure in one day was bad for them. At that moment Williams, a little flushed, swaggered across the lobby, and, lifting his hat, advanced toward the group. The girl smiled pleasantly in response to his greeting, but as he spoke again she stiffened indignantly and retired a step involuntarily, as she saw he had been drinking. "So you prefer that red-headed prison bird to me?" he asked in sneering tones. Betty Tabor flushed, then turned pale and facing the handsome, half drunken fellow, she gazed at him steadily until, in spite of his swaggering attitude, he grew uneasy and dropped his eyes. Then she spoke. She spoke just one word, vibrant with all the scorn and anger in her being. "Yes." Without a glance at him she turned and stepped into the waiting car, leaving Williams staring blankly in the elevator well. The cold scorn of the girl's single word had stung him more deeply than a volume of rebuke would have done. Half maddened by jealousy and drink he turned to cross the lobby, forgetting to replace his hat, and Clancy, whose attention had been attracted by the pitcher's pursuit of the girl, grasped him by the shoulder and said sternly: "Williams, if you take another drink to-night it will cost you a month's pay." The manager turned to rejoin his wife, and Williams, seething with what he considered a double dose of injustice, walked unsteadily across the lobby. He sat down and meditated over his wrongs. He thought of Edwards and his offer and rising quickly he walked to the telegraph office and wrote a message, for which he paid as he handed it to the night operator. Clancy, who had been talking with friends, was waiting for an elevator and saw his pitcher writing the message. His forehead knitted into a worried frown as he turned and slowly walked toward the elevator again, whistling, as was his habit when he was seriously disturbed. Clancy determined to watch his left-hander. He did not speak of the matter to anyone, having decided to await developments. He watched Williams closely during the remaining games against the Pilgrims, which the Bears won easily, and during the trip to the city of the Maroons, where Williams was to pitch the opening game of the series. The Bears and Panthers were fighting upon an unchanged basis, only a fraction of a game separating them in the league standing. With but eighteen more games remaining on the schedule for the Bears, and nineteen for the Panthers, the race was becoming more desperate each day and the nervous strain was commencing to tell upon some of the men. Clancy was nursing his players, knowing that one disheartening defeat might mean a break that would lead to a succession of downfalls. The more he watched Williams the stronger his conviction that something was amiss. Williams was not acting naturally and his demeanor when with the other players was a puzzle to Clancy. He selected Williams as the pitcher in the first game against the Maroons with the purpose, being determined to find whether or not the pitcher was in condition, and he sent Wilcox, his best right-handed pitcher, out to warm up so as to be ready to rescue Williams at the first sign of distress. "What's the matter with Adonis?" inquired Manager Clancy, as his catcher and principal adviser returned to the bench after the second inning. "His curve is breaking slow and low and on the inside corner of the plate to the right-handers," replied Kennedy. "I can't make him keep it high and out." "Make him use his fast one or he'll get Kohinoor killed with one of those line smashes," ordered Clancy quietly. "Watch him closely, and if he is loafing, signal me." The third inning and the fourth reeled away without a score, and in the first half of the fifth a base on balls, a steal by Norton and a crashing drive by Pardridge gave the Bears a score and the lead. Caton, one of the heaviest hitters of the Maroons, started their half of the inning, and as he stepped into position Kennedy crouched and signaled. Williams shook his head quickly and pitched a curve that broke on the inside corner of the plate. Caton drove the ball with terrific force straight at McCarthy, who managed to knock it down and hold the batter to one base. The next batter sacrificed, and Ellis, a right-handed slugger, came to bat. Again Kennedy signaled for a fast sidearm ball, pitched high, and again Williams shook his head and curved one over the plate. Ellis struck the ball with one hand and sent a carroming down to Swanson, who failed in a desperate effort to throw out the runner. With men on first and third the Bears' first and third baseman came close to the plate to cut off the runner, while the shortstop and second baseman remained in position to make a double play or to catch the runner stealing. Burley, the giant first baseman of the Maroons, was at bat, a man noted for his ability to hit any ball pitched close to him. Williams sent a strike whizzing over the plate. Again the catcher ordered a fast ball, and he pitched a curve that Burley fouled off for the second strike. Kennedy, perplexed and anxious, ran down to consult with the pitcher. Williams sullenly assented to the order to pitch high and out and waste two balls. Instead, he threw a curve, low, close to the batter's knees and barely twisting. Before Kennedy's cry of anger rose the bat crashed against the ball, which flashed down the third-base line, struck McCarthy on the arm, then on the jaw, and he went down like a poled ox, the ball carroming away toward the stand. Before it was recovered one Maroon had scored and the others were perched on second and third. Time was called and players rushed to assist the injured third baseman. Kennedy threw off his mask and ran to the bench. "I signaled him and told him to pitch fast and waste two," he said to Manager Clancy. "He nodded that he would and then crossed me and lobbed up an easy curve inside the plate." "Don't say a word," cautioned Clancy, as McCarthy, still dazed, but recovering, was helped to his feet. "Keep ordering him to pitch fast and outside. Signal me if he disobeys again." McCarthy got onto his feet unsteadily, while the trainer worked with his numb and aching arm. He winced with pain as he tried to throw to see how badly his arm was damaged. While he was walking slowly back to the bag, testing his arm anxiously, McCarthy had the second shock. The cheering in the stands drew his attention, and as he glanced toward the crowd he saw a girl. She was sitting in one of the field boxes between two men and she was staring straight at him. McCarthy lifted his cap, as if acknowledging the tribute to the crowd, but really in salutation to the girl, who flushed angrily. A wave of resentment stirred McCarthy. He strove to think that she had failed to recognize him, yet feeling that the cut was deliberate. Play had been resumed, but McCarthy's mind was not upon it. A sharp yell from Swanson aroused him from his reverie just in time to see a slow, easy bounding ball coming toward him. He leaped forward, fumbled the ball an instant, recovered and threw wild. Two runners dashed home, the batter reached second. McCarthy was thoroughly unnerved. A few moments later he permitted an easy fly ball to fall safe in left field without touching it. His errors gave the Maroons two more scores, and, although the Bears rallied desperately late in the game, it was too late, and they were beaten 5 to 3. A sullen crowd of players climbed into their 'bus under punishment of the jeers of the crowd that gathered to see them start back to their hotel. McCarthy, with his shoulder and head aching, but with his heart aching worse, sat with his chin drawn down into the upturned collar of his sweater, refusing to be comforted. The Bears were in second place, half a game behind the Panthers, and he, McCarthy, had lost the game. Williams was smiling as if pleased and McCarthy blazed with anger. CHAPTER VII _McCarthy Meets Helen_ "Come to the hotel parlor at eight this evening. I wish to see you." The note, hastily scribbled on hotel letter paper, was awaiting him when Kohinoor McCarthy entered the hotel after the disastrous game. He recognized the angular scrawled writing at a glance. Since the moment his eyes had met those of Helen Baldwin during the game he had been thinking hard. Her behavior had hurt him and the thought that she deliberately had refused to recognize him stung his pride. The note proved she had recognized him on the field. Either she was ashamed of his profession or did not want the men with her to know that she knew him. McCarthy ate a hurried dinner and paced the lobby of the hotel. He was anxious to meet the girl, yet he felt a dread of it, an uncertainty as to the grounds on which their acquaintanceship should be resumed. For nearly half an hour he waited, growing more impatient with every minute and wondering whether there had been a mistake. His mind was busy framing a form of greeting. When last they met it had been as affianced lovers. Now---- A rustle of soft garments brought him to his feet and he stepped forward with outstretched hand to meet the tall, slender girl who came leisurely from the hallway. Her mass of light, fair hair framed a face of perfect smoothness. "Helen," he exclaimed quickly, "this is a pleasant surprise." "I wish to talk with you, Larry," she replied without warmth, as she extended a limp hand, sparkling with jewels. "It is good to see you, Helen," he exclaimed, a bit crestfallen because of her manner. "What brings you East? I was nearly bowled over when I saw you to-day. I thought you did not know me, but I see you did." "Surely you did not expect me to bow to you there," she responded. "Did you desire all those people to know that I had acquaintances in that--that class?" "Then you chose to cut me deliberately?" he asked. "Don't be foolish, Larry," she replied. "A girl must think of herself and I did not choose to have my companions learn that I was acquainted with persons in that--profession, do you call it?" "Well, if you are ashamed of my profession"--he said hotly. "Nonsense," she interrupted him. "I simply did not desire to have people see me speak to a person who earns his living sliding around in the dirt on his face. That is what I wanted to see you about. What new prank is this? Are you seeking notoriety?" "I am earning my living," he said. "Baseball is the only thing I could do well enough to make money." "Earn your living?" The girl's surprise was sincere. "You haven't broken with your Uncle Jim, have you?" The girl's eyes grew wider with surprise, and her tone indicated consternation. "I have--or, rather, he has--cut me off," the boy explained rather sullenly. "I tried to find a job--thought it would be easy here in the East, but no one wanted my particular brand of ability, and I tried something I knew I could do." "Then you--then your uncle"--the girl's consternation was real, and she hesitated. "Then our engagement"---- "I thought that was broken before I left," he replied. "You said you wouldn't marry me at all if I told Uncle Jim." "I thought you would be sensible," she argued. "Everyone at home thinks you are sulking somewhere in Europe because of a quarrel with me. Why didn't you write to me?" "After our last interview it did not seem necessary," he said. "Oh, Larry," the girl said, pouting, "you've spoiled it for both of us. If you had done as I wanted you to do everything would have been happy, and now you humiliate me and all your friends by earning your living playing with a lot of roughs." "They're a pretty decent lot of fellows," he responded indignantly. "Why did you do it?" she demanded, on the verge of tears from disappointment and annoyance. "I quarreled with Uncle Jim," he admitted. "I told him I wanted to marry you, and he told me that if I continued to see you he'd cut me off." "And you lost your temper and left?" she concluded. "Just about that," he confessed. "He told me I was dependent upon him, and said I'd starve if I had to make my own living. Of course, I could not stand that"---- "Of course," she interjected stormily. "I told you that he hated all our family, but that if we were married he would forgive you." "I couldn't cheat him that way," he replied with some heat. "Besides you had broken with me. I knew he hated your uncle--but I thought if he knew you"---- "He would have," she said, "if you had given him a chance." "I told him I could make my living--a living for both if you would have me," he confessed. "Playing ball?" Her tone was bitter. "And you had an idea you would come East and make your fortune and come back and claim me?" "I did have some such idea when I left," he confessed. "It wasn't until I was broke and unable to find work that I realized how hopeless it was to think of you." "I couldn't bear being poor, Larry," the girl spoke with some feeling. "We were poor once. Be sensible. Go back home and make up with Mr. Lawrence--and when I return"---- "I am making a good salary," he said steadily. "I can support two. If you care enough"---- "I couldn't marry a mere ball player," she said, shrugging with disdain. "You used to like it when I played at the ranch and at college," he retorted angrily. "That was different," she argued. "There you were a hero--but here you are a mere professional." "But you attend games," he protested. "I had to to-day. I am on my way to visit Uncle Barney for the summer, and his friend insisted upon taking us to the game." "Oh, see here, Helen," he protested. "He's your uncle, but everyone knows he is crooked in politics and in business. Why do you accept his money?" "He is very good to me--and I cannot bear to be poor again." "Then you will not"---- "Be reasonable, Larry," she interrupted. '"You know I cannot marry a poor man." "Then it was only the money you cared for," he said bitterly. "Uncle Jim said it was, and I quarreled with him for saying it--and it was true." "You put it coarsely," she said coldly. "You cannot expect me to give up the luxuries Uncle Barney provides for me and marry a ball player. Unless you make it up with your uncle I shall consider myself free." A stifled exclamation, like a gasp of surprise, startled them, and a rustle of retreating garments in the adjoining parlor caused McCarthy to step quickly to the doorway. He was just in time to recognize the gown. He realized that Betty Tabor had overheard part of the conversation, and he wondered how much. "Some eavesdropper, I suppose," Miss Baldwin remarked carelessly. "She came by accident, probably to read, and departed as soon as she realized it was a private conversation," he said warmly. "Then you know her?" she asked quickly. "Yes," he replied, realizing he had betrayed undue interest in the defense. "Who is she?" the girl demanded. "One of the women with the team, daughter of the secretary," he explained, striving to appear unconcerned. "Is she pretty?" "Why--yes--I don't know. She is very pleasant and nice looking." "Rather odd, isn't it, a woman traveling with a lot of tough ball players?" "You are unjust," he exclaimed indignantly. "She is with her father and Mrs. Clancy. Besides, the ball players are not tough--at least none of them is while she is with the club." "You seem ready to rush to her defense," she remarked with jealous accents. "Of course, I cannot let you think she is not a nice girl." "Of course not"----her tone was sarcastic. "Traveling around the country with a crowd of men and eavesdropping in hotel parlors." "She would not do such a thing. You must not speak of her in that way," he stormed indignantly. "I congratulate her upon having captured so gallant a champion," she mocked. They were verging upon a sharper clash of words when a big man, heavy of jaw and red of face, strolled into the parlor, not taking the trouble to remove his hat. "Oh, here you are, Helen," he said. "I've been looking everywhere. Time to start or we'll be late to bridge." "Uncle Barney," said the girl, rising, "this is Mr.--oh, I forget. What is it you call yourself now?--McCarthy. I knew him when he was at college. He plays on some baseball team--one of those we saw to-day. Mr. McCarthy, this is my uncle, Mr. Baldwin." "I have heard of you often, Mr. Baldwin," said McCarthy coolly, although fearful that Baldwin might remember him. "You're McCarthy, the new third baseman, eh?" asked Baldwin, without offering his hand and merely glancing at the boy. "Saw you play to-day. Too bad you threw that game away." "I"----McCarthy started to offer defense. "We must be going, Helen," said Baldwin. The girl extended her hand carelessly. "We hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again," she said. Baldwin, with a curt nod to the player, turned to leave the parlor and McCarthy, seizing the opportunity, said: "As a favor, Helen, do not reveal my identity. Your uncle did not recognize me as the boy he saw play on the Shasta View team." "You need not fear," she responded rapidly. "And, Larry, please be sensible. Go home and make it up with Mr. Lawrence--and you may hope. And," she added in a low tone, "beware of that girl." She hurried after her uncle, who had stopped and turned impatiently, leaving McCarthy staring after her and frowning. After all, he thought bitterly, his uncle was right. All she cared for was the money and not for him. He had quarreled with his uncle, his best friend, who had taken care of him since his childhood and who had made him his heir--on account of her. He was free. Yes, he was free. He found himself wondering that he was happy instead of bitter over the loss of Helen Baldwin. He knew now he never had loved her. With a thrill of gladness came the thought of Betty Tabor. His jaw set, the fighting look came into his blue eyes and he saw his way clearly. He was not free. His duty was to the Bears. CHAPTER VIII _In the Deeper Waters_ Two defeats at the hands of the Maroons sent the Bears into the final game of the series desperately determined to win. Their pitching staff was exhausted from the effort to stop the team which they had expected to beat easily. The game was a brilliant exhibition of defensive playing on the part of the Bears, who were driven back by the hard hitting of the Maroons. In spite of the fierce batting of the Maroons the magnificent defensive work of the Bears held their rivals to two runs, while by their brilliant and resourceful attack and skilful inside work they had scored three runs on five scattered hits, and at the start of the eighth inning were holding grimly to their lead of one run. McCarthy, spurred by determination to redeem himself for the errors of the preceding games, was giving a wonderful exhibition of third-base play. The knowledge that Helen Baldwin, her uncle and a group of friends were sitting in one of the field boxes directly behind him urged him to greater efforts. It was his long hit in the sixth inning, followed by a clever steal of third, that had enabled the Bears to gain the lead which they were holding by their fast work on the infield. The Bears failed to score in their half of the eighth, and the Maroons opened with a fierce assault upon Klinker that threatened to break down the Bears' inner wall of defense. Swanson's brilliant stop and throw of a vicious drive checked the bombardment, but a safe drive and a two-base hit went whizzing through beyond the finger tips of the diving infielders, and there were runners on second and third bases, one out and a hit needed to turn the tide in favor of the Maroons again. The infield was drawn close in the hope of cutting off the runner from the home plate. It was desperate baseball, and, as the infielders advanced to the edge of the grass, each man knew that a line smash, a hard-driven bounder between them, or even a fumble, probably meant the destruction of their pennant hopes. The ball was hit with terrific force straight at McCarthy, who threw up his hands and blocked desperately. The ball tore through his hands, struck his knee with numbing force and rolled a few feet away. He pounced upon it and like a flash hurled it to Kennedy at the plate, so far ahead of the runner who was trying to score that he turned back toward third, with Kennedy in pursuit. Swanson had come up to cover third, and the runner from second base stood at the third bag watching the play, ready to dash back if the runner, trapped between third and the plate, managed to elude the pursuers and regain third base. Kennedy passed the ball to Swanson, and as the runner turned back, Swanson threw to McCarthy, who had fallen in behind Kennedy, leaving the pitcher to cover the plate if the runner broke through in that direction. The runner started to dodge, but McCarthy, without an instant's hesitation, leaped after him and drove him hard back toward third base, so hard that the runner went on over the bag and ten feet beyond before he could stop. Like a flash McCarthy leaped sideways, touched the other runner who was starting back to second base, and, with a fierce dive, he threw his body between the base and the runner who had overslid it and tagged him. Before he could scramble to his feet to claim the double play he heard Clancy, excited in spite of his long experience, shouting: "Good boy--nice work." As the umpire waved both runners out the crowd, bewildered for an instant by the rapidity with which McCarthy had executed the coup, commenced to understand and broke into a thundering round of applause as he limped toward the bench. With that attack staved off, the Bears held the Maroons safe in the ninth and closed the final Western trip of the team with a hard-earned victory. They started homeward that evening with confidence renewed and the men hopeful. The Bears were scheduled to stop en route to the home grounds to play a series of three games against the Travelers, a team low in the standing of the clubs, but one of the most dangerous of all. It was a slow but heavy-hitting aggregation, and at times more dreaded than were the stronger clubs. The series was a critical one for the Bears as, after that, they would return to the home grounds to play all the other games, with the exception of two against the Blues. McCarthy was happier and more interested than he had been since he joined the Bears. Restlessly he awaited an opportunity to talk with Betty Tabor. Since his interview with Helen Baldwin he had been strangely jubilant for a young man who had just been discarded by the girl to whom he was engaged. He wondered how much of the conversation Betty Tabor had overheard, and worried about it. He wanted to explain to her who Miss Baldwin was and how he had happened to be talking with her, yet he knew it would seem presumptuous for him to broach the subject. Why should Betty Tabor think enough of him to be jealous? Yet, in spite of this, he decided that, at the first opportunity, he would mention meeting Helen Baldwin. He went to bed annoyed and with an odd sense of being wronged. He determined to see the girl at breakfast and almost decided to confide in her the secret of his past life. But he did not see her at breakfast. After a restless night he was among the first in the dining car and he loitered, but the girl, usually one of the earliest risers, slept late, and when the train reached the city of the Travelers she went with Manager Clancy and his wife in a taxicab, while McCarthy was bundled with the other players into the big auto 'bus. He failed to catch a glimpse of her during luncheon and was in a bad humor when the team made an early start for the ball park. The game was a runaway for the Bears. They piled up such a large score during the early innings that Manager Clancy was able to take out Morgan in the sixth and send Shelby, a second-string pitcher, to finish the game, saving up more strength and skill to use at the finish. It was a jubilant crowd of players that returned to the hotel after the game. They sang and laughed and were happy again. They had won, and during the afternoon the Panthers, overconfident, had suffered two defeats by the Maroons, leaving the teams again practically tied for the lead. McCarthy spent the evening loitering around the hotel lobbies, still hoping for an opportunity to see Miss Tabor, and she failed to appear at dinner and was not with Mr. and Mrs. Clancy when they started out for a car ride. He wandered aimlessly around until, abandoning his quest, he went to his room disconsolately. It was not yet eleven o'clock, but Swanson was preparing for sleep. As McCarthy came into the room he stopped to laugh. The giant shortstop was in his pajamas, on his back in the bed. With one bare foot he was holding a sheet of paper against the head board, and with a pencil grasped between the toes of the other foot he was laboriously striving to write. "What was you trying to do, Silent?" asked McCarthy, laughing harder. "Figuring my share of the World's Series receipts," responded Swanson, laboring harder. "Clancy said he'd fine any one of us caught with a pencil in his hand doping out these statistics," said Swanson, "and I just had to know." They were ready to settle down for the night when the telephone rang in the connecting room. The door between the rooms was ajar, and Swanson sprang from bed to respond to the call. "Hello!" he said. "Hello! Yes, this is Williams's room, but he isn't in just now. What? Oh, yes, I understand. I'll tell him. Hello--hold a minute, here he is now." "Hey, Adonis," Swanson called to the pitcher, who was just entering the room from the hallway. "Someone wants you." He handed the receiver to Williams carelessly and walked back into the room, where McCarthy was stretched upon the bed reading. His face was working rapidly as if trying to tell McCarthy something by lip signals. "I'm tired," said Swanson in a loud tone; "let's sleep late in the morning." Then approaching McCarthy's bed he said in a whisper: "Listen. Try to catch what he says." "Hello! Yes, this is Williams," said the pitcher brusquely. Then his voice changed suddenly. "Yes, Ed, I know you. To-night? Aw, say, Ed, I've got to have sleep! Can't it wait? I'll be there in a quarter of an hour." He hurried out of the room, and before the door slammed behind him Swanson had leaped from bed and was dressing with great haste. "Kohinoor, that was Easy Ed Edwards calling him." "What are you going to do?" inquired McCarthy. "Get a move on yourself," ordered the giant. "Something is up and I want to know what it is. Wait a minute," he added as if by sudden inspiration, and ran to the telephone. "Hello," he said to the operator. "Can you tell me where that call for Mr. Williams came from just now? He has forgotten which hotel he is to meet his friend at. Thank you," he said after a moment's wait. "Hurry. He's going to the Metropolis Hotel," he ordered. "We must catch up with him." They dressed with the speed of men accustomed to changing clothing four or five times a day, and before Williams had been five minutes on his way they were racing for the elevator. Swanson, hastily leaping into a waiting taxicab, ordered the driver to make all possible speed to the corner nearest the Metropolis Hotel. "What is up?" asked McCarthy, as they settled back in the cushions of the taxi as it lurched over the pavement. "There is something funny going on in this ball club," said Swanson. "And I am going to find out what it is. Whatever it is, Williams is mixed up in it. I want to find out why he is meeting Edwards to-night and what is up." "What do you think?" asked McCarthy. "I haven't got it figured out," said Swanson, scratching his head. "There has been something wrong for two weeks. Ever since you joined the club Williams hasn't been natural. He acts mysterious off the field and worse than that on it. He has only won one of his last three games, and ought to have lost them all the way he pitched." The taxi jerked to a stop at the corner opposite the hotel, and Swanson, after reconnoitering carefully, led the way across the street and into the café. "I used to know this place like a book when I was hitting the booze," he said. "They'll be in here--or I don't know Williams. Let's take the corner booth so we can see who comes in and goes out." Five minutes later two men came through the swinging doors from the hotel lobby. Swanson could see them, but McCarthy was out of the range of vision. Swanson drew back deeper into the booth. "Who is it?" inquired McCarthy in a whisper. "Sh--h! It's Williams and Edwards. They're going into the booth next to us. Put your ear close to the partition. I'd give a farm to hear them." The players sipped their soft drinks, while in turn they strove to hear what was passing in the next booth. Occasionally they could distinguish a voice, but the words were unintelligible. Ten minutes of vain listening ensued. Then a heavy man in evening clothes hurried into the café, and after a hasty glance into the booths entered the one in which Edwards and Williams were waiting. "I wonder who that fat man is?" whispered Swanson. "It's a lucky thing he didn't recognize me," replied McCarthy in low tones. "That's Barney Baldwin, the broker and politician, one of the big men of this part of the country--and a crook." "Whew," whistled Swanson. "Let's sneak. We can't hear anything--and the water is getting deep." CHAPTER IX _Baldwin Gets into the Plot_ The events that led up to the midnight conference between Barney Baldwin, Ed Edwards and Adonis Williams in the booth at the Metropolis Hotel that night would have been of vast interest to several millions of baseball enthusiasts had they known of them. They started with the arrival of Easy Ed Edwards in the city of the Travelers. He had run down to watch the game between the Bears and the Travelers in rather a pleasant frame of mind. His plans for a huge gambling coup seemed to be working out well, and, with the Panthers holding a lead of a game and a half, with but eleven more games to be played, he was adding to his line of wagers. The double defeat of the Panthers and the easy victory of the Bears had placed a new aspect on the league race, with the Bears again favorites. Edwards had left the baseball park in the middle of the game in a frenzy of anger. It was too late now for him to attempt to lay off his bets, and he stood to lose more than $100,000 if his plans to have the Panthers win the pennant from the Bears went astray. It was in this mood that he returned to the hotel and commenced to make drastic plans. In the lobby of the hotel he encountered Barney Baldwin. "Hello, Barney," he said, shaking hands with the broker. "What brings you down?" "Hello, Ed," replied the big man cordially. "Let's have a drink. I've been away a month out West visiting the family. Brought my niece on East with me. Just got home and heard that things are going wrong, so I ran over here last night to see what sort of cattle have been breaking up my political fences while I've been gone. What brings you over here?" "Baseball--ran down to see the game to-day. Rotten game." "Didn't know you were interested in baseball," said the politician. "I'm pretty well satisfied with the situation--both my clubs up there fighting for the lead, and I'm getting it coming and going." "Both your clubs?" ejaculated the gambler. "I knew you had some stock in some club. How much of the Bears and Panthers do you own?" "Well, I can control both in a pinch. I don't pay much attention to them. I let the fellows I hire as presidents of the clubs do the worrying." "If you own both these clubs you and I can do a little business," said the gambler, lowering his voice. "Come on up to my rooms and we'll have our drinks sent up there where we can talk." "I haven't much time, Ed," protested Baldwin. "I want to meet some of the boys down here and learn how the political situation is stacking up." They ascended to Edwards's rooms and when they were seated the gambler rang for wine, and, leaning forward, said: "You want your man, Hoskins, to go to the Senate when the Legislature meets this winter?" "Why--not exactly--my political plans are rather indefinite. Hoskins is an acceptable man"---- "Oh, chop it," said the gambler sharply. "There's no use for us to try to fool each other. You want to put Hoskins over and you know you're going to have a deuce of a time crowding him through." "Admitting that to be the case, what then?" "I think I can push it over for you," the gambler said easily. "Up home I've got four members of the Legislature where they will do what I say--and perhaps can handle two others. With those four your man would go over--if you've lined up as many members as the papers say you have." "Rather early to count noses," Baldwin started to protest. "We may line up several others"---- "Nothing doing!" exclaimed Edwards sharply. "You've got all you can--the others are lined up either with the high brows or against you under Mullins. I can deliver four, possibly six, of Mullin's votes that he counts as sure." "What do you want out of it?" The politician was interested at last. "Does it make any difference to you whether the Bears or the Panthers win?" Edwards put the question as if casually. "It don't make any difference to me," Baldwin retorted curtly. "I'm not a bit interested in baseball--except to make money out of the teams. I bought the stock as part of a political deal--to help someone out--and it turned out a good investment. What has that to do with it?" "Baldwin," said the gambler, leaning forward again and speaking in low tones, "you see to it that the Panthers beat the Bears out in that pennant race, and I'll deliver you at least five votes for your man." "That's easy," remarked Baldwin. "I can turn that quickly enough, but I don't see where you get off." "You make it a sure thing and I'll tend to my own part of it," said the gambler. "I'll get mine, but I'm not so certain you can do it as easily as you think." "Why not--don't both clubs belong to me?" "Sure they do," said the gambler, "but baseball is a hard thing to monkey with. You've got to handle it carefully, for if the fact came out we'd be in such hot water we'd both scald." "Nonsense," said Baldwin testily. "I'll call the presidents in, explain what I want and let them do it." "Keep off that stuff," warned the gambler. "You don't seem to know much about this game. If you tried to tell Clancy to lose this pennant he'd run straight to some reporter, and the whole country would be up in arms. I shouldn't wonder if they'd lynch you." "Then how do you propose having it done?" asked the political boss, for once willing to listen to advice. He had no qualms of conscience. To him baseball meant a game, and the fact that hundreds of thousands of persons in all parts of the country were vitally interested either in the Bears or the Panthers did not count with him. He only sought the easiest and safest way to accomplish his ends without arousing suspicion. "I have one of the Bears fixed," said Edwards. "But I'm afraid of him. He is crooked and willing to deliver, but he is yellow--lacks courage--and he is likely to fail to deliver just when I need him most. The first thing I want you to do is to help stiffen this fellow's backbone. After that we'll try to get at someone else. If you say it's all right and promise to protect them we will find it easier." "This must be a big thing for you, Edwards," suggested Baldwin as another drink was served and the waiter departed. "I don't mind telling you that if the Bears win I'll almost be smashed," replied the gambler angrily. "I was fool enough to play the game myself. I picked the Panthers to win and made a lot of scattering bets all summer. Then Carson, the Bears' third baseman, broke a leg. They tried to keep it quiet as long as possible. I had a friend in the club who tipped off to me an hour after it happened that Carson's leg was smashed in two places. I jumped right in and plunged, thinking that without Carson the Bears hadn't a chance. Then along comes this blanked red-head and turns it all upside down." "What red-head?" "McCarthy--that kid third baseman. He's been winning games right along that they ought to have lost, and it looks as if the Bears will win out anyhow--unless you can stop them." "McCarthy, eh?" Baldwin smiled patronizingly for the first time. "My boy, don't worry. You may know baseball better than I do--but you've hit something I know about. I think I can handle this McCarthy. I believe you can get ready to deliver those votes. I must be going now." "I'm going to send for that pitcher I've got fixed, to-night," said Edwards. "Have him down about ten, or a little later," suggested Baldwin genially as he arose to leave. It was the arrival of Baldwin in the barroom to attend the meeting with Adonis Williams and Easy Ed Edwards that Silent Swanson and Kohinoor McCarthy saw--and it was well for McCarthy's peace of mind that he did not hear what transpired at that meeting. CHAPTER X _Williams Caught in the Net_ Baldwin, by nature, was pompous and patronizing. In his capacity as political boss, representing certain more or less questionable financial interests, he distributed political patronage with an air of one bestowing great favors personally. Baldwin's rise to riches and to a certain degree of power had been a strange one. He had been a bartender, and had by a certain selfish economy and "touching the till" acquired sufficient money to purchase the saloon in which he was employed from the honest German who had trusted him almost to the verge of bankruptcy. Certain wealthy men and some others interested in public utilities had seen in Baldwin a proper catspaw, and, in a small way, had used him in politics. From that he had developed quickly into an official collector of graft money from disorderly houses, saloons, and gamblers. Baldwin had become more and more independent financially and more powerful politically as he learned the game. He was shrewd and quick to learn. His share of the collections became larger and larger until in time he was admitted to the higher circle of graft, and, having served his apprenticeship, he had others to collect for him and take the greater risk of going to prison. Eventually, by cunning catering to big interests, he became the political boss of his city, stockholder in several public utilities, and head of a brokerage firm, which he maintained more to account for his possession of wealth than to do business, although favored in many instances in bond deals. His purchase of stock in baseball clubs had been incidental. He knew little of the game and cared less. He was satisfied with the large returns on the stock and avoided publicity in advertising himself as owner of either team through fear of causing an increase in the demand, "Where did you get it?" Easy Ed Edwards, while waiting in the booth of the Metropolis Café, had told Adonis Williams the name of the man for whom they were waiting. "Now get wise, Adonis," he advised, in friendly tones. "I'll tip you to something no one outside a few is on to. Baldwin owns this club you're pitching for, and he owns the Panthers. I had it from him to-night that he wants the Panthers to win the pennant this season. You toss off a game or two to help him and you'll be strong with him for life. You know he holds this State in his vest pocket." "Ain't I trying my best?" said Williams. "Clancy won't let me work often now. He was working me to death until a couple of weeks ago and now he's always saving me for some other team. I asked him to get in to-morrow. Maybe I'll work. If I do I'll make good and lose it." "Here he comes now," said Edwards in a low tone as Baldwin came pompously into the barroom in search of them. "I'll talk and let you hear what he wants." "Ah, here we are," said Baldwin pompously, as he discovered them. "Order a bottle of wine, Ed, and introduce me to your friend." He already was well warmed with drink and looser and less cautious in his conversation than customary. "Glad to meet you, Williams," he said as Edwards went through the formalities of introduction. "I've seen you pitch. Had a good season?" "Fair," said Williams, striving to appear modest. "I've won twenty-six and lost eleven--some of them tough ones, especially lately." "Sorry to spoil your record, my boy," said Baldwin patronizingly, "but you must lose a few more for the interests of all concerned." "Not so loud, Baldwin," warned Edwards. "All right, all right," assented Baldwin unvexed. "Let's have another bottle. "Now, young fellow," he continued in a low tone when the drink was served, "you know who I am. I don't forget my friends. That's my motto. Anyone who does anything that helps me, or helps a friend of mine"---- He paused to wave his hand indicating that Edwards was the friend. The man was half drunk and too loose with his talk to please the more cautious gambler. "Adonis here is all right," said the gambler suavely. "I don't blame him for being a little bit cautious. You see, Barney, Adonis wasn't sure the big men behind the game wanted it to go that way and I don't blame him. I wanted him to understand how the owners feel." "I'm wise, I guess," said Williams, warming with the wine. "All I need is the chance, and I'll make the Panthers win it." "You understand," Baldwin said pompously, "it won't do at all for owners to have anything to do with the games; that's the reason I don't care to have my name mentioned in connection with the Bears or the Panthers, but in this case it is to all our interests to have the Panthers win. My boy, I'll take care of you well, if you deliver the goods." "You may count on me. We have ten more games to play, and I ought to work three, maybe four. I can lose two or three and make it a cinch." "That's the talk," said Baldwin genially. "You know which side your bread is buttered on." "Yes," remarked Edwards, "he does--but he wants it on both sides. He's had chances already to end this race, and won instead of losing." "I couldn't help it," retorted Williams. "You know, Ed, I tried to lose, but that red-headed four-flush was lucky enough to keep me from it. You know I don't dare to make it too raw. Clancy might get suspicious." "This McCarthy seems to be the trouble maker all 'round," suggested Baldwin. "With him eliminated it ought to be easy, hadn't it?" "Him a good ball player!" ejaculated Williams angrily. "Say, he's a bum. He's just lucky." "I don't want any more such luck," sneered Edwards. "The next time you're in there you lose the game right--you hear? Let them get a big bunch of runs right quick so no one can save the game." "Maybe Clancy won't let me pitch," objected the star whiningly. "I can't make him let me pitch." "I'll see to that," said Baldwin casually. "I'll see the president in the morning and have him tell this Clancy to let you pitch. Then he'll put you in." "Don't be too certain of that," said Edwards. "Clancy usually runs the team to suit himself--and he plays to win." "You leave that to me," replied Baldwin complacently. "I usually get what I want. Meantime, I think I can fix this young fellow Mac. I'll have a little talk with him in the morning." "Don't let him find out that you know either of us," warned Edwards. "He's a pretty cagey young fellow from what I hear." "Trust me for that," said the big man. "I've handled wise fish before now, and landed them without using a net." "You know anything about him?" inquired Williams. "Yes--and no. Anyhow I am pretty close to someone--a woman--who knows him and knows all about him." "I wish I did," snarled Williams, now growling mean from the effects of drink. "Who's the woman?" "She's someone whose name won't appear in this matter," replied the politician reprovingly. "She's a relative of mine. I think he is in love with her and she turned him down cold. Let's have another bottle and break up the party." "He was in love with her?" asked Williams eagerly, as a plan for revenge flashed through his mind. "I believe so," said Baldwin carelessly. "Family affair. Never heard the details. Of course she couldn't marry a fellow of that class." The three men emerged from the booth, Williams and Baldwin flushed and unsteady from the drink, Edwards cold and revealing not a trace of the wine. "Williams, you'd better go out the front door," he said quietly. "It wouldn't do for you to be seen around the lobby with us at this hour." Fifteen minutes later Swanson and McCarthy, in their beds, heard Williams enter the adjoining room unsteadily and hastily prepare for bed. CHAPTER XI _McCarthy in Disgrace_ Events crowded upon each other rapidly the following day. The first was a telephone call soon after breakfast that summoned Manager Clancy to the Metropolis Café. "Hello, Mac," said Clancy gladly. "How you hittin' em? Haven't seen you in an age. How's tricks?" "Pretty good, Bill. You're looking fine," replied McMahon, manager of the café, who in his youth had played ball on the team with the now famous Clancy. "I was worried about something I heard this morning and thought I'd send for you. I couldn't come up." "What is it? Let's have a drink--make mine grape juice." "When I came down this morning Johnny, the night man, told me one of your players was in here until after midnight last night," said the old ball player. "Which one?" demanded the manager angrily. "He didn't know him, except that he was a ball player. He was a sandy-haired fellow, rather slender and wiry looking." "McCarthy--maybe," said the manager thoughtfully and worried. "I didn't think that bird would do it. Something funny." He had leaped at the identification. "That isn't the worst of it, Bill," continued McMahon, "that fellow was with Easy Ed Edwards and a big fat guy in a dress suit." "What?" demanded Clancy, starting indignantly. "Sure of that?" "Johnny knows Ed Edwards. They sat in the booth over there and had four quarts of wine, and the player was pretty well lighted up when they got out." "Thanks, Mac," said Clancy worriedly. "This is tough news at this stage of the game. I'll have to take a look into it." Clancy, his weather-beaten face furrowed with a heavy frown, walked slowly back to the hotel. President Bannard, of the Bears, was waiting for him in the lobby. "Good morning, Bill," he said. "You're out early. I wanted to see you." "Had some business downtown and went out an hour or so ago," replied the manager. "What's the woe?" "Who's going to pitch to-day?" asked the president. "I don't know. I never decide in advance," responded the manager carelessly. "Guess it will be either Wilcox or Williams--whichever one looks best warming up." "If it's all the same to you," said the president diplomatically, "I wish you'd let Williams work." "Why?" demanded Clancy, on the defensive in an instant. "It's this way, Bill," explained the president. "You know I don't own this club. I've got most of my money in it, but another fellow has control of the stock. He is going to the game and he asked me to let Williams pitch, as he never has seen him work." "Williams hasn't been very steady in his last three games," remarked the manager thoughtfully. "I don't want to risk this pennant to please anyone, no matter if he owns the whole league." "Well, you said yourself that your choice was between Williams and Wilcox, so I can't see it makes any difference." "You know I don't like to announce pitchers ahead of time," said the manager. "It seems to me the owner ought to have a right"---- "Now look here, Bannard," said Clancy sharply, "when I signed this contract it was with the agreement that I was to run the business on the ball field and let your end of it alone. I'm perfectly willing to oblige a stockholder, but I'm going to win this pennant, and I'll do what I please with the playing end of the game. If Adonis looks good warming up he'll go in, if he don't I'll send someone else to the slab--and that goes." "Well--have it your own way"; the president had surrendered entirely to the aggressive manager. "Put him in if you can, and if you can't I'll explain that he wasn't right--twisted himself or something." Clancy went to his room puzzled and annoyed and, as usual, he sought advice and enlightenment by consulting Mrs. Clancy, whose abundant good nature and portliness formed a striking contrast with his seriousness and slenderness. "Willie," she said, laying down her sewing after Clancy had stood at the window, whistling and gazing out for ten minutes without saying a word. "Well, Willie--who has broken a leg or sprung a Charlie horse now?" "Nothing much, mother," said the big manager quietly. "Nothing much--just worrying a little over the way things are going." "Bill Clancy," she ejaculated indignantly. "Do you think you can fool anyone with that talk? Do you think I could live with you eighteen years, come next Martinmas, and not know when you're in trouble? Tell your old lady what it is." "Sure, mother," he said fondly, coming to put his arm around her waist. "Haven't you enough troubles of your own?" "Me have troubles?" She was indignant. "Nothing troubles me but worrying over those pesky boys of yours. What's wrong now, Willie?" "One of the boys out skylarking last night--and drinking." "Saints forgive him," she said piously, but with a note of relief. "Sure you'll not be fining the poor boy? Perhaps he needed a drink or two to keep up his courage." "Nothing like that, mother," he replied seriously. "This was one of the young fellows out with some gamblers drinking wine till past midnight. It looks serious." "Now, Bill Clancy, you just send for that boy to come right up here and talk it over. Tell him he must behave and explain what it means to all the boys. Then you'll shame him and he'll be a good boy. They're all good boys," she protested earnestly, "only they do try a poor woman." "I guess that's the best plan, mother," he said. "You trot over into the other room and I'll have him up." "Which one is it this time, Willie?" "McCarthy!" "McCarthy--why, Willie, he wouldn't--there's some mistake. That poor boy wouldn't do such a thing. And him grieving his heart out because Betty Tabor won't treat him well any more. That's what's the trouble, Willie." "We'll see what it is," said the manager, checking her flow of defense curtly. "I'll have him up. You run into the other room with the sewing and--don't listen." His telephone call found McCarthy in his room, and the young third baseman promptly ascended to the manager's apartment and entered innocently. "Good morning, Boss," he said, following the burlesque style of greeting used by the Bears to their manager. "Good morning," said Clancy curtly, as he scrutinized the face of the player for signs of a debauch and found the blue eyes clear and fresh. "You wanted to see me?" inquired McCarthy, thrown a little off his easy bearing. "Yes--where were you last night?" "I--in my room"--he suddenly remembered the excursion with Swanson. "I was out for a while," he concluded lamely. "Were you in the café of the Metropolis Hotel late?" "Yes," confessed McCarthy, bridling at the tone employed by the manager. "I was in there." "Drinking?" "Yes--lemonade." "Nothing stronger?" "No." "No wine?" "No--I'm not in the wine class." "Who were you with?" "You're the manager," said McCarthy quietly, although he was rebellious inwardly. "You may ask me anything you want to about myself or my actions--but you surely don't expect me to tell on anyone else?" "I don't want you to tell on any ball player--but who were you with?" "I'm not at liberty to tell." "You needn't tell me--I know," said the manager angrily. "You got up out of bed to go there to meet Easy Ed Edwards--and you were with him while three of you drank four quarts of wine." For an instant McCarthy clenched his hands until the nails bit into the palms, and a flood of angry color flashed into his face. With an effort he controlled himself. "You've got everything backwards," he said at last, gazing straight at the angry manager. "I can't explain just now--but you'll find out some day--and apologize." He turned without another word and left the room. Clancy, who had expected angry denials, threats, perhaps a personal encounter, sat gazing at the closed door, and then to himself he said: "It looks bad, but hanged if I don't believe him. No fellow could lie and look like that." CHAPTER XII _McCarthy Defies Barney Baldwin_ "Pardridge, playing third base in place of McCarthy, Holleran in left. Morton and Kennedy, battery for the Bears." This announcement, bawled by a battery of megaphone men in front of the crowded stands that afternoon was the first intimation that McCarthy had of the contemplated action of Manager Clancy in taking him out of the game. He sprang from the end of the bench, where he was tying his shoes, toward the manager, an angry exclamation on his lips, and his blue eyes flashing as they narrowed to the battle slit. Swanson, who was sitting next him, fondling a bat, seized McCarthy with his tremendous grip and jerked him back to his seat. "Steady, boy, steady," the big Swede cautioned. "Take your medicine. Show your gameness." "I'm laid off," said McCarthy as if astonished. "It isn't right. He's laying me off for something he thinks I did"---- "Don't quit--be game," cautioned Swanson. "Tell me about it to-night." McCarthy was miserable, and his face revealed it. Swanson, hardened by years of facing such little tragedies, of seeing the hearts of young players broken under such punishment, sympathized, but preserved a cheerful demeanor as he selected his bats and prepared for the battle. "Buck up, Jimmy boy," said Swanson, sitting down beside him and pretending to be retying his shoe laces. "We'll win this one anyhow, and to-night we'll have a talk with Clancy after he cools down. I can square things with him." The comforting words of the kindly, big shortstop helped McCarthy. Clancy did not look toward the youngster, who sat huddled in his heavy sweaters on the opposite end of the bench watching the game and going over and over in his mind the circumstances that had led to his punishment and banishment from the team. The game proceeded rapidly. The Bears scored a run in the second inning on Swanson's long drive against the left field fence for three bases, and a fly to the outfield, on which Swanson came by sliding under the catcher. In the fourth the Travelers evened up the score on an error by Pardridge, who, off his balance by his sudden change of position, threw wild and allowed a runner to score from second base. The score remained tied until the fifth, neither team being able to hit the opposing pitcher's delivery hard enough to send home a run. Then Pardridge misplayed an easy bounder and, recovering, hurled wildly toward second base, striving to force out a runner coming down from first. His throw went on high and far into right field, one runner scored, the batter was perched on second and the crowd was in a tumult, thinking that the inevitable break had come. A crashing base-hit sent home another runner, and with the score 3 to 1 against them the Bears faced one of the supreme tests of nerve of the season. Gamely they rallied in the fifth and again in the sixth inning, but failed to reach even terms again as Carver, the best pitcher of the Travelers, was holding them by clever work. Each time they forced men to within reaching distance of the plate he settled, and using more speed, checked the attacks and made the game one sequence of disappointments for the Bears. The seventh inning proved uneventful, although the crowd arose and stood to urge the Travelers to make certain the victory and "rooted" with the unholy glee that all crowds show over the downfall of a champion. The eighth commenced. A base on balls paved the way and gave the Bears a chance to exhibit their resourceful style of attack which had overthrown so many opposing teams. The Travelers played deep, believing that with two runs needed to tie the score the Bears would not attempt to sacrifice, and Noisy Norton hooked his bat around quickly, dropped a bunt down the third-base line, and beat the ball to first base before Pickett, the third baseman of the Travelers, who had been caught asleep, could reach the ball. McCarthy glanced toward the seat where Edwards, the gambler, sat. Easy Ed's face was hard and set. He gripped the front of the box. The gambler's iron nerve was shaken. Swanson rushed to the plate, swinging two bats, and crouching, he pushed his bat back and forth as if determined to lay down a sacrifice bunt. The Traveler infield crept closer to stop the bunt. One ball was pitched wide. Again Swanson crouched, and as the second pitched ball came whizzing up he made a sharp, quick lunge; the ball went like a flash across first base, as Davis dived vainly toward it, rolled onto foul ground, and before the right fielder could retrieve the ball as it glanced along the front of the stands, two runs were across the plate and the score was tied. McCarthy looked again. Edwards's usually stony face was writhing with fury and disappointment as he leaned forward. The panic had seized the Travelers. The infield was pulled close to intercept the runner at the plate, and the shortstop, over anxious to make the play, fumbled the easy grounder. Before the inning closed five runs were across the plate; the Bears had snatched victory from defeat, and they clung to their lead and won 6 to 3. As the last batter for the Travelers went out on a long fly to the Bears' center fielder, McCarthy saw Edwards rise and hurl his cigar viciously against the floor of the box, then turn to gaze long and earnestly toward the Bear bench. Suddenly he gave a nod of his head and McCarthy, following the line of the gambler's gaze, saw Williams flush and then pale, as he turned to help the bat-boy pack the clubs. McCarthy had intended to follow Swanson's suggestion and to plan with Swanson what course to adopt in explaining to Manager Clancy how matters stood, but he did not have the opportunity. Waiting in the lobby of the hotel when he returned, he found Barney Baldwin, who accosted him. "You're McCarthy, the fellow my niece, Miss Baldwin, introduced me to, aren't you?" he asked pompously, pretending to be uncertain of the identity. "Yes." "Well, young fellow, I want to have a quiet little talk with you. Come up to my room at the Metropolis as soon as you get dressed. It's important." They talked for a few minutes and McCarthy promised to come to the Metropolis after dinner. He hastened to his room, and to his disappointment found that Swanson had dressed hastily and already was gone. Nor did the big Swede come to dinner, and McCarthy was compelled to leave the hotel without seeing him in order to keep his engagement with Baldwin. He was ushered into a pretentious apartment in the Metropolis, where Baldwin was awaiting him, with a bottle of wine in the cooler at the side of the table and a box of choice cigars at hand. "Sit down, my boy, sit down," urged Baldwin cordially. "Have a drink and a cigar." "Thanks--I'll smoke. I'm not drinking," said McCarthy quietly. "You wanted to see me?" "Yes. You see I called Helen up over the long distance to-day and had quite a talk with her about you. She dropped a few hints before she left and I wanted to hear more of you." "Then she told you who I am?" "She told me you were a young man of good family and that you were playing under an assumed name--but, of course, having promised, she wouldn't tell more." "Now, I know how it is. You're in some trouble at home and just bull-headed enough to refuse to give in. I admire you for it, my boy--but it is youthful folly. Helen tells me she was engaged to you, but broke off the engagement because you wouldn't go back home and quit baseball. Now I want to see the thing in the right light. You come and run down to my summer place with me to-morrow, spend a week or two there with Helen, get things straightened out, and meanwhile I'll act as peacemaker and fix things up so you can go home and eat the fatted calf." "You've tackled a tough job," said McCarthy, grinning in spite of himself at the mental picture of his uncle receiving overtures in his behalf from Barney Baldwin, his bitterest enemy. "I'm certain it is a mere trifle when looked at in the right light," urged Baldwin. "I can explain things. I'll wire your people that you are visiting with us, and we'll forget all about this baseball foolishness. Better come along." "I thank you for your good intentions, Mr. Baldwin," replied McCarthy quietly, "but it is impossible. In the first place, the plan you suggest would be about the worst possible--and more important than that, I can't quit the team until it wins the pennant." "Now we're getting down to cases, my boy," said Baldwin, smoking easily. "I want you to go, for your own sake, but I also want you to go because I don't want the Bears to win that pennant. They haven't treated you right, and they can't blame you if you quit." "You want me to throw the pennant race?" demanded McCarthy angrily. "That's why you want me to leave the team, is it? I'll see you in h---- first--I'm in bad with the manager--but I won't quit the team." "Now, now, my boy," interrupted Baldwin soothingly. "Take a sensible view of it. It's for the best interests of all concerned. It don't mean anything to you if you run back home, square yourself with the family--and quit interfering with our plans." "You're a crook, Baldwin," said the third baseman threateningly. "My uncle, James Lawrence, always said you were a crook and a thief, and now I know it. I wouldn't quit now for all his money and all yours together. I'll stick to the team and we'll win this pennant in spite of you and your rotten gang." The effect of his words caused him to stop in surprise and alarm. The big man, who had been sipping his wine, suddenly grew apoplectic and sat staring at him. Baldwin stared at the slender youth as if at a ghost. Suddenly he lurched forward as if to arise, and emitted a torrent of oaths. [Illustration: Baldwin stared at the slender youth] "You Jim Lawrence's nephew?" he half screamed. "You his boy? Well, by ----, I'll break you. I'll fix you--I'll"---- He pitched forward as if in a fit, and McCarthy, after ringing for assistance, waited until the house physician had revived the big man, then hurried back to his hotel, puzzled and excited and vaguely alarmed over the developments of the evening. Swanson was not yet in the room. CHAPTER XIII _McCarthy Balks the Plotters_ It was past two o'clock when McCarthy was awakened from his troubled sleep by the entrance of Swanson. "Hello, Silent," said McCarthy sleepily. "What time is it?" "Past two," said the shortstop, for once seeming unwilling to talk. "Better get to sleep--you'll be in again to-day." "Where have you been?" asked McCarthy, wide awake in an instant and interested. "Trailing," replied Swanson. "I've found out a few things. Meanwhile I had a talk with Clancy. You little squarehead, why didn't you tell him I was with you? Do you want to get yourself in bad by some fool notion of protecting me? I couldn't tell him what we were doing--but I told him you were with me, that you weren't drinking, and that you weren't with Edwards." "What have you been doing all night?" asked McCarthy, restored to happiness by the tidings. "Finding out things. I trailed Williams downtown right after the game. He had dinner with Edwards in a private room. I couldn't find out what happened, but Williams came out looking as if he had been jerked through a knot hole. Then Edwards met that fat party that had you in his room." "Is he in it, too?" asked McCarthy. "Yes--who and what is he?" "His name is Baldwin. He's a big politician and broker here in the East and I knew him out West, where he owns a ranch." "What did he want with you?" "He wanted me to quit the team and run back home. I told him where he got off. The idea of asking me to quit the boys now, when they may need me!" "I can imagine what you said," laughed Swanson. "Did you kick him on the shins and try to make him fight?" "I wanted to," replied McCarthy savagely. "I can't see where he gets into this affair at all. There's something queer all round." "Listen, Kohinoor," said Swanson. "Someone wants to beat the Bears out of this pennant, and whoever it is is turning every trick possible to beat us. I suspect they've got to Williams and that he is trying to throw games, and I've been working all night trying to get the goods on him. We can't run to Clancy with a yarn like that unless we're ready to prove it. Now go to sleep and get ready to win to-morrow's game--to-day's, rather." McCarthy lay staring, sleepless, into the darkness, his brain whirling as he strove to penetrate the maze of intrigue and plotting of which he seemed the center. Half an hour passed, then, as he turned in bed, a sleepy voice from the next bed asked: "Asleep, Kohinoor?" "No." "Then quit worrying. I had a talk with Betty Tabor to-night, and you needn't worry. She don't believe all she hears." "What did she say, Silent?" asked McCarthy, sitting up in bed suddenly. "Aw, go to sleep," responded Swanson, as he rolled over, chuckling at the manner in which McCarthy had betrayed his interest. It was nearly noon when Swanson and McCarthy descended to the hotel lobby in better frames of mind. Manager Clancy, serious and worried, was talking with a gray-haired man and a younger man. McCarthy observed them and grew uncomfortable under their close scrutiny as the three turned toward him and focussed their eyes upon him. He felt relieved when the smaller man shook his head positively and was not surprised a moment later when Clancy came forward toward him and said frankly: "Forget it, Kohinoor. Case of mistaken identity." He grasped McCarthy's hand and gave it a crunching grip as he added: "When you get ready to tell me what you know I want to hear it." The manager did not attempt any further apology, but McCarthy felt as if a load had been lifted from his mind. "I can't make any charges until I have proof," he replied steadily. "If ever I can back up what I suspect, I'll tell you--first." "Swanson explained partly," said the manager. "I understand. Get in there to-day and hustle." It was the final game of the trip and the Bears, with confidence renewed, went into it determined to rush the attack and win quickly. When the batting practice started McCarthy was surprised to find Lefty Williams pitching to batters. He faced Williams and hit the first ball hard and straight over second base. Williams was lobbing the ball easily, as if warming up. Twice Clancy called to him to quit pitching to batters, and he shouted back that his shoulder felt a little stiff and he wanted to limber it up easily. McCarthy stepped to the plate again. Up to that time Williams had not pitched a fast ball, but he wound up quickly and flashed a fast-breaking ball straight at McCarthy's head. The third baseman dropped flat and the ball, just grazing the top of his head, carried away his cap. He knew Williams had tried to hit him. He remembered his part in the deeper game he and Swanson were playing, and he decided not to reveal the fact that he was aware of Williams's intent. He leaped back into batters' position and yelled: "Keep that bean ball for the game. You'll need it." He saw that Williams was white and shaken, and the next ball came floating over the plate without speed. McCarthy swung at it, without attempting to hit it. Another slow one floated over the plate and again McCarthy made a burlesque swing, missing the ball a foot. Williams flushed scarlet and stepping quickly back into position he drove a straight fast ball at the batter. McCarthy was on his guard. Drawing back slightly he allowed the ball to touch his shirt, and when Williams, angrier than ever, hurled another fast one at him he stepped back and drove it to left field for a clean hit. As he hit the ball he heard Clancy call angrily to Williams to come off the slab, and the pitcher, white with anger at the contempt the recruit had shown for his pitching, sullenly obeyed. "That fellow tried three times to bean you," said Swanson in low tones as they walked to their positions after retiring runless in the first inning. "I know it," said McCarthy. "I coaxed him along. I think we can make him pitch to-day by telling him that we don't think he can." The plan was adopted. For two innings the shortstop and third baseman harassed the pitcher. Under the running fire of taunts, criticisms and sarcasm Williams pitched harder and harder, furious at his teammates, and venting his anger upon opposing batsmen. "Say, you guys," remarked Kennedy on the bench after the fourth inning. "Have some pity on me. You've got Adonis so mad he's smashing my mitt with his speed. Better ease off on him or you'll have him in the air." The Bears had accumulated two runs and seemed winning easily in the fifth, when, before a runner was out, McCarthy, cutting across in front of Swanson to scoop an easy-bounding ball, played it too carelessly, fumbled and allowed the first batter to reach first base. The error was common enough, but allowing the first batter to reach a base on an easy chance was serious at that stage of the game. Williams turned upon McCarthy and gave him a violent rebuke. McCarthy was not in a position to respond. He saw that, in spite of his angry words, Williams seemed pleased by the error. An instant later a drive whizzed past him and then another screamed by him en route to left field. A run was across the plate, runners on first and third and no one out. "Trying to toss off this one?" demanded Swanson angrily. "You big stiff, pitch ball." The next batter sacrificed, and again Williams broke the ball low and inside the plate to a right-handed hitter. The ball came like a shot at McCarthy, who dived at it. It rolled away toward Swanson, who recovered just in time to throw out the runner at first, but another run had counted and the score was tied. Another hit screeched past McCarthy, another run counted and the Travelers were one run ahead before the attack could be stopped. The Travelers held their advantage to the eighth, when, rallying desperately, the Bears drove home two runs by sheer force of hitting and the ninth found them hanging to a one-run lead. They failed to increase their advantage in the first half of the inning and took the field determined to hold their lead. McCarthy was puzzled. He thought Clancy knew what was happening on the field and had expected each inning that the manager would rebuke Williams when they returned to the bench. Instead Clancy had remained strangely silent. Tuttle, the first batter for the Travelers in the ninth inning, hit a fierce bounder down the third-base line. McCarthy, knowing Tuttle to be a right field hitter, was swung a little wide from the base. He threw himself out toward the line, his hands extended to the full limit, and the ball stuck in one outstretched hand. Scrambling to his feet he threw hard and fast to first, retiring the speedy runner by a step. The next batter hit fiercely between third and short and Swanson, by a great play, retrieved the ball back on the edge of the grass, but could not throw the runner out. The next batter, a right-hander, hit a vicious single past McCarthy and there were runners on second and first. McCarthy felt the next drive would be toward him. He believed Williams was striving to lose the game, and that he was pitching so as to compel the batters to hit in the direction of third base so that the baseman and not he would be held responsible for the defeat. He gritted his teeth and crouched, waiting, as Watson, the heaviest-hitting right-handed batter in the league, faced Williams. Crouching, he saw Kennedy signal for a fast ball high and outside the plate, and then saw a straight easy ball sail toward the batter, low and inside. Watson swung. McCarthy saw a flash of light and threw up his hands just in time to keep the ball from hitting him. The ball broke through his hands and rolled a few feet away. His hands were numb to the wrists from the terrific shock. He stood still one trice. Then he saw the runners were stopped, bewildered. They had lost sight of the ball, so rapidly had it traveled and had stopped, thinking he had caught it. He leaped after the ball, framing the play as he touched the spinning sphere. He could have run back to third base and forced out one, but instead, as his numbed fingers gripped the sphere, he saw the possibility of a double play and threw fast and straight to Swanson, on second base, forcing out the runner coming from first. Swanson, catching the idea of the play in an instant, hurled the ball back to McCarthy, who grabbed it and touched out the runner coming from second, completing a double play that brought the crowd to its feet in applause and saved the game. McCarthy heard the cheers, but he was cold with suppressed anger as he walked to where Williams was standing, and said: "Williams, you're a d----d crook." CHAPTER XIV _"Technicalities" on the Job_ The Bears were going home holding grimly to their claim upon first place in the league race. With but seven games remaining to be played all were against clubs already beaten, and five of the seven were against clubs considerably weaker in every department. Two games were to be played off the home grounds. The statisticians were busy calculating that the Bears had a decided advantage in the race, yet they were not happy in the homecoming. The ride home was only a few hours long, and they had caught the train immediately after the sensational finish of the final game with the Travelers in order to reach home and get settled by midnight. Swanson and McCarthy sat together as the train pulled out, talking in low tones. "I think Clancy is onto him," said Swanson. "Just sit tight. It isn't our move yet. The Boss acted queerly on the bench to-day and has been watching Williams all the time, while pretending not to. I'm going to mingle and see if any of the other fellows are wise to him." Hardly had Swanson left the seat than McCarthy was surprised by "Technicalities" Feehan, who sat down in the seat vacated by the shortstop. Feehan was one of the odd characters developed by the national game, a reporter who had traveled with the Bear teams for so many years the players regarded him as a sort of venerable pest who hadn't seen a ball player since Williamson's day, and never such a catcher as Mike Kelly, a first baseman like Comisky or a fielder like Tip O'Neil. He sometimes was called "Four Eyes," from the fact that he wore large, steel-rimmed glasses of great thickness, and his other name was "Technicalities." He was not at all interested in baseball, excepting as a business. His chief interest was in the Children's Crusades, and he had spent eight years of his spare time in libraries all over America digging out data for his history of those remarkable pilgrimages which he had written and rewritten half a dozen times. Not being a baseball fan he was eminently fair and unprejudiced, and the players thought more of the quiet, studious fellow than they did of the excitable and the partisan reporters who joined their sports and their woes. "Mr. McCarthy," he said seriously, "did you observe anything strange in to-day's game?" "Several strange things," assented McCarthy. "Among them that error I made early in the game." "I mean things of an unusual nature," persisted Technicalities. "I was struck by an odd phenomenon and thought perhaps you noticed it. I find it more perplexing as I study my score books." "What was it?" inquired McCarthy, cautious not to betray any interest. "Did you, for instance, observe anything strange about the hits in your direction?" "I noticed that those that didn't have cayenne pepper on them were white hot and came like greased lightning," laughed McCarthy. "I expected to find my right leg playing left field any minute." "I was speaking numerically, although, of course, the speed of the hits enters into the phenomenon." "They did seem to be coming my way rapidly," agreed the third baseman. "In to-day's game I find," continued the statistician, "that there were eighteen batted balls hit in the direction of third base. You had five assists and one error and caught two line drives. I do not include foul balls, of which six line drives went near third base. Of these eighteen batted balls, fourteen were hit by right-handed batters and four by left-handers. The fourteen right-handed batters hit balls pitched inside the plate, the four left-handers hit balls outside the plate, that is, outside to them, so that practically every ball batted toward you was pitched to the inside of the plate, that is, the catcher's left. I have checked these statistics and find them correct." "Well, what of it?" asked McCarthy. "In the preceding games--in which you played third and in which Williams has pitched--I find that an average of twelve and a fraction batted balls per game have been hit toward third base, exclusive of fouls. In the games in which you have played and in which Williams has not pitched the average is six and a trifling fraction. You have averaged seven and one-fourth chances per game--legitimate chances--with Williams pitching, and a trifle under three chances per game when he was not pitching. Does it not seem remarkable?" "Perhaps so," assented McCarthy. "I never studied such statistics." "The phenomenon is the more remarkable," added the strange little man, "because the average chances per game of the third basemen of five leagues, two majors and three Class AA for the last five years has been 2 and 877-998. It is impossible to construe the figures to mean but one of two things." "What are they?" asked McCarthy, curiously interested. "Either it is mere coincidence or Williams is deliberately trying to lose this pennant and to make you shoulder the blame." "That's a pretty stiff charge," remarked McCarthy, amazed at the deductions of the reporter, which fitted so well the suspicion, gradually becoming a certainty to his mind. "Either he is pitching purposely to make the opposing batters hit balls at you," insisted Feehan, "or it just happened--and things do not just happen in baseball with that regularity." "Possibly he is wild and can't get the ball over the plate." "On the contrary," persisted Feehan, "he has perfect control. If he did not possess control he could not pitch so many balls to the same place." "I'm immensely grateful," said McCarthy, touched by the kindness of the odd reporter. "It's good of you and I shan't forget it." "I deserve no thanks," insisted Feehan. "It's merely in the line of square dealing and justice--and, speaking of justice, McCarthy, did you ever take interest in the Children's Crusades? Let me show you some of the data I dug up recently"---- He delved into his little bag, which was his constant companion, and, drawing forth a mass of scattered, disordered notes, he went into raptures of enthusiasm while describing to the player some new features of the disappearance of the French children and of the sojourn of hundreds of them as slaves in African harems. A great throng of admirers was waiting in the station to welcome the Bears back from their successful trip. Swanson and McCarthy finally escaped from the crowd, and, jumping into a taxicab, were whirled to the hotel, where Swanson had secured rooms for both. The hour was growing late, but after they had deposited their baggage in their rooms, Swanson proposed a walk and a late supper. It was McCarthy's first visit to the city which he represented upon the ball field and its magnificence and greatness made him forget the worries and troubles of which he seemed the center. He even forgot to detail to his chum his strange interview with the reporter until they were seated in a quiet nook of one of the great restaurants. Then, in response to some jesting allusion to the Children's Crusades by Swanson, he told the big shortstop of the array of statistics Feehan had presented. "He's a square little guy," said Swanson. "And he's got more brains in that funny-looking little head of his than this whole bunch has. He dopes things out pretty nearly right, and when he is convinced that he is right he goes the limit. Between us there is a certain left-handed pitcher who is in hot water right now and don't know it. Speaking of the devil," he added quickly, "there's his wings flapping, and look who he is with--across the far corner there, at the little table." McCarthy's eyes followed the route indicated and suddenly he lost interest in his food. At a small table were Williams, Secretary Tabor--and Betty Tabor. McCarthy was silent and moody during the walk back to the hotel and seemed to have lost interest in the great glaring city, which was just commencing to dim its illumination for the night. They were in bed with the lights out when Swanson said: "Cut out the worrying, kid. I wouldn't have a girl no one else wanted. Besides, either her father has been told by Clancy to watch that crook or else Betty Tabor is stringing him along to learn something. She despises Williams, and she wouldn't laugh at him or eat with him unless she had a purpose in it." McCarthy could have blessed him for the words, but he assumed a dignity he did not feel and said: "I don't see why I should be especially interested." "Cut out the con stuff, Bo," laughed Swanson, relapsing into his old careless baseball phraseology. "You dope around like a chicken with the pip and look at her like a seasick guy seeing the Statue of Liberty and then think no one is onto you." Reply seemed inadvisable, so McCarthy grunted and rolled over. There was a silence and then Swanson added: "And say, Bo, this Williams is in trouble. There's me and you on his track. Clancy is wise and watching him. Old Technicalities has him doped crooked in the figures, and now Betty Tabor is smiling at him to get the facts--he hasn't a chance. It's darn hard to fix a baseball game." CHAPTER XV _Baldwin Baits a Trap_ "Willie says that one petticoat will ruin the best ball club that ever lived, but lands knows that if some of us women don't get busy right away there's one ball club that's goin' to be ruined without any rustlin' skirts to be blamed." Mrs. William Clancy, her ample form loosely enveloped in a huge, flowered kimono, dropped her fancy work into her lap and fanned herself with a folded newspaper. "Why, Mother Clancy," ejaculated Betty Tabor, sitting on a stool by the window of the Clancy apartment, "one would think to hear you talk that we had lost the pennant already." "Now, there's Willie," continued Mrs. Clancy, ignoring the protest, "goin' round with a grouch on all the time like he could bite nails in two. There's that nice McCarthy boy frettin' his heart out because you haven't treated him nicely, and Swanson worryin' about something. And there's Williams sneakin' round like he'd been caught robbin' a hen roost." "Mother Clancy," protested the girl, reddening, "you have no right to say I haven't been treating Mr. McCarthy well. A girl cannot throw herself at a man--especially an engaged man." "How do you know he's engaged?" demanded Mrs. Clancy. "Lands sakes, I haven't heard him announcing his engagement, and he looks at you across the dining room as sad as a calf chewing a dish rag." "I overheard--I saw the girl," admitted Betty Tabor, blushing as she bowed her pretty head over her work. "She was telling him she wouldn't marry him if he continued to play ball--besides, Mr. Williams met her uncle, and he said they were engaged." "Is she pretty?" demanded Mrs. Clancy. "Beautiful," admitted Miss Tabor. "She's tall and fair and graceful, and she had on such a wonderful gown all trimmed"---- "It looks to me," interrupted Mrs. Clancy, cutting off the description of the dressmaking details heartlessly, "as if someone was just jealous." "Why, Mother Clancy," said the girl, shocked and red, "you must think me perfectly frightful to believe I'd act that way." "Oh, girls your age are all fools," said Mrs. Clancy complacently. "I reckon I was myself at your age. Why, if Willie even spoke to another girl I'd go out and hunt up two beaux just to show him I didn't care. You went out with Williams when we came in last night, didn't you?" "Yes; he asked papa and me to late supper," the girl admitted. "But it really wasn't what you think. I wanted to find out something from him--something that's been worrying me." "Did you find out?" asked the older woman skeptically. "I don't know, Mother Clancy." The girl's face grew troubled. "I'm worried. I know Mr. Williams hasn't any money. Papa says he is so reckless he always is in debt, and lately, whenever he talks to me, he talks about the big sums he's going to have. I asked papa what it was, and he only grunted." "He'd better pitch a lot better than he has been if he's counting on any of that world's series money," remarked Mrs. Clancy savagely. "McCarthy saved yesterday's game twice." "You think Mr. Williams didn't want to win the game?" The girl's voice was tense with anxiety. "I hate to say it--but it looked that way." "Oh, Mother Clancy, I haven't dared to say a word to anyone about it," said the girl hesitatingly, "but I've been afraid for days. He said something to me that almost frightened me. He hinted that Mr. McCarthy was losing games on purpose. I didn't believe it--and somehow I got the idea Mr. Williams was betting on the Panthers." "Now, you just keep your mouth shut about this," replied Mrs. Clancy, pressing her lips together determinedly. "I've had that same idea, and I think that's what's worryin' Willie. You just lead that fellow on to talk and I'll put a bug in Willie's ear. Only," she added, "Willie is likely to snap my head off for buttin' into his business. He's got to know, though." Clancy came into the apartment soon afterward and Betty Tabor, making a hasty excuse, gathered up her fancy work. "It's going to rain," remarked Clancy resignedly. "I think the game will be called off. If the game's off, I've got tickets to a theatre, and you and mother and I can go. Which one of the boys shall I ask to go with us?" "If you don't mind," replied Betty Tabor steadily, "ask Mr. Williams." The rain came down steadily and before one o'clock the contest was called off. The postponement was believed to lessen slightly the chances of the Bears to win the pennant, and they lounged dismally around the hotel, watching the bulletin board record the fact that the Panthers were winning easily, giving them the lead in the race by a small fraction in percentage. Manager Clancy, his wife and Betty Tabor, with Williams rode away in a taxicab to the theatre. McCarthy declined Swanson's proposal to play billiards, and, going to their rooms, he commenced to read. Presently five of the players trooped in, led by Swanson, to play poker, and, shoving McCarthy's bed aside, ignoring his protests, they dragged out chairs and tables and started the game. Scarcely had they started when the telephone bell rang and Swanson answered: "No, he's not up here," he said. "No. Who wants him? All right, put them on. Hello! Who is this? Oh, all right. No, Williams isn't here. Yes, I'm sure. He went out with the manager an hour ago--to a theatre, I think. All right. I'll tell him." "Fellows," he said, as he hung up the receiver, "some friends want Williams to meet them as soon as he can. He'll know where. Fellow says it's important." He glanced meaningly at McCarthy, who nodded to show that he understood, and as he sat down he remarked: "Kohinoor, I guess it's up to us to go to a show or something to-night." "All right," replied McCarthy, striving vainly to continue his reading, while puzzling over the fresh development. At that same instant there was an acrimonious conversation in progress in the room from which the telephone summons for Williams had just come. Easy Ed Edwards hung up after his brief talk with the player at the other end of the line, an ugly gleam in his cold eyes. "He isn't there," he reported to Barney Baldwin, who was sitting by the table, jangling the ice in a high-ball glass. "Either he's trying to cross us or he's playing wise and keeping his stand-in with the manager." "Sure he isn't trying to cross us?" asked Baldwin. "He won yesterday's game instead of losing as he agreed to do." "He tried hard enough to lose it," sneered the gambler. "He tossed up the ball and those dubs couldn't beat him. I tell you you've got to handle that red-headed kid at third base as you promised you would. He saved that game twice. We've got to get rid of him." "He's stubborn," snarled Baldwin. "I tried to get him to quit the team and go back home. He's as bull-headed as his uncle, and that's the limit." "You know who he is?" queried the gambler in surprise. "Why don't you tell the newspaper boys and show him up. That would finish him. He's under cover with his identity, and if we can prove he hasn't any right to play with the Bears they'll have to throw out the games he's won." "That's just the trouble," replied Baldwin bitterly. "He's straight as a string. He never played ball except at college. We can't tell who he is because that would prove he's all right and make him stronger than ever." "Who is he?" inquired the gambler. "He's the nephew of old Jim Lawrence, of Oregon, one of the richest men out there. Lawrence is his guardian. They had some sort of a run-in and the boy left." "How do you know these things?" demanded the gambler. "The boy and my niece were sweethearts at home. I coaxed her to tell me when I discovered she knew him. They were engaged once, I understand, but it was broken off." "Then," said Edwards determinedly, "get your niece on the job. If anyone can handle that fellow a woman can." "Oh, I say," protested Baldwin, with a show of indignation, "I can't ask her to get into anything like this." "She probably was willing enough to get into it until she thought the boy didn't have any money," replied Edwards coldly. "I don't want the girl to do anything wrong. Just get her to make up with this McCarthy, or whatever his name is, and get him away from this ball team for a week. Baldwin, this is getting to be a serious matter with me, and with you, too, if you want to hold your political power." "All right, all right," said Baldwin hastily. "Maybe I can persuade the girl to help us out. I'll try." "You'd better succeed--if you want to send your man to the Senate," said Edwards threateningly. "I'll go right away," assented the politician. Baldwin arose leisurely, went down to his limousine that was waiting and ordered the man to drive home, although it was his custom to remain downtown until late. At home he sent at once for his niece, and, after a brief talk, during which he was careful to hint that McCarthy had made overtures toward reconciliation with his uncle, the girl went to the telephone. McCarthy, summoned to the telephone, talked for a few moments and, as the poker game broke up, he called Swanson aside and said: "You'll have to go alone to-night. I've got to make a call." "Who is she?" asked Swanson insinuatingly. "Barney Baldwin's niece--and at his house." "Run on, Kohinoor," said the big shortstop. "I'll take Kennedy with me and if I'm not mistaken you'll find out more than I will." CHAPTER XVI _McCarthy Makes a Call_ It was a little past seven o'clock, when McCarthy, arrayed in what Swanson referred to as his "joy rags," which had been rescued from impound in an express office after his first renewal of prosperity, came out of the hotel. He was undecided, wavering as to whether or not it was wise for him to keep the appointment to call on Helen Baldwin. They had met during his college career, and, after a courtship that was a whirlwind of impetuosity on his side, she had agreed to marry him. He recalled now, with rather bitter recollections of his own blindness, her seemingly careless curiosity regarding the extent of the Lawrence wealth and his own expectations. He had told her how, when his father had died, Jim Lawrence had taken him to rear as his own child and heir. The boy had grown older and broadened with his short experience in the world outside the protecting circle that had been round him in preparatory school and in college, and he determined to write that night to his guardian the letter he had so long delayed and to apologize and admit that he had been headstrong and foolish. During the long ride uptown to the city residence of the Baldwins he had time to think clearly. He knew that Barney Baldwin was wealthy, but he was unprepared for the magnificence of the garish house, set down amid wide lawns in the most exclusive part of the River Drive section. Helen Baldwin entered the room in a few moments, and McCarthy gazed at her in admiring surprise. She came forward with both hands outstretched, smiling, a strangely transformed girl from the cold, half-scornful one with whom he had parted only a short time before. "I wanted to see you so much, Larry," she said. "I have been so blue and depressed since I--since we--since we last met. Why didn't you call?" "I only reached the city last night," he replied as he took a seat beside her on a divan. "And--well, Helen, I hardly thought you would wish to see me." "You foolish boy," she chided. "Don't you know yet that you must never take a girl at her word? Of course, I was annoyed to find you playing baseball with a professional team, but I didn't mean we never were to meet again." "I thought your ultimatum settled all that," he answered, ill at ease. "It was rather a shock to find that you cared more for what I was than for what I am." "You know, Larry, that you placed me in a painful position. It isn't as if I were a rich girl, able to share with the man I love. My father and mother are not rich, and Uncle Barney has supplied me with everything. He has spoiled me--and I would make a wretched wife for a poor man." "I would not have proposed marriage," said McCarthy quietly, "unless I had thought I would be able to provide for you as well as your uncle could. When circumstances were changed I could not ask you to sacrifice yourself unless you were willing--unless you cared enough for me to adapt yourself to the circumstances." "But, Larry, aren't you going to quit all this foolishness and go back? Haven't you been reconciled with Mr. Lawrence?" she asked in surprise. "I expect to go back after the season is over and tell him how sorry I am that I caused him trouble." "Please go, Larry. You'll go to please me, won't you?" she said appealingly. "I cannot see why it would please you to have me quit now, when I'm most needed," he replied stiffly. "Surely you cannot know what you are asking." "It is such a little thing I ask," she pouted, "I'm sure you would if you loved me." The girl's eyes were filling. She had found him easy to handle by that appeal only a few short months before, but now, as he saw her, he was seized with a desire to laugh, as he realized that she was acting. The words of Swanson: "You'll find out more than we will," flashed into his mind, and he determined to meet acting with acting. "Perhaps, Helen," he said softly, "if you could explain just why you want me to quit playing I could see my way to do it." "That is being a sensible boy," she said, bathing her eyes with a bit of lace. "I don't like to see you making an exhibition of yourself before a crowd--for money." She shrugged her beautiful shoulders disdainfully. "Is that all?" he asked quietly. "All? Isn't it enough? And then there's Mr. Lawrence. I know he is worrying about you." "Any other reasons?" he inquired. "Then there's Uncle Barney"---- "What has Barney Baldwin to do with it?" His voice was sharp, and the girl hesitated under his steady scrutiny. "You mustn't speak that way of my uncle," she said reprovingly. "I'm sure he's only interested in you because of me. He says it is imperative that you do not play any more with the Bears." "Then Barney Baldwin ordered you to telephone for me to come here?" he asked harshly. "He merely wanted me to persuade you to quit that ridiculous game and go back to Mr. Lawrence right away. He was only trying to save you." For an instant he sat staring at the girl steadily. Then he said slowly: "What a fool I've been." "Oh, Larry, Larry!" she exclaimed, frightened by his manner. "What's the matter--is anything wrong?" "Nothing wrong," he said, laughing mirthlessly. "Nothing wrong. You may tell your uncle, with my compliments, that I will continue to play with the Bears to the end of the season, and that, in spite of him and his dirty work we will win that pennant." He arose and passed into the hall without a backward glance, ignoring the sobs of the girl, who buried her face in her handkerchief and wept gracefully, telling him between sobs that he was cruel. He took his hat from the servant and strode rapidly down the steps, his mind a turmoil of emotions. How far did the plot to beat the Bears out of the pennant extend? How many were in it? Gradually he commenced to draw connected thoughts from the chaos of his brain. He realized that he was the storm center of a plot and that he was dealing with dangerous enemies. The girl he had left so abruptly continued her stifled, stagey sobs until she heard the front door close. Then she sat up quickly, glanced at her features in a wall mirror, brushed back a lock of ruffled hair and rubbed her eyes lightly with her kerchief. "How he has changed," she said to herself. "He is getting masterful, and three months ago one pout was enough. I could almost love him--even without old Jim Lawrence's money. "At any rate," she said, looking at the handsome solitaire on her finger, "I can keep the ring. He never mentioned it. I must go tell Uncle Barney." She ran lightly up the stairs to the den where Baldwin, smoking impatiently, was waiting for her. "Well?" he inquired. "Did you land him?" "Don't speak so vulgarly, Uncle Barney," the girl replied. "No, I did not. He has grown stubborn. He told me to tell you he intended to keep on playing to the end of the season, and that they would win--I've forgotten what he said they would win. Does it make much difference, just these few more games?" "Does it make any difference?" he stormed. "Any difference--why, you fool, my whole political future may be ruined by that red-headed idiot. Get out of here. I'm going to telephone." The girl, weeping in earnest now, hurried from the room as Barney Baldwin seized the telephone. A moment later he was saying: "Hello, Ed. She fell down. He's stubborn and says he'll keep on playing. You'd better see your man and break that story in the newspaper. What? They got him? Where? Well, then, they've got the wrong man. McCarthy left my house not five minutes ago." CHAPTER XVII. _The Fight in the Café_ Swanson left the hotel intending to pursue his volunteer detective work only a few moments after McCarthy started uptown to respond to the invitation of Miss Baldwin. He had remained lounging around the lobby talking with Kennedy, the big catcher, until he saw Williams leave the hotel by a side entrance and enter a street car. Then he signaled Kennedy and they strolled out together and caught the next car. "It's Williams we're going to trail," was the only hint Swanson would give at the start. "Williams?" snorted Kennedy. "You told me there was a chance for a scrap. That guy won't fight." "Maybe those he's going to see will," replied Swanson encouragingly. Swanson did not know then that, only a short time before he made his arrangement with Kennedy, Williams had pleaded over the telephone to Edwards that he was afraid to meet him that evening, as requested, because he thought Clancy might discover the fact and that Clancy was already suspicious. Williams pretended alarm and convinced Edwards that there was danger of someone following the pitcher, and on his way to keep the appointment to meet the athlete he had drawn into the toils of the conspiracy, he stopped at his gambling room and ordered Jack, a big ex-prizefighter, to follow him to the meeting place and to keep watch during the conference. It was growing dark when Edwards strolled slowly across town toward the rendezvous. Williams's fear of being upbraided when he met the gambler on that evening was unfounded. The gambler was convinced that the pitcher had made every effort to lose the game and that he had been balked only by luck and the fielding of McCarthy. He wanted to learn from Williams whether or not there was any other player on the team who could be bribed into assisting in the plot. Swanson and Kennedy trailing cautiously saw Williams jump off the car and walk along the sidewalk, and, after riding past him, they descended and walked along the opposite side of the street, keeping close in the shadows of the tall buildings. A block further downtown they saw Williams stop, look around suspiciously as if to see whether or not anyone was following him, then turn up the side street and enter a café. Swanson quickly led the way. They passed the saloon on the opposite side of the street, and after walking half a block they retraced their steps and stopped in a doorway opposite the entrance. "Let's wait here and see who goes in," suggested Swanson. "Whom do you expect him to meet?" inquired Kennedy. "Edwards," vouchsafed Swanson grudgingly. "He has been meeting that crook for ten days now, and I want to find out what they're up to." "Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Kennedy. "I'd kick his head off"---- "We hadn't the goods on him," explained Swanson. "That's what I want you for. If we can prove he's up to some crooked work"---- The big Swede menacingly folded his ponderous paw into a fist and flexed his biceps. "Do you think he's trying to throw games? He's been pitching funny ball lately," asked Kennedy. "I've had to fight him in every game to get him to pitch fast." "What I think and what I can prove are different things," growled the shortstop. "I've got my suspicions. Now we're after proof. Come on. If he was to meet anyone there the one he was to meet is in ahead of him." The players walked to the corner, crossed the street and went into the saloon without an effort at concealment. The place appeared empty, save for a bartender who was washing glasses behind the bar, and a heavy, coarse-featured man lounging near the end of the bar with a half-consumed high ball before him. "Gimme a beer," ordered Swanson, throwing a coin onto the bar; "what you have, Ben?" "Make it two," replied Kennedy. There was no sign of Williams, and only a narrow doorway, leading somewhere toward the rear, gave a clue as to his probable egress from the barroom. The bartender, having rung up the amount of the sale on the cash register, exchanged a few words in a low tone with the man at the end. Then he strolled back and stood near where Swanson and Kennedy were wasting time over their drinks. "We were expecting to meet a friend here to-night," remarked Swanson, deciding to take a new tack with the bartender. "Rather tall, slender young fellow. Has anyone been in?" "Young fellow came in a while ago something like that," replied the bartender. "Seemed to be expecting someone, but turned around and went out. Maybe that was him." They knew he was lying, and Swanson, without changing expression, said: "Must have thought he was in the wrong place, or too early. Maybe he'll come back. We'll stick around awhile." Had they known what was transpiring in the private room just beyond the doorway their interest would have been greater. The big man who had stood at the end of the bar had gone at the first opportunity and was reporting to Easy Ed Edwards, who grew venomous with hate, while Williams sat shaking with fright. "I knew they'd get on. If they report to Clancy I'm done for," he said. "Shut up," ordered the gambler angrily. "They haven't seen you and they don't know I'm here. Who are they, Jack?" "I don't know dem," said the ex-fighter. "Dey's a big, husky lookin' guy, a Dutchman, I guess, wid a blue suit"---- "It's Swanson," said Williams. "He's been looking at me as if he knew something for two or three days. He has followed me here." "De oder one is a smaller, wiry sort o' guy. Got on a light suit"---- "It must be McCarthy," whined Williams. "He's always with Swanson. They're looking for me. I wish I had kept out of this." "Listen," ordered Edwards coldly. "This fellow McCarthy is the one we want. If we can get him out of the way it'll be easy and I can get even with that big, fat lobster, Baldwin, for trying to double cross me. Jack, you go out there and get in a mix-up with them and take a poke at the little fellow that'll keep him from playing ball for a week. Is the bartender a friend of yours?" "One of me best pals," replied the ex-fighter. "Leaf it to me. I'll land de punch dat'll fix dat fresh, young guy." The fighter strolled back to the barroom and resumed his stand at the end of the bar, eyeing the two ball players. As he tapped the bar the bartender walked to him. "I'm goin' to start somethin'," said Jack in a low tone. "Ed wants me to punch de head offen dat youngest one." "That big guy looks hard to handle," commented the bartender. "Make it quick. I don't like no rough house here. The license ain't any too safe now." "I'm going back to see what's there," whispered Kennedy to Swanson. "You stick here. I'll bluff it through." He walked toward the door leading back from the bar and started to pass through it. "Here, young feller," said the bartender, "where you goin'?" "Washroom," replied Kennedy, keeping on through the door. "Naw you don't. Come back outen there," ordered the fighter angrily. "Who appointed you boss?" asked Kennedy belligerently. "Well, I'm boss anywhere I goes," declared the big fellow. "Youse stay outen there. D'ye hear?" He grabbed the ball player by the arm--and at that instant Kennedy swung. His fist caught the bruiser squarely on the mouth and he reeled back, then, with a bellow of rage, he sprang at Kennedy. With a roar of anger Swanson hurled himself into the fray. Kennedy's fist had caught the ex-fighter and cut his cheek open and blood spurted upon both as they fought, the frail partition swaying under their weight. Swanson leaped with his arm drawn for a knock-out blow, just as Jack's right caught Kennedy upon the jaw and dropped him to the floor helpless. The blow the Swede had aimed at the fighter hit him upon the shoulder and slid over his head, and Jack, whirling, faced his new adversary. Swanson sprang to close quarters with the giant and his fist thudded home. Jack, groggy and already half spent from his exertions, clinched and hung on. The Swede, now a man gone mad with the lust of battle, shook him off, hurled the giant backward against the partition, and, crouching, he prepared to swing his right, waiting for the opening to the jaw, while Jack, groggy and half dazed, covered his head with his arms and swayed. The blow never landed. Suddenly it seemed to Swanson as if the worlds were crashing around his head. Bright stars danced before his eyes, his knees gave way beneath him, and with a foolish laugh he sank to the floor and rolled, helpless, beside his fallen comrade. His last recollection was of hearing a telephone bell jangling somewhere. The ringing of the telephone bell that Swanson heard as he lapsed into unconsciousness was the call of Barney Baldwin for Ed Edwards. The gambler, who, with his frightened companion, had heard the sounds of the terrific struggle in the barroom sink into silence, spoke rapidly for an instant, then, as Baldwin said: "They've got the wrong man," he hung up the receiver with an oath and leaped toward the doorway. He emerged upon a tableau showing his slugger, half dazed and hanging to the partition for support, two figures inert upon the floor and the bartender coolly walking back toward the bar, carrying a heavy bung-starter in his hand, that explained the sudden ending of the fight. CHAPTER XVIII _Two Missing Men_ The disappearance of Silent Swanson and Ben Kennedy brought consternation to the ranks of the Bears, consternation that increased as the hour for starting the first game of the series against the Jackrabbits drew near. McCarthy, returning to the rooms after his surprising interview with Helen Baldwin, was determined to tell his chum all that had taken place and to explain as well as was possible the position in which he found himself. He planned to urge Swanson to go with him to Clancy, and for that reason he postponed taking the manager into his confidence. He hastened downstairs to breakfast, half expecting to find his chum waiting for him in the dining room with an account of the night's events. He finished breakfast in a troubled state of mind, and, after wandering around the lobby for nearly an hour in the vain hope that Swanson would appear, he encountered Noisy Norton, who appeared disturbed and distressed. "Say," said Norton, "seen Kennedy?" "No--seen Swanson?" "They went out together," said Norton, with an unusual burst of conversation. "Didn't Kennedy come home either?" asked McCarthy in fresh alarm. "No." They sat silent for some time, then Noisy said: "Something wrong." "What'll we do?" asked McCarthy anxiously. "Tell Clancy," said Norton, with an effort. They ascended the elevator together and rapped at Clancy's door. "Mr. Clancy," said McCarthy, when the manager had bade them enter, "I ought to have come to you before. Swanson and Kennedy are missing. They didn't come in last night--and we're worried." "Where were they?" demanded the manager quickly. "I was going with Swanson on an errand last night," said McCarthy. "We were working on that matter that caused trouble the other day. Then I had a telephone call and went to see a--a friend of mine. Swanson said he'd take Kennedy with him. They left the hotel together, Norton tells me, and they haven't come home." "Either of them drinking?" asked Clancy sharply. "Beer--sometimes--not often," said Norton. "Swanson hasn't been drinking at all," declared McCarthy. "Neither of them would go off on a tear at this stage of the game." "You're right, Kohinoor," said Clancy worriedly. "It's something else. They'll show up, all right. Thank you for telling me, boys, and don't say anything about it." In spite of their silence, however, the rumor that the star catcher and the shortstop were missing spread through the team. By noon the players were openly discussing the whereabouts of the two players. Clancy showed his anxiety. "Can't you tell me where they were going, Kohinoor?" he asked. "I don't want to press you to reveal anything you don't want to, but I'm afraid those boys are in trouble." "I haven't any idea where they were going," replied McCarthy. "I know that they were watching a certain fellow, and that a gambler named Edwards was mixed up in it." "You've told me plenty," said the manager in low tones. "I have suspected it all along. I'm afraid they're run afoul of Edwards and that he has managed to get them into trouble." "If he has he has his nerve," said McCarthy. "Look over there. He just came in with a party of friends. I know the big man." "Who is he?" inquired the manager, watching the party just entering one of the field boxes. "That's Barney Baldwin, the political boss," explained McCarthy. "Is he in this thing, too?" inquired Clancy, starting with surprise. "Yes, at least I think so. You see, I know his niece. It was at his house I went to call last night. I discovered that he ordered his niece to call me and had her try to persuade me to quit the team right away." "Look here, Kohinoor," said the manager, drawing him aside so the other players could not hear, "I'm sorry you didn't tell me this before. It looks worse and worse all the time. He wanted you to quit--and now two of my men disappear. You'll have to play short to-day, and we'll send Pardridge to third. Get in there and hustle." Smith, the big spitball pitcher of the Bears, who had been held in reserve, was chosen to pitch, and for three innings the teams fought for the opening without a real chance to score. The cunning of Clancy was shown in his choice of the big pitcher, whose speed and spitball kept the Jackrabbit batters hitting toward right field or sending slow, easy bounders down toward the pitcher. He had chosen Smith in order to protect the weakened third base side of the infield, and his plan worked well until the fourth inning, when Egbert, one of the speediest of the Jackrabbit sprinters, hit a spitball on top and sent a slow, weak roller toward third base. Pardridge made a desperate effort to field the ball, but fell short, and the Jackrabbits discovered the weak place in the defense. Two bunts rolled down the third-base line in succession, and, although Pardridge, playing close in a desperate effort to stop that style of attack, managed to throw out the second bunter, runners were on second and third with but one out when "Buckthorne" Black smashed a long hit over center for three bases and scored an instant later on a sharp, slashing hit through Noisy Norton. The three runs seemed to spell the doom of the Bears, and they came in from the field angry, hot and desperate. The roar of the crowd grew stronger when the score board showed the Panthers were winning their game--5 to 1--from the Blues. McCarthy was first at bat in that inning. As he selected his bat he glanced toward the stand and grew hot with rage at seeing Baldwin laughing until red in the face and slapping Ed Edwards on the back. The gambler's usually stony face wore a smile of relief. McCarthy walked to the plate, pushed the first ball pitched down the third-base line and outsprinted the ball to first. Norton strove to bring him home, but his long-line drive went straight to the left fielder, and when Holleran struck out it seemed as if the chance to score was lost for that inning. McCarthy stood still, a few feet off first base, and, as Randall wound up to pitch, he started at top speed for second base. Jackson, catching for the Jackrabbits, saw him, grabbed the ball and leaped into position to throw. Like a flash McCarthy stopped and danced a step or two back toward first base, as if daring the catcher to throw the ball. Jackson pretended to throw to first, and, as McCarthy edged a step closer the base the catcher saw there was no chance to catch him, and slowly relaxing from throwing position, he took a step forward and started to toss the ball back to his pitcher. In that instant McCarthy acted. He leaped forward, and, before Jackson could recover and spring back into throwing position, the fleet Bear was nearing second base, making a beautifully executed delayed steal. Jackson threw, although it was too late. The ball, hurled over hastily, broke through the second baseman's hands and rolled twenty feet toward center field. McCarthy turned second at full speed and raced for third, while Reilly tore after the ball, and, picking it up, made a fast, low throw toward third. Again the ball escaped the baseman, and McCarthy, without the loss of a stride, turned third base and raced home, sliding under Jackson as he reached for the high-thrown ball. The game had settled down to a desperate series of attacks by the Bears, and a stubborn defense on the part of the Jackrabbits. In the sixth and again in the seventh the Bears forced the attack, but each time they fell short of scoring, and the eighth inning came with the score 3 to 1 against them. Lucas, who was catching in Kennedy's place, opened that inning, and the Bears' hope arose when he, the weakest hitter on the team, was hit by a pitched ball. Smith drove a hard bounder toward first, but O'Meara knocked down the ball and reached the base in time to retire the big, lumbering pitcher, letting Lucas reach second. Jacobsen struck out, and McCarthy, gritting his teeth, came to bat. One strike and one ball had been called when, looking toward the bench for a signal from Clancy, he saw a sight that made his heart jump. In that fleeting glance he had seen Swanson, in uniform, coming onto the bench through the little doorway under the stands. Swanson's eye was black and a strip of plaster extended from under his cap onto his forehead. His face was swollen and discolored and a bandage covered his head, showing under his cap. If he only could get on first base, McCarthy told himself, there was hope, and, as the ball sped toward him he poked out his bat, dropped another bunt toward third base, and, by a terrific burst of speed he beat it to first base, sending Lucas to third. "Swanson batting for Holleran. Swanson will play shortstop, McCarthy third base, Pardridge in left field." McCarthy had determined to steal second base, but the chance never presented. The first ball that came whizzing toward the plate Swanson hit. It went like a rocket far out to left center field. Two speedy outfielders glanced at the flying ball, then turned and sprinted for the outer barriers. The ball soared on and on, and with a crash struck against the sign over the left field seats and fell back into the throng in the bleachers, and while the crowd cheered and groaned three Bears trotted around the bases to the plate. Swanson, running slowly and painfully, crossed the plate, with the score that put the Bears in the lead. He did not stop. Straight toward the box where Edwards and Baldwin sat, he went. His face was terrible. They saw him coming, and Baldwin, apologetic with fear, half arose, as if to cry for help. The gambler, white but still keeping his nerve, shrank back a trifle, but held his seat. Swanson walked straight to them. For an instant he towered over them threateningly, then he said: "Good afternoon, gentlemen, I hope you're glad to see me." CHAPTER XIX _Swanson to the Rescue_ When Silent Swanson aroused himself from the effects of the blow on the head from the beer mallet in the hands of the treacherous bartender, he sat up feebly and found himself in semi-darkness. "Someone crowned me with a crowbar," he muttered to himself as his brain gradually began to work normally. "They must have kicked me after I went down." A faint groan from the heavy shadows near him startled him into a realization of what had happened. He felt around for a moment and his fingers touched the body of a man huddled against a wall. "It must be Ken--and he's hurt," he muttered, and crept toward his companion. Swanson worked over him, shaking and speaking to him and presently Kennedy stirred and sat up against the wall. "Where are we? What happened?" he inquired in a bewildered manner. "Search me," replied Swanson mournfully. "I was just getting ready to swing the haymaker on that big fellow when the house fell. I think someone beaned me from behind with a brick and then kicked us around. Ouch--my ribs feel stoved in." "I'm sore all over," moaned Kennedy. "That fellow didn't do it all by himself, did he?" "I have a dim recollection of hearing someone tell him to fix us right," replied Swanson. "I may have dreamed it." "Let's get out of here," urged Swanson suddenly. "If some watchman finds us here we'll be pinched, and it will make a nice story for the reporters." "Where do you think we are?" asked Kennedy, striving to get to his feet and groaning with every move. "In the alley back of the joint we were in," replied Swanson. "They must have dragged us to the back door and dumped us." He had managed to get upon his feet, assisted Kennedy to arise, and slowly and with many groans they went toward the mouth of the alley. "Let's go around to the front door and clean out that place," urged Swanson, growing angry. Both men were commencing to recover from the effects of the cruel treatment they had endured, and, as their injured muscles loosened their anger arose. They made their way painfully around the block and to the entrance of the saloon. It was locked and the place was in total darkness. Swanson shook the barred doors without result, then stood gazing blankly against the glass. "Say, Ken, we must have been knocked out for quite a while," he remarked thoughtfully. "No one is here. They probably closed up as soon as they threw us out--and we haven't a bit of proof against anyone." "Wonder what time it is?" groaned Kennedy. "We've got to get to bed if we want to play." "Holy Mackerel," exclaimed Swanson, using his favorite form of swearing. "I forgot! That's it! Ken, after we were knocked out they beat us to keep us from playing. Come on. We've got to forget about fighting and get ready to play. I'll get even with someone for this." Swanson was thinking rapidly as they limped slowly along the darkened streets in search of a night prowling cabman or taxi-cab, keeping a sharp lookout for policemen, fearing they might be arrested because of their battered condition. "We've got to get to somewhere we can be patched up and get some sleep," he repeated, urging Kennedy, whose sufferings made their progress slow. "We've got to keep those crooks from finding out where we are. Let them think they've finished us and then show up in time to play." "I don't think I can play, Silent," moaned Kennedy. "I can't drag myself much farther." He was making a brave effort to keep on, and for another block Swanson half supported him. Then he gave up and sat down upon the curbing. "Sit here," said Swanson quickly. "There is an all-night drug store a couple of blocks down; I'll find a cab there." He limped away as rapidly as possible, and, almost before Kennedy realized it, he returned in a taxicab. "Caught him just starting home," explained Swanson, as he half lifted Kennedy into the tonneau. "He says there is a hospital less than a mile from here where we can get treatment." The bruised and battered players groaned and swore under their breath, while the cab made a rapid trip to the hospital, and half an hour later they were resting easily in a private room, their wounds were being washed and dressed and a young doctor was working hard to relieve their sufferings. "We've got to play ball this afternoon, Doc," said Swanson, watching the surgeon cut and wash the hair from the wound on his scalp. "Fix us up right." "You'll not play ball this week," said the surgeon cheerfully. "Your friend over there will be all right in a couple of days. He's badly bruised and his hand is sprained, but not seriously. He's sorer than you are, but by morning you'll be a cripple." "But, Doc, we've got to play," pleaded Swanson. "You've got to fix us up." "I'll do all I can," remarked the surgeon. "But your right arm is badly wrenched and bruised. The cuts won't hurt, but one of your eyes will be out of commission for three or four days. Whose mule kicked you?" Swanson, pledging the doctor to secrecy, revealed part of the truth. "You won't be able to play," he advised his patients, "and Kennedy must take two days off at least." "I've got to play, Doc," responded Swanson, "if it's on one leg; I've got to." It was a few minutes past noon when Swanson awoke with a start. The nurse was in the room, moving about quietly, and Kennedy still slept, moving and muttering in his sleep, as if dreaming of the battle. He remained quiet for a few moments, and then said: "Nurse, please bring me my clothes." "You must wait until after breakfast," she said, coming to the bedside. "Dr. Anderson was here a short time ago, and said I was to give you your breakfast when you awoke, then call him." "But I'm in a hurry," protested the player. "I can't wait. They'll be anxious about us." "The doctor said he would give you treatment and massage, so that you could get out more quickly," she responded. "I'll bring breakfast and then call him." Kennedy, feeling much refreshed, but too sore and stiff to move without suffering, was awakened for breakfast, and he and Swanson discussed the situation in low tones as they ate. It was past one o'clock before Swanson commenced to worry about the failure of the doctor to come. After fuming and fretting for more than half an hour he rang for the nurse and sent her in quest of Dr. Anderson. She returned soon and reported that he had been summoned suddenly to assist in performing an important operation, but that he probably would return soon. Not until two o'clock had passed did Swanson commence to become seriously disturbed at the failure of the doctor to appear. A short nap had refreshed him somewhat, and when Kennedy announced that it was past two o'clock he waited a few moments, then commenced ringing the call bell by his bedside to summon the nurse. There was no response, and growing angry and impatient, he rang again and again. "If I only had a pair of pants," wailed the helpless giant, "I'd break out." He climbed out of bed and searched the room. In his impatience he bumped his wounded head, and blood flowed afresh from under the bandages, and with a movement of his arm he smeared it over his face. The giant Swede was working himself into a fury. Every few moments he rang the bell, and a few moments before three o'clock the nurse, calm and appearing as if nothing unusual was happening, came in. "Did you ring?" she inquired. Swanson started to explode, but stood looking at her in helpless fury. "Get me my clothes," he ordered in tones that frightened the girl, trained as she was to the outbursts of patients. "Get me my clothes," he repeated. "It is against orders," she said hesitatingly. "You cannot go until the doctor"---- "Get me my clothes," he half screamed. "If my clothes aren't here in five minutes I'm going this way." The nurse, thoroughly alarmed by the fury of the big man, ran from the room, and, within five minutes she returned with another nurse to support her. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded in an awful voice. "It's against orders," said the older nurse firmly. "You cannot leave without permission from the doctor in charge." For an instant it seemed as if Swanson would forget himself and become violent. With an effort he controlled his anger and sank back upon the pillows. "All right," he said resignedly, "let me telephone to the boss and explain." "You are not going to quit, Silent?" demanded Kennedy, starting up in bed. "I'll go myself"---- The quick wink that Swanson gave him stopped the catcher's angry expostulation. "That's a good boy!" said the nurse pleasantly. "There isn't any use to fret. I'll bring you the telephone." The telephone was brought, and, when the nurse left the room Swanson called up the hotel at which they lived. "That you, Joe?" he said rapidly. "This is Silent--yes, in hospital. Send a taxi to the corner as fast as you can get it here. I'll be watching." He cut off the carriage clerk's curious questions by hanging up the receiver. "What are you going to do?" whispered Kennedy from his bed. "I'm going out of here," said Swanson. He crept out of bed, and with his face pressed against the window, watched the corner four floors below until a taxicab stopped there and waited. Then, drawing a sheet over his night gown, he opened the door cautiously. The receiving clerk had a glimpse of a ferocious looking ghost, garbed in a white sheet, and with face smeared with blood, racing down the hallway, and before her screams could bring help, Swanson had run limpingly across the street, leaped into the taxi and was shouting orders to the driver to get him to the ball park. CHAPTER XX _Hidden Foes_ The disappearance and dramatic reappearance of Swanson and Kennedy, who was released from the hospital after the game, was the sensation of the country for twelve hours; then it was paled into insignificance by a new sensation that caused a wave of indignation and an insistent demand for proof from all parts of the country and left the Bears dazed by the series of events that crowded upon them. The second sensation was the printing of an article in one of the foremost papers of their city in which the charge was made that one member of the Bear team had been bribed; indeed, had been put on the team with the sole end that he might throw games and force the championship upon the Panthers. The article created a furore which caused the public to forget the mysterious circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Swanson and Kennedy. Although no name was mentioned, the facts set forth fitted only McCarthy, the new third baseman, and rallied all the admirers of the lithe red-headed boy to his side and set loose a storm of anger and suspicion directed upon him by those who criticised his playing or opposed him through prejudice. Manager Clancy, after an anxious evening and night trying to get at the facts of the case of Swanson and Kennedy, and getting Kennedy out of the hospital, was the first of the Bears to see the new attack. He read the entire article from end to end, and going to his apartment he telephoned for McCarthy, Swanson, Kennedy and Secretary Tabor to come to his rooms at once. Manager Clancy was waiting, striding up and down the room restlessly and as the three players entered, he unceremoniously shooed his wife into the next room before she had a chance to defend her boys. "Fellows," said the manager quietly, "I sent for you because you seem to know more what's going on than the others do. I suppose none of you has read this article in this morning's paper. I'll read it to you." As he read, the players began to look one at the other and ejaculations of surprise and anger came from them. When Clancy reached the portion of the article telling of the player joining the Bears, McCarthy sprang from his chair. "Why," he exclaimed, flushing angrily, "why, he means me." "It's a d----n shame," roared Swanson. "I'll wring his neck." "Let me finish," said Clancy, and completed the reading. At the end the players broke into excited questions and threats and Clancy said: "Now, see here, boys; we're against a tough proposition. This article is just part of it. I wanted to talk things over with you fellows. I've sent for Technicalities, and want to find out a few things from him. Now you fellows tell me all you know. By the way, you needn't shy at using Williams's name. I'm not saying he's guilty, but I know he's the one you have been watching." Detail by detail they described to the manager the events of the preceding days. "Keep quiet about all that. The case is one we can't beat except on the ball field. Every one of us is certain that Edwards has bribed Williams and that he has lined up this big politician, Barney Baldwin, and now they've dished up this story about McCarthy to try to drive him out of the game. Are you game to stand what the crowd will do to you to-day, Kohinoor?" "I'll play," replied McCarthy grimly. "Better stuff your ears with cotton if we're losing," advised the manager. "This crowd will turn on you in a second and accuse you of more than the paper did, if you make an error or two. It will be worse if you stay out of the game. Then they'll think the story is true and that I've laid you off for throwing games. I have a plan. I'm going to act as if I believe McCarthy is trying to throw games." "Thanks," said McCarthy, gripping the manager's hand gratefully, just as a knock sounded on the door and Technicalities Feehan entered. "I regret exceedingly my absence when you wanted me, Mr. Clancy," he said. "I have just returned and have been reading this absurd article reflecting upon the integrity of Mr. McCarthy." "What do you think of it?" asked Swanson. "Absurd. The figures prove directly the contrary. Let me read to you some of my recent calculations"---- "Never mind--never mind," protested Clancy. "Save them for the paper. What I wanted to find out is who is this fellow Barney Baldwin?" "Baldwin," said Feehan calmly, "is a politician, accused of much crooked work. I do not know that he ever has been convicted"---- "Meantime," remarked Feehan calmly, "I shall attempt to discover the relations existing between Mr. Edwards, the gamester, and this person who wrote this attack. I shall have some statistics to show the editor"---- "Never mind the statistics," said Clancy, cutting off Feehan before he could bestride his hobby, "I want you to find out who was back of the fellow who wrote that article; whether anyone bribed him to do it. I'm beginning to think we are dealing with bigger men than Ed Edwards. "Now see here, fellows," he added frowning worriedly, "we're up against the toughest proposition we ever tackled, but we can beat it. The best way to beat them is to pretend we don't suspect a thing and let them work out their own schemes"----"Hello, come in," he called in response to a rap on the door. "Oh, it's you, Bannard! How are you? I'm just having a little talk with the boys. How are things to-day?" He feigned an indifferent manner. "Pretty good, Bill. Team all right?" asked the president. "I heard two of the boys got mixed up in a barroom scrap." "I was just warning them about that," said Clancy. "These are the two (he pointed to Kennedy and Swanson). I was warning them that a lot of tough mugs in this burg are likely to get excited over baseball these days and ball players ought to stick close to the hotel." "Glad they're not much hurt," said Bannard easily, looking at the battered athletes. "How is the pitching staff? By the way, who is working to-day?" "It's Williams's turn," said Clancy steadily. "Why?" "Why, that's what I came to see about," replied the president frankly. "That friend of mine--the one I spoke to you about the other day--wants to see him pitch. I'm starting West at noon and I told him I'd ask you as a favor. He was pretty sore because you didn't put him in the other time I asked you." "All right. Always glad to oblige when possible," said Clancy grimly. "Why didn't you ask who his friend is?" inquired Swanson when Bannard departed. "Bonehead, fool, slow thinker," said Clancy. "I ought to bench myself for not thinking of it. I'll find out the first time I see him." The players laughed nervously and departed from the room. Scarcely had McCarthy and Swanson reached their quarters when the telephone girl called to tell McCarthy an important call had been coming in for half an hour. "Very well, connect me," said McCarthy. He recognized Helen Baldwin's voice, and it shook with emotion, as she made certain she was talking to him. "Oh, Larry," she said, "I must see you! I must--to-night, if possible! Please come!" "What is the matter, Helen?" he asked anxiously. "It's impossible to come to-night--and after the last"---- "I know, I know, Larry," she said rapidly. "Please, please forget all that. I didn't understand! I didn't know! I've found out something that showed me how bad and wicked I have been. I didn't mean to bring harm to you"---- "Uncle came home," she said. "He'd been drinking. He made terrible threats against you." "I'll be up to-night," said McCarthy. "Better look out--it's a trap," warned Swanson, who had heard McCarthy promise to call that night. "There's something wrong up there," replied McCarthy. "I'm going to Baldwin's house to-night." They went downstairs talking in low tones. On the parlor floor Betty Tabor was sitting reading. She had scarcely spoken to McCarthy since the day she had heard him in conversation with Helen Baldwin. Impulsively she dropped her book and came toward him with her hand outstretched. "Mr. McCarthy," she said rapidly, "I wanted to tell you--I do not believe a word of these horrible things the paper says about you. It is hateful! I told them they were false. I didn't think they'd dare tell others"---- "Them?" inquired McCarthy. "Then you've heard this story before?" "Yes," she admitted. "I refused to listen--I knew there was not a word of truth in the stories. I knew you were honest"---- "I thank you very much, Miss Tabor," he said quietly. "I shall not need to ask who told you." "I only wanted you to know I believed in you," she said simply, and as he looked into her eyes, she lowered them with a quick blush and hastened to recover her book. CHAPTER XXI _Fair Play_ Thirty thousand persons were packed into the big stands on the Bears' Park, and ten thousand others camped in the outer field seats when the teams ran out to play that day. A few loyalists applauded McCarthy as he trotted along with the other players, but the ripple of applause died suddenly as if the friends he had in the crowd feared to start a counterstorm of criticism and abuse. The great crowd was strangely quiet, although a hum of comment spread through the stands when the Bears took the fielding practice and Jacobson, the pitcher, practiced at third base, while McCarthy remained near the stands idly warming up a recruit pitcher. The buzz arose to a hum of excitement. Reporters, deserting the press box, swarmed down under the stands and crowded to the entrance at the rear of the Bears' bench, calling for Clancy, who went to speak with them. "Why isn't McCarthy in the game?" demanded the spokesman, who already had written that McCarthy was suspended and out of the game. "He is in the game," replied Clancy innocently. "Why shouldn't he be?" For an instant the reporters stood undecided, then sprinted back to their posts, to change what they had written and alter the line-up. Bill Tascott, the umpire, swaggered out to the plate, dusted the rubber, while the megaphones announced the batteries, and, at that instant McCarthy, jerking his glove from his belt, hurled his catcher's mitt to the bench and trotted out to third base, as Jacobson walked toward the bench. The little scattering applause that greeted him grew and grew until the crowd applauded heartily and gave round after round of applause for the third baseman. It was the American spirit of fair play and justice revealing itself, and the crowd, accepting Manager Clancy's confidence in his third baseman, rendered its verdict of not guilty in cheers. The Jackrabbits had figured cunningly that McCarthy would be unnerved by the strain of the situation, and "Hooks" O'Leary, the manager, had ordered that the attack be directed upon him. The first batter pushed a slow, twisting bounder down the third-base line and McCarthy, racing forward, scooped the ball with one hand and still running, snapped it underhand to first base ten feet ahead of the runner. He knew that his feat was mere bravado and that he had taken a reckless and useless chance, but the crowd needed no further convincing, but broke into a crashing testimonial of applause, and he knew he was safe so far as their confidence in him was involved. The game developed into a panic, then the rout of the Rabbits and the triumphant Bears rushed to victory by a score of 11 to 2. And, while they were winning, the Panthers won one game by a wide margin and lost the second after a fierce pitcher's duel, 2 to 1, leaving the Bears a full game in the lead of the pennant race, with but five games to play, while the Panthers played four. "The place to contradict baseball stories," remarked Clancy, grimly, in the club house, as the players were dressing after the victory, "is on the ball field. If we had lost to-day we would have been a bunch of crooks, but as we won, we're all honest." He glanced quickly toward where Williams was dressing, but the pitcher kept his eyes averted and seemed not to hear the remark. "And Kohinoor," the manager added, "I give it to you for nerve in pulling off that circus stuff in the first inning. But if you do it again it'll cost you a bunch of your salary." McCarthy found a note in his key box when he returned to the hotel. He had torn it open to read when Miss Betty Tabor, who had returned from the grounds with Mrs. Clancy, came laughing and almost dancing across the lobby toward the group of players, leaving her portly, but no less elated companion, to pant along behind her. "Oh, it was glorious, boys!" she said. "I never was so excited in my life as when you made those four runs in the third inning. And Mother Clancy was so wrought up she dropped three stitches in her fancy work and had to work all the rest of the game picking them out." "She has a frightful case of nerves," said Swanson sarcastically. "I believe she'd break a needle if we won the world's championship the last inning of the deciding game." They laughed joyously as the girl turned to McCarthy and said frankly: "I am so glad for your sake, Mr. McCarthy. I was so angry I could have turned and told some of the people behind me what I thought of them before the game started, but when you fielded that first ball they cheered you--and that made up for it." "They should have heard what Mr. Clancy had to say about it," he laughed, and then growing serious said, "It is kind of you, Miss Tabor. I am glad to know someone had faith in me." They were standing a little apart from the group, which was slowly moving toward the elevators, chattering excitedly as school boys and girls. The feeling of relief from the anxiety and suspicion that had fallen upon them gave rise to exuberance. "Mr. Clancy is taking us for an auto ride all around the city to-night," said Miss Tabor. "Shall I ask him to invite you to come with us? There's an extra seat." "It's awfully good of you," he said in genuine regret. "I wish I could--but I have an engagement." "Oh," she said, her tones chilling quickly. "I'm sorry." "Miss Tabor," he pleaded eagerly, "please do not think I do not want to go"---- "Did I hint such a thing?" she inquired, with an air of innocent indifference. He could not fence with her upon that basis and after a moment of idle exchange of formalities she turned to join Mrs. Clancy and McCarthy went to his room. Swanson was stretched upon the bed, reading newspapers, and flinging each sheet at random as he finished scanning its contents. "Darn the luck," said McCarthy, hurling his glove and shoes toward his trunk. "Did his 'ittle tootsie wootsy treat him mean?" asked Swanson in his most exasperating tones. "Aw shut up, you big dub," snapped McCarthy angrily, resorting to ball players' repartee to cover his feelings. "Maybe his lovey dovey is just jealous and will forgive her 'ittle pet," taunted the giant. "Petty mustn't mind what lovey says in her notes." "Oh," said Swanson, with vast relief when he found Swanson was barking up the wrong tree, "I forgot all about the note." He dragged the missive from his pocket and scanned it hastily, then tossed it across to Swanson. "Date is off," he announced joyously. "Needn't watch me to-night." Swanson read: "Dear Larry: "Don't come to-night. Uncle will be here--with friends--and I'm afraid. I must see you soon as possible. Will try to arrange to meet you somewhere to-morrow. I will telephone. H." And while Swanson read the note McCarthy was at the telephone. "Miss Tabor," he was saying eagerly, "this is Mr. McCarthy. I find my engagement for this evening is canceled. Please ask Mr. Clancy if I may go. Please. Yes, I said please. Shall I say it again?" "And, Miss Tabor, if that spare seat is in the tonneau---- No, Mrs. Clancy should sit with her husband." CHAPTER XXII _A Victory and a Defeat_ Another crowd of enormous size greeted the Bears as they raced onto the ball field early the next afternoon to play the doubleheader that was to complete the season's series against the Jackrabbits. The paper that had printed the attack upon the team had given space to a partial retraction, and, although the players did not know it, the reporter who had written the article had been suspended during an investigation that was inspired because Technicalities Feehan had, after overwhelming two editors with his statistics, convinced them that no basis of truth existed for such charges. The Bears were happy and confident. With a full game the advantage and only five more games to play, and those comparatively easy; with the pitching staff in good condition, they considered the pennant as won. McCarthy and Swanson almost had forgotten to keep watch upon Williams. They despised him, and in the club house and on the field they ignored him completely. Several of the other players, although they knew nothing of the plot, had come to ignore the pitcher, and he shunned them all. He seemed nervous and laboring under a heavy strain. Two or three times he started toward Clancy as if to speak to him, but each time the manager, who was watching him, turned away to address another player. Finally, Williams seemed to gather his courage, and with a pretense of indifference he sauntered toward Clancy, who was talking with several of the players. "Which game do I work, Bill?" he asked, tossing his glove down and picking up a bat. "I think I'll save you for the first game of the World's Series, Adonis," replied Clancy. "It's a shame to waste you beating these dub clubs." The hidden sarcasm in the words stung. The pitcher started, then rallied and said: "What have you got it in for me about? Haven't I worked my head off to win for your team?" "I haven't made any kick," responded Clancy shortly. "When I have a kick coming I'll make it good and strong." "I'm not joking, Bill," the pitcher persisted. "My arm is good, and a lot of my friends are wondering why I don't work when it's my turn." "Tell them," said Clancy very quietly, "that I have only one third baseman, and that I don't want him killed." Williams's eyes were opened. He felt beneath the bitter calmness of the manager's voice the fact that Clancy knew--at least part of the truth. His jaw dropped and his face went white. Clancy, with a short laugh, started to run away. "Then I don't work to-day?" Alarm, pleading and a note of despair in his tones as if he realized what the manager's decision meant to him. "No, not to-day," replied Clancy, watching him sharply. He turned away with exaggerated carelessness, and the rat-faced, cold-eyed man in the stands, who had been watching them closely, gritted out an oath and turned to Barney Baldwin, who was sitting beside him: "He isn't going to let Williams pitch," He said. "We're done for, Baldwin." The politician turned purple with rage. "Well, by ----, Edwards," he snarled, "we'll see about this. I'll put this over or know why." The first game of the afternoon was a romp for the Bears. They scored early, and by clean hitting and dashing play on the bases, piled up tallies until the opponents were hopelessly defeated before the fifth inning. The game was a stern chase from that to the finish, and the Bears, scoring steadily, won, 9 to 2. Instead of being elated by the victory Clancy seemed worried. On the bench he was fretful and uneasy. "Don't you fellows take any wide chances in the next game," he decreed while the pitchers were warming up for the final battle against the Jackrabbits. "We want this game. I'm sending Wilcox in to win it. Who's that young bird the Rabbits are warming up? Hoskins, eh? Busher? Well, watch him. These young fellows with nothing but a strong arm are dangerous as the deuce at this time of the year." Unlike their manager, the players were confident. Their easy victory in the first game, the fact that Wilcox, their best right-handed pitcher, was to start the game against an unknown and untried "busher" fresh from some small team and nervous through desire to win his first game, made it seem as if victory should be easy. They blanked the Jackrabbits easily in the first inning, and, obedient to orders, attacked the pitching of the youngster, Hoskins, with every art known to them. They coached noisily, they waited at the plate, they crowded close to the plate and they ran at the ball. "What's that bird got?" demanded Clancy as each batter returned to the bench. "Nothin', eh? Nothing, and you swingin' your bat like you was stirrin' apple butter? Nothin'? Say, you fellows get busy and make a run or two." In spite of the orders, the abuse and criticism heaped upon them by the anxious manager, the Bears were not able to hit the balls offered by the tall, cool youngster picked up by the Jackrabbits from some obscure club. He had steadied from his early symptoms of stage fright and was pitching beautifully. His curve ball angled across the plate, his speed jumped high across the shoulders of the batters. The fifth inning came with the score nothing to nothing. The players no longer were confident. The batters no longer came back to the bench with reports that the pitcher "had nothing," but they grew serious and anxious and silent. They tried bunting, but the Jackrabbits were prepared and checked the assault. They changed, and instead of waiting they hit the first ball pitched. They realized now that they were engaged in a contest with a pitcher of merit, for they knew the difference between hitting unluckily and hitting good pitching. Wilcox, a quiet, studious pitcher, was among the first to realize that the youngster was pitching well. "Get a run for me, fellows," he begged. "This kid has a world of stuff on the ball. Just meet that fast one--poke it, and it may go over safe. Get a run for me and we'll trim them." The veteran was pitching slowly, cautiously. Two or three times the Jackrabbits threatened to score, but each time Wilcox put another twist on the ball and stopped them. Inning after inning he pleaded with his fellows to make a run, and Clancy stormed and grew sarcastic with each failure. "Get him this time, fellows; finish it up," begged Clancy when the Jackrabbits had been blanked. Norton was the first batter. He chopped his bat with a short stroke and sent a safe hit flying to right. A sacrifice pushed him along to second base and the crowd commenced to cheer as Pardridge came to bat. The big fellow drove his bat crashing against the first ball. It went on a line almost straight toward second base. Norton was tearing for the plate when O'Neill, the Jackrabbit second baseman, running across, leaped and stretched out one hand. The ball stuck in his extended glove, he came down squarely on second base and the triumphant scream of the crowd ended in a gasp of disappointment at the realization that a double play had balked the Bears' attack and ended the inning. The Jackrabbits, aroused by their narrow escape, attacked with new vigor. A fumble gave them the opening. Despite the most determined efforts of Wilcox they forced a run across the plate and the Bears were thrown back under a handicap. McCarthy was the first batter. He crowded close to the plate, determined to force the young pitcher to earn his victory. He refused to hit until two strikes and three balls had been called, and then, shortening his grip upon his bat, he hit the straight, fast ball sharply to center for a base. Instead of sacrificing, Swanson received orders to hit and run and, although he was thrown out at first base, McCarthy reached second, and Babbitt, the first baseman, came to bat. Hoskins appeared nervous. The strain was telling upon the youngster, and Babbitt hit the first ball. From the sound of the bat hitting the ball, McCarthy knew the hit was not on the ground, and as he started homeward a glance showed him that Merode, the speedy little center fielder, was running back into the deep field with his eye on the ball. It was a fly-out unless Merode muffed, and McCarthy, knowing that such a muff happens only four or five times a season, returned and perched upon second base, ready to sprint for third the instant the ball struck the fielder's hands. The thought flashed through his brain that the Blues had released Merode because of a weak arm and a habit of lobbing the ball back to the infielders instead of throwing it back with all his power. The ball fell into the upstretched hands of the outfielder. McCarthy leaped and raced for third base. He knew that Merode would not throw there because of his weak arm and the length of the throw, so he swung a little outside the base path, slowed up as he turned third, and glanced toward the field. The ball was coming in. Merode had thrown it slowly and carelessly toward the shortstop. McCarthy leaped forward toward the plate. The shortstop, running out to meet the slow throw, heard the cry of alarm from the fielders and the roar of excitement from the crowd. He knew what was happening. He grabbed the ball, whirled and threw like a shot to the plate. McCarthy was two-thirds of the way home; but the ball, striking the ground, bounded into the hands of the catcher six feet ahead of him. Like a flash McCarthy hurled his body inside the line, with one foot outstretched to touch the goal. He had out-guessed the catcher. His foot, stretched out, felt the sharp jar of some object, then struck the plate, and, rolling over and over, he arose covered with dust. The crowd was roaring. Nine out of ten thought McCarthy had counted with the tying run, but Bill Tascott, crouching over the plate, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, signaling that the runner was out and the Bears beaten. Like flood waters breaking a dam, the crowd surged from the stands, shouting, screaming, threatening. A thousand men, mad with disappointment, swarmed around the umpire, pushing, shoving, shaking fists and screaming. McCarthy pushed his way hurriedly into the mob, which was growing more and more threatening. "Let him alone. He was right," he cried loudly. "The ball touched my foot as I slid in." Those who heard him stopped, and in an instant the danger was over. The crowd, subsiding suddenly, began to melt away. Tascott grinned as he turned to McCarthy. "That was tough luck, Kohinoor," he said. "I was pulling for you to beat the ball, and you had it beat, but your leg kicked up and hit the ball as you slid. I'd have given a month's salary to call you safe." CHAPTER XXIII _Kidnapped_ "Train leaves at 11.30, Kohinoor," said Swanson as McCarthy came up to their rooms after dinner that evening. "Let's play billiards until it goes." "Can't," replied McCarthy shortly. "I've got to make that call to-night. There's something wrong up there at Baldwin's, Silent. The girl writes to-day that Baldwin will not be home this evening and that she must see me to give me important news." "Sure you can trust her?" asked the big shortstop. "Don't take any chances." "There's no danger in going to one of the finest homes on the drive to call on a young woman," laughed McCarthy. "I'll get away as soon as possible and tackle you for fifty points, three cushions, before we start for the train," promised McCarthy. "You hang around." McCarthy had puzzled for two days over the odd conduct of Helen Baldwin, and her brief note, appointing that evening for the call, had failed to bring any solution of the riddle. He knew now that the girl with whom he had imagined himself in love was selfish and shallow, but he could not believe her criminal, nor did he for an instant think that she was a part of the conspiracy to rob the Bears of their championship. That he was in any danger he did not consider possible. He went uptown determined to hasten the interview as much as possible and arrived at the Baldwin mansion shortly after eight o'clock. Presently Helen Baldwin came. She was wearing a dark street gown and her face was pale, dark rings under her eyes showing that she had been suffering. "Larry," she said quietly, "you'll think me hateful and wicked. I have had a terrible time these last two days, and I have been thinking. "I wanted to tell you I was a foolish, vain girl. I didn't love you; I was in love with the thought of being mistress to James Lawrence's fortune. I was conceited and silly and never thought of any one but myself; but I did like you, Larry--I do. You will believe that, will you not?" "Yes," he said simply. "I thought baseball was just a silly game," she went on, as if each word cost her a pang. "I couldn't understand why you gave up so much; why you insisted upon staying with the team. I didn't know that here in the East it is a great business and that hundreds of thousands of people take it so seriously. Uncle Barney asked me to get you to quit, and I told him you would. My vanity was hurt when you refused." "You found out what it means for me to quit?" he asked. "Yes. Uncle Barney came home in a terrible rage. He had been drinking and when he saw me he swore about you. He swore he'd fix you." Her voice sank to a frightened whisper. "He was only bluffing--I beg pardon; only talking," he said, striving to soothe her. "I didn't know until then that I really cared, Larry," she went on. "He frightened me. I asked him questions, and he told me what he and some others have been doing to keep your club from winning." "What did he tell you?" he asked quickly. "He said they had one of your pitchers, I think he said, fixed, and that he had paid some other players to hurt you and to hurt Mr. Wilcox, I think he said. He wanted me to get you to come to meet me somewhere, and they'd kidnap you and someone else--Mr. Swanson, I believe it was." "He's a kindly fellow," commented McCarthy coldly, an angry light gleaming in his blue eyes. "Did he say where this was to take place?" "No. He tried to get me to write you to meet me at some place he named. He said I needn't go there, just get you to come. I told him I would. When he went to sleep I telephoned you because I was so frightened. To-day we had a terrible quarrel. I refused to write to you to meet me at the place he named." Her terror was so evident that her words were not necessary to add conviction. McCarthy laughed a short, rasping laugh. "It's a good joke on him," he explained. "If he and his thugs are hunting for me all over the city and I here in his own home, safe; the last place he would look for me." "You mustn't wait," she urged anxiously. "You mustn't wait here, Larry. He is drinking and I do not know what he might do if he came home and found you here. You must go now." "I'll run back to the hotel and pick up my bodyguard, Swanson," he said steadily, and with an attempt at indifference of manner, "I think I'll be safe." "You'll kiss me goodbye, Larry," she pleaded. "She wouldn't care--if she knew." "She?" he asked. "What do you mean?" He was astonished and curious to learn how the girl knew anything of his growing regard for Betty Tabor. "I knew, I knew," she repeated. "I knew it the first time we met--I knew there was another girl"---- "I'm certain I did not hint at such a thing," he replied with an attempt at dignified bearing. "I have not even told her." "Good-bye," she said. "I hope you're happy, Larry, and please don't think I meant to do wrong." She clung to him weeping until he put away her hands and went out. The girl threw herself face downward upon the lounge and sobbed, this time from a sense of loneliness and perhaps of loss. McCarthy descended the stairs and walked rapidly through the darkened lawn to the street. In spite of his pretense of believing there was no danger he found himself nervous. He walked two blocks toward the street car line, when a taxicab swerved toward the sidewalk. "Taxi, sir, taxi?" asked the driver. "Take you downtown, sir?" McCarthy hesitated an instant. If he hurried back to the hotel and found Swanson he would rid himself of the nervous dread of something intangible which he could not explain. "How much downtown?" he asked, stopping near the taxicab, which had come to a full stop. "Take you down for half rates, sir; I'm going that way." "Very well," said McCarthy. He walked to the side of the car, and turned the handle to step within. The instant he entered the car he felt himself seized and jerked downward while a pair of hands gripped at his throat. A vicious blow struck him on the back of the neck. Twisting, fighting, squirming, he struggled to free himself from the hands that were throttling him. His knees found a grip upon the floor of the car, and bracing himself, he jerked loose from one of the men, and struck wildly at the shape he saw silhouetted against the opposite window. His fist met flesh with a crunching sound. "I'll kill you for that," gritted someone, striking him. In the half light of the interior McCarthy saw an object descending. He threw up an arm to protect his head, and with a crunching blow a heavy blackjack fell upon his arm. He seized the weapon and jerked it from the hand that had held it, but it fell to the floor of the cab. McCarthy had struggled to his feet, bowing as his head struck the roof. One man, seated, kicked at him and hurt him cruelly. He was standing, with the car door swinging wide, while the car lurched and raced along a rough street. Curses, groans, cries of pain and anger came from the interior as the player, battling against two unknown opponents, fought on. All three of the participants in the battle at forty miles an hour, were hampered by the smallness of the interior. McCarthy strove to tear himself from the arms and legs that struck and kicked him, to get his head out of the window to raise the alarm. Again and again he cried. Then suddenly the car lurched around a corner at a mad pace, tipping onto two wheels and skidding sickeningly. At that instant one of his assailants drove his feet against his body, and, as the car lurched wildly, McCarthy broke loose, grasped frantically for something to save himself, plunged from the machine, struck upon the asphalt of the side street into which the car had whirled, slid along it to the gutter and lay a huddled heap. The car stopped quickly and whirled back to where he lay. The men leaped out, one cursing and frothing, the other urging silence and haste. Between them they lifted the half-conscious player and shoved him into the bottom of the car. [Illustration: THE MEN LEAPED OUT] "Hurry up, Fred," urged the quiet man to the driver. "These fellows down at the corner are coming. Jump in, Jack." They leaped back into the taxi, and the man called Jack said viciously: "There--you, that'll teach you"--He kicked the prostrate player. "Cut that out," ordered the quiet man, quickly. "You needn't murder him; he's fixed." CHAPTER XXIV _Baiting a Trap_ Events that preceded and led up to the desperate encounter between McCarthy and the two strangers in the dark interior of a racing taxicab seemed to have been dictated by fate. At the end of the doubleheader between the Jackrabbits and Bears, Easy Ed Edwards had hurriedly laid new plans to save himself. The gambler had watched both contests, believing all the time that the result of the games ended his final hope of winning the bets, and, facing ruin, he had welcomed his new lease upon hope with the determination of resorting to desperate measures to achieve his end. He realized that unless he acted at once all his plotting had failed. After the defeat of the Bears in the second game he left the grounds, hastened downtown in a taxi and at once telephoned to both Adonis Williams and Barney Baldwin to meet him at his rooms. Baldwin responded at once to the gambler's summons and entered the rooms blustering. "You've a frightful nerve, Edwards," snarled the angry politician. "Understand, I do not take orders from cheap gamblers." "You needn't try storming at me," said the gambler quietly. "I'm onto you. You may ring over such a bluff as that in politics, but not with me. You don't seem to understand." "I don't think you can deliver any votes anyhow," said Baldwin sullenly. "I've nothing but your word for it." "That's all the security I ever needed," said the gambler superciliously. "But never mind about the votes--you're going to help me." "I've done all I can"---- "No, you haven't. I want you to go to-morrow morning and join the Bears and I want you to see to it that Williams pitches one of those games against the Blues. He'll lose it this time. I've thrown a scare into him and he'll do it, even if he gives himself away." "I tell you I can't," snarled Baldwin. "President Bannard is the only one who knows I own the club"---- "Take your stock with you. That proves you own it." "And Bannard is out of town. Clancy wouldn't pay any attention to me"---- "You own this club," said Edwards. "You can do what you please with it, and you're going to do it." "You talk as if you owned me!" Baldwin was purple with anger. "I do," said the gambler coldly. "It would look good in print to have the people know that Barney Baldwin, the crooked politician, owns both the Bears and the Panthers, wouldn't it?" "You have no proof"---- "Haven't I? I saved both your notes. You're a fool, Baldwin. You write letters. I have two mentioning McCarthy and Williams. I wouldn't have any trouble getting them printed. Any sporting editor in the city would give a thousand dollars for such proof." "Look here, Ed," expostulated Baldwin, "there isn't any use for us to quarrel. We're both in this thing"---- "Now you're talking sense," said the gambler. "We haven't any time to lose. The club leaves town at 11.30 to-night." "What do you want me to do?" gasped Baldwin helplessly. "You're pretty strong with Captain Raferty, of the North Nineteenth Street police, aren't you?" "Yes--I've done him some favors." "Well, I want you to fix it with him that when I bring a prisoner in to-night some time he's to be locked downstairs and kept until you telephone to let him loose." "What are you going to do?" asked Baldwin, alarmed. "I'm going to do something myself," replied the gambler sharply. "I've tried a lot of you fellows and you've all fallen down. Now I'm going to get this McCarthy and put him out of the way." "You're taking an awful risk"---- "It's a sure thing the other way, and I'm desperate," the gambler cut him short. "When you get that fixed you catch the first train and follow the team. You get Clancy in the morning and force him to let Williams pitch one of the games down there. Wilcox is worked out now, and if we can make sure Williams will pitch one game, that will force Clancy to pitch Wilcox again, and he'll be beaten sure. With McCarthy out of the game, as he will be, the Bears haven't a chance. They're half a game ahead, but if they lose two out of three and the Panthers win one out of their remaining two games, the Panthers beat them out on percentage, and the Panthers ought to win both games." "You haven't cornered McCarthy yet?" asked the politician. "No," admitted Edwards. "He left the hotel nearly two hours ago and said he'd be back before ten o'clock. I have two men watching him, and they're to let me know where he is and what he is doing. I ought to have heard from them before now." The telephone rang at that instant. "This is it now," said Edwards in low tones. "Hello!" he said, taking up the receiver. "Yes--you, Jack? All right. You have? Where? All right. I'll join you as fast as I can get there. Don't let him reach the hotel if I'm late--you understand?" "What do you think of that?" he asked, turning to Baldwin. "Of all the gall--where do you think that fellow McCarthy was?" "I don't know." "No wonder Jack had such a hard time locating him. He was at your house." "I have a taxi waiting downstairs," said Edwards quickly. "Come on, I'll drop you at the police station. We'll bring in the prisoner before you've been there very long." "How are you going to get him?" inquired Baldwin, as the taxi dodged in and out among traffic. "I've got Big Jack, the fighter, trailing McCarthy," said the gambler, laughing mirthlessly. "He's sore on ball players since that scrap with Swanson and Kennedy the other night, and he'll welcome a chance to get his hands on one." "He won't hurt him, will he?" asked Baldwin nervously. "No, he won't hurt him," replied the gambler with scornful sarcasm. "Not a bit. He'll probably take him in his lap and sing him to sleep." "This is dangerous business," objected Baldwin nervously. "We might all get into trouble." "We're all in trouble now," snapped Edwards. "You leave the trouble end of it to me." The taxi slackened its pace as it approached the police station and Baldwin climbed out under the lights that marked it as the home of the paid guardians of the people's rights and liberties. "Don't fall down this time," warned the gambler. "If this don't go through, the newspapers will have some fine information to print in the next few days." "I'll fix it, Ed, I'll frame it all right," replied Baldwin nervously. The mention of his name and the imposing manner he had assumed won for him immediate entrance to the captain's private room, and after ten minutes of earnest conversation, Baldwin emerged, the gray-haired official with the gilt stars and chevrons escorting him and shaking hands with him at the street door. "Don't forget, Raferty," said Baldwin importantly. "I want him kept close until I can get the proof we need. Don't let any lawyers or reporters get near him and keep your cops from gossiping. You won't lose anything by it, Raferty. Drop down and see me sometime. I'd like to talk the political situation over with you. You understand?" Meantime the taxicab, with Edwards inside, had raced across the upper portion of the city to the place where Big Jack was pacing the shadowy part of the sidewalk half a block from Baldwin's home. "He hasn't come out yet," Jack reported, stepping into the light as the taxi slowed down and crept along near the gutter. "Jump in," said Edwards. "Run over across the street, and step in the shadow there," he ordered the chauffeur. "There he comes now, out the gate. Follow him." Five minutes later McCarthy stepped into the trap laid by the gambler and, ten minutes after he lurched out of the machine, he was carried half unconscious, into the basement door of the police station and deposited roughly upon the bench in the "cozy corner." CHAPTER XXV _McCarthy Disappears_ Silent Swanson was jabbing billiard balls around the table as if venting his irritability upon the innocent spheres of ivory. "Why so cruel to the relics of departed generations of ball players?" inquired Kennedy, who was cuddled up in cushioned settee watching. "Waiting for Kohinoor." "Where has he gone?" inquired Kennedy carelessly. "Skirting again," explained Swanson. "He ought to be back before long," added Swanson, jabbing the balls harder and stopping to look at his watch. "It's five past ten now, and he said he'd cut the call short." "Think any sane guy would quit a pretty girl to spend an evening with you?" inquired Kennedy insultingly, having decided to wile away the time by ragging his big teammate. "I've a hunch something is wrong with Kohinoor," said Swanson. "He told me he'd break away early and shoot me some billiards before train time. He didn't say just when, but I expected him back by ten." "Why don't you sue him for divorce if he neglects you?" suggested Kennedy, again seeking to start an argument. Swanson consulted his watch with gloomy foreboding and declined to engage in repartee. "Better come drag along down to the train," suggested Kennedy. "I'll buy the gas wagon to haul us. Your little playmate is safe enough." "I'll hang around here," replied Swanson without spirit. "All right," Kennedy remarked, rising and stretching himself. "I'm going to dig along and get into the hay before that old rattler starts. I want some sleep. Most of the fellows already have gone." Swanson resumed his gloomy pastime of making fancy shots on the billiard table. When he looked at his watch again it marked ten-thirty. He strolled upstairs to the lobby, scanned the writing room and smoking rooms for a sign of McCarthy and then, with a sudden anxiety, he hurried to the telephone and called the Baldwin residence number. "Is this Miss Baldwin speaking?" he inquired, using his off-the-field manner. "Is my friend, Mr. McCarthy, there?" he inquired when she responded in the affirmative. "I was to meet him, and he has not appeared." "Hasn't he arrived at the hotel?" he girl inquired in quick alarm. "He left here more than three-quarters of an hour ago. Has something happened to him?" "I don't know, miss," said Swanson. "I got anxious waiting for him---- You're sure he left your house that long ago?" "About that--I'm not certain," she said. "He was only here a short time." "I expect he had to wait for a car, or else went straight to the station without stopping here," said Swanson, striving to quiet the evident alarm of the girl, although his own misgivings were growing. "He left the house alone, did he?" "Who are you? Are you a friend of his?" asked the girl anxiously. "Yes, I'm Swanson, his chum," replied the shortstop. "You needn't worry, miss, he'll be all right. I'm sorry I worried you about it." He hung up the receiver and made a hasty tour of the hotel, descended to the billiard room, peeped into the bar and hurried through the writing and lounging rooms. "Five after eleven," he muttered to himself, as he turned from the desk. "Kohinoor has found he was late and stayed on the car to the station. I'll grab a taxi and hurry down." "If he comes in tell him I've gone," he called to the clerk as he hurried out. A quarter of an hour later Swanson hurried into the great train shed where the train was waiting to bear the Bears on their final trip of the season. Most of the athletes already had sought their berths to attempt to get to sleep before the train started, as the ride was a short one and the hours of sleep too few. "Kohinoor down yet?" asked Swanson in a low tone, as he came near the trainer. "Haven't seen him," replied the trainer. "I put his baggage in his berth. There's a card game in the smoking room, maybe he's in there." "I'll watch for him at the gate," said Swanson, "he may turn up yet." Worried and alarmed, Swanson swung back along the train and took his stand where he could watch the entrances to the station and the great clock at the same time. Three minutes remained before time for the train to start. There was a flurry in the crowd at the gates, and a man broke through to race for the train. Swanson's heart leaped. He started to meet the newcomer, then, with a sickening feeling, he saw that it was not McCarthy, but Williams. "Seen Kohinoor?" inquired Swanson, as Williams hurried past. "Not since dinner. Isn't he here?" inquired Williams, stopping and dropping his grip. "Haven't seen him," replied Swanson, watching Williams closely for symptoms of guilt, and finding none. "I expected it," said Williams nastily. "Maybe that story about him trying to throw games is straight after all." "That's what a lot of them will say if he don't show up to-morrow," reflected Swanson. The warning cry of all aboard sounded. The big shortstop hesitated an instant, and gave a despairing glance toward the gates, just being closed. "It won't do for both of us to miss this game," he muttered as he turned and ran along the platform. The porter was just closing the vestibule doors and the train was gathering speed as the big shortstop swung aboard, went into the now deserted smoking room and sank down, staring blankly out of the window at the rushing lights. Before the train reached the city of the Blues the news that McCarthy was missing had spread through the car of the Bears. The consternation that followed the rumor grew as the berths were made up and it became a certainty that the third baseman was not with the team. Swanson had informed Manager Clancy early in the morning of the events of the preceding evening so far as he knew them. They had not told anyone, but every member of the team knew, and they gathered in little groups. Williams was circulating around the car, talking with different players. "Look at him," said Swanson to Clancy. "He hates McCarthy and he was the one who told them first that Kohinoor was not with us. He guessed it when I asked him last night if he had seen him." "It's queer," the voice of Pardridge came from the berth behind them. "It's a funny thing that all this sort of trouble in the team started when that red-headed tramp joined us." "They'll all be talking that way," said Swanson gloomily. "They wait for a chance to knock." "Something may have happened to delay him," said the manager in tones that showed he did not believe his own hopeful words. "Maybe he went to the wrong station, or had an accident. Have you looked at the papers?" "Yes. Nothing in them about any accident. I'm still hoping he'll be in at noon, catching that early morning train." "I hope for a telegram from him anyway, when we get to the hotel," replied the manager. But McCarthy did not show up, nor was there any telegram from him awaiting when the team reached their hotel. CHAPTER XXVI _Baldwin Shows His Hand_ "There's a swarm of reporters down in the lobby all excited over McCarthy," announced Swanson as, in obedience to orders, he, with Kennedy, Norton and Technicalities Feehan, gathered in Clancy's room soon after breakfast. "Let them wait," replied Clancy. "They've been calling up here every five minutes." Briefly each of the players recounted the little they had seen or heard during the preceding evening, Swanson giving his account of his engagement with McCarthy, his telephone conversation with Miss Baldwin, of her evident sincerity when she informed him as to McCarthy's departure from the house and of his vain wait. "But what could have happened?" asked Kennedy. "You're sure he got out of the house? It's only two blocks to the street car line and three to the elevated on lighted streets, you say. If he was hit by an automobile or held up by robbers it would have been in the newspapers." "Manager Clancy," said Feehan softly from his perch upon a trunk, which gave him the aspect of a huge owl, "I have been giving consideration to a plan. Unless Mr. McCarthy should arrive on the 11.45 train I shall catch the noonday express for home, arriving there shortly after five, to put my plan into effect." "But you cannot neglect your work, Feehan," protested the manager. "It's fine of you to offer it, but you've got yourself to think of." "I have a premonition," responded the reporter solemnly, "or what Mr. Swanson so graphically expresses as a 'hunch,' that the story at the other end is bigger than the story of the contest. Besides, Mr. Hardner has kindly consented to report the game of to-day for my paper as well as his own." "What's your theory, Technicalities?" asked Clancy gratefully. "Only one of two things are probable," explained Feehan. "Either McCarthy left of his own accord or because of threats made to him or else he has been kidnapped by certain--ah--interests, let us say, desirous of preventing the Bears from winning the championship emblem." "Ah, Kohinoor wouldn't quit, and they couldn't scare him," growled Swanson. "Precisely, Mr. Swanson. The statistics prove beyond doubt that he is not concerned in the losing of games, putting aside the fact that the young man undoubtedly is honest and sincere. That leaves us only one premise, the other having been found untenable. Mr. McCarthy has been kidnapped." "I can't figure how they could take him in a public street or from a street car," interposed Clancy. "I have calculated that," said the reporter. "Either he is in the Baldwin home and Miss Baldwin ah--er--falsified or he was attacked between her uncle's home and the street car line two and one-half blocks distant." "How do you propose finding him?" asked Clancy. "I shall arrive at 5.11," replied the peculiar little man of news quietly. "Before six o'clock I shall have one of the best detective agencies in the world scouring the city." The train came steaming into the station on time and the shortstop and the reporter crowded closer to the gates, watching the stream of hurrying passengers rushing through the narrow gates and spreading, fan-like, across the great floor. Suddenly Swanson's elbow jarred against the reporter's body, causing the frail statistician to wince. "Look there!" said Swanson in excited whispers. "Where--who?" inquired Feehan, striving to focus his heavy glasses upon the position indicated by his companion. "It's Baldwin--the big fellow with the cane and the small satchel. See him?" "I see a big man. I never saw Baldwin," responded the reporter. "Now, what can he be doing over here?" "I'm going to find out," replied Swanson, his jaw setting pugnaciously. "McCarthy isn't on that train or he'd have been out among the first, and they're almost all out now. Good luck to you, Feehan, and wire me the minute you locate Kohinoor." "I will," promised the reporter. "What you've got to do is to win that game to-day without him. I'll have him here to-morrow if he hasn't broken a leg." Swanson leaped into the taxi immediately behind that into which he had seen Baldwin climb, and ordered the driver to follow the other vehicle. His surprise hardly could have been greater than when the short pursuit of Baldwin ended at the hotel from which he had come, unless it was that which came over him when, upon following the big man to the desk, he heard Baldwin order the clerk to send his card to Manager Clancy. Swanson's surprise, however, was little more than that experienced by Manager Clancy when the bell boy delivered Baldwin's card. "Send him right up," he said, and as the boy turned he said to himself: "Now, what the dickens does that fellow want with me?" Baldwin entered the room pompously, and walked toward the Bears' manager with his pudgy hand extended. "Ah, Clancy," he said patronizingly. "I'm Mr. Baldwin. I've seen you often on the field, but never had the occasion to meet you before." "Yes," replied Clancy, ignoring the hand, "I've heard of you often, Baldwin, in various connections. You wanted to see me?" "Yes; matter of business," said the big man. "Fact is, Clancy, I ran over from home purposely to have a little confidential talk with you." "Depends upon what it is whether it's confidential or not," said Clancy; "I can't pledge myself not to tell the newspaper boys, especially if you've come to give me a third baseman." "Hasn't McCarthy shown up?" inquired the politician quickly. "No," responded Clancy coldly. "Didn't happen to see him over in town, did you?" "No, no. Fact is, Clancy, I never have paid much attention to my ball players." "Your ball players?" It was Clancy's turn to be astonished. "Yes, yes; Clancy, I supposed you knew. I've owned the controlling interest in the Bears for a number of years. That's what I came to see you about." "You own the Bears?" Clancy's tone was between surprise and disbelief. "Certainly, certainly. Now, I haven't taken any active interest in them for several reasons until lately. Truth is things aren't going to suit me, and I have decided to take a hand myself." "You have?" asked Clancy. "Well, you may own this club, but I'm d----d if you can run it while I'm manager." "I'm not trying to run it, Clancy," replied the big man, unruffled. "Don't fly off that way. I just decided to use the owner's prerogative of consulting the manager." "All right, Mr. Baldwin," replied Clancy, puzzled and mollified. "I did not know--you see it's a new idea--I didn't even know you owned stock." Clancy was sparring for time in which to collect his thoughts, which were sadly scattered by the unexpected developments. "Thought you might not be convinced," said Baldwin easily, "so I brought the documents along. Look over them and be convinced I own the club. They cost me a pretty neat pile, but I'm satisfied. You've made 'em pay me." He tossed over the book of stock certificates, and Clancy, who owned a few shares of stock himself, realized their genuineness as he looked through them while planning his next move. "I congratulate you," he said, handing back the forms. "I own a couple myself, so I know what they pay. Well, what have you to suggest, Mr. Baldwin? We're having a hard time winning this race, and if I seemed curt, blame it on worries. I have plenty." "Naturally we all want to win," said Baldwin pompously. "Now, as to behavior, I'm told Swanson and Kennedy aren't behaving themselves." "They're all right," argued Clancy, feeling from Baldwin's tone that he had not yet reached the point. "I heard they had a fight in a barroom." Baldwin spoke with an effort of sternness. "That won't do, Clancy. And now McCarthy is missing. Then there's another thing." Baldwin hesitated as if thinking how best to state his case, and Clancy eyed him closely, feeling that the real object of the interview was coming, "I'm not at all pleased with the way you are working your pitchers." "A fellow makes blunders sometimes," replied Clancy, with a meekness astounding in him. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," went on Baldwin blandly. "Who do you propose pitching to-day and to-morrow?" In a flash Clancy understood. It was Baldwin who had been urging Bannard to have Williams pitch. He saw through Baldwin's motives and planned quickly how to meet them. "Well," he said, frowning as if worried, "it's a tough game. You see, the fans never forgive a fellow if he guesses wrong at this time in a race. I planned to use Williams in one game and Morgan the other. You see the Blues hit right-handers harder than they do left-handers." "So I understand," a gleam of cunning and triumph came into the eyes of the politician. "Morgan and Williams ought to beat them, I think." "Yes, they ought--I'm a little afraid of Morgan." Clancy was drawing the owner out. "He hasn't shown speed in his last two games." "Then Williams is in fine form?" The triumph and satisfaction in the big man's voice were unmistakable. "He's good," replied Clancy. "He ought to best them sure." "Will you pitch him to-day or to-morrow?" asked Baldwin, completely thrown off his guard. "I'm anxious to make certain he will pitch." "Of course he'll pitch, Mr. Baldwin," replied the manager. "I've got to pitch him and he's my best man." "All right, Clancy, all right," said the owner genially. "I'm glad I had this conference with you. I was afraid you were angry with Williams or something and would not let him work. Glad to see you have good judgment." He went out and as the door closed he removed his hat, and, wiping his brow, smiled a smile of great relief over the fact that his purpose had been accomplished without trouble. Had he been able to see through the door he would have seen Clancy, the veins of his neck standing out purple, his face convulsed with rage, standing, shaking his fist toward the door and muttering: "Yes, I'll pitch Williams. I'll pitch Williams, and by ---- he'll win." CHAPTER XXVII _Searching_ Betty Tabor had remained at the hotel in the home town with Mrs. Clancy when the Bears went to play their two-game series with the Blues. Mrs. Clancy had refused positively to engage in any baseball conversation or to debate with Miss Tabor the chances of the Bears winning the championship. "Heavens knows it's hard enough to be married to a baseball man," she said as she bit a thread, "him makin' base hits in his sleep and worrying the little hair he has left off his head, without havin' a girl that ought to be thinkin' of dresses and hats wantin' to din baseball into my ears all day. My dear, never marry a ball player." "You appear to be pretty well satisfied with yours, Mother Clancy," teased the girl. "Maybe I'll find one as fine some day"---- "I'm thinkin' you've found yours now," replied Mrs. Clancy, without glancing up from her work. "A nice bye, too, although they do say the red-headed ones are hot tempered." "Why, Mother Clancy! How dare you!" the girl expostulated, reddening. "If you're thinkin' to deceive Ellen Clancy, you're sore mistaken," replied the manager's wife. "My Willie says I can tell when young people are in love before they know it themselves, an' ye and the red-headed McCarthy boy has all the symptoms. 'Tis a nice boy he is, too, and you'll be doin' well." "But after ye've been married as long as we have ye'll not be wantin' to see many ball games. Many's the time I've begged Willie to quit it and get a little house out in the country, with a bit of green grass and maybe a flower bed and a little garden and a porch, and maybe a chicken yard, and let me end my days in peace, out of the sound of crowds and yellin' maniacs. Eighteen year I've ridden with him on cars smellin' of arnica, and with the train dust an' cinders in me eyes an' hair, and I long for peace. Only one season I've missed--'twas when little Mar-rtin was born"---- She snuffled a little and dropped her work to wipe her eyes hastily. It was fifteen years since their only baby had come and gone in a short year, to leave them closer to each other, but each with a heart pain that never ceased. A bell boy interrupted her lecture to bring in a card, and Mrs. Clancy, glancing at it, passed it over to Miss Tabor. "'Tis for you, Betty girl," she said. "And, Mother of Mary, she'll see us this way"---- Betty Tabor sat staring at the card, at first puzzled, then in a panic of mingled emotions. "Tell her to come up," she said. "I'll see her here. Mother Clancy, don't you dare hide." The girl hastily arranged her hair and straightened the room, and a few minutes later, when the boy ushered the visitor into the apartments, she was self-possessed and cool. She arose as the door opened, and started forward to meet her guest, but stopped staring as the color faded from her face and then slowly heightened. "You are Miss Tabor?" inquired the visitor, her voice trembling from excitement and nervousness. "Yes. You are Miss Helen Baldwin; you desired to see me?" The sight of the girl she had seen talking with Kohinoor McCarthy in the hotel parlor, shortly after he joined the club, had shaken her composure. "Oh, Miss Tabor," Helen Baldwin cried, sinking into a chair and giving way to her emotions. "I had to come--I had nowhere else to go--and they told me over the telephone only you and Mrs. Clancy were here and all the men of the team away." "If it is baseball business," replied Miss Tabor, "perhaps you'd better see Mrs. Clancy. I'll call her"---- "No! no! no!" expostulated the girl, drying her eyes. "It is you I must see. Have you heard anything from Mr. McCarthy?" "I have no especial reason to hear from Mr. McCarthy," said Miss Tabor, freezing slowly. "I suppose he is with the team." "He isn't! He isn't!" pleaded the girl. "He has disappeared---- Haven't you seen the papers?" "Mr. McCarthy disappeared! Where? When?" Betty Tabor had forgotten her jealousy in her startled alarm. "He isn't with the team?" "I read it in the papers," sobbed Helen Baldwin. "He was at my house last evening. He left there--and he has disappeared. I hoped you might know." "At your house?" Betty Tabor's alarm struggled with her jealousy. "And he's gone? Let me see the paper." "I haven't seen him, Miss Baldwin," she said, after glancing at the paper. "We thought he had gone with the team. Tell me what you know. Perhaps we may help you. You were engaged to him, were you not?" "We were--once," sobbed Helen Baldwin. "But that's all over. I did him a wrong. I never loved him--that way--and it's all my fault he's in trouble now." Betty Tabor's heart leaped with a joy that overwhelmed all other emotions. Her cold attitude toward Helen Baldwin changed, and, sinking upon the seat beside the sobbing girl, she put her arm around her. "There, there," she said comfortingly, as a mother might, forgetting that Helen Baldwin was older that she. "You must not blame yourself. Try to tell me what happened last evening. Perhaps we may know what to do." Slowly, with interruptions by hysterical moments, Helen Baldwin told the story of her unconscious part in the conspiracy; of her alarm for the safety of McCarthy; how she had sent for him and warned him, and of Swanson's telephone call. "You'd better go home, dear, and rest," Betty said finally. "There is nothing we can do. The men will have started the search early this morning and notified the police. He will return." Helen Baldwin, calmed and reassured by the brave pretense of the younger woman, prepared to go home. Betty Tabor assisted her to rearrange her disordered fair hair, murmuring her admiration for it as she worked. For the first time a smile came to the troubled face of Helen Baldwin, and when she was ready to go she kissed Betty and held her at arm's length. "You're very good and unselfish," she said in low tones. "I hope you and he are very happy." "Why, Miss Baldwin," exclaimed Betty, blushing, "there is nothing between us. He is scarcely a friend"---- "I know, dear," replied the taller girl, kissing her again. "He is a very good and lovable boy, and very impetuous. He really loves you." She smiled a trifle wanly and turning, left the room. Betty Tabor turned with a sigh, just in time to see Mrs. Clancy making violent gestures through a small crack in the door. "You didn't ask her," exclaimed the exasperated Mrs. Clancy. "You didn't ask her!" "Ask her what?" inquired Betty in surprise. "You heard what we talked about?" "Every word. I listened shamelessly," replied the manager's wife. "'Tis my curiosity will kill me. You didn't ask her one word about who McCarthy is. And she knows all about him!" "I didn't think--I forgot," said Betty, hurrying to gather her work and belongings in preparation for leaving. "Where are you going, child?" asked Mrs. Clancy. "I'm going to dress and get an automobile to make the rounds of all the hospitals. He may be hurt and in one." "Glory be! I never thought of it! Dress fast, darlin', an' I'll go with you." They returned, weary and discouraged. They had not found a trace of the missing boy. Scarcely had they reached their rooms than another call for Miss Tabor came, and a few minutes later Technicalities Feehan entered. "Mr. Feehan, what are you doing here?" both women exclaimed in chorus. "I'm searching for Mr. McCarthy," responded Feehan. "I reached the city shortly after five o'clock, and, having concluded my arrangements for finding Mr. McCarthy, it occurred to me that, having an evening of idleness, I might devote it to no better purpose than in escorting you ladies to some place of amusement." "To a theatre, with a tragedy like this happening to one of our boys!" exclaimed Miss Tabor indignantly. "Rest assured, Miss Tabor," he replied, "we can do nothing, and eventually Mr. McCarthy will be found." "How? Who is looking for him while we waste time?" she asked hotly. "My arrangements," he stated quietly, "did not include useless running around. I called upon our managing editor, laid the figures and conclusive data before him, and convinced him that, besides securing an excellent news story, he can serve the team and the ends of right and justice by seeking Mr. McCarthy." "Well, what did he do?" demanded Mrs. Clancy, sadly out of patience with his deliberate manner and rather flamboyant style of expression. "As a result of his interest in the matter," replied Technicalities, "eight of the most highly trained men of his staff--men who know the city better than anyone who lives in it does--are seeking Mr. McCarthy with orders to find him to-night." "How did to-day's game come out?" inquired Miss Tabor, relieved. "I almost forgot the game." "Our team was defeated, 8 to 6," replied Feehan quietly. "McCarthy's absence already has cost us one game, and I greatly fear that unless he plays to-morrow the Bears are defeated in the championship contest." "Glory be! I've dropped two more stitches!" said Mrs. Clancy. CHAPTER XXVIII _Williams Stands Exposed_ "Now here's a bally nice mess of figures," said Kennedy, holding half a dozen much-marked-upon sheets of writing paper in his inky fingers, and looking across the table at Swanson, Norton and Holleran. "What are you figuring, Ken?" asked Holleran. "I've been trying to figure out this pennant race," said Kennedy irritably. "Here we seem to be half a game ahead of the Panthers, and yet, just because it rained on them yesterday, and they didn't have to play but one game of their doubleheader, we've got to win two games to beat them out if they win their one game to-day." He handed across a sheet of paper upon which was written: W. L. P.C. Bears.......... 89 59 .600 Panthers....... 91 61 .599 "Well, ain't we ahead of them?" asked Swanson, studying the figures. "Yes, but look here. Supposing they win to-day and we win, we'll still be ahead. But supposing they win to-day and we win, and then we lose to-morrow. Look at this." He handed over another slip of paper, upon which was written: W. L. P.C. Panthers....... 92 61 .601 Bears.......... 90 60 .600 "If we don't win both these games, or if it don't rain here to-day, or up home to-morrow, and keep us from playing, they beat us out by ten thousandths, or thirteen hundred thousandths. Didn't I always say thirteen was an unlucky number?" "I wonder who Clancy will send in to pitch to-day?" asked Kennedy, idly. "Wilcox hasn't had enough rest. I suppose he'll be saved for to-morrow. Jacobson isn't right, and Morgan worked yesterday and got his trimmings. I suppose it'll be Williams." An ugly laugh greeted his sarcastic remark, and Norton opened his lips as if to speak, but, thinking better of it, closed them again. At that moment a bell boy came into the writing room, paging Williams. A quick exchange of glances between the players resulted and Swanson asked, "Who wants Mr. Williams?" "Mr. Clancy, sir," said the boy. "He wants Mr. Williams in his room at once." "Didn't I tell you?" said Kennedy, in mock triumph. "Say, fellows," added Swanson. "I'd give a month's pay to hear what comes off up in that room. Clancy was on his ear this morning when I came down. He'd been awake half the night, trying to get some word from Kohinoor, and he was pretty well worked up. You know when he gets started to telling a fellow what he thinks of him he does it so the fellow believes it himself." "He sure can explain a fellow's shortcomings," said Kennedy. "Look, the boy has found Williams and he is going up. He looks scared to death." "Mamma, but I'd like to be among those present," said Swanson. "There will be several developments. Hadn't we better put mattresses under Clancy's window for Williams to light on?" Meantime, in Manager Clancy's room a scene was being staged that fulfilled all the expectations of the players. Williams entered the room with a swaggering pretense of ignorance of the nature of the summons. "Morning, Manager," he said with an effort at innocent playfulness. "How's things?" "Sit down, you crook!" Clancy had arisen as Williams entered. He shot the order at the pitcher viciously and without warning, and, as he spoke, he stepped past the player, and locked the door. Williams had gone pale. His mouth dropped open. He started to say something, choked and sat down. "What--what do you mean?" he managed to stammer as Clancy came close and stood over him threateningly. After his first outburst of rage Clancy was strangely quiet, speaking in low tones, vibrating with repressed feeling. From the moment Barney Baldwin had revealed to him his ownership of the Bears, and had issued his positive orders that Williams should pitch the game, Clancy had been fighting within himself, studying to find some plan of vengeance that would strike all the plotters. Never for an instant had he considered the thought of permitting the championship to be surrendered by the orders of the owner. "Williams," he said, "you're a never-to-be-sufficiently-spit-upon cur. You're the lowest, yellowest dog in the world. I've known for two weeks that you have been trying to lose the pennant for us." "Shut up!" he snapped, lifting his voice sharply as the pitcher attempted to speak. "I know what you've done and what you plan to do. I know who is back of you"---- The pitcher cowered under the scathing denunciation and started as if to rise. "Who--who's been telling you this stuff?" he quavered, terror-stricken. "You--you rat." Clancy's scorn stung like a lash and Williams quivered. "I know everything. I've waited and watched when you thought you were putting something over. I've waited for a chance to get you"---- He paused a moment, while Williams, palsied with terror, sat unable to answer. "And I've got you, Williams!" He shot the sentence at the pitcher, who half started from his seat, lifting his hands as if to protect himself from attack. "I'm not going to choke you to death, I wouldn't soil my hands on you," said the manager with a scornful laugh. "What are you going to do, Bill?" William's voice quivered. "I'm going to make you pitch to-day's game," said the manager quietly. A gasp of amazement and relief came from Williams. "You're going to pitch to-day's game, Williams," the manager repeated. "And you're going to win it. You're going to win it, or if you don't win I'll tell the crowd you were bribed, and I'll let the crowd handle you. They'll tear you to pieces, Williams, and kick the pieces around the diamond--and I'll help them do it." "You won't do anything to me if I win?" pleaded the pitcher. "No; I won't do a thing to you," said Clancy, and he spat as if to relieve himself of a bad taste, as he turned and went out, locking the door. "Good God, look at Clancy," whispered Swanson in awed tones as the manager stepped out of the elevator a minute or two later. "He's in his blackest form. I honestly pity Williams." "Swanson," said Clancy sharply. "What is it, Boss?" asked Swanson anxiously. "Nothing," snapped Clancy, "I want you to do something." "All right." "Williams is locked in my room. You watch the door. If he breaks out kill him." He turned and stalked away like a man in a trance, leaving the big shortstop staring after him. CHAPTER XXIX _Found_ Technicalities Feehan was directing the hunt for Kohinoor McCarthy, the missing third baseman of the Bears, even though it appeared to the two women that he was wasting time. His easy confidence and certainty that McCarthy would be found inspired something of the same spirit in Mrs. Clancy and in Betty Tabor, and they found themselves enjoying the light summer opera to which he had taken them, and later had laughed at his quaint, droll tales of baseball and stories of his own experiences during his long years of travel with the team. Feehan had found an appreciative audience at last, and it was half after eleven before he broke off suddenly and announced that at midnight he was to get reports of the results of the search and offer his own services in the effort to find the missing player. "I will telephone you when I reach the office whether anything has been ascertained," he promised, as he left them at their apartments. "After that I will not disturb you until seven o'clock, unless McCarthy is found. We must find him and get him to the station to catch the train at 6.35 or our effort is wasted in so far as baseball is concerned, although, of course, that will not cause us to cease our efforts." "You'll telephone me the moment you have news?" asked Miss Tabor. "Any time--I shall not sleep much, any news--good--or bad." Feehan found the office force in the throes of getting out an edition, and he sidled through the hurrying, jostling office force to the city editor. "Any news?" he asked quietly. "Hello, Technicalities. Nothing yet. You take the case." Feehan hurried to his desk, instructed the telephone girls to connect all reporters working on the McCarthy case with his desk, then extracted a mass of papers from various pockets and commenced to study and compile his unending statistics. The reporters engaged in the search were under instructions to report at once any trace of the missing player and to report once an hour their whereabouts and progress. Every five or ten minutes one reported, and Feehan, laying aside his work, answered the call and suggested new lines of investigations. Two o'clock came. The office was growing quieter. Weary news gatherers slipped into their coats and departed quietly. Copy readers and editors completed their tasks and went away. Three o'clock came, and Feehan was busy tabulating the statistics of some player in a far-off league, when the telephone rang. By some inspiration he knew a trail had been found and he reached for the instrument with more haste than he had shown, his seventh sense spurring him on. "Hello! Yes--that you, Jimmy?" "I've hit a trail." The voice was that of little Jimmy Eames, the most tireless and persistent member of the force of news hounds employed by the paper. "Where?" Feehan was as calm as if only recording a fly out. "North Ninetieth Street Police Station," said Eames rapidly. "I picked up a clue over on the other side of the city--inside police dope. Man taken there last night in taxi. I'm off for there." Feehan pocketed his statistics and prepared for action. His voice had ceased to drag. He uttered commands in sharp, quick words. Briefly he detailed to each man as he called on the telephone the nature of Eames's discovery. "Get to North Ninetieth Street Station." Thirty-five minutes after Eames flashed the first word to the office, Cramer, the star police reporter, announced over the telephone. "McCarthy is in the black hole at North Ninetieth street. Orders from captain. No one permitted to see him. Not booked. Sergeant in charge don't know what he is accused of." "Get him out. Report in ten minutes." "Two hours and a half to get him out and put him on that train," Feehan muttered. It was twelve minutes before Cramer called again. "Sergeant says he dares not turn the fellow loose. Don't know he is McCarthy. Says orders are strict to keep him and to keep everyone away from him." "Is he hurt?" "Turnkey says he has cut in head and bruised, but all right." "Pound him--pound the sergeant; make him act. Scare him! Who is the captain?" "Raferty." "I'll reach him by 'phone." Feehan hung up the receiver. "Joe," he said to the night man, "raise Minette, the office lawyer. Lives somewhere up that way. His home is only a short distance from Judge Manasse's house. Ask him for a writ of habeas corpus or something." Feehan was rapidly calling numbers. In fifteen minutes he had aroused Captain Raferty. "Raferty," said the little man, "sorry to disturb you, but you've got a man in the black hole in your station that we want." "Can't be done. Orders to hold him." "Orders from whom?" "Higher up." "How high?" "None of your business." "Raferty, I'm going to the top," said Feehan quickly. "If that man isn't out by six o'clock, you'll be broken." "What's all this fuss about some skate?" Raferty was alarmed. "It ain't any of my business. I'm told to hold him and not book him and I do it. What have you got it in for me for?" "You'd better get to the station and get that man out or you'll have this sheet all over you," threatened Feehan, transformed. "I'm going higher now." He cut off the spluttering police captain in the midst of a snarling complaint, half whine, half defiance. Half an hour of hard work brought the indignant superintendent of police to the telephone. He curtly declined to interfere, denied all knowledge of any such prisoner, and hung up the receiver while Feehan was expostulating with him. The mild mannered, gentle little reporter was rising to the emergency. He wiped his forehead free from the beads of sweat and looked at his watch. It was two minutes to five when the night man reported again. "Minette's on his way to the station," he said. "He'll try to get Judge Manasse to order the release, and he is carrying ten thousand dollars in securities as a bond." "Good," said Feehan rapidly. "Give me Gracemont 1328," he called quickly. "Going after the mayor?" inquired the night man casually. "He'll be sore as a boil. Orders are not to disturb him after midnight." "I've got to get him," said Feehan. "We can't fall down now after we've located McCarthy." There was no reply to the call for the mayor's telephone number, and while waiting, Feehan slipped to another telephone and called the hotel at which the ball players lived, asking for the Clancy apartments. Betty Tabor answered the summons. "We've found him," said Feehan. "He's alive and well." "Where is he?" asked the girl breathlessly. "He's in a cell at the North Ninetieth Street Police Station--about half a mile from your hotel. I want you to do something." "What is it?" she asked. "Hurry--I haven't undressed. Is there anything I can do?" "Yes," he said. "He's locked up and we're tearing the town to pieces trying to get him out of the station. It may be an hour--and he must catch that train. Can you arrange at your hotel to have a fast taxi to take him to the railroad station when he gets out, if there is a chance to catch the train?" "Wait--yes, yes," she said eagerly. "The manager here has a fast machine that he has been letting me use. I'll get it. The garage is only a few doors." "You'll take him yourself?" he said in surprise. "Yes," she said. "I must hurry." Again and again Feehan urged the telephone girl to try to get a reply to the call for the mayor. Beads of sweat stood upon his face, as he begged her to try again and summoned the manager to his assistance. He glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes to six o'clock. "I must get him," he told the telephone girl for the dozenth time. "Sorry--no one will answer," she said wearily. "I've tried--wait a minute, there's someone now." "Hello," said a hearty voice. "Your Honor"--Feehan's voice was pregnant with pleading--"this is Feehan, the baseball writer." "Hello, Feehan," came the quick response. "Why aren't you with the team, or did you just get in to honor me with this early call?" "Your Honor," pleaded Feehan, recalling suddenly that the mayor was an ardent baseball "fan." "I've been searching for McCarthy. He's in the North Ninetieth Street Station, held without being booked. I've been trying for hours to get him out so he can join the team." "What charge?" demanded the mayor sharply. "No charge. He is being held to keep him from playing. If he doesn't catch this morning's train the pennant is lost." "Here's where I make a pinch hit, then," said the mayor sharply. Feehan heard the receiver bang down. With a sigh of relief he hung up his receiver and grinned at Joe. "He's a baseball fan," was all the explanation he offered. An anxious wait ensued, then Cramer telephones: "McCarthy just got out, mayor's orders. Pretty well bunged up, but says he can play. He's gone with some girl in an auto. She was waiting for him." Feehan glanced at his watch. It was 6.23. "Twelve minutes for two and a half miles," he muttered. "They'll just make it." And with a sigh he picked up his scattered sheets and muttered: "Let's see, what did this fellow Houseman hit last season?" CHAPTER XXX _A Race to Save the Day_ Kohinoor McCarthy, emerging from his cell into the fetid atmosphere of the receiving room of the police station, was met by Cramer, who broke from the group of reporters, lawyers and police officials stirred to activity at that early hour by the frantic efforts of Technicalities Feehan. His head was rudely bandaged and his discolored face was swollen and cut. There was no time for questionings. "Hurry, McCarthy," said Cramer. "There is an automobile outside waiting to take you to the station. You have about a quarter of an hour to catch the train." McCarthy, with a word of thanks, hastened through the station, leaped down the steps with an agility that proved his injuries did not affect his speed, and sprang to the car. The morning sun was just commencing to reach down into the cavern of the street into which the car leaped, and it shone directly in their eyes. The car lurched around a corner and swung into the avenue for the race to the station. At that instant the girl's veil flapped back, revealing her face. "Betty!" exclaimed McCarthy. "You"---- "You didn't know me?" she asked as she steadied the car and increased its pace over the smooth asphalt. "Why are you here? What are you doing?" he asked in astonishment. "I had to come," she replied swiftly. "There was no one else. We must catch the train. Don't talk, please." He leaned back wearily and watched the street as it seemed to flow past them. "How much time have we?" he asked above the roaring of the wind. "The train leaves at 6.35," she called back, without lifting her eyes. "Watch for clocks." She had increased the speed gradually and the light car jumped as it struck a cross-town street-car track. Suddenly the car jolted, slid to a quick stop and with an exclamation of despair the girl strove to reverse and killed the engine. "The street is closed below," she said. "Crank up, the engine is dead." McCarthy leaped from the car and cranked rapidly. A precious minute was lost before the engine throbbed and the girl, turning the car quickly, ran back a block, swung across to a side street and raced for the station. "The captain of the bell boys is waiting with the tickets. I sent him before I left the hotel," she said without lifting her eyes. "Jump from the car the moment I stop. He'll meet you at the gate." "Two minutes--can we make it?" he asked. "We'll try." Her face was set and white. She whirled the corner of the avenue onto the side street at full speed. A block and a half away was the station. The car was at racing speed now. The girl kept the siren screaming, hoping for a clear way. They tore toward the intersection of the streets--and directly ahead a lumbering team of horses, drawing a heavy wagon, trundled across their path. With a sudden swerve, a grinding of the emergency and a sickening lurch, the car checked its mad flight, scraped past the rear of the wagon, and gathering speed renewed the race against time. "Goodbye," he said, leaning suddenly inward as the car commenced to lose momentum. "When I come back"---- "Hurry, hurry," she pleaded. "Run"---- He leaped before the car stopped and, with one glance back toward her, sprinted down the long passageway. The gate was closing. He cried aloud, and ran faster. The gate clanged. A boy in uniform ran to him and shoved tickets into his hands as they ran side by side. "Open it! Let me through!" he screamed at the gateman, just starting to lock the gate. McCarthy was sprinting desperately in pursuit of the train already half way down the long train shed. He ran until his heart pounded audibly against his ribs, straining every muscle, and crying for the train to stop. Faster and faster it went, and, near the end of the station, McCarthy realized he had lost the race and, stopping, he stood dejectedly looking after the rapidly disappearing observation car. The gateman let him out with a sympathetic word, but he did not raise his head. He knew that, 235 miles away, twenty men were hoping for his arrival. He would hire a special train. He whirled at the thought--and then remembered he was without money. He felt a hand touch his arm and, turning quickly, he saw Betty Tabor. "I missed it," he said, hopelessly. "I know, I know," she responded quickly. "The boy who had the tickets told me. There is no time to lose. I have a plan." "A special train?" he asked. "I have no money." "The auto," she replied quickly. "I will drive it. I've driven it hundreds of miles"---- "Betty," he expostulated, using her name unconsciously. "You cannot--maybe we can find a driver." "I can and I will," she said decisively; "it is only 235 miles. We have eight hours. We can make it. The car is fast and easy to handle." Still arguing, she led him back to the car, and they rode quickly back to the hotel over part of the route they had traversed during their wild flight. They breakfasted while the car was being prepared for the run, studying road maps while they ate. "Betty, how can I ever thank you," he said, leaning forward over the table. "By calling me Miss Tabor and winning the game to-day," she said, coolly, without looking up from the maps. "The car is ready," the head waiter announced. "A good trip to you, Miss Tabor." "You have a good driver, McCarthy," said the manager, who alone knew the object of the trip. "She handles that car better than I do. I have given her permission to tear it to pieces to get you through." The start was undramatic. The car rolled easily along to the drive and presently was lifting and dropping over the hills of the splendid speedway. A gentle breeze from the river fanned them as they rushed through it. In five minutes they were clear of the congested traffic on the bridge and the car, gathering speed, rushed into the hills on the opposite side of the river. Five minutes later the car was quivering with its increasing speed and McCarthy, looking at the gauge, saw that it registered forty-seven miles, and was still sliding forward. Fourteen miles across the rolling plateau the car raced with sustained speed, the engine humming in perfect tune and only the heavier vibration of the tires attesting the speed. At slower pace the car climbed among the ridge of hills that had been rising ahead, and after five miles of rougher going it turned into the old stage road. "It's five minutes past nine," said the girl, "and we've done more than forty miles already. The next forty is good and we'll try to gain time." "We ought to make it easily," he responded brightly. "You're a heroine." "I do not know what the roads are beyond Hedgeport," she interrupted anxiously. "It is hill country. It rained two days ago." She had steadily increased the speed again until the indicator kept constantly around the forty-five mile mark. The speed was terrific and made conversation almost impossible. "Hadn't you better rest? You must be tired," he screamed above the noise of the car. "Arms are cramped," she replied, without lifting her eyes from the road ahead. "We'll take gas at Hedgeport and walk around. We will lunch somewhere near Hilton. We'll be over the worst of the road then." "I wish I could help you," called McCarthy, after a long silence. She shook her head, and, after the car had throbbed up the next incline and was sailing, hawklike, down the opposite side, she said: "You'll need your strength for the game. There's Hedgeport now." Before them, set on the hillside, lay the little city. It seemed as if the houses grew by magic as they rushed upon it. They flashed past a few market wagons, passed another auto chugging along busily, and slackened the pace as the car rolled upon the brick pavements and toward the heart of the city. "A hundred and thirty-one miles in a little over three hours," said McCarthy, elated. "That leaves us one hundred and four miles and more than four hours to make it in. We've won." "The road has been perfect," Betty Tabor said. "For the next fifty miles it is marked bad." She turned quietly to ask questions of the mechanician, who was overhauling and examining every part of the machine, and examining the feed pipes. Another man was filling the tanks and using oil plentifully. "My hands and wrists are cramped and numb," she remarked, turning to McCarthy. "Let the man drive the rest of the way. He knows the road," he urged. "And leave me--to miss the game?" she asked. "Not much. Rub my hands, please." She extended her strong, firm hand and McCarthy, bending over it, massaged and slapped it vigorously. "Don't break it, please," she said, laughing. "Take the other one." "Both," he whispered, his voice full of meaning. "All ready," announced the garage keeper. "I think she'll stand it now." "It's 11.10," said McCarthy. "If we get there by three." "If we get there at all," she said, "even if you are late, you can get into the game." For five miles they sped along over perfect roads, then suddenly a long stretch of new macadam loomed ahead. For three miles they lurched and struggled, and were free again, but the road was heavy and slow. Up hill and down they fought the road, at times slipping, lurching and skidding while the girl coaxed the car onward. The road grew worse and worse. The hills were steeper. The rain-guttered mud at times almost stalled the car. "Twenty miles in an hour and ten minutes," groaned McCarthy. "This won't do." The next hour was even worse. The girl was showing signs of weariness and the strain of holding the machine in the rough going. Three miles of good road across a hill-top plateau raised their courage, then they encountered sand. It was twenty minutes to two o'clock, when, mud splattered, they raced into Hilton, with the car missing fire in one cylinder, the engine smoking and gasoline almost exhausted. McCarthy almost lifted Betty Tabor from the car as they stopped at the garage and she gave rapid directions to the manager, explaining the need of haste. "I'm afraid the car won't get you through," he said, "but we'll try." "Have it ready at two o'clock," she ordered quickly. "We must get through somehow." "It's thirty-four miles," he said. "But the roads are fair. If the car was in shape it would be easy." "We'll eat lunch while you overhaul it," she replied. McCarthy secured the lunch from the car and they spread it upon the grass in the yard and ate. The girl was too weary for conversation, but as she ate she seemed to gain strength and courage. "We'll get there before the game is over, anyhow," she said quietly. "I want to see Williams's face when you come onto the field." "I thought you and he"---- "I never have liked him," she interrupted quickly. Three minutes before the town clock chimed the hour of two in Hilton, the machine, again running smoothly, shot out from the garage. Its occupants, refreshed and more cheerful, faced the final stretch of the long race. "Fourteen miles in twenty-one minutes," cried McCarthy, as the mile posts flashed by. "We'll be there." [Illustration: "FOURTEEN MILES IN TWENTY-ONE MINUTES"] Ten minutes later the smoke haze that hangs eternally over the great city of the Blues was visible. The country homes along the road over which they sped were closer and closer together. "Only ten more miles," McCarthy shouted triumphantly. "We can cut across to the west here," she said as she swung the car into an avenue. "This goes near the ball park and we'll save three miles." "Hurray," he shouted. "Then it's only seven miles." The girl did not reply. She was weary and her fair face showed haggard lines. Their progress became slower, although two or three times policemen turned to watch them, as if to interfere. The grandstand was close now. The steady roar of the huge crowd inside pulsed and beat upon them. A bell rang. "That's either game time or last fielding practice," screamed McCarthy. "Hurry, please, hurry." The car suddenly swung out of the line, sent a swarm of pedestrians scurrying, and jarred to a stop at the entrance marked "Players." "Betty," said McCarthy, as he started to lift her from the car---- "Hurry," she said, faint from weariness and the reaction. "You must dress." He ran stiffly toward the dressing room under the stand. Bill Tascott, the umpire, was just starting toward the field. "McCarthy!" he exclaimed at sight of the specter covered with mud and with cut and bruised features. "Bill, don't start the game yet," panted McCarthy beseechingly. "Wait till I dress. Please tell Clancy I'm here." "I'll tell him. I'll delay the game. Can you play?" said the umpire rapidly. "Yes--give me time to dress." Jack, the trainer, quiet after his first outburst of surprise, was preparing the hot shower and working like mad over the weary player and when Clancy, summoned by a quiet word from the umpire, rushed into the player's room, McCarthy was sighing luxuriously as the trainer soaked his weary, cramped limbs with witch hazel. "Hurry, Jack," ordered Clancy as he squeezed McCarthy's hands. "I knew you'd come, Kohinoor." "Am I in time?" asked the player. "Get my uniform out, please." "Just in time. Good old Bill Tascott is delaying the game. You ought to see him raising cain over his mask being lost. He hid it in our bench and is accusing the Blues of stealing it. He won't start the game until you are ready." In five minutes they rushed him toward the little gate by which the players enter the field from under the stands, just in time to hear Bill Tascott announce: "Batteries for to-day's game--Wiley and Kirkpatrick for the Blues; Williams and Kennedy for the Bears." He glanced toward the group emerging from under the stands and his voice rang with gladness as he yelled, in louder tones: "McCarthy will play third base." CHAPTER XXXI _The Plotters Foiled_ The gasp of astonishment with which the crowd greeted the announcement that Williams would pitch gave way quickly to a cry of surprise that rose to a roar of applause when Bill Tascott announced that McCarthy would play third base. He walked slowly out toward third base, the huge arm of Swanson, who with a bellow of gladness had raced to meet and embrace him, around his shoulders, while the great crowd stood and howled with excitement and hummed with curiosity as to the explanation of his reappearance. Had Clancy tricked the Blues and produced his third baseman at the dramatic instant, hoping to unnerve them? Had McCarthy been hurt? A thousand conjectures and questions flashed around the field. The announcement by Bill Tascott was a double shock to two persons sitting in one of the front boxes near the Bears' bench. Barney Baldwin brought his fat hand down with a thump upon the shoulders of the rat-faced, cold-eyed man who sat next to him, and shouted, "I told you so!" Easy Ed Edwards, paler than usual, turned angrily toward the politician, restrained himself, and resumed his steady scrutiny of the field. When the umpire announced McCarthy playing third, Baldwin, in his astonishment, half arose and Edwards started quickly. "Sit down, you fool," he said sharply. "We're in enough trouble without you giving us away. Clancy was watching us from the bench. They're wise to you." "To me!" ejaculated Baldwin. "I like your nerve"---- "You're the only one they can connect with McCarthy's--accident," he said coldly. "There'll be h---- to pay at home." McCarthy's head was bandaged afresh, strips of court-plaster decorated his face, and even from the stands the black bruises around his eyes were visible. Nearly forty thousand persons were watching, unaware of the full meaning of the complex drama they were witnessing. McCarthy was so astonished at hearing that Williams was pitching that he turned to Swanson. "What does it mean, Silent?" he asked anxiously. "Clancy made him pitch," whispered Swanson rapidly as they went toward the bench. "He has had him locked in his room all day and Williams is scared stiff. Look at him." The pitcher was white to the mouth, and he licked his lips nervously as if in a fever, as he sat during the first inning while his own team endeavored to make a run. Clancy, his face hard, sat next to him, terrible in his rigidity. Three of the Bears retired in rapid order and the team raced for the field. A roar of applause greeted them, and as McCarthy ran along in front of the stands, the applause followed him like a wave. It was clear some hint of the truth was spreading through the crowd. Williams hung back when the team started for the field. "I can't, Bill. Oh, God, I can't," he wailed. "Please"---- "Get out there and pitch! Pitch whatever Kennedy signals for, and if you don't"---- "I'll try, Bill. But if"---- "There are no ifs," snarled the manager, half rising. Williams walked to his position, a glare of terror in his eyes, as if he contemplated flight. He was wild and erratic at the start. Two balls sailed wide from the plate, and Swanson ran to him. "Get that next one over or I'll signal Clancy," he said. Williams put every ounce of power into his throwing arm, and the ball cut the heart of the plate, jumping. "The old hop on it!" yelled McCarthy. "That's pitching, Adonis; that's pitching." Williams stood staring toward him as if dumfounded. A grateful look came into his eyes. "Now the old hook, Adonis," yelled McCarthy. "Something on every one to-day, remember!" An outburst of cheering arose from the crowd. Those who had heard or read the stories and rumors of the enmity between the two thought they recognized the magnanimity of the third baseman and admired him. Another strike whizzed over the plate, and a fast ball hopped while the batter swung. The strike out was greeted with a howl of applause. Williams glanced toward the stands. His eyes met those of Edwards fixed upon him, and his nerve broke. He pitched without looking to see what Kennedy signaled, and "Sacred" White, the center fielder of the Blues, drove the ball to left center for three bases. Kennedy gave a quick glance at Clancy, who sat staring straight ahead. Swanson rushed upon Williams, who, trembling with fear, waved him back. He pitched desperately, but Wertheim hit a long fly to center and "Sacred" White scampered home. "I didn't do it, Bill. Honestly, I didn't," pleaded Williams, as he returned to the bench and resumed his seat next to the manager. "Williams," said Clancy coldly, "you pitched without a signal. I've got men in the stands to pass circulars telling exactly what you have done. If that happens again I'll signal them, and when the crowd gets you, may the Lord have mercy"---- "I'll pitch--I was trying," begged the pitcher. "Don't turn the crowd loose on me. They'll kill me." "Then win," ordered Clancy. The fifth came with the score 1 to 0 and Wiley pitching at his best. Williams had lost some of his nervousness. Either he had made up his mind to betray Edwards, and strive to win, or he was pitching, as he thought, for his life. His fast ball was cutting the plate, and even when the Blues hit it they popped the ball into the air for easy outs. The last half of the fifth started. Williams, glancing toward the stand as he walked out to the slab, saw Edwards. Edwards made a quick signal with his hand and turned his face away. Williams went to the slab entirely unnerved. He was wild, and a base on balls gave the Blues another opening. Instantly Swanson charged upon him and renewed his threats, and Williams, after pitching two more balls wild, got one over the plate, and Henderson sacrificed, putting Hickman on second. Kirkpatrick drove a hard bounder at Norton, who fumbled, recovered, threw wild and Malone scored. McCarthy was feeling deadly weary. The racking ride in the automobile, the injuries received at the hands of Edwards and his prize-fighter employe, the loss of sleep and the anxiety, added to the strain of the game, had sapped his youthful vitality. Williams, under the dire threats of Clancy, Kennedy and Swanson, was pitching steadily. He was inspired now by a new hope: That he might lose the game and not be blamed for defeat and at the same time escape the vengeance of Edwards by pretending he lost it purposely. "We ought to get at him this time, boys," called Swanson, as the Bears opened their eighth inning. "We've got to. Look out there--at the score board--the Panthers are winning, 4 to 1, and it means the pennant." Suddenly Noisy Norton, the silent man, sprang to his feet and rushed to the coaching lines. "Wow! Little of the old pep, boys!" he yelled. "Whoop! We've got it won now. Noisy is coaching. Come on, boys--get at them!" yelled Swanson. Out by first base, Norton, who had never been on the coaching lines in the five years he had played with the Bears, was ranting and screaming like a wild man. The spirit of the thing came over the Bears. Kennedy, rushing to the bat, cracked the first ball that Wiley pitched to center for a single. A moment later little McBeth, who had been fretting his soul out on the bench for three months, leaped toward the bat like a hound unleashed. He never had played in a major league game before, and Wiley teased him into swinging at two slow twisters, then attempted to waste a curve high and outside the plate. The boy, his teeth set, waded into the ball, drove it over third for a base hit, and, with runners on first and third, Swanson came rushing up and drove a line single to left that scored Kennedy and sent the speedy little McBeth scurrying around to third. McCarthy was coming to bat. He swung two bats, testing their weight, and walked toward the plate. The excitement of the rally had revived his waning strength and stirred his jaded nerves. Swanson signaled his intention to steal on the first ball pitched. McCarthy crouched, and as the ball came he swung viciously at it, not intending to hit it, but to give Swanson the advantage by hampering the catcher. The strike was wasted, as the catcher, knowing the speed of McBeth, bluffed at throwing, and held the ball, hoping to lure the substitute off third base and let Swanson reach second without trouble. The next ball McCarthy fouled against the stands for a second strike. A great dread came over him as he heard the roar of the crowd. He turned to watch the Blue's catcher recover the ball, and at that instant he saw the face of Betty Tabor, strained, white, beseeching, as the girl, still mud-splattered and stained from the long race, leaned forward. Her face revealed all the hopes and fears that surged within her. As McCarthy's heart leaped with grim resolve he saw another face that caused him to step back out of the batter's box and, while pretending to rub dirt upon his hands, to glance again. James Lawrence, his uncle and guardian, was sitting in the box next to that in which Betty Tabor was voicelessly beseeching him to win the game. "Hit it, Larry--hit it!" The sound of the name called by the familiar voice, the sight of the agony in the girl's face, spurred him to desperation. He delayed, wiped his hands carefully, stepped into position and waited. Wiley wound up. A fast curve flashed toward the plate. McCarthy took one step forward, snapped his bat against the ball. The Blues' third baseman leaped wildly, stuck up one hand, the ball went on, struck two feet inside the foul line, and before it ceased rolling around the stands two runs were across the plate. McCarthy was on third, and the Bears were in the lead. The inning ended with McCarthy still on third, and the score 3 to 2 in favor of the Bears. Wilcox, who had been kept warmed up during the entire game, ready to rush to the slab if Williams weakened, went in to pitch and held the Blues in the eighth, and in their ninth the Bears drew a blank. McCarthy knew he was very weary. Only by his will power did he make his tired, aching limbs obey his brain. He ached in every muscle, and his brain seemed dulled. Gallagher hit a long fly to Pardridge. Swanson was still shouting, urging Wilcox to cinch the victory, encouraging, leading, fighting with every nerve for the victory. Henderson drove a two-base hit to center field, and Swanson redoubled his efforts to brace the team against a rally that might rob them of their victory. Kirkpatrick, a dangerous hitter at any time, drove a fast bounder at Norton. The little second baseman set himself for the ball. It took a bad bounce, struck his wrist and rolled away only a few feet. He was after it in an instant, but he knew that Kirkpatrick's terrific speed would get him to first ahead of the ball. As Norton's fingers gripped the ball he thought of another play. Henderson would go to third on the fumble, turn the base, look to see where the ball was, and if it had broken through the infield far enough, he would try to score. For an instant, Norton knew, the runner would halt, undecided, six feet from third, and if the ball was there---- Without looking, Norton hurled the ball toward third. McCarthy saw it coming. He realized the play that Norton had attempted to make to save the day. He grabbed the ball and dived desperately between the runner and the bag. Henderson, trapped, leaped back toward the base, feet first. McCarthy felt the shock of the collision, felt the spikes bite into his arm, and he held his ground, blocking the runner away. He heard Bill Tascott's cry of "Out!" and, dazed, hurt and dizzy, he arose slowly and tossed the ball back to Wilcox. Trentman, the great pinch hitter of the Blues, was sent in to attempt to snatch victory from defeat. Twice he drove fierce line fouls past third base, then he lifted a high foul and, as the ball settled into Kennedy's mitt, McCarthy swayed upon his feet. "Help me, Silent; I'm all in." Through the eddying, shouting, scrambling crowd that had swarmed cheering upon the field, Swanson half led, half carried his exhausted mate. They had pressed close to the exit to the club dressing rooms, when suddenly a great shout smote the air. A tremor of fresh excitement ran through the crowd. "What is it, Silent?" asked McCarthy anxiously. "It's the Scoreboard!" yelled Swanson. "Look! The Jackrabbits scored five in the eighth inning and beat the Panthers out, 6 to 4. Boy, we're champions!" McCarthy did an odd thing. He slid quietly to the ground in a faint, and they carried him to the dressing rooms. CHAPTER XXXII _Rejoicing_ McCarthy slept the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion. He slept all the way during the homeward journey, waking refreshed and only a trifle stiff when he was called early in the morning to disembark. He and Swanson rode to the hotel in a taxicab, anxious to escape from the crowds that gathered to witness the arrival of the champions after their sensational victory. "Don't run," urged Swanson, "I'm a hog for punishment of this kind. I could stand around all year and let these people cheer me. It sounds good after what I've heard them say. See that big fellow, yelling his head off, there? He's the same one that yelled 'rotten' at me for two months in the middle of the season." "Let's have breakfast up in the room," urged McCarthy. "Get them to send up all the morning papers. I want to read what they say about the game." "They say enough, judging from the headlines," replied Swanson. "Let's eat down here and bask in the admiration of these fellows who have been calling us dubs. Pose for them, Kohinoor! You're a hero! Don't you know a hero has to stand on his pedestal all day and smile? Smile, darn you!" In spite of the giant's good-natured badinage they hurried to their rooms and ordered breakfast and newspapers. "They've got most of the story," said McCarthy. "They have written a lot of guff about---- Oh, they make a heroine out of Miss Tabor. Look at her picture. Where did they get it? I never had one." "Get the original," said Swanson gruffly, his mouth full of toast. "See this: Easy Ed Edwards has run. He skipped before the game was over, and the paper says he has carried off a hundred thousand dollars in money that was bet with him and is fleeing to Europe." "Williams made his getaway, too," said McCarthy, eagerly scanning the papers. "Where did he go? I saw him slide off the bench in the eighth while we were scoring and start toward the club house. Guess he was afraid of Edwards." "Darn the luck," growled Swanson. "Here's all that stuff about Kennedy and me being licked in the saloon. The whole story is out." "There's one thing I want to find out," said Swanson, clenching his fist. "And that is who the big guy was that Edwards hired as his slugger. The season won't be complete until I hook this old grounder grabber of mine on his jaw." "I've got a bit of business," announced McCarthy, after an hour of excited conversation. "Wait till she gets through breakfast," insinuated Swanson insultingly. "Going to desert your old pal for a skirt so soon?" "Aw, shut up," said McCarthy. "I've got to thank her, haven't I?" Swanson was silent for an instant. A serious expression came over his homely, good-natured face. "I hope you win her, Kohinoor," he said, simply, putting his big arm across McCarthy's shoulders. "You deserve her--I wanted her myself, once." Without another word he went over and sat down, picking up a paper, and McCarthy, walking to him, said: "I'm sorry, Silent, maybe"---- "No maybe about it," said Swanson without looking up, "I lost, long ago." McCarthy descended two flights of stairs and knocked timidly at the door of the Clancy apartments. He expected to find Betty Tabor with Mrs. Clancy, but the girl was alone, the Clancys not having finished their breakfast. "Betty," he exclaimed, taking both her outstretched hands, "Betty--I had to come--I wanted to tell you--I love you." "Oh," she said in surprise, "I"---- His arm slipped around her waist and he drew her close. "I have loved you from the first," he said, pleadingly. "I wanted to tell you yesterday. I thought you cared then; you do care for me, don't you?" "Yes, Larry," she said softly, hiding her face. "I think I have--from the first." "From the first--the very first, dearest?" he asked tenderly. "From the day we met--years ago?" "Years ago?" she asked in surprise. "Then you are? Yes, you are; you must be the little boy who was crying in the train? I knew when you came with the club we had met somewhere, and I could not remember where." "Did you remember the little boy?" he asked. "Yes, Larry," she said "I never have forgotten. I used to pray for him every night; that he might be happy in his new home. I kept the picture of him that was taken at Portland and I often have thought of him." "It must have been meant that we should meet, dearest," he whispered. "Yes, Larry," she replied softly. He kissed her and held her close. "Larry!" he exclaimed. "Where did you learn my name, sweetheart?" "The old gentleman in the box next to us at the game called you Larry--and it seemed to fit you better than Jim does." She laughed. "He is my uncle--my father, almost. You will meet him soon, and then I will explain how I became McCarthy." At that instant Manager Clancy and his wife entered abruptly, followed by Technicalities Feehan. Betty Tabor blushed and struggled to extricate herself from McCarthy's arms, but he held her close and announced: "Betty has just promised to become my wife." A shower of congratulation followed, and Mrs. Clancy became so excited she dropped her fancy work and kissed both, then kissed Feehan, and that surprised reporter dropped his precious manuscript in his embarrassment. A few moments after McCarthy left his room to make the call that resulted in his happiness being established, Swanson was aroused from his reverie by insistent rapping upon the door, and in response to his welcoming cry, a tall, slender old man with bristling moustache, stormed into the apartment. "Where's that young scoundrel who calls himself McCarthy?" he demanded, brandishing his cane threateningly. "Hello, grandpaw," said Swanson. "Who dealt you a hand?" "You're another one of those rascally ballplayers!" charged the man violently. "I know you--you've been leading my nephew into all sorts of wild scrapes, disgracing the family"---- "You Kohinoor's uncle?" howled Swanson joyously as he sprang up and seized the old gentleman with a bear hug and waltzed him around. "Welcome to our fair city, uncle. I adopt you right now. Kohinoor is my chum. How does it seem to be the uncle of a hero?" "Release me, you scoundrel," puffed the uncle. "Release me or I'll cane you! Where is he?" "Truth is, uncle, he's gone skirting," said Swanson, releasing his victim. "Gone where?" asked the uncle. "Skirting--calling on a girl--and between you and me, uncle, he's got the best chance to win her, and she's worth winning." "What, another?" demanded the uncle. "Then he hasn't eloped with that blond niece of that crook, Baldwin?" "Not on your life," said Swanson, "he's won the best little girl in the world." In five minutes they were laughing and chatting like old friends, and the uncle was boasting of his nephew's prowess at baseball. "Hang it," he stormed, "I ought to cane him, the young rascal, for treating me this way. He never let me know he was playing, and I only got to see one game. But wasn't that a--what do you call it--a corker?" "Let's go to them," proposed Swanson. And into the tableau of congratulations that was being presented in the Clancy apartment Swanson burst, leading the old gentleman, who was struggling to smile and to be angry at the same time. "Look who's here," he shouted. "Kohinoor's uncle, and from the looks of things he has arrived just at the right minute to give his blessing." "Uncle Jim," exclaimed McCarthy, stepping forward quickly. "Larry, you young rascal!--Larry"---- His voice broke and tears rolled down his cheeks as he put his arm around the boy's neck and wept. "Larry, you young scoundrel, what did you mean by running away from your old uncle?" "Uncle Jim," said McCarthy seriously, as he put his arm around the old man's waist, "I was a fool. I found it out and I was coming home to tell you I was wrong and beg you to forgive me, but I could not leave the team when it needed me. I was only a foolish boy. If you can forgive"---- "It's all right now, Larry, boy," said the old man, wiping his eyes and laughing happily. "I was certain you'd come to your senses and find you didn't love that girl." "I am certain you will not object to the young lady I am going to marry, Uncle Jim"---- "Marry!" cried Mr. Lawrence angrily. "Nonsense! You're not going to marry anyone! Here we just make up and you want to start the quarrel all over again. Marry? You young scoundrel! You're going to stay at home with me"---- "Don't say that until you meet her, Uncle Jim," and, putting his arm around Betty Tabor's waist, he said, "Uncle Jim, I want you to meet Miss Betty Tabor, who has just honored me by promising to become my wife." "Why, bless my heart! Bless my heart!" exclaimed the old man in surprise. "If it isn't the young woman who sat in the box next to me at the game! I fell in love with you, my dear, when you applauded Larry. Marry her? If you don't marry her, you young rascal, I'll cut you off in my will. Not a penny, you understand--not a penny." He kissed Betty Tabor gallantly while the others laughed and he bowed low over Mrs. Clancy's hand as Kohinoor presented him to the manager and his wife. "Are you the Mr. Lawrence they call the Lumber King in Oregon?" inquired Clancy, as he shook hands. "They call me that out there," said the old man, testily. "Call themselves democratic--then King everyone who makes a few dollars--bah." "Oh," exclaimed Miss Tabor, in sudden alarm. "Then Larry is rich?" "Never mind that, sweetheart," he said, consolingly. "We can live on my baseball salary if Uncle Jim cuts us off." "Cut you off, nonsense!" the old man exclaimed testily. "You'll have all my money if you behave yourself and obey me. Young scoundrel never would obey me." "I've learned to obey in baseball, uncle," replied Kohinoor seriously. "Ask Mr. Clancy if I haven't." "I'm so glad, Larry," said Miss Tabor brightly, "that you asked me before I knew you were going to be rich." "Young rascal must have learned some sense," growled his uncle. "He picked out just the girl I wanted him to. When I saw you at the game, my dear, I said to myself: 'Now if Larry would only choose a girl like that, I'd make her my daughter.'" "You're the worst flatterer of them all--Mr.--Lawrence," said the girl, blushing and laughing. "You must call me Uncle Jim, my dear," he insisted in his most tyrannical tones. "And understand, Miss, I'm boss of this family." "By the way, Kirkland," said Technicalities Feehan, who had been busily engaged studying some statistics he had taken from his pocket, "what did you hit the last year you were at Cascade College?" "Kirkland?" exclaimed Miss Tabor. "Then your name isn't James Lawrence?" "I forgot," he responded, laughing at her bewilderment. "Your name will be Mrs. James Lawrence Kirkland; I was named for Uncle Jim. How did you find it out?" he added, turning to Feehan. "I knew it the second day you were with the Bears," replied Feehan. "I have all your records, excepting those of your final year at the university. Did you hit .332 or .318? The records do not agree." Ten days later, on the night after the Bears triumphantly won the World's Championship, there was a jolly party in the banquet hall of one of the great hotels. Jimmy McCarthy was giving a farewell dinner to his friends and comrades of the Bear team. The dinner had been eaten, the toasts to the team and its manager drunk, and McCarthy arose. "Boys," he said, "I'm not going to try to make a speech. I want to thank you all for your kindness to the tramp who came to you when he needed friends. And now my uncle has a little announcement to make which I know you all will be glad to hear." A round of applause greeted the testy old gentleman as he arose, scolding his nephew for calling upon him. In the ten days that he had traveled with them he had become the idol of the Bears, and he proudly claimed credit for their victories, declared he was their mascot, and called each one by his first name. "Nothing at all. Just a little matter," he said, testily. "Young rascal shouldn't have mentioned it. All it amounts to is that yesterday I bought Baldwin's stock in this ball club. He's a disgrace to the business. I made him sell out. I'm holding the stock for Clancy. He can have it at the price I paid any time he gets the money. Just bought it to get that crook, Baldwin, out." He sat down amid a riot of cheering, while Clancy, who had not been informed of the deal, arose and stammered his bewildered thanks, as he strove to realize that a fortune had been thrust upon him. When the excitement had died down and a toast to Mr. Lawrence had been proposed and drunk standing, Betty Tabor, flushed, and appearing prettier than ever, arose. "Boys," she said, in her low, steady tones, "I have an important announcement to make, one which, I believe, will please you almost as well as the one we just heard did." She hesitated and smiled down upon her future husband, who sat beside her. "Boys," she continued, after a moment, "I have consented to permit Larry to play ball with you next season, if he will allow me to travel with the team at least one trip." Noisy Norton sprang upon his chair, his glass held aloft and cried: "To the bride, the groom and another pennant." THE END. 
35243	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive.) RIGHT OFF THE BAT _BASEBALL BALLADS_ By WILLIAM F. KIRK ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. B. MARTIN G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK (These verses originally appeared in the New York Evening Journal, and are here reprinted through the courtesy of the National News Association.) COPYRIGHT, 1910-1911, BY NATIONAL NEWS ASSOCIATION COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY _Right Off The Bat_ TO JOHN J. McGRAW THE SCHOOLMASTER OF BASEBALL CONTENTS PAGE John Bourbon, Pitcher 7 Sunday Baseball 9 The Big League 11 The Ballad of the Minor Leaguer 13 Ballade of a Substitute 15 Casey on a Bat 17 The Pitcher's Soliloquy 19 Blessed Be Baseball 21 Raymond's Ride 23 Four Conversations 25 "Inside" Baseball 27 The Difference 29 Cricket and Baseball 31 The League of Long Ago 33 The Longest Hit on Record 35 The Umpire's Home 37 "Yellow" 39 The Umpire 41 "Choosing Sides" 43 Ode to a Georgia Gent 45 Life and Baseball 47 What Happened to Hilo 49 I Was with Clarke 51 "Home Folks" 53 The Outfielder's Dream 55 The Law of Averages 57 A Converted Rooter 59 To the Lady Bugs 61 Polo in Arizona 63 The Laddies' League 65 The $11,000 Beauty 67 The Lay of the New York Fan 69 The Old Rooter 71 "If" 73 Right Off the Bat JOHN BOURBON, PITCHER They tell me that Matty can pitch like a fiend, But many long years before Matty was weaned I was pitching to players, and good players, too, Mike Kelley and Rusie and all the old crew. Red Sockalexis, the Indian star, Breitenstein, Clancy, McGill and McGarr. Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be, But where in the world is a pitcher like me? My name is John Bourbon, I'm old, and yet young; I cannot keep track of the victims I've stung. I've studied their weaknesses, humored their whims, Muddled their eyesight and weakened their limbs, Bloated their faces and dammed up their veins, Rusted their joints and beclouded their brains. Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be, But where in the world is a pitcher like me? I have pitched to the stars of our national game, I have pitched them to ruin and pitched them to shame. They laughed when they faced me, so proud of their strength, Not knowing, poor fools, I would get them at length. I have pitched men off pinnacles scaled in long years. I have pitched those they loved into oceans of tears. Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be, But where in the world is a pitcher like me? SUNDAY BASEBALL The East Side Slashers were playing the Terrors, Piling up hits, assists and errors; Far from their stuffy tenement homes That cluster thicker than honeycombs, They ran the bases like busy bees, Fanned by the Hudson's cooling breeze. Mrs. Hamilton-Marshall-Gray, Coming from church, chanced to pass that way. She saw the frolicking urchins there, Their shrill cries splitting the Sabbath air. "Mercy!" she murmured, "this must stop!" Then promptly proceeded to call a cop; And the cop swooped down on the luckless boys, Stopping their frivolous Sunday joys. Mrs. Hamilton-Marshall-Gray Spoke to her coachman and drove away Through beautiful parks, o'er shady roads, Past splashing fountains and rich abodes. Reaching her home, she was heard to say "How awful to break the Sabbath day!" The Slashers and Terrors, side by side, Started their stifling subway ride Down through the city, ever down To the warping walls of Tenement Town. Reaching their homes, the troublesome tots Crept away to their shabby cots And dreamed of the grass and the droning bees, The pure, cool air and the waving trees, And how they had played their baseball game Till the Beautiful Christian Lady came. THE BIG LEAGUE You want to play in the Big League, boy? I guess that you will some day, For you've shown the speed the managers need And the lightning brain (the managers' creed), And the heart that will bid you stay. But when you go to the Big League, boy, And play on the Big League grounds, As the seasons roll you will pay the toll From your fresh young nerves and your clean young soul, Till your pulse less buoyantly bounds. And you'll learn strange things in the Big League, boy, The cream of the good and bad; You will come to know, in that shifting show, The things that I learned in the long ago When I, too, was a careless lad. For I came to play in the Big League, boy, And I played my string to the end. To eyes divine where the white lights shine I mumbled toasts over bubbling wine-- And finished minus a friend. You want to play in the Big League, boy? I guess that you will, some day, And this is the prayer of an old-time player-- None was stronger and none was gayer-- God help you along your way. THE BALLAD OF THE MINOR LEAGUER He came here in the early Spring with all the tryout mob, Striving to bat like Wagner and to slide (spikes first) like Cobb. Some of the vets cried, "Bonehead!" Others remarked, "Poor zob!" Modest as Spring's arbutus, calm as an April dawn, He asked for no advances though his ticker was in pawn; He learned the law from Jawn McGraw but never called him "Jawn." He graced the bench until July, leading the simple life-- He wouldn't touch a cocktail once to please a schoolmate's wife; The slightest hint of a "creme de mint" would cut him like a knife. The village smith that stood beneath the spreading chestnut tree Had nothing on this youngster in the dodging of a spree. Others could tipple if they would--not for Recruit McGee. Thus did the minor leaguer seek for affluence and fame-- Virtue's its own reward at times, but oft it pulls up lame. Now he has went back to the place from which he once had came! BALLADE OF A SUBSTITUTE I've been here nearly a season now, Watching the regulars, day after day; I wish some wizard would tell me how To break right into the game and stay. It isn't as if I were some thick jay, Like a lot of those clumsy "Class B" flivvers, But I'm glued to the bench so hard that, say-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers. McGill is a terrible lobbygow, But he's drawing a regular shortstop's pay; He romps around like a crippled cow And shows the speed of a two-ton dray. Night after night I kneel and pray For a chance to work with the real high livers, But I guess I'll sub till my hair turns gray-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers. Clancy ought to be steering a plow Back on the farm near old Green Bay; He's playing third, with his slanting brow; And Dugan ought to be pitching hay. The bulls they've made since the first of May Would give a McGraw one million shivers, But it's "stay on the bench!" for Kid O'Shay, The seat of my pants is full of slivers. "ENVY" Manager, pardon this mournful bray, But my pride is hurt and my conscience quivers; Give me one chance in the thick of the fray-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers. CASEY ON A BAT It looked extremely rocky for the Boston team that day, The score was one to nothing, with one inning left to play. Casey, who played in centre field, had shown an hour too late-- He hadn't any alibi when staggering through the gate. So when he tore his necktie off and stepped upon his hat The manager looked grim and said, "It's Casey on a bat." "Well," said the Boston manager, "with joy I ought to scream-- Here's Casey with a dandy load, the best man on the team. He told me he was sober, but he couldn't quite get by When he stepped upon his derby and was yanking off his tie. Of all the hard luck in the world! The mean, ungrateful rat! A blooming championship at stake and Casey on a bat." Two Boston batters in the ninth were speedily retired, "Here, Casey!" cried the manager, speaking as one inspired, "Go in and bat for Grogan! There's a man on second base, And if you hit the way you can we'll win the pennant race." This is no knock on buttermilk, or anything like that, But the winning hit was made that day by Casey on a bat. THE PITCHER'S SOLILOQUY A pitcher known in the days gone by As a star of the first degree Was making the dirt and gravel fly In the shade of an old oak tree. His spade was long and his arm was strong, And the ditch that he dug was wide; He paused at the sound of the dinner gong-- And this is the sermon he sighed: "Young man, you are climbing the ladder now-- Your arm is as firm as steel; The wreath of laurel is on your brow And the pride of a prince you feel. Do you think you will play when your hair turns gray? I thought my prowess would last, But you can't strike out the men of to-day With the curves you threw in the past!" In the merciless baseball game of life We may shine for a fleeting hour, But the strongest frame comes to shun the strife And loses its youthful power. So strive to lay, while it comes your way, A fence for Adversity's blast. You can't strike out the men of to-day With the curves you threw in the past. BLESSED BE BASEBALL The game was on! The cheers and roars Rang Eastward to Long Island's shores; "Come on, you Matty--show your class!" "Oh, you Red Murray! Scorch the grass!" "Heads up, Big Injun!" "Scoop 'em, Bridwell!" "Devore stole home! And sure he slid well!" These and a thousand other roars Rang Eastward to Long Island's shores. And folks of various sorts were there From East Side yeggs to ladies fair; Here a tragedian, there a joker, Here a banker and there a broker. Young dry goods clerks with booze clerks mingled, And all sat in with nerves that tingled. One white-haired woman sat alone, Proud as a queen upon her throne. One dear old lady, calm, sedate, Age, very likely, eighty-eight. "Isn't she sweet?" the women said; "Look at that lovely silvery head!" As in the sun she serenely basked A rooter sitting beside her asked: "How did you come to get away?" "My grandson," she answered, "died to-day!" RAYMOND'S RIDE Listen, dear rooters, and you shall hear Of the ride of a modern Paul Revere. The Paul Revere of "seventy-five" Rode like a fiend and won in a drive. The Paul Revere whose praises I sing Is Arthur Raymond, the spitball king. No plunging charger, no Arab steed, Loans to Raymond its wondrous speed, No dainty thoroughbred, sleek of side, Plays a part in our Raymond's ride. Just a lumbering wagon, creaking and shaking Serves for the wonderful ride he's taking. And it hustles him over hollow and hill, Drawn by a good old horse named WILL. It bumps like blazes and swerves like sin When it nears a bar or passes an inn; It jerks like the tail of a crazy kite When a brewery looms on the left or right. When it nears The Coop or The Rooters' Rest It bucks as a mustang bucks out West. But, calmly refusing to get a jag on, Raymond clings to that water wagon. * * * To Revere's great feat you may point with pride, But Raymond is riding a greater ride.[1] [1] This is only a spring poem. FOUR CONVERSATIONS "I used to have 'em buffaloed when I was with Duluth, Out in that dinky pine tree league, and here's the honest truth: This Mathewson ain't better. Say, the benders that I slung Had all the sluggers swinging till they'd almost bust a lung. I'll get 'em just the same right here--McGraw knows I can't lose." Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue's. "I lost a tough game yesterday, but that don't make me sad; Believe me, I had everything--they walloped all I had. I didn't get no swell support; my catcher crossed me twice And all the infield acted like a wagon full of ice. They all support this Mathewson. When I go in we lose!" Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue's. "I've been here just two months to-day, and things are looking black; I lost a tough one yesterday, and now I've got the sack. Say, everyone's against me, kid. My curve is breaking great, But four guys slammed it yesterday clear to the left field gate. Now I'm released--you hear me? Released with run-down shoes!" Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue's. * * * _"Get out of here, you rummy! I can't hand you no more booze!" Said the Barboy to the Pitcher up at Paddy Donahue's._ "INSIDE" BASEBALL (_The warden of one of the State penitentiaries has begun a system of Saturday half holidays for the convicts, a baseball game on the prison grounds being the main feature._) You talk of "inside" baseball and of managerial plans, Of signs and mental flashes that are Greek to all the fans; You tell of wondrous brainwork, such as Evers used to use When he wasn't in his shoe store, selling patent leather shoes. I've seen some "inside" baseball in the various big league towns, And seen some "inside" pitching by the Mathewsons and Browns, But the finest "inside" baseball I have seen in many a day Is inside the dear old prison, where they like to have me stay. The Yeggmen lead the league just now--that team is full of tricks; They beat the Con Men yesterday by seventeen to six. The Lifers have an outside chance to win the prison flag; The Counterfeiters still have hopes, although they seldom brag. The pitcher for the Grafters, namely, Alderman McGee, Has bet his good behavior that they'll finish one, two, three. Yes, the finest "inside" baseball I have seen in many a day Is inside the dear old prison, where they like to have me stay. The game we had last Saturday was sure a corking sight; The Yeggmen beat the Grafters, but the Grafters made them fight. McGee, the Grafters' pitcher, had to hide his head in shame-- He tried to bribe the warden, who was umpiring the game. If Saturday's a pleasant day for outside games like ball The Con Men play the Lifers, and we'll be there, one and all. For the finest "inside" baseball I have seen in many a day Is inside the dear old prison, where they like to have me stay. THE DIFFERENCE "It's just this way," said Danny O'Shay, As he whittled a stick and the hours away, "A player can booze for a year or two, The same as me or the same as you. You meet a ball-gamer now and then Who can guzzle more than the most of men. But sooner or later he has to go The way I was chased from the big league show. "The difference, kid," said Danny O'Shay, "Between the hard and the easy way, As far as ball players goes, at least, Is a difference big as the West and East. I played ten years before I was spurned, And this is the lesson your uncle learned: The boozer THINKS he is splitting the wood, The man that is sober KNOWS he's good. "You see," continued Danny O'Shay, "A dog and a man must have his day. I played like a demon for seven years, 'Till I switched to whiskey and quit my beers. I laughed at the friends that steered me right, But here's the difference, black and white: The boozer THINKS he is splitting the wood, The man that is sober KNOWS he's good." CRICKET AND BASEBALL The cricket game was over and the sun was sinking low, The players in their blazers plodded homeward in a row. They stopped within the clubhouse for a final cup of tea, When up spake Captain Edgerton to Bowler Basil Fee: "Jolly well tried, old chap! You lost as the greatest can; But whether you win or whether you lose You're always a gentleman. Have a Scotch and soda, old fellow-- It will drive off the blooming blues; Keep up your stride, you jolly well tried, And a man can't always lose." The baseball game was over and the home team had been skinned, The players slunk across the field while sundry knockers grinned; They hurried to the clubhouse for a bath and change of garb, When up spake Manager McDuff, and each word was a barb: "Fine lot of high-priced athletes! Most of you ain't alive! I could pick a team from the Soldiers' Home And beat you four out of five. Be out here at ten to-morrow-- That goes the way that it lays; Any mixed-ale sport that doesn't report Will squat on the bench ten days!" THE LEAGUE OF LONG AGO They've got me sitting on the bench--I knew it had to come-- Kid Casey subbed for me at third the day I broke my thumb; My thumb got better fast enough, but when I wanted back, "The Kid is stinging them a mile," says good old Captain Mack. "The Kid is running bases like a Murray or a Cobb, The Kid does this, the Kid does that, the Kid is on the job." And so I'm sitting on the bench, my spirits sort o' low, And playing memory ball games in the League of Long Ago. I'm pulling for Kid Casey, and I hope he makes a mint, I help him every way I can, from cussword down to hint; He knows that I am for him, too--'twas only yesterday He says to me, "Old leaguer, you've got ten more years to play." But I know that he knows better, and I know just what I'm worth-- A man can't last forever in the swiftest game on earth. And so I'm sitting on the bench, my spirits sort o' low, And playing memory ball games in the League of Long Ago. I played with Old Buck Ewing just before Buck blew the game, I played with Jimmy Ryan in the days of Anson's fame. Then I was just a fresh young kid, and they were getting old, But not one slur they gave me when I broke into the fold. That's why I like Kid Casey, and I'll plug like sin for him, I told Mack only yesterday my eyes were getting dim. And so I'm sitting on the bench, my spirits sort o' low, And playing memory ball games in the League of Long Ago. THE LONGEST HIT ON RECORD I've heard of hits by Wagner, hits that scaled the left field fence, I've read about full many a clout tremendous and immense; I know about that old time wheeze where Ryan hit a ball That lit upon a steamer due in London late that Fall. But the longest hit on record was a hit by Dan O'Shay When the Bankers played the Brokers just five years ago to-day. Dan played left field or right field, I can't remember which, But when it came to batting--well, Dan had the batter's itch. His fellow brokers often said--perhaps they did but joke-- They spent their all repairing baseball fences Danny broke. But the longest hit Dan ever made, as I set out to say, Was made against the Bankers just five years ago to-day. A banker named O'Connor waited out in centre field When Dan O'Shay came to the plate, his nerves all calm and steeled. Dan hit the ball an awful soak, O'Connor clenched his teeth, And after quite a fearsome sprint, the ball he got beneath. Just as he caught the pellet two detectives hove in sight; He put the ball inside his shirt and told the gang "GOOD NIGHT!" He ran to far-off Labrador, the land of ice and snow, And everywhere O'Connor went the ball was sure to go. From there he went to Canada, from there he made Bengal, Then journeyed he to Mandalay, accompanied by that ball. And then he tried Australia, seeking diamonds in the dirt, But all the time he kept that ball he'd hidden in his shirt. He didn't like Australia, so he trekked to many a land, From Greenland's icy mountains clear to India's coral strand. He sweltered in strange deserts, onward, onward, day by day, But always kept that baseball hit so hard by Dan O'Shay. If you ever go to Sing Sing, which I hope you never will, You'll find O'Connor in a cell with that same horsehide pill. * * * _Yes, the longest hit on record was a hit by Dan O'Shay, When the Bankers played the Brokers, just five years ago to-day._ THE UMPIRE'S HOME Where does an umpire live? You ask me that? Come, I will take you to an umpire's flat. Ah! Here we are! 'Tis five flights up, behind; Umpires are used to hiding--they don't mind. This is the entrance. It's a bachelor's den, For umpires aren't often married men. The owner's not at home, but come with me; I know him well and have an extra key. This is the library; note well the books, Dingy and dismal, like the umpire's looks. "Lives of the Martyrs," "The Deserted Home," "Dante's Inferno," "Rise and Fall of Rome." "Paradise Lost," "The Sinking of the Maine," "Ballad of Reading Gaol," and "Souls in Pain." "The Death of Joan of Arc," "The Convict's Woe," And all the works of Edgar Allen Poe. This is the dining room, all done in black, With rugs of drab and tapestries of sack Notice the mottoes on the gloomy walls: "Drink to the countless strikes that I called balls," "A toast to all the close ones that I miss," "A curse upon the man who loves to hiss!" Where does an umpire live? You ask me that? Well, I have shown you through an umpire's flat. "YELLOW" He wasn't a strong looking fellow, And roughnecks played ball in those days; The ballgamers christened him "Yellow" Because of his mild, timid ways. Red Flynn slapped his face to a whisper One day when he missed a fly ball, And his jaw almost broke when he got a swell soak From the fist of Outfielder McCall. I used to feel sorry for "Yellow," The gang made his life one long moan. He wasn't a strong looking fellow, They ought to have let him alone. I've found, in my baseball excursions, From Maine to the parks way out West, That the players who win and draw down the tin, Are the players who throw out the chest. But courage is courage, I reckon; It's hard to explain, but it's true; And sometimes a fellow that people call yellow Turns out to be brave and true blue. One day when a hit meant a pennant Our "Yellow" came up to the bat; Did he quit in the pinch? Did he falter and flinch? Sure he did. He struck out like a rat! THE UMPIRE He was tall and rugged and coated with tan, He asked no odds and he feared no man. When he shouted "Strike!" or yelped "Ball Two!" You can wager it went, and went clear through. Seldom he argued, and never he fined The player who cursed or the player who whined, But he ran the game from beginning to end, Knew no mercy and feared no friend. Six years in the league he remained the same, Sneering at kickers and bossing the game, Snapping at roughnecks who made foolish howls, Slapping them, sometimes, fair on the jowls; Taking no talk, always making good, He ran the game as an umpire should, Till every paper and every fan Allowed that Flynn was a fearless man. Flynn weighed two hundred, ringside weight, His sweet little wife weighed a hundred and eight; But when he finished the daily game And home to his small apartment came It was "Mike, you're late!" and "Stay in the flat!" "Mike, do this!" and "Mike, do that!" 'Twas surely a shame, and almost a sin, The way that she bullied the fearless Flynn. * * * Kipling knew nothing concerning the Flynns When he wrote about "bearing the yoke." A woman is only a woman, perhaps, But an umpire's only a joke. "CHOOSING SIDES" Baseball, they say, has changed a heap; I guess it has, in spots, And yet I liked it better when we played it on the lots. There were no signs for "hit and run," no dazzling "fadeaways"; We had no high-priced managers to tell us fancy plays. No, we were just a lot of kids, with tanned and freckled hides; There were no concrete grand stands when we played at "choosing sides." I saw a ball game yesterday, and o'er a brass band's blare The cheers of thirty thousand fans were soaring through the air. The turnstiles had been clicking for three solid golden hours, Recording wealth and profit for the big league baseball powers. How soon we lose our play days! How swiftly childhood glides! There were no clicking turnstiles when we played at "choosing sides." The captains used to toss a bat, and then, hand over hand-- But why repeat a story every boy must understand? Then came the careful picking--"I'll take Reddy." "Give me Flynn." "I'll choose you, Skinny Murphy." "I'll take you, Pat McGinn." They picked the live ones first, of course, and finished with the snides; Feelings were often ruffled when we played at "choosing sides." Dear reader, you'll remember, if you peek into the past, The little four-eyed fellow that was always chosen last. The little weak-kneed urchin that the captain would ignore Until he found by counting, that he needed one man more. He couldn't bat, he couldn't field, and yet that shrimp to-day Is making laws in Congress, while his captain drives a dray. ODE TO A GEORGIA GENT A shudder ran around Forbes Field When Tyrus Cobb stole home. The brain of Honus Wagner reeled When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Manager Clarke his temples clasped, The Pirate rooters simply gasped-- Their tenderest feelings had been rasped When Tyrus Cobb stole home. The Pirate pitcher's heart stood still When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Gibson, the catcher, had a chill When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Large gobs of smoke began to crawl Across the ball yard, like a pall, And gloom was brooding over all When Tyrus Cobb stole home. The rooters from Detroit went mad When Tyrus Cobb stole home. A very pleasant time was had When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Small wonder that they shouted so; In Hughey Jennings's town, we know, The burglar list is sure to grow Since Tyrus Cobb stole home. LIFE AND BASEBALL Winter howled around the corners of the old-time grocery store, Where the baseball star was sitting, giving out his baseball lore. Every day he told the neighbors in his little Western town How he hit the curves of Matty and the shoots of Miner Brown. "No, I ain't signed up this season," he would tell the gaping throng, "And I won't sign boys, believe me, till the check looks good and strong. John T. Brush knows where to find me, and he knows I'll play the game When I get a good fat contract"--but the contract never came. "Maybe I'll go South to Texas," said a gawky young recruit, "If the contract that they send me names a salary that will suit. Why, they're crazy for new talent; all the papers tell me so, And your little Uncle Dudley isn't out to skip the dough. I can play that third sack, fellows, just as well as Devlin can, And I won't take half a paycheck, when I'm every inch a man. When I get my kind of contract, I'll jump out and grab the fame, Not till then will I get busy"--but the contract never came. Life is but a game of baseball, with its players everywhere; Some are sulking in their wigwams, some are out to do and dare. Some are working, working, working, turning labor into fun; Others talk of future conquests, and depart with nothing done. Far beyond the clouds and sunlight dwells a magnate wondrous kind, With a million, million contracts always waiting to be signed. Yours, my friend, the task of trying; yours alone the bitter blame, If you tell, when life is ebbing, how the contract never came. WHAT HAPPENED TO HILO Horatio Hilo was a bird, He used to romp from first to third On any kind of single. He played the sun-field like a master, You never saw a fielder faster, And oh, how he could bingle! Horatio Hilo played out West, Where man develops to his best, And Eastern scouts all watched him; They trailed him through the month of June, They said, "Him for the big league soon," And finally they cotched him. Horatio joined a big league team, Thus gratifying boyhood's dream, And got the rooters rooting; He was the captain of the crew At spearing flies and ground balls, too; He never thought of booting. One night when Jack Frost whispered zero, A man named Fletcher met our hero And offered him a salary So large and thick and fat and round That it would reach from near the ground Clear to the upper gallery. Horatio listened, felt the clutch, And subsequently got in Dutch, His former chieftain fired him. The chieftain watched his bowed down head, And, asked for explanation, said Horatio tired him. "All right!" Horatio said, "you betcher I'll go and get some coin from Fletcher," But he was snubbed that morning. So, baseball players, if you're wise, And think you'd like to Fletcherize, Hark to the Gypsy's warning! I WAS WITH CLARKE "I was with Clarke," the pitcher said To the Pittsburg millionaire. The rich man bowed his silvery head To the pitcher standing there. "Enough, good man! Give me your mitt! Walk right in, I implore. Fred Clarke or any friend of his Finds here an open door." "I was with Clarke," the pitcher said. "Never mind," the rich man cried. "Right over there is a Morris chair-- Come, sit you by my side. And so you pitched for Clarke. Well, well! Try a flagon of this wine, For any friend of Frederick Clarke Is sure a friend of mine." "I was with Clarke," the twirler said. "So you told me," said his host. "Fill up your glass, and let me pass The best cigar I boast." "As I was saying," the pitcher cried, Taking a puff and sip, "As I was saying, I was with Clarke On one Spring training trip!" Then from his cozy seat arose That Pittsburg millionaire. He grabbed the stranger by the nose And yanked him from his chair. And then he closed the truthful eyes And split the lower lip Of the man who was with Frederick Clarke On one Spring training trip. "HOME FOLKS" "Stranger, give me a chaw of terbaccer," Came from the lanky Georgia "cracker." "Know Ty Cobb? Wal, you bet we do! Desperate youngster, tough clear through! This is his home, but we ain't too proud. We hope he'll stay with that Dee-troit crowd. From all we hear, he spends his nights Roamin' the streets and havin' fights. And when he's playin', from what folks say, He spikes a baserunner every day. Stranger, we're all his father's friends, But them wild young blades all strikes bad ends!" "Is this where Mathewson lives?" I asked Of a peaceful person, who calmly basked Up on the side of a sunny hill O'erlooking the town of Factoryville. "He was born here, stranger," the native said. "What is the matter? Is he dead? I wouldn't be sorry, to tell the truth, For there is a mighty swelled up youth! They tell me, those that follows them things, Matty is one of baseball's kings. That's a knock for him and his folks, I say, 'Cause baseball is crooked, anyway!" Then I went to the home of John McGraw, And hearkened well to the natives' jaw. They mentioned John in a manner grim, And told of all that they had on him. And I went to the home of François Chance, Hearing them give their idol the lance. And to many another home I went, Finding this truth to be evident: He who wins fame by moving away To a big league town will be wise to stay! THE OUTFIELDER'S DREAM Wild was the night, yet a wilder night Hung 'round the fielder's pillow, For he dreamt that night of his wondrous might With the ash, also known as the willow. A few fond cockroaches lingered near, From the mouldy moulding pouring; They knew, by the sounds that smote the ear, That the hard hitting demon was snoring. They knew by the way he floundered there, By the murmurs hastily spoken, That he dreamed a bit of his home run hit The day that the fence was broken. They knew that he dreamed of his record grand, His wonderful batting and fielding, That he always hit safe when Ty Cobb fanned, That he had the pitchers yielding. Wild was the night in the farming town, Wild as the wildest battle, Then the father's voice rang out, "Come down And feed them gol dern cattle!" The cockroaches back to the moulding crept, The sleeper rose from the clover; And into his boots he deftly leapt-- The outfielder's dream was over. THE LAW OF AVERAGES _The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down._ * * * Spike Mulligan, the shortstop brave, who led the league in hitting, And drew one thousand bones a month for tending to his knitting, Is working in the corner store, slaving to beat the band, And drawing fifteen seeds a month for selling sugared sand. O'Halloran, the pitcher, who was certainly a hummer, And got a prince's ransom for the work he did last Summer, Is keeping books this Winter for a shop that deals in buckets, And getting for the same each month as much as twenty ducats. McGonnigal, the fielder fleet, who hit like mad all season, And got a monthly envelope that seemed beyond all reason, Is driving team in Grangerville, and adding to his hoard By drawing down a salary of five a week and board. McGinn, the famous backstop, who could throw so well to bases, And who received last season fifty-seven hundred aces, Is throwing cordwood on a sled, far from the rooters' gaze, And getting eighteen dollars cash for every thirty days. * * * _The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down._ A CONVERTED ROOTER Say, on the level, fellows, just a year ago to-day I wouldn't give a nickel for to watch them Yankees play; The Joints was good enough for me, and since I was a kid I hustled to the Polo Grounds and seen each stunt they did. Yankees? Well, say, I couldn't see the Yankees with a glass; I'd always say their style of play was very much high grass. Yes, it was all the Polo Grounds--I never missed a game; I'd go if I was blind and deaf and paralyzed and lame. When Matty pitched I'd lose my head and outlung all the boys-- The ushers put me out once, when I made too blame much noise. When Farrell's club was here instead, I used to go to Coney, Because I always figgered that the Yanks was only phony. But, say! I've changed my mind a lot, and that's no showgirl's dream; If Farrell hadn't been all white, the Joints would be no team. They didn't have no home at all after the fire that time, But Farrell says, "Use my grounds, boys; I hope it helps you climb." A guy that does a thing like that, without no hot-air mush, Can have my fifty cents a day, the same as John T. Brush! TO THE LADY BUGS Lady Bug, Lady Bug, don't you fly home-- Stay till the ninth ere deciding to roam; Don't you despair when the outlook seems blue, Be a game Lady Bug--see the game through! "Why does that man wear those things on his shins?" "How can we tell, when it's over, who wins?" "Which is the umpire? Tell me, George, please, And what do they mean when they call him a cheese?" "Isn't that Matty, that little boy there? What--that's the bat boy? Well, I do declare!" "Why do they throw to that man on first base?" "Hasn't that Indian got a fine face?" "What do they mean when they yell at each other?" "Don't you think Wiltse looks just like my brother?" "Can't I keep score just as well without paper?" "See Mister Latham, the way he can caper!" "Isn't this grand? I could come here at noon!" "Well, I declare! Is it over so soon?" Lady Bug, Lady Bug, feathers and fuss, Ask all the questions you want to of us. Maybe we'll kid you, but, please, don't you care; Baseball is better because you are there. POLO IN ARIZONA "How are you, pal?" said Phoenix Phil, when he saw me late last night; "I'm back from the polo game," said I, "let's go and get a bite." "These polo games are funny enough," said my Arizona friend, "With all their swell society folks and style without no end; But a polo game worth hiking sixty thousand miles to see Was a game we played on the desert once," said Phoenix Phil to me. "An English guy with an extra eye," said my Arizona friend, "Had taught us the game of polo, from beginning clean to end. The Prescott Kid on Old Katydid was the star we banked on most, For the Kid was cool as a pickle and fast as a midnight ghost. Old Katydid, Kid's pet bronco, was smarter than 'K. & E.,' Which is saying a lot for a bucking horse," said Phoenix Phil to me. "Well, the English guy with the extra eye picked a team of his English pals, And we played a game of polo for the Phoenix boys and gals. But the game ain't more than started when the Prescott Kid gets gay And into the thick of the playing he bucks with his outlaw gray. Them English was game as pebbles, but they broke and then they hid, Which wouldn't surprise you much, pal, if you saw Old Katydid. * * * _"Polo here in the East is fine, where hosses has pedigree, But Old Katydid was the break-up Kid," said Phoenix Phil to me._ THE LADDIES' LEAGUE The Grown-up Fan, a wealthy man, sat in his grandstand seat, Gray hair and worry for his head, gout for his puffy feet. Watching the New York Giants beat the Cincinnati team, He closed his eyes an instant and he dreamed a lightning dream. The horsehide spheres changed suddenly to battered ten-cent balls, And spotless uniforms of white became blue overalls. Gone were the high-priced athletes with the letters on their breasts; A lot of urchins showed instead, minus their coats and vests-- No blue-clad umpire ran the game with frown and raucous yell-- The kids just ran the game themselves, and ran it mighty well. "One Old Cat" and a slivered bat and shanks that scorned fatigue Were quite the whole equipment in the famous Laddies' League. "It's funny," said the Grown-up Fan, his vagrant vision o'er, "But baseball of this high-class type is something of a bore. Maybe it's all too flawless as they run the game to-day-- It doesn't grip me, somehow, like the games we used to play." The Grown-up Fan, a worn old man, began his homeward climb With memories of the Laddies' League that bars us all in time. THE $11,000 BEAUTY Of course, McGraw is always wrong--he never picks a winner. That's why the Giant's backers never have the price for dinner. His record as a manager is one long trail of blunders-- He always kept the dead ones and he always canned the wonders. For three long years, with hoots and jeers, the rooters cried: "You boob! Why don't you fire this Marquard?" But McGraw stood pat on "Rube." McGraw has often kept young chaps when rooters shouted "Sell them!" He never tells the rooters why, and doesn't have to tell them. He doesn't like a lobster, and, believe me, Alexander, He wasn't on a dead one when he kept that big left-hander. You've no idea how many fans called John McGraw a boob For letting other youngsters go and standing pat on "Rube." Rich merchants criticised McGraw in terms that were unkind-- Merchants with lazy shipping clerks and men that robbed them blind. But Mac just smiled and held his peace. He should have said: "Don't whine! Mismanage your own business, boys, and let me _manage_ mine!" When Matty's cunning goes at last--all arms in time must tire-- He'll leave a great successor in the boy Mac wouldn't fire. THE LAY OF THE NEW YORK FAN Yes, the baseball season's over and the geese are flying South; Giants count their winnings gaily, Yanks are frothing at the mouth. Glancing o'er the season's records, looking at the layout now, Nothing seems to bring deep furrows to my pale and thoughtful brow. True, we didn't win the pennant as we did in days of yore For the Yankees couldn't stop 'em and the Giants couldn't score, But the New York fans must chuckle (you can get this at a glance) When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance. Oh, the Cubs of other seasons, how they made us writhe and curse! How they made us leave the ball yard moving slowly, a la hearse. Oh you Sheckard, oh you Schulte, oh you great Three Fingered Brown, Oh you little shortstop Tinker, idol of Chicago town! We have followed all your doings, we have seen you going back, And to-night we're burning incense at the shrine of Connie Mack. From the Battery to Harlem, rooters do a noisy dance When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance. Where Lake Michigan is seething as the seasons hasten on, Near the home of beef and bustle, near the home of Bathhouse John, Gloom has settled, fans feel nettled, nerves are right on edge like knives, Fathers spank their little children, husbands beat their trusting wives. But the rooters of Manhattan have no tales of woe to tell As they read their Sunday papers in the homes they love so well. Yes, they simply have to chuckle (you can get this at a glance) When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance. THE OLD ROOTER I saw them open yesterday, the Giants and their foemen, I saw them field and hit and run, the fast men and the slow men; The sky was just as blue above, the sod as green beneath As when the old-time Giants used to frisk around the heath. But Billy Gilbert wasn't there, Old Second Baseman Billy, Who used to pluck 'em from the air And drive the bleachers silly. I saw them open yesterday, I heard the turnstile clicking; I heard the popcorn venders' cry and heard the tickers ticking. The field was smooth as desert land, the multitude was shouting, And to the heavens rose the sound of clouting, clouting, clouting. But Michael Donlin wasn't there, The Mike they used to cheer for. "Come on, Mike, clout!" was all the shout We used to have an ear for. The Giants opened yesterday, an April day and sunny; They played before a New York crowd of fashion, fun and money. Grandstanders cheered, the young fans jeered; the crowd was standing, swaying, It made me sigh for days gone by, when first I saw them playing. But Dan McGann has gone away And Dahlen with his science; Mertes and Seymour couldn't stay-- The Giants opened yesterday But not the old-time Giants. "IF" (Wireless Apologies to Rudyard Kipling) If John McGraw can hold his health and cunning, If Matty's whip retains its fibre fine, If Raymond doesn't keep the lager running From Harlem to Tom Sharkey's down the line; If Ames can shake the hoodoo that has gripped him And bend them over as our Leon can, If Larry Doyle will fire the boots that tripped him, And field to suit the most exacting fan; If Harold Chase can keep his boys together, The veterans and the youngsters side by side, If Vaughn and Ford and Quinn can safely weather The season's storms and keep a winning stride; If Chase remains the friskiest of friskers Around the bag he plays so wondrous well; If Edward Everett Bell will trim his whiskers, New York may win two pennants--who can tell? NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS THE GAMBLERS A dramatic story of American Life. By CHARLES KLEIN and ARTHUR HORNBLOW, authors of "The Lion and the Mouse," "The Third Degree," "John Marsh's Millions," etc. 12mo, Cloth. 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ARTEMUS WARD Complete Comic Writings, 12mo, Cloth. $2.00. JOSH BILLINGS Complete Comic Writings. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $2.00. DEVOTA By AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. Illustrated (Third large printing.) $1.50. Transcriber's Notes: The decorative illustrations in the original text are not represented in this text version. 
31396	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 31396-h.htm or 31396-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31396/31396-h/31396-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31396/31396-h.zip) JACK WINTERS' BASEBALL TEAM Or, The Rivals of the Diamond by MARK OVERTON [Illustration: _Jack tried to keep the boy's head above water_] Made in U.S.A. M. A. Donohue & Company Chicago--New York Copyright 1919, by American Authors Publishing Co. Made in U.S.A. CONTENTS I. Three Boys of Chester 11 II. A Weak Link in the Chain 19 III. The Last Practice Game 28 IV. When Chester Awakened 37 V. Tied in the Ninth Inning 46 VI. Fred Put to the Test 55 VII. The Game Called by Darkness 64 VIII. The Puzzle Grows 73 IX. A Fairy in the Badger Home 81 X. The Warning 89 XI. Sitting on the Lid 98 XII. One Trouble After Another 107 XIII. When the Cramp Seized Joel 116 XIV. A Night Alarm 124 XV. What Happened at the Fire 133 XVI. A Startling Disclosure 142 XVII. Fred Renews His Pledge 150 XVIII. Hendrix Again in the Box 159 XIX. The Lucky Seventh 168 XX. After the Great Victory--Conclusion 177 JACK WINTERS' BASEBALL TEAM CHAPTER I THREE BOYS OF CHESTER "No use talking, Toby, there's something on Jack's mind of late, and it's beginning to bother him a lot, I think!" "Well, Steve, you certainly give me the creeps, that's what you do, with your mysterious hints of all sorts of trouble hanging over our heads, just as they say the famous sword of that old worthy, Damocles, used to hang by a single hair, ready to fall. Look here, do you realize, Steve, what it would mean if Jack went and got himself rattled _just now_?" "Huh! guess I do that, Toby, when, for one thing, we're scheduled to go up against that terrible Harmony nine day after tomorrow." "And if Jack is getting cold feet already, on account of something or other, I can see our finish now, Steve." "Still, we beat them in that first great game, don't let's forget that, Toby, and take what consolation we can from the fact." "Oh! rats! we know how that came about. They'd never been beaten the entire season by any team in the county, and had grown a bit careless. Because they had a clean record they believed they could just about wipe up the ground with poor old Chester, a slow town that up to this year had never done anything worth while in connection with boys' outdoor sports." "That's right, Toby. Never will I forget how humiliated I felt when they struck town on that glorious day. They came in a lot of cars and motor-trucks, with the Harmony Band playing, 'Lo, the Conquering Hero Comes,' and with whoops and toots galore from the crowds of faithful rooters. Why, bless you, they felt so confident of winning that they even left their star battery at home to rest up, and used the second string slab-team. But, oh! my eye! it was a saddened lot of Harmony fellows that wended their way back home, everybody trying to explain what had struck them to the tune of eleven to five. Wow!" "Great Cæsar! Steve, but didn't old Chester go crazy that same night, though, with the bonfires making the sky look red, and the boys yelling through the main streets in a serpentine procession, carrying Jack on their shoulders? The campus in front of the high school was packed solid when Professor Yardley made a speech, and congratulated our gallant team because we had that same day put Chester once for all on the map!" "But, shucks! Toby, the tables were sure turned on us when we went over to play that second game. Those chaps were on their toes that day, and it was Hendrix and Chase, their star battery, that fed us of their best." "Yes, we did lose, all right, but don't forget that we fought tooth and nail to the very last." "Say, that rally in the ninth was a thrilling piece of business, wasn't it, Toby? Why, only for our right fielder, Big Bob Jeffries, hitting that screamer straight into the hands of the man playing deep centre instead of lifting it over his head for a homer, we'd have won out. There were two on bases, you remember, with the score three to four." "Now we're tied, with one game each to our credit, and Harmony coming over the day after tomorrow to take our measure, they boast. Jack has been so confident ever since he picked up that new pitcher, Donohue, on the sand lots in town, that I'm puzzled a heap to know what ails him latterly." "One thing sure, Toby, Jack is bound to speak up sooner or later, and let his two chums know what's in the wind. I rather expect he agreed to meet us here today so as to have a heart-to-heart talk; and if so, it's bound to be about the matter that's troubling him." "I certainly hope so, because when you know the worst you can plan to meet the difficulty. And if only we could win the rubber in this series with Harmony, it'd make little old Chester famous." The two boys who were holding this animating and interesting conversation stood kicking their heels on a corner where the main street in the town was crossed by another. It was about ten o'clock on a morning in early summer. Chester seemed to be quite a bustling sort of town, located in the East. Considerable business was carried on in the place, for there were several factories running, employing hundreds of workers at good wages. Certainly no town in the broad land could be more advantageously located than the borough in which Toby Hopkins and Steve Mullane lived. It lay close to the shore of Lake Constance, a beautiful sheet of clear water three miles across at its broadest point, and at least twelve long, with many deep and really mysterious coves, and also bordered by quite a stretch of swampy land toward the south. Far up toward its northern extremity lay the Big Woods, where during winters considerable lumbering was done by a concern that had a camp there. As if that wonderful sheet of water were not enough to gratify the tastes of all boys who loved to skate and swim and fish and go boating, there was Paradise River emptying into the lake close by, a really picturesque stream with its puzzling bends and constantly novel views that burst upon the sight as one drove a canoe up its lazy current of a sunny summer afternoon. Toby was a character. He had an enviable disposition in that he seldom if ever showed a temper. His many peculiarities really endeared him to his boy friends. As he was apt to say when introducing himself to some newcomer in town, "My name is Hopkins, 'Hop' for short; and that's why they put me at short on the diamond; because I rather guess I can _hop_ to beat the band, if I can't do much else." But in Chester, it was well known among the admirers of the new baseball team, that by his "hopping" Toby managed to cover short as few fellows could. Seldom did the most erratic hit get past those nimble hands of his, that could stab a vicious stinging ball coming straight from the bat of a slugger, and apparently tagged for a two-bagger at least. Steve Mullane was of heavier build, and admirably suited for his position of catcher. He usually proved himself well worthy of the warm regard of Chester's rooting fans, who flocked to the games these days. And yet, Chester, now baseball mad apparently, had, until this season, seemed to be wrapped in a regular Rip Van Winkle sleep of twenty years, in so far as outdoor sports for boys went. Time and again there had been a sporadic effort made to enthuse the school lads in baseball, football, hockey, and such things, but something seemed lacking in the leadership, and all the new schemes died soon after they came on the carpet. Then a little event happened that put new life and "ginger" into the whole town, so far as the boys were concerned. A new boy arrived in Chester, and his name it happened was Jack Winters. From the very start it seemed as though Jack must have been meant for a natural-born leader among his fellows. They liked him for his genial ways, and soon began to ask his opinion with regard to almost everything that came along. During the preceding winter, Jack had started several things that turned out to be extremely successful. Rival hockey teams once more contested on the smooth ice of the frozen lake; also one or two iceboats were seen skimming over the great expanse of Constance, something that had not been known in half a generation. The backward boys of Chester began to talk as though big notions might be gripping them. If other towns no larger than the one in which they lived had gymnasiums, and regularly organized field clubs, with splendid grounds for athletic meets, what was to hinder them from doing the same? So in due time a new baseball team was organized, consisting not only of those who attended Chester High, but several fellows who worked in the factories, but had Saturday afternoons off. They had practiced strenuously, and under a coach who had been quite a famous player in one of the big leagues, until a broken leg put him out of business; Joe Hooker was now working in one of the factories, though just as keen at sports as ever. When, earlier in the season, Chester actually walked away with two games in succession from the pretty strong team at Marshall, the good people awakened to the fact that a revolution had indeed taken place in the boys of the town. A new spirit and ambition pervaded every heart. Doing things worth while is the best way to arouse a boy to a consciousness that he has a fighting chance. From what passed between Toby and Steve as they waited for their chum to join them, it can be seen that great things were hanging in the balance those days. In about forty-eight hours Harmony would be swarming into the town riding in all manner of conveyances, shouting and showing every confidence in the ability of their great team to take that deciding game. There was good need of anxiety in the Chester camp. Not once had Harmony gone down to defeat all season until that unlucky day when, scorning the humble newly organized Chester nine, they had come over with a patched-up team to "go through the motions," as one of them had sadly confessed while on the way home after losing. Ten minutes later and Toby gave an exclamation of satisfaction. "Here comes Jack!" he told his companion, and immediately both glued their eyes on the clean-limbed and bright-faced young fellow who was swinging toward them, waving a hand as he caught their signals. There was nothing remarkable about Jack Winters, save that he seemed a born athlete, had a cheery, winning way about him, and seemed to have a magnetism such as all born leaders, from Napoleon down, possess, that drew others to him, and made them believe in his power for extracting victory from seeming defeat. "Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, fellows," Jack remarked, as he joined them, "but a man stopped me on the street, and his business was of such importance that I couldn't break away in a hurry. But let's adjourn to a quieter place; over there in the little park under the trees I can see a bench that's empty. I've got something to tell you that nobody must hear except you two." "Does it have a bearing on the great game with Harmony, Jack?" begged Toby, who was a bit impatient after his way. "It may mean everything to us in that battle!" Jack admitted, as he headed for the bench in the small park. CHAPTER II A WEAK LINK IN THE CHAIN When Jack dropped down on the bench, the others crowded as close up on either side as they could possibly get. No one was near by, save a couple of nursemaids chatting and gossiping while they trundled their baby carriages back and forth; and they were too much engrossed in exchanging views of the gallant policeman on the block to notice three boys with their heads close together, "plotting mischief," as they would doubtless believe. "Now break loose and give us a hint what it's all about, please, Jack!" urged Toby. "Because both of us have noticed that something's been bothering you latterly," added Steve; "and as you're not the fellow to borrow trouble it's got us guessing, I tell you. Who's the weak brother on the team you're afraid of, Jack?" "I see your guessing has been in the right direction, Steve," the other went on to remark, with an affectionate nod; for in the few months he had known them, these new chums had won a warm place in Jack Winters' heart. "Don't be startled now when I tell you it's Fred who's keeping me awake nights." Both the others uttered low exclamations of surprise. "What! Fred Badger, our bully reliable third baseman, equal to that crackerjack Harmony boasts about as the best in the State!" gasped Toby. "Why, only yesterday I heard you say our Fred was getting better right along, and that his equal couldn't be easily found. We don't even need to keep a substitute back of Fred, his work is that gilt-edged." "That's just what's troubling me," admitted Jack, quietly. "If I was able to lay my hand on some one right now who could fill Fred's shoes even fairly well, I wouldn't be so bothered; but there isn't a boy in Chester who can play that difficult position so as not to leave a terrible gap in our stone-wall infield, no one but Fred." "But what's the matter with Fred?" demanded Steve. "I saw him not an hour ago," spoke up Toby, "and say, he didn't look so _very_ sick then, let me tell you, Jack. He was swallowing an ice-cream soda in the drug-store, and seemed to be enjoying it immensely, too." "And yet," added Steve, thoughtfully, "now that you mention it, Jack, seems to me Fred _has_ been acting a little queer lately. There's been a sort of shifting way he avoids looking straight into your eyes when you're talking with him. Why, when I got speaking about our next big game, and hoped he'd play like a regular demon at third sack he grinned sheepishly, and simply said he meant to try and do himself credit, but nobody could ever tell how luck was going to pan out." Jack shook his head. "That's just it, fellows," he went on to say, gloomily. "I've heard the same thing from others. In fact, Phil Parker even went on to say it looked like Fred was getting ready to excuse himself in case he did commit some terrible crime in juggling a ball when a vital time in the game came, and a clean throw meant win or lose." "I'd hate to see that spirit shown under any conditions," said Jack, "because it means lack of confidence, and such a thing has lost no end of games. It's the fellow who says he can and will do things that comes in ahead nearly every time. But listen, boys, that isn't the worst of this thing." "Gee whiz! what's coming now, Jack?" asked Toby, wriggling uneasily on the bench. "Of course you know that over in Harmony, which is a larger place than Chester, there is quite a sporting element," Jack continued. "Latterly, we've been told quite an interest has been aroused in the outcome of this deciding game between the two rival clubs; and that some rich sports from the city have even come up to make wagers on the result. I've heard gentlemen here tell this, and deplore the fact that such a thing could invade an innocent sport like baseball. You both know this, don't you, fellows?" "Yes," said Steve, quickly, "I've heard a lot of talk about it, and how they are determined to arrest anybody making an open bet on the game at the grounds when the crowd is there; but even that isn't going to prevent the laying of wagers in secret." "I ran across a Harmony fellow yesterday," Toby now remarked, eagerly, "and he said there was a terrible lot of excitement over there about this game. You see, the news about our new pitcher has leaked out, from the Chester boys doing considerable bragging; and they're going to play their very best to win against us. He also admitted that there was open betting going on, with heavy odds on Harmony." Jack sighed. "That all agrees with what came to me in a side way," he explained. "In other words, the way things stand, there will be a big lot of money change hands in case Harmony does win. And those sporting men who came up from the city wouldn't think it out of the way to pay a good fat _bribe_ if they could make sure that some player on the Chester team would throw the game, in case it began to look bad for Harmony!" Toby almost fell off his seat on hearing Jack say that. "My stars! and do you suspect Fred of entering into such a base conspiracy as that would be, Jack?" he demanded, hoarsely; while Steve held his very breath as he waited for the other to reply. "Remember, not one word of this to a living soul," cautioned Jack; "give me your solemn promise, both of you, before I say anything more." Both boys held up a right hand promptly. "I never blab anything, even in my sleep, Jack," said Steve; "and until you give permission never a single word will I pass along." "Same here," chirped Toby; "I'll put a padlock on my lips right away, and wild horses couldn't force me to leak. Now tell us what makes you suspect poor old Fred of such a horrible crime?" "I've tried to make myself believe it impossible," Jack commenced; "and yet all the while I could see that Fred has changed in the last ten days, changed in lots of ways. There's something been bothering him, that's plain." "Stop a minute, will you, Jack, and let me say something," interrupted Toby. "I wouldn't mention it even to you fellows only for this thing coming up. I chance to know why Fred has been looking worried of late. Shall I tell you, in hopes that it might ease your mind, Jack?" "Go on, Toby," urged Steve. "We ought to get at the bottom of this thing before it's too late, and the mischief done. Any player can throw a game, if he's so minded, and the opportunity comes to him, and mebbe not even be suspected; but as a rule, baseball players are far too honorable to attempt such tricks." "It's a secret over at our house," Toby went on to say. "My mother happens to know that Doctor Cooper told Mrs. Badger she could be a well woman again if only she went to a hospital in the city, and submitted to an operation at the hands of a noted surgeon he recommended. But they are poor, you know, boys, and it's next to impossible for them to ever think of raising the three hundred dollars the operation would cost. She told my mother Fred was making himself fairly sick over his inability to do something to earn that big sum. So you see the poor chap has had plenty of reason for looking glum lately." "I knew nothing about Fred's mother being sick," Jack admitted; "and I'm sorry to learn it now; but don't you see, your explanation only seems to make matters all the blacker for him, Toby?" "Why, how can that be, Jack?" "Only this, that while Fred might never be bribed to listen to any scheme to throw the game in favor of Harmony, on his own account, the tempting bait of three hundred dollars might win him over now, because of his love for his mother." "But, Jack, however could he explain where he got so much money?" cried Steve. "It would come out, and he'd be called on for an explanation. Even his mother would refuse to touch a cent dishonestly gained, though she died for it. Why, Fred would be crazy to think he could get away with such a game." "Still, he might be blind to that fact," Jack explained. "The one thing before his eyes would be that he could pick up the money so sorely needed, and for which he might even be tempted to barter his honor. All sorts of explanations could be made up to tell where he got the cash. But there's even something more than that to make matters look bad for Fred." "As what, Jack?" begged Toby, breathlessly. "Just day before yesterday," the other continued, "I chanced to pass along over yonder, and glancing across saw Fred sitting on this very bench. He was so busy talking with a man that he never noticed me. That man was a stranger in Chester, at least I had never seen him before. Yes, and somehow it struck me there was a bit of a sporty look about his appearance!" "Gee whiz! the plot thickens, and that does look black for Fred, I must say," grunted Toby, aghast. "I was interested to the extent of hanging around to watch them further," Jack went on to say, "and for half an hour they continued to sit here, all the while talking. I thought the sporty stranger glanced around a number of times, as though he didn't want any one to overhear a word of what he was saying. He seemed to have a paper of some sort, too, which I saw Fred signing. I wondered then if he could be such a simpleton as to attach his name to any dishonorable deal; but sometimes even the sharpest fellow shows a weak point. Now I know that Fred must be fairly wild to get hold of a certain sum of money, it makes me more afraid than ever he is pledged to toss away the game, if it looks as though Chester is going to win out on a close margin." "Then we ought to drop Fred out, and take our medicine with another man on third," proposed Steve, hotly. "I'd do that in a minute, and take no chances of foul play," said Jack, "if only we knew of anybody capable of filling his shoes. If Harmony knows a weak player covers third bag, they'll make all their plays revolve around him, that's sure. The only thing I can see is to let Fred keep on, and hope the game will not be so close that he could lose it for Chester by a bad break. Besides that I could have a heart-to-heart talk with him, not letting him see that we suspected his loyalty, but impressing it on his mind that every fellow in the team believed in him to the utmost, and that we'd be broken-hearted if anything happened to lose us this game on which the whole future of clean sport in Chester hangs." "That might do it, Jack!" snapped Toby, eagerly. "You've got a way about you that few fellows can resist. Yes, that's our only plan, it seems; Fred is indispensable on the team at this late stage, when a sub couldn't be broken in, even if we had one handy, which we haven't. Play him at his regular position, and let's hope there'll be no chance for double-dealing on his part." "But we'll all be mighty anxious as the game goes along, believe me," asserted Steve, as they arose to leave the vicinity of the bench. "I'll be skimpy with my throws to third to catch a runner napping, for fear Fred might make out to fumble and get the ball home just too late to nab the runner. And, Jack, try your level best to convince Fred that the eyes of all Chester will be on him during that game, with his best girl, pretty Molly Skinner, occupying a front seat in the grand stand!" CHAPTER III THE LAST PRACTICE GAME On the following morning, twice Jack walked around to where the humble cottage of the Badger family stood, on purpose to call on Fred, and have a chat with him; but on each occasion missed seeing the third baseman. His mother Jack had never met before, and he was quite interested in talking with her. Purposely Jack influenced her to speak of Fred, and his ambitions in the world. He could see that, like most mothers, she was very proud of her eldest son, and had an abiding faith in his ability to accomplish great things when later on he took his place in business circles. She had been a widow for some years. The house was very tidy, and a pretty flower and vegetable garden spoke well for Fred's early rising and assiduous labors as a young provider. When Jack purposely mentioned that he had heard something about her anticipating a visit to the city to spend a little while at a hospital, she shook her head sadly, and a look of pain crossed her careworn face as she said: "Dr. Cooper wants me to go and see his friend, who is a famous surgeon, but I'm afraid the cost is much more than I can afford at present, unless some miracle comes up before long. But I try to forget my troubles, and feel that I have much to be thankful for in my three children, all so healthy and so clever. Why, there's hardly a thing Fred wouldn't do for me. Ah! if only his father could have lived to see him now, how proud he would be of such a boy!" When Jack came away after that little interesting talk, he felt very down-hearted. What a shock it would be to his fond mother should she ever be forced to learn that her boy had taken money from those who were betting on the outcome of the great game, in order to betray his comrades who placed the most implicit confidence in his loyalty. Even though it were done with the best motive in the world, that of trying to make his mother a well woman again, she would bitterly regret his having yielded to such an ignoble temptation and fallen so low as to sell a game. Then came the last practice that afternoon, to prepare for the morrow, when Harmony's confident hosts would come with brooms waving, to indicate how they meant to sweep up the ground with poor Chester's best offering. Coach Hooker was on deck, for already the spirit of newly awakened sport had permeated the whole place, so that the boss at his factory gladly released him from duty for that special afternoon, in order that the Chester boys might profit from his sage advice. Fred did not show up until just before the game with the scrub team was being called, so that of course Jack could not find an opportunity just then to indulge in any side talk with the keeper of the third sack. He determined not to let anything prevent his walking home in company with Fred, however, and trying to see behind the mask which he believed the other was wearing to conceal the real cause of his uneasiness. The game started and progressed, with every fellow filled with vim and vigor. To those who had come to size up the team before the great battle, it seemed as if every member had made strides forward since the last match, when Harmony won out in that last fierce inning after the rally that almost put Chester on top. From time to time, each, individual player would seem to rise up and perform the most remarkable stunts. Now it was Joel Jackman, out in center, who made a marvelous running catch, jumping in the air, and pulling down a ball that seemed good for at least a three-bagger, also holding the horse-hide sphere even while he rolled over twice on the ground. Later on, a great triple play was pulled off, Winters at first to Jones on second, and home to Mullane in time to catch a runner attempting to profit by all this excitement. Such a wonderful handling of the ball in a match game would give the crowd a chance to break loose with mighty cheers, friends and foes joining in to do the clever athletes honor. Then there was Big Bob Jeffries, a terror at the bat; three times up, and each occasion saw him almost knock the cover off the ball, making two home runs, and a three-bagger in the bargain. Why, if only Big Bob could duplicate that performance on the following day, it was "good-night to Harmony." But then there was a slight difference between the pitcher of the scrub team and the mighty slab artist who officiated for Harmony; and possibly, Bob might only find thin air when he struck savagely at the oncoming ball, dexterously tagged for a drop, or a sweeping curve. Nevertheless, everybody seemed satisfied that the entire team was "on edge," and in the "pink of condition." If they failed to carry off the honors in that deciding game, there would be no valid excuse to offer, save that Harmony was a shade too much for them. Even though they might be defeated, they meant to fight doggedly to the end of the ninth inning, and feel that they had given the champions of the county a "run for their money." Win or lose, Chester had awakened to the fact that the local team was well worth patronizing. Another season would see vast improvements, and the time might yet come when Chester would write her name at the top of the county teams. All sorts of other open-air sports were being talked of, and there was a host of eager candidates ready to apply for every sort of position. Jack Winters had managed to awaken the sleepy town, and "start things humming," most fellows admitted, being willing to give him the greater part of the credit. So when the game was ended, the players gathered around Joe Hooker to listen to his frank criticisms, and pledge themselves anew to do their level best to "take Harmony's scalp" on the morrow. Jack kept on the watch, and both Toby and Steve saw what he was aiming at when he hurriedly left the group and walked quickly after Fred, who had started toward home. "Only hope he makes his point," muttered Toby to the other. "Fred certainly played like a fiend today. Nothing got by him, you noticed. He scooped that hummer from Bentley's bat off the ground as neat as wax. No professional could have done better, I heard Joe Hooker say. He thinks Fred is a jim-dandy at third, and that he's a natural ball player, strong at the bat, as well as in the field." Meanwhile, Jack had overtaken Fred, who, hearing his footsteps, turned his head to see who might be hurrying after him. Jack fancied he looked a trifle confused at seeing the captain of the team trying to come up with him, though that might only be imagination, after all. Still, doubtless Fred's mother must have mentioned the fact that Jack had been at the house twice that morning, as though he had something of importance to communicate. "I'm going your way, it happens, this afternoon, Fred," Jack remarked as he came up, "as I have an errand over at your neighbor, Mrs. Jennings, a commission for my mother; so I'll step alongside, and we can chat a bit as we walk along." "Glad to have your company, Jack," said Fred; but all the same he did not seem so _very_ enthusiastic over it. "The boys all worked like a well-oiled machine today, I noticed, and if only we can do as well in the big game, we ought to have a look in, I should think." "We've just _got_ to make up our minds we mean to win that game tomorrow, no matter how Hendrix pitches gilt-edged ball," Jack told him. "Every fellow must tell himself in the start that he will let nothing whatever interfere with his giving Chester of his very best. I don't care what it may be that stands in the way, we must brush it aside, and fight together to carry the day. Why, Chester will just go crazy if only we can down the boasting team that has never tasted defeat this season up to that fluke game, when they underestimated the fighting qualities of the rejuvenated Chester nine. And we can do it, Fred, we surely can, if only we pull together in team work, and every fellow stands on his honor to do his level best. You believe that, don't you, Fred?" The other looked at Jack, and a slight gleam, as of uncertainty, began to show itself in his eyes. Then he shut his jaws together, and hurriedly replied: "Of course I do, Jack. I'm not the one to show the white feather at such an early stage of the game. They've never accused _me_ of having cold feet, no matter how bad things seemed to be breaking for my side. In fact, I've been a little proud of the reputation I have of being able to keep everlastingly at it. Stubbornness is my best hold, I've sometimes thought." "Glad to know it, Fred, because that's a quality badly needed in baseball players. There's always hope up to the time the last man is down. Joe Hooker tells lots of wonderful stories of games he's seen won with two out in the ninth frame, and the other side half a dozen runs to the good. You are never beaten until the third man is out in the last inning. I'm glad to hear you say you mean to fight as never before in your life to get that game for the home club. Fact is, Fred, old fellow, I've been a little anxious about you latterly, because I thought you seemed upset over something or other, and I was afraid it might interfere with your play." Fred started plainly, and shot Jack a quick look out of the corner of his eye, just as though he might be asking himself how much the other knew, or suspected. "Well, the fact of the matter is, Jack, I have been feeling down-spirited over something. It's a family matter, and I hope you'll excuse me for not going into particulars just now. Day and night I seem to be wrestling with a problem that's mighty hard to solve; but there's a little ray of sunlight beginning to crop up, I don't mind telling you, and perhaps I'll find a way yet to weather the storm. I'm trying to feel cheerful about it; and you can depend on me taking care of third sack tomorrow the best I know how." "That's all I can ask of any man, Fred; do yourself credit. Thousands of eyes will watch every move that is made, and among them those we care for most of every one in the whole world. I heard Molly Skinner saying this afternoon that she wouldn't miss that game for all the candy in the world. She also said she had a favorite seat over near third, and would go early so as to secure it. A brilliant play over _your_ way would please Molly a heap, I reckon, Fred." The other turned very red in the face, and then, tried to laugh it off as he hastened to say in a voice that trembled a little, despite his effort to control it: "Yes, she told me the same thing, Jack, and it was nice of Molly to say it, for you know she's the prettiest girl in Chester, and a dozen boys are always hanging around her. Yes, I'd be a fool not to do myself proud tomorrow, with so many of my friends looking on; though of course any fellow might run into a bit of bad judgment and make a foozle, when he'd give five years of his life to work like a machine. I'm hoping, and praying, too, Jack, that such a streak of bad luck won't come my way, that's all I can say. Here's where I leave you, if you're bound for Jennings' place. If it's my promise to do my level best tomorrow you want, Jack, you've got it!" So they parted. Still, Jack was not altogether easy in his mind. He went over every little incident of their recent intercourse as they trudged along side by side; and wondered whether Fred, who was not very well known to him, could be deceiving him. He cudgeled his brain to understand what those strange actions of the third baseman could mean, and who that sporty looking individual, whom he had with his own eyes seen talking so mysteriously to Fred might be. CHAPTER IV WHEN CHESTER AWAKENED "Did you ever see such an enormous crowd?" "Beats everything that ever happened around Chester all hollow!" "Talk to me about excitement, the old town has gone stark, staring crazy over baseball; and it's all owing to Jack Winters coming to Chester, and shaking the dry bones of what used to be a Sleepy Hollow place." "Right you are, Pete, and this is only a beginning of the glorious things scheduled to happen within the next six months or so. Already there's great talk about a football eleven that will clean up things in this neighborhood. We've got the right sort of stuff to make up a strong team, too, remember." "And, Oliver, when I hear them speak of ice hockey, and skating for prizes, it gives me a heap of satisfaction, for you know I'm a crank on winter sports. Because the boys of Chester didn't seem to enthuse over such things has been the grief of my heart. But this day was certainly made for a thrilling baseball game." "Oh! the sky looks blue enough, and that sun is some hot, I admit, but somehow I don't exactly like the looks of yonder bank of clouds that keeps hanging low-down close to the horizon in the southwest. We get most of our big storms from that quarter, don't forget." A burst of derisive boyish laughter greeted this remark from the fellow named Oliver, who apparently was a bit of a pessimist, one of those who, while admitting that a day might be nearly perfect, chose to remember it was apt to be a weather-breeder, and bound to be followed by stormy times. "Listen to the old croaker, will you?" one Chester rooter called out. "How anybody could pick a flaw with this splendid day beats me all hollow. Why, it was made on purpose for Chester to lick that boasting Harmony team, and send them back home like dogs, with their tails between their legs. Hurrah for Chester! Give the boys a cheer, fellows, because there they come on the field." There was a wild burst of shouts from a myriad of boyish throats, and school flags, as well as other kinds, were waved from the grand-stand where most of the town girls sat, until the whole wooden affair seemed a riot of color in motion. The boys set to work passing the ball, and calling to one another as though they were full of business and confidence. Those in the audience who knew considerable about games felt that at least none of the home team suffered from stage fright. It looked promising. Evidently Jack Winters had managed to instill his nine with a fair degree of his own bubbling animation. They certainly looked fit to do their best in honor of their native town. There were hosts of the Harmony folks over. They had come, and still arrived, in all sorts of conveyances, from private cars to stages and carryalls; and from the great row they kicked up with their calls and school cries, one might think it was an open-and-shut thing Chester was fated to get a terrible drubbing on that decisive day. There were thousands on the field. Every seat in the grand-stand, as well as the commodious bleachers, was occupied, and countless numbers who would have willingly paid for a chance to take things comfortable, found it necessary to stand. Chester had reason to feel proud of her awakening; and since it seemed an assured fact that her boys could do things worth while, there was reason to hope the town on Lake Constance would never again allow herself to sink back into her former condition of somnolence. So long as Jack Winters lived there, it might be understood first and last that such a catastrophe would never happen. All eyes were upon the new pitcher who was yet to prove his worth. Most of those gathered to see the game only knew of Alec Donohue as a youngster who had been playing on the sand-lots, as that section near the factories was usually called, for there the toilers in the iron foundry and the mills were in the habit of playing scrub games. Jack had come across Donohue by accident, and apparently must have been struck with the amazing speed and control that the boy showed in his delivery. He had taken Alec under his wing from that day on, and coached him, with the assistance of old Joe Hooker, until he felt confident he had picked up a real wonder. Various comments were flying around, most of them connected with the newest member of the Chester team. "One thing I like about that Donohue," a rangy scout of the high school was saying to a companion wearing glasses, and looking a bit effeminate, though evidently quite fond of sport; "he acts as though he might be as cool as a cucumber. Those Harmony fellows in the crowd will do their level best to faze him, if ever he gets in a tight corner, and lots of things are liable to happen through a hard-fought game." "Oh! I asked Jack about that," observed the one with spectacles, "and he assured me the fellow seemed absolutely devoid of nerves. Nothing under the sun can bother him. He banks on Jack, and knows the captain has confidence in his work; so you'll see how all the jeering and whooping and stamping on the boards of the grand-stand will fail to upset him. Jack says he's an _iceberg_." "Glad to hear it, Specs. That kind of pitcher always has a big lead over the fellow who gets excited as soon as the enemy begins to lambast his favorite curves. The cool sort just changes his gait, and lobs them over between, so that he has the hard batters wasting their energy on the air long before the ball gets across the rubber." "Listen to all that whooping, Ernest; what's happening, do you think?" "Well, by the way they're standing up on the seats, and waving hats and handkerchiefs, I rather guess the Harmony players are coming along." His guess proved to be a true one, for a minute afterwards a big motor-stage entered the enclosure, and from it jumped a dozen or more athletic chaps clad in the spic-and-span white suits with blue stockings that distinguished the Harmony baseball team. Paying little or no attention to all the wild clamor, they ran out on the near field and commenced flinging several balls back and forth with astonishing vigor. From time to time the boys from the rival town would wave a hand at some enthusiastic friend who was trying to catch their eye from his position in the stand, or on the bleachers. The band had accompanied them aboard another vehicle. It now burst out with that same encouraging tune "Lo! the Conquering Hero Comes!" though the strains could hardly be heard above the roar of many lusty voices trying to drown each other out. Of a truth, Chester had never seen such a wonderful day. It seemed as though the wand of a magician must have been manipulated to awaken the hitherto sleepy town to such real, throbbing life. And every boy in the place, yes, and girl also, not to mention hundreds of grown-ups who were thrilled with such a magnificent spectacle, had determined that this would only be a beginning; and that Chester must, under no conditions, be allowed to fall back into that old dead rut. Why, they had just begun to discover what living meant, and learn what the right sort of a spirit of sport will bring to a town. It was now three, and after. The immense crowd began to grow impatient. Both teams had occupied the diamond in practice for fifteen minutes each, and many clever stunts were pulled off in clean pick-ups, and wonderful throws, which called forth bravos from the admiring spectators. Several pitchers on either side had also warmed up, and naturally the new recruit, Donohue, was watched much more closely than those whose offerings had been seen on previous occasions. He made no effort to disclose what he had in the way of various balls, his sole object, apparently, being to get his arm limbered up and in condition. Still, occasionally, he would send one in that caused a gasp to arise. "Did you see that speed ball zip through the air, Specs?" demanded the fellow who had been called Ernest by the one wearing glasses. "I tried to follow it, but lost out," admitted the other, frankly. "It's true, then, this Donohue must have a swift delivery, for I could always follow the ball when McGuffey hurled his best; and seldom lost one that speed-king Hendrix sent along. See how most of those Harmony chaps are looking out of the tail of their eyes at our man." "They're trying to size Donohue up, that's all," said the knowing Ernest. "I've heard it said, though not able to vouch, for the truth of the rumor, that they've had a scout over in Chester every day for a week past." "What for?" asked Specs. "Trying to get a line on Donohue's delivery so as to report whether he's the wonder they've been told. But Jack was too clever for them, I guess. They say he had his battery off practicing in secret most of the while; and whenever Donohue did pitch for the local games he was held back. That's why some people said they believed he must be over-rated, and might prove a disappointment. But Jack only gave them the merry ha! ha! and told them to wait and see." "But it's long after three right now, and still no sign of the game starting," continued Specs, a little anxiously. "Yes," spoke up Oliver from his seat near by, "and, believe me, that bank of clouds looks a mite higher than it did when the Harmony fellows arrived. Unless they jig up right smart now, we'll get our jackets wet, you mark my words." The others scoffed at his dismal prediction. With that bright sun shining up in the heavens, it did not seem possible that any such radical change in the weather could take place within a couple of hours. "Hey! Big Bob, what's the matter with starting this game right away?" called Ernest, as the stalwart right-fielder of the local team chanced to be passing in the direction of the players' bench after chatting with friends. "Umpire hasn't shown up yet!" called the accommodating Bob, raising his voice, as he knew hundreds were just as curious as Ernest concerning the mysterious reason for play not having commenced. "He had a break-down with his car on the way. Telephoned in that he would be half an hour late, and for them to get another umpire if they couldn't wait that long." "Well, apparently, they've decided to wait," said Specs, resignedly, settling back in his seat for another fifteen minutes of listening to the chatter of a Babel of tongues and merry laughter. "Good umpires are almost as scarce as hens' teeth; and that Mr. Merrywether is reckoned as fair and impartial as they make them. So the game will start half an hour late after all!" "Too bad!" Oliver was heard to say, with another apprehensive look in the direction of the southwest, as though to measure the location of that cloud bank with his weather-wise eye, and decide whether it gave promise of stopping play, perhaps at a most interesting stage of the game. Most of those present did not begrudge the half hour thus spent. Just then none of them could even suspect how great an influence the lost time might have in respect to the eventual close of a fiercely contested game. But, as we shall see later on, it was fated that the dismal prophecies of Oliver were to have some foundation; and time cut a figure in the eventual outcome of that great day's rivalry on the diamond. CHAPTER V TIED IN THE NINTH INNING The crowd stood up again, and there arose a jargon of cries followed by the appearance of a small wiry man dressed in blue, and wearing a cap after the usual type umpires prefer, so it seemed as though the delayed game would be quickly started. When Hendrix, the expert hurler from Harmony, mowed down the first three men who faced him, two by way of vain strikes at his deceptive curves, and the other through a high foul, the shouts of the visitors told what an immense number of Harmony people had come across to see their favorites effectually stifle the rising ambition of Chester's athletes on the diamond. Then came the turn of the locals in the field. Everything depended now on what Jack's new find could show in the way of pitching. Not an eye in that vast throng but was leveled at the youngster. It was certainly enough to try the nerve of any veteran, let alone a newcomer in the arena. When his first ball sped across with a speed that made it fairly sizzle, many of the Chester rooters gave a shout of approval. Hutchings, the reliable first baseman of the visitors, had struck vainly at the ball. It was doubtful whether he had really seen it flash past, though it landed with a thud in Mullane's big mitt. But the knowing ones from afar only laughed, and nodded their wise heads. They had seen speed before, and knew how often a pitcher "worked his arm off" in the start of a game, to fall a victim to their heavy batters later on. Unless this wonder of a youngster could stay with Hendrix through inning after inning, why, his finish could be seen. So they settled back in their seats with sighs of contentment, under the conviction that they might see a good game after all. "Hendrix needs something to make him pitch his head off," remarked one of the visiting fans, in the hearing of Specs and Ernest. "He's taken things too easy most of the time. Why, not once this season so far has he been touched for as many hits as Chester got in the last game. It made the big fellow wake up, and we hear he's been doing a lot of practice lately. Today he ought to shine at his best." "We all hope so, Mister," said Ernest, boldly, "because, unless the signs fail, he's going to need all his cunning this same day. That lad has the measure of your hard hitters already taken. Did you see him mow down Clifford then like a weed? Why, he'll have the best of them eating out of his hand before the day is done, believe me." The gentleman only laughed. He could make allowances for a boy's natural enthusiasm. They did not know Hendrix at his best, as the Harmony folks did. He needed a little scare to force him to exert himself to the utmost. Yes, it really promised to be something of a game, if only the youngster kept going for half a dozen innings before he went to pieces, and the ball commenced to fly to every far corner of the field. When the play was called the two nines on the diamond were lined up as follows: Chester Harmony -------------- ----------- -------------- Jack Winters First Base Hatchings Phil Parker Left Field Clifford Herbert Jones Second Base Martin Joel Jackman Centre Field Oldsmith Toby Hopkins Shortstop Bailey Big Bob Jeffries Right Field O'Leary Fred Badger Third Base Young Steve Mullane Catcher Chase Alec Donohue Pitcher Hendrix The first inning ended in no hits on either side. It looked very much as though the game might turn out to be a pitchers' duel. Some people like that sort of battle royal, but in the main the spectators would much rather see a regular old-fashioned batting fest, especially if it is _their_ side that is doing most of the hitting. Again did Hendrix start in to dazzle the locals with an exhibition of his wonderfully puzzling curves and drops. He certainly had them guessing, and in vain did they try to get the ball out of the diamond. Joel Jackman, the first man up, did manage to connect with the ball, perhaps by sheer accident. At the crack everybody held his or her breath and waited, for Joel was long-legged and a noted sprinter, so if only he got on first there might be some hope of succeeding batters working him around the circuit. But Martin out near second made a leap, and snatched the ball off the ground as easily as though it were a habit of his to get anything that came within reach. He took his time to recover, and then sent the sphere to first as accurately as a bullet fired from a rifle. Toby fouled three times, and then whiffed; while the swatter of the team, Big Bob, let a good one go by, and then vainly smote the air twice, for his judgment was certainly at fault, and the ball not where he thought it was. Once again did Donohue step into the box, and after a few balls to Mullane, the first batter, Oldsmith, strode forward swinging his club, and looking especially dangerous. But when he only swung at the air, and backed away from the plate, shaking his head as though puzzled to know what it all meant, long and lusty yells broke out from the loyal Chester rooters. Bailey, the alert little shortstop, managed to touch a whizzing ball, and send up a skyrocketing foul which Mullane amidst great excitement managed to get under, and smother in that big mitt of his. Next in line came the terrible O'Leary. He was a swatter from away back, and all sorts of stories were circulated as to the number of home runs he had to his credit up to date. Donohue looked perfectly cool and confident. He continued to send them in with a dazzling delivery. O'Leary allowed two to pass by, one strike being called on him by the alert umpire. Then he picked out a nice one, and there was an awful sound as he smote it with all his might and main. Every one jumped up, and necks were stretched in the endeavor to follow the course of that wildly soaring ball, looking like a dot against the low sky-line. "A homer!" shrieked scores of delighted Harmony fans. "Watch Joel! He's after it!" shouted the local rooters, also thrilled by the spectacle of the long-legged centre fielder bounding over the ground like a "scared rabbit," as some of them said to themselves. They saw Joel jump into the air and make a motion with his hand. Then he rolled over with a mighty lunge, but scrambled to his feet holding his hand aloft, to almost immediately hurl the ball in to Jones on second. It had been a terrific swat, likewise a most amazing catch; and all of the yelling that burst forth was for Joel, who came trotting in, grinning happily, as though he rather liked that sort of thing. And so the great game went on, inning after inning, amidst excitement that gripped every one present like a vise. When in the sixth Harmony managed to get a man on first through a fluke Texas leaguer, and began to work him along by bunt hitting, it looked dangerous for the locals. In the end, the visitors scored through a slip on the part of Herb Jones on second, who allowed the ball to get away from him because of his nervousness. The run was not earned, but it might decide the game, many people believed. Jack put more ginger into his crowd when they went to bat in turn. The result of it was he himself made a neat single, and the crowd woke up to the fact that possibly Hendrix might not be so invincible as he was rated. Up stepped Phil Parker with a grin, and pasted the sphere out in short left, advancing the runner a base with himself safely anchored on first. Jones did his duty and bunted, so that while he went out the runners were now on second and third with only one down. It was amusing to see how the staid elderly men of Chester became excited at this critical juncture of the game. They could hardly keep their seats, and were watching the movements of those occupying the diamond as though the fate of nations depended on the outcome of this bitter rivalry in sport. Joel Jackman was next. He, too, connected with the ball, but, alas, only to send up a tremendous foul that was promptly caught, after a smart run, by Clifford in short left field. Everything depended on Toby Hopkins now. Toby was not known as a heavy hitter, but managed to connect frequently. He was due for a hit, the crowd yelled at him; whereupon the obliging Toby shot a swift one straight at Young on third. It was a hard ball to trap, and Young juggled it. Jack started like a blue streak for home as soon as he saw Toby had connected. He made a slide that carried him over the rubber just before Chase had the ball. It meant that the score was tied, with men on first and third, and two out. Such shouts as broke forth, the very air seemed to quiver. Hope ran high as Bob Jeffries stepped up, swinging his bat. Alas! he failed miserably to connect with those puzzling curves of Hendrix, and after two vain strikes popped up a little infield fly to the pitcher that, of course, finished the exciting inning. The game went on, without any more scoring until finally the ninth inning came. Both pitchers were doing as well or better than in the start, and it looked as though extra innings would be the rule. Such an outcome to a game always arouses great enthusiasm among the spectators. A few began to notice the fact that the sun was long since hidden by the rising clouds, and that overhead the blue had given place to a gray that looked suggestive of trouble. Oliver in particular called attention to the fact that no matter how the other fellows had made fun of his prediction about the weather, it was likely to come true after all. If the game went into extra innings some of that mighty host of spectators might get soaking wet before they could find shelter. Harmony was out to win the game in this inning. They had managed to get a line on Donohue's speed ball, or else guessed when it was coming over, for the first man up, Clifford, got a safety past short that Toby only stopped by such an effort that he rolled over, and by the time he could deliver the ball to Jack the runner had gone leaping past the bag and was safe. Pandemonium broke loose just then. The Harmony crowd yelled and whooped and carried on as though a legion of real lunatics had broken out of an asylum near by. "Here's where we clinch the game, Chester!" "It's all over!" "Martin, your turn to swat the bean!" "Get Donohue going at last. The best pitcher may go to the wall once too often, especially the Harmony well!" "Now make it three this inning, boys, and we'll forgive you for holding back all this time!" These and dozens of other cries could be heard. They were partly intended to flustrate the Chester slab-artist, and make him send in the ball wildly, so that the next man might be given his base, something that had only occurred once thus far with Donohue. But Jack sent him a cheering word, and Donohue seemed as cool as ice as he proceeded to serve Captain Martin with his choice swift ones. CHAPTER VI FRED PUT TO THE TEST Through the game, Jack had been observing just how Fred Badger carried himself. Since hits were so few and far between thus far, he had not had a great deal to do in the field. Once he ran in on a bunt, and got it to first in time to cut off the runner. No one could have carried out the play in better shape. Another time he took a hot liner straight off the bat, and received a salvo of cheers from the crowd, always pleased to see such clever play, no matter on which side it occurs. At bat Fred had not succeeded in shining brilliantly. Hendrix was apparently a puzzle to him, as to many another player. He struck out twice, and perished on a foul another time; but there could be no doubt Fred was trying his best to get in a drive that might be effectual. Jack noticed that he often cast glances in the direction of the grand-stand where a number of enthusiastic Chester girls sat, and waved their flags or handkerchiefs whenever anything occurred that aroused their admiration. He remembered that pretty Molly Skinner was seated there. Fred evidently had not forgotten that fact either, and Jack found himself hoping it might have considerable influence with the sorely tempted third baseman, in case he were finally put to the test. Martin was apparently out for a hit, if one could judge from his determined attitude as he stood there at the plate, and swung his bat back and forth in his own peculiar fashion, meanwhile watching the pitcher like a hawk. The coaching had become vehement, Harmony players seeking to unnerve Donohue by running back and forth around first, until the umpire called a halt on this proceeding, after Jack had drawn his attention to the infringement of the rules. Then Martin swung. He missed connection, and a groan arose from his crowd, while the Chester contingent cheered Donohue lustily. But Martin only smiled. Such a little thing as that was not going to faze him. He had still two more chances, and the next time he would make more certain. A deathly silence fell upon the crowd, waiting to see whether Harmony could pull the game out of the fire in the ninth, as had happened several times that same season, for they were famous on account of their rallies. Martin had a second strike called on him, though he made no effort to go after the ball. In fact, it must have passed him so speedily that he could not properly gauge whether it would be a strike or a ball. Then suddenly Donohue, taking his cue from a motion Jack made, changed his pace. Although he went through exactly the same gyrations as though about to send up another swift one, the ball came lazily floating through the air, and Martin was seen to viciously stab with his bat long before there was any chance to make connections. Bedlam broke loose again at that. Auto horns and sirens tooted strenuously, boys shrieked through megaphones, girls waved their flags furiously, and Donohue was greeted with encouraging shouts from every side. Really, he was working wonderfully well considering that he could be called a newcomer to the diamond. In time he was certain to make a name for himself among the big clubs, if some wandering scout ever heard of him, and visited Chester to size his work up. But here came Oldsmith, and there was that about his manner to proclaim how his whole heart was bent on making at least a single, if not better, so that Harmony might break the tie, and get the home team on the run. "Take him into camp, Alec!" "You've got his measure all right, old scout! Twice before he whiffed, and he's in line to make it three times!" "Feed him your best sizzlers, Donohue!" "Oldsmith, you're a back number today, don't you know?" Then they heard the bat connect with the ball. Clifford was off toward second in great style. Toby Hopkins threw himself and managed to stop the shoot that was headed for centre, but he could not get to Jones on second in time to nail the runner, for the umpire held up his hand, and that meant Clifford was safe. Again things began to look dark for Chester. Harmony had "found" Donohue at last, it seemed, and there could be no telling when the salvo of hits could stop. Perhaps the game would be "sewed up" right there, in case Harmony scored, and Hendrix shut his opponents out when their turn at bat came. Now it was Bailey up. The little shortstop was primed for anything. He struck at the first ball, and knocked a foul which dropped safe. Then he missed the next ball so that he was "two in the hole." Of course it was expected that Donohue would now try to deceive him by tempting him with a curve that would be wide of the plate; but Jack had signaled for a third one straight, and it came with swiftness. Bailey was ready, however, and knew he had to strike, for it would count against him at any rate. He got a fluke hit that started toward first. By jumping in Jack managed to pick up the ball, and then having touched the bag, he hurled it toward second in hopes of making a double play. Oldsmith, however, had made a fine slide, and was clutching the corner of the second sack when Jones took the ball; while Clifford had won third. There were now two down, with men on second and third. Everything depended on the next batter, and when it was seen to be that formidable slugger O'Leary, the home-run maker, how those Harmony rooters did scream. Some of the more irresponsible took to dancing like idiots, clasped in each other's arms. In fact, every known device for "rattling" a pitcher was resorted to, of course legitimately, in order to further their waning cause. Eagerly did many of the local fans watch to see whether Donohue gave any evidence of going to pieces. He seemed as cool as ever, and smiled as he handled the ball; while O'Leary was knocking his big bat on the ground to test its reliability, as though he meant to put it to some good service then and there. He was seen to turn his head and grin toward some of his ardent admirers in the bleachers back of him. By this means he doubtless informed them that he had been only playing with the tenderfoot pitcher hitherto, and would now proceed to show what strength lay in those muscular arms of his. Jack waved the fielders back. He anticipated that O'Leary was due for one of his famous lengthy drives, and it was necessary that those guarding the outer gardens should be in position to make a great run, once the ball left the bat. Still, he continued to feel fairly confident that Donohue would recover from his temporary set-back, and possibly deceive O'Leary, as he had done twice before. He realized that the crisis he had feared was now upon them. If O'Leary sent a scorcher toward Fred, how would the third baseman handle it? Clifford knew what was expected of him, and already part way home on the movement of the pitcher winding up to throw, he would shoot along at the crack of the bat, taking his chances, since there were already two down. He saw O'Leary actually turn his head slightly and take a quick look toward third as though making up his mind just where he wanted to send the ball, should he be able to connect with the horse-hide sphere. Jack felt a cold chill pass over him. Could it be possible that O'Leary actually _knew_ there was a weak link in the chain made by the infield, and figured on taking advantage of Fred's intended treachery? At that moment it seemed as though Jack lived years, so many things flashed into his mind. He even remembered how earlier in the game two men, strangers in town, had made themselves obnoxious by standing up in the bleacher seats and shaking handfuls of greenbacks, daring Chester people to back their favorites at odds of three to four. They had been spotted almost immediately, and the mayor of Chester ordered them to desist under penalty of being arrested, since it was against the law of the town for any sort of wagering to be indulged in. The presence of the local police, and their movement toward the spot had resulted in the two sporty looking strangers subsiding. Some of the Harmony boys, however, scoffed at such Puritanical methods of procedure, since over at their town things were allowed to run wide open; or at least winked at by the authorities. Jack had been too far away to make sure, but he had a suspicion that one of the pair of betting men looked very much like the party with whom he had seen Fred Badger in close conversation, and who had offered him a paper to sign, after which something passed between them that might have been money, though Jack had not been absolutely certain about that part of it. Deep down in his heart, Jack hoped most earnestly that the chance for Fred to soil his hands with any crooked work might not arise. It would be all right, for instance, if only Donohue could strike the great O'Leary out for the third time. Then again perhaps even though the batter managed to connect with the ball, he might be unable to send it straight toward Fred. It was liable to go in any other direction, and if a tally should result from the blow, at least it could not be placed to a supposed error on the part of Badger. Donohue delivered his first one wide of the plate. O'Leary laughed, and nodded his head, as though to tell the pitcher he was too old a bird to be caught with such chaff. "Make him put it over, Dan!" "Knock the stuffing out of the ball, O'Leary!" "One of your old-time homers is what we need, remember!" "You've got his number, Dan; don't bite at a wide one!" "You'll walk, all right; he's afraid of you, old scout!" All these and many other cries could be heard, but the players were paying no attention to the crowd now. Every fielder was "on his toes," so to speak, anticipating that it might be up to him to save the day. In the main, the crowd was so anxious over the outcome of the next ball from the pitcher that they almost forgot to breathe, only watching the pitcher wind up preparatory to making his throw. Jack saw Fred give one of his quick looks toward the spot where pretty Molly Skinner sat. He hoped it meant that he had resolved to be staunch and true to his team-mates, and loyal to his native town, despite any terrible temptation that may have come to him in the shape of a big bribe. O'Leary had a peculiar crouch at the plate. His odd attitude made Jack think of a squatty spider about to launch itself at a blue-bottled fly that had ventured too near his corner. No doubt it accounted in some measure for his swatting ability, as he would necessarily put the whole force of his body in his blow. Often when he missed connections he would whirl all the way around; and then recovering make a humorous gesture toward his admirers in the crowd, for O'Leary, being Irish, was almost always in good humor, no matter what happened. He let the first ball speed past for a strike, and higher rose the excitement. The umpire called the second one a ball, which evened matters a little. Next came "strike two," and yet the great O'Leary waited, while his admirers began to feel fainthearted, fearing that he would stand there and be counted down when everything depended on his making a hit. Then there came an awful crack! O'Leary had picked out just the kind of a ball he wanted. It must have left his bat like a bullet, and Jack felt himself turn cold when he realized that the ball was headed straight as a die for Fred Badger! CHAPTER VII THE GAME CALLED BY DARKNESS A terrible roar broke forth from thousands of throats. Jack had actually closed his eyes for just a second, unable to witness what might be a plain palpable muff on the part of the tempted Fred. As he opened them again, unmindful of the fact that the batter was rushing toward him with all possible speed, he saw that while Fred had knocked the ball down he had also made a quick recovery. Just then, he was in the act of hurling it toward home, where Mullane had braced himself to receive the throw, and tag the oncoming runner out. Should Fred veer ever so little from a direct line throw he would pull the catcher aside, and thus give Clifford the opportunity he wanted to slide home. Away went the ball. Jack held his breath. He saw Mullane, reliable old Mullane, make a quick movement with his hands, and then throwing himself forward, actually fall upon the prostrate and sliding form of the Harmony lad. "You're out!" That was the umpire making his decision. Not one of the Harmony fellows as much as lifted a voice to dispute the verdict; in the first place, they knew Mr. Merrywether too well to attempt browbeating him at the risk of being taken out of the game; then again every one with eyes could see that Clifford had been three feet away from the plate when Mullane tagged him with the ball. How the crowd did carry on. A stranger chancing on the spot might have thought Pershing's gallant little army had managed to capture the Kaiser, or crossed the Rhine on its way to Berlin. Indeed, those "whoopers" could not have made more noise to the square inch under any conditions. And Jack's one thought was gratitude that after all Fred had been able to come through the great test with his honor unsullied. He had shot the ball as straight as a die at Mullane; and the game was still anybody's so far as victory was concerned. They played a tenth inning, and still not a runner so much as reached second. Really both pitchers seemed to be getting constantly better, strange to say, for they mowed the batters down in succession, or else caused them to pop up fouls that were readily captured by the first or third basemen, or the man behind the bat. This was not so wonderful on the part of the veteran Hendrix, for he was well seasoned in the game, and had been known to figure in a thirteen-inning deal, coming out ahead in the end when his opponent weakened. Everybody, however, declared it to be simply marvelous that a greenhorn slab-artist like young Donohue should prove to be the possessor of so much stamina. The eleventh inning went through in quick order. Still the tie remained unbroken, though Jack managed to get a single in his turn at bat. Phil Parker also rapped a ferocious screamer across the infield, but hit into a double that ended the hopeful rally at bat. When the twelfth opened up, a number of people were seen to start away. They may have been enthusiastic fans enough, but the day was waning, home might be far distant, and they did not like the way those clouds had rolled up, promising a storm sooner or later. The sun was out of sight long since, and objects could not be determined as easily as when the game began. Every little while that weather-sharp, Oliver, would take a sailor-like squint aloft, and chuckle to himself. Indeed, Specs, his companion, was of the opinion that Oliver would be willing to cheerfully take a good ducking if he could only have his scorned prediction prove a true shot. There were those present so intent on the game that they paid no attention to the gathering clouds, and the fact that it was getting difficult to see the ball. This latter fact was depended on to help bring matters to a focus, because errors were more likely to occur, any one of which might prove sufficient to let in the winning run. But if the fielders were thus handicapped, the batters had their own troubles. They could not distinguish the fast-speeding ball as it shot by, and consequently were apt to whack away at anything, so strike-outs must become the order of the day. The twelfth ended with nothing doing on either side. By now some of the boys were beginning to tire out, for the long strain was telling on them. These fellows of weak hearts were willing to have the game called a draw, which must be played over again at Harmony on the succeeding Saturday. As playing on the home ground is usually considered a great advantage, because the players are accustomed to every peculiarity of the field, Harmony would reap more or less profit from having the postponed game on their diamond. And consequently, when they trooped out for the finish of the thirteenth inning, several of them seemed to have conspired to delay play as much as possible. This they did in various ways. One fellow made out to have received a slight injury, and the umpire called time until a companion could wrap a rag around the scratched finger. Doubtless he would hardly like to show the extent of his hurt, but the wide grin on his face after the tedious operation had been concluded, told the truth; indeed, most of those present were able to guess his object. Then just as they settled down to play, another fielder called for time while he knelt down to fasten his shoe-lace which seemed to have come undone, and might trip him at a critical time when he was racing for a fly. The crowd yelled and jeered, but in spite of all, Clifford took a full minute and more to effect his purpose. Finally, rising, he waved his hand to the umpire to let him know the game could now proceed. The crowd knew that Harmony was fighting for time, anxious now to have the game called a draw, so that they might have another chance on their home grounds. Such yelling as took place. Harmony was loudly accused of weakening, and trying to crawl out of a tight hole. Loud calls were made for Big Bob at bat to knock one over the fence and lose the ball for keeps. He did his best, and every one leaped up when the sound of his bat striking the pellet sounded above all other noises. The ball went screeching over second, and apparently was tagged for a three-bagger at least; but Oldsmith had been playing deep when he saw who was up, and by making a most desperate effort he managed to clutch the ball just in time. That was the expiring effort on the part of Chester. The other two batters went out in quick order just as the first few drops of rain started to fall. It was now getting quite gloomy, and a hurried consultation between the umpire and the rival captains resulted in Mr. Merrywether announcing through a megaphone that the game would have to be declared a draw, which tie must be played off at Harmony, according to previous arrangements, on the following Saturday. Then the vast crowd commenced to scatter in a great hurry, fearful lest the rain start falling and drench them. There was more or less confusion as scores of cars and carryalls rushed along the road leading to Harmony, distant ten miles or more. Since everybody hurried, the grounds were soon deserted save by a few who remained to look after things. Jack and several of the boys would have lingered to talk matters over, but the lateness of the hour and the overcast sky forbade such a thing, so they, too, headed for their various homes. Jack, however, did manage to locate Fred, and made it a point to overtake the other on the road. He linked his arm with that of the third baseman, and dropped into step. "I want to say, Fred, that stop and throw of yours saved the day for Chester," he told the other. "If you had drawn Steve a foot away from home Clifford would have slid safe, for he was coming like a hurricane. Chester will remember that fine work of yours for a long time. And the girls, Fred, why I thought they'd have a fit, they carried on so. I'm sure you pleased some of your best friends a whole lot by being Johnny-on-the-spot today!" "Thank you for saying it, anyhow, Jack," the other was saying, and somehow Jack could not help thinking Fred did not show just as much gratification as most fellows would have done at being so highly complimented. But then, he must make allowances. If matters were as desperate as he suspected, poor Fred must by now be feeling the effect of having allowed his chance for securing all that money, so badly needed in order to help his mother, slip through his fingers. Now that all the excitement had died away, and he found himself face to face with the old question, with the prospect of seeing his mother's tired looks again reproaching him, Fred must be wondering whether he had after all chosen wisely in letting honor take the place of duty. So Jack commenced to chatter about the game, and how proud Chester folks would be of the young athletes who represented the town that day. "It's pretty evident, you must see, Fred," he continued, after thus arousing the other's interest, "that our big task of getting subscriptions toward building or renting a building for a club-house and gymnasium has been helped mightily by the clever work done this day. I heard of three influential gentlemen who had declared they were willing to take a hand, just because such determined and hard-playing boys stood in need of such an institution." "Yes, Chester has been away behind the times in looking after the morals and requirements of her young people," admitted Fred. "There's Marshall with its fine Y. M. C. A. building and gym., and even Harmony has a pretty good institution where the young fellows can belong, and spend many a winter's evening in athletic stunts calculated to build up their bodies, and make them more healthy." "Well, believe me, the day is about to dawn when Chester will be put on the map for the same stuff," asserted Jack, not boastingly, but with full confidence; "and these splendid baseball matches we're pulling off nowadays are bound to help to bring that same event to pass. Men who had almost forgotten that they used to handle a bat in their kid days have had their old enthusiasm for the national sport of America revived. Depend upon it, Fred, in good time we'll be playing football, hockey, basketball, and every sort of thing that goes to make up the life of a healthy boy." In this fashion did the pair talk as they hurried along. The drops were beginning to come down faster now, showing that when the game was called, it had been a very wise move, for many people must otherwise have been caught in the rain. Fred seemed to be fairly cheerful at the time Jack shook his hand again, and once more congratulated him on his fine work for the team. Looking back after they had parted, Jack saw the boy stop at his door and hesitate about entering, which seemed to be a strange thing for a member of the gallant baseball team that had covered themselves with glory on that particular day to do. But then Jack could guess how possibly Fred might be feeling his heart reproach him again because he had chosen his course along the line of honor. He must get a grip on himself before he could pass in and see that weary look on her face. Jack shook his head as he hurried on to his own house. He felt that possibly the crisis in Fred's young life had, after all, only been postponed, and not altogether passed. That terrible temptation might come to him again, more powerful than ever; and in the game at Harmony, if a choice were given him, would he be just as able to resist selling himself as he had on this wonderful day? CHAPTER VIII THE PUZZLE GROWS It was just three days afterwards when Jack saw his two chums again. On Sunday morning his father had occasion to start to a town about thirty miles distant, to see a sick aunt who depended on him for advice. She had sent word that he must fetch Jack along with him, Jack being the old lady's special favorite and probably heir to her property. Jack's father was a lawyer, and often had trips to make in connection with real estate deals, and estates that were located in distant parts. Consequently, it was nothing unusual for him to receive a sudden call. Jack might have preferred staying in Chester, where things were commencing to grow pretty warm along the line of athletics, his favorite diversion. His parents, however, believed it would be unwise to offend the querulous old dame who was so crotchetty that she might take it into her head to change her will, and leave everything to some society for the amelioration of the condition of stray cats. It would be a great pity to have all that fine property go out of the Winters' family, they figured; and perhaps they were wise in thinking that way; little Jack cared about it, not being of a worldly mind. So when he sighted Toby and Steve on the afternoon of his return, he gave the pair a hail, and quickly joined them on the street. "Glad you've got back home, Jack, sure I am," said Toby, the first thing. "Why," added Steve, "we didn't even get a chance to compare notes with you about that great game on Saturday, though Toby and myself have talked the subject threadbare by now." "And one thing we both agree about, Jack," continued Toby, with a grin. "What's that?" demanded the other. "Fred saved the day when he stopped that terrible line drive of O'Leary, and shot the ball home as straight as a die. No professional player could possibly have done it a shade better, I'm telling you." "It was a grand play," admitted Jack, "and I told Fred so while we walked home together." Steve looked keenly at him when Jack said this. "Oh! then you got a chance to talk with Fred after the game, did you?" he ventured to say, in a queer sort of way. "How did Fred act then, Jack?" "Well, I must say he didn't impress me as being over-enthusiastic," admitted Jack. "You see, he had done his whole duty in the heat of action, and after he had a chance to cool off and realize what he had lost, he may have felt a touch of remorse, for he certainly does love that poor mother of his a heap. I can understand just how he must be having a terrible struggle in his mind as to what is the right course for him to pursue." At that Toby gave a snort that plainly told how he was beginning to doubt certain things in which he had hitherto fully believed. "Now, looky here, Jack," he started to say good-humoredly, "don't you reckon that you might have been mistaken in thinking poor Fred was dickering with some of those men to throw the game, so they could make big money out of if? Why, after all, perhaps his looking so dismal comes from his feeling so bad about his mother. We ought to give him the benefit of the doubt, I say." "I sometimes feel that way myself, Toby, don't you know?" acknowledged Jack in his usual frank fashion. "And yet when I consider the conditions, and remember how suspiciously Fred acted with that sporty-looking gentleman, I find myself owning up that it looks bad for the boy. But at any rate he succeeded in fighting his own battle, and winning a victory over his temptation." "But, Jack, I'm afraid he's bound to have to go through the whole business again," interposed Steve. "Do you know I more than half suspected you had got wind of something new in the affair, Steve," Jack told him. "I could see how your eyes glistened as you listened to what Toby here was saying; and once or twice you opened your mouth to interrupt him, but thought better of it. Now tell us what it means, Steve." "For one thing, that man has been at Fred again," asserted the other, positively. "Do you know this for a certainty?" Jack asked. "Why, I saw them talking, I tell you," explained Steve, persistently. "This is how it came about. You see, yesterday, as Toby here couldn't go fishing with me I started off alone, taking my bait pail and rod along, and bent on getting a mess of perch at a favorite old fishin' hole I knew along the shore of the lake about a mile or so from town." "Meaning that same place you showed me, near where the road comes down close to the shore of the water?" suggested Toby, quickly. "Right you are, son," continued Steve, nodding his head as he spoke. "Well, I had pretty fair luck for a while, and then the perch quit taking hold, so I sat down to wait till they got hungry again. And while I squatted there on the log that runs out over the water at my favorite hole, I heard the mutter of voices as some people came slowly along the road. "First I didn't pay much attention to the sounds, believing that just as like as not it was a couple of town boys, and I didn't like the idea of their finding out where I got such heavy strings of fish once in so often. And then as they passed closer to me something familiar in one of the voices made me twist my head around. "Well, it was Fred Badger, all right, walking along with that same sporty-looking stranger. And say, he isn't such a bad-looking customer after all, Jack, when you get a close look at him, being gray-bearded, and a bit halting in his walk like he might have been injured some time or other. It's more the clothes he wears that give him the sporty appearance, though, if you say he's one of that betting bunch up at Harmony, he must be a bad lot. "They had their heads together, and seemed to be discussing something at a great rate. I couldn't hear what they said, the more the pity, for it might have given us a line on the whole silly business; but the man seemed trying to convince Fred about something, and the boy was arguing kind of feebly as if ready to give in. Well, something tempted me to give a cough after I'd stood up on the log. Both of 'em looked that way in a hurry. I waved my hand at Fred, and he answered my signal, but while you might have expected that he'd come back to ask what luck I had, and mebbe introduce his friend, he didn't do that same by a jugfull. Fact is he said something to the man, and the two of them hurried along the road." Jack felt his heart grow heavy again. He was taking a great interest in the affairs of Fred Badger, and would be very much shocked should the other fall headlong into the net that seemed to be spread for his young feet. "I know for one thing," he told the others, "I'll be mighty glad when that tie game is played off with Harmony, no matter which side wins the verdict. And I hope Fred is given no such chance to choose between right and wrong as came his way last Saturday. If those men increase the bribe his scruples may give way. And if only Fred could understand that his mother would utterly refuse to profit by his dishonor, he might have his heart steeled to turn the tempters down." "Then, Jack, why don't you try and figure out how you could put it up to Fred that way?" urged Toby, eagerly. "I've tried to think how it could be done without offending him, or allowing him to suspect that I know what he's going through," mused Jack. "There might be a way to mention a hypothetical case, as though it were some other fellow I once knew who had the same kind of choice put up to him, and took the wrong end, only to have his father or sister, for whom he had sinned, reproach him bitterly, and refuse to accept tainted money." "Gee whiz! it does take you to hatch up ways and means, Jack!" exclaimed Toby, delightedly. "Now, I should say that might be a clever stunt. You can warn him without making him feel that you're on to his game. Figure it out, Jack, and get busy before next Saturday comes, won't you?" "Yes," added Steve, "Fred Badger is too good a fellow to let drop. We need him the worst kind to fill that gap at third. Besides, suspecting what we do, it would be a shame for us not to hold out a helping hand to a comrade who's up against it good and hard." "What you say, Steve, does your big heart credit," remarked Jack, "but it might be wise for us to drop our voices a little, because somehow we have wandered on, and are right now getting pretty close to Fred's home, which you know lies just on the other side of that clump of bushes." "Did you steer us this way on purpose, Jack!" demanded Toby, suspiciously. "Why, perhaps I had a little notion of stopping in and seeing Mrs. Badger," admitted the other, chuckling. "In fact, my mother commissioned me to fetch this glass of home-made preserves over to her, knowing that Fred's mother has not been at all well. Yes, I own up I was influential in making her think that way, and was on my way when I ran across you fellows." "Huh! I wouldn't be at all surprised, Jack!" declared Toby, "if you had a scheme in your mind right now to put a crimp in this foolishness on the part of Fred Badger." "I'm not saying I haven't, remember, fellows," laughed the other, who evidently did not mean to show his full hand just then. "When the time comes perhaps I'll let you in on this thing. I want to do some more thinking first, though. Many a good idea is wasted because it isn't given a foundation in the beginning. Now, suppose you boys wait for me here while I step around and leave this little comfit with Mrs. Badger with my mother's compliments." "Just as you say, Jack," muttered Steve, looking rather unhappy because lie was not to be taken wholly into the confidence of the other. "Don't stay too long, though, unless you mean to tell us all that happens in there." Jack only smiled in return, and stepped forward. His comrades saw him suddenly draw back as though he had made a discovery. Then turning toward them, he beckoned with his hand, at the same time holding up a warning finger as though telling them not to make the least noise. "Now, what's in the wind, Jack?" whispered Toby, as they reached the side of the other. "Take a peek and see who's here!" Jack told them. At that both the others advanced cautiously and stared beyond the big clump of high bushes. They almost immediately shrank back again, and the look on their faces announced the receipt of quite a shock. "Great Cæsar! is that chap the man you've both been talking about, tell me?" asked Toby, half under his breath. "He is certainly the party I saw Fred talking with so mysteriously," asserted Jack, positively. "And the same fellow who was walking along the road with Fred while I sat on my log, fishing," added Steve, convincingly. "But what under the sun is he doing out here near Fred's house, leaning on that fence, and keeping tabs on the little Badger home, I'd like to know?" Toby went on to say, wonder written in big letters on his face. CHAPTER IX A FAIRY IN THE BADGER HOME "Let's watch and see what it all means?" suggested Steve, quickly. Even Jack did not seem averse to doing that same thing. In fact, his curiosity had been aroused to fever pitch by so unexpectedly discovering the very man of whom they had been lately talking hovering around poor Fred's home in such a suspicious fashion. Peeping around the high bushes again, they saw him leaning idly on the picket fence. He seemed to have a stout cane, and was smoking a cigar, though in his undoubted eagerness to keep "tabs" on the humble house he forgot to draw smoke from the weed between his teeth. "I must say this is going it pretty strong," grumbled Toby, half under his breath; "to have that chap prowling around Fred's home, just like he was afraid the boy'd get out of his grip, and so meant to find a stronger hold on him." "That's it," assented Steve; "he wants to learn why Fred seems to hold back. He means to meet the little mother, and the two small girls, one of 'em a cripple in the bargain. It's a shame that he should push himself in on that family, and he a city sport in the bargain. We ought to find a way to chase him out of town, don't you think, Jack?" "Hold up, and perhaps we may learn something right now," whispered the other, after a hasty look; "because there's Fred's mother coming out of the door." "Gee whiz! can she be meaning to meet this man?" ventured Toby, apparently appalled by his own suspicion. "Well, hardly likely," Jack told him, "because the man has ducked down as if he didn't want to be seen by her, though he's looking like everything all the while." "That's little Barbara Badger, the five-year-old sister of Fred," Steve was saying. "She's got a basket on her arm, too, and I reckon her ma is sending her to the store down the street for a loaf of bread, or something like that. Everybody seems to agree that Barbara is the most winsome little girl in the whole of Chester." "Barring none," admitted Toby, immediately. "Why, she's just like a little golden-haired fairy, my dad says, and since he's something of an artist he ought to know when he sees one. Yep, you were right, Steve, the child is going after something at the store. I wonder now would that wretch have the nerve to stop Barbara, and try to get some information from the little thing?" "What if he tries to kidnap her?" suggested Steve, suddenly, doubling up his sturdy looking fist aggressively, as though to indicate that it would not be safe for the stranger to attempt such a terrible thing while he was within hearing distance. "Oh! I hardly think there's any fear of that happening," Jack assured the aggressive member of the trio. "But he acts now as if he meant to drop back here out of sight, so perhaps we'd better slip around this bunch of bushes so he won't learn how we've been watching him." Suiting their actions to Jack's words, the three boys quickly "made themselves scarce," which was no great task when such an admirable hiding-place as that stack of bushes lay conveniently near by. Sure enough, the stranger almost immediately came around the clump and made sure that it hid him from the small cottage lying beyond. Jack, taking a look on his own account from behind the bushes, saw that Mrs. Badger had started to reenter the house; while pretty little Barbara was contentedly trudging along the cinder pavement. Evidently the child was quite accustomed to doing errands of this nature for her mother, when Fred did not happen to be around; nor was it likely that Mrs. Badger once dreamed Barbara might get into any sort of trouble, for the neighborhood, while not fashionable, was at least said to be safe, and honest people dwelt there. "He's staring as hard as anything at Barbara," whispered Toby, who had been peeping. "Why, he acts for all the world like he could fairly eat the sweet little thing up. Perhaps it's a good job we chance to be around here after all," but Jack shook his head as though he did not dream any harm was going to come to little Barbara. "If he's so much taken up watching her," he remarked, "we can spy on him without his being any the wiser. But take care not to move too quickly at any time; and a sneeze or a cough would spoil everything for us." Accordingly, they crept forward. Looking cautiously around their covert, the boys could easily see that Barbara Badger had by now turned the bushes and reached the spot where the stranger stood. Now he was speaking to her, bending low, and using what struck the suspicious Steve as a wheedling tone; though to Jack it was just what any gentleman might use in seeking to gain the confidence of a child who had never seen him before. Apparently the little girl did not seem to be afraid. Perhaps she was accustomed to having people speak kindly to her on the street, just to see that winsome smile break over her wonderfully pretty face. At any rate, she had answered him, and as he started to walk slowly at her side, it seemed as though they had entered into quite an animated conversation, the stranger asking questions, and the little girl giving such information as lay in her power. "He's just trying to find out how the land lies in Fred's house, that's what he's doing, the sneak!" gritted Steve. "Oh! how do we know but what the man has a small girl of his own somewhere?" Jack interposed; "and Barbara somehow reminds him of her. Besides, can you blame anybody for trying to get acquainted with Fred's sweet little sister?" Steve subsided after that. Apparently he could find no answer to the logic Jack was able to bring against his suspicions. By skirting the inside of a fence it would be possible for them to follow after the man and the child without disclosing their presence. "Let's do it!" suggested Steve, after Toby had made mention of this fact. Accordingly they started to steal along. As the others were walking very slowly the three boys found no great difficulty in keeping close behind them. They could even pick up something of what passed between the pair on the cinder pavement. The man was asking Barbara about her home folks, and seemed particularly interested in hearing about mother's pale looks and many sighs; and also how sister Lucy seemed to be able to walk better lately than at any time in the past; though she did have to use a crutch; but she hoped to be able to go to school in the fall if she continued to improve. Fred's name did not seem to be mentioned once by the man. Even when Barbara told some little thing in which the boy figured, the man failed to ask about him. His whole interest was centered in the mother, the crippled child, and this wonderfully attractive little angel at his side. Jack also noticed that he had hold of Barbara's small hand, which he seemed to be clutching eagerly. Yes, it must be the man had a daughter of his own far away, and memories of her might be making him sorry that he had engaged in such a disreputable business as tempting Barbara's brother to betray his mates of the baseball team. Then the man stopped short. He had looked around and discovered that if he went any further he might be noticed from the side windows of the Badger cottage. Apparently he did not wish that the child's mother should discover him walking with her. Jack somehow felt an odd thrill shoot through him when he saw the man suddenly bend his head and press several kisses on the little hand that had been nestling so confidingly in his own palm. That one act seemed to settle it in the boy's mind that there was more or less truth in his conjecture in connection with another Barbara in some distant city waiting for her father to come back home. "Say, he's acting real spoony, isn't he, Jack?" gasped Toby, taken aback as he saw the man do this. "I reckon now, Steve, your ogre isn't _quite_ as tough a character as you imagined. He's got a spark of human about him, seems like, and like most Chester folks has to knuckle down before that pretty kid." "Oh! he may be acting that way for a purpose," grumbled the unconvinced Steve, still unwilling to give up. "Such fellows generally have a deep game up their sleeve, you understand. Just wait and see, that's all, Toby Hopkins. I don't like his actions one little bit, if you want to know how I feel about it." Almost immediately afterwards Toby spoke again in a guarded tone. "Look at her picking something up from among the cinders, and holding it out! Why, it looks like a shining new fifty-cent bit, which is just what it is. And to think we walked right over it when we came along, and not one of us glimpsed what the sharp eyes of that child have found." "Huh! mebbe it wasn't there when we came along, Toby!" suggested Steve. "Just as like as not that chap he dropped the coin, and ground it part-way into the cinders with his toe, then managed so little Barbara should pick it up. There, listen to him now telling her that findings is keepings, and that the money belongs to her by right of discovery. That was a smart dodge, wasn't it? I wonder what his game is. Can you guess it, Jack?" "I decline to commit myself to an answer," came the reply. "That means you've got some sort of hazy suspicion, which may and again may not pan out later on," hinted Steve. "Oh! well, it seems as if we've run smack up against a great puzzle, and I never was a good hand at figuring such things out--never guessed a rebus or an acrostic in my whole life. Tell us when you strike pay dirt, that's a good fellow, Jack." "Perhaps I will," chuckled the other, still keeping his eyes glued on the figures of little Barbara and the stranger, not far distant. Now the man had evidently said good-bye, for, as she tripped along the walk, she turned to wave her chubby hand to him, and even kiss the tips of her fingers to her scarlet rosebud lips as if sending a kiss back. He stood there staring after her. Jack watching saw him take out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes several times. Apparently that meeting with Barbara Badger had affected the man considerably. Jack hoped it would be for his good, and also for the benefit of Fred Badger, who seemed to be struggling with some secret that was weighing his young spirit down. Then the man turned and looked long and earnestly back toward the humble cottage home of the widow. He was shaking his head and muttering something half under his breath; but somehow Jack thought he did not look very ferocious just then. In fact, after the man strode away and they were free to once more come out on the walk, Jack had a feeling that the stranger did not appear quite so much like a desperate city sport as he had formerly believed. CHAPTER X THE WARNING "Hello! there, Jack, you're wanted!" The boys were practicing on the following afternoon when this hail reached the ears of the first baseman, diligently stopping terrific grounders that came from the bat of substitute catcher, Hemming, the best man on the nine for this sort of work. So Jack trotted in toward the group near the bench. A score or two of boys, with also a sprinkling of enthusiastic girls, had gathered to watch and admire the different plays which were put through, and to generously applaud any especially clever one. Jack saw a boy leave the group and advance toward him. He felt a little apprehension when he recognized Bailey, the smart shortstop of the famous Harmony nine. What did this mean? Could it be possible that those fellows of the other town had gotten "cold feet" after the last game, and were about to withdraw from the match to play out the tie? Jack could hardly believe such a thing possible. He knew and respected Martin, the gentlemanly captain of the rival team, too well, to think he would show the white feather. Why, it would be talked about all through the county, and Harmony could never again make any boast. Oh! no, something of a minor nature must have come up, and Martin wished to consult with the captain of the Chester nine in advance--possibly some local ground rule had been framed which, in all honor, he believed the others ought to know about before the time came to apply it. "Hello! Jack!" said Bailey with the easy familiarity that boys in general show when dealing with one another, though they may even be comparative strangers. "Glad to see you, Bailey," returned the other. "What brings you over this way again? Anything new come up?" None of the other players had followed Bailey when he advanced. They seemed to take it for granted that if it was any of their business, Jack would be sure to call them up. "Why, something has happened that we thought you fellows ought to know about," continued the shortstop of the Harmony team, with a little trace of confusion in his manner. "And Captain Martin sent you over as a messenger, is that it, Bailey?" asked Jack, shaking hands cordially; for he had liked the other chap through all the two games already played; Bailey was clean in everything he did, and that sort of a boy always appealed to Jack Winters, detesting fraud and trickery as he did. "That's it, Jack. He gave me this note to deliver; and I'm to answer any questions you may see fit to ask." There was something a bit queer in the other's manner as he said this; and the way in which he thrust out a sealed envelope at the same time smacked of the dramatic. Jack took it with rising curiosity. Really, this began to assume a more serious aspect than he had at first thought could be possible. It was therefore with considerable interest he tore off the end of the envelope, and pulled out the enclosure, which proved to be a full page of writing easily deciphered. Since it is necessary that the contents of that missive should be understood by the reader we shall take the liberty of looking over Jack's shoulder and devouring Martin's letter as eagerly as the recipient did. "To the Captain and Members of the Chester Baseball Team: "We, the entire Harmony baseball organization, take this method of warning you that it is more than half suspected there is a miserable plot afloat to cause you fellows to lose the game next Saturday through a fluke. It may not be true, but we believe it to be our duty to put you on your guard, because we would disdain to profit by any such trickery bordering on a crime. There are some reckless sports up from the city, who have been wagering heavily on our winning out. After the game last Saturday, it seems that they have begun to get cold feet, and believe that Harmony might not have such a soft snap as they thought when they made all those heavy wagers. Needless to state the boys of the team do not share in their fears, for we are perfectly confident that we can down you again, as we did in the first game. But we would be ashamed if anything happened to cast the slightest doubt on the glory of our anticipated victory. We believe you Chester fellows to be an honorable lot and no matter whoever wins we want it to be a victory as clean and honest as they make them. We intend to have men on the watch for crooked business. One thing we beg you to do, which is to set a guard on your water-bucket, and _allow no one not a player on your side to go anywhere near it!_ There have been occasions on record where dope was given through the drinking water, that made players sick, and unable to do their best in the game, thus losing for their side. "We send you this, believing that you will give us full credit for being lovers of clean sport. So keep in the pink of condition for Saturday, and able to do your prettiest, for, believe us, you will have need of every ounce of ability you possess, because Hendrix says he never felt more fit in his life. Signed CAPTAIN LEM MARTIN, For the entire Harmony Baseball Team." When Jack had finished reading this remarkable letter, the first thing he did was characteristic of the boy--he reached out his hand toward Bailey. "Shake again, Bailey! I honor such sentiments, and believe me, the boys of Chester will never forget such a friendly spirit as your team shows. We, too, would refuse to play in a game where we had the slightest reason to believe crooked work was going on, that would be to the disadvantage of our adversaries." The little shortstop's eyes glistened as he wrung Jack's hand. "Glad to see you take it in the right spirit, old fellow," he hastened to say. "We were horribly worked up when we got wind of this business through sheer accident. Only a mean skunk like a tricky sport from the city could dream of doing such a thing. But now it's come out, you'll find that all Harmony will be on edge looking for signs of treachery toward you fellows." "How about telling the other boys?" inquired Jack. "You're at perfect liberty to do that," the shortstop assured him. "In fact, we expected you would. The sooner the news is carried through Chester the better chance that nothing so low-down will be attempted; and no matter how the game turns out, it will be clean. Much as we want to win we all agree that we'd rather be badly licked by Chester than have it ever said there was a shadow of fraud on our victory." So Jack beckoned to the rest. "Only the members of the team, subs. as well as regulars, are wanted here!" he called aloud; and accordingly, they came forward, most of the boys exchanging looks of natural curiosity, and doubtless fearing that some hitch had occurred in the programme for the ensuing Saturday. Judge of their amazement when Jack read aloud the letter from Captain Martin. It seemed almost unbelievable to some of the boys. Others who always made it a practice to glean all the baseball news in the city papers that came to certain Chester homes, may have known that such evil practices had been attempted occasionally, especially where unprincipled men began to wager money on the result of championship games. All of them seemed unanimously of the opinion that Harmony had evinced a most laudable and sportsmanlike spirit in sending this strange warning. It made them feel that in struggling for the mastery on the diamond with such manly fellows, they were up against the right kind of foe-men. Indeed, even a defeat at the hands of Harmony would not seem so dreadful a disaster, now that they knew Martin and his crowd to be such good fellows. Bailey did not wait to listen to many of the remarks that followed the reading of the letter. He could see that Chester had received the warning in the same friendly spirit in which it had been sent; and this was the news he meant to carry back with him. "I want to own up they're a pretty decent bunch of ball players after all!" declared Phil Parker, who had been known to say a few hard things about the hustling Harmony boys after that first game, in which Jack's team was given such a lively set-back. "Glad you've found that out, Phil," remarked Steve Mullane, drily. "Next time don't be so quick to judge your opponents. Because a chap happens to be a hustler on the baseball or football field, isn't a sign that he's anything of a brute in private life. Only the hustlers succeed on the diamond. Umpire-baiters are sometimes the kind of men who are bullied by a little bit of a woman at home." "That's right for you, Steve!" declared Herbert Jones, nodding his head in the affirmative. "I've got an uncle who used to be known as a regular scorcher on the gridiron, and who gained the name of a terror; but, say, you ought to see that big hulk wash dishes for Mrs. Jones, who can walk under his arm. Why, in private life he's as soft as mush, and his fog-horn voice is toned down to almost the squeak of a fiddle when he sings the baby to sleep. It isn't always safe to judge a man by what he does when he's playing ball." "But just think of the meanness of those men wanting to put some kind of dope in our drinking water!" ejaculated Fred Badger in evident anger. "Why, they might have made some of us real sick in the bargain, as well as lost us the game. Such scoundrels ought to be locked up; they're a menace to any community." "Well, Harmony town is responsible for pretty much all of this," suggested Jack. "They are letting things go along over there that sleepy old Chester never would think of permitting. Those who sow the wind must expect to reap the whirlwind sooner or later." "Yes," added Toby Hopkins, with a snort, "they seemed to think it gave tone to their games to have those city men come up and back Harmony with money. Let's hope that after the lesson our worthy mayor set them last Saturday and with this disgrace threatening their good name those Harmony folks will get busy cleaning their Augean stables before any real harm is done." Every one had an opinion, and yet they were pretty much along similar lines. The Chester boys thought it terrible that such a warning had to be sent out; though of course they all gave Martin and his crowd full credit for doing the right thing. Jack was interested in watching Fred Badger, and listening to what he had to say from time to time. Apparently Fred was as indignant as any of them, and so far as Jack could tell there was not a particle of sham about his fervent denunciation of the evil deed contemplated by those strangers anxious to beat the Chester people, who wagered with them, out of their money. And yet what else could be expected of such men, accustomed to evil ways, and earning their money at race-tracks and the like? What of a boy who had the confidence of his mates on the team, conspiring to sell them out for a bribe? Jack fairly writhed as he thought of it. Looking at Fred's earnest face as he spoke he could not bring himself to fully believe the other capable of attempting such a dastardly trick; and yet Jack had his fears all the same. CHAPTER XI SITTING ON THE LID The troubles and tribulations of the captain of a baseball team are many, and ofttimes peculiar, as Jack was fast finding out. A load of responsibility rests on his shoulders such as none of the other players knows. He must watch every fellow, and notice the slightest deterioration in his playing; be ready to chide, or give encouraging words; and lie awake nights cudgeling his brains to discover a way of getting better work out of certain delinquent members of the nine, or else making way for a substitute who gives promise of being worth his salt. Jack was already having troubles enough, he thought, what with the petty annoyances, his grave suspicions of Fred Badger's loyalty, and now this prospect of foul play being attempted by those evil-disposed men from the city, only bent on reaping a harvest of money from the outcome of the game. There was more to come for the boy who was "sitting on the lid," it turned out. Donohue had been acting somewhat queerly during the last two days, Jack noticed. True enough, he came to the practice games, and seemed to have all of his old cunning in his arm when they had him pitch, striking out men at pleasure; but he never smiled, would draw off to himself frequently, and was seen to shake his head as though his thoughts could not be any too pleasant. What could be ailing the boy, Jack wondered? Surely after his wonderful and even brilliant work in the box on the preceding Saturday, Alec was not beginning to doubt his ability to turn back those sluggers on Harmony's roll. No, Jack concluded that it could not be this. "I've just _got_ to get Alec by himself, and have it out with him!" he told Toby, with whom he had been earnestly discussing the matter. "Whatever is troubling the boy, the sooner it's laid the better; for if he keeps on in the frame of mind he seems to be in just now, it's bound to affect his work when we want him to be at his very best." "That's the only way to do, Jack," his chum assured him. "Get Alec by himself, and talk to him like a Dutch uncle. Nobody can do it as well as you, I'm sure. And, Jack, if there's any way I can help, any of us, in fact, remember you've only got to speak. Every fellow on the nine would work his fingers to the bone to please you. And, besides, we've got our hearts set on winning that game. It would mean the making of Chester as a town where clean sport for boys is indulged in." Jack therefore watched until he saw Alec Donohue put on his coat and saunter off, as though heading for home. Then he proceeded to follow after the pitcher. "I'm going your way, Alec," he remarked, when the other turned his head and lifted his eyebrows in some little surprise at discovering the captain of the nine trotting along in his wake. "Besides, I want to have a nice little talk with you while we have the chance." Young Donohue flushed a bit. "I rather half expected you'd say that, Jack," he remarked, with a tinge of distress in his voice. "But, after all, the sooner it's over with the better, I reckon. I was trying to muster up enough courage to speak to you about it this afternoon, but I felt too hanged bad even to get started." Jack became alarmed. "I've noticed that you seemed anything but happy lately, Alec," he hastened to say, as he threw an arm across the shoulders of the pitcher, "and it began to bother me a heap; because I know a pitcher can hardly deliver his best goods unless he's feeling as fit as a fiddle. What's gone wrong? I hope you're not feeling sick, or anything like that?" Alec swallowed hard before starting to make answer to this question. "Never felt better in my whole life, Jack, so far as my body goes; and, if I do say it myself, I firmly believe I'd be able to do better work on Saturday than any of you have ever seen me give. But I'm in a peck of trouble at home, and I'm terribly afraid that I won't be able to pitch again for Chester." "How is that, Alec!" asked the other, solicitously. "Why, I may not be living in the town on Saturday, you see, and one of the rules of our match games is that every player shall be a resident of the town his club represents. My folks are going to move to Harmony on Friday, sure!" "That's bad for us, Alec," admitted Jack, his heart sinking as he remembered how ineffectual McGuffey had been in the box even while Chester was scoring against the Harmony man; and with Hendrix sending his puzzling shoots over, defeat was positive for Chester unless they had Donohue to depend on. "Tell me how it happens, will you?" "Why, my father lost his job a few weeks back, being sick for a spell. He doesn't seem able to strike anything here, but is promised a good job up in Harmony on condition that he moves there right away, so he can start in Saturday. And, Jack, he said this morning that much as he hated to leave town, there wasn't any other way out; so we're going the day after tomorrow. I knew I'd have to tell you, but, say, every time I tried to speak it seemed like I'd choke." It was a time for quick thinking with Jack. "I wish you could hold this off for just twenty-four hours, Alec," he told the other. "Perhaps I may find a way out long before then. Could you promise me that?" "Sure thing, Jack, and believe me I'd be mighty happy if only you did run across a way of bridging this trouble. But we're out of money at home, and jobs don't seem to be floating around in Chester, at least for men as old as my dad." "Would you mind telling me what he was promised over at Harmony?" continued the other, at which question Alec started, and looked eagerly at him. "Why, you see, all my dad's fit for these days, with his rheumatism bothering him, is a job as night watchman in some factory or mill. That was what he has been promised in Harmony." "And what wages does he expect to draw down, Alec? I'm not asking from any curiosity, remember, but I ought to know if I'm going to try to get your father a position here in his old town where he's known so well and respected; and where his eldest son is making such a name for himself as a sterling baseball player." "He is promised twenty-one a week, Jack. You see, in these times wages have all gone up to meet the high cost of living. Time was when he only got fifteen per. I reckon now, it's your plan to interview some of the gentlemen who are interested in baseball, and that you hope they'll consent to give my dad a steady job so as to keep the Donohue family in Chester. Well, here's hoping you strike luck, Jack. If you do I'll be the happiest boy in Chester tonight, and ready to pitch my arm off Saturday so as to bring another Harmony scalp home." They shook hands heartily, and then Jack scurried away. It was one of his cardinal principles never to delay when he had anything of importance on his hands. So a short time later he entered one of the big hives of industry that was managed by Mr. Charles Taft, a middle-aged gentleman who seemed greatly interested in the rise of boys' sports in Chester, and who had already favored Jack on several occasions. It was partly through his generosity that the team had been able to secure suits and outfits in the way of bats, balls, bases, and such things, when the season began. More than that, it was this same Mr. Taft who had gladly agreed to let one of his workers have an occasional afternoon off duty when his services were required to coach the struggling ball players, sadly in need of professional advice and encouragement. When the boy was ushered into his private office, the stout gentleman held out his hand, and smiled pleasantly. He was a great and constant admirer of Jack Winters, because he could read frankness, honesty, determination to succeed, and many other admirable traits in the boy's face. In fact, Mr. Taft had been quite an athlete himself when at college, and his interest in clean sport had never flagged even when he took up serious tasks in the business world. "Glad to see you, my boy," he observed, in his customary genial fashion, as he squeezed Jack's hand. "What can I do for you today? How is the team getting along after that glorious game you played? No press of business is going to prevent one man I know of in Chester from attending the game next Saturday. I hope you are not in any trouble, Jack?" Evidently his quick eye had noted the slight cloud on the boy's face, an unusual circumstance in connection with the captain of the nine. "Yes, I am in a peck of trouble, sir," candidly confessed Jack. "The fact of the matter is it looks as though, we might be short our wonderful young pitcher, Alec Donohue, next Saturday." "How's that, Jack?" demanded the gentleman, anxiously. "I'm greatly interested in that lad's work. He certainly has the making of a great pitcher in him. Why, if we lose Donohue, I'm afraid the cake will be dough with us, for I hear Hendrix is in excellent shape, and declares he will pitch the game of his life when next he faces your crowd." "I'll tell you what the matter is, sir," and with that Jack plunged into a brief exposition of the Donohue family troubles. As he proceeded, he saw with kindling joy that a beaming smile had commenced to creep over the rosy countenance of the one-time college athlete. This encouraged him to state how a wild hope had arisen in his heart that possibly some job might be found for Mr. Donohue that would keep the family in Chester right along. "We need him the worst kind, Mr. Taft," he concluded. "If Alec quits us cold I'm afraid it's bound to set all our fine schemes for athletics in Chester back a peg or two. This seems to be a most critical time with us. If we win that game we're going to make many new friends around here, who will assist us in getting that club-house we've been talking about, and putting athletic sports on a sound footing in our town." "Make your mind easy, Jack, my boy," said the stout gentleman, with a nod, "Alec will toss for us next Saturday, because we won't allow the Donohue family to shake the dust of Chester off their shoes. Why, it happens that my night watchman has just given notice that he must throw up his job because he has taken a position in one of those munition works in another town, where they pay such big wages for men who know certain things. So consider that I offer Donohue the position at twenty-four dollars a week; and there's no reason why it shouldn't be a permanent job, as I understand he's a reliable watchman." Jack could hardly speak for happiness. The tears actually came in his eyes as he wrung the hand of the gentleman. "Oh! you don't know how happy you've made me by saying that, Mr. Taft," he managed to declare. "And have I permission to go over to the Donohue home with that glorious news right away?" "Suit yourself about that, son. Tell him to come around tomorrow and see me; but that the job is his right now. And also tell Alec from me that Chester expects him to fool those heavy hitters of Harmony to the top of his bent, when he faces Hutchings, Clifford, Oldsmith, O'Leary and the rest." When Jack went out of that office his heart was singing with joy. The clouds had rolled away once more, and the future looked particularly bright. He only hoped it would be an augury of success in store for the Chester nine in their coming battle. CHAPTER XII ONE TROUBLE AFTER ANOTHER "Ting-a-ling!" The telephone bell in Jack's home was ringing just as the boy passed through the hall on Thursday morning around ten. He had been busily engaged in matters at home, and not gone out up to then. As he held his ear to the receiver he caught the well-known voice of Toby Hopkins. "That you, Jack?" "No one else; and what's going on over at your house?" Jack replied. "I thought for sure you'd have been across before now, if only to learn how I came out with that Donohue trouble." "Oh! I would have been starting you up at daybreak this morning, Jack, only it happens that I learned the good news last night." "How was that?" demanded the other; "did you walk over to their place to ask Alec about it?" "I went over to offer Mr. Donohue a job in the Cameron mill tending a plane, only to have him tell me with a happy look in his eyes that he had already taken a position as night watchman with the foundry and rolling mill people, meaning Mr. Taft, your special friend and backer. So I knew you had been busy as well as myself. But you can tell me all about it, and what the Donohues said, when you join me inside of five minutes; because I'm coming over in our tin-Lizzie to take you on a little jaunt with me." "But I don't believe I ought to go off just now," expostulated Jack; "because I've got a number of things to see to; and besides, we must be out to practice again this afternoon." "Rats! you've got plenty of time for all that," snorted Toby, who evidently would not take no for an answer when once his heart was set on a thing. "And, besides, it happens that I'm heading for Harmony this time, on some business for dad. We can come back by the road that finally skirts the lake shore. I heard some of the fellows say they meant to go swimming this morning, and we'll like as not come across them in the act, perhaps have a dip ourselves for diversion. Say you'll go, Jack?" It was a very alluring programme for a boy who loved the open as much as Jack did. His scruples vanished like the mist before the morning sun. "All right, then, Toby," he went on to say; "I'll go with you, because we can kill two birds with one stone. It happens that I'd like to have a chat with Martin, the Harmony captain. There are several things we ought to settle before we meet on the diamond Saturday afternoon. I'll be ready for you when you come around with your antique chariot." "It isn't good taste to look a gift-horse in the mouth, Jack; and you ought to know that same flivver can show her heels to many a more pretentious car when on the road. So-long, then. See you in five minutes!" Toby was as good as his word, and the car stopped before Jack's gate with much honking of the claxon. Once they were off of course Toby demanded that his companion relate his experiences of the preceding afternoon, when he interviewed the affable manager of the big rolling mills, and secured that offer of a good job for Mr. Donohue, calculated to keep their wonderful wizard of a pitcher on the roll-call of the Chester baseball team. "Of course," said Jack, in conclusion, "when I got to Alec's place and told them what good news I was fetching, they were all mighty well pleased. I thought Alec would certainly have a fit, he danced around so. And take it from me, Toby, that boy will show the Harmony players some wonderful tricks from his box when they face him again, because he's feeling simply immense. When a pitcher is in the pink of condition, he can make the heaviest sluggers feed from his hand; and Alec certainly has a bunch of shoots that run all the way from speed, curves, drops, and several others that, for one, I never before heard of. Now tell me about your offer of a job." Toby laughed softly. "Well, you see, Jack, I just knew what you'd be up to, and says I to myself, it'd be a bully thing if I could beat Jack out for just once. So I humped myself and ran around to see Joe Cameron, who happens to be a distant relative of my mother, you remember. He wanted to help me, but at first couldn't see any way where he could make use of a man like Donohue, at least at living wages. But I pleaded so hard, that in the end he remembered a certain place that was vacant. True, it only paid fifteen a week, but he placed it at my disposal. And so after supper I ran around to see if Donohue wouldn't consent to fill that job, through the summer, or until a better one showed up. But I was tickled when Alec told me about your stunt." Chatting as they rode along, they were not long in reaching Harmony. This town was somewhat larger than Chester, though the latter did more business when it came to the matter of dollars and cents, on account of the mills and factories along the lake and the river. Toby soon transacted his errand, which was connected with a business house. Then they made inquiries, and learned that Martin lived on the outskirts of the town, actually on the road they meant to take going home by another route. "That must be his place yonder!" remarked Toby, presently. "No doubt about it," laughed Jack, "for you can see that a baseball crank lives in that big house with the extensive grounds. Listen to the plunk of a ball landing in a glove, will you. Martin is having a little private practice of a morning on his own account." "Yes, I can see two fellows passing the ball across the lawn," admitted Toby. "If all the other members of the Harmony team are just as hard at work every hour of daylight, it's mighty evident they mean to be as fit as a fiddle for that big game. They must feel that if they lose, all their good work of the summer will go in the scrap heap." "I'm glad to know they feel so anxious," chuckled Jack. "It shows how we made them respect our team that last time, when they had their full line-up on deck. We are due for a thrilling game, and don't you forget it, Toby." When the two boys who were passing the ball so swiftly discovered the stopping flivver, and recognized their morning callers, they hurried out through the gate to shake hands with Jack and Toby. Martin's companion proved to be Hutchings, the efficient first baseman and hard hitter of the locals. They chatted for some time, Jack making such, inquiries as he had in mind, and being given all the information at the disposal of the other pair. "About that letter of mine," Captain Martin finally remarked, when the visitors were preparing to depart; "it was a nasty subject to handle, and I hardly knew how to go about it; so finally decided to hit straight out, and tell you what we suspected was going on over here. I was glad to hear from Bailey that you boys took it in just the same spirit it was sent." "We were in a humor to give you and your fellows a hearty cheer," Jack told him; "we all agreed that it was a genuine pleasure to run up against such a fine bunch of honorable ball players; and believe me, if we can't carry off that game for Chester, we'll not begrudge your crowd for taking it, because we know it will have been fairly won." It was in this friendly spirit that the rival captains shook hands and parted. Each leader would fight tooth and nail to capture the impending game, using all legitimate means to further his ends; but there would be no hard feelings between the opposing players. Harmony's fine act had rendered this a certainty. Jack had said nothing about the narrow escape Chester had from a real catastrophe in the loss of their wonderful young pitcher. He thought it best not to mention matters that concerned only Chester folks; although feeling positive that Martin would congratulate him on his success in keeping Alec; for the game would lose much of its interest if only a second-string pitcher officiated in the box for either side when they anticipated showing their best goods. "He's all wool, and a yard wide, that Martin," asserted Toby, after they had turned their faces toward home again, and were booming along the road that presently would take them close to the shore of Lake Constance. "There's no doubt about his being a good fellow," agreed Jack; "and it's certainly a real pleasure to go up against such a crowd. For one, I've underestimated the Harmony boys. We've heard a lot about their noisy ways and hustle, but, after all, I think most of it's on the surface, and deeper down they're just as much gentlemen as you'd find anywhere. Most games of rivalry are won through aggressiveness, and plenty of fellows cultivate that mode of playing. It doesn't follow that such chaps are boors, or clowns, or brawlers off the field. We could stand a little more of that sort of thing ourselves, to tell you the truth, Toby--standing on our toes, and keeping wide awake every second of the time play is on." "Right you are, Jack, and after this I'm going to whoop it up a lot more'n I've ever done before. You'll see some _hopping_ to beat the band, too. I've managed to cover a good deal of territory up to now but, say, I aspire to do still better. I'm rubbing snake oil on my joints right along so as to make 'em more supple. Why, I'd _bathe_ in it if I thought that would make me better able to do my part toward corraling that great game for Chester." "There, I had a first glimpse of Lake Constance," remarked Jack. "The trees have closed the vista again, so you can't catch it; but I suppose we'll soon come to a place where we'll have the water on our left, and the road even runs along close to the edge. I remember skating up about this far last February, soon after I arrived in Chester; and the lake was then a solid sheet of smooth ice." "Queer how cold the water stays all summer," mused Toby. "There are times when I've seen boys shivering in July and August while bathing. It's fed by springs, they say, though Paradise River also empties into the lake. There, now you can see away across to the other shore, Jack. Isn't it a bully sheet of water, though?" "What dandy times we can have next winter iceboating, skating, playing hockey, and everything like that," suggested Jack, delightedly, as his eyes feasted on the immense body of fresh water, with its surface just rippled in the soft summer breeze. "We'll soon come to where the boys said they meant to go in swimming this morning," added Toby. "It's a perfect day, too, even if the sun does feel hot. Just such a day as this when I got that nasty little cramp in the cold water of the lake, and might have had a serious time only for Big Bob Jeffries taking me on his back and carrying me like a baby to the shore." "Listen!" exclaimed Jack just then, "what's all that yell going on ahead of us? The boys must be cutting up capers; and yet it strikes me there's a note of fear in their shouts. Turn on the juice, Toby, and eat up the road! Something terrible may be happening, you know. Things keep following each other these days like sheep going over a fence after their leader!" Toby made the flivver fairly bound along, such was his eagerness to arrive at the scene of all the excitement. Twenty seconds later he gave a loud cry. "Look, Jack, there's some one floundering out there, and throwing up his arms. It's our Joel Jackman, I do believe! and great Cæsar! he's got a cramp and is drowning!" CHAPTER XIII WHEN THE CRAMP SEIZED JOEL What the excited Toby had just said in thrilling tones was undoubtedly the truth. There was no "fooling" about the frantic actions of the boy who was struggling so desperately out in the lake. He was threshing the water furiously, now vanishing partly underneath, only to come up again in a whirl of bubbles. When a cramp seizes any one, no matter if he should happen to be a champion in the art of swimming, he is always in mortal peril of his life, especially should he be at some distance from the shore, and in deep water. It almost paralyzes every muscle, and the strongest becomes like a very babe in its spasmodic clutch. Joel Jackman was long-legged and thin, but had always been reckoned one of those wiry sort of chaps, built on the order of a greyhound. He could run like the wind, and jump higher than any fellow in all Chester, barring none. But when that awful cramp seized him in the cold water of Lake Constance, lie found himself unable to make any progress toward shore, distant at least fifty feet. It was all he could do to keep his head above water, struggling as he was with the fear of a terrible death before his eyes. His two comrades were running up and down on the shore; not that they were such arrant cowards but what they would have been willing to do almost anything to help Joel; but unfortunately they had lost their heads in the sudden shock; and as Toby afterwards contemptuously said, "acted like so many chickens after the ax had done its foul work." Jack sized up the situation like a flash. "Toby, you get one of those boards over yonder, and come out to help me if I'm in trouble, understand?" he jerked out, even as the flivver came to a sudden stop, and he was bounding over the side regardless of any exit. "All right, Jack; you bet I will!" Toby shouted, following suit. Jack began to shed his outer clothes as he ran swiftly forward. First his cap went, and then his coat. He had low shoes on so that he was able to detach them with a couple of quick jerks, and at the loss of the laces. Two seconds, when at the verge of the water, sufficed for him to get rid of his trousers, and then, he went in with a rush. Toby meanwhile had tried to follow suit even as he made for the boards in question. It had been just like Jack to glimpse these in the beginning, while those other fellows apparently did not know a board was within half a mile. Seeing what Toby meant to do, the two swimmers followed suit, so that presently the whole three of them had each picked up a plank, and were pushing out with it. Jack had plunged ahead, swimming in any old way, since his one object just then was speed, and not style. He could not have done better had he been up against a swarm of rivals working for a prize. Well, there _was_ a prize dangling there in plain sight. A precious human life was at stake, and unless he could arrive in time poor Joel might go down, never to come up again in his senses. He had already been under once, and through his desperate efforts succeeded in reaching the surface of the agitated water again. Even as Jack started swimming, after getting in up to his neck, the drowning boy vanished again. Jack swam on, trying to increase his pace, if such a thing were possible. He must get on the spot without the waste of a second. Joel would likely come to the surface again, but battling more feebly against the threatening fate. If he went down a third time it would be all over but the funeral, Jack knew. He was more than two-thirds of the way there when to his ecstatic joy he once more discovered the head of Joel. The boy was still making a gallant fight, but under a fearful handicap. Jack shouted hoarsely as he swam onward: "Keep fighting, Joel! We'll get you, old chap! Strike out as hard as you can! You're all right, I tell you, only don't stop working!" Perhaps these cheering words did help Joel to continue his weakening efforts to keep himself afloat. Possibly had it not been for his hearing Jack's voice raised in encouragement, he might have given up the ghost before then. Nearer Jack surged, his heart seeming to be in his throat with dread lest Joel go down again a few seconds before he could get within touch. The three boys with the boards were also coming along in a solid bunch, although of course with less speed than Jack showed, owing partly to the fact that they had to shove the planks before them. Now, Joel, with a last despairing gurgle was sinking again, and for the very last time, being utterly exhausted by his frantic struggles, and the terrible pain occasioned by the cramp. But Jack knew he had arrived close enough to dart forward and clutch his comrade before the other could quite vanish from view. Joel was so far gone that he did not try to grip his rescuer, as most drowning persons will do in their frantic desire to save themselves at any cost. Jack tried to keep the boy's head above water as best he could. He made no effort to swim towards the shore. What was the use when the other fellows were coming along with their boards. The one thing necessary just then was to prevent Joel from swallowing any more water; he had already no doubt gulped in huge quantities, and lost the ability to breathe properly. So Toby and the other two found them when they finally arrived. The planks were arranged so that Joel could be raised and sustained by their means; after which the little procession of swimmers headed for the bank. When they arrived, Joel was lifted out of the water and carried tenderly up to a patch of green sward lying in the shade of a wide-branching oak. Here they laid him down on his chest, while Jack proceeded to work over him, instructing the other fellows just what they were to do to assist. He knelt astride with one knee on either side of Joel's body, and commenced pressing down regularly on the small of his back, so as to induce an artificial respiration. At the same time, Toby and one of the other fellows worked the unconscious boy's arms back and forth like a pair of pistons; while the third fellow started to rub his cold lower extremities. At first Joel seemed pretty far gone, and his appearance sent a chill through the sympathetic heart of Toby Hopkins. But after they had kept up this vigorous treatment for a little while, there were signs of returning animation. Joel belched out a gallon of water, Toby always insisted, and inside of ten minutes was able to talk, though Jack insisted on keeping up the rubbing until the boy's body was a rosy hue from the irritation. "Now get some clothes on, Joel, and you'll soon be feeling prime," he told the other, whose lips were still blue and quivering. Joel had had quite enough of swimming for one day. Indeed, he would be pretty cautious about getting any distance away from the shore after that, having received a most fearful shock. Still, boys recover from such things, given a little time, and Joel had always been reckoned a fellow who did not know the meaning of the word "fear." The other boys had apparently lost the joy of bathing for that day. They, too, started to don their clothes, and begged Toby to "hold up," so that they might get a lift to town in the flivver; which, being a whole-souled fellow, of course, "Hop" was only too glad to do. Later on, after arriving home, Jack and Toby talked matters over between themselves. This new and entirely unexpected happening had been only another link in the growing chain of troubles hanging over the head of the captain of the Chester baseball team. "What if we hadn't chanced to be on the road just at that very minute, Jack?" ventured Toby, with a shiver; "poor old Joel would certainly have been drowned, because neither Frank nor Rufus had the slightest idea what to do so as to save him. And that would have broken up our combination in the nine, all right, because we'd find it hard to replace such a runner and fielder and batter as Joel." "Of course," said Jack, "the worst thing of all would be losing a friend. Joel is a mighty fine all-around fellow, and most of us are fond of him. And just as you say, the game would like as not have to be postponed, because how could we play as we would want to with a chum lying dead at home? So I'm grateful because we did chance to be Johnny-on-the-spot." "That was sure a great job you did, Jack, believe me; and when I say such a thing I'm not meaning to throw bouquets either. Whee! but you did shoot through the water like a fish. I've watched a pickerel dart at a minnow, but no slinker ever had the bulge on you that time." "I had to get along with all sail set," Jack told him, with a smile, for it is always pleasant to have a friend hand out a meed of praise, even to the most modest boy going. "I knew Joel was at the last gasp, and even a second lost might mean he'd go down for the third time before I could get there. And yet do you know, Toby, it seemed to me right then and there as if I had a ton of lead fastened to me. Why, I felt as though something was holding me back, just as you know the nightmare grips you usually. But when I was within striking distance, I knew I could save Joel. He made a gallant fight, and deserves a lot of praise." "I wonder what we'll have happen next, Jack? Seems to me not a day passes but you've got to play the rescue act with some member of our team. There was Fred worrying you, and still acting queer; then along comes Donohue threatening to give us the slip because his folks meant to move out of town, and he couldn't pitch unless he lived in Chester. Now, as if those things didn't count up enough to keep you awake nights, old Joel had to go and try to kick the bucket, and force you to yank him out of the lake." Jack laughed and shook his head. "It's hard to tell what another day may bring forth, Toby," he went on to say. "Remember, this is only Thursday, and Friday is said to be a very unlucky day in some people's lives, especially when it falls on the thirteenth of the month, as happens this year. There are still a few fellows in the nine who haven't shown up yet in the catastrophe ward. Why, Toby, it might even be _you_ who'll wave the flag and call out for help." "I give you my affidavit, Jack, that I'm going to play mighty safe from now on. No fishing or swimming for me, and I'll even run that old flivver at slow speed, for fear it takes a notion to land me in a ditch, and come in on top of me. But I hope, Jack, you're not getting discouraged with all these things coming right along?" "I might, Toby, if I were not built on a stubborn line. We'll go to Harmony on Saturday and make a fight for that game even if we have to lug along a crippled nine, some of them on crutches!" Toby brightened up on hearing the leader grimly say this. "That's the sort of stuff, Jack!" he exclaimed, slapping his chum on the back. "In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as fail! We'll go forth with our hearts set on victory, and that's one half of the battle. Hurrah! for Chester!" CHAPTER XIV A NIGHT ALARM Before the two boys parted that afternoon, after the practice of the whole regular nine, barring Joel, who, taking Jack's advice, laid off for one occasion, Joel had asked the captain to drop over when he had finished his supper. "I want to see you about a number of things," he had told Jack; "not so much in connection with the game we're scheduled to play, as other affairs looking to the ambitious programme we've mapped out for Chester boys the rest of the summer, in the fall, and even up to winter. For one thing, I'd like to give you a few pointers about the fellows in our crowd, so that you can size them up for the football squad later on." That caught Jack in a weak spot. "I'll go you there, Toby," he hastened to say, "because I've been trying to figure things out along those lines myself. When you're placing men on an eleven, you ought to know their every strong and weak point; and I'm too new a hand here in Chester to be on to such things. So I'll be glad to have you give me points." Accordingly, he knocked at the Hopkins' door soon after seven that evening, and was immediately admitted by Toby himself. The Hopkins family consisted of Toby's father and mother, and an older son just then away on a trip to the West, as he was attending college, and had been promised this treat if he passed with honors. There was also a very small girl, named Tessie, who naturally was the pet of the household, and in a way to be spoiled by the adoration of her two brothers. Toby had a den of his own in the upper part of the rambling house. Here just as most boys love to do, he had the walls fairly covered with the burgees of various colleges, all sorts of mementos collected during his outdoor experiences, curios that in Toby's eyes were precious because many of them bore an intimate relation with some little adventure or jolly outing in which he had taken part. There were also football togs, baseball contraptions, fishing paraphernalia in unlimited abundance, as well as striking illustrations covering the field of sport as seen through the eyes of youth. But one good thing about it all, you would look in vain for the slightest trace of any vulgar picture; Toby had no love for such so-called sport as prize fighting or any kindred subject. Here in this adorable den, reflecting the loves of a genuine boy with red blood in his veins, there often assembled a number of lads who always felt very much at home amidst such surroundings; but Toby would allow of no rough-house scuffling in his quarters, to annoy his mother, and get on her nerves. When the fellows dropped in to have a chat and lounge in his easy chairs amidst such exhilarating surroundings they were expected to behave themselves. Joel had the big lamp lighted. It threw a fine mellow glow over the walls of the den and showed up the myriad of objects with which they were covered. Somehow, Joel always liked his room much better when that royal lamp was burning, for even the most remote corner, seldom pierced by the intercepted rays of the sun, loomed up under its ardent rays. Here the pair settled down for a long quiet chat. Jack wanted to ask a hundred questions bearing on the boys with whom he had become so intimately associated during the few months since his advent in Chester. Since they had so kindly bestowed the leadership in sports upon him, he wished to be like a wise general and lose no opportunity for learning each boy's individual ability. Of course he had been keeping close "tabs" on them right along, but then, Toby, who had seen them attempting to play football, for instance, would be able to tell of certain stunts this or that fellow had done that were out of the common. Such points help amazingly in "putting a round man in a round hole." Too often a half-back should be a tackle, or a guard, in order to bring out the very best that is in him. Then again Toby knew more or less concerning the fighting abilities of the teams in the neighboring towns, Marshall and Harmony in particular. His love for sport had taken Toby to every game within thirty miles he could hear of in contemplation; for if Chester seemed bound to sleep, and decline to enter the lists, a fellow who yearned to indulge in such things must go abroad to satisfy his longings. So it came about that he was able to give Jack many valuable tips connected with the elevens with whom Chester was apt to come in contact, should they succeed in whipping a team into anything like fair condition. "Now, after all you've told me about our boys," Jack was saying along after nine o'clock, when he was thinking of starting home, feeling tired after such a strenuous day, "I begin to believe we can get up a squad of football players here capable of putting up a strong game. One thing in our favor is the fact that we have an old athlete like Coach Joe Hooker to show us how to work out greenhorns." "That's as true as you live," snapped Toby, his face glowing with eagerness, for one of the ambitions of his life seemed in prospect of being fulfilled. "I've never really played football, though of course I can kick, and run, and dodge pretty fairly. But in theory I'm away up in the game. Other fellows are in the same fix; and we'll need a whole lot of practice before we feel justified in going up against any older eleven. Like as not we'll get snowed under; but even if we lose every game this season, it'll give us what we need in the way of experience, and another year we'll show the way." "There are lots of other outdoor games we'll have to take up in season," continued Jack, thoughtfully. "Once the spirit of sport has gripped the boys of Chester, and they'll be hungry to go into anything that means a test of endurance, skill or pluck." "I suppose now you've played football before, Jack?" asked the other. "Well, we had a pretty fair eleven in the city I came from, and I was lucky enough to belong to them," he said modestly. "I don't know that I shone as a star very much, but on the whole, we managed to keep up our end, and last year we pulled off the championship in our section of country." "What position did you fill?" queried Toby. "Our captain made a half-back of me," came the answer. "Somehow he seemed to believe I was better suited for that position than a tackle, though I wanted to be in the other place at the start. But it happened there were two sprinters better fitted than I was to hold down the job. So unless I run across a man who seems to show signs of being my superior in the field I've occupied, I suppose I'll continue to play half-back to the end of the chapter." "Well," remarked Toby, as Jack made out to pick up his cap with the intention of leaving, since the hour was getting late, "one more day, and then what? A whole twenty-four hours for things to happen calculated to bust up our plans, and knock 'em galley-west. I wish, this was Friday night, and nothing serious had come about. We need that big game to make us solid with the people of Chester. It might be hard on poor Harmony, but it would be the making of our town." "Hearing you say that," chuckled Jack, "makes me think of that story of the old man and his boy's bull-pup." "I don't know that I've ever heard it, so fire away and tell the yarn, Jack," the other pleaded. "Why, once a boy had a young bull-pup of which he was very fond. His father also took considerable interest in teaching the dog new tricks. On one occasion the old man was down on his knees trying to make the small dog jump at him, while the boy kept sicking him on. Suddenly the bull-pup made a lunge forward and before the old man could draw back he had gripped him by the nose, and held on like fun. Then the boy, only thinking of how they had succeeded in tempting the small dog, clapped his hands and commenced to dance around, shouting: 'Swing him around, dad, swing him every which way! It's hard on you, of course, but I tell you it'll be the making of the pup!'" Toby laughed as Jack finished the anecdote, which it happened he had never heard before. "Well, Harmony will be dad, and the bull-pup I know turns out to be Chester, bent on holding through thick and thin to victory. I'm glad you came over, Jack, and if I've been able to hand you out a few pointers we haven't wasted our time." "I noticed when on the way here that it had clouded up," remarked Jack. "Let's hope we don't get a storm that will compel us to postpone that game. Our boys are in the pink of condition, with so much practice, and might go stale by another week." "That's another cause for anxiety, then," croaked Toby shrugging his shoulders. "Here, I'll find my cap, and step outdoors with you. My eyes are blinking after so much light, and a breath of fresh air wouldn't go bad." He had hardly said this than Toby stopped in his tracks. "Listen, Jack, the fire-alarm bell! There's a blaze starting up, and with so much wind blowing it may mean a big conflagration. Where did I toss that cap of mine?" "I saw something like a cap behind the rowing-machine over there when I tried it out," observed the other, whose habit of noticing even the smallest things often served him well. "Just what it is," asserted Toby, after making a wild plunge in the quarter designated; "that's my meanest trait, Jack. Mother tries to break me of it ever so often, but I seem to go back again to the old trick of carelessness. Now come on, and we'll rush out. Already I can hear people beginning to shout." They went downstairs two at a jump. For once Toby did not think of his mother's nerves. Fires were not so frequent an occurrence in the history of a small city like Chester that a prospective conflagration could be treated lightly. Once out of the house and they had no difficulty about deciding in which direction the fire lay. Some people, principally boys, were already running full-tilt through the street, and all seemed to be heading in the one direction. At the same time all manner of comments could be heard passing between them as they galloped along, fairly panting. "It must be the big mill, from the light that's beginning to show up in the sky!" hazarded one boy. "Shucks! what are you giving us, Sandy!" gasped another. "The mill ain't over in that direction at all. Only cottages lie there, with an occasional haystack belongin' to some garden-truck raiser. Mebbe it might be a barn." "Just what it is, Tim," a third boy chimed in eagerly. "Hay burns like wildfire you know, and see how red the sky is agettin' now." Neither Jack nor Toby had thus far ventured to make any sort of guess. No matter what was afire it promised to be a serious affair, with the wind blowing at the rate of twenty miles an hour or more. If it turned out to be a private house some one was likely to be rendered homeless before long. The bell continued to clang harshly. Chester still clung to the volunteer system of firemen, though there was some talk of purchasing an up-to-date motor truck engine, and hiring a force to be on duty day and night. "Jack," suddenly called out Toby, "don't you see that we're heading straight for Fred's house. Honest to goodness I believe it's that very cottage afire right now." CHAPTER XV WHAT HAPPENED AT THE FIRE "Hello there, fellows, you're on the job, too, I see!" That was burly Steve Mullane calling out as he came tearing along in the wake of Jack and Toby. Steve was passionately fond of anything in the line of a fire. He had been known to chase for miles out into the country on learning that some farmer's haystacks and barn were ablaze; though he usually arrived far too late to see anything but the ruins. "What do you think, Steve," gurgled Toby, "I was just saying I thought it might be Fred Baxter's place." "Seems like it was around that section of territory anyhow," replied the other, as well as he was able to speak, while exerting himself to the utmost. Jack made no immediate comment, but he himself was beginning to believe Toby's guess might not be far wrong. It gave him a fresh wrench about the region of his heart to believe this. It would mean another source of trouble for poor Fred, and might in the end eliminate him from the game on Saturday. All Chester was aroused by this time. When that brazen bell kept clanging away in such a loud fashion people knew that something out of the usual run was taking place. They flocked forth, all hurrying in the same general direction, until the streets were fairly blocked with the crowds. Now came the engine, driven by an expert member of the fire company, the pair of horses galloping wildly under the whip, and the spur of such general excitement. Loud cheers greeted the advent of the volunteer department. The men looked very brave and heroic with their red firehats, and rubber coats. They would undoubtedly do good work once they got on the ground; but that wind was playing havoc with things, and perhaps after all it might not be possible to save the imperiled building. All doubts were removed, for on rounding a bend the three boys discovered that it was actually the modest Badger house that was afire. Flames could be seen pouring out of the windows, and a great smoke arose, telling that the whole interior must be heating up, and liable to break into a vast blaze at any minute. "Whee! it looks bad for Fred's folks, now!" cried Toby, his first thought being of the suffering of those involved. "It's going to make a dandy fire, all right!" Steve was heard to say to himself; and it was not because he was a heartless boy that this was his first thought, for Steve could be as tender as the next one; only he did dearly love a fire, and on that account was apt to forget how a blaze almost always meant loss for somebody, possibly deadly peril as well. There was quite a mob of people already on the spot. Some who lived much closer than the three chums had been able to reach the scene of the fire in considerably less time. Jack was trying to remember what things looked like in the near vicinity of the Badger home. He had been there only once or twice in all, but that habit of observation clung to him, and he was thus able to recollect how he had noticed that some sort of a woodshed stood close to the back of the house. If this held considerable fuel for the kitchen stove, and a fire managed to start in some way, it was just situated right to sweep through the house, being on the windward end. "Where's Fred and his folks?" asked Toby just then, as they started boy-fashion to elbow their way through the crowd, determined to get in the front rank in order to see everything that transpired. Jack was himself looking eagerly around, with the same object in view. He remembered the sad face of Fred's little mother, who he feared had seen much of trouble during the later years of her life. It looked as though there might be still more cause for anxiety hovering over her. "She must be in that bunch of women folks over yonder," asserted Steve. "Yes, I just had a glimpse of that pretty little kid, Fred's sister, Barbara. One of the women is holding the child in her arms, and she's wrapped in bed clothes, which shows she must have been sleeping when the fire broke out." "I wonder what's happening over where that group of men is standing," remarked Toby, solicitously. "There, a boy has fetched a dipper of water from the well bucket. Why, somebody must have been hurt, Jack." "Let's make our way over and find out," suggested Steve, quickly. Accordingly the three boys pushed through the various groups of chattering men, women and children. The firemen had by now managed to get to work, and the first stream of water was playing on the burning house; though every one could see that there was little chance of saving any part of the doomed structure, since the fire fiend had gained such a start. "What's the matter here?" Jack asked a small boy who came reeling out from the packed crowd, as though unable to look any longer. "Why, it's Fred Badger!" he told them in his shrill piping tones that could be heard even above the hoarse cries of the fire laddies and the murmur of voices from the surging mob, constantly growing larger as fresh additions arrived. "What happened to him?" almost savagely asked Steve. "He was trying to haul some of the furniture out, I heard tell," continued the Chester urchin, "and he got hurted some way. He's lying there like he was dead. I just couldn't stand it any more, that's what." Filled with horror Jack pushed forward, with his two chums backing him up. What fresh calamity was threatening the Badger family, he asked himself. Poor Fred certainly had quite enough to battle against without being knocked out in this fashion. When, however, they had managed to press in close enough to see, it was to discover the object of their solicitude sitting up. Fred looked like a "drowned rat," as Toby hastened to remark, almost joyously. Evidently they had emptied the pail of cold water over his head in the effort to revive him, and with more or less success. Jack was considerably relieved. It was not so bad as he had feared, though Fred certainly looked weak, and next door to helpless. "I hope he'll not be knocked out from playing that game with us Saturday," Steve took occasion to say. "Oh! Fred's made of tough stuff," asserted Toby, the wish being father to the thought; "he'll recover all right. I only hope they've got their goods covered by insurance. It'd be pretty rocky if they didn't, let me tell you. Nearly everything is gone, I'm afraid. Fred did manage to drag a little out, but that fire is bound to eat up the balance, no matter what the firemen can do to throw water inside." Jack suddenly discovered that the man whom he had seen talking with Fred was pushing his way through the group. He acted too as though he might be deeply interested in matters, for he shoved folks aside with an air that would not stand for a refusal to allow him free passage. Toby discovered him at about the identical moment. "Look who's here, Jack!" he muttered, tugging at the other's coat sleeve. "Now, what under the sun's gone and fetched that duck out here to bother Fred again? We really ought not allow such a thing, Jack. The nerve of the slick sport to push his way in to where Fred lies there." "Just hold your horses, will you, Toby?" Jack told him. "As yet we don't know anything about that man, who or what life is, and the nature of his business with Fred. There, you see the boy seems to be glad to have him around. Why, the man has gripped his hand. He seems to be a whole lot excited, for he's questioning Fred as if he wanted to make sure everybody was safe out of the cottage." "I wonder if they are?" remarked Toby. "I've seen little Barbara, and here's our comrade, while I reckon I glimpsed Mrs. Badger over there among those women; but how about the crippled girl, Jack? Anybody seen her around?" A fresh thrill seized Jack's heart in a grip of ice. Of course it was almost silly to suspect that the cripple could have been forgotten in all the excitement; but anything is liable to happen at a fire, where most people lose their heads, and do things they would call absurd at another time. "Fred would be apt to know, I should think," suggested Steve, anxiously, casting an apprehensive glance in the direction of the burning house, and mentally calculating just what chance any one still inside those walls would have of coming out alive. "Unless he was rattled in the bargain," said Jack. "Lots of people leave things for others to do. Fred may have thought his mother would fetch Lucy out; and on her part she took it for granted Fred had taken care of his sister the first thing." "Gee whiz! I wonder, could that happen, and the poor thing be in there right now," Toby exclaimed, looking horrified at the idea. "Listen to all that squealing over among the women, will you?" Steve was saying. Indeed, a fresh outburst of feminine cries could be heard. Apparently something had happened to give the women new cause for fright. Some of those around Fred turned to look. They could see the women running this way and that like a colony of bees that has been disturbed. "They certain sure act like they might be looking for somebody!" asserted Toby. "See how they ask questions of everyone they meet. Jack, do you think Fred's mother could have just learned that something had happened to her boy; or would it be Lucy they miss for the first time?" "We'll soon know," said Jack, firmly, "because here comes one of the women running this way like a frightened rabbit." Eagerly, and with their pulses bounding like mad, they awaited the arrival of the woman. Many others had also turned to greet her, sensing some fresh calamity, before which even the burning of the poor widow's cottage would sink into insignificance. "Is she here, men?" gasped the woman, almost out of breath. "Have any of you seen Lucy Badger? We can't find her anywhere. Is that Fred there on the ground? He ought to know, because his mother says he must have taken his sister from the house." They all turned toward Fred. He still sat there looking white and weak, though he was evidently recovering by degrees from his swoon after being hit on the head by some falling object. He looked up in sudden anxiety as he heard the woman speaking. "What's the matter, Mrs. Moody?" he asked, trying to get on his knees, though the effort was almost too much for his strength. "What's that you said about my sister Lucy? Oh! isn't she with mother and Barbara? I thought sure I saw her in the crowd while I was working trying to save some of the furniture mother valued." "We can't find the girl anywhere!" the woman cried, in anguish, "and perhaps she's still in there, stupefied by the smoke, and unable to save herself, poor, poor thing. Oh! somebody must try to find out if it's so. Fred, are you able to make the attempt?" Poor Fred fell back on his knees. His powers of recuperation did not seem equal to the demand. He groaned miserably on discovering how unable he was to doing what in his manly heart he believed to be his solemn duty. Jack was about to take it upon himself to attempt the dangerous rôle when to his astonishment the mysterious stranger sprang up, and made a thrilling announcement. CHAPTER XVI A STARTLING DISCLOSURE "Let me try to save the child; it is no more than right that I should be the one to risk his life!" Possibly some of the men might have laid hands on the stranger and prevented his attempting such a rash act, for with the house so filled with smoke and flame it seemed next door to madness for any one to brave the peril that lay in wait. He managed to elude them, however, and to the astonishment of the three boys in particular, plunged recklessly through the door where vast columns of smoke could be seen pouring forth. Apparently one of the valiant firemen might have been better fitted for this dangerous duty than a gentleman of his calibre. Jack was tempted to follow after the stranger, but the firemen had formed a line in front of the entrance, and by their manner announced that no second fool would be allowed to take his life in his hands by entering that blazing building. Just then Mrs. Baxter came staggering up. She must have seen the little episode, and suspected strongly that the one who had gone in was her own boy Fred, unable to hold himself in check after learning that his poor sister was in all probability still within the cottage. Some of the men caught her as she was trying to rush toward the door, holding out her arms entreatingly. The boys understood when they heard her crying: "Oh! why did you let him go in there? Was it not enough that I should lose one of my children, but now I am doubly bereft! Fred, Fred, come back to me!" "Mother, see here I am!" called the boy, this time managing to regain his feet, though he swayed unsteadily, and might have fallen in his weakness only for Jack, who quickly put a sustaining arm around him. Mrs. Badger turned swiftly and with a look of new-born joy on her strained features. Another instant and she had darted forward and embraced Fred. The poor woman was almost frantic with mingled emotions, nor could any one blame her for giving way to weeping as she hugged Fred. "Oh! I was sure it must be you, my son, and I feared I should never see either of you again!" she cried, passionately. "I wanted to go, mother," he told her, soothingly, "but I couldn't stand alone. You see, I was struck on the head and knocked out, so I'm feeling as weak as a kitten." "But Lucy?" wailed the poor woman. "Try to calm yourself, mother," urged Fred, stoutly. "If she is in there still he may yet be in time to save her, with the aid of Providence." "But tell me who was so ready to take his own life in his hands, so as to try and save my child for me?" she went on, almost hysterically. "Oh! I shall never cease to remember him for a noble man in my prayers. What neighbor could have been such a Good Samaritan to me and mine!" "It was the stranger, Mrs. Badger!" said one of the men close by, and Jack, as well as Toby listened eagerly for what was coming. "Yes, a party who's been hanging around town for a week or more, stopping at the Eureka House," added another of the citizens, who apparently had noticed the presence of the guest in question, and even speculated as to his object in staying so long in Chester, where there were no special summer attractions outside of the beautiful lake near by. "And he seemed to have lots of money in the bargain," a third went on to say, as he eyed the burning house as though wondering greatly why a stranger would accept such grave risks for people whom he could never have seen before. "Mebbe I might throw a little light on this thing," said another man, eagerly. "I happened to get in conversation with the party at one time. He goes by the name of Smith at the hotel. He told me he'd been pretty much of a wanderer, and had seen most of the world. But among other things he said was that once on a time he had been a fireman. He even showed me a scar that he said reminded him of a night when he nigh lost his life in a big blaze. So you see he's right in his line when he goes into a burning building to effect a rescue!" Jack was picking up points as he listened to these things so hurriedly said. He turned to see what effect they had upon Fred and his mother. The woman seemed more bewildered than ever. Evidently she could not understand why a total stranger should risk his life for her child when so many of her neighbors stood around; unless it might be the old fever still burned in Smith's veins, and he could not resist the lure of the crackling flames that seemed to be defying him. Fred, however, did not look at all puzzled. There was an eager light in his eyes that Jack began to understand. Fred knew something that his mother was utterly ignorant of. He had heard those words of hers about remembering the gallant stranger in her prayers with considerable emotion. Jack even thought the expression written on the face of the boy might spell delight. "But even if he had at one time been a fire-fighter in the city," Mrs. Badger kept on saying, wonderingly, "why should he be so eager to throw away his life in _my_ service. What could a poor woman and her crippled child be to him?" Then Fred, unable longer to keep his wonderful secret, burst out: "Oh! mother, don't you know, can't you guess who he is? Why, it's only right he should be the one to save our poor Lucy, or perish in the attempt; because this is the great chance he's been praying would come, so he could prove to you that he has redeemed the past. Mother, surely now you know who he is?" She stared at him as though bewildered. Then her eyes again sought the burning building into which the stranger had plunged, bent on his mission of mercy. By now the staggering truth must have forced itself into her groping mind, for she suddenly caught hold of Fred again, and hugged him passionately. "It must be the mysterious ways of Heaven!" Jack heard her say. "Tell me, boy, do you mean that it is----" "Yes, my father!" Fred said, "and for a whole week and more I have known about his being here. He wanted to wait until I could get up courage enough to break the news to you. He has changed, mother, oh! so much, and made a fortune honestly in the mines, just to show you that the past has been wiped out. And surely this last act of his proves it." The poor woman sank on her knees. Jack could see her lips move, though of course he was unable to catch a single word she uttered; but he felt positive she was sending up a prayer of gratitude, and beseeching Providence that the precious lives of both father and daughter might be spared through a miracle. It was all as clear as daylight to Jack now. He could easily understand how at some time in the past, while the Badgers lived in another town, the husband and father had fallen into evil ways, almost breaking his wife's heart. Finally he had possibly been forced to flee from the law, which he may have broken while under the influence of liquor. And all through the years that had come and gone they had never heard of him again, so that she felt she had a right to call herself a widow. Then one day had come this stranger to Chester, whom Fred must have met, to learn that the other was his own father. He doubtless had been old enough to understand how cruelly his beloved mother had been treated in the past, and it took time to make the boy believe in the protestations of the prodigal father. As the days passed he saw the other frequently, and was gradually coming to believe that his reformation had been sincere. All the while Mr. Badger had been afraid lest his wife refuse to forgive him, and receive him. From afar he had taken to watching the humble cottage home in which his dear ones dwelt, and doubtless each day saw his yearning to embrace them grow stronger. Why, Jack could easily understand now his peculiar actions at the time he stood leaning on the picket fence, and watching; also why he should seek to hold the trusting little hand of pretty Barbara as he walked at her side. He would doubtless have given worlds just then for the privilege of clasping the child in his arms and straining her to his heart, but he did not dare, lest she repulse him. It was simply grand, and Jack's heart beat tumultuously as he watched Mrs. Badger praying for the safety of little Lucy, yes, and also for the life of the man whom she had for years been trying to put out of her mind as utterly unworthy of remembrance. Just then in the light of his noble sacrifice she undoubtedly forgot all the misery he had caused her during their married life, and could only think of him as he had appeared during their courtship, when she believed him the best of his sex. It would be all right, Jack believed, if only Mr. Badger might find his Lucy, and be able to save her life. His wife would be only too ready and willing to let the bitter past sink into oblivion, and begin life anew, in her belief in his reformation. So all interest now hung over the burning cottage. Somewhere inside those doomed walls the man who had once upon a time in his checkered career served as a fireman on a city force, was groping his way about, seeking to stumble over the unconscious form of the poor little cripple whom the pungent smoke had caused to collapse before she could creep to safety. His utter ignorance of the interior of the cottage would be against him, Jack feared. He wondered whether a double tragedy might complete this wonderful happening; or would Heaven be so kind as to allow the repentant man to save Lucy, and thus again cement the bonds his wickedness in the past had severed? The only things in his favor were first of all the fact that he had had much experience along this line of life-saving, and would know just how to go about it; and then again his great enthusiasm might serve to carry him along through difficulties that would have daunted most men. The firemen could do next to nothing to assist in the rescue. They gathered before the building, and sent several streams of water in at the gaping front door, as if desirous of keeping the flames back as long as possible, and thus affording the stranger a better chance for effecting his purpose. Already he had been inside for several minutes. Events had occurred with lightning-like rapidity, for Fred and his mother had talked eagerly. To Jack, however, it seemed as though a quarter of an hour must have elapsed, he was in such a state of suspense. He felt as though he must break through the line of fire fighters and dash into the cottage, to find the pair they knew to be still there amidst that terrible smoke, so dense and suffocating. Would they ever come out, he kept asking himself, as he strained his eyes while looking. When hope was beginning to fade away Jack heard a shout that thrilled him to the core, and made him pluck up new courage. CHAPTER XVII FRED RENEWS HIS PLEDGE "There he is!" It was this thrilling cry that broke out above the noise of the crackling flames, the spatter of rushing water, and the murmur of many voices. "And he's got the child with him!" another sharp-eyed onlooker shouted exultantly; for although they knew nothing of the tie that bound the stranger to the crippled girl he had gone to save, they could appreciate the heroism at its true value, and were ready to honor the other for his brave deed. Staggering forth from the building came the man. He utterly disdained any assistance from the ready firemen, lost in admiration for his courage. They might have deemed him next-door to a fool when he dashed into the building, but now in the light of his astonishing success he was a hero. Mrs. Badger gave a thrilling cry, and advanced toward the man who bore the cripple in his arms. He was a pitiable sight, for most of his beard and hair had been scorched, and in places doubtless he had received burns more or less serious; but he paid no attention to such things. "Here is your darling child, Mary; I saved her for you!" Hardly had Mrs. Badger taken the unconscious girl in her arms when the man sank down at her feet in a dead faint. He had held up through everything until he was able to effect his purpose, and then Nature could stand no more. Jack bent over him and called for water. He sincerely hoped that it might not be so serious as he feared. The experienced fire-fighter would have known better than to have inhaled any of the flame as he passed through; and apparently from the condition of his clothes he could not have been very seriously burned. No sooner had cold water been applied to his face and neck than he came to, and persisted in sitting up. His gaze wandered wistfully over to where his wife was bending over the crippled girl so solicitously. Jack knew, however, that no matter if the rescue had been made too late, Mr. Badger had undoubtedly earned a right to the forgiveness of the one whom he had so cruelly wronged in the past. But it seemed that everything was going to come out all right, for now he saw that the women gathered about the mother and child were looking less alarmed. Undoubtedly Lucy was responding to their efforts at resuscitation. She must have fallen on the floor in such a position as to keep her from inhaling much less smoke than would have been the case had she remained on her feet. The air is always found to be purer near the floor during a fire, as many a person trapped within a burning building has discovered. Now Mrs. Badger had started back toward the spot where the rescuer lay. Perhaps some appealing word from Fred had caused her to remember what she owed to the savior of her crippled child. Mr. Badger saw her coming; trust his eager eyes for that. He managed to struggle to his feet, and stood there waiting; but he need not have feared concerning the result. What he had done this night had forever washed out the bitterness of the past. All the former tenderness in her heart toward him was renewed when she hurried up, and taking one solicitous tearful look into his blackened face, threw herself into his arms with a glad cry. "Oh! Donald, we have lost our little home, but I am the happiest woman on earth this night; for what does that matter when I have found _you_ again?" "Mary, my wife, can you find it in your gentle heart to really forgive me?" Jack heard him ask; not that he meant to play the part of eavesdropper, but he chanced to be very close, and was unable to break away from such an affecting scene. "Never speak of it again to me," she told him. "It is buried forever, all that is displeasing. We will forget it absolutely. In saving our child you have nobly redeemed yourself in my eyes. I am proud of you, Donald. But oh! I hope your hurts may not be serious." "They could be ten times as serious and I would glory in them," he was saying as Jack turned away; but he saw the man bend down and tenderly kiss his wife, while her arms were about his neck. Toby, too, had heard everything. He was the possessor of a very tender heart, and as he trotted off at Jack's side he was making all sorts of queer faces, which the other knew full well were meant to hide the fact that his eyes were swimming in tears, and no boy likes it to be known that he is actually crying. "Did you ever hear of such a fine thing as that, Jack?" Toby was saying between sniffles. "Why, it just goes away ahead of any story I ever read. Think of that man we believed might be a city sport, bent on bribing Fred to throw the great game, turning out to be his own dad! I reckon he treated his poor wife right mean some years ago, and she's never been able to think of him except as a bad egg. But say, he certainly has come back in the last inning, and carried the game off with a wonderful home-run hit." "And Toby," remarked the delighted Jack, "we can easily understand now why that man hung around the Badger cottage at the time we discovered him leaning on the picket fence. He was hungering for a sight of his wife's face, and counting the minutes until Fred could find some way to introduce the subject to his mother." "And then about little Barbara, I rather guess he was taken with her pretty face and quaint speech," continued Toby, reflectively. "Why, at the time he skipped out she could not have been any more than a baby. Well, it's all been a drama equal to anything I ever saw shown in the movies; and in the end everything has come out well. I feel like shouting all the way home, I'm so tickled over it." "Another thing pleases me," continued Jack. "We needn't be bothering our heads over Fred turning traitor to his team after this." "That's so!" echoed Steve. "For one," added Toby, sagaciously, "I've had a hunch, Jack, you never could bring yourself to believe that there was anything about that same affair. In spite of the circumstantial evidence in the case you always kept believing Fred must be innocent. Am I right?" "Perhaps you are, Toby, but I do confess I was considerably worried. Fred's actions were all so suspicious; and besides, we knew that he had great need for a certain sum of money at home. If ever I allowed myself to fear the worst, at the same time I understood that the temptation was great, because of his love for his mother." "But it's all going to come out just bully now," laughed Toby. "You both heard what Fred said about his father having made a fortune honestly in the mines, working ever so hard, just to prove to his wife how he had surely reformed, and wanted to show it by deeds. They'll have no need to worry over money matters from this time out. And let's hope the prodigal dad will make everybody so happy that they'll almost be glad he went bad and had to reform." The other boys had to laugh at Toby's queer way of putting it, but they understood what he meant. The fire was still burning furiously, and despite the efforts of Chester's valiant fighters it seemed disposed to make a clean sweep of the cottage with its contents, all but the few precious heirlooms Fred had been able to drag out in the beginning. "I certainly do hope, though," Steve thought to say presently, "that Fred won't be so knocked out by his blow on the head, and all this wonderful excitement, as not to be able to play in our big game Saturday." "Gee whiz! that _would_ be a calamity for sure!" exclaimed Toby. "Jack, you wondered whether anything else could happen to give you trouble about your line-up against Harmony, and here it has come along. Better have a little heart-to-heart talk with Fred, and get him to promise not to go back on his old pals; for we certainly couldn't fill the gap at third if he dropped out, not at this late day anyhow." "I meant to do that without your mentioning it, Toby," responded the other, patting his chum on the shoulder as he spoke. "I'll hang around and try to get a chance to speak with Fred when things simmer down a bit. But I tell you right now that boy isn't the one to go back on his friends. He'll play if he's in fit condition, no matter how his home conditions have altered for the better. Why, he'll be so full of happiness, I reckon, Fred Badger will star through the whole game." "According to all reports from Harmony," remarked Steve, drily, "we'll be apt to need all the starring we can get. They're working like troopers over there, I'm told, because we threw such a scare in 'em that last game, when we got on to Hendrix, and most knocked him out of the box." "Well, Chester is going some in the bargain," retorted Toby Hopkins. "We believe our team is ten per cent. better than it was last Saturday. Donohue says he never felt so fit as right now; and every fellow on the nine is standing on his toes, ready to prove to the scoffers of Chester that Jack's team here is the peer of any aggregation in the whole country, not even barring the hitherto invincible Harmony crowd. We've got it in for Hendrix, believe _me_!" Jack liked to hear such enthusiasm. If every member of the team were as much inspired as Toby seemed to be, they would almost certainly prove unbeatable. With such a spirit to back them up, a ninth inning rally was always a strong possibility. The fire was now beginning to die down, for the house had been pretty well gutted, and there was little standing save the charred walls. Of course the firemen continued to play the hose upon the smoldering pile, but the picturesque part of the conflagration was over, and many people had already commenced to start back home. Numerous neighbors had offered the family temporary accommodations, and insisted on them coming to stay until they could secure fresh quarters. Perhaps these offers were all of them wholly sincere, though it would perhaps have been only human for some of the good women to be a bit curious concerning the unexpected appearance of Mr. Badger on the scene, whom they had all believed to be dead; and they might relish hearing about the family reunion; though Jack could well believe little would ever be told reflecting on the good name of the repentant husband and father. He managed to find a chance to speak with Fred, and the squeeze of his hand told the other how much Jack sympathized with him, as well as rejoiced over the happy ending of all Fred's troubles. "Will I stand by you fellows, and work in that game, are you asking me, Jack?" he ejaculated, presently, when the captain had found a chance to put his question. "Why, wild horses couldn't drag me away from that baseball field. This glorious thing that has come to my dear mother and the rest of us just makes me feel like I could perform better than ever in my life. Make up your mind, Jack, old fellow, Little Fred will be on guard at that third sack on Saturday, barring accidents, and trying to put up the game of his young life. Why, I'm just bubbling over with joy; and I feel like I ought to do my little part toward putting Chester on the map as a center for all boys' sports." And when later on Jack wended his way toward home, accompanied by Toby and Steve, he felt more positive than ever that a great future was beginning to loom up for the boys of Chester; and the winning of the coming contest would be a gateway leading into the Land of Promise. CHAPTER XVIII HENDRIX AGAIN IN THE BOX On Friday there was a light fall of rain that gave the boys of Chester a fear lest the great game be postponed. It turned out that this was a needless scare, for Saturday opened with fair skies, while even the air seemed delightful for a day in the middle of summer, with a gentle breeze blowing from the west. The exodus began early in the day, and after noon traffic along the main road leading to Harmony was exceedingly heavy, all sorts of vehicles rolling onward, from sporty cars and laden motor trucks, down to humble wagons and buggies, with plenty of bicycles and motorcycles in evidence. Once they arrived at the Harmony Field Club grounds, they found that there was to be a most amazing crowd of people to cheer the respective teams on with all manner of encouraging shouts and class yells. There would not be any change in the line-up of Chester, for luckily all the boys had come through the grilling work of the past week without encountering any serious injuries. Harmony had not been quite so lucky, for their efficient third baseman, Young, had had his collarbone fractured during practice, and would be incapacitated from service the balance of the season. In his place, a fellow by the name of Parsons was expected to guard third. None of the Chester boys remembered ever having seen him work, so they were utterly in the dark as to his abilities. The Harmony fellows gave out mysterious hints about the "great find" they had made in picking up Parsons, who was a most terrific batter, as well as a dandy third-sacker. He was very likely, they claimed, to break up the whole game by his way of slamming out three-baggers every time he stepped up to bat. Of course few Chester boys really believed all this high talk. They understood very well that if a weakness had really developed in Harmony's infield, it would be policy on the part of the local rooters to try to conceal the fact, so that the Chester batters might not focus all their hits in the direction of third. Nevertheless, the boasting of the Harmony fans gave more than one visitor a cold feeling around the region of his heart. He watched Parsons in the practice before the game was called, and every little stunt which he performed was horribly magnified in their eyes. Fortunately, Mr. Merrywether, the impartial umpire, was able to officiate again, which fact pleased both sides. They knew they could be sure of a square deal at his hands, and that was all any honest ball player could ask. When the public understands that an umpire always tries to do his duty as he sees it, and cannot be swerved from his path by any hoodlum tactics, they seem to feel a sort of affection for such a man, who is an honor to his chosen profession. Long before the time came for play to begin every seat was taken, and hundreds were standing; while every avenue leading to the enclosed grounds seemed to be choked with hurrying, jostling throngs. They were anxious to at least get within seeing distance of the diamond, where they could add their voices to the cheers bound to arise as brilliant plays were pulled off by either side. This was certainly the biggest event in the line of boys sports that had ever occurred at or near Harmony. Such a vast outpouring of people had never before been seen. Chester was represented by hundreds of her best citizens, attended by their wives. And really it would be hard to think of a Chester boy over ten years of age who had not managed somehow or other to get over, so as to watch how Jack Winters and his team came out in the conclusive game with the great Hendrix. All species of noises arose all around the field, from a myriad of automobile horns and frequent school yells given under the direction of the rival cheer captains, who stood in front of the bleachers, and waved their arms like semaphores as they led their cohorts in concert, whooping out the recognized yells of either Harmony or Chester. The pitchers were trying out in one corner of the grounds in full view of the entire mass of spectators. Many curious eyes watched them limber up their arms for the work before them. Besides Hendrix and Donohue several reserve pitchers on either side were in line, sending and receiving in routine; but of course never once delivering their deceptive curves or drops, lest the opposing players get a line on their best tricks, and prepare to meet them later on. No one had any doubts concerning who was slated to occupy the box. It was bound to be the same batteries as in the last game, Hendrix and Chase for Harmony, Donohue and Mullane for Chester. If for any reason either of these star pitchers should be so unfortunate as to get a "lacing," then possibly one of the substitutes might be introduced so as to save the day; but there was a slim chance of any such thing coming to pass. Jack had no reason to feel discouraged. To be sure, he had passed through quite a strenuous week, and been worried over a number of his leading players; but after all, things had turned out very well. Now that the great day had arrived, he believed every fellow on the nine was feeling first class. There was Donohue, for instance, who had been on the verge of throwing up his job as pitcher because he believed he would be over in Harmony when the day arrived, living there for good; but Jack had fixed all that, so that he was now firmly settled as a citizen of Chester, and could put his whole heart into his work in the box. Joel Jackman had come close to drowning, but it was Jack who had been instrumental in rescuing him when he caught that cramp in the cold water of the lake; and, so far as appearances went, Joel was feeling as he declared, "just prime." He ran after the loftiest flies that were knocked his way as though he had the speed of the wind; yes, and not once was he guilty of a flagrant muff, though some of those balls called for an exhibition of agility and skill bordering on genius. Lastly, there was Fred Badger, who had also given Jack many a heartache since the last tie game with Harmony; but Fred was jumping around his favorite third sack, smothering every grounder that sped his way, and pegging to first with a promptness and accuracy that made some of the Harmony fans shiver as they thought of how easily their fastest runner would be caught miles from the base by such wonderful playing as that, provided Fred could do as well in the real game. The time was close at hand for the umpire to call play, and of course there was an eagerness as well as a tinge of anxiety running through the crowds of spectators. In a hotly contested game such as was very likely to develop, often a little thing will seem like a mountain; and upon a mere trifle the fate of the contest may in the end depend. Should any one of the players "crack" under the strain, such a thing was likely to settle the controversy for good. Since there was such a monstrous crowd present that ropes had to be used to keep them from surging on to the field, of course ground rules had to be arranged in advance. This was certain to work a little in favor of the home team. For instance, every Harmony batter knew that a hit toward right would send the ball into the near bleachers, which feat would count for two bases; whereas, if the ball were free to travel, it might be fielded back in time to hold the runner at first. Then again, a little more steam would send the horse-hide careening over right-field fence for a home-run. Doubtless Harmony batters had practiced for just such special hits many, many times; whereas, the Chester fellows, being almost green to the grounds, would be apt to hit as they were accustomed to doing at home. Jack, like a wise general, saw this opening, and one of the first things he did in giving counsel to his players was to point it out to Big Bob Jeffries, Joel Jackman, Steve Mullane and the rest of the heavy sluggers. "Start them for right field every time you can, boys," he advised. "It doesn't take so much of a tap to put them across the fence there; and if you can't get so far land a few in the bleachers for a double." "How about the third sack, Jack?" asked Phil Parker. "You know I'm a great hand to knock across the line there. Some get into foul territory, passing outside the bag; but when they do go over squarely they always count for keeps. Do you believe half they're saying about that Parsons being a regular demon for grabbing up ground scorchers, and tossing fellows out at first?" "None of us will know until we make the test," Jack told him. "Start things up lively for Mr. Parsons the first time you face Hendrix, Phil. If we find he's all to the good there, we'll change off, and ring in a new deal. But somehow I seem to have a sneaking notion that same Parsons will turn out to be the Harmony goat in this game. They've done their best to replace Young; and now hope to hide the truth by all this bragging." "I wouldn't be at all surprised if what you say turns out to be a fact, Jack," remarked Steve. "You know we read a whole lot these days about the war over in Europe, and how the French have a masterly way of hiding their big guns under a mattress of boughs, or a painted canvas made to represent the earth, so that flying scouts above can't see where the battery is located. Well, perhaps now Harmony, in making all this brag is only trying to hide their gap. Camaflouge they call it, I believe. But we'll proceed to see what Parsons has got up his sleeve. You watch me get him to guessing. If he gets in the way of the cannonball I shoot at third, it'll feel like a hot tamale in his hands, believe me." "Well, there's Mr. Merrywether going to announce the batteries, and so we'll have a chance to see what we can do at bat, for of course Harmony takes the field first. Every fellow fight tooth and nail for Chester. We want to go home this afternoon in a blaze of glory. Win or lose, we must show that we are a credit to our folks. That's all I've got to say as a last word; every fellow on his toes every second of the time, at bat, and in the field!" The umpire raised his voice, and using a megaphone proceeded to announce that the opposing batteries of the two rival teams would be: "Hendrix and Chase for Harmony; Donohue and Mullane for Chester!" A storm of approval greeted the announcement. Everybody settled back as though relieved, and confident that no matter who won, they would see a game well worth patronizing. Hendrix received the new ball, and proceeded to send a few swift ones to his basemen. They of course managed to drop it on the ground as often as they could, so that it might be dextrously rolled a bit, and discolored, for it is always considered that a new ball works in favor of the batter. Jack was the first man to face Hendrix, as he led the batting list. From all over the place loud cries greeted the captain of the Chester team as he stepped up to the plate, and stood there with his bat on his shoulder. Of course most of these encouraging cries came from the faithful Chester rooters; but then there were fair-minded fellows of Harmony who believed in giving due credit to an honorable antagonist; and Jack Winters they knew to be such a type of boy, clean in everything he attempted, and a true lover of outdoor sports. "Play ball!" Hendrix took one last look all around. He wished to make sure that his fielders and basemen were just as he would have them placed. He knew that Jack could wield a bat with considerable skill; and moreover had proved his ability to solve his delivery on that former occasion. So proceeding to wind up he sent in the first one with sizzling speed, and a sharp drop. CHAPTER XIX THE LUCKY SEVENTH "Strike One!" announced the wideawake umpire, in his stentorian voice. Subdued applause ran through the immense throng. Apparently Hendrix had perfect control over the ball. That wonderful drop had been too quick for Jack, who, considering that it was entirely too high, had not struck. Perhaps, though, he was waiting to see what Hendrix meant to feed him. The next one went wide in a curve that elicited murmurs of admiration from the sages of the ball game, who invariably insisted on sitting in a direct line with catcher and pitcher, their one occupation being to gauge the delivery, and shout out approval or disdain over every ball that comes along; or else plague the umpire because his decision differs from their wonderful judgment. Then came the third toss. Jack stepped forward, and before the break could occur he had met the twisting ball with the point of his bat, sending it humming down toward short. Bailey was on his job, and neatly smothered what might have been a splendid single. When Jack reached first after a speedy rush, he found the ball there ahead of him gripped in Hutching's fist, and was greeted with a wide grin from the astute first baseman. "One down!" remarked Toby Hopkins, as Phil Parker toed the mark, and watched the opposing pitcher like a hawk, meaning to duplicate Jack's feat if possible, only he aspired to send the ball through the infield, and not straight at a man. "But Jack got at him, you noticed," said Joel Jackman, who did not seem to be showing any signs of his recent adventure in the chilly waters of the lake. "Hendrix may be a puzzle to a good many fellows, but once you solve his tricks well, say, he's as easy as pie at Thanksgiving." Well, Joel had a chance that very inning to show what he meant, for while Phil reached first on a Texas leaguer, and Herbert Jones whiffed vainly at three balls that came over the plate with lightening speed, there were only two out. Joel made a swing at a wide one on purpose, for he had received the signal from Phil that he meant to make a break for second when next Hendrix started to wind up to deliver the ball. Luck was with Phil, thanks partly to the great slide with which he covered the last ten feet of ground; and also to the fact that the generally reliable Chase, Harmony's backstop, managed to draw the second baseman off his bag to stop his speedy throw. Hendrix showed no signs of being alarmed. He tempted Joel to take a chance at a most deceptive drop, which put the batter two in the hole with just as many balls called on the box-man. With the next toss, Joel, meaning to emulate Jack's manner of stepping forward and meeting the ball before the break came, entirely miscalculated Hendrix' scheme. As a consequence, the ball, instead of being a sharp drop, seemed to actually _rise_ in the air, and in consequence, Joel missed it by half a foot. He went to his position out in centre, fastening his glove, and shaking his head. "How'd you find Hendrix today, Joel?" asked Oldsmith, the Harmony middle-field man, as they passed on the way. "Some stuff he's got on that ball, hey?" "That last was certainly a new one for me," confessed Joel, frankly. "Why, honest to goodness, it seemed to jump up in the air just before I swung." "Sure, that's the new jump ball he's been practicing lately," grinned Oldsmith, though whether he really believed such a thing himself or not was a question, for he seemed to be a practical joker. "Old Hendrix is always hatching up something fresh, for the other side. You fellows needn't expect to do much running today, for most of you will only whiff out at the rubber. He's got your number, all right." Of course that did not bother Joel very much. He knew how prone baseball players are to boast when things are turning their way; and at the same time find all sorts of plausible excuses when the reverse tide begins to flow against them. Donohue seemed to be at his best, for he immediately struck out the first man who faced him, tossing up just three balls at that. This was quite a creditable performance the Chester rooters kept telling their Harmony neighbors, considering that he was no veteran at this sort of thing, and Hutchings could usually be counted on as a dependable hitter. Clifford fared but little better, though it was through a lofty foul to right field which Big Bob easily smothered, that he went out. Then Captain Martin tried his hand, and he, too, seemed unable properly to gauge the teasers that Donohue sent in, for after fouling several, he passed away on the third strike. The crowd made up its mind that it was going to be a pitchers' duel in earnest. Many would go the way of those who had been unable to meet the puzzling curves and drops that had come in by turns. When next the Chester boys tried their hand, Toby got his base through Parsons juggling the hot grounder which came his way, and failing to send it across the diamond in time to nip the runner. The Chester folks took notice of this error on the part of the third baseman, who had been touted as a wonder at snatching up everything that came his way, regardless of its character. Still, that had been a difficult ball to handle, and the error was excusable, Jack thought. There was no run made, though Big Bob did send out a terrific drive that under ordinary conditions should have been a three-bagger at least. Oldsmith, after a gallant sprint at top speed, was seen to jump into the air and pull the ball down. He received a storm of applause, for it was a pretty piece of work; and Chester fans cheered quite as lustily as the home crowd; for, as a rule, baseball rooters can admire such splendid results regardless of partisanship. Badger struck out, in his turn, being apparently unable to solve those puzzling shoots of the cool and smiling master in the box. But then Harmony was no better off in their half of that inning, for not a man got as far as second; though O'Leary did send up an amazing fly that dropped squarely in the hands of Big Bob. The other two only smashed the thin air when they struck, for they picked out wide ones, and let the good balls shoot over the edges of the plate like cannonballs. "Notice one thing," said Jack to several of the Chester players when once more it was their turn at bat. "Every Harmony fellow turns partly toward the right when he bats. That's the short field in this enclosure, and with the bleachers in between. They know the advantages of sending the ball in that direction every time it's possible. Phil, Joel and Bob, make a note of that, will you, and try to duplicate their game? They know the grounds, and have the advantage over us." "Watch my smoke, Governor," chuckled Big Bob Jeffries, confidently. "I'm only trying things out so far. When the right time comes, me to cash in with a ball clean over that short field fence. They'll never find it again either, if I get the swoop I'm aiming for." "Well, use good judgment when you make it," laughed Jack, "and see that the bases are occupied. We may need a homer before this gruelling game is over." It certainly began to look like it when the sixth inning had ended and never a run was marked up on the score-board for either side. Once Fred Badger had succeeded in straining a point, and reaching third with a wonderful exhibition of base stealing; but alas! he died there. Steve, usually so reliable, could not bring him in, though he did valiantly, and knocked a sky-scraper which O'Leary scooped in after a run back to the very edge of the bleachers. Five feet further and it would have dropped safe, meaning a two-bagger for Steve, and a run for Badger. So the seventh started. Both pitchers were going as strong as in the start, even more so, many believed. It was a wonderful exhibition of skill and endurance, and thousands were ready to declare that no such game had ever been played upon the grounds of the Harmony Field Club. "Everybody get busy this frame," said Jack, encouragingly, as Donohue picked up a bat and strode out to take his place. "We've got to make a start some time, and the lucky seventh ought to be the right place. Work him for a walk if you can Alec. And if you get to first, we'll bat you in, never fear." Considerably to the surprise of everybody, Donohue, instead of striking out, managed to connect with a swift ball, and send up a weak fly that fell back of second. Three players started for it, but there must have been some fierce misunderstanding of signals, for they all stopped short to avoid a collision, each under the belief that one of the others had cried he had it. In consequence, the ball fell to the ground safely, and the Chester pitcher landed on the initial sack. Such roars as went up from the faithful and expectant Chester rooters. They managed to make such a noise that one would have been pardoned for thinking the entire crowd must be in sympathy with the visitors. Anticipation jumped to fever heat. With a runner located on first base, no one out, and several reliable batters coming up, it began to look as though that might yet prove the "lucky seventh" for the plucky Chester boys. Jack knew that Hendrix would have it in for him. He would depend on sweeping curves that must deceive, and try no more of that drop ball, which Jack had proved himself able to judge and meet before it broke. So Jack, after one swing at a spinner which he did not expect to strike, dropped a neat little bunt along the line toward first. This allowed the runner to reach second, although Jack himself was caught; for Hendrix instantly darted over to first, and was in time to receive the ball after Hatchings had scooped it out of the dirt. But the runner had been advanced to second, and there were still two chances that he could be sent on his way by a mighty wallop, or even a fine single. Phil did crack out one that did the trick, and he found himself landed on first, though Donohue, unfortunately, was held at third. Bedlam seemed to be breaking loose. Chester rooters stormed and cheered, and some of the more enthusiastic even danced around like maniacs. Others waited for something really to be accomplished before giving vent to their repressed feelings. Next up stepped Herb Jones, with a man on third, another on first, and but a lone out. He failed to accomplish anything, Hendrix sending him along by the usual strike-out line. Everything depended on Joel. A single was all that was needed to bring in the tally so ardently desired. It was no time to try for a big hit. Even Phil on first was signaled not to take risks in starting for second. Joel waited. He was fed a couple of wide ones that the umpire called balls. Then came a fair one clean across the rubber, but Joel did not strike. Jack made a motion to him. He believed the next would also be a good ball, for Hendrix was not likely to put himself in a hole right there, depending more on his dazzling speed to carry him through. Joel struck! They heard the crack of the bat, but few saw the ball go, such was its momentum as it passed through the diamond. Hendrix, however, made a stab with his glove and managed to deflect the ball from its first course. That turned out to be a fatal involuntary movement on his part, for it made Bailey's job in knocking down the ball more difficult. The nimble shortstop managed to recover the ball and send it in home; but as the runner at third had of course started tearing along as he heard the blow, he had slid to safety before Chase caught the throw in. And so the first tally of the game fell to Chester in the lucky seventh! CHAPTER XX AFTER THE GREAT VICTORY--CONCLUSION Toby Hopkins made a gallant effort to duplicate the performance of some of his mates. He cracked out a dandy hit well along toward the bleachers out in right field. Again did O'Leary run like mad, or a "red-headed meteor," as some of his admirers yelled. They saw him actually leap amidst the bleachers, the spectators giving way like frightened sheep. Yes, and he caught that fly in a most amazing fashion, well deserving the loud salvos of cheers that kept up as he came in, until he had doffed his cap in response to the mad applause. But Harmony came back in their half of the seventh with a tally that resulted from a screaming hit by the hero of the game, O'Leary, which carried far over the famous right-field fence. With the score thus evened up, they went at the eighth frame. Big Bob got a single out in right. He was advanced to second by a fine bunt on the part of Fred Badger, which the new third baseman found it difficult to handle, though he did succeed in nailing the runner at first. Along came Steve with a zigzag hit that made a bad bound over shortstop's head and allowed Big Bob to land on third. He was kept from going home by the coacher there, who saw that Oldsmith had dashed in from short center, and was already picking up the ball for a throw home, which he did with fine judgment. Donohue was unable to duplicate his previous lucky pop-up, for he struck out. Jack was given his base on balls, an unusual occurrence with Hendrix. Apparently, however, he was banking on being better able to strike out Phil Parker, which he immediately proceeded to do, so that after all, the Chester rally did not net a run, and the score was still a tie. Chester went to the field for the finish of the eighth, determined that there should be no let down of the bars. Jack had spoken encouraging words to Donohue, and was confidently told by the pitcher that he felt as "fresh as a daisy, with speed to burn." He proved the truth of his words immediately by striking out the first man to face him. Then the next Harmony batter managed to send up several high fouls that kept Big Bob in right hustling; though he finally succeeded in getting hold of one, and putting the man out. The third batter hit the ball with fierceness, but Jack took it for a line drive, and that inning was over. The ninth was looming up and the game still undecided. Indeed, they were no better off than when making the start, save that they had had considerable practice whiffing the thin air. "You see, they persist in trying to drive toward right," urged Jack, as his players came trooping in, eager to get busy again with their bats, so as to win the game in this ninth round. "Yes, and they kept me on the jump right smart in the bargain," remarked Big Bob Jeffries, wiping his reeking forehead as he spoke. "Never mind, I'll have a chance at Hendrix again this inning, likely, if one of you fellows can manage to perch on the initial sack. Then watch what happens. I'm going to break up this bally old game right now." "Deeds talk, Big Bob!" chuckled Toby, as Herb Jones stepped up to see what he could do for a starter. His best was a foul that the catcher smothered in his big mitt after quite an exciting rush here and there, for it was difficult to judge of such a twister. Herb looked utterly disgusted as he threw down his bat. Joel Jackman struck the first offering dealt out to him, and got away with it in the bargain. Perched on first the lanky fielder grinned, and called out encouragingly at Toby, who was next. Hendrix tightened up. He looked very grim and determined. Toby wanted to bunt, but he managed instead to send a little grounder along toward first. Joel was already booming along in the direction of second, and taking a grand slide, for fear that the throw would catch him. But after all Chase had some difficulty in picking up the ball, as sometimes happens to the best of them; and while he did hurl it to second, the umpire held up his hands to announce that Joel was safe. No one disputed his decision, though it had been a trifle close. Matters were looking up for Chester again. One man was down, but that was Big Bob Jeffries striding up to the plate, with a grim look on his face. If Hendrix were wise he would send him along on balls; but then the pitcher had perfect faith in his ability to deceive the heaviest of hitters. Twice did Big Bob swing, each time almost falling down when his bat met with no resistance. He took a fresh grip and steeled himself. Jack called out a word of warning, but Big Bob shook his head. No matter what Hendrix gave him, he could reach it, his confident, almost bulldog manner declared. Well, he did! He smacked the very next offering of the great Harmony pitcher so hard that it looked like a dot in the heavens as it sped away over right-field fence for a magnificent home run. Big Bob trotted around the circuit with a wide grin on his face, chasing Joel and Toby before him, while the crowd went fairly wild with joy--at least that section of it representative of Chester did. The Harmony rooters looked pretty blue, to tell the truth, for they realized that only a miracle could keep their rivals from running off with the hard-fought game. "That sews it up, I reckon!" many of them were heard to say. There were no more runs made by Chester, for Hendrix mowed the next batter down with comparative ease; but the mischief had already been done. Harmony made a last fierce effort to score in their half of the ninth. Chase got his base on balls, and Hendrix tried to advance him with a sacrifice, but succeeded only in knocking into a double. Then Hutchings cracked out a two-sacker, and Clifford came along with a neat single that sent the other runner on to third, while he occupied the initial sack. Harmony stock began to rise. Those who had made a movement as though about to quit their seats sat down again. Possibly the game was not yet over. Some clever work on the part of Martin, Oldsmith and Bailey might tie the score, when, as on the last occasion, extra innings would be necessary in order to prove which of the teams should be awarded the victor's laurel. Everybody seemed to be rooting when Captain Martin stepped up. He succeeded in picking out a good one, and with the sound of the blow there was an instinctive loud "Oh!" on the part of hundreds. But, alas! for the fate of Harmony! the ball went directly at Fred Badger, who sent it straight home in time to catch Hutchings by seven feet, despite his mad rush. And so the great game wound up, with the score four to one in favor of Chester. Doubtless, the most depressed member of the defeated Harmony team would be Hendrix, who had failed to baffle those batters with all his wonderful curves and trick drops. On the way home after the game, with the Chester players occupying a big carryall, their joyous faces told every one along the way how they had fared, even if their shouts failed to announce their victory. "This is a grand day in the history of Chester," said Jack for the tenth time, since he shared in the enthusiasm that seemed to run through every fellow's veins. "It will be written down as a red letter day by every boy, young and old; for we have put the old town on the baseball map for keeps. After this folks will speak of Chester teams with respect, for we've gallantly downed the champions of the county two to one, with a great tie thrown in for good measure. I want to thank every one of you for what you've done to help out--Phil, Herb, Joel, Toby, Big Bob, Fred, Steve, and last but far from least our peerless pitcher Alec Donohue. Not one of you but played your position to the limit; and as to batting, never this summer has Hendrix had the lacing he got today, so I was privately told by one of the Harmony fans whose money has been back of the team all summer." "We'll make Rome howl tonight, boys, believe me!" asserted Big Bob. "Bonfires and red lights all over the town, while we march through the streets, and shout till we're hoarse as crows. The like never happened before in Chester, and it's only right the good folks should know we've made the place famous." "What pleases me most of all," Jack went on to say, when he could find a chance to break into the lively talk, "is the bright prospect that looms up before us. This glorious baseball victory clinches matters. I know several gentlemen who will now be eager to back up our scheme for a club-house this winter, as well as a football eleven to compete for the county championship up to Thanksgiving. And during the balance of the summer I've got a lively programme laid out that ought to give the bunch of us a heap of pleasure, as well as profit us in the way of healthy exercise." His announcement was greeted with hearty cheers, for they knew full well that when Jack Winters engineered any scheme it was likely to turn out well worth attention. But it would hardly be fair just now to disclose what Jack's plans were; that may well be left to the succeeding volume in this series of athletic achievements on the part of the Chester boys, which can be found wherever juvenile books are sold under the title of "Jack Winters' Campmates; or, Vacation Days in the Woods." THE END VICTORY BOY SCOUT SERIES Stories by a writer who possesses a thorough knowledge of this subject. Handsomely bound in cloth; colored jacket wrapper. 1 The Campfires of the Wolf Patrol 2 Woodcraft; or, How a Patrol Leader Made Good 3 Pathfinder; or, the Missing Tenderfoot 4 Great Hike; or, The Pride of Khaki Troop 5 Endurance Test; or, How Clear Grit Won the Day 6 Under Canvas; or, the Search for the Carteret Ghost 7 Storm-bound; or, a Vacation among the Snow Drifts 8 Afloat; or, Adventures on Watery Trails 9 Tenderfoot Squad; or, Camping at Raccoon Bluff 10 Boy Scouts in an Airship 11 Boy Scout Electricians; or, the Hidden Dynamo 12 Boy Scouts on Open Plains For Sale by all Book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 40 cents M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 711 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO BOY SCOUT SERIES By G. HARVEY RALPHSON Just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake boys of today. Clean, wholesome and interesting; full of mystery and adventure. Each title is complete and unabridged. Printed on a good quality of paper from large, clear type and bound in cloth. 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Boy Scouts in Southern Waters; or the Spanish Treasure Chest 17. Boy Scouts in Belgium; or, Imperiled in a Trap 18. Boy Scouts in the North Sea; or, the Mystery of a Sub 19. Boy Scouts Mysterious Signal; or, Perils of the Black Bear Patrol 20. Boy Scouts with the Cossacks; or, a Guilty Secret For Sale by all Book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 60 cents M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 711 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO MOTOR BOAT BOYS SERIES By Louis Arundel 1. The Motor Club's Cruise Down the Mississippi; or The Dash for Dixie. 2. The Motor Club on the St. Lawrence River; or Adventures Among the Thousand Islands. 3. The Motor Club on the Great Lakes; or Exploring the Mystic Isle of Mackinac. 4. Motor Boat Boys Among the Florida Keys; or The Struggle for the Leadership. 5. Motor Boat Boys Down the Coast; or Through Storm and Stress. 6. Motor Boat Boy's River Chase; or Six Chums Afloat or Ashore. 7. Motor Boat Boys Down the Danube; or Four Chums Abroad MOTOR MAID SERIES By Katherine Stokes 1. Motor Maids' School Days 2. Motor Maids by Palm and Pine 3. Motor Maids Across the Continent 4. Motor Maids by Rose, Shamrock and Thistle 5. Motor Maids in Fair Japan 6. Motor Maids at Sunrise Camp For Sale by all Book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 711 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO RADIO BOYS SERIES 1. Radio Boys in the Secret Service; or, Cast Away on an Iceberg ... FRANK HONEYWELL 2. Radio Boys on the Thousand Islands; or, The Yankee Canadian Wireless Trail ... FRANK HONEYWELL 3. Radio Boys in the Flying Service; or, Held for Ransom by Mexican Bandits ... J. W. DUFFIELD 4. Radio Boys Under the Sea; or, The Hunt for the Sunken Treasure ... J. W. DUFFIELD 5. Radio Boys Cronies; or, Bill Brown's Radio ... WAYNE WHIPPLE 6. Radio Boys Loyalty; or, Bill Brown Listens In ... WAYNE WHIPPLE PEGGY PARSON'S SERIES By Annabel Sharp A popular and charming series of Girl's books dealing in an interesting and fascinating manner with the the life and adventures of Girlhood so dear to all Girls from eight to fourteen years of age. Printed from large clear type on superior quality paper, multi-color jacket. Bound in cloth. 1. Peggy Parson Hampton Freshman 2. Peggy Parson at Prep School For Sale by all Book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 711 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO THE AEROPLANE SERIES By John Luther Langworthy 1. The Aeroplane Boys; or, The Young Pilots First Air Voyage 2. The Aeroplane Boys on the Wing; or, Aeroplane Chums in the Tropics 3. The Aeroplane Boys Among the Clouds; or, Young Aviators in a Wreck 4. The Aeroplane Boys' Flights; or, A Hydroplane Round-up 5. The Aeroplane Boys on a Cattle Ranch THE GIRL AVIATOR SERIES By Margaret Burnham Just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake girls of the present day who are between the ages of eight and fourteen years. The great author of these books regards them as the best products of her pen. Printed from large clear type on a superior quality of paper; attractive multi-color jacket wrapper around each book. Bound in cloth. 1. The Girl Aviators and the Phantom Airship 2. The Girl Aviators on Golden Wings 3. The Girl Aviators' Sky Cruise 4. The Girl Aviators' Motor Butterfly. For Sale by all Book-sellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 75c M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 711 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET CHICAGO 
22948	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22948-h.htm or 22948-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/9/4/22948/22948-h/22948-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/9/4/22948/22948-h.zip) RIVAL PITCHERS OF OAKDALE by MORGAN SCOTT Author of "Ben Stone at Oakdale," "Boys of Oakdale Academy," Etc. With Four Original Illustrations by Elizabeth Colborne [Frontispiece: PHIL SENDS THE FIRST BALL.] New York Hurst & Company Publishers Copyright, 1911, by Hurst & Company CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE BOY WHO WANTED TO PITCH II. BASEBALL PRACTICE III. TWO OF A KIND IV. LEN ROBERTS OF BARVILLE V. HOOKER'S MOTORCYCLE VI. A DEAD SURE THING VII. RACKLIFF FISHES FOR SUCKERS VIII. READY FOR THE GAME IX. THE FIRST INNING X. THE CRUCIAL MOMENT XI. A CHANGE OF PITCHERS XII. WON IN THE NINTH XIII. RACKLIFF'S TREACHERY XIV. JEALOUSY XV. PLAIN TALK FROM ELIOT XVI. DREAD XVII. THE BOY ON THE BENCH XVIII. A LOST OPPORTUNITY XIX. POISON SPLEEN XX. FELLOWS WHO MADE MISTAKES XXI. A PERSISTENT RASCAL XXII. SELF-RESTRAINT OR COWARDICE XXIII. HOOKER BREAKS WITH RACKLIFF XXIV. ONCE MORE XXV. THE WYNDHAM PITCHER XXVI. THE PLUNGE FROM THE BRIDGE XXVII. A REBELLIOUS CONSCIENCE XXVIII. WHEN THE SIGNALS WERE CHANGED XXIX. PHIL GETS HIS EYES OPEN XXX. THE GREATEST VICTORY ILLUSTRATIONS Phil sends the first ball . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ Ere the horsehide was brought down between Rod's shoulder-blades, his hand had found the plate "Several prominent members of the great Oakdale baseball team, I observe," said Rackliff The local crowd "rooted" hard RIVAL PITCHERS OF OAKDALE CHAPTER I. THE BOY WHO WANTED TO PITCH. During the noon intermission of a sunny April day a small group of boys assembled near the steps of Oakdale Academy to talk baseball; for the opening of the season was at hand, and the germ of the game had already begun to make itself felt in their blood. Roger Eliot, the grave, reliable, steady-headed captain of the nine, who had scored such a pronounced success as captain of the eleven the previous autumn, was the central figure of that gathering. Chipper Cooper, Ben Stone, Sleuth Piper, Chub Tuttle, Sile Crane and Roy Hooker formed the remainder of the assemblage. "The field will be good and dry to-night, fellows," said Roger, "and we ought to get in some much-needed practice for that game with Barville. I want every fellow to come out, sure." "Ho!" gurgled Chub Tuttle, cracking a peanut and dexterously nipping the double kernel into his mouth. "We'll be there, though I don't believe we need much practice to beat that Barville bunch. We ate 'em up last year." "We!" said Sleuth Piper reprovingly. "If my memory serves me, you warmed the bench in both those games." "That wasn't my fault," retorted Tuttle cheerfully. "I was ready and prepared to play. I was on hand to step in as a pinch hitter, or to fill any sort of a gap at a moment's notice." "A pinch hitter!" whooped little Chipper Cooper. "Now, you would have cut a lot of ice as a pindi hitter, wouldn't you? You never made a hit in a game in all your life, Chub, and you know you were subbing simply because Roy got on his ear and wouldn't play. We had to have some one for a spare man." "I would have played," cut in Hooker sharply, somewhat resentfully, "if I'd been given a square deal. I wanted a chance to try my hand at some of the pitching; but, after that first game, Ames, the biggest mule who ever captained a team, wouldn't give me another show. I wasn't going to play right field or sit around on the bench as a spare man." Hooker had a thin, sharp face, with eyes set a trifle too close together, and an undershot jaw, which gave him a somewhat pugnacious appearance. He was a chap who thought very well indeed of himself and his accomplishments, and held a somewhat slighting estimation of others. In connection with baseball, he had always entertained an overweening ambition to become a pitcher, although little qualified for such a position, either by temperament or acquired skill. True, he could throw the curves, and had some speed, but at his best he could not find the plate more than once out of six times, and, when disturbed or rattled, he was even worse. Like many another fellow, he erroneously believed that the ability to throw a curved ball was a pitcher's chief accomplishment. "It was lucky Springer developed so well as a twirler last year," observed Eliot. "Lucky!" sneered Hooker. "Why, I don't recollect that he did anything worth bragging about. He lost both those games against Wyndham." "We had to depend on him alone," said Roger; "and he was doing too much pitching. It's a wonder he didn't ruin his arm." "You've got to have some one beside Springer this year, that's sure," said Hooker. "He can't pitch much more than half the games scheduled." "Phil's tryin' to coach Rod Grant to pitch," put in Sile Crane. "I see them at it last night, out behind Springer's barn." Roy Hooker laughed disdainfully. "Oh, that's amusing!" he cried. "That Texan has never had any experience, but, just because he and Phil have become chummy, Springer's going to make a pitcher out of him. He'll never succeed in a thousand years." "Here they come now," said Ben Stone, as two boys turned in at the gate of the yard; "and Phil has got the catching mitt with him. I'll bet they've been practicing this noon." "Jinks! but they're getting thick, them two," chuckled Chub Tuttle. "As thick as merlasses in Jinuary," drawled Sile Crane whimsically. "Being thick as molasses, they're naturally sweet on each other," chirped Cooper. "Hi! Hi!" cried Tuttle. "There you go! Have a peanut for that." "No, nut for me; I shell nut take it," declined Chipper. "It's a real case of Damon and Pythias," remarked Stone, watching the two lads coming up the walk. "Or David and Jonathan," said Eliot. Phil Springer, the taller of the pair, with light hair, blue eyes, and long arms, looked at a distance the better qualified to toe the slab in a baseball game; but Rodney Grant was a natural athlete, whose early life on his father's Texas ranch had given him abounding health, strength, vitality, and developed in him qualities of resourcefulness and determination. Grant had come to Oakdale late the previous autumn, and was living with his aunt, an odd, seclusive spinster, by the name of Priscilla Kent. Two girls, sauntering down the path with their arms about each other, met the approaching boys, and paused a moment to chat with them. "Phil's sister is struck on our gay cowboy," observed Cooper, grinning. "I rather guess Lela Barker is some smit on him, too," put in Sile Crane. "That's sorter natteral, seein' as how he rescued her from drowndin' when she was carried over the dam on a big ice-cake in the Jinuary freshet. That sartainly made him the hero of Oakdale, and us fellers who'd been sayin' he was a fake had to pull in our horns." "The real hero of that occasion," declared Hooker maliciously, "was a certain cheap chap by the name of Bunk Lander, who plunged into the rapids below the dam, with a rope tied round his waist, and saved them both." "I wouldn't sneer about Lander, if I were you, Roy," said Eliot in grave reproof. "I wouldn't call him cheap, for he's shown himself to be a pretty decent fellow; and Stickney, whose store he once pilfered, has given him a job on his new delivery wagon. There's evidently more manhood and decency in Lander than any of us ever dreamed--except Grant, who took up with him at the very beginning." "And a fine pair people around here thought they were," flung back Hooker exasperatedly. "Why, even you, yourself, didn't have much of anything to say for Rod Grant at one time." "I was mistaken in my estimation of him," confessed Roger unhesitatingly. "I believe Stone was about the only person who really sized Grant up right." "And now, since he's become popular, this hero from Texas chooses Springer for his chum instead of Stone," said Roy. "He has a right to choose whoever he pleases," said Ben, flushing a trifle. "We are still good friends. If he happens to find Springer more congenial than I, as a chum, I'm not going to show any spleen about it." "It's my opinion," persisted Hooker, "that he has an object in his friendliness with Phil Springer. He's got the idea into his head that he can pitch, and he's using Phil to learn what he can. Well, we'll see how much he does at it--we'll see." The girls having passed on, the two boys now approached the group near the steps. Springer was beaming as he came up. "Say, Captain Eliot," he cried, "the old broncho bub-buster has got onto the drop. He threw it first-rate to-day noon. I'll make a change pitcher out of him yet." "Oh, I'm destined to become another Mathewson, I opine," said Rodney Grant laughingly; "but if I do turn out to be a phenom, I'll owe it to my mentor, Mr. Philip Springer." "The team is coming out for practice tonight," said Eliot, "and we'll give you a chance to pitch for the batters. We've got to work up a little teamwork before that game Saturday." The second bell clanged, and, still talking baseball, the boys moved slowly and reluctantly toward the cool, dark doorway of the academy. Roy Hooker lingered behind, a pouting, dissatisfied expression upon his face. "So they're bound to crowd me out again, are they?" he muttered. "Well, we'll see what comes of it. If I get a chance, I'll cook that cowboy for butting in." CHAPTER II. BASEBALL PRACTICE. With the close of the afternoon session, many of the boys, palpitantly eager to get out onto the field, went racing and shouting, down through the yard and across the gymnasium, where their baseball suits were kept. Eliot followed more sedately, yet with quickened step, for he was not less eager than his more exuberant teammates. Berlin Barker, slender, cold, and sometimes disposed to be haughty and overbearing, joined him on his way. "We'll soon be at it again," said Barker. "The season opens Saturday, and I have a feeling it's going to be a hot one. It wouldn't surprise me if we had to play a stiff game in order to take a fall out of Barville. You know, they developed a strong pitcher in that man Sanger, the last of the season. Why, he actually held Wyndham down to three hits in that last game, and Barville would have won only for the blow-up in the eighth inning." Roger nodded. "Lee Sanger certainly did good work for Barville after he hit his pace; but Springer ought to be in good shape for the opening, not having been compelled to pitch his wing stiff, the way he did last year." "Confidentially, Roger," said Berlin, "I've never regarded Springer as anything great. I wouldn't say this to any one else, for we are good friends; but I fancy you know his weak points. He's not a stayer; he never was, and he never will be. With the game coming his way, he's pretty good--especially so, as long as he can keep the bases clean; but one or two hits at a critical moment puts him up in the air, and he's liable to lose his head. Only for the way you steady him down behind the pan, he'd never show up half as well as he does." Now, this was a truth which no one knew better than Eliot himself, although he had never whispered it to a living soul. Springer owed his success mainly to the heady work, good back-stopping, clever coaching and steadying influence of Eliot, who did nearly all the thinking for Phil while the latter was on the slab. This, however, is often the case with many pitchers who are more than passably successful; to the outsider, to the watcher from the stand or the bleachers, the pitcher frequently seems to be the man who is pitting his brains and skill against the brains and skill of the opposing batters and delivering the goods, when the actual fact remains that it is the man at the "receiving end" who is doing nine-tenths of the thinking, and without whose discernment, sagacity, skill and directing ability, the twirler would make a pitiful show of himself. There are pitchers who recognize this fact and have the generosity to acknowledge it; but in most cases, especially with youngsters, no matter how much he may owe to the catcher, the slab-man takes all the credit, and fancies he deserves it. "Oh, Springer's all right," declared Roger loyally; "but, of course, he needs some one to do part of the work, so that he won't use himself up, and I have hopes that he'll succeed in coaching Grant into a good second string man. He's enthusiastic, you know; says Grant is coming." "Queer how chummy those fellows have become," laughed Barker shortly. "I don't know whether Rod Grant can make a pitcher of himself or not, but I was thinking that Hooker might pan out fairly well if only Phil would take the same interest and pains with him as he's taking with Rod." "Perhaps so," said the captain of the nine; "but I have my doubts. Roy is too egotistical to listen to advice and coaching, and he entertains the mistaken idea that curves and speed are all a pitcher needs. He hasn't any control." "But he might acquire it." "He might, if he only had the patience to try for it and work hard, but you know he's no worker." They had reached the gymnasium, and the discussion was dropped as they entered and joined the boys in the dressing room, who were hurriedly getting into their baseball togs. Hooker was there with the others, for he had a suit of his own, which was one of the best of the discarded uniforms given up at the opening of the previous season when the team had purchased new suits. There was a great deal of joshing and laughter, in which Roy took no part; for he was a fellow who found little amusement in the usual babble and jests of his schoolmates, and nothing aroused his resentment quicker than to be made the butt of a harmless joke. He had once choked Cooper purple in the face in retaliation for a jest put upon him by the audacious, rattle-brained little chap; but later Chipper had accepted Roy's apologies and protestations of regret, practically forgetting the unpleasant incident, which, however, Roy never did. "Ah-ha!" cried Sile Crane, bringing forth and flourishing a long, burnt, battered bat. "Here's Old Buster, the sack cleaner. Haowdy do, my friend? I'm sartainly glad to shake ye again." "Up to date," said Cooper, tying his shoes, "I've never seen you do any great shakes with Old Buster." "Oh, ain't ye?" snapped Sile resentfully. "Mebbe yeou've forgot that three-sacker I got with this club in the Clearport game." "Um-mum," mumbled Chipper. "Now you mention it, I do have a faint recollection of that marvelous accident. You were trying to dodge the ball, weren't you, Sile? You just shut your blinkers and ducked, and Pitkins' inshoot carromed off the bat over into right field and got lost in the grass. If we all hadn't yelled for you to run, you'd be standing there now, wondering what had happened." "Yeou're another," flung back Crane. "I made a clean three-sacker, and yeou know it." "Well, anyhow, you got anchored on third and failed to come home when I bunted on a signal for the squeeze. The Clearporters had barrels of fun with you over that. I remember Barney Carney asking you if you'd brought your bed." "Oh, rats!" rasped Crane, striding toward the open gym door and carrying his pet bat. "Some parts of your memory ought to be amputated." "What a cutting thing to say!" grinned Cooper, rising to follow. The field, surrounded by a high board fence, was located near the gymnasium, and in a few minutes all the boys were on it and ready for business. Announcing that they would begin with a little plain fielding practice, Eliot assigned them to their positions. "Do you care to go into right, Roy?" he asked, turning to Hooker as the last one. "Not I," was the instant answer. "That's not my position. I'm no outfielder. Right field, indeed!" "Oh, very well," said Roger. "Tuttle, go ahead out." "Sure," said Chub agreeably, waddling promptly away to fill the position assigned him. "Springer will bat to the outfield and Grant to the in," directed the captain. "After we warm up a little, we'll try some regular batting and base running, using the old system of signals." Hooker, who had a ball of his own, turned away, and found Fred Sage, whose sole interest in the line of sports lay in football, and who, therefore, had taken no part in baseball after making a decided failure on one occasion when, the team being short, he had allowed himself to be coaxed into a uniform. "There's an extra mitt on the bench, Fred," said Roy. "If you'll catch me, I'll work a few kinks out of my arm." "Can't you find somebody else?" asked Sage reluctantly. "I came out to look on." "Oh, come ahead," urged Hooker. "Get your blood to circulating. Who would ever think you were the quarter back of the great Oakdale eleven? Here's the mitt, take it." "Come over by the fence," requested Fred. "I'll let that do most of the backstopping." Over by the fence they went, and Hooker began limbering up, calling the curves he would use before throwing them. He had them all; but, as usual, he was wild as a hawk, and Sage would have been forced to do some tall jumping and reaching had he attempted to catch the ball more than half the time. "You've got some great benders, Roy, if you could ever put them over," commented Fred. "I can put them over when I want to," was the retort. "It's only a chump pitcher who keeps the ball over the pan all the time." Satisfied after a time, he decided to stop, not a little to the relief and satisfaction of Sage. Eliot was just announcing that the team would begin regular batting and base-running practice, and immediately Roy asked the privilege of pitching. "All right," agreed Roger, "but remember this is to be batting practice, and not a work-out for pitchers. Start it off, Springer, and run out your hit. You'll follow him. Grant. Come in from the field, Stone and Tuttle. Let some of the youngsters chase the balls out there. We've got to have four batters working." Chub and Ben came trotting in as Springer took his place at the plate. The captain requested two younger boys to back him up and return the balls he chose to let pass, and then Hooker toed the slab, resolved to show these fellows what he could do. He put all his speed into the first ball pitched, a sharp shoot, which caught Springer on the hip, in spite of Phil's effort to dodge it. "Say, what are you tut-trying to do?" spluttered the batter, as he hobbled in a circle around the plate. "That one slipped," said Hooker. "I got more of a twist on it than I intended." Phil picked up the bat, which he had dropped, and resumed his position. Three times Roy pitched wildly, and then when he finally got the ball over, Springer met it for a clean single, and trotted to first. "Now play the game, fellows," called Eliot, from behind the pan. Hooker's small eyes glittered as Rodney Grant stepped to the plate. Like a flash he pitched, again using an in-shoot. Grant stepped back, held his bat loosely and bunted. As bat and ball met, the Texan's fingers seemed to release the club, and it fell to the ground almost as soon as the ball. Like a jack-rabbit he was off, shooting down the line toward first, while Springer, who had known by the signal just what was coming, romped easily to second. Hooker had not intended for Grant to bunt that ball, having tried to send it high and close; and now in his haste to secure the sphere, he stumbled over it, and ere he could recover and throw, the speedy boy from the Lone Star State was so near first that Eliot shouted, "Hold it!" His face flushed, his under jaw outshot a bit further than usual, Roy returned to the box, ignoring Chipper Cooper, who was cackling with apparent great delight. Tuttle waddled toward the pan, bat in hand. "I'll strike him out easy enough," thought Roy. Instead of that, he pitched four wide ones, all of which were declared balls by Sage, who had been requested to umpire; and Chub jogged to first, complaining that Hooker had been afraid to let him hit. Then came Stone, who let a wide one pass, but reached a bit for the next, caught it about six inches from the end of his bat, and laced it fairly over the centerfield fence, a feat rarely performed on those grounds. "My arm isn't in shape yet," said Hooker, trying to remain deaf to the laughter of the boys, as the runners trotted over the sacks and came home. "I won't pitch any more to-day, Eliot." CHAPTER III. TWO OF A KIND. Sitting alone on the bleachers, Roy Hooker sourly watched the continuation of practice. He saw Springer take a turn at pitching, to be followed finally by Rodney Grant, who laughingly warned the boys that he intended to strike them all out. Rodney Grant was a somewhat peculiar character, who, coming unannounced to Oakdale, had at first been greatly misunderstood by the boys there, not a few of whom had fancied him an impostor and a fake Texan, mainly because of his quiet manners and conventional appearance; for these unsophisticated New England lads had been led, through the reading of a certain brand of Western literature, to believe that all Texans, and especially those who dwelt upon ranches, must be of the "wild and woolly" variety. Perceiving this at last, Rod had proceeded to amuse himself not a little by assuming a false air of bravado, and spinning some highly preposterous yarns of his hair-lifting adventures upon the plains; a course which, however, adopted too late to be effective, simply confirmed the doubters--who could not realize that they were being joshed--in their belief that the fellow was an out-and-out fraud. Adding to Grant's unpopularity, and the growing disdain in which he was held, although plainly a strong, healthy, athletic chap, he not only refused to come out for football, but displayed an aversion for violent physical contention of any sort, especially fighting; which caused him to be branded as a coward. But the time came when, unable longer to endure the insults heaped upon him, the restraint of the young Texan snapped like a bowstring, and the boys of Oakdale found that a sleeping lion had suddenly awakened. Then it came to be known that Grant had inherited a most unfortunate family failing, a terrible temper, which, when uncontrolled, was liable to lead him into extreme acts of violence; and it was this temper he feared, instead of the fellows he had shunned whenever they sought to provoke him. Even now, although baseball was a gentle game in comparison with football, he was not absolutely sure he could always deport himself as a gentleman and a sportsman while playing it. When the boys of the academy and the citizens of the town had joined in praise of Grant's courageous efforts in the work of rescuing Lela Barker from drowning, Hooker, who never had words of eulogy for anyone save himself, remained silent. Not that he had not come, like others, suddenly to regard the young Texan with respect; but for one of his envious nature respect does not always mean liking, no throb of which was awakened in his bosom. Indeed, he secretly disliked Rodney Grant more than ever, and, now that Springer had taken Grant in hand to make a pitcher of him, Roy's spleen was embittering his very soul. Elbows on his knees, projecting chin on his clenched fists, he sullenly watched Rod pitch for the first time to batters. Several times he made in his throat a faint sound like a muttered growl of satisfaction, as he saw those batters hitting the ball to all parts of the field, and finally he triumphantly whispered: "Well, I don't see that he's doing anything. They're pounding him all over the lot." But, at the suggestion of Eliot, Rodney Grant was simply putting the ball over, now and then using speed, of which he apparently had enough, and occasionally mixing in a curve. Behind the pan Eliot would hold up his big mitt first on one corner then the other, now high, now low, and almost invariably the ball came whistling straight into the pocket of that mitt, which caused Roger to nod his head and brought to his face a faint touch of that rare smile seldom seen there. "Good control, Rod, old man," he praised. "That's one of the most essential qualities a pitcher can have." "Bah!" muttered the envious lad on the bleachers. "What's that amount to, if a fellow hasn't the curves at his command?" Presently, with Barker stepping out to hit, Eliot called Grant, met him ten feet in front of the plate, and they exchanged a few words in low tones, after which Roger returned to his position and gave the regular finger signals that he would use in a game. Barker slashed at a high one close across his shoulders and missed. He let two wide ones pass, and fouled when a bender cut a corner. "Two strikes!" cried Sage, who was still umpiring. "Look out or he'll strike you out, Berlin." With a faint smile, the batter shrugged his shoulders, and then he did his best to meet the next pitched ball, which seemed to be the kind he especially relished. To his surprise, he missed it widely, for the ball took a sharp drop at the proper moment to deceive him. "You're out," laughed Sage. "He did get you." "He did for a fact," agreed Berlin. "That was a dandy drop, Grant. I wasn't looking for it." Rodney put the next one straight over, and Berlin hit to Cooper at short. Jack Nelson followed, and he was likewise surprised to be struck out, Grant using his drop twice in the performance. "Hi there, you!" shouted Nelson. "What did you put on the old ball, anyhow? Pitch? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if you could, some." "You bet he will," called Phil Springer delightedly. "I'll have him delivering the goods before the season is half over." "Bah!" again muttered Hooker. "You're a fool, Springer." Later he saw Eliot and Barker talking together not far from the bench, and near them stood Herbert Rackliff, a city boy who had entered Oakdale Academy at the opening of the spring term. Rackliff was a chap whose clothes were the envy of almost every lad in town, being tailor-made, of the latest cut and the finest fabric. His ties and his socks, a generous portion of the latter displayed by the up-rolled bottoms of his trousers, were always of a vivid hue and usually of silk. His highly-polished russet shoes were scarcely browner than the tips of two fingers of his right hand, which outside of school hours were constantly dallying with a cigarette. He had rings and scarf pins, and a gold watch with a handsome seal fob. His face was pale and a trifle hollow-cheeked, his chest flat, and his muscles, lacking exercise, sadly undeveloped. For Rackliff took no part in outdoor sports of any sort, protesting that too much exertion gave him palpitation of the heart. Hooker was still sitting hunched on the bleachers, when Rackliff, having lighted a fresh cigarette, came sauntering languidly toward him. "Hello, Roy, old sport," saluted the city youth. "You look lonesome." "I'm not," retorted Hooker shortly. "Well, you're not practicing, and you must be tired of watching the animals perform. I came over to kill a little time, but it's grown monotonous for me, and I'm going to beat it." "I think I'll get out myself," said Hooker, descending from the bleachers. Rackliff accompanied him to the gymnasium, where Roy hastened to strip off his baseball togs and get into his regular clothes. "What made you quit pitching so soon?" questioned the city lad, lingering near. "You don't mind being hit a little in batting practice, do you?" "That wasn't it," fibbed Hooker. "Didn't you hear those chumps cackle with glee? That's what made me sore. Then what's the use for me to try to pitch if Eliot isn't going to give me any sort of a show?" "No use at all," said Rackliff cheerfully. "I've noticed that on all these athletic teams there's more or less partiality shown." "That's it," cried Roy savagely. "It's partiality. Eliot doesn't like me, and he isn't going to let me do any pitching. Wants to bury me out in right garden, the rottenest position on the team. A fellow never has much of any chance out there." "Oh, probably he knew you wouldn't accept the position, anyhow," said Herbert. "He had to make a bluff at giving you something." "I'll show him he can't impose on me." "They're going to boost this individual from the alfalfa regions, it seems. He's surely become the real warm baby around here. I heard Barker confidentially admitting to your captain----" "Not _my_ captain," objected Roy. "I heard Barker confidentially admitting to Eliot," pursued Rackliff serenely, "that he was greatly surprised in the showing Grant had made and was not at all sure but the fellow would eventually become a better pitcher than Springer." "Say, that would make Springer feel good, the blooming chump!" cried Roy, rising to his feet. "He's coaching Grant, so the cowboy can act as second pitcher and help him out; but, if he realized he might be training a fellow to push him out of his place as the star twirler of the team, I guess he'd quit in a hurry." "Very likely he might," nodded Herbert. "No chap with real sense is going to be dunce enough to teach some one to rise above him." "That will make trouble between them yet, see if it doesn't," prophesied Hooker in sudden satisfaction. "They're mighty thick now, but there'll be an end to that if Phil Springer ever realizes what may happen." "Somebody might carelessly drop a hint to him," smiled Rackliff. Suddenly Roy's small, keen eyes were fixed inquiringly on his companion. "I don't see why you take so much interest," he wondered. "You must have a reason." Herbert shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps so," he admitted. "Are you ready? Let's get a move on before the bunch comes over." They left the gymnasium, and walked down the street together. Hooker had conceived a sudden, singular interest in Rackliff. "I always wondered how you happened to come to school here at Oakdale," he confessed. "Have a cigarette," invited Herbert, extending an open, gold-mounted morocco case. "Don't like 'em, thank you," declined Roy. The other boy lighted a fresh one from the stub of the last. "So you've been speculating as to the cause of my choosing this serene, rural seat of knowledge, have you? Well, I'll own up that it wasn't my choice. I'm not very eager about burying myself alive, and if ever there was a cemetery, it's the town of Oakdale. My pater was the guilty party." "Oh, your father sent you here?" "Correct. I would have chosen Wyndham, but Newbert's old man sent him down there, and my governor thought we should be kept apart in future." "Newbert? Who's Newbert?" "You'll hear from him later, I fancy. _He's_ a chap who can really pitch baseball. He's my partner in crime." "Your what?" "My chum. We hit it off together pretty well for the last year or so; for Dade--that's his name--is a corker. Never mind the details, and the facts concerning the precise nature of our little difficulty wouldn't interest you; but we got into a high old scrape, and were both expelled from school. When I found Dade's old man was going to send him to Wyndham, I put it up to my sire to let me go there also, but he got wise and chose this corner of the map for mine. You know, he came from here originally." "I didn't know it." "Yes, moved out of this tomb nearly thirty years ago. But he knew what it was like, and I presume he fancied I'd be good and safe down here, where there's absolutely nothing doing. Hence, here I am. Pity my woes." "Oh, well, perhaps you might stir up something around here, if you tried hard enough," said Hooker. "If you took an interest in baseball----" "What good would that do me, with your dearly-beloved friend, Roger Eliot, choosing his favorites for the team? Besides, I don't think I'd care to play if I could with a bunch that had a cow-puncher for a slab artist." "You've got a grudge against Grant. You don't like him." "Great discernment," laughed Rackliff, with a hollow cough that sent little puffs of smoke belching from his lips. "Confidentially, I'll own up that I'm not stuck on him." "I'm with you. I don't go around blowing about it, but I haven't any use for that specimen from the cow country." "He seems to be very popular, especially with the girls," murmured Rackliff. "Now there's only one girl in this town that strikes me as something outside the milkmaid class. Lela Barker is it--in italics. Still, I'm going to admit that I don't think her taste and discernment is all it should be. Of course, she's naturally grateful to Grant for that bath he took on her account, but that's no reason why she should hand me the frosty." "Oh, I begin to see," muttered Hooker, grinning a bit for the first time. "Jealous." "Don't make me laugh; I might crack my face. Jealous of a cattle puncher! Excuse me! All the same, it's a bit provoking to see people slobbering over him, especially the girls, the same as if he's made of the stuff found in heroes of fiction." "I think," said Hooker, "there's a bond of sympathy between us." CHAPTER IV. LEN ROBERTS OF BARVILLE. In front of the post office stood a boy with a faded pea-green cap, hung rakishly over one ear. He had a crooked nose, which looked as if some one had given it a violent twist to one side, and, perceiving Hooker approaching, he smiled a crooked smile, that gave his features the odd appearance of struggling desperately to pull his proboscis back into place. "Hello!" muttered Roy in surprise. "As I live, there's Len Roberts, of Barville! What's he doing here?" "Hi, there, Hooky!" called Roberts from the right-hand corner of his mouth. "How they coming? Ain't seen you since the last time. Any fun 'round this metropolitan burg?" "Howdy, Len," answered Roy. "What brought you over here, anyhow?" "The old man's nag and buggy. He came over to buy a horse from Abe Tuttle, and I asked him to fetch me along to lead or ride the critter back. He'n Tuttle are dickering now. Thought perhaps I might see somebody I knew if I hung 'round here." "My friend, Herbert Rackliff, from Boston," said Hooker, introducing his companion. "That hub of the universe and seat of knowledge became too slow for him, so he migrated down here to Oakdale to acquire learning at our academic institution." "Glad to meet you," said Roberts, still speaking out of one side of his mouth, in a way that somehow gave the impression that he did not wish the other side of his face to know what he was saying. "From Boston--and come to attend school in Oakdale. Jingoes!" Rackliff smiled wryly, as his hand was given a squeeze by the wearer of the green cap. "Don't wonder you're surprised," he murmured. "Awful, isn't it? But then, I'm not to blame. Just been explaining to Roy, that my governor is responsible for the fearful crime." "Sent you down here, did he? Well, what did you do to lead him to perpetrate such an outrage?" "Got caught having a little fun, that's all. Expelled." "Some fathers never can seem to understand that boys must have amusement. How's baseball coming, Hooky?" "Oh, after the same old style," growled Hooker. "Roger Eliot is running the whole shooting match." "He seems to be the high mogul in this town," chuckled Roberts. "He makes me sick!" snapped Roy. "I don't care whether I play baseball or not, but I'd like to see Oakdale have a captain who'd give every fellow a square and fair show." "Hasn't Eliot given you a square deal?" "Not by a long shot. The bunch is practicing on the field now. He wanted to pack me away into right garden, but I never was built to be a nonentity in the outfield." "I thought likely perhaps you'd do part of the pitching this year. Seems to me they must need you." "Oh, they'll need somebody, all right; but Springer's trying to coach up our cattle puncher, Grant, to do part of the twirling. You don't know Grant. He's a new man; came in last fall. He's from Texas." "Can he pitch?" "Pitch! Just about as much as an old woman." "Well, I don't mind telling you that Oakdale is certainly going to need a good man on the slab when she runs up against Barville this year. Needn't think you'll have the same sort of a snap you had last season. Lucky for you Lee Sanger hadn't developed when you played us. Gee! but he did come toward the end of the season. Look how he held Wyndham down; and he'd won that game, too, with proper support. He'll be better this year." "I hope Barville beats the everlasting stuffing out of Oakdale." "Do you really?" chuckled Roberts. "How's your friend feel about it? Does he play?" "Nit," said Rackliff. "Draw poker is about the only kind of a game I ever take a hand in." "Oh, Herbert knows they've given me a rotten deal," said Hooker quickly. "He's got his opinion about it. Honestly and truly, we'd both like to see Barville win." "If that is the case," whispered Roberts, with a secretively friendly and confidential air, "you're just about dead sure to have your desire gratified. We'll have the finest high school battery ever seen in these parts. Got a new catcher, you know." "No. I didn't know." "Yep. He's a corker. Knows the game from A to Z, and he's coaching Sanger. You should see them work together. By the way, he comes from a town near Boston. Part of the city, isn't it--Roxbury? He knows more baseball than any fellow in these parts." "What's his name?" asked Rackliff, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Copley." "What?" exclaimed Herbert, nearly dropping his cigarette. "Not Newt Copley?" "That's him." "Great scott! Say, he is a catcher. He's the trickiest man who ever went behind a bat. I know, for I've seen him play. He knows me, too. Say, isn't it odd that I should have a chum pitching for Wyndham this year and an acquaintance catching for Barville?" The face of Len Roberts wore a look of satisfaction. "Of course, we haven't seen Cop in a real game yet, but he brought his credentials with him, and they were sufficient to satisfy everybody that he was the real thing. Glad to meet somebody who knows about him. With Sanger handing 'em up, and Cop doing the receiving, you can bet Barville is going to take a fall out of Oakdale." "I'd like to bet on it," said Herbert, with a touch of eagerness; "but I don't suppose I could find anybody down around here with sporting blood enough to risk any real money on the game. Say, do me a favor; tell Newt Copley that Herbert Rackliff is here in this town. He'll remember the fellow they called 'the plunger,' and 'the dead-game sport.' Even if I don't play baseball, I've sometimes made a few easy dollars betting on the games." "And you'd bet against Oakdale?" "Sure thing, if I felt certain she would lose." "I'm afraid," grinned Roberts, "that neither you nor Hooker is very loyal to his school." "Loyal!" snarled Roy. "Why should we be?" "When it comes to wagering money," observed Rackliff wisely, "the fellow who bets on sympathy or loyalty is a chump. I always back my judgment and try to use some common sense about it. I hope you don't think for a fleeting moment that I contemplate finishing my preparatory school education in this stagnant hole. Not for little Herbert. I'd get paresis here in less than a year. I'm pretty sure the governor simply chucked me down here for a term, as sort of a warning. I'll go back for good when the term's over." "Well, now if you fellows really want to see Oakdale surprised, and enjoy the pleasure of witnessing Barville hand 'em a good trimming, perhaps you won't say anything about our new catcher." "Not a word," promised Hooker. "Not a whisper," assured Rackliff. "And perhaps I'll catch a sucker or two if I fish around for them. Really, the prospect is inviting, for it seems to promise a break in the deadly monotony." "Here come some of the fellows now," said Hooker, as two or three boys were seen coming down Lake Street. "Practice is over. Let's sift along, Rack. I don't care to see them. So long, Len. Good luck to you." "So long, fellows," said the boy from Barville, as they turned up Main Street. "You'll have a chance to be happy Saturday. Bet all you can on it, Rackliff, old fel." CHAPTER V. HOOKER'S MOTORCYCLE. Thus began the friendship between Roy Hooker and Herbert Rackliff. Henceforth they were seen together a great deal. They came out to watch the nine practice, but Hooker no longer wore his baseball suit, and he sat on the bleachers with Herbert, the two talking together in guarded tones. No one paid much attention to them, for most of the boys held very decided opinions, which were far from favorable, of a chap who would show the disposition Hooker had so plainly betrayed; and Rackliff had never revealed an inclination to seek popularity among his schoolmates. Roy was the owner of a second-hand motorcycle, which his father had given him at Christmas time, a present that had filled him with keen delight and intense satisfaction, in the knowledge that it would cause him to be envied by less fortunate lads. It was necessary, however, to tinker a great deal over the machine to keep it in running order, and the joshing flung at him by the Oakdale lads whenever he had a breakdown had been anything but balm to his irritable nature. "Confound the thing!" he cried, after fussing with it a long time one night, while Rackliff, his creased trousers carefully pulled up to prevent bagging at the knees, sat on a box near by, in the open door of the carriage house, smoking cigarettes. "I don't believe it's any good. The old man got soaked." "It seems harder work to keep the thing going than to pump an ordinary bike," said Herbert, "and that's too strenuous for me--though I learned to ride one once." "Oh, regular bicycles are back numbers now. I could have a ripping lot of fun if I could make this machine go. Never saw anything so contrary. Sometimes it starts off and behaves fine for a little while, and I think it's all right. Just when I get to thinking that, it kicks up and leaves me a mile or two away from home, and I have to push or pedal it back. That's what makes me sore. If I try to sneak in by some back way somebody is sure to see me and give me the ha-ha." "Like automobiles," observed Herbert, after letting a little smoke drift through his nose, "they're all right when they go, and a perfect nuisance when they don't. Now look at yourself, Roy, old fellow. Your hands are covered with grease, and you've got a black streak across your nose, and you're all fretted up." "Drat the old thing!" snarled Hooker, giving the rear tire a kick. "It's just simply contrary, that's all. There's only one person in town who knows anything about gas engines, and he's Urian Eliot's chauffeur. I suppose I could get him to tinker this contraption up if I only was chummy with Roger." "Anyway," said Herbert, "I should think it would shake one up fearfully riding over these rough country roads. We have some roads around Boston." "Oh, a fellow can pick his way along pretty well after our roads get settled. Of course, they're no macadamized boulevards. It's lots of sport, and one can get around almost anywhere he wants to go. As long as I'm not going to be on the baseball team, I might use it to run over to Barville or Wyndham or Clearport to see the games." "So you're going to chase the games up, are you?" laughed Rackliff. "I thought perhaps you'd be so sore you'd keep away from them." "What, and lose the chance of seeing Oakdale beaten? Why, I wouldn't miss that first game with Barville for anything." "But you don't have to go out of this town to see that game. Give it to me straight, Roy, is that fellow Sanger really much of a pitcher? Of course, I know Roberts would blow about him, but what do you think?" "He was green the first of last season, and with a poor catcher to hold him he didn't show up very strong; but it's a fact that Wyndham, the fastest team in these parts, only got three clean hits off him the last game he pitched." "Well, he'll have a catcher that can hold him this year," declared the city lad. "Newt Copley is a bird. He can throw to bases, too; it's rank suicide for runners to try to steal on him. Then you should see him work a batter. Gets right under the man's club and talks to him in a low tone, telling him how rotten he is and all that, until he has the fellow swinging like a gate at every old thing that comes over. And the way he can touch a bat with his mitt and deflect it on the third strike without being detected by the umpire is wonderful. He's great for kicking up a rumpus in a game; but he enjoys it, for he'd rather fight than eat." "He hadn't better try anything like that on Rod Grant." "Oh, I don't know," murmured Rackliff. "Copley's a scrapper, and he can handle his dukes. He has science, and it's my opinion he'd eat your cowboy alive." Hooker shook his head. "You never saw Grant when his blood was up. I have, and he's a perfect fury. They say his old man was a great fighter, and that he's been all shot and cut to pieces. _I_ wouldn't buck up against the Texan for anything." With which confession Hooker resumed his tinkering on the motorcycle. After a while, with the switch on, he bestrode the thing and started to pump it down the slight in-line toward the street. Suddenly, to Roy's delight, the motor began to fire, and, with a shout of satisfaction, he turned up the street and disappeared from view. In something like five minutes Rackliff, smoking his tenth cigarette since seating himself on the box, heard the repeated explosions of the motorcycle, and Roy, his face beaming with satisfaction, reappeared, came triumphantly up the rise and leaped off. "She goes like a bird," he cried. "What did you do to it?" asked Herbert. "I wish I knew. I just tinkered with the wires a bit. That was the last thing I did, but I'd been at everything else I could think of, so I don't know what it was that sent her off. If she'll only keep going, I don't care, either. Never knew the thing to run better. Say, Herbert, it's fine. Don't you want to try it?" "Oh, I don't believe I do. I'd break my neck." "Paugh! 'Tain't no trick at all. I can show you how to start her and stop her, and, if you can ride an ordinary bicycle, you'll find it a cinch to ride this. Come on. Afraid?" "Oh, no," said Rackliff, rising and snapping aside the butt of his cigarette, "but I should hate to get very far away and have it stop on me." "You don't have to go very far; just try her through Middle Street, up Main, back along High, and down Willow, and here you are." Herbert looked dubious, but finally, after his companion had chaffed him a while, he agreed to make the venture. Roy gave full and complete directions about the manipulation of the motorcycle, and Rackliff, a trifle pale, finally mounted it and started down the incline. "Turn the handles from you," shouted Roy. "Give her a little gas. There she goes. Now you're off." "Now I'm on," muttered Herbert, as the engine began popping away beneath him; "but I may be off directly." Turning into the street, he barely escaped the gutter at the far side, and away he went, watched by Hooker, who had run out to the sidewalk. Remembering instructions, and following them faithfully, Rackliff speeded up the engine or slowed it down, as he desired, and soon his confidence rose. One of the street crossings gave him a bump that nearly threw him off, but he was prepared for the next, and took it easily. In a brief time he had covered the course laid out for him by his friend, and found himself back at Hooker's home, where he promptly shut off the gas, switched the spark, and, a little flushed, swung himself to the ground ere the machine fully stopped. "Say, it is rather nifty," he beamed. "It's got ordinary hiking beaten to death. Don't know but I'd like to have one of the things myself. Never supposed I could ride one, but it isn't such a trick, after all." "Of course, it isn't," agreed Hooker, "and I suppose after I get onto the knack of it I won't have any trouble keeping her running." "If you don't mind, I think I'll practice on it a little now and then. Perhaps I might induce the governor to give me one, by way of atonement for his heartless treatment in sending me down here to school." "Why, yes, you can practice up on mine," consented Roy slowly, a sudden troubled look coming to his face; "but I suppose if you got one it would be new and up to date, and make me feel ashamed of mine." "Oh, come off," smiled Herbert soothingly. "If I had one we could pike around to the baseball games together, and we might be able to pick up a little easy money by betting on them--if we ever found anybody who had the nerve to bet with us. I kept myself supplied with pocket money in that fashion last year. Occasionally made a little something playing poker, but the games were always so small a fellow couldn't do much at them." "Didn't you ever lose?" "Well, not very often. I didn't bet to lose." "I know, but how could you be sure of winning?" Rackliff winked languidly and wisely. "As I told that chap from Barville, the fellow who bets on sympathy or loyalty is a chump. I always investigate matters pretty thoroughly, and then pick the side I believe has every prospect of winning. Sometimes it's possible to help one team or another along on the quiet. I'd like to know what Newt Copley thinks of the Barville nine. I'd depend on his judgment. I've got a tenner I'd like to set to work to double itself." "You always have plenty of money," said Roy enviously. "I never had ten whole dollars at one time in my life." "My poor, poverty-stricken comrade!" murmured Herbert, preparing to light a fresh cigarette. "I sympathize with you. Follow my lead, and you'll wear diamonds." CHAPTER VI. A DEAD SURE THING. Thereafter Rackliff took great interest in Hooker's motorcycle--more interest than the languid, indifferent fellow had seemed to show over anything else except his cigarettes. Even one rather severe fall from the machine, which sadly soiled his elegant and immaculate clothes, did not deter him from continuing to practice upon it whenever it was not being used by its owner and he could find the opportunity. To the satisfaction of both lads, the machine behaved very well indeed, and Roy decided that, without knowing how he did it, he had fortunately succeeded in curing its "balkiness." It was Roy, taking an early morning spin on the machine, who saw Phil Springer wearing the big catching mitt and coaching Rodney Grant to pitch in Springer's dooryard. "You poor lobster!" muttered Hooker contemptuously, as he chugged past. "If Grant really should pan out to be the better man, you'd feel like kicking yourself. I'd like to tell you what I think of you." That night after supper, as usual, Rackliff strolled over to Hooker's home, but he strolled with steps somewhat quickened by the prospect of taking a turn on his friend's motorcycle. At first Roy was not to be found, and his mother said she did not know where he had gone. The motorcycle was standing in the carriage house, causing Rackliff to wonder a little. "Queer," muttered Herbert, rubbing his chin with his cigarette-stained fingers. "When the old lady said he wasn't around I thought sure he must be off with this machine." To his ears came the sound of a dull thump, repeated at quite regular intervals. At first he thought it must be the horse stamping in the near-by stable, but the regular repetition of that thumping sound convinced him that such could not be the case and led him to investigate. Within the stable he was surprised to hear the sound coming like a blow upon the back of the building, round which he finally sauntered. There was Hooker, coat and cap off, sleeves rolled up, face flushed a little, throwing a baseball at the rear wall of the building, recovering it when it rebounded, taking his place at a fixed distance, and throwing again. Unperceived, so intent was Hooker, Herbert stood and watched for several minutes. Finally he spoke up interrogatingly: "What are you trying to do, anyhow, old man? What in the name of mystery do you mean by sneaking out here and trying to wallop your arm off all by your lonesome?" At the sound of the city boy's voice Roy had given a start and turned, ball in hand. He frowned a bit, then followed it with a rather shame-faced grin, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Just amusing myself a little," he answered. "Queer sort of amusement. Might satisfy a kid who couldn't find anything else to do. I thought likely you'd be using your motorcycle; and, everything considered, I didn't suppose you'd care a rap about fingering a baseball." "If you could catch me," returned Roy, "I'd have you put on my glove and see if I couldn't get 'em over a piece of plank the size of the home plate; but you can't catch, and so I'm trying to see how often I can hit that white shingle yonder. I actually hit it twice in succession a few minutes ago." "Huh!" grunted Herbert. "What's the good of that?" "I'm trying to get control, you know. They say that's what I lack. Even Eliot has acknowledged that I might pitch some if I wasn't so wild." Herbert burst into soft, half-mocking laughter. "'Hope springs eternal in the human breast'," he quoted. "Nevertheless, good, plain, common sense should teach you that you're wasting your time. You're not wanted as a pitcher, and so you won't get a chance to do any twirling." "You never can tell what may happen," returned Roy. "I never thought Springer was so much, and I haven't any great confidence in Grant. What if they should both get theirs? Eliot might be forced to give me a show, and if that happens I'll deliver the goods----" Rackliff snapped his yellow fingers. "You've got the baseball bug bad," he said. "It's a disease. I suppose it has to have its run with the fellows who become infected. All right, waste your time; but while you're doing it, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a spin on your motorcycle. There is some fun in that, I own up." "Well, don't be gone long," said Roy. "I guess I'll get enough of this in ten or fifteen minutes more, and I want to ride some myself to-night." Trundling out the machine, Rackliff heard the ball thudding again against the back of the stable. Friday afternoon Herbert did not appear at school. Hooker looked for him in vain and wondered why he had remained away. Alone he watched the boys practice a while when school was over, Grant doing his full share of pitching to the batters. Despite prejudice and envy, Roy could see that Springer's pupil was gaining confidence and beginning to carry himself with the air of a real pitcher. "But he hasn't had any experience," muttered the jealous and unfortunate lad. "Wait till he gets into a game and they begin to bump him. That temper of his will make him lose his head." Which was evidence enough that Roy little understood Rodney Grant, who invariably became all the more resolute and determined by opposition, and stood in no danger of giving way to his fiery temper, except when met by buffets of physical force in the form of personal violence. Reaching home, Hooker went out behind the stable and plugged away at the white shingle until supper time, fancying he was gaining some skill in accuracy, although it seemed almost impossible to score a hit or come near it when he used a curve. Supper over, he looked for Rackliff to appear. "He'll be around pretty soon, so I'll just take a short ride and come back." In the carriage house he stopped, his undershot jaw drooping; for the motorcycle was missing from the stand on which it was always kept, when not in use. "What the dickens----" he cried, and stopped short. After looking all around to make sure the machine was not there, he rushed into the house and questioned his mother. "It _must_ be there, Roy," she said. "I'm sure nobody has touched it. I would have heard them." "But it isn't there," he shouted. "Somebody has stolen it." Then he caught his breath, struck by a sudden thought. "Has Herbert Rackliff been around here to-day?" he asked. "I haven't seen him, but I hope you don't think your friend would take your motorcycle without----" He did not wait to hear any more. Rushing out of the house, he had reached the sidewalk when, to his unspeakable relief, round the corner from Willow Street came Rackliff, somewhat dust-covered and perspiring, trundling the motorcycle. Hooker glared at him. "What do you mean by taking my machine without asking?" he rasped. "Where have you been with it?" "My dear old pal," said Herbert soothingly, "do give me time to get my breath, and then I'll seek to conciliate you with a full explanation. I've had to push this confounded thing for at least five miles, and I'm pretty near pegged out. It stopped on me on my way home." "Five miles?" snapped Roy, taking the machine from the limp and weary city boy. "Where in blazes have you been with it?" But not until he had seated himself to rest in the carriage house, and lighted a cigarette, did Rackliff offer any further explanation. Finally, with a little cough and a tired sigh, he smiled on the still frowning and outraged owner of the machine. "You didn't see me around school this afternoon, did you?" he asked. "No. I wondered where you were." "I was out laying my pipes." "Doing what?" "Making sure that you and I could form a little pool and seek a few wagers on the game to-morrow, with the dead certainty of winning. I've been over to Barville to see Newt Copley." "Oh!" muttered Hooker. "And you put my machine on the blink!" "It simply quit on me, that's all. I didn't do a thing to it--on my word, I didn't. There's nothing broken, old man. I'm certain you'll be able to tinker it up again all right. You can bet your life I'd never made that trip if I'd dreamed it would be necessary for me to push the old thing so far. Still, I'm mighty glad I went. Say, Roy, Copley is dead sure Barville will have more than an even show with Oakdale to-morrow, and you know what I think of his judgment. Now, if you've got any money, or can raise any, just bet it on Barville and make a killing." "But I wouldn't want to be seen betting against my own school team." "Ho! ho!" laughed Herbert derisively. "Then let me have your cash, and I'll place it for you. I haven't any scruples." "But you may be mistaken. Even Copley may be, for he hasn't seen Oakdale play." "He says Sanger is a wiz. Look here, Roy, do you know Eliot's finger signals to the pitcher?" "Why, yes." "Uses the old finger system, doesn't he?" "Yes." "One finger held straight, a straight ball. Two fingers close together, an outcurve; spread apart, one on the inside corner. One finger crooked like a fish-hook, a drop." "You've got 'em correct, but what's that got to do with----" "Oh, I just wanted to know," chuckled Rackliff. "Get your loose change together and let me handle it. If I don't double it for you to-morrow I'll agree to stand any loss you may sustain. You won't be even taking a chance. What do you say?" "Well, if you're as confident as that," answered Roy, "I'm certainly going to raise a little money somehow to bet on that game." CHAPTER VII. RACKLIFF FISHES FOR SUCKERS. Saturday came, warm and balmy with springtime odors. Roy Hooker, standing at the street corner near his home, seemed to be listening to a robin calling joyously from the topmost branches of the elm that rose above his head; but, truth to tell, the boy's ears were deaf to the notes of the bird, and his eyes were being turned alternately along Middle Street or down Willow. He was waiting for some one, and presently that person appeared, leisurely approaching, with now and then a thin wisp of smoke drifting over his shoulder. It was Rackliff, dressed with his usual care, but looking, if possible, a little paler and more languid than ever. "I thought it was about time for you to show up," said Roy a trifle fretfully. "You said you'd be around by nine; it's twenty minutes after by the clock in the Methodist steeple." "It is said," returned Herbert, "that the early bird catches the worm; and, as we're all worms of the earth, I don't believe in taking any chances with the bird. Didn't sleep very well last night. Fancy that jaunt to Barville was too much for me; though, to tell the truth, I'm a rotten poor sleeper anyhow. I wake up at the slightest noise in the night, and, having some nerves of my own, usually get a case of heart palpitation, which is deucedly unpleasant. Then perhaps I won't go to sleep again for two hours or more. I envy any fellow who snoozes like a log." He concluded with a short, hollow laugh. "The trouble with you is," said Roy, "that you smoke too much." "Tell it to Johnson," scoffed Herbert. "I've always been that way; smoking doesn't have anything to do with it. Besides, if it did I couldn't leave off. I've got the habit for fair." "I wouldn't like to say that; I'd hate to own up to it." "Oh, it's nothing. Cigarettes never killed any one yet, old women and moralizers to the contrary, notwithstanding. Well, chum, how are you fixed? Did you make a raise so that you can bet a little cold cash on the great contest to-day? You said you thought you'd have some money this----" "'Sh!" hissed Roy, glancing around apprehensively toward the house. "Don't talk about that here." "Eh? Why not?" "I don't want my folks to find out anything about it," whispered Hooker. "Come on, let's walk up the street." At the corner above they turned into High Street, coming finally to the white Methodist church. "Let's stroll around behind the church, where no one will see us," proposed Hooker. "Like a pair of plotters on foul intentions bent," laughed Herbert. "To watch you manoeuvre, one might get the fancy that you were involved in some desperate and terrible piece of work." "Now, look here, Herb," said Roy, facing his companion behind the church, "you're situated differently from me, and you can't seem to understand my position. You don't belong in Oakdale, and you don't care a rap what the fellows around here think of you or say about you." "Not a rap," nodded Rackliff. "That's just it. Now this is my home, and I've got to be careful about some things. I don't want to get everybody down on me." "I haven't observed," said Rackliff unfeelingly, "that you're particularly popular with the fellows of this benighted burg." "I'll make myself a blame sight more unpopular if they ever get onto it that I bet against my own school team. You can do it, for you say you don't expect to stay here more than one term, anyhow. Then if my folks should know, they'd raise the merry dickens." "And that would break the monotony of a severely humdrum existence. I've had more than one stormy session with the head of my family. How much money did you scrape together?" "I haven't counted it yet," answered Roy, thrusting his hand into his pocket and looking around, as if apprehensive that they were being watched. "I say, Herb, are you really dead sure that Barville will win this afternoon?" Rackliff sighed. "As sure as one can be of anything in this old world. Hook, you've got cold feet." "Well, I wouldn't want to lose this money. I can't afford to lose it. I can't lose it." "You won't, old chap--you won't. I'm getting you in on this out of pure friendliness, nothing else; and you must remember what I agreed to do yesterday--if you lose, I'll stand for the loss." "That's generous; that's all right. Perhaps you can't get any bets, anyhow. The fellows around here aren't given to betting real money on baseball." Roy produced a closely folded little wad of bills and some loose change. "Here's all I have," he went on. "I'm going to let you take it and bet it on Barville, if you can." There was a two dollar bill, two ones, and eighty-five cents in change. "Fifteen cents more would make an even five," said Herbert. "Can't you dig that much up?" "This is all I have," repeated Hooker, "every last red cent. I'll have to pay admission to the game, too, as long as I'm not on the nine. I must keep a quarter for that." "And that leaves it forty cents shy of a fiver. Well, if necessary, I'll make that up. I'm going to risk ten of my own money." "Risk it?" muttered Hooker, again troubled by qualms. "Oh, you know what I mean. There's no risk; that's simply a sporting term. A fellow with sporting blood likes to pretend he's taking a chance, whether he is or not. Where did you get----" He stopped short, suddenly fancying it best not to inquire into the source of his companion's money, and in the momentary silence that followed a slow flush mounted to Roy's temples. "The team practices a little at ten o'clock," said Rackliff, glancing at his handsome watch. "It's getting near that time. Come on over to the field and watch me throw out a bait for suckers." "I don't think I will," said Hooker. "I believe I'd better keep away, and there won't be any talk made." "Suit yourself," coughed Herbert, lighting another cigarette. "I've got to get busy if I'm going to hook anything." Half an hour later Rackliff strolled onto the field and took up a position near one of the players' benches, where he watched the Oakdale nine at practice. At times he smiled with a supercilious air of amusement, and especially was this noticeable when Eliot complimented the players or some one made some sort of a fumble or fluke. Practice was brought to a close with each member of the team taking a turn at the bat, base running being cut out, however. Grant did the pitching, for Springer was "saving his arm." Chipper Cooper hit the ball handsomely three times in succession, and relinquished the bat with a whoop of satisfaction. "Got my eye with me to-day," he cried. "We've all got 'em peeled; everybody has. Sanger'll have his troubles. We'll win like a breeze, fellows." "How very confident you are," said Rackliff, moving slowly forward. "You all seem to think this game is going to be a cinch for Oakdale, but I've got an idea that you'll sing a different tune to-night." "Oh, you have!" cried Chipper, turning on him. "Listen to Solomon, the wise man, fellers." "I have a fancy that Barville is going to win," stated Herbert, not a whit abashed. "In fact, I believe it so much that I'm willing to make a little bet on it." "Bet you a pint of peanuts," gurgled Chub Tuttle. "Don't ruin yourself by such recklessness. I've got some real money." "Dinged if he ain't a sport!" sneered Site Crane. "He wants to bet real money on the game." "How does it happen you have the impression that Barville will beat us, Rackliff?" inquired Roger Eliot mildly. "Well, now, I don't mind answering that," beamed Herbert. "Barville has got a surprise for you. I'm not supposed to mention it, but I can't keep it any longer. They've got a new catcher, a friend of mine, and----" "I suppose you think he can play the whole game," scoffed Phil Springer. "A friend of yours, eh? Well, if he knows as much about baseball as you do, he'll be of great assistance to Barville!" "I'm backing my knowledge with cash, if I can find anybody who has sand enough to bet with me," said Herbert. "I'll bet you a dollar," shouted Phil. "Only a dollar? Dear me! Can't you do any better than that? I've got fifteen long green chromos that I'd like to wager on Barville." For a few moments this seemed to stagger the group that had gathered about him. Fifteen dollars was a lot of money, and it seemed doubtful if any other individual in the crowd, with the possible exception of Eliot, could raise as much--and Eliot would not bet. "Wish I had fifteen dollars," muttered Crane. "I'd go him. It would be jest like findin' money." Two or three of the boys drew aside and whispered together. Springer was one of these, and in a moment he called some others from the gathering near Herbert. There was more whispering and not a little nodding of heads, and then of a sudden Phil turned and walked back toward the city youth. "Rackliff," he said, "if you really mean business, if you've got fifteen dollars you want to bet on Barville, meet me at the post office at noon, and I'll have the money to go you." "Excellent," murmured Herbert, breathing forth a little thin blue smoke. "I'll be there with my money. Don't forget the appointment, Springer." CHAPTER VIII. READY FOR THE GAME. Never before had the Barville baseball team brought such a crowd of supporters into Oakdale. They came, boys and girls, wearing their school colors, bearing banners, and bringing tin horns and cowbells. The manner in which they swept into Oakdale and hurried, eager and laughing, toward the athletic field, plainly betokened their high confidence in the outcome of the contest. Even a few older persons came over from Barville on one pretext or another, and found it convenient to spend a portion of the afternoon watching the baseball game. "Jinks!" chuckled Chipper Cooper, as he watched the visitors pour in and fill up the generous section of bleachers reserved for them. "They certainly act as if they thought they were going to have a snap to-day. Barville must be depopulated. Never fancied so many people lived over there." "Beyond question," said Roger Eliot quietly, "they believe their team has at least an even chance for the game; otherwise, not half so many would have made the journey to watch it." "It must be on account of their new ketcher," muttered Sile Crane. "I cal'late they think he's the whole cheese; but mebbe they'll find aout he ain't only a small slice of the rind. What's he look like, anyhaow?" "There he is," said Roger, as the visiting team came trotting onto the field, led by Lee Sanger, its pitcher and captain, "that stocky, red-headed chap. See him?" "My!" grinned Cooper. "He's a bird. Looks like he could eat hardware without getting indigestion." The Barville crowd gave their players a rousing cheer, although they did not yet venture to blow the horns or jangle the cowbells. Those noise-producing implements were held in reserve, with apparent perfect assurance that an especially effective occasion for their use must arise during the game. Captain Eliot shook hands cordially with Sanger, and suggested that he should at once take the field for practice. "Hello, Roger!" called Bob Larkins, the Barville first baseman. "Great day for the game. We're going to make you fellows go some. You won't have the same sort of a cinch you had last year." "I hope not," answered Eliot pleasantly. "There's a big crowd out to-day, and I'd like to see you fellows make the game interesting." "Oh, don't you worry, it will be interesting enough," prophesied Larkins, getting his mitt and turning to jog down toward first. At Eliot's elbow Phil Springer remarked, with a short laugh, in which there seemed to be a trace of nervousness: "They certainly have got their pucker up. They're boiling over with confidence." "And it's a mistake to boil over with anything--confidence, doubt or fear," said Roger. "When the kettle boils aver, the soup gets scorched. Come, Phil, shake the kinks out of your arm with me, while they're taking their turn on the field." His calm, unruffled manner seemed instantly to dissipate the nervousness which Phil had felt a touch of. The practice of the visiting team was closely watched by nearly all the spectators, and it became apparent that the Barville boys had profited by the coaching of some one who had found it possible to train them with good effect. They were swift, sure and snappy in their work, displaying little of the hesitation and uncertainty usually revealed by an ordinary country school team, even in practice. Copley, the stocky, red-headed catcher from Roxbury, received the balls when they were returned from the infield and the out, catching the most of them one-handedly with the big mitt, although he seemed to do this without flourish or any attempt at grand-standing. Now and then he grinned and nodded over some especially fine catch in the outfield or clever stop of a grounder or liner by an infielder; nevertheless, he let Sanger, who was batting, do all the talking to the players. Roy Hooker, wearing the crimson colors of his school, sat on the bleachers at the edge of the group of Oakdale Academy students, endeavoring to mask his feelings behind a pretext of loyal interest in the home nine; but, nevertheless, in spite of his inwardly reiterated assertion that he had been used "rotten," he was annoyed by a constantly recurring sense of treachery to his own team. The skill displayed in practice by the visitors in a measure set at rest the doubts he had continued to entertain concerning Rackliff's wisdom in backing Barville. "I'll win some money to-day, all right," he thought; "but, really, I'd rather be wearing an Oakdale suit, even if we lose." As the Barville nine came in from the field and Oakdale went out, Roy saw Herbert Rackliff saunter forth and speak to Newt Copley, who shook hands with him. Then Herbert drew Copley aside and began talking to him in very low tones, and with unusual animation. Still watching, Hooker beheld Copley nodding his head, and even at that distance Roy could see that he was grinning. "Hey, old Rack!" Chipper Cooper shouted from the field. "Brace him up--that's right. Tell him he's got to win or you're financially ruined." Herbert pretended that he did not hear, and, after a final word with Copley, slowly sauntered back into the crowd. He was not wearing the Oakdale colors. "I'm glad nobody knows that part of the money he put up was furnished by me," thought Hooker. "He's got an awful crust. I couldn't do a thing like that, and be so cheeky and unconcerned. Gee! but he'll get the fellows down on him." And now, as the time for the game to begin was at hand, the umpire, supplied with two new balls in their boxes, called the captains of both teams and consulted with them for a moment or two. Directly Eliot sought the body protector and mask, and Bert Dingley, standing at the end of the bench on which the visitors had seated themselves, began swinging two bats. There was a rustling stir among the spectators as they settled themselves down to watch the opening of the contest. The Oakdale players took their positions on the field, Rodney Grant going into right, while Chub Tuttle remained on the bench as spare man. Phil Springer had peeled off his sweater and was pulling on his light left-hand glove as he walked toward the pitcher's position. "Ladies and gentlemen," called the youthful umpire, facing the crowd, "this is the opening game of the high school league, Barville against Oakdale. Battery for Oakdale, Springer and Eliot. Play ball!" With that command, he tossed a clean, new baseball to Phil, who caught it with his gloved hand, glanced at it perfunctorily, gave it an unnecessary wipe against his hip, made sure his teammates were ready, and placed his left foot on the slab. CHAPTER IX. THE FIRST INNING. A white streak went shooting through the air; something whizzed high and close past Dingley, who dodged a bit. "Ball one!" called the umpire. "Spare him, Phil--don't hit him!" cried Chipper Cooper, moving about nervously. "There's speed!" came from Sile Crane. "He can't see that kind." "Get 'em over--please get 'em over, if you can!" entreated Bob Larkins, who had taken a position on the coaching line, near first base. "All right, Phil," said Roger Eliot quietly and reassuringly, returning the ball. "You've got powder behind them." Springer's nervousness had returned with redoubled force. He seemed to feel something quivering somewhere within himself, and, having forgotten to get a chew of gum, he suddenly realized that his mouth was dry as a chip. When Roger called for an out, he bent the ball so wide of the plate that Eliot scarcely succeeded in stopping it. "Oh--dear--me!" whooped Larkins. "He can't find the pan. Take a ramble, Ding; wait and he'll walk you." To Springer's relief, Eliot did not seem disturbed. Roger signalled next for a straight one, and held up his mitt behind the inside corner of the plate. Doing his best to be steady, Phil responded by sending one over that corner; and Dingley, waiting, heard the umpire call a strike. "Oh, yes, he'll walk him--not," laughed Cooper. "Let him wait. He'll have a chance to ramble to the bench in a minute." Phil saw Eliot smile a bit through the meshes of the catching mask, and then, nodding at the signal for a drop, he started the ball high, but gave it the proper twist to bring it shooting down across the batter's shoulders. "Two strikes!" declared the umpire, at which Dingley shook his head protestingly. "My eye! He is a good waiter," yelled Cooper gayly. "He's worked in a restaurant some time. You've got him now, Phil." Trying to "pull" Dingley, Phil again used a curve that was too wide, and the third ball was called. The batter gripped his club and stood ready, determination in his manner. The infielders crouched on their toes, and the outfielders were prepared to run in any direction. Springer leaned forward to get the signal, then swung into an elaborate delivery which he had practiced. Another drop was tried, but this time Dingley hit it. Up into the air popped the ball, and Cooper, yelling "I'll take it!" raced over behind second, to smother it surely when it came down. Something like a sigh of relief escaped Springer's lips when he saw the ball held by the lively little shortstop, and in a measure his confidence was restored.. "They can't hit that kind out of the infield, Spring, old dandy," laughed Cooper. "You've got an elegant collection up your sleeve to-day." The home crowd cheered, and Barville sent out Pratt, the second batter. "Here's the next victim," cried Jack Nelson, from his position near second. "He'll be easy, too." Pratt was clever at sacrificing, but without a runner ahead of him it was up to him to try for a hit, and he fouled the first two balls. "Now, you've got him sure, Phil," said Cooper. "He's a regular hen-roost robber; he loves fouls. Don't let him get away, for if he does he'll crow." As two strikes and no balls had been called, Pratt apparently expected Springer to waste the next one, and in that he made his mistake; for Phil, growing steadier, put over a sizzler on the inside corner. "You're out!" shouted the umpire, and Pratt turned sadly and disgustedly toward the bench. "Wonder what that Barville bunch is going to do with those horns and cowbells," cried Cooper, as the Oakdale cheer died away. Whiting, the next batter, poked a hot one directly at Chipper, who plunged forward to get it on the first bound and made a miserable fumble. Chasing the ball, the little fellow snapped it up and threw wild to Crane. Whiting improved his chance to take second, where he laughingly came to anchor, chaffing Cooper, who was making some very uncomplimentary remarks about himself. "Here we go! Here we go!" roared Larkins. "Now we score. On your toes, Whiting! Here's the boy to drive you home." Springer shivered suddenly as he saw the stocky, red-headed catcher of the visiting team step into the batter's box. Something told Phil that Copley would hit the ball, and in keen apprehension he pitched the first two so wide of the plate that Eliot was forced to stretch himself to get them. Copley hunched his shoulders and grinned tauntingly at the nervous fellow on the slab. "Aw, put one over," he urged. "Lost your nerve? Going to walk me? You don't dare----" Apparently, he had relaxed and was holding his bat carelessly, so Phil tried to push over a swift, straight one. With a smash Copley landed on the horsehide, driving it toward right field. "Ah!" gasped the spectators. "Go!" yelled Larkins. "Score on it, Whiting! It's a two-bagger!" Out there in right garden Rodney Grant was sprinting after that ball almost as it left Copley's bat. There seemed scarcely a chance for Grant to reach the whistling sphere, but he covered ground with amazing speed and leaped into the air, thrusting out his bare right hand. The ball smacked into that unprotected hand and stuck there, as Grant dropped back to the turf. A few too eager enthusiasts on the Barville bleachers had started to blow horns and ring bells when they beheld Copley's drive shooting safely, to all appearances, into that unoccupied portion of the field; now, of a sudden, these sounds were drowned by the great yell--almost a roar--of joyous relief and exultation which burst from the Oakdale sympathizers. On those seats boys wearing the crimson colors jumped up and down, shrieking wildly, while they pounded other boys, similarly decorated, over their heads and shoulders; girls likewise screamed, waving frantically the bright banners, on each of which was emblazoned a large white letter O. At the smash of bat and ball Phil Springer's teeth had snapped together, as if to guard his heart from leaping from his mouth; and despairingly he had whirled around to watch the course of the ball, perceiving out of the corner of his eye Whiting, with a long start off second, fairly tearing up the ground as he flew toward third on his way to the plate. Phil likewise saw Rod Grant stretching himself to get that whistling white sphere, and even as a voice within the pitcher's brain seemed to cry, "He can't touch it!" the Texan made that amazing leap into the air and held the ball. "Mercy!" gasped Phil. "What a catch!" He waited for Grant, who came loping in from the field, his face flushed, his eyes full of laughter. "Oh, you dandy!" cried Phil, giving his chum a resounding open-handed slap on the shoulder. "That was reaching for it some." "I sure didn't think I could touch it," confessed Rod; "but I was bound to try my handsomest for it." Which was characteristic of the young Texan. "They're cheering for you," said Phil. Then jovially he reached and lifted Rod's cap with one hand, at the same time using the other hand to give his companion's head a push, thus forcing him to bow. Newt Copley surveyed Oakdale's right fielder disgustedly. "That was a fearful blind stab," he said sourly. "Didn't know you had it, did you?" "Not till I looked to see," acknowledged Rod pleasantly. Eliot gave the boy from Texas a look of approval. "That's the way to get after them," he said. "That's playing baseball and supporting a pitcher." "I was pretty rotten, wasn't I?" said Phil with a touch of dejection. "Far from it," returned the captain, "you were pretty good. Copley was the only man who really made a bid for a hit." "Sure," chipped in Cooper. "I was the real, rank thing, and if they'd scored I'd been responsible for it. I should have nipped Whiting without a struggle." Phil suddenly felt better, as it was true that none of the first four men to face him, the pick of the enemy's batters, had hit safely; for which, cutting out Grant's performance, he was immediately inclined to take the credit, due quite as much, however, to Eliot as to him. Sanger warmed up a bit by whipping a few to Larkins at first, while Copley was buckling on the body protector and adjusting the mask. Oakdale had put her second baseman, Jack Nelson, at the head of the batting order, and Jack did not delay the game by loafing on his way into the batter's box. "Get the first one, Sang!" barked Copley, squatting behind the plate and giving a signal. "He looks like a mark. Keep him off the pan, Mr. Umpire; make him stay in his box." Then, under his breath, speaking just loud enough for Nelson to hear, he added: "Not that it makes any difference, for you couldn't hit a balloon." "Couldn't I!" muttered Jack, strangely annoyed, for there was something indescribably irritating about the manner in which the red-headed catcher had sneered those words. This irritation grew when Sanger warped over two zig-zags, and Nelson missed them both. Copley made no further remark, but his husky chucklings over the batter's failures, sent the blood to Nelson's head and assisted him in finally misjudging a high one on the inside corner. "You're out!" pronounced the umpire. "That's the pitching, cap!" laughed Larkins. "They had their fun with you last year; now it's your turn." Berlin Barker, regarded as an excellent batsman, was almost as easy for Sanger. True, Barker did foul the ball once, but that was the only time he touched it, and he likewise returned to the bench in a much disturbed frame of mind. "Mr. Umpire," called Eliot, "will you keep that catcher from talking to the batters?" "Go on!" growled Copley. "Who's talking to them? I can talk to the pitcher if I choose, and I've got a right to have a little conversation with myself." "Don't pay any attention to him, Springer," warned Roger; "that's his trick." Phil also missed the first ball delivered by Sanger. "This fellow thinks he can pitch," cried Copley. "He's had a dream." "There he goes, Mr. Umpire," cried Roger. "He's talking to the batter again." "Oh, say, forget it!" scoffed the red-headed backstop. "I'm talking about our pitcher. He can't pitch a little bit--oh, no! He just dreamed he could, that's all. Put another one right over the pan, cap; there's no danger." But Sanger, taking Copley's signal, bent one wide, and Phil fouled it off into the first base bleachers, where it was deftly caught by a spectator. "He's in a hole," said Copley. "I wonder how these people ever got a hit off you, Sang." The batter tried to steady himself. Two "teasers" he disdained, and then bit at a drop and was out, Sanger having fanned the first three men to face him; which seemed to justify the Barville spectators in breaking forth with their horns and bells at last, and they did so tumultuously. CHAPTER X. THE CRUCIAL MOMENT. On the bleachers Roy Hooker breathed easier. "Len Roberts certainly told the truth," he thought. "Sanger is a crackerjack pitcher." "What did you say?" asked a fellow at Roy's elbow. "I?" gasped Hooker, startled. "I didn't say anything." "I thought you did. I thought I heard you mutter something about Sanger. That fellow has developed, hasn't he? But we'll get onto him yet. When these strike-out twirlers go to pieces, they're liable to blow up completely. The boys will pound him before the game is over." "I hope they do," fabricated Roy. "If Springer only keeps steady," continued his seatmate, "it will be all right; but I'm just a little bit afraid of Phil, for he lacks the heart to stand punishment. If they get to hitting him--well, Eliot will have to try Grant." "Grant's no pitcher," said Roy. "I don't know about that. He hasn't had any experience, that's true; but Springer himself has said that Rod's got the makings of one. Wasn't that a corking catch he made?" "It was lucky for Springer." Larkins was now up, and he proceeded to wallop the second ball pitched to him, driving it humming down the third-base line for two sacks, which caused the horns and cowbells to break into a tumultuous uproar. Sanger followed, and he straightened out a bender into a whistling line drive to the left of Chipper Cooper; whereupon Cooper made up for his error in the first inning by forking the sphere with his gloved hand and snapping it to Nelson, who leaped on to second and caught Larkins lunging hopelessly back for the sack. The horns and cowbells were suddenly silent, while the sympathizers with the crimson frantically cheered this beautiful double play. "Great, Chipper--simply great!" cried Springer as soon as he could get his breath. "Oh, pretty good, pretty good," returned the little fellow, with mock modesty. "A trifling improvement on my last performance, I'll admit." Tom Cline likewise hit the ball hard, but he lifted it into the waiting hands of Ben Stone, who scarcely moved a step from his position in center field. "Some people have great luck," cried Newt Copley, with his eyes on the Oakdale pitcher, who was walking toward the bench. "Wait till the streak breaks, and then we'll see the airship go up." Ben Stone got the first clean hit off Sanger, driving the ball zipping through the infield. Eliot, who followed, signaled that he would bunt, and Stone was well on his way toward second when the Oakdale captain lay a dead one down a few feet in front of the pan. Roger came near turning his attempted sacrifice into a hit, but Sanger managed to get the ball and whip it to first in time to catch the runner by a margin of the closest sort. "That's playing the game, all right," cried Nelson from the coaching line. "Here's where we score." "In your mind," derided Copley. Sile Crane, trying hard to bring Stone home, made four fouls in succession, and then struck out. "Two men, cap," grinned Copley. "Old Stoney will expire at the second station. Here's the cowboy; take his pelt, hide, horns and hoofs." When Sanger had fooled Grant twice, it began to look as if he really would succeed in "taking his pelt"; but, declining to reach for the decoys, Rod finally met the ball on the trade mark, lining it over the center fielder's head, after which he made third before he was stopped by the wild gestures and cries of the delighted coacher, Nelson. Roy Hooker swallowed a lump in his throat. "Why, they're hitting Sanger!" he muttered huskily. "Hitting him!" shouted the overjoyed fellow at Roy's elbow. "They're hammering him for fair. Told you they might do it." "But he'll brace up," said Roy. "He's got to brace up." "Let's hope he won't till the fellows put this game on ice. Here's Cooper. He's not a strong batter, but---- Oh, gee! look a' that! Look a' that! A Texas leaguer! That scores Grant!" Indeed, Chipper had bumped a Texas leaguer over the head of the second baseman, who made a desperate but futile effort to reach the ball; and Oakdale had every reason to cheer as Rodney Grant easily scampered home from third. Sanger really seemed to be off his feet, and Sleuth Piper, trying for a hit, drove two fouls into the crowd on the bleachers. "Straighten 'em out a little, Pipe," pleaded Cooper, returning for the second time to first. "You've got my tongue hanging out now." Copley, squatting, signaled for a straight ball. Sanger, apprehensive and nervous, shook his head. Copley promptly repeated the signal, and insisted on it. Finally Sanger obeyed, putting one straight over. Sleuth swung at that straight one, his heart full of confidence, but he missed it cleanly. In a moment he was raging at the catcher, who had promptly snapped off his mask and tossed it aside. "Somebody will break your head if you try that again," snarled Piper. "What's the matter with you?" flung back Copley belligerently. "You've got bats in your belfry." "You'll have a bat across your belfry if you repeat that trick," threatened Sleuth stiffly. "That's all I've got to say. Don't you touch my bat again when I'm hitting." Copley laughed derisively at the excited words of the slim, angry, pale-faced fellow; and the umpire, not having seen the catcher's prestigious interference, was unable to penalize the offender. His anxiety somewhat relieved by this termination of the home team's batting streak, Roy Hooker looked around for Rackliff, and discovered Herbert coolly sauntering down beside the ropes toward first base. As if he felt the attraction of Roy's glance, the city youth turned his head and smiled in an undisturbed manner, which was doubtless intended to convey his unshaken confidence in the ultimate outcome of the game, and really did much to soothe and reassure his agitated friend. As Oakdale took the field, Copley was seen speaking hurriedly to Len Roberts, who was to lead off at bat in the third. Roberts, listening, nodded, and his face was contorted by that crooked grin which always seemed trying to pull his crooked nose back into its proper place. Then, as he stepped into the box, he shot a glance toward the standees back of first, who had pushed out close to the ropes, among whom Herbert Rackliff was carelessly lighting a cigarette. "Never mind, Barville," called Herbert in a low, yet singularly distinct, tone of voice, while Eliot was signaling to Springer. "The game is young, and I'll bet you'll win. That's _straight_." Eliot's past experience with the visitors had taught him that Roberts rarely sought for a hit unless forced to do so, being the kind of a batter who preferred to wait and walk whenever he could; therefore the Oakdale captain signed for Springer to put the first ball over. Barely had Sile Crane flung over his shoulder the words, "Aw, go lay down!"--directed toward Rackliff--when, to the surprise of very many beside Eliot, Roberts landed hard on Springer's straight one, driving it toward center field. Fortunately, Stone had little trouble in reaching the ball and catching it. "Hard luck, Len," sounded the voice of Rackliff, as Oakdale's burst of applause died down. "Hit 'em where they ain't; that's the way. Here comes the huckleberry now," he added, as Berry, the visitors' shortstop, took the place of Roberts. "He'll hit it _out_." "This Berry will be picked in a moment," cried Cooper instantly. "He's ripe. Get him, Springer." Crack!--Berry planted the willow against Phil's outcurve, and again the ball sailed toward the outfield, this time going toward right. Again the fielder had no trouble in reaching it ere it fell to the ground, and Grant scooped and held it while running lightly forward. "He hit it out, sure enough," chortled Cooper. "Rack, you're ruined--financially busted wide open." Still Herbert seemed unruffled, continuing to smile. "If I lose," he said, "I can stand it." "But _I_ can't," muttered Roy Hooker beneath his breath. Springer, knowing Dingley, Barville's leading batter, who was again up, was dangerous, tried two wide ones to start with; but the fellow did not even wiggle his bat at them. "Get _into_ it!" called Rackliff suddenly, as Phil swung into his delivery for the third ball. Dingley seemed to fall back from the plate a little, and again bat and ball met squarely, an inshoot being sent humming over the head of Cooper, who made a ludicrously ineffective jump for it, the ball passing at least ten feet above his outstretched hand. But Piper, leaping forward and speeding up surprisingly, made a forward lunge at the last moment, and performed a shoestring catch that brought the entire Oakdale crowd to its feet with a shout of wonderment and delight. Eliot calmly removed the catching mask and swung the body protector over his head. "Royal support, Phil," he observed, as Springer trotted happily toward the bench. "The greatest ever," returned Phil. "If they can only keep it up----" "You'll do your part, all right," assured Roger. "Every fellow can't hit you the way those three did. Now, boys, we'll lead off with the head of the list. Let's get after Sanger again." But apparently Sanger had recovered his best form during the brief rest on the bench, for again he fanned Nelson and Barker; and, although Springer hit the ball, it was an easy roller to the Barville twirler himself, who confidently and deliberately tossed Phil out at first. In the meantime, one or two indignant Oakdaleites had gone at Herbert Rackliff and driven him away from the ropes back of first base, Herbert resenting their remarks concerning his loyalty, and rather warmly asserting that he had a right to bet his money according to the dictates of his judgment. In the fourth Springer's work justified the confidence Eliot had expressed, for he followed Sanger's example by striking out Pratt and Whiting and forcing the dangerous Copley to hit weakly to the infield. "Another goose egg for them," exulted Chipper Cooper. "It begins to look like a shut-out. These two tallies of ours may be a-plenty." "You don't want to get any such an idea into your head," returned Eliot promptly. "Two runs are mighty few; we must have more. Here's Old Stone, who started us going before." Stone started it again with a cracking two-bagger, and, when Eliot poked a daisy cutter into right, Ben scored on it. The efforts of the coachers to put Sanger off his feet, however, were fruitless, Crane fanning, Grant expiring on a foul which Copley took thirty feet behind the pan, and Cooper perishing in an effort to beat a slow grounder to first. With the beginning of the fifth Rackliff again called encouragement to the batters, having strolled back to the ropes a little further down beyond first base. He urged them to "get into it," "hit it out," "drop on it," "give it a rise," and, as if braced by his cries, they began slaughtering Springer mercilessly. Sanger singled; Cline poked one past Cooper; and Roberts, once more surprising everybody by smashing the first ball, doubled and brought both runners home. And now once more Springer's nerves were a-quiver in every part of his body. In his disturbed state he actually swallowed the chew of gum he had procured. Rattled, he hit Berry in the ribs, and handed Dingley a pass, filling the bases. "It's all off! It's all over but the shouting!" yelled Sanger, dancing and waving his arms on the coaching line near third. "Got him going, fellows! Don't let up! Here's where we win the game!" CHAPTER XI. A CHANGE OF PITCHERS. The green banners were fluttering like leaves in a furious tempest; horns, cowbells and human voices sent a wild uproar across the diamond; Springer, white as a sheet, his confidence totally shattered, was all to the bad. Another clean hit would almost certainly permit two Barville runners to score and put the visitors one tally in the lead. And not a man was out! Knowing something must be done at once or the game would doubtless be lost in that inning, Eliot threw the ball to Barker, so that Berlin might hold the man on third, and, calling Phil, stepped forward and met him in front of the pan. "Play ball! play ball!" yelled Sanger. "Don't delay the game!" And, "Play ball! play ball!" howled the Barville spectators. Coolly, calmly, soothingly, the Oakdale captain spoke in a low tone to the unnerved pitcher. "Brace up, Phil, old fellow," he urged. "Take your time; stop pitching as fast as you can soak the ball over. You're not using your head. If you'll steady down we can pull out of this hole. Now, go slow, and don't mind the racket." For a moment his right hand touched Springer's left shoulder with a steadying pressure. "I'll try," promised Phil huskily. "I'll do my best, captain." While the visitors still howled, "Play ball," Roger stood on the plate and fussed with the strap of his catching mask, which did not need any attention whatever to begin with, but somehow became strangely tangled in the wire meshes. From his appearance one might have fancied Eliot stone deaf to that babel of sounds, and he seemed utterly blind when Larkins rushed out from the bench before him, flourishing his arms, and demanding that he should get back into his position and let the game proceed. Such a show of outward calm should have done much to restore the equanimity of the pitcher; but, though Springer tried hard to get a steadying grip on himself, his fear of what might happen if Pratt hit him led him to pitch himself into a still worse predicament; and he handed up three balls, one after another, in an effort to fool the Barville boy. The shouts of the coachers, urging Pratt to "take a walk" and asserting that it was "a dead sure thing," added in the completion of Phil's undoing; for, even though he did his best to put a straight one over, the ball was outside, and Pratt capered exultantly to first, while Roberts, grinning all over one side of his face, jogged home. "Take him out!" Some one in the Oakdale crowd uttered the cry, and immediately a dozen others took it up. "Take him out! Take him out!" they adjured. These appeals were unnecessary, for already Eliot had decided that Phil could not continue, and was beckoning for Grant to come in, a signal which Rodney did not at first seem to comprehend. Presently the Texan started slowly in from the field, and Springer, at the umpire's call of "time," turned, his head drooping, toward the bench. "Hadn't you better take right, Phil?" suggested Eliot. The heartsick fellow shook his head. "I wouldn't be any good out there--now," he muttered. So Tuttle was sent into right, while Grant limbered up his arm a bit by throwing a few to Sile Crane. "Here's something still easier, fellows," called Newt Copley. "Perhaps he can throw a lasso, but he can't pitch baseball. Keep it up. Don't stop." "Play!" ordered the umpire. Rod Grant toed the pitcher's slab for the first time in a real game of baseball, wondering a bit if he was destined to receive a continuation of the unkind treatment that had put "the blanket" on his predecessor. In the meantime, Herbert Rackliff had been collared by Bunk Lander, a big, husky village boy, whose face was ablaze with wrath and whose manner betrayed an almost irresistible yearning to punch the city youth. "You keep your trap closed," rasped Lander, "or I'll knock your block off! If you utter another peep during this game, I'll button up both your blinkers so tight it'll take a doctor to pry 'em open. Get that?" "Take your hands off me!" cried Herbert indignantly. "How dare you!" "How dast I!" snarled Lander. "I'll show you how I dast if you wag your jaw any more." "I've got a right to talk; everybody else does." "You double-faced, sneaking son of a sea-cook!" blazed Lander. "You bet against your own school team, did ye? If you belonged in Barville you might howl your head off; but as long's you camp around these diggin's you won't do no rooting for them fellers. I'm going to keep right on your co't-tail the rest of the time, and the first yip you make I'll hand ye a bunch of fives straight from the shoulder. Now, don't make no further gab to me unless you're thirsting to wear a mark of my esteem for the next few days." Even as Lander uttered these words Grant pitched the first ball, and Whiting hit it--hit it humming straight into the hands of Chipper Cooper, who snapped it to third for a double play, before Berry could get back to the sack. What a howl of joyous relief went up from the Oakdale crowd! They cheered Chipper madly, and the little fellow, crimson-faced and happy, grinned as he gave a tug at his cap visor. But now came the great Copley, the most formidable Barvilleite, and there were still two runners waiting impatiently on the sacks, ready to make the best of any kind of a hit. "Don't worry about this chap, Grant," called Eliot quietly. "He's just as easy as anybody. You'll get him." At this Copley laughed sneeringly, but he missed the first ball Rod delivered to him, which happened to be one of the new pitcher's wonderful drops. The uproar coming from the Barville bleachers seemed to have no effect on Grant, something which Eliot observed with satisfaction and rising hope. Rod pitched two balls which Copley disdained, and then he fooled the fellow once more with a drop. "Two strikes!" shouted the umpire. "You've got him, Roddy--you've got him cold!" cried Cooper suddenly. "Don't forget we're all behind you. Take his scalp, you old Injun hunter of the Staked Plains." High and close to Copley's chin the ball whistled into Eliot's mitt. For a moment there seemed some doubt as to its nature, but the umpire pronounced it a "ball." "Close, Grant--close," said Eliot. "You should have had him. Never mind, you'll get him next time." There was a hush. Involuntarily, the Barville crowd ceased its uproar. Grant, taking Roger's signal, nodded and twisted the ball into the locking grip of two fingers and a thumb. His arm swung back and whipped forward, a white streak shooting with a twisting motion from those fingers. It seemed like another swift one, shoulder high, and, with confidence strong in his heart, the red-headed batter sought to meet it. For the third time the ball took a most amazing shoot toward the ground, and again Copley did not even graze it. The umpire shouted, "You're out!" but the roar from Oakdale's side of the field drowned his voice. CHAPTER XII. WON IN THE NINTH. The cheer captain was leading them with wildly waving arms. "Grant!" they thundered. "Rah! rah! rah! Grant! Grant! Grant!" "That sure was some lucky," said Rod, walking toward the bench. "Lucky!" rejoiced Cooper, jogging at his side. "It was ball playing! It was pitching!" "You pulled me through by that catch and double play," said the young Texan modestly. "That put me on my pins. I'm sorry Phil got his." Springer looked disconsolate enough as Rod took a seat beside him on the bench. "Don't worry, old partner," begged Rodney. "It happens to every pitcher sometimes. The best of them get it occasionally. Perhaps I won't last." "If you don't," returned Springer, "the game is a goner. There's no one else to put in. I gave it away when I lost my control. Queer I couldn't get the ball over." "I saw that we couldn't keep you in any longer, Phil," said Eliot. "I had to take you out." "Oh, that's all right," muttered the unhappy fellow. "That's baseball." With the score tied, Barville showed a disposition to fight grimly for the game. Piper fell a victim to the wiles of Sanger; Nelson's scorching grounder was scooped by Roberts; and away out in left garden Dingley made a brilliant running catch of Barker's splendid long drive. The sixth inning opened with the two teams on even terms and Grant pitching for Oakdale. Rodney's most effective ball was his drop, but Eliot, knowing it would be poor judgment if the pitcher should use that particular ball too often, called for it only in emergencies. The emergency rose when, with only one man out, Sanger singled and stole second, Nelson dropping Roger's throw. With Sanger playing well off the sack, there was a chance for him to score if Cline banged out a long safety, so Eliot, consulting hastily with Grant, urged Rod to use the drop every time he put the ball over. Cline finally managed to hit one of those drops, but he simply rolled a weak grounder into the diamond, and gave up the ghost on his way to first, Sanger taking third on the throw. Ready to bat, Len Roberts' gaze wandered toward the spectators back of the ropes near first base; but, if he hoped to receive any encouragement from Herbert Rackliff, he was disappointed, as Bunk Lander, true to his promise, was keeping within arms' length of the irritated and uneasy city youth. Rackliff, having surveyed Bunk's stocky figure from head to foot and taken a good look at the fellow's grim, homely mug, smoked cigarettes and uttered no sound save an occasional suppressed cough. It would be hard to describe the feelings of Roy Hooker. He had been elated by Springer's misfortune and the success of Barville in tying the score, but the failure of the visitors to get a lead left him still worried and anxious. Especially was this true as he watched Rodney Grant pitch with surprising steadiness and hold the crimson players down. "But he can't keep it up," thought Roy; "it's impossible. They'll fall on him the way they did on Springer." Roberts, who had hitherto batted with an air of confidence, now fell into his old trick of waiting, the result being that two strikes were called on him before he removed the bat from his shoulder. Then he bit at a wide one, and was out. Tuttle, hitting in Springer's place, was a snap for Sanger, who polished him off with three high, swift, straight ones. For the third time in the game, Stone showed his mettle and went to first on a safety. As one man was out, Eliot, thinking to test Copley's throwing, signaled for Ben to steal. There was nothing the matter with Copley's wing, for he nailed Stone fully five feet from the second sack. Roger batted a sizzler to the left of Sanger, who shot out his gloved hand and deflected the ball straight into the waiting fingers of Larkins at first. Grant pitched fairly well in the seventh, but it needed the errorless support he received to prevent the enemy from scoring, Barville pushing a runner round to third before being forced to give up. Sanger, working hard, disposed of Crane on strikes, forced Grant to pop to the infield, and led Cooper into lifting an easy foul for Copley. The red-headed catcher continued to talk to the batters, but, warned by Eliot, they made no retort, and, seemingly, did not hear him. Since the affair with Piper he had not, however, again offered to deflect a bat. It was a great game to watch, a game in which those high school boys, keyed to a keen tension, were really outdoing themselves, performing more than once feats which would have been creditable to professionals. It was the kind of baseball that makes the blood tingle, the heart throb, and leaves many an enthusiastic spectator husky from howling. The strain was so great that it seemed an assured thing that something must give way. Oakdale had saved herself temporarily by changing pitchers, but shortly after the opening of the eighth inning it began to look as if the fatal downfall of the home team had simply been delayed. Larkins led off by batting a dust scorcher against Cooper's shins, and once more Chipper marred his record by booting the ball and throwing wild to first when he finally got hold of it. This let the runner romp easily to second. Copley was seen to whisper something in Sanger's ear as the Barville captain rose from the bench, bat in hand. Then Lee walked into the box and bunted beautifully along the line toward first. He was thrown out by Grant, but his purpose had been accomplished, and Larkins was on third, with only one man down. Fearing an attempted squeeze play, Eliot signaled for Rod to keep the ball high and close on Cline. Roger had made no mistake in judgment, and, despite the Texan's effort to baffle the hitter, Cline managed to bump a roller into the diamond. Cooper, charging in, scooped the sphere and snapped it underhand to Eliot; for Larkins, having started to dig gravel with the first motion of Grant's arm, was doing his utmost to score. "Slide!" shrieked the coachers. Larkins obeyed, and there might have been some dispute over the umpire's decision had not the ball slipped out of Roger's fingers just as he poked it onto the prostrate fellow. "Safe!" announced the umpire, with a downward motion of his outspread hand. The coachers capered wildly, while Copley, leaping forward, met Larkins, who had risen, and ostentatiously assisted in brushing some of the dirt from his clothes. The Barville crowd behaved like a bunch from a lunatic asylum. Roy Hooker told himself that Grant must surely go to pieces now. "If Eliot had given me a show," he whispered to himself, "I might go in there now and stop the slaughter." Apparently the Texan was confused, seeing which, Cline attempted to purloin the sack behind his back, only to be caught easily when Rod turned and snapped the ball to Nelson. This cheered the sympathizers with the home team, who were heartened still more as, a few moments later, the amazingly calm Texan took the crooked-nosed Roberts in hand and struck him out. "Now, let's play ball and hold this lead, fellows," shouted Copley. "It's easy enough. We've got the game nailed." Sanger had no trouble in fanning Piper, and again Oakdale's hope ebbed, as Nelson, who had not made a safety for the day, was sent by the whiff route to join Sleuth on the mourners' bench. With two gone, Berlin Barker got his first hit. There rose a groan, however, when it was seen that roly-poly Chub Tuttle was the next sticker. Tuttle justified the hopeless ones by popping a dinky little fly into Sanger's hands. "It's all off! It's all over!" crowed Copley, tossing the catching mask spinning aside. "You've only got to get three more, cap. The way you're pitching, it'll be like picking ripe fruit." "But let's get some more tallies if we can," urged Sanger. This, however, was not possible; for Grant gave his prettiest exhibition in the ninth, striking out three fellows in succession with that perplexing drop, which apparently he had mastered. "This is our last chance, boys," said Eliot, as the locals gathered at the bench. "One run is a small margin, and no game is lost until it's won." Ben Stone, his face as grim as that of a graven image, stood forth and waited. Two balls he ignored, one of which was called a strike; and then, seeming to get one to his liking, he planted the club against the leather with a sharp, snapping swing. As in practice on the day Hooker had pitched to him, Stone laced the ball straight over the center-field fence for a home run, and pandemonium broke loose and continued while he jogged slowly over the bases. The score was again tied. Roy Hooker had not been fully at ease, and his face turned almost ashen as he saw the ball disappearing beyond the fence. He took no part in the crazy demonstration of his schoolmates, declining even when some one caught him by the shoulders and shouted in his ear, asking why he did not cheer. At the bench Stone was surrounded and congratulated by his delighted teammates. Even the disconsolate Springer aroused himself enough to speak a word of praise. "We want another one--only one more," said Eliot, as he found a bat and turned toward the plate. Without seeking to "kill" Sanger's speed, Roger did his best to poke out a safety, and would have succeeded only for a surprising one-handed stop by Roberts, who got the ball to first for an unquestioned put-out. "It's only a matter of an extra inning," cried Copley. "They've had all their luck; it's over." Crane, following Eliot, made the mistake of trying for a long hit, and Sanger fanned him. Grant came up with two men out. "Here's the great cowboy twirler, cap," sneered Copley. "Put the iron to him. Burn your brand deep." "Get a hit, Grant--do get a hit!" came the entreaty from the Oakdale crowd. "If you do," muttered Copley, close under the bat, "I'll swallow the ball." A moment later Rod swung at a corner cutter, whirled all the way round, and sprang at Copley, a look of such blazing wrath in his eyes that the red-headed catcher retreated with ludicrous haste. "You onery, sheep-herding skunk!" rasped the Texan. "If you touch my bat again, I'll grease the ground with you! They'll sure carry you home on a stretcher, and you can bet your life on that!" Again the umpire had not seen the interference, so cleverly had Copley perpetrated the trick. Eliot dashed at Grant and seized him, shouting for the Oakdale crowd to keep back; for at least twenty indignant persons were moving toward the diamond. There was a temporary delay, during which Roger spoke earnestly into Grant's ear. "Don't lose your head now, old fellow," pleaded the Oakdale captain. "That's what he wants you to do. He thinks you can't hit the ball if you're mad." "I reckon you're right," said Rodney, getting a grip on himself; "but he'll sure have a broken head if he does it again." Having seen that look of rage in the Texan's eyes, Newt Copley was not at all disposed to repeat the trick with him. Apparently Grant's nerves had been somewhat unstrung, for when the game was again resumed he missed one of Sanger's shoots by something like a foot, and the second strike was called by the umpire. Then Rod smiled; it was barely a faint flicker, but Sanger saw it and wondered. His wonderment turned to dismay when the Texan skillfully poked a safety through the infield and went romping to first, cheered by the crowd. "Never mind, cap," encouraged Copley; "the weak ones follow. You won't have any trouble with this undersized accident." A remark which inflamed Cooper, in spite of Chipper's pretense that he did not hear it. On the very first ball handed up to the Oakdale shortstop, Grant, having got a start, raced down the line to second, slid spikes first, and was declared safe, Copley failing to get the ball to Roberts in time for a put-out. But the Texan did not stop there. With Sanger's next movement of his regular delivery, Rodney, having got a lead behind the pitcher's back, went darting toward third. Copley, who had complained that Roberts was slow about tagging the runner, uttered a yell, took the ball as it came high above Cooper's shoulders, and lost no time in throwing to third. Pratt had not anticipated an immediate second effort to steal by the runner, and he was a trifle slow about covering the sack. As a result, he was forced to reach for the ball with his bare right hand, and he dropped it. The home crowd was on its feet now, shouting wildly as the umpire's downward gesture with both hands proclaimed the daring Texan safe at third. Copley snarled at Pratt, and Sanger plainly showed that the performance of Grant had put him on the anxious seat. The cheering now was incessant from both sides of the field, and this was not calculated to soothe the nerves of the worried pitcher. Nevertheless, had not Berry lost his head and forgotten that two were out, the game would have gone into extra innings. Cooper finally drove one toward the Barville shortstop, and Berry, leaping forward to catch the ball, saw Grant dashing toward the plate. Berry should have thrown to first, but, with his mind temporarily fogged, his only thought was to stop that run, and he hurled the ball to the plate. Copley was not prepared for this manoeuvre, and he leaped to get the whistling sphere, which, however, came high and wide, forcing him to reach for it. The umpire had barely time to run forward a short distance ere he stopped and crouched as Grant flung himself headlong in a slide. Getting the ball, Copley swung back to tag the runner, but ere the horsehide was brought down between Rod's shoulder-blades, his hand had found the plate. [Illustration: Ere the horsehide was brought down between Rod's shoulder-blades, his hand had found the plate.] "Safe!" shouted the umpire. And the game was won by the pitcher who had taken Springer's place in the fifth inning. CHAPTER XIII. RACKLIFF'S TREACHERY. Like one stunned Roy Hooker passed out through the gate and turned down the street, dully conscious of the continued rejoicing uproar behind him. Alternately buoyed by hope and weighted by fear, he had passed the most trying hour of his life, and now in his bosom he carried a heart that seemed sick and faint and scarcely able to pump the blood through his veins. "I was a fool to listen to Rackliff," he muttered; and over and over he kept repeating, "I was a fool, a fool!" Suddenly apprehensive lest he should be overtaken by some one who might observe his all-too-evident wretchedness, he quickened his steps and made straight for his home. He did not enter the house, and as he slipped through the yard he cast sidelong glances toward the windows, hoping his mother might not be looking out. In the carriage house he sat down on the box beside his motorcycle. "I was a fool--an awful fool!" he kept repeating. Presently, his mind running over the game, feature by feature, he began to realize that he had not felt as much elation as he would have supposed might come to him on witnessing Springer's misfortune in the fifth inning. He had imagined it would afford him unreserved exultation to see Phil batted out of the box, but his rejoicing had been most remarkably alloyed by an emotion of another sort, which even now he could not understand. And, as he sat there, slowly but surely he began to perceive the real reason for Springer's failure. "It was lack of control," he finally exclaimed. "That's just it. He was pitching all right until they broke his nerve by three hits in succession. After that he couldn't find the pan to save his life. If he'd been able to put the ball where he wished and steady down a little, he might have stopped that batting rally and had the satisfaction of pitching the game through to a successful finish. Now, Rod Grant gets all the glory." He was still sitting there, obsessed by his dismal meditations, when a shadow appeared in the doorway, and he looked up to see Rackliff, the stub of a cigarette in his fingers, gazing at him. For a full minute, perhaps, neither boy spoke; and then Herbert, tossing the smoking stub over his shoulder, sunk his hands deep in his pockets and uttered two words: "Hard luck." "Rotten," said Roy. "But you certainly were all to the punk in your judgment about that game." "Oh, I don't know," objected Herbert, leaning against the side of the doorway and crossing his tan-shod feet. "Barville should have won." "How do you make that out?" "They batted Springer out, didn't they? They sent him to the stable, all right." "He lost his control, and Eliot had to take him out." "Well, if you hadn't been mistaken in your judgment, that would have settled the game." "If _I_ hadn't been mistaken!" cried Roy resentfully. "Precisely." "Why, I don't see----" "Don't you? Then you should consult an oculist. You said Springer was the only pitcher the team had; you insisted that Grant couldn't pitch a winning game." "Well, I know," faltered Roy; "but I----" "You were mistaken--sadly mistaken. It's been an expensive blunder in judgment for both of us." A flush rose into Hooker's pale cheeks, and he stood up. "Now, look here, Mr. Rackliff," he said harshly, "don't you try to shoulder it all on to me. I won't stand for that. You professed to be dead sure that under any circumstances Barville could down Oakdale. As to the matter of expense, it may have been expensive for you', but, according to our distinctly understood agreement, I don't lose anything." Herbert lifted his eyebrows slightly, producing his cigarette case and fumbling in it vainly, as it was empty. "Agreement?" he said. "What agreement?" Hooker choked. "You know; don't pretend that you don't know. I hope you're not going back on your word. If you do----" He stopped, unable to continue. "Oh, yes," said Herbert slowly, "I think I know what you mean. Of course I'm not going back on my word to a pal." "Then give me the money I let you have to bet on Barville." "Why, that money's gone. We lost it." "Yes, but you pledged yourself to make good any loss I might sustain. There are reasons why I must have that money back--right away, too." "I'm sorry," murmured Herbert, regretfully returning the empty cigarette case to his pocket; "but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while. I went broke myself--haven't got a whole dollar left in the exchequer." "But I've _got_ to have it," insisted Roy huskily. "I depended on getting it back to-night." Herbert laughed and snapped his yellow fingers. "When a thing is impossible, it can't be done, old fellow. You don't need money in this dead hole, anyhow. Why, a profligate couldn't spend ten dollars a week here, if he tried. You'll simply have to wait until my old man coughs up another consignment of the needful." Roy sat down again, his face wearing such a look of dismay that Herbert was both puzzled and amused. "To see you now," observed the city youth, "any one might fancy you a bank cashier who had speculated disastrously with the funds of the institution. Four dollars and sixty-five cents--that was the amount of your loss; and you look as if you had dropped a thousand." "I want to tell you something," said Hooker suddenly; but again he stopped short and seemed to find it impossible to proceed. "I'm listening," encouraged Rackliff. "Let it come. Great Scott! I'd like to have a cigarette." But Roy, after remaining silent a few moments longer, slowly shook his head. "I won't tell you," he muttered; "I can't. But look here, Rack, you've got to get that money for me as soon as you can. I need it--if you only knew how I need it!" "I'll drop my old pater a line to-night, informing him that I'm financially ruined. Gee! that makes me think of that little runt, Cooper! He certainly irritated me some by his insolent yapping." "You came pretty near getting into trouble trying to coach Barville. You certainly had your nerve with you. I'd never had the crust to try that." Herbert frowned. "It would have been all right, only for that big stiff, Bunk Lander. He threatened to punch me up, and I knew he was just the sort of a brainless fellow to do it. Only for his interference, Barville would have taken the game, and we'd be on Easy Street to-night." "Eh?" exclaimed Roy, puzzled again. "I don't think I quite get you. I don't see how Lander's interference with you had anything to do with the result of the game." The city youth coughed and shrugged his shoulders, a singularly crafty smile playing over his face. "Of course, you don't see," he nodded. "I'll admit that I was somewhat too hasty. I should have waited a while longer before I attempted to put in my oar. That was where _I_ blundered; but I didn't quite reckon on Lander." "You've got me guessing. I wish you'd explain." "I will. Did you think I took that journey to Barville on your old motorcycle merely for recreation?" "Not exactly; I had an idea you went over there to talk with Copley and Roberts for the purpose of finding out how strong the Barville nine really was." "Well, that was a part of the reason, but not the whole of it. I had something else on my mind. In case I became satisfied that the two teams were pretty evenly matched, I had a little plan through which I felt confident I could make it a dead sure thing for Barville. I was not off my base, either, and it would have worked out charmingly if that big duffer, Lander, hadn't dipped in and messed it for us." "I'm still in the dark." "Don't you remember that when I got back I asked you about Eliot's signals to the pitcher?" "Yes." "I thought I knew them, but I wanted to be dead sure; for I'd made arrangements with Copley to tip off certain Barville batters who could be trusted to the kind of balls that would be pitched. This was to be done in case the necessity arose, which it did when Oakdale took the lead and Springer seemed to be going well, with every prospect of holding them down. Then I proceeded to get down close to the ropes back of first base, where, by watching, I could come pretty near catching Eliot's signs. Sometimes I couldn't see them distinctly, but almost always I could. I was tipping off the Barville batters when they proceeded to fall on Springer and pound him beautifully. They did so because they knew just the kind of a ball he was going to pitch." "Great Caesar!" muttered Roy, who was again standing. "You did that? How----" "Oh, I'm surprised at your dullness," laughed Rackliff. "You heard me coaching. You heard me calling out for the batters to 'get into it,' 'hit it out,' 'drop on it,' 'give it a rise,' and so forth." "Yes." "Yes; well, there you are. When I said 'get into it,' it meant that Springer would pitch an in-shoot. 'Hit it out,' meant that he would use an outcurve, and----" "Holy smoke!" gasped Hooker. "It's a wonder nobody got on. Do you suppose Lander----" "Nit. That big bonehead didn't tumble. He was simply sore because I was a student at Oakdale and seemed to be rooting for Barville. All the same, he stuck to me like a leech, and I had to quit or get into a nasty fight with him. I couldn't afford to have my face beaten up, even to win ten dollars. By Jove! I've simply got to have a whiff." In silence Hooker watched the shifty, scheming, treacherous city youth turn and search on the drive outside the door, recover the cigarette stub he had tossed away, relight it, and inhale the smoke with a relish that told of a habit fixed beyond breaking. Thus watching and thinking of the fellow's qualmless treachery to his own school team, Roy felt the first sensation of revulsion toward Rackliff. CHAPTER XIV. JEALOUSY. At the close of the game there was another boy on the field who was quite as glum and downcast as Hooker himself. This was Phil Springer, who remained seated on the bench while his team-mates and a portion of the enthusiastic crowd swarmed, cheering, around Grant and lifted him to their shoulders. Presently he realized that this behavior on his part must attract attention the moment the excitement relaxed, and he got up with the intention of hurrying at once to the gymnasium. Barely had he started, however, when something brought him to a halt, and beneath his breath he muttered: "That won't do. They'd notice that, too, and sus-say I was jealous." He was jealous--bitterly so; but he forced himself to join the cheering crowd and to make a half-hearted pretense of rejoicing. All the while he was thinking that Grant owed everything to him, and that perhaps he had been foolish in training a fellow to fill his shoes in such an emergency. For Phil had long entertained the ambition of becoming the first pitcher on the academy nine, and this year he had been fully confident until the present hour that the goal he sought was his beyond dispute. The victors did not forget to cheer courteously for the vanquished, and Barville returned the compliment with a cheer for Oakdale. So many persons wished to shake hands with Rodney Grant that he laughingly protested, saying they would put his "wing out of commission." Suddenly perceiving Phil, the Texan pushed aside those between them, sprang forward and placed a hand on Springer's shoulder, crying: "Here's my mentor. Only for him, I'd never been able to do it. I owe what little I know about pitching to Springer. Let's give him a cheer, fellows." They did so, but that cheer lacked the spontaneous enthusiasm and genuine admiration which had been thrown into the cheering for Grant, something which Springer did not fail to note. "Oh, thanks," said Phil, weakly returning the warm grasp of Rod's strong hand. "I didn't do anything--except blow up." Under cover of the chatter, joking and laughter, while they were changing their clothes in the dressing room of the gymnasium, Grant, observing the dejection Springer could not hide to save himself, again uttered some friendly words of encouragement. "Don't you feel so bad about it, old partner," he said. "The best professional pitchers in the business get their bumps sometimes, and I might have got mine, all right, if I'd started the game on the slab, as you did. You'll make up for that next time." "You're very kind, Grant," was Springer's only response. Phil got away from the others as soon as he could, and hurried home to brood over it. It had been a hard blow, and he had stood up poorly beneath it. Thinking the matter over in solitude, he was forced into a realization of the fact that he lacked, in a great measure, the confidence and steadiness characteristic of Rodney Grant, and he could not put aside the conviction that it was Grant, the fellow he had coached, who was destined to become the star pitcher of the nine. In spite of himself, this thought, aided by other unpleasant contemplations, awoke in his heart a sensation of envious resentment toward Rodney. He was sorry now that he had ever spent his time teaching the Texan to pitch, and it occurred to him that the same amount of coaching and encouragement bestowed upon Hooker would not have resulted in the training of a man to outdo him upon the slab and push him into the background. That evening he was missing from the group of boys who gathered in the village to talk over the game, and at school the following Monday he kept away from Grant as much as it was possible for him to do so. When practice time came after school was over, he put on his suit and appeared upon the field, but soon complained that he was not feeling well, and departed. The following morning, shortly after breakfast, Phil saw Rod turning into the dooryard of his home. Instantly Springer sought his hat, slipped hastily through the house and got out, unperceived, by the back door. When he arrived at school, a few minutes before time for the morning session to begin, Grant was waiting for him. "What became of you after breakfast, partner?" questioned Rod. "I piked over to your ranch looking for you, but you had disappeared. Your mother said you were around a few moments before, and she thought you must be somewhere about; all the same, I couldn't find hide or hair of you." "I--I took a walk," faltered Phil, flushing. "I've got a bub-bad cold." In evidence of which, he coughed in a shamefully unnatural manner. "Got a cold, eh?" said Rodney sympathetically. "You caught it sitting on the bench during the last four innings of that game, I reckon. I remember now that you didn't even put on your sweater." "Yes, I guess that's when I got it," agreed Phil. "Well, you've got to shake it in time for the game with Clearport. That's when you'll even things up." All that day Springer sought to avoid talking baseball with any of the fellows, for invariably they spoke of Grant's surprisingly successful performance; and when they did so something like a sickening poison seemed to bubble within the jealous youth, who told himself that he could not long continue to join in this praise, but must soon betray himself by bursting forth into a tirade against the Texan. In a measure he did relieve his feelings by expressing his opinion of Herbert Rackliff, who was brazenly seeking to ignore the open disdain of his schoolmates. He did not come out for practice that night, and Grant explained to the others that Phil was knocked out by a cold, whereupon Cooper chucklingly remarked that he thought it was Barville that had knocked Springer out. Shortly before dark, Phil, chancing to take a cross cut from Middle Street to High Street, observed Roy Hooker pelting away with a baseball at the white shingle on the barn. Drawing near, Phil asked Roy what he was doing, and the latter, startled and perspiring, looked round. "Oh, is it you?" said Roy. "I thought perhaps it was Rackliff. I'm practicing a little by my lonesome." "That's a hard way to practice," said Springer. "You can't get much good out of that." "Oh, I don't know. I'm getting so I can hit that shingle once in a while, and use a curve, too. I couldn't seem to hit it with a straight ball when I began." "You haven't given up the idea of pitching?" "Not quite. After watching your performance Saturday--seeing you soak a batter in the ribs, and then hand out free passes enough to force a run--I came to realize what control means. I'm trying to get it." Phil felt his face burn. "Control is necessary," he admitted; "but it isn't everything. When I put the ball over, they pup-pounded it." "But they wouldn't if it hadn't been for----" Choking, as he realized what he had so nearly said, Hooker bit his tongue. Then he hastened to make an observation that snapped Springer's self-restraint. "They didn't seem to pound Grant much, and he appeared able to put the ball just about where he wanted to." "Grant!" snarled Phil furiously. "That's all I've heard since the game! Grant, Grant, Grant! It makes me tired!" "Oh, ho!" muttered Roy. "It does, does it? Well, say, didn't you realize what you were doing while you were coaching that fellow? I knew what would happen. I knew the time would come when you'd be mighty sore with yourself. I'm going to talk plain to you. This fellow Grant is practically an outsider; he doesn't belong in Oakdale. He's a presuming cub, too--always pushing himself forward. Here I am, an Oakdale boy, but you pick up with Rod Grant and coach him to pitch so he can step into a game when you're batted out and show you up. You won't be in it hereafter; he'll be the whole show." "Oh, I don't know," returned Springer sourly. "He may get his some time." "He may, and then again he may not; you can't be sure of it. If you'd only spent your time with me, I would have been willing to act as second string pitcher, and you would not have been crowded out. You put your foot in it, all right, old man." "I suppose I did. But let's not talk about it. You weren't at school to-day." "No." "How did that happen?" "Working." "Working? How careless! I didn't know you ever did such a thing." "Well," said Roy slowly, "this was a case of necessity, you see." "Oh, you needed the money, eh?" "No; it wasn't that, though I earned a dollar and a quarter helping shingle John Holbrook's barn. You see--my mother, she--she lost some money recently." "Lost it?" "Yes; lost it, or--or something," Roy replied stumblingly. "It wasn't much, but it was all she had. She'd saved up a little at a time to buy material for a new dress." "How did she happen to lul-lose it?" "I can't tell. She doesn't quite know herself. She put it in a drawer in the house, and when she went to look for it, it was gone." "That sounds like a robbery instead of a loss." "But it couldn't be a robbery," protested Hooker quickly and earnestly. "Nobody would come into the house and take money out of that drawer--nobody around here. You never hear of such a thing happening around this town. Perhaps mother mislaid it somewhere. Anyhow, it's gone, and I'm going to try to earn enough to replace it." "Well, say, Hooker," exclaimed Phil, "you're all right! I didn't suppose you'd stoop to work, even under such circumstances. Do you know, lots of times we're liable to misjudge some one until something happens to show us just the sort of a person he is." "Yes; I suppose that's right," said Roy. But he did not look Phil in the eyes. CHAPTER XV. PLAIN TALK FROM ELIOT. "How's your cold, Phil?" It was Eliot who asked the question, and Springer, pausing with one foot on the academy steps, replied: "Oh, it's some bub-better, I think." "Glad to hear it," said Roger, slipping his arm through Springer's. "Come on, let's walk over yonder to the fence. I want to have a little chin with you. It will be ten minutes yet before school begins." Together they walked to the fence at the back of the yard, pausing beneath one of the tall old trees which was putting forth tender green leaves. Leaning against the fence, the captain of the nine faced his companion. "As a rule," he began, "you've been a great enthusiast over baseball, and I didn't think you'd let a slight cold keep you away from practice. Exercise is one of the best remedies for a cold, if a person takes care of himself when he's through exercising." "I know that," said Phil, poking his toe into an ant's nest and declining to meet Roger's steady, level gaze; "but, really, I--I was feeling pretty rotten, you know, and I didn't have mum-much heart for practice." "Yes," said the captain, "I'm afraid that was the principal trouble--you didn't have much heart for it. You lost heart in the game, and you haven't braced up yet. I hardly thought it of you, Phil; I didn't expect you to play the baby." "The baby!" exclaimed Springer resentfully. "Yes; that's just what you've been doing. I made up my mind to speak plainly to you, and I'm going to do so--for your own good. You've been sulking, old fellow. It doesn't pay, Phil; you're hurting yourself far more than any one else." "I don't think you've got any right to call it sulking," objected Springer in a low tone. "I own up that I did feel bad about the way things went in that gug-game; but I caught a cold, and I decided to take care of myself in order to get back into my best condition." "Is that the reason why you've been giving Rod Grant the cold shoulder?" "I haven't been giving him---- What has he said to you, Eliot? Has he been tut-tut-talking about me?" "Not a word." "Then why should you say I'd given him the cold shoulder?" "It was apparent to the dullest, Phil. For some time before that game you and Grant were very chummy; you were nearly always together, so that everybody noticed it. Since the game you've not been together at all, and I, myself, have plainly observed your efforts to avoid him. Now, old man, there can only be one explanation for such conduct: you're sore--sore because he succeeded in holding Barville down after you had failed." Weakly Springer sought to protest against this, but stopped in the midst of it, fully comprehending how feeble his words were. "It's folly, Springer," said Eliot, "sheer childish folly. We were all sorry to see you get your bumps and lose control, and I don't believe any one was any sorrier than Grant himself; for, somehow, I've come firmly to believe that he's on the square. He was reluctant about going on to the slab when I called him." "Perhaps that was because he was afraid he'd get his, too," muttered Springer. "Now, that isn't generous, and you know it. If the score had been heavy against us at the time, some fellows might have fancied Grant's reluctance was prompted by fear and a disinclination to shoulder another man's load in the first game he pitched. I've not sized it up as anything of the sort. You and he were close friends, and, knowing how you must feel to be batted out, he was loath to go in. You must realize it was a mighty lucky thing for us that we had a pitcher to take your place. Barville had you going, Phil, and you couldn't seem to steady down. Even old stagers get into that condition sometimes when pitching, and it's not an infrequent occurrence that a slabman who is not thought so good steps in and stops the slaughter." "Every-bub-body seems to think Grant is pretty good," mumbled Springer. "He certainly did amazingly well, for which he generously gave you all the credit." "I suppose he'll be the whole shooting match, now." "Those words betray you, my boy. You've been trapped by the green-eyed monster. Come, come, Phil, you're too manly for that." He put out a hand and rested it on Springer's shoulder. The color mounted into Phil's cheeks and slowly receded, leaving him pale, and still with downcast eyes. Eliot went on, steadily and earnestly: "We need two pitchers--we must have them if we hope to make a decent showing in the series. By and by we'll have to play two games a week, and some of those games come so close together that one pitcher alone, unless he has an arm of iron, can't do all the flinging. You've been wonderfully successful in coaching Grant, and all the time you were training him to relieve you in a measure when the hardest work should come. Nobody wants to rob you of any credit; every one says you've done a mighty good turn with him. But if you continue to sulk, as you have for the past few days, you'll lose the sympathy of your teammates; but you won't hurt Grant--otherwise than his feelings." "I don't believe it would hurt his feelings a great deal." Roger was vexed, but he continued to maintain his calm manner. "You ought to know him better than any one else around here; you ought to know whether he's at all sensitive or not. I'll tell you honestly, if I were in his place to-day, I'd feel it. Now, I'm your friend, old fellow, and I want you to listen to me and take my advice. Forget it. Get out for practice, treat Grant the same as before, and make up your mind you'll do your level best to redeem yourself in the next game you pitch. You'll have plenty of chances to show the stuff you're made of." "I don't suppose the fellows have much confidence in me now." "Nonsense! Unless they're chumps, they know every pitcher has his off days. There'll be a practice game to-night; we'll play against a picked up scrub team. Now, I want to see you at the field in a suit and ready to do your part." "All right," agreed Phil. But later, conscience-stricken and ashamed, he could not bring himself to seek Rodney Grant and own up manfully to his silly behavior. And Grant, having begun to feel piqued, made no further advances. At noon that day Roy Hooker returned to school, bringing a written excuse from his mother. Having a chance to speak privately with Springer, he said: "I hear Eliot has expressed his estimation of you and Rod Grant." Phil started. "You can near lots of things," he retorted sharply. "The fellows have been talking about it," returned Roy. "They say Eliot has said Grant will make a better pitcher than you, because you lack heart." It was a blow below the belt, and, in spite of himself, Phil could not help showing the effect. "He's welcome to th-think what he chooses," he exclaimed hotly; "it doesn't disturb me." Nevertheless, he was so much disturbed that, in spite of his promise to Roger, he was not with the team when it took the field that night for the practice game. For he himself had vainly sought to put aside the depressing and unnerving conviction that in steadiness, stamina and self-confidence, Rodney Grant was his superior; something he had determined never to breathe to any one else, but which the keen judgment of the team captain had found out. Nevertheless, when he reached home by a roundabout course, and found it impossible to dismiss thoughts of the boys engaged in that practice game, he eventually decided that he was a fool. Having reached this conclusion, he set off in great haste for the gymnasium, running the greater part of the distance. Drawing near the gym, he could hear the boys engaged in the game beyond the high board fence. It did not take him long to shed his outer clothes and get into a baseball suit. The game was in the second inning, with the regular team at bat and Hooker pitching for the scrub, which was made up partly of grammar school boys. Everybody seemed to be watching Roy, and Phil walked on to the field and toward one of the benches without attracting attention. "Look at Hook!" whooped Chipper Cooper. "He's actually trying to strike Roger out!" Eliot was at bat, and the umpire had just called the second strike on him. There were no runners on the sacks. "He struck aout Tut in t'other innin'," drawled Sile Crane. "I guess that's got him puffed up some." Apparently not at all discomposed by these remarks, Hooker continued steadily about his business, and presently, rousing a shout of surprise, he succeeded in fanning the captain of the nine. Roger stepped back from the plate, after striking out, and stood there gazing at Roy, with one of his strange, rare smiles. Crane followed. "Dinged if I wouldn't like ter see him fan me!" he said. A moment later Hooker pulled him handsomely on a wide one, and the first strike was called, Cooper being again awakened to a wondering, whooping state of merriment. "Look out! look out!" shouted the little fellow. "He'll get you if you don't. Who said Hooky couldn't pitch? There's more pitch in him than you can find in a big chew of spruce gum." Crane, setting his teeth, made two fouls, and then sent Chipper into real convulsions by whiffing at a high one which Roy whistled across his shoulders with surprising accuracy. "You wanted to see it," yelled Cooper. "You got a look, all right. Oh, say! Where did this new Christy Mathewson come from, anyhow? Look out for him, Roddy, or he'll add you to his list. List' to my warning." Rodney Grant did not strike out, but, nevertheless, he failed to meet one of Hooker's shoots squarely, and the grammar school shortstop gathered in an easy grounder and threw to first for the third put-out. Roger Eliot lingered to speak a word to Hooker, and Springer, still unnoticed, plainly heard what he said. "Perhaps we've made a mistake in sizing you up, Roy, old fellow. It's your work alone that has prevented us from scoring in either of these innings. You've always had speed and curves, but now you seem able to get the pill over. Keep it up, old fellow, and you'll make a pitcher yet, We may need you before the season ends." CHAPTER XVI. DREAD. "There's Phil," cried Grant, spying him. "I'll take the field. Let him pitch." Eliot turned, saw Springer, and looked relieved. "Wondered where you were," he said pleasantly. "I see you're ready for business. This is a five-inning game, and Grant has pitched two innings already; you can hand 'em up the last three." "But I haven't warmed up any," said Phil. "I couldn't get around any sooner." "There's no hurry," returned Roger. "You can have plenty of time to limber your wing; the scrub won't object to that." "But I don't want to butt in and take Grant's place." "Shucks!" cried Rod genially. "Who's butting in, anyhow? What are you talking about, partner? I want to get some field practice anyhow, and perhaps I will if you're kind enough to let the scrub hit you once in a while. They're putting up a right smart sort of a game, but Hooker's mainly responsible, as he hasn't been letting us rap him to any great extent. No scores yet on either side." "Come on, Phil," called Eliot decisively, as he slipped his left hand into the big catching mitt, "get out there and wiggle your flinger. Tuttle, maybe they'll let you play with the scrub, so Grant can occupy the right-hand pasture." This arrangement was quickly made, the captain of the scrub team having filled his outfield positions with youngsters who were even weaker than Tuttle. Springer accepted the ball tossed to him, and walked out to the pitcher's box, where he began warming up by throwing to Eliot, while the scrub batters waited around their bench. He was not in the most agreeable frame of mind, but he had no fear of the scrub players. In a few moments he announced that he was ready, and began work with the determination of striking out the first fellow who faced him. Ordinarily, this would not have been such a difficult thing to do, but, through some unusual freak of chance, the batter, swinging blindly, succeeded in hitting out a most annoying little Texas leaguer that sailed just beyond the eagerly reaching fingers of Jack Nelson. "Come, Spring, old wiz," cried the thoughtless Cooper, "you've got to do better than that. If you don't, we'll have to put Grant back on the slab to avert the disgrace of being beaten by this bunch of kid pick-ups." A sudden gust of anger caused Springer to glare, speechless, at the annoying shortstop; and he was so much disturbed that, in spite of all he could do, the next batter, "waiting it out," was rewarded for his patience by a pass. Within a few moments both these runners advanced on a long fly to the outfield, dropped by Stone after a hard run. Springer forced a laugh. "Can't expect to hold the kids dud-down with that sort of support," he cried. He did strike the following hitter out; and then came Hooker, who found a bender and straightened it for a sizzling two-bagger that sent in both runners. Springer longed to quit at this juncture, but, being ashamed to do so, he relaxed his efforts and pitched indifferently, permitting the two following scrubmen to hit the ball. It chanced, however, that neither of these fellows hit safely, both perishing in a desperate sprint for the initial sack. Rodney Grant, jogging in from the field, seated himself beside Springer on the bench. "You were a little out of form that inning, son," he said; "but you'll be all right next trip, I opine." Without replying, Springer got up and began pawing over the bats, as if searching among them for some special favorite. Hooker again pitched very well, indeed, but poor support gave the regulars a score, and they would have obtained more had not Roy risen to the occasion, with one down and the bases full, and struck two hitters out. Although Phil showed some improvement in the fourth inning, and the scrub team did not succeed in securing another tally, he felt all the while that his teammates were watching him closely and comparing or contrasting his work with that of Hooker; nor did he forget that in the first two innings Grant had performed more successfully. To the surprise of many, fumbles and bad throws behind Hooker in the fourth did not seem to discourage him, and he persisted in pitching as if the game was one of some importance and he had resolved to do his part, no matter what happened. The errors gave the regular team three runs and the lead, and it was Hooker's work alone that kept them from obtaining several more. In the fifth and last, Phil whipped the ball over spitefully, and only one batter hit it safely. Nevertheless, with the contest ended and the fellows trooping toward the gymnasium, he noticed that no one had any word of praise for him, while several expressed their surprise over the showing Hooker had made. Even Grant, whose friendly advance had been met with churlish spleen, commended Hooker. Phil felt as if the very ground was slipping from beneath his feet, and it made him sore and sick at heart. He paid little attention to the talk of the fellows while dressing, until of a sudden the words of Nelson caught his ear. "Of course, you fellows have heard all about that Clearport-Wyndham game? I had a talk to-day with a fellow who saw the whole of it. Cracky! Clearport did come near pulling it out of the fire--actually batted out a lead of one run in the first of the ninth. If Wyndham hadn't come back in her half and made two tallies, she'd been stung." "I hear," said Berlin Barker, "that Clearport pounded Wyndham's wonderful new twirler off the slab." "That's right," said Nelson. "They got at Newbert in the seventh and gave him fits. The score was eight to two in favor of Wyndham when the 'Porters began connecting with Newbert's twists, and they hammered in three earned runs before the shift was made. Twitt Crowell was sent in to save the day, but if he hadn't had luck, they'd kept right on. It was his backing that checked the stampede." "The Clearporters always have been heavy batters," said Eliot. "If they could play the rest of the game the way they bat, they'd be almost sure to win the championship." "The fellow we put up against them for Saturday will have to have his nerve with him," grinned Cooper. "If he weakens, they'll murder him." "Crowell got through the eighth all right," continued Nelson; "but in the first of the ninth the 'Porters found him and bingled out four runs. It looked as if they had the game tucked away; but Wyndham rose to the emergency in the last half and got two, which let them out with a victory." "If Clearport can play like that away from home," observed Sleuth Piper, "my deduction is that she will be a terror to beat on her own field." Springer, dressed, stowed his playing clothes in a locker and walked out of the gymnasium unnoticed. This was the first time he had heard the particulars concerning that game, although on Saturday the surprising information had been telephoned to Oakdale that Wyndham had been barely able to squeeze out a precarious victory on her own grounds. As Eliot had stated, the Clearporters were batters to be feared, and Phil was now in no condition to be unruffled by this menace to his prowess. Once more Springer sulked; not until Friday night did he again show himself for practice. Eliot, thoroughly disgusted, and realizing that it was the worst sort of policy to coax such a fellow, let him alone. He was given a chance to warm up and do a little pitching to the batters, but, following Eliot's example, no one tried to coddle him. "Everybody be on time for the train to-morrow," urged Roger, as they were dressing. "Trains won't wait for people who are late." But even when he went to bed that night Springer was undecided as to whether he would be on hand or not. Had he been urged, it is doubtful if he would have appeared; but, perceiving, in spite of his dudgeon, that he could gain nothing by remaining away, he arrived at the station just in time to board the train with his comrades. The day was disagreeable, rain threatening, and, deep in his heart, Springer hoped it would pour all the afternoon. The menacing storm holding off, however, at the appointed hour the two teams were on the field ready for the clash. Phil, still agitated by poorly hidden alarm, could not fail to observe the all too evident confidence of the Clearport players. The local crowd was likewise confident, something indicated by their encouragement of and cheering for their players. "If I'm batted out to-day it's my finish," thought the unhappy Oakdale pitcher. "Cheer up," said a Clearporter, trotting past him. "We won't do a thing to you. If you're sick and need some medicine, we'll hand you some of the same kind we gave Newbert and Crowell." "Aw, go on!" growled Phil. "You're nothing but a lot of wind-bags." While the locals were practicing Eliot called Grant and Springer aside, giving each a ball. "Warm up, both of you," he directed. "I'll catch you." So these rivals, who had only a short time before been friends, stood off at the proper distance and pitched alternately to Eliot. Grant was steady and serene, with good control and in command of some curves, of which the drop taught him by Springer led Roger to nod his head approvingly; seeing which, Phil, who had not been right to start with, grew very wild indeed. Practice over, the Clearport captain trotted up to Roger, saying: "We're all ready. We'll take the field. Let's get to playing before it begins raining." Phil sat down on the bench, throwing his sweater over his arm for protection. The umpire called, "Play," and Nelson, cheered by the little crowd from Oakdale, stepped out with his bat. The Oakdale captain found a place at Springer's side. "Phil," he said in a low tone, "I want you to be ready to go in any time. I've decided to start the game with Grant, but we may need you any moment." CHAPTER XVII. THE BOY ON THE BENCH. For a moment Phil was dazed; then a sudden feeling of relief flashed over him. He would not have to face those dangerous Clearport batters unless Grant should be knocked out, in which case, no matter what happened after he went in, all the blame could be thrust upon Rodney. But this feeling of satisfaction lasted only a few seconds; gradually resentment and wrath crowded it out, and he sat there eaten by the bitterest emotion. Not for a moment had he dreamed Eliot would think of starting the game with the Texan on the slab, for this day he, Phil, was to be given the opportunity to redeem himself. It was an outrage, an injustice of such magnitude that his soul flamed with wrath. What if Grant were to succeed in holding the Clearporters down? In that case, of course, Eliot would permit him to pitch the game through to the finish, leaving on the bench the lad who had expected to do the twirling. And that would mean further glory for the chap Springer had thoughtlessly coached for the position of second pitcher; would mean that, if he pitched at all in future games, Phil himself would be the second string man. Feeling that he could not contain himself, he was turning to Eliot when, to his amazement, he saw the fellows rising from the bench and starting toward the field; for while he had been thus bitterly absorbed the first three Oakdalers had faced Oakes, the Clearport pitcher, and not one of them had reached first base. Phil could scarcely believe it possible that the riotous condition of his mind had prevented him from realizing that the game was in progress, but such had been the case. And now, hot and cold by turns, he saw Rod Grant fling aside his brand-new crimson sweater and jog forth, smiling, to pit his skill and brains against the local sluggers. "I hate him!" hissed the miserable lad beneath his breath. "I hope they pound him to death right off the reel." A few moments later his heart gave a tremendous leap of joy, and he almost shouted with satisfaction when Boothby led off by smashing the first ball Grant handed up. It was a terrific long line drive to center field, but Stone took the ball on the run, and the Clearport sympathizers groaned and cried, "Hard luck!" "It _was_ hard luck for Boothby," muttered Springer. "If he'd placed that drive farther to the left it would have been good for three sus-sacks. It was a fearful slam. Oh, they'll hand it to Mr. Grant, all right!" The next batter, Long, likewise hit the ball, driving it buzzing along the ground, and again the crowd groaned; for Nelson made a hair-raising, one-hand, diving jab and got the sphere. He nearly sprawled at full length upon the ground in doing this, but finally regained his equilibrium in time to toss the ball to Crane for the second put-out. "Right fine work, Jack," praised Grant. "That was just about as fancy as anything I ever saw." "It was a fuf-fine thing for you, all right," whispered Springer to himself. "Robbed Long of a hit. Oh, they're going to hand you yours!" "You're playing ball to-day, fellows," smiled Eliot, readjusting the catching mask. "That's the stuff!" Barney Carney, Clearport's lively young Irishman, danced forth with a bat. "Just be after letting me put me shillaly against one of them," he chuckled. "Ye'll find it over in the woods yonder." After making three fouls, he hit the ball, hoisting it so high into the air that it seemed to dwindle to a quarter of its usual size. Cooper, coming into the diamond, gave no heed to the shouting of the crowd. "I'll take it!" he yelled, as the ball fell swiftly. And take it he did, freezing to the horsehide with a grip like grim death. "You're wearing horseshoes all over you to-day, Mr. Grant," growled the watching lad on the bench. "But there'll come a change; this can't keep up." It was impossible for him to wear a pleasant face as his teammates gathered about him, even though he tried, in a measure, to hide his chagrin. Silently he watched Stone lead off with a safety, and saw Eliot unhesitatingly sacrifice Ben to second. Nor did he move a muscle when Sile Crane slashed one into right field and Stone won the approval of his comrades and awakened the enthusiasm of the little crowd of Oakdale rooters by making a marvelous sprint over third and a slide to the plate that brought him to the rubber ahead of the ball. Oakes, taking a brace, disposed of Cooper and Piper in double-quick time; and the visitors were forced to remain content with a single tally in the second. Clearport again came to bat in a business-like manner, and in almost every detail the home team duplicated the performance of Oakdale. Butters, picking out a bender to his fancy, straightened it for a single. "Good bub-boy!" mumbled Springer. Stoker bunted, letting Butters down to second while he was being thrown out at first. Merwin got a Texas leaguer, on which Butters took a chance--foolishly, it seemed--and was saved by a wild throw to the pan that let him slide under the catcher. "Now, Mr. Grant is getting his mum-medicine," grinned Springer joyfully. But Grant, resorting to his wonderful drop, struck out both Ramsdell and Oakes. "That's the form, Grant!" approved Eliot; and Springer chewed his tongue with envy. The third inning gave neither side the advantage, but Grant seemed to be swinging into shape; for, of the four hitters to face him, he retired three with an ease that made them look foolish. Rain was now threatening any moment, and it seemed hardly probable that the downpour would hold off long enough for the game to be played through. "We must get into it as soon as we can, fellows," said Captain Eliot; "for if it does rain after the fifth inning, we should have the lead. Come on; take that pitcher's measure." Whether or not his words had an effect, they proceeded to go after Oakes in a manner that might have discouraged any pitcher. Eliot, himself, started it with a screaming two-bagger, scoring on Crane's single. Sile took second on the throw to the plate, and stole third a moment later, romping to the pan after Cooper's fly to the outfield was caught. With the sacks clean, Oakes' comrades were hopeful that he would check the enemy. It was not his fault that Piper reached first, as Hutt, at third, fumbled the grounder batted at him and followed this with a wretched throw. This seemed to put the home pitcher off his feet, for he passed Tuttle, to the great joy of the visitors. "Great Caesar!" muttered Springer. "If they get a big lead, Grant may pitch it through and win. Why doesn't Merwin take Oakes out?" But Oakes remained on the slab, and Nelson, seeking to drive the ball through an infield opening, batted straight at Carney, who winged the sphere across for a put-out. "Only one more," said Merwin encouragingly. "Get Barker, Oakesie." "If you don't get him, your goose is cooked--and mine, too!" whispered Springer. Barker stood second on the list because he was a good waiter, but could hit well if necessary, and was, perhaps, the best bunter and sacrifice batter Oakdale had. With two down, he surprised the Clearporters by dropping a soggy one in front of the pan and beating it to first. The corners were filled, and, "Here's Grant!" was the cry. Phil Springer's teeth chattered and his eyes almost glared as the Texan, with whom he had been on such friendly terms only a short time before, stepped out to face Oakes. "If he'll only strike out!" thought Phil. When Rod had swung at two balls, and missed both, it began to seem that he was destined to strike out. A few seconds later, however, he caught the ball fairly on the trade mark and drove it over the head of Carney, who made an amusingly ineffective leap for it. Three runners chased one another over the pan, and Grant arrived at third base before the ball was returned to the diamond. Springer was ill; at that moment, he thought, he would have given almost anything to be far from that field. It was all Grant, Grant, and never had he heard a more hateful sound than the shrill and frantic cheering of the small Oakdale crowd. "Keep it up! keep it going!" entreated Eliot, as Stone went to bat. Ben did his best, and he did pound out a long fly, but Boothby, in left, pulled it down after a hard run. "The game is as gug-good as settled," muttered Springer, when his elated teammates had galloped off to the field and left him alone. "Unless rain stops it, Oakdale is the winner." The Clearporters seemed to realize this, for they resorted to many obvious expedients to delay the game, casting imploring eyes toward the threatening heavens. The storm, however, perversely held off, and the locals found Grant too much for them in the last of the fourth. "We're five runs to the good, fellows," said Eliot, as the Oakdale players gathered at the bench. "It's going to rain soon, and this inning must be played through complete. Let every man who goes to bat now strike out." They followed instructions, Roger setting the example. Crane and Cooper made a pretense of trying to hit, but they did not even foul the ball. A few straggling drops of rain, falling in the last of the inning, encouraged Clearport to dally until Eliot demanded of the umpire that he compel them to play or give the game to Oakdale by forfeit, and at last Grant struck out the third man. While the boys were rejoicing in a victory they considered as positively assured, Phil Springer slipped away and left the field. CHAPTER XVIII. A LOST OPPORTUNITY. But the game was not to end there, for, although it continued to sprinkle slightly at intervals, not enough rain fell to lead the umpire into calling time. The playing continued, with both teams fighting hard and wasting no opportunities after the conclusion of the fifth inning. Unaware of this, Springer, who had noted that by hurrying he might possibly be able to catch the mid-afternoon train for the west, ran all the way to the hotel, where a room had been provided for the use of the visitors in changing their clothes, tore off his baseball suit, yanked on his regular garments, and arrived, panting, at the station just in time to swing onto the last car as the train was pulling out. By this foolish action Phil lost a golden opportunity to put himself "right" with his teammates. For in the eighth inning, with the score 7 to 2 in favor of the visitors, Clearport seemed at last to take Rodney Grant's measure, and, aided by errors on the part of Oakdale, they went after him with a fierceness that threatened to drive him off the slab. Eliot, becoming alarmed, looked round for Springer, desiring him to warm up and make ready. All along the Oakdale captain had supposed Phil to be somewhere near at hand, but now not a trace of him was to be discovered. Making an excuse to do something to the catching mask, Eliot ran to the bench and called Bunk Lander, who was watching the game from a position near by. "Lander," said Roger swiftly, as he fussed with the mask, "where is Springer? We need him--bad." "I gotter idea," said Bunk, "that he's skipped. Saw him go out through the gate in a mighty hurry at the end of the fifth." "Skipped!" muttered Roger, paying no heed to the demands of the Clearport crowd that he should play ball. "It can't be possible that he---- Say, Lander, find Roy Hooker, quick. Tell him I want him on the bench. If he's loyal to his school he'll come. I'll set him to warming up, anyhow." Bunk went searching for Hooker, and discovered him at the far end of the right-field bleachers, talking with Herbert Rackliff. "Hey, you, Hook!" called Lander. "Roge Eliot wants you to warm up, for it looks like they're going to knock Grant into a cocked hat. They got him goin' somethin' fierce. You gotter save this game for us--if you can." Hooker's face flushed and he caught his breath. Was it possible he was to have an opportunity to pitch in that game? Eagerly he started, but Rackliff's stained fingers gripped his coatsleeve. "Are you going to be an easy mark?" asked Herbert scornfully. "Are you going to let them run you in after a game is lost by another pitcher? Have you forgotten the sort of rotten, shabby treatment you've had to stand by this very bunch that wants to put you up for sacrifice now?" Roy hesitated. "Look here, you pale-faced, sneaky, cigarette-suckin' pup," rasped Bunk furiously, "you take your claws off his arm and let him alone, or I'll grasp the occasion to hand you the dose of medicine I come so nigh givin' ye at the game last Satterday. Mebbe he can save this game, and it's up to him to try, anyhow. I s'pose you've bet some more money ag'inst your own school team, and want to see it beat. Somebody's goin' to give you all that's coming some day pretty soon. Come on quick, Hook." Roy did not permit Herbert to detain him longer, but he heard and understood some words which were hastily whispered into his ear by the fellow as he was starting away. Meanwhile Grant had pulled himself together at last, despite the howling of the Clearport crowd, and, with the bases full and the enemy only one tally behind, he struck out two men, bringing the rally to an end. Rod's face wore an unusually serious expression as he walked to the bench, at one end of which Eliot stood unbuckling the body-protector. "That sure was a right rotten exhibition of pitching," said the Texan humbly. "Why didn't you yank me out, captain?" "Because," answered Roger, "there was no one else to put in." "Why, Phil----" "Has disappeared; can't find hide nor hair of him. I sent for Roy Hooker as a last resort and--here he is!" Roy came up, his face flushed. Eliot spoke to him quietly in a low tone: "Springer has deserted us," he said. "If I'd had you on the bench and ready, I'd surely sent you onto the firing line to relieve Grant. Get somebody to catch you and limber your arm up. I may let you finish the game." So Hooker peeled off and went at it warming up while Oakdale made a desperate but futile effort to gather some more tallies. While his players were striving to solve Oakes' delivery Captain Eliot had a brief talk with Grant. "You were not wholly to blame for that streak, Rod," said Roger. "Those two bad errors helped things along; they sort of got your goat. You ended strong by mowing down Butters and Stoker, and I think perhaps you can go back and finish it out." "But you sent for Hooker. He's warming up now." "I sent for Hooker as a last resort when you were performing at your worst. Just then I'd tried almost anybody in your place, hoping that the change might put an end to the slaughter; but now, unless you have lost your nerve----" Rodney gave Roger a resentful look. "I reckon I've still got my nerve with me," he said warmly. "Then I'm going to let you try to hold them. If they get another run the game will be tied, and two more runs gives them the victory. You've got to hold them right where they are." "I certain will do my level best to hold them." And so it happened that Hooker did not get the chance to pitch in that game, after all. Eliot explained to him that Grant was willing to try to pitch it through, but added that he should bench Rod instantly in case he betrayed any bad symptoms. The Texan, however, was cool as a cucumber and steady as a mountain, not even seeming to hear the howling of the crowd, which resumed its uproar in an effort to put him off his feet again. Captain Merwin was the first victim, retiring by the strike-out route; and then Ramsdell hit weakly on the ground, being thrown out long ere he could sprint to first; the game ending 7 to 6 in Oakdale's favor when Eliot pulled down a high foul from Oakes' bat. "I'm much obliged to you, Hooker, old chap," said Eliot cordially, after the cheering was over and the boys had started from the field. "It was fine and loyal of you to answer my call promptly, as you did; but as long as Rod still had his nerve I thought it best to let him try to finish it out. Come along with us. We've got to have two pitchers, and if Springer has taken a huff you'll likely get chances enough to do some twirling." Although disappointed because he had not been permitted to pitch in the final inning of the present game, the prospect of possible opportunities in the future cheered Hooker, and he marched from the field with the other players, feeling almost as if he was one of them. Roy was standing on the steps of the hotel, waiting for the boys to dress, when Herbert Rackliff approached at a languid saunter, smoking, as usual, and looking rather dejected and cast down. "I say, Hook," said Herbert, "lend me the price of a ticket back to Oakdale, will you. I've gone clean broke over here, thanks to the rotten luck. You know I told you at the field that I'd bet my last red on Clearport. Why didn't Eliot put you in to pitch? If he had, you could have saved my money for me without----" "Look here, Rack," interrupted Roy hotly, "if that's the kind of a chap you think I am you've got me sized up wrong. I know I gave you money once to bet against Oakdale, but I'd never throw a game for you or anybody else." "Oh, well," sneered Herbert, "it isn't likely you'll have a chance. I notice Eliot didn't let you pitch, after all. He doesn't take any stock in you. Now don't get hot with me, for we're friends. If I'd bought a return ticket I'd be all right, but----" "I'm going back on the train with the team," said Hooker. "Came over on my motorcycle. I'll let you have that. It will take you home all right." Rackliff looked still more weary. "I detest the thing," he said. "Come, old chap----" "I've got only money enough for my own fare," said Roy. "You'll find riding my motorcycle better than walking." "That's right," sighed Herbert resignedly. "I'll take it." CHAPTER XIX. POISON SPLEEN. Phil Springer returned to Oakdale in a wretched frame of mind. Barely had the train carried him out of Clearport before he began to regret his hasty action in running away, but it was then too late to turn back. "I suppose some of the fellows will think it rotten of me to sneak," he muttered, "but the game was practically over, and there was no reason why I shouldn't get back home as soon as I could. Why should I hang round just for the pleasure of making the return trip with the rest of the bub-bunch and being forced to listen to their praise of Rod Grant for his fine work! They'll slobber over him, all right. He's the star now, and I--I who taught him everything he knows about pitching--I am the second string man! I won't be that! I won't be anything! I'm done!" He was not a little surprised as he stepped off the train to find it was not raining, although the sky was still heavy and threatening, as if the downpour might come at any moment. "It certainly is coming down in Clearport, just the same. It had begun before I hiked. Hiked! I hate that word; Grant uses it. Clearport is nineteen miles away, and it frequently rains there when it doesn't here." He hurried over the bridge and up through the village toward his home. "Hi, there, Phil!" cried a voice as he was passing the postoffice, and a wondering looking youngster came running out. "What are you doing here--at this hour? Saw you start for Clearport with the team, and----" "Game's over," cut in Springer. "Rain sus-stopped it." "Rain? Why----" "Yes; it's raining over at the Port." "Rotten! How many innings----" "Five; just finished the fif-fifth when the clouds started to leak." "Oh, then it counts as a game," palpitated the interested boy. "How did the score stand? Who was ahead?" "Oakdale, six to one," answered Springer over his shoulder as he hurried on up the street. "Hooray!" came the elated shout of the rejoicing lad. "Then you trimmed 'em! Jinks! that's fine. But, say--say, who pitched?" Springer quickened his stride, seemingly deaf of a sudden. He had felt the question coming, and he had no heart to answer it. It would be asked by every fellow in Oakdale who had not attended the game, and, on learning the truth, they would join in one grand chorus of acclamation and praise for the Texan. For the time being Grant would be the king pin of the town. Reaching home, Phil slipped in quietly without being seen by his mother and tiptoed up to his room, where, in sour meditation, he spent the intervening time until supper was ready. In a vague way he realized that he had, by deserting the team, betrayed himself to all his comrades as a fellow swayed by petty jealousy; but this thought, which seemed trying to force itself humiliatingly upon him, he beat back and thrust aside, persisting in dwelling on the notion that he had been most shabbily treated by Captain Eliot. "He led me to believe he meant to give me a chance to-day, and then he let me warm the bench while Grant went out to win all the glory. It wasn't a square deal. I'll show him he can't treat me that way! I'll never pitch again as long as he is captain." This resolution, however, gave him anything but a feeling of satisfaction; it was poor retaliation, indeed, for him, who loved the game so dearly and had looked forward so confidently to this season when he would be the star pitcher of the nine, to "get square" with Eliot by refusing to play at all. It would have seemed somewhat better had he felt certain that his withdrawal must seriously cripple the nine, but, judging by recent events, it appeared that Oakdale could get along very well without him--might, indeed, succeed fully as well as it could with him on the team. Grant was to blame for it all. No, not Grant; he himself was to blame. Had he not been such a blind fool he might have foreseen what would happen, for had not Rodney Grant displayed beyond doubt since appearing in Oakdale the natural qualifications of mind and body which would make him a leader at anything he might undertake with unbridled vim and enthusiasm? The fellow who had been so completely misjudged by almost everyone during his early days at the academy, had demonstrated later that he was a thoroughbred, with nerve, brains, courage and the will to step into the front ranks wherever he might be. His one great fault, a fiery and unreasoning temper, he was fighting hard to master, and in this, as in other things, he had already shown that he was destined to succeed. "I was a Jack!" growled Phil, walking the floor of his room and savagely kicking an inoffensive chair out of his way. "I should have known. If I had taken Hooker in hand and coached him, instead of Grant---- But I never did like Roy very much, and somehow Rod Grant got on my sus-soft side." His mother, hearing him prowling around, called up the stairs and was somewhat surprised to find him home. At supper he tried to hide the disturbed state of his mind, but his father, who seldom took any interest at all in such matters unexpectedly attempted to joke him a bit. "Got beat to-day, I see," said Mr. Springer. "Did you up pretty bad, didn't they?" "How did you get that idea?" asked Phil evasively. "Oh, I can tell by the way you act. You're broke up, though you're making a bluff not to show it. Let's see, played Clearport, didn't ye? I s'pose they give you an awful hammering? Oakdale'll have to get another pitcher after this." "They didn't beat us; we won." "Whew! Is that a fact? Well, what's the matter with you, then? I thought by your looks that you'd been done up brown. What went wrong with the game, anyhow? Didn't you get good backing up?" "I didn't pitch." "So _that's_ it, eh? How did it happen? The way you've been blowing around the house every time you could get anybody to listen, I thought you were the whole thing in that particular department." Phil's cheeks burned and his hands shook nervously, although he fought hard to appear unconcerned and indifferent. In replying the slight impediment in his speech became more pronounced. "The gug-game only went fuf-five innings; it commenced to rur-rain then, so they didn't finish it out. You see I--I cuc-can't do all the pitching, and Eliot put in Grant for the first pup-part of this game." He was intensely annoyed because of his unusual halting and stammering over this explanation. "Humph! Rained, eh? That was odd; just began to rain here about half an hour ago." "It began to pour at Clearport right in the middle of the game," declared Phil. "I was just ready to relieve Grant, for he--he was sort of--sort of sus-showing signs of weakening. Eliot had sus-started me to warming up, but it--it began to rain, and that sus-settled it." His wounded pride, his wretched jealousy of Grant, had led him into the telling of an untruth, and he left the table feeling very contemptible indeed. Certainly it was not a malicious falsehood that was liable to do any one particular harm, but it was a falsehood just the same, and he was ashamed. His room was like a cage, and he found he could not read or study. What were they saying about the game in town? What were they saying about the pitching of Rodney Grant? Despite the rain, some of the fellows would gather after supper at the postoffice or Stickney's store to talk it over. This talk after a victorious game had ever held a keen delight for Phil, and it was rarely that he missed being on hand to take part in it. "I must get out!" he cried suddenly. "I'll just wander down street; maybe I'll meet some fellow who won't be all done up in Grant." Putting on an old raincoat and securing an umbrella, he left the house and started down the street. At the first corner he paused, for if he continued straight down Main Street he would have to pass Roger Eliot's home, and surely he had no desire by any chance to run upon Roger. A drizzling rain was falling, and twilight was coming on. Turning, he cut through Cedar Street and down Willow to avoid passing Urian Eliot's fine house. On his way he passed a house no less pretentious than that of the Eliots; it was the home of Lemuel Hayden, whose only son, Bernard, had been compelled to leave Oakdale because of his jealous efforts and lying and plotting to injure Ben Stone, whom he bitterly hated. The boys of the town had talked that matter over many times, and it was universally conceded that Bernard's unrestrained hatred of Stone and plotting for the boy's injury had led him at last into a pit of his own digging and brought upon him nothing more than just retribution. A strange and most unpleasant thought struck in upon Springer; in almost every particular, save a deliberate underhand effort to injure Grant, he was not a whit better than Bern Hayden, who now had not a single boy friend left in Oakdale. That thought staggered Phil a bit. Why, in a vague way he had contemplated seeking some surreptitious method of accomplishing the overthrow of Grant! "Oh, I guess I'm rotten!" he growled. "But it's dirty luck that's made me so!" CHAPTER XX. FELLOWS WHO MADE MISTAKES. Roy Hooker lived one block further down the street. The popping explosions of an approaching motorcycle greeted Phil's ears as he walked on, and up the street came a chap astride such a machine, the lamp of which had not yet been lighted. The motorcycle swerved into Hooker's yard and nearly ran Springer down. "Hey!" cried Phil, dodging. "What are you trying to do, Hooker?" But it was not Hooker who shut off the motor and tumbled off the machine as it slackened speed. It was Herbert Rackliff, soaked, mud-bespattered, limp and in a temper. "Why in the dickens don't you get out of a fellow's way?" snapped Herbert, supporting the machine and glaring round at Phil. He bore little resemblance to the usual dapper, immaculate, self-possessed young fellow from the city whose tailored clothes and swagger manners had aroused the envy and admiration of a number of country lads thereabouts. "Oh, is it you?" said Springer. "I thought it was Hooker. What are you doing out in this rain with his machine?" "Just getting back from Clearport," answered Herbert, with a sour laugh. "If I owned this old mess of junk I'd pay somebody to take it away. She stopped twice on me and skidded me into the ditch once. Came mighty near leaving her there and hoofing it." In truth, Rackliff was a sight, and Springer restrained a laugh with some difficulty as he observed: "It must have taken you a deuce of a while to get back on that thing, for the game was over by three o'clock." "Half past three," corrected Herbert, turning to trundle the motorcycle toward the carriage house, the door of which, seen through the twilight, was standing open. "I caught the three-twelve train from Clearport," said Phil, unconsciously starting to follow Rackliff. "Huh!" grunted the other. "Know you did, but you didn't wait to see the finish. If you had----" By this time Springer was at the speaker's side and had seized his mud-spattered, rain-soaked sleeve. "What are you talking about?" he cried. "Rain stopped the game right after the fifth. Saw I had barely time to get into my togs and catch that three-twelve, so I hustled." Rackliff started to laugh, but finished with a hollow cough. "Bet I've caught a rotten cold," he gasped. "The game went for the full nine innings. Didn't begin to rain until I was pretty near halfway home." Phil was struck dumb for the moment, and before he could recover Hooker, having heard their voices, came running out to the carriage house, calling to Rackliff. Springer followed the drenched and complaining city youth into the shelter of the building, where Roy recognized him and seemed to betray embarrassment. "Take your old machine," said Rackliff, "and I hope it may be my everlasting finish if I ever ride another rod on it. Look at me! I'm a complete wreck, and all because you were too blamed stingy to lend me the price of carfare from Clearport. This suit is ruined, and I'm soaked to the bone. You ought to use an axe on the thing next time it gets out of order, Hooker." "And these are the thanks I get for furnishing some means of transportation," said Roy resentfully. "Well, I don't know that I should expect anything else." Herbert, producing his cigarette case, gave a little half-muttered sigh of relief when he found that the contents of the case had escaped a wetting. "Gimme a match, one of you fellows," he coughed. "I'm just crazy for a smoke. This has been the rottenest day I've seen in a long time." Hooker, having seen that the motorcycle was placed on its rack, supplied the match, and Rackliff fired up, the light seeming to shine through his thin, cupped hands as he protected the blaze from the light draught that came in through the open door. He looked tired, and the first whiff or two set him coughing again. By this time Springer had recovered, and he ventured to ask: "What's this Rackliff tells me about the gug-game going nine innings? It began to rain in the fifth and, wishing to get home as soon as I could, I ducked when that was over. I didn't have an idea----" "It didn't rain any to speak of until long after the full game was over," said Hooker. "You should have stayed, Phil; they wanted you--bad--in the eighth. Eliot was simply tearing things up in his frenzy to find you." "Why--why, what happened?" faltered Springer, a sickening feeling stealing over him. "Tut-tell me what ha-happened, Roy." "The Porters got after Grant and bumped him to beat the band. Came within one tally of tying the score. If you'd been there Eliot would have shoved you in, and you'd had a chance to win all sorts of glory saving the game." "Perhaps he would, and perhaps he wouldn't," muttered Phil. "Oh, it's a dead sure thing he would have done it." "How do you know?" "Didn't I tell you he tried to find you! Why, he even sent for me; he was going to put me in." "You?" breathed Springer incredulously. "Yes, me; and I didn't have on a playing suit. If Grant hadn't managed to steady down at the last moment, I'd gone onto the slab. What made you skin out, Phil?" After a few moments of silence, Springer forced himself by a great effort to speak: "I tut-told you I thought the game was o-over." "You might have waited for the rest of the bunch. If you'd done that you'd known it wasn't over. The fellows are pretty sore on you, for they say you deserted." Phil flushed and flared. "Let them be sore, I don't care! I'm the one to be sore! I got a rotten deal to-day. I had every reason to suppose I was going to pitch that game, but Roger Eliot ran Grant in. I want him to understand he can't play that sort of fuf-funny business with me; I won't sus-stand for it. I'm glad they hammered Grant! Did they win?" "No; we pulled through by the skin of our teeth--seven to six. It was an awful snug rub. I believe I could have stopped the Porters if I'd got the chance; I'm dead sure you could. That's why I say you made a big mistake by scooting." Herbert Rackliff, smoking, laughed sneeringly. "Don't blame Springer a bit," he said. "He did get a rotten deal, and he has a right to resent it. What ails you, Hook; are you going to let Eliot softsoap round you? He'll do it if you'll let him, for he's got to have some sort of a scrub pitcher to fall back on for part of the work. Of course, this wild and woolly Texan will be the star and get all the glory, but somebody must do the dirty work. Hook, you're a lobster. I didn't think you'd fall for taffy like that. You give me a cramp." He coughed behind a thin hand as he finished, his flat chest torn and his stooping shoulders shaken by the effort. "Now that will about do for you!" blazed Roy, turning on his erstwhile chum. "I want you to know that, at least, I'm no traitor to my school team, and, though you hinted for me to favor you to-day, I'd done my level best to win for Oakdale if I'd ever got the chance." "You're a fool," returned Herbert coldly. "Springer is a fool, too. He made a chump of himself when he taught Grant to pitch. In this world the fellow who looks out for himself and lets others do the same for themselves is the one who gets along. You can bank on that every time. Think it over and see if I'm not right. Good night." With which expression of selfish wisdom, he turned up his coat collar, snapped aside his half-smoked cigarette and took his departure, leaving Phil and Roy staring at each other in uncomfortable silence. After a time Springer succeeded in forcing a laugh. "That's just about what you told me a few days ago, Hook," he said, "but I really didn't need anyone to point out that I had made a fool of myself. Sorry I didn't wait to make sure rain was going to stop the game to-day. What makes it worse, I told my folks a lie about that game. I'll feel cheap enough when they fuf-find out the truth. Guess I'll be going, too. So long, Hook." "Good night," said Roy. He stood at the open door and watched Phil's figure disappear into the gloom of the rainy night that was coming on. "Told your folks a lie, did you?" he muttered after a time. "Well, that wasn't half as bad as stealing from them, and I----" Without finishing the sentence, he closed the door of the carriage house. CHAPTER XXI. A PERSISTENT RASCAL. Nearly always it is false pride that spurs on the naturally decent fellow who realizes he has made a mistake and knows deep down in his heart that the course he is pursuing is wrong. Thus it was with Phil Springer. Time and again his conscience condemned him and his judgment bade him come forth like a man and own up to his error, but his pride would not let him yield. And so Phil found himself sulking at school, seeking to bear the atmosphere of one who had been treated outrageously, and growing more and more resentful and sullen as time passed and none of the fellows came around to coddle and coax him. He had felt certain that he would be approached by some of them, and repeatedly he had rehearsed the speeches by which he would let them know exactly how he felt about it, resolved carefully to avoid uttering a word which might convey the impression that he regarded himself as a single whit at fault. But no one--not even Cooper or Tuttle--approached him, and he began to believe that the time he had spent in constructing and committing those speeches of mingled defense and accusation had been wasted. He had once been deeply concerned in a plan by which Rodney Grant had been practically ostracized by the academy boys, and now, to his deepening rage, while Grant floated high on the wave of popularity, he found himself ignored. Phil was naturally a sociable fellow, and a very little of such treatment was sufficient to make him suffer keenly. Nevertheless he sought to hide the fact beneath a haughty and disdainful air, which was a course his disposition and temperament hardly qualified him to do. His sister, who had not attended the game at Clearport, was the first of his family to learn that he had fibbed about that game, and this she did not discover until the following Monday morning, when her chum, Lela Barker, told her everything. "Oh, Phil," Sadie had said when she found a chance to speak with him privately, "what made you tell father such a whopper about the game? Why, it wasn't stopped by rain at all, and they say you ran away right in the middle of it, and that Roger wanted you after that when they got to hitting Rodney, and that you couldn't be found anywhere, and that all the fellows are sore on you because you skipped out, and that----" "Oh, cut it!" interrupted Phil. "What do I cuc-care what they say! Let them talk their heads off." "But, Phil," persisted the girl, "what made you do it? You don't want to get everybody down on you, do you?" "They can get down on me or not, just as they pup-please!" he flung back. "I know when I get a rotten deal, and Roger Eliot, or Rod Grant, or anybody else can't wipe his feet on me more than once--that's all!" On Monday, when school was over for the day and the fellows hurried over to the gym to dress for practice, Phil walked stiffly out of the yard and turned his steps toward home. It is true that he longed and almost hoped to hear some one of those fellows calling after him, but not a soul seemed to observe which way he went, and resentful anger blazed yet more fiercely in his soul. Thus it was upon Tuesday night, when he observed that Roy Hooker was one of the fellows who hastened toward the gym, which was enough to convince him that Roy had practically been taken onto the team to do a portion of the pitching. When his sister again tried to talk with him about baseball that night he cut her off in such a snappy, savage manner that she was really frightened. The next night, however, he did not walk down the path to the gate in view of the scholars, so that they might take notice that he declined to accompany the baseball squad. Instead of that, he dodged back round the corner of the academy, crossed the yard at the rear, and took the footpath across the field to High Street. He was lonely and cast down and bitterly disappointed; for had he not sounded the professed friendship of his chums of yesterday and found it very shallow! Not one of them had shown the decency to give him a word of cheer; they were willing that he, who but a short time ago they were regarding as their star slabman, should slide back into shadows and forgetfulness, while a practical stranger from a distant part of the country filled his place. It was hard to believe of them, but he told himself he was glad to find out just what they were. Had Grant himself shown a further inclination to friendly advances Phil might have met him halfway, but the Texan had some pride of his own, and he was not the kind to seek continued rebuffs. Had he known that Springer was ready and yearning to yield, doubtless Rod would have lost not a minute in again putting forth the hand of friendship; but, being unaware of what was passing in Phil's heart, and feeling that already he had tried to do the right thing, the boy from the Lone Star State remained aloof with the others. Halfway across the field, as the path curved round some bushes, Springer came upon Herbert Rackliff, sitting on a stone, manicuring his nails with the file blade of a pearl-handled knife, a cigarette clinging to his moistened lower lip. "Hello," said Herbert, with no intonation of surprise, as he looked up. "How do you happen to be dodging across this way, Springer?" Phil was annoyed. He had never liked Rackliff. Still here was some one to whom he could talk, and desire to "chin" was strong upon him. He stopped. "This is a short cuc-cut for me," he explained. "What are you doing here?" "Trimming my nails a bit. Have to do my own manicuring down in this jumping-off place, and I never have time for it mornings; barely get to the old academy soon enough to escape the tardy record--sometimes I don't escape. Never knew you to come this way before, even if it is a short cut. In a hurry?" "Ye-yes--no, not exactly; but this was as good a way as any." "You don't seem to be practicing with the great Oakdale nine," said Herbert, bringing forth a fresh cigarette. "I'm surprised at that." "Are you? Well, you needn't be." In lighting the cigarette Rackliff was seized by a choking fit of coughing, which led him to wipe his eyes with a dainty silk handkerchief. "I knew I'd catch a beastly cold coming home through the rain the other night on that old lemon of Hooker's," he said when he could get his breath. "I hate a cough; it always seems to tear my lungs out. Next thing I know I'll be throwing one of 'em up." "You don't look well." "I have felt better. Never mind, I'll get over it; but, oh! you bet your life you'll never catch me on a motorcycle again. They are rotten dirty things anyhow; simply cover you with dust when they don't paste you with mud. Have a smoke?" "Don't care if I do," said Phil, accepting the proffered cigarette case and selecting one. "I don't make a practice of using the things, but I need something to cheer me up." Rackliff also supplied a match, and then motioned toward a near-by stone, urging Phil to sit down and make himself comfortable. "You haven't looked hilariously cheerful of late," said the city youth. "Sort of taken your downfall to heart, haven't you?" "My dud-downfall?" "Yes. Oh, you're down and out, all right, and you must realize it--you do, too. Your proficient pupil, Mr. Rodney Grant, has tumbled you off the pedestal and taken your place." "I wish you wouldn't tut-talk about him!" cried Phil. Herbert shrugged his narrow shoulders and smiled. "You don't like him any better than I do, that's plain. You thought you liked him once, but you've found him out. He's a conceited pup. Strange how everybody seems to fall for him, even Lela Barker. Now she's just about the nicest little clipper around these parts, but she's got country ideas, and she can't see the difference between a gentleman and a common cowpuncher--which latter Grant is, and mighty common, at that. Your sister is Lela's chum; I should think you might get your sister to open Miss Barker's eyes to that fellow. Couldn't you show him up somehow and fix it so your sister would put Lela wise to him?" "If I could, I wouldn't take all that trouble," replied Phil, who had seated himself and was puffing at the cigarette in a way that threatened to demolish it in short order. "He isn't worth it." "Perhaps not, but I should think you'd want to get back at him after the turn he's done you. I never saw anything dirtier--never. After you coached him he simply wormed his way into Eliot's favor and crowded you out as soon as he could. He's got everybody saying that he's a better pitcher than you ever were or ever could be. You bet he doesn't miss a chance to sneer about you behind your back; that's him. I'm glad you've shown spirit enough to resent it, and not to go crawling around after him or any of the rest of that bunch." "You'll never see me cuc-crawling after anybody!" cried Springer fiercely; "and Grant better keep a decent tut-tongue in his head! He needn't think because he happens to have an ugly temper and belongs to a fighting family that everybody is afraid of him. I can stand a lot, but there's a limit." Herbert turned his head away for a moment to conceal the gleam of satisfaction that sprang into his eyes, coughing behind his hand. "You're made of different stuff from that soft slob Hooker," he said. "I did think that Hook had some sand and spirit, but I've changed my mind; he has just about as much backbone as a jellyfish. He can talk and blow, but it's all wind. You're a fellow with genuine spirit and pride; nobody wipes his feet on you." "Not if I know it," growled Phil, flattered by the words of the crafty fellow. "Of course not; and that's the way to be. It's only the marks who let themselves be used for footmats; Hooker's a mark. They'll use him, all right. He'll do the dirty work they would have given you if you'd let them, while Grant will get all the glory." Springer laughed. "Perhaps he won't get as much glory as he expects. Clearport came near batting him out. Wait until he goes against Wyndham next Saturday." "Now you're talking!" exclaimed Rackliff with enthusiasm. "There will be something coming to him then. I fancy it may be possible that you would enjoy seeing Wyndham beat Oakdale?" "Shu-surest thing you know," answered Phil, who had been cleverly led into making such a confession. "I hope Wyndham eats them up alive!" "Your desire will be gratified. Wyndham will make monkeys of them." "You're confident." "Dead sure." "I don't just see how you can be." "I suppose you've heard how Wyndham actually buried Barville last Saturday. The score was seventeen to three--something awful." "But Clearport came mum-mighty near beating Wyndham the week before." Herbert winked wisely. "Maybe they did, and maybe they didn't," he said. "Oh, but they did! They batted Wyndham's new pitcher, Newbert, off the slab." At this Rackliff laughed. "Tell it to the marines. I happen to know Dade Newbert; we were chums. I own up I was surprised when I heard how the Porters had biffed him. Wrote him asking about it. He'd been out the night before the game--out with a hot bunch playing poker till daylight. He didn't want to pitch anyhow, but the captain just shoved him in; so when he got tired and Wyndham seemed to have a safe lead, he just lobbed the ball over and let Clearport hit. Of course he was taken out, and that gave him a chance to look on while Twitt Crowell did the heavy work." "If that's right," said Phil, "Newbert can't be trusted. Why, he might have thrown the game away." "Oh, he reckoned Crowell was good enough for the Porters, that's all. The result proved his judgment correct." "Still a fellow who'll tut-take such chances is liable to do anything. He cuc-can't have any real loyal interest in his team. If he took a notion, he'd throw a game." "You must remember," reminded Rackliff, "that Newbert doesn't belong in Wyndham, and it really doesn't make any great difference to him whether that team wins or not. Of course, if he's pitching, ordinarily he'll do as well as he can on his own account. And let me tell you, Spring, old fel, he's a lulu; there's nothing down in this neck of the woods that can pitch with him. I'm betting that he makes the Oakdale batters look like monkeys." "You haven't had very good lul-luck betting, have you?" "Might have done better," admitted Herbert, shrugging. "I'll even it all up next Saturday, though, if these pikers around here have sand enough to give me another show." "Perhaps you will, and, then again, perhaps----" "I'll bet you five or ten, even money, that Wyndham wins." "Thought you went bub-broke last Saturday." "I'll have some more money by to-morrow." "Well, I don't want to bet. I hope Wyndham does win. It will make me happy." "Then you'll be happy, all right, Bo." "Looks like the fight for the championship will be between Wyndham and Oakdale. If Wyndham takes the first game from Oakdale, the chances for this town will be mum-mighty slim." Herbert rose to his feet. "Oakdale hasn't one chance in a hundred to win next Saturday," he declared in a manner which seemed to denote that he positively believed what he was saying. "It's dead lucky for you, old man, that you're not going to pitch. Your dear friend Grant is enjoying great popularity just at present, but even the dummys will realize that he's a fourth-rater after they see him pitch against Newbert. Dade knows what I want him to do, and for old times sake he'll do his prettiest. And, by the way, if you want to coin some easy money, just find a sucker who is ready to back Oakdale for a little bet." CHAPTER XXII. SELF-RESTRAINT OR COWARDICE. Rackliff had succeeded in doubling Springer's hatred for Rodney Grant. So the fellow Phil had befriended and taught to pitch was sneering about him behind his back! And everybody was saying that Grant was already a better pitcher than his instructor ever could hope to become! Springer wondered how it was possible that, even for a moment, he had ever taken a fancy to such a chap. "He'd better not say too much about me," Phil growled to himself. "I know he is a fighter. I know he has a fearful temper. But he'll find out I'm not afraid of him." That very night Lela Barker, coming to the post office to mail some letters, was followed and annoyed by Rackliff when she started to return home. Herbert persisted in forcing his unwelcome company upon her until, catching sight of a familiar figure passing on the opposite side of the street, she called for assistance. Rodney Grant came running across, giving Rackliff a look, cap in hand, as he inquired the cause of the girl's alarm. "Oh, Rod," she said, "I do wish you would walk home with me. This--this fellow has persisted in following me and forcing his company upon me." "The onery, conceited, unmannerly cad!" exploded the Texan, evidently itching to put hands on Herbert, who bluffed the situation through with insolent effrontery, laughing as he lighted a cigarette. "What he needs is a good thrashing, and, if he wasn't a sickly, insignificant creature, it would give me a right good heap of satisfaction to hand him one." "Bah!" said Herbert. "You're a big blowhard, that's all. It betrays lamentably poor taste on Miss Barker's part to prefer the company of a lout like you to that of a gentleman." It was lucky for Rackliff that Lela was there and her hand fell on the arm of the boy from Texas, for otherwise Rodney might have forgotten himself. Fearing his lack of self-restraint, the girl urged him away, and they left Herbert leaning against a tree and still laughing, his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Half an hour later Grant, having returned, was talking baseball with several fellows who had gathered in a group near Stickney's store, when Rackliff sauntered up. "Just a word with you, Mr. Cowpuncher," said Herbert in a loud voice. "You applied several objectionable adjectives to me a while ago, and now I want to tell you just what I think about you. You're nothing but a common, low-bred, swaggering bluffer, as the blind dubs around here are due to find out. You think you're a baseball pitcher. Excuse me while I laugh in my sleeve. You're the biggest case of egotistical jackassism it has ever been my luck to encounter. Next Saturday, when you get up against a real pitcher who can pitch, you'll look cheaper than thirty cents." Grant surveyed the speaker with mingled amusement and disdain. "Have you got that dose of bile out of your system?" he asked. "If it's all over, go lie down somewhere and forget yourself. That will be a relief. Being ashamed all the time sure must get tiresome." Herbert lost his head at once. "You're a duffer and a bluffer!" he shouted shrilly. "How any decent, refined girl can have anything to do with you I can't imagine. It just shows that Lela Barker is----" He got no further, for, brushing one of the fellows aside, Grant caught the speaker by the throat and stopped him. His face dark, the Texan shook Rackliff until his teeth rattled. "Shoot your mouth off about me as much as you please, you miserable sneak," he grated; "but don't you dare ring in the name of any decent girl unless you are thirsting to get the worst walloping of your life!" Rod's eyes blazed and he was truly terrible. Once before the boys had seen him look like that, and then they had realized for the first time that it was the young Texan's uncontrollable temper that he feared and which had made him, by persistent efforts to avoid personal encounters, appear like a coward. There was not a cowardly drop of blood in Grant's body, but experience and the record of his fighting father had taught him to fear himself. Even now the fact that he let himself go sufficiently to lay hands on Rackliff seemed to spur him on, and, still shaking the limp and helpless fellow, he maintained his hold on the city youth's neck until Herbert's eyes began to bulge and his face grew purple. Suddenly another lad pushed his way through the circle and seized Grant by the shoulders: "Lul-let up on that!" he cried, his voice vibrant with excitement. "What are you trying to do, choke the lul-life out of a fellow that you know isn't any match for you? If you want to ch-choke somebody, let him alone and take me." It was Phil Springer. His head jerked round toward his shoulder, Rodney Grant looked into the eyes of his friend of a short time past, and suddenly he released his hold on Rackliff, who, gasping and ready to topple over, was supported by one of the other boys. "If you want to choke somebody, take me!" repeated Phil savagely. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Grant took a long breath. "That's right, Springer," he admitted, "I reckon I ought. I allow I clean forgot myself." Somehow this quiet admission, which was wholly unexpected, seemed to enrage Phil still more. "I suppose you think everybub-body around here is afraid of you now that they've found out your father was a genuine bad man," Springer sneered. "Well, you'll discover there's one person who isn't afraid. I'll fight you." To the amazement of all present, the boy from Texas shook his head, something like a conciliatory smile appearing on his face. "You won't fight _me_, Phil," he retorted, "for I won't fight." Phil himself could not understand why this refusal simply added fuel to the flame of his wrath. He felt himself a-quiver with the intensity of his emotions, and, seeing Grant so calm and self-possessed, he was obsessed by a yearning to strike him in the face. "Oh, so you won't fight, eh? Why not?" "We have been friends." "We have been, but aren't any more, and we never will be again; for I've found out just what sort of a fellow you are. You think yourself a better pitcher than I am or ever can be, do you? Oh, I've heard what you've been blowing around here about me, and you needn't deny it. You've had some luck in one or two games, but you're due to get your bumps. If you've got any fuf-further talk to make about me, come and make it before my face. It's a sneak who goes round shooting off his mouth behind another fellow's back--and that's what you are, Rod Grant!" "Now there'll be something doing, sure!" breathed Chipper Cooper, agitated by great expectations. Still, to the increasing wonderment of the boys, Grant held himself in hand. "I couldn't take that off you, Phil," he said, a bit huskily, "if we hadn't been friends and I didn't realize that you sure would never say it in your right mind. I'm right sorry----" "Oh, yes," scoffed Phil derisively, "you're sus-sorry you can't work me for a chump any more. You know what I think of you, and if you've got any real sand you'll pick it up. All I ask is a square show, and I'll give you the scrap of your life. You can't frighten me with your savage looks, and I've got my bub-blinkers on you so you can't catch me off my guard and hit me. That's the way you've won your reputation as a fuf-fighter around these parts. You've never faced anybody in a sus-square stand-up scrap, but you've grabbed and ch-choked fellows like Bunk Lander and Herbert Rackliff when they weren't expecting it. I know a little something about handling my dukes, and I'll bet I can lick you in less than tut-ten minutes." "Perhaps you can," said Grant. "Gee whiz!" spluttered Chipper Cooper. "What do you know about that, fellows?" It was true that Grant had never engaged in a real fist fight since coming to Oakdale, but he had once stretched an enemy prone and stiff with a single sudden blow, and since the brave part he had played in rescuing Lela Barker from drowning Phil was the first to question his courage. Herbert Rackliff, having recovered his breath and found sufficient strength to stand without assistance, was looking on and listening in the greatest satisfaction. "Soak him, Phil!" he whispered faintly. "Go for him!" "Perhaps you're right," said Grant again, as Springer surveyed him with marked contempt. "Anyhow, I certain am not going to fight you." Springer seemed genuinely disappointed. "I have a mind to punch you," he declared. "Perhaps you'd brace up then and show a little manhood." Rod retreated a step, which added to the impression that he was afraid. "You'll be sorry some time, old chap," he said, "just as I would be if I permitted you to lead me into a wretched fight. You don't understand----" "Oh, yes I do; I understand everything. I've gug-got you sized up for just what you are, a big case of bluff. I've cuc-called you, and your show-down is mighty rotten. Bah! If the fellows around here want to think you the whole shooting match after this, they're welcome to do so. But in order to keep your reputation as a dangerous character you'll have to do something besides jump on fellows like Rackliff and Lander." Disdainfully he turned his back on Grant. "You chaps can sus-see just what sort of a creature your fine hero is," he said. "Now hang around him as much as you like, and worship him. You all make me sick!" He walked away, followed hastily by Rackliff. At the corner above the square Herbert overtook Phil, who seemed surprised as he came up. "Oh, say," chuckled the city youth, "you did bore it into him fine! And he didn't dare put a hand on you, either. That was queer, for, my word! he's strong as Sandow. He handled me as easy as if I wasn't out of knickerbockers." "Paugh!" said Phil. "Anybody could do that. You've sus-sucked cigarettes until you haven't as much strength as a sick kitten." "Oh, I don't know about that," retorted Rackliff resentfully. "I guess I'm about as strong as the average fellow; but I tell you he's a holy terror--a perfect Hercules. I thought every minute he'd open on you. I don't see why he didn't, for you rubbed it in to the limit." "He didn't dare, that's the reason why," declared Springer. "I've got him sized up now; he's the kind that strikes when the other chap isn't lul-looking." "I guess you're right. I called him a bluffer, too. It was first rate of you to step in and take my part." "I didn't do it on your account." "No?" "Not at all. I was itching for an excuse to get at him, and you provided one, that's all." Herbert was somewhat taken aback by this frank confession. "Well," he said slowly, "anyhow, you showed him up to that bunch of lickspittles. They were surprised." "I fuf-fancy so. This whole town has got the notion that Rod Grant is simply it. They thought he would fight at the drop of the hat." "What would you have done if he'd taken you up?" "Whipped him," answered Phil confidently. "I've taken boxing lessons. What does he know about scientific fighting? I had made up my mum-mind to take care that it was a regular fight by rounds, with seconds and a referee to see fair play. I'd certainly fixed him that way, all right." Still, to his annoyance, Rackliff seemed doubtful. "Perhaps you would, but if he'd ever got in one wallop----" "Oh, you make me tut-tired!" exclaimed Springer. "Well, even if you didn't butt in on my account, I'm much obliged, just the same. You're all right, Spring, old fel, and if I can do you a good turn I will. Perhaps I'll have the chance. Gee! I want a whiff. Have a smoke?" "No," declined Phil. "I'm going home. Good night." He left Herbert there, lighting a cigarette and coughing hollowly. CHAPTER XXIII. HOOKER BREAKS WITH RACKLIFF. Passing Hooker's home on his way down into the village Thursday evening, Rackliff saw a light in the carriage house, which led him to fancy he might find Roy there. In this he was not mistaken; Hooker was puttering over his motorcycle by the light of a lantern. Hearing a footstep on the gravel outside, he looked up and perceived the visitor entering by the open door. "Hello," said Herbert. "Hello," grunted Hooker, without any effort at cordiality or welcome. "Tinkering with that old thing again, I see," coughed Rackliff. "Thanks to you, I am." "Thanks to me?" "Yes; it has been out of order ever since you used it last. Baseball practice doesn't give me much time to work on it by daylight, and so I'm trying to get her running now." "Take my advice and pay somebody to remove the thing. It's the biggest old lemon I ever saw. All it's worth is its price as junk. Gee! I'm feeling rotten." He sat down on a box, coughing again. Indeed Herbert did not look well, and there seemed to be something of an alarming nature in the sound of his cough. His thin cheeks were flushed and feverish. "You don't have to worry yourself about it," returned Roy warmly. "It's mine, and I presume I can do anything I please with it." "Awful touchy to-night," muttered Rackliff. He lighted a cigarette, but the first whiff threw him into a most distressing fit of coughing and he flung it out through the open door. "Can't seem to get anything out of a smoke," he complained. "Cigarettes don't taste good, and they raise the merry dickens with this old cough of mine. I've got a beastly headache, and I suppose I ought to be in bed, but I've got to go down to the postoffice. Expect a letter from Newbert to-night." "So you're corresponding with him, are you?" said Roy, wiping his greasy hands on some cotton waste. "Sure. Why not? We were chums, you know." "And of course you still think him the greatest pitcher that ever happened?" "He's just about the greatest in his class; you'll find that out Saturday. Watch how he shows Cowboy Grant up. Say, Springer rather showed that fellow up, too, didn't he?" "How do you mean?" "You know; the way he made him pull his horns and take water." "Who says Phil Springer made Rod Grant take water?" "I do. I was there and saw it. Your Texan hasn't got any nerve. He's the biggest case of fake to be found in seven States. He's strong, I'm not denying that; but when he saw that Springer really meant business he didn't dare do a thing." "I've heard the fellows talking about it," said Hooker, "but I don't believe Grant was afraid of Phil Springer. A fellow who would take the chances he did to save Lela Barker from drowning couldn't be frightened by Springer." "I've heard about that, too, and, as near as I can make out, Grant took those chances because he had to." "Had to? Why----" "He had to after he got caught by the current and carried over the dam with the girl. There couldn't be any backing out then. I'll bet he never would have jumped into the water at all if he'd stopped a moment to consider the danger. According to the story I've heard, it was really that big lout, Bunk Lander, who did the great act of heroism and saved both Grant and the Barker girl; but of course Grant got most of the credit. Anyway, I know that some fellows have lost a bit of their confidence in the cowpuncher since Springer faced him down; they're due to get the rest of it shaken out before the game ends Saturday." "I suppose you're mighty confident again that Oakdale will get beaten?" "It's a certainty this time, Hook. Let me give you a little tip. You lost some money on that game with Barville, and this is the chance to win it back. Bet on Wyndham Saturday and you'll even up your mistake before." "My mistake! It wasn't my mistake; it was yours. Besides, you didn't keep your word about making good any loss I might suffer. You put me in a nasty hole, Rackliff." "I don't see why. To hear you talk, anybody might think you were ruined instead of merely getting hit for less than a fiver. Never knew a fellow to put up such a squeal over a little money." Hooker's cheeks were flushed and he faced Herbert, his undershot jaw seeming to project still further than usual. "I lost more than that," he said. "What? You did? Why, you only gave me four dollars and----" "I lost something more than money." "You didn't tell me about it." "I haven't told anyone--but my mother. I had to tell her the other day. When you wanted me to bet on that game I told you I didn't have any money." "Yes." "But I knew where my mother had some money put away in a drawer--some money she had been saving up a little at a time to buy the material for a new dress. I went into that drawer and took that money. You were so positive that I could not lose that I--well, I stole the money." "Dear me!" said Herbert, grinning and coughing behind his thin hand. "What did the old girl say when she found it out?" "She never suspected me," said Roy. "She couldn't think I would do such a thing. And I--I lied about it. When she discovered the money was gone and became distressed over its loss, I lied." "You would have been a fool if you'd owned up." "I was a fool to touch a cent of that money, in the first place. I was a fool to listen to your blarney, Rackliff. Just because I was idiot enough to believe in you, I made myself a thief and a liar. Oh, I've been punished for it, all right. Never knew I had a conscience that could make me squirm so much. Some nights I slept mighty mean." "Paugh! You make me laugh. It wasn't anything to take a few paltry dollars like that. You're mother'll never know." "She knows now." "What?" "I told her." "You did?" "Sure." "Well, you are a big chump! What made you do that?" "I had to. You can't understand how rotten I felt when I saw her crying over the loss of that money. I was ashamed and sick--oh, sick as a dog! I made up my mind I'd pay it back, every cent." "And so you can if you'll just get hold of another fiver and bet it on Wyndham." "I've paid it back already, all but fifty cents. Why do you think I stayed out of school to work at any old job I could get? I'm not particularly stuck on work, but I couldn't go on feeling that I was a thief--that I had stolen from my own mother. That's what you brought me to, Rackliff." Herbert sneered. "That's right, blame it all on me and let yourself out entirely. Now let me tell you something, my bucko: it was your over-weening conceit, your jealousy of Springer and Grant, your itching desire to see them get their bumps, that led you, as much as anything else, to bet against Oakdale in that first game. You were sore on Eliot, too, because he didn't put you in to pitch--and you couldn't pitch a little bit. When I bet against Oakdale, I did so on judgment; you did so because of prejudice and spite. Now, don't put on any virtuous frills with me, for I'm not feeling good to-day, and you make me tired." The insolence of the fellow infuriated Hooker, who, nevertheless, knew there was no little truth in what he had been told. Restraining himself with an effort, Roy attempted to retort sarcastically. "So you bet on _judgment_, did you? Well, you must confess your judgment was mighty poor. And, to make the thing safe, you made arrangements to betray Oakdale's pitching signals to Barville. _I_ didn't know anything about that--until after the game. If I had known in advance----" "Now what would you have done?" asked Herbert, snapping his fingers. "If you had found out about that after your money was wagered on Barville, I presume you would have warned your dear friend Eliot and sacrificed everything! I've noticed that you have kept mighty still about it since you did find out." "Yes, I've kept still, because you failed in your crooked scheme, and because--well, because I wasn't anxious to have it known that I bet the way I did, and I knew you'd retaliate by peaching on me if I breathed a word concerning you." Herbert laughed and coughed at the same time. "Just so. Wise boy. I certainly should have done just that. Let me tell you now that things will be fixed doubly solid for the game next Saturday, and----" "Look here," cried Roy, facing the visitor threateningly, "if you attempt to repeat that trick in Wyndham I'll expose you sure as shooting. I mean it. You can't frighten me. You can tell that I bet against my own team if you want to, but----" "I presume you're perfectly willing that I should tell how you came by the money? Oh, I guess you'd keep still even if I tried the same trick over again." "I wouldn't. Try it and see! I've paid the money back, and you can't keep me still that way. I'm pitching on the team now, and I want to see it win." "Too bad you're going to be so keenly disappointed. You won't do any pitching against Wyndham, that's a cinch. Eliot has been forced to take you up as a makeshift since losing Springer, but you'll be used only in the minor games. Grant will do all the heavy work in the big games, and get all the glory. The first time I heard you talk, Hook, I thought you had some real spirit; but I've found out that you're just a common weak-kneed, aspiring sycophant, ready to feed on crumbs and lick the hand that flings them to you." "I've heard about enough from you!" snarled Hooker. "I think you'd better get. I don't want to put my hands on you, but I shall if you stay any longer and shoot off your face. I think you and I will call it quits, Rackliff; I want no further dealings with you. And let me tell you before you go that if I find out you're up to any of your tricks Saturday I'll put the fellows wise. You can't frighten me into keeping still." Herbert rose and walked to the door. "You poor, fawning dub!" he said. "You'll be blacking Eliot's boots next. I'm glad to be done with you. But don't forget what I said, it's fixed so Wyndham's dead sure to win Saturday. I'm going to bet every cent I can raise on it." "Well, I'm glad I'm done with him!" muttered Roy, closing the door as Herbert went coughing down the gravel drive. CHAPTER XXIV. ONCE MORE. Rackliff turned through Lake Street toward the square in the center of the village, muttering to himself about Hooker, whom he now thoroughly despised as a "soft thing" and a "quitter." As he approached the Town Hall a low whistle like a signal reached his ears, and he saw a dark figure standing in the shadows near one corner of the building. "It must be Springer," said Herbert. "Now we'll find out if he has any sand or is a quitter, too." It was Springer, who spoke in a low tone as Herbert turned and drew near. "I thought it just as well for us not to meet where we would be seen," said Phil, "so I watched for you here, being pretty sure you'd come this way. There's a bub-bunch of the fellows down at Stickney's." "Good!" returned Herbert. "I hope they've got their mazuma with them, for I've got my cash at last, and I'm on the warpath. It'll be just like finding money for me if they'll only give me a chance at them." "You're just as confident as ever that Wyndham will win?" "My boy, I tell you it's a cold cinch; it's fixed so that Wyndham can't lose." "What do you mean by 'fixed'?" Rackliff hesitated; recalling his late interview with Hooker, he decided that it would be unwise to tell Springer too much. "Never you mind what I mean, old sport," he returned. "Leave it to me. I wasn't born yesterday. What these Joshuas around here have won off me already will serve nicely as bait. I'm bound to get them this time, and, as we're friends, I'm letting you in on the deal. After the rotten way you've been treated, it should make you feel well to get the chance. I'll place your loose coin on Wyndham, and not a soul need know about it until you're ready for him to know. Perhaps by and by, when this old baseball team is all to the punk, you'll feel like coming out openly and informing them that you've added to your bank account by betting against them; but, if you don't happen to feel that way, you can keep still and enjoy the fruits of your cleverness--which should be some satisfaction for the raw deal that's been handed out to you." The fellow's words and manner were suave and seductive, and, if Phil had wavered, he now put his hesitation aside. "Oh, I'm ready to take a ch-chance," he declared. "I want to see them done up, and I'm not at all averse to winning some money through their defeat. Wyndham has always had rather the better team at baseball or football, and I see no reason to believe she won't have this year." "And every reason for believing she will have, considering the fact that a dandy like Dade Newbert is going to pitch for her. Wait till you see him in action; it will open your eyes. How much money have you got?" Springer moved until the light of the street lamp in front of the postoffice over the way shone upon him, plunging his hand into his pocket and bringing up a lot of silver. "Here's five dollars in ten-cent pieces," he said; "and I've got two dollars besides." "Seven plunks, all told. But say, I hope you didn't get this chicken feed the way Hooker got his that he let me have to bet on the Barville game." "Eh? How did he get it?" "Stole it; swiped it off his own mother. What do you know about that, Bo?" "Stole it!" cried Phil. "Well, you nun-needn't think I got mine that way! I'm no thief!" "I should hope not. I'm not eager to chum with a fellow of that sort, and I've cut Hooker out; told him what I thought of him and quit him for good. He's too cheap for me." Herbert coughed behind his hand, his air one of great virtue and uprightness. "These dimes came from my ten-cent bank," explained Springer. "I've been saving them one at a tut-time as I could spare them, and I had it pretty near full. When I mum-made up my mind to bet--or let you bet for me--I got enough to fill the bank and break it open; and that's why there are so many of them. Here they are; you can count them if you want to. And here's two dollars more." Rackliff accepted the money and pocketed it "Don't suppose you want a receipt?" he asked, laughing. "Nun-no," faltered Phil, suddenly realizing that Herbert could deny the whole transaction if he saw fit to do so, and that there would be no way of proving it had ever taken place. In spite of the fact that circumstances and mutual sympathies had led him into taking up with the city boy, he did not feel that a fellow of Herbert's stamp was wholly to be trusted. "Nun-no," mocked Rackliff with an intonation of resentment. "I swear that was weak! I believe you are shaky. If so you'd better take your money back--quick." "No, no," objected Springer. "It's all right. It was ju-just my rotten stammering, that's all. I wish I could break myself of it." But suddenly Herbert grew very dignified. "We'll do this thing in a business-like way," he declared. "You don't know much about me, and a really square chap never gets haughty when he's asked to give some proof of his squareness. Just come over under the lamp." Protesting, Phil followed; and the city boy, heedless of those protests, brought forth a pocket-notebook and pencil, scribbled an acknowledgement of the money on a leaf of the book, dashed his name at the bottom, tore the leaf out and handed it over. "I insist," he said. "Now everything's all right. This is a wicked world, and every fellow who's dead wise has a right to take precautions. You say there's a bunch down by Stickney's, eh? Well, I think I'll meander down that way and see if I can't prod them into making a few wagers. Good night, old fel; sleep tight and don't worry about the chink you've let me handle. It will be an investment that'll pay a hundred per cent. in double-quick time." It was a delightfully warm spring night, and there on the platform of Stickney's store, where the softened light from within shone upon them through a huge window, the boys had gathered. They were chatting, jesting, chaffing one another, and occasionally playing pranks, which once or twice started a squabble. As Rackliff sauntered up Chub Tuttle was complaining that nearly a pint of peanuts had been stolen from his pocket. "Why don't you put Sleuth onter the case?" laughingly drawled Sile Crane. "He'll ketch the thief, for he's sartainly got Sherlock Holmes beat to a frazzle." "My deduction is," said Piper, loudly shuffling his feet to drown the noise as he stealthily cracked a peanut, "that there are scoundrels in our very midst who would feel no compunction in swiping plugged money from a contribution box. Doubtless," he continued, deftly snapping the shelled kernels into his mouth, "the hands of those scoundrels are even now at work." "Sleuthy's right," said Chipper Cooper, swiftly stowing away a handful of the peanuts which he had skillfully removed from Piper's coat pocket while the latter was speaking; "there are villyuns among us. Anyhow, there's liable to be one in a minute, unless we move." Apparently this concluding remark was caused by the appearance of Rackliff, who came strolling into the light of the window and paused. Herbert looked them over. "Several prominent members of the great Oakdale baseball team, I observe," he said. "Been talking of the coming game, I presume." [Illustration: "Several prominent members of the great Oakdale baseball team, I observe," said Rackliff.] "You're presuming, as usual," returned Cooper. "That remark is very stale; I think I've heard you use it before. Your efforts at wit are painful. I suppose you're pretty confident, after beating both Barville and Clearport? Now I'm confident myself; I have confidence----" "You look like a confidence man," interrupted Chipper. "I have confidence," pursued Herbert, trying to ignore the little chap, "that Wyndham will win; and I'm ready to back my conviction with real money." "Dinged if I didn't think yeou'd got abaout enough of it bating against Oakdale!" exclaimed Crane. "Wonder where he gets so much money?" said Fred Sage. "He's bluffing," was the opinion of Jack Nelson. "He's dead broke, but he wants to make believe that he's a dead game sport, and so----" "If you think I'm dead broke," said Herbert, "and you can raise five or ten bones to wager on Oakdale, just produce the currency and watch me cover it. I have about twenty-five dollars I'd like to put up on Wyndham." "Twenty-five dollars!" spluttered Tuttle. "That's some wealth for one fellow to be packing around." "Go on," advised Crane, waving his long arm at Herbert; "don't bother us. We're tired takin' your spondulicks away from ye; it's too easy." "You're quitters," declared Herbert with a cutting sneer. "There isn't one of you who has a real drop of sporting blood in his veins, that's what's the matter. You've won my money, and now, being pikers and quitters, you don't propose to give me a chance to win it back. You know Wyndham's going to put it all over you Saturday, and you're shivering in your shoes. I don't blame you for being frightened, as you haven't one chance in a hundred to take that game. It wouldn't surprise me if you were beaten about twenty or thirty to nothing; I sincerely hope it won't be worse than that." Crane rose to his feet in the midst of this speech, which was far more provoking and insulting than cold type can convey. "Looker here, yeou," cried Sile; "I've got some money I won batin' with you, and, by thut-ter! you'll find I ain't afraid to give ye all the chance you want on that Wyndham game. If you've really got twenty-five dollars, mebbe we can raise a pool, same as we done before, and cover the whole of it. I'll put in my share anyhaow. Who's the next feller?" "I am!" "Count me in!" "I'm another!" "Same here!" "Me, too!" It seemed that they were all eager to contribute to the pool, and Herbert, smiling with self-complaisant satisfaction, felt that he had cleverly accomplished his purpose. CHAPTER XXV. THE WYNDHAM PITCHER. Shortly before nine o'clock on Saturday morning a touring car, containing three youths, not one of whom was over eighteen years of age, whirled up before the door of Mrs. Conway's boarding house in Oakdale and stopped. The occupants of the car did not belong in Oakdale; they came from Wyndham, and the machine was the property of the father of the oldest one, who was at the wheel. This was Orville Foxhall, second baseman of the Wyndham nine. At Foxhall's side sat a husky, raw-boned, long-armed chap, Dade Newbert, the pitcher on which Wyndham placed great dependence. The chap in the tonneau was Joe Snead, too fat and indolent to take part in any game of an athletic nature. "This is the house, Dade," said Foxhall; "this is where your friend boards, all right." "Humph!" grinned Newbert. "It doesn't look swell enough to suit Herb's style. He's the real warm article, as you'll realize when you see him. When it comes to cutting a dash--well, Rack can cut it, you bet. I'll see if he's around." Springing out, Newbert strode to the door and rang. After a time, as he was growing impatient and had prepared to ring again, the door opened a foot or so, and a tall, thin, hopeless-looking woman surveyed him inquiringly. Newbert asked for Rackliff. "Yes, he boards here," answered the woman in a mechanical tone of voice; "but he isn't up yet." "Ho, ho!" laughed Newbert. "Isn't up? Well, that's like him; won't pull himself away from the mattress until he has to. He's a luxurious brat." "I'm afraid Mr. Rackliff may not be feeling very well this morning," said the woman. "He has a very bad cold and coughs terribly. I told him last night that he should consult a doctor, and I heard him coughing the greater part of the night." "Well, well! Sorry to hear it. I'm an old friend of his, and I've come over by appointment to take him back to Wyndham with me. You tell him that----" A harsh cough came echoing down the stairs and a voice called: "That you, Dade? Come right up. It's all right, Mrs. Conway; let him come, please." Herbert, in silk pajamas, was standing at the head of the stairs, looking ill indeed. He put out a limp hand, which Newbert grasped, crying: "By Jove! you are sick. Now, that's tough." "Come into my room," invited Herbert, leading the way. "It's a pretty bum joint, but it's the best in the house--the best I could find in this wretched hole of a town. I'm mighty glad to see you, old pal, though I may not appear to be. Oh, blazes! but I have got a headache!" "What have you been doing?" asked the visitor, as Herbert keeled over, with a groan, on the bed. "Been hitting the pace? Been attending too many hot suppers? Oh, but you're sure to sport wherever you go!" "Hitting the pace around this graveyard!" mumbled Herbert dismally. "What are you talking about, old fel? Why, everybody dies here nights at nine o'clock; there's not a thing doing after that. It's the most forsaken, dismal place imaginable after that hour. I'm dying of dry rot, that's what's the matter." He finished with a cough that seemed to wrack him from head to feet. "You're sick," said Newbert, with a show of sympathy. "You've got a cold, and it has settled on your lungs. You're none too strong, Herb, and you'd better look out. I guess you won't be able to take in the game to-day." "Yes, I will!" cried Rackliff suddenly. "I wouldn't miss it for a fortune. Oh, I've got money bet on that game, Dade." "Well, Orv Foxhall is outside with old man Foxhall's bubble. Great car, that. And you should see Orv drive her. Oh, he does cut it out some! He had 'em staring when he ripped up through the center of this old town. We nearly ran a team down back on the road; was going better than fifty when we came round a curve and grazed the old jay's wheel-hubs. I'll bet that Reuben's hair stood on its hind legs. Ho! ho! ho!" Herbert sat up. "It won't take me long to dress," he said. "I'll go back to Wyndham with you." "You haven't had any breakfast." "Don't want any. Haven't had an appetite for three days. I caught this rotten cold riding a motorcycle back here from Clearport after the game last Saturday. I wouldn't mind if this cough didn't tear me so." "It's tough," said Newbert. "Can I help you? Going to take a dip?" "Boo! No, I won't bathe this morning; haven't got the nerve for a cold plunge, and a warm one might fix me so I'd catch more cold. Just you make yourself comfortable as you can while I'm getting into my duds." Three times while dressing Herbert was compelled to sit down to rest, and Newbert declared that his friend seemed to be pretty nearly "all in." "I certainly am," agreed Rackliff; "I'm up against it. Never was knocked out like this before. Why, I can't even smoke a cigarette, it makes me bark so. You can imagine how tough that is on me. Sometimes I'm half crazy for a smoke--I'm shaking all over; but when I try it I just have to quit by the time I've taken three whiffs." "You've smoked too many of those things, that's what's the matter. Used to hit 'em up myself; thought it real devilish. Never took any real satisfaction in it, though." "That was because you didn't inhale; they're no good unless you do." "They're no good if you do; give me a cigar every time." "You got my last letter all right?" asked Herbert, selecting a necktie from his abundant supply. "Oh, sure. I've put all the bunch wise, too. They're wondering how I got hold of the information, but I didn't give you away, old pal. I reckon mebbe Foxy and Snead suspect now, but they won't say anything." "You've got to win," said Herbert, carefully knotting his tie at the mirror. "My old man is kicking over being touched up for cash so often; says he can't see how I spend so much in this quiet place. I've bet every sou of the last amount he sent me on your old baseball team, and if you don't take this game----" "We will, don't worry about that. We could have done so anyhow, but of course you've helped make it a dead-cold certainty. If you've got any friends here who----" "Friends!" sneered Rackliff; "friends among these country yokels! Don't make me laugh, for it might start me coughing again." "But you said you let a chap in on the Barville deal. He----" "He wasn't a friend of mine," said Herbert scornfully; "he was only a chap I wanted to use. I've let another dub into this deal, but I didn't do so simply to befriend him--not on your natural. Perhaps you've heard of him--Phil Springer. He expected to be the star slab artist on the great Oakdale nine this season, but he unwisely coached another fellow to assist him as second-string pitcher, and now the other man has pushed him into second place--and he has quit, dead sore. He's an egotistical yap, and it simply killed him to death to have his pupil step right over his head." "What's your idea in boosting him by putting him next to a winning proposition?" "Perhaps I can use him, too. At any rate, he can pitch some, and by keeping him raw and working him the way I am, I'm weakening the pitching staff. See?" "Oh, yes," muttered Newbert. "I swear you're a clever schemer, Herb." "Thanks. You see, I induced this man Springer to let me have seven bones to bet against Oakdale, and now, no matter how much they may happen to need him, as long as he has his money at stake, they can't coax him into the game to-day. They may try to do that if you fellows get to batting Grant good and plenty. Oh, I've taken pains to forestall in every direction, for I've simply got to make a killing on this go. How's the weather?" "Fine, but you'll need to wear an overcoat in the auto. I didn't take one, but it's rather cool whistling through the air at the rate Foxy drives. Besides, you've got to look out for that cold. Better wear a cloth overcoat now than a wooden one by and by." "Don't talk that way," shivered Herbert. "I'm not anxious to shuffle off." He brought his overcoat from the wardrobe, and Newbert helped him into it, after which they descended the stairs together. CHAPTER XXVI. THE PLUNGE FROM THE BRIDGE. Herbert was introduced to Foxhall and Snead. The former, with goggles pushed up on his forehead, pulled off his gauntlet glove to shake hands, saying he was mighty glad to meet Dade Newbert's chum, of whom he'd heard so much from Newbert's lips. "Yes," gurgled Snead, as he also shook hands; "according to Dade, you're a warm old scout. Get right in here with me, and hang on when Foxy turns on the juice, for there'll be something doing. I imagine we'll touch only a few of the very elevated spots on our way back, judging by the way he cut it out coming over. If you're nervous----" "Don't worry about me," said Rackliff, as he settled himself beside the fat fellow. "I'm simply dying for something to stir up my blood and set it circulating." Foxhall adjusted his goggles, switched on the current, and pressed a button that started the engine. "Ho! ho! We're off!" cried Newbert. "Just watch 'em rubber when we zip down through town. There's a bump this side of the bridge; hang on when we strike it, Herb." Foxhall turned the car, yanking it round in a see-saw that was hard on transmission and brakes and tires, and started with a jerk that gave a snap to the necks of his three companions, cutting out the muffler as he shifted swiftly through the gears into direct drive. When the main street was reached the reckless youth scarcely slowed down at all to take the turn, and the car came near skidding into the gutter. "Isn't he the careless creature!" laughed Snead. "He always drives this way, and he's never had an accident." Past Roger Eliot's home and the white Methodist church they whizzed, the automobile gathering speed on the down grade and obtaining enough momentum to carry it a considerable distance even though the power should be cut off and the brakes applied sufficiently hard to lock the rear wheels. With the discordant electric horn snarling a demand for a clear road, the foolish young driver tore up the dust through the very heart of the village, regardless of his own safety and absolutely ignoring the safety or rights of others. The postoffice spun by on the left; the machine shot across the small square; down the steepest grade of the hill it flew toward the bridge. Despite the fact that he pretended to be as serene and unconcerned as his companions, who, perhaps, did not realize the danger, Herbert Rackliff was not fully at his ease; for he knew that such driving through a place where there were intersecting streets with blind corners was folly indeed. As the bridge was approached the road swung to the left. At the very end of the bridge an old building cut off the view of the greater part of the structure from any one approaching from the main portion of the village. The "bump" of which Newbert had given warning was struck with sufficient force to send the boys bouncing from their seats, and the shock seemed to disturb Foxhall's hold on the steering wheel, for the car swerved unpleasantly. The young driver brought it back with a yank, and then---- "Look out!" screamed Herbert, jumping up in the tonneau. A woman of middle age, seated in a rickety old wagon, with a child on either side of her, was driving a young and half-broken horse into Oakdale. The young horse snorted, attempted to turn round, and then began to back up, cramping the wagon across the bridge. The woman struggled vainly with the reins, in a perfect panic of terror, and the children screamed, clinging to her. Foxhall knew he could not stop the car, and to his credit let it be said that he did his best to avoid striking and smashing the wagon--and succeeded. Success, however, was costly; for, in attempting to turn aside and shoot past, the wheel was pulled too sharply, and the machine struck the wooden railing of the bridge, through which it cut as if the railing had been built of cardboard. Dade Newbert was the only one who managed to leap from the machine ere it crashed through that railing and shot off in a clean leap for the water below. Unimpeded by any barrier, Newbert jumped, struck the ground, plunged forward, and went sliding at full length almost beneath the wheels of the old wagon. Rackliff tried to jump, but he was on the wrong side, and the tonneau door bothered him; however, as the machine fell, with Snead sitting paralyzed in his place and Foxhall clinging to the wheel, Herbert succeeded in flinging himself out over the side. Surprising to relate, Dade Newbert was not seriously hurt, and, still retaining a certain presence of mind, he scrambled back from the wagon wheels and sat up on the bridge, covered with dirt, a rather woe-begone spectacle. He was still sitting thus when the horse, having turned about at last without upsetting the wagon, went galloping away across the bridge; and he continued to sit there until some boys came running down from the village, shouting as they ran, and asked him if he was hurt. Then Dade scrambled up. "Oh, mercy!" he gasped. "Don't mind me. I'm all right. The other fellers--they'll be drowned!" He ran to the side of the bridge and looked over. Foxhall was swimming toward the nearest bank, with Snead puffing and blowing behind him; but Rackliff, who had struck on his stomach sufficiently hard to have the breath knocked out of him, was being carried away by the current, struggling feebly. With the idea of leaping in to help Herbert, Newbert pulled off his coat; but before he could make the plunge some one flung him aside with the sweep of a muscular arm and went shooting headlong like an arrow toward the surface of the river. People were running toward the bridge from various directions. Some of the boys started down to help the swimmers out when they should reach the shore; but no one else ventured to plunge into the river. The one who had made that unhesitating plunge was Rodney Grant. Springer, who had reached the spot a moment ahead of Rod, saw Grant as he shot downward with hands outstretched and palms pressed together. "Wh-why didn't I do it?" muttered Phil. "I didn't th-think quick enough." He saw Grant's head appear above the surface and beheld the Texan striking out toward Rackliff with strong strokes that sent him forging through the water. The gathering crowd on the bridge began to cheer the rescuer. "Of course!" whispered Phil savagely. "It's another feather in his cap! He'll help the chap out of the drink, and everybody in town will say it was a nervy and daring piece of heroism. Oh, I'm slow! I lost my chance!" At that moment his bitterness toward Grant was so intense that he felt he could unhesitatingly go to any extreme to injure him. His lips curled back from his teeth in a semblance of a snarl; he watched the Texan reach the spot where Rackliff's head had an instant before disappeared from view, saw him likewise plunge beneath the surface, and beheld him rise, farther down the stream, with the still weakly struggling fellow secured by a grip upon his coat collar at the back of the neck. Deftly the rescuer swung Herbert round, face upward, upon his back, and, holding him thus, with mouth and nose above the water, began swimming toward the nearest shore. The rapidly increasing crowd of spectators on the bridge cheered still more vociferously. "It's getting to be a regular sus-stunt of his, this rescuing people from drowning," muttered Springer. "Hear them yell! Bah! What fools people are! Why didn't I think quick enough to get ahead of him!" A short distance below the bridge Foxhall was wading out of the water, disdaining assistance. Snead, however, did not spurn the hands extended to him when he came floundering and gurgling toward dry ground. A dozen persons were running down toward the point for which Rodney Grant was heading, all eager to take some part in the exciting rescue. Of the boys who had rushed to the scene, Springer was the only one who remained on the bridge. He waited until he beheld Grant stand on his feet in shallow water and wade toward the bank, bearing Rackliff in his arms. "I don't propose to hang around and see them slobber over him," he whispered hoarsely; "so I think I'll beat it, get a move on, dig." As he turned away his eyes fell on a folded sheet of paper lying at his feet, and within three feet of the paper he discovered a pocket notebook. He picked up the paper and the notebook. "Some one of that bunch dropped these," he decided. "Oh, but they were lucky to come out of this scrape alive! I think this will cuc-cure that idiot Foxhall of doing fancy stunts with his old man's gas cart." Mechanically he unfolded the paper. There was writing upon it, and Phil was suddenly chained in his tracks as his senses took in the meaning of those several short sentences, each of which was written on a separate line: "Bat held in right hand means hit and run. "In left hand, try the steal. "In both hands, perpendicular, play safe. "In both hands, horizontal, will sacrifice. "In right hand, handle down, squeeze play." This was as far as Phil read, but the list covered the entire page, being condensed, with the lines very close together, at the bottom, evidently in order to get everything on that side of the sheet. Springer's eyes threatened to pop out of his head and his under jaw sagged. "Great snakes!" he gasped. "These are our playing signals!" For a short time he stood there dazed, unconscious of the excitement near at hand, deaf to the cheering of the crowd. He had thought at first that the paper, like the notebook, must be the property of one of those boys who had occupied the automobile, but, with the discovery of what was written on that paper, he slowly arrived at the conclusion that his original conviction was erroneous. The writing looked familiar, too, although at that time he could not seem to recall the person whose chirography it resembled. "The notebook," he finally decided; "that may tell who it belongs to, for doubtless the same chap dropped both." On the fly leaf of the notebook he found the name of Dade Newbert. He had refolded the paper, and was still staring at the name written in the notebook when Newbert himself, greatly excited, rushed toward him, crying: "I say, that's mine! Dropped it out of my coat pocket when I pulled the coat off. Give it to me." He was still carrying his coat in his hand. "Then you're Nun-Newbert, are you?" questioned Springer, who until this day had never set eyes on the chap. "Yes, yes. Gimme that! The paper, too. Have you----" "Just picked them up," said Springer coolly, as he surrendered the folded paper. "Lul-looked in the book to see who it belonged to, that's all." Newbert seemed to take a breath of relief. "I didn't know but you had been---- Oh, fudge! I dropped them only a minute ago. Say, we've kicked up a rumpus around here, haven't we? That fellow who pulled Rack out of the drink saved me from getting a soaking, as I was just going overboard after Herb. Rack thought he wouldn't take a bath this morning, but he did, just the same. Ho! ho! ho!" The cause for the laugh seemed to be nervousness and excitement rather than mirth. "Rackliff!" muttered Springer, struck by sudden conviction. "Old chum of mine. Don't suppose this little experience will do his cold any good, I got Orv Foxhall to come over here for Herb this morning with old man Foxy's bubble that's down there at the bottom of the canal, where it's liable to stay for some time. I reckon we'll all travel back to Wyndham by steam cars." He turned and ran toward the crowd that was coming up from the scene of the rescue. "Rackliff!" muttered Springer once more. He knew now who had written those signals on that sheet of paper. CHAPTER XXVII. A REBELLIOUS CONSCIENCE. The game between Oakdale and Wyndham was in progress, and, wretchedly miserable, Phil Springer sat watching from the bleachers. Never before in all his life had he felt so much like a contemptible criminal, a dastardly traitor to his team, against which, through the agency of Herbert Rackliff, he had wagered money. It was not, however, the fact that he had made such a wager that troubled him most, although at this moment, deep down in his heart, he was sincerely ashamed of that. The principal cause of his misery, the reason why he kept telling himself over and over that he was a cowardly sneak, was his knowledge that the playing signals of the visitors had been betrayed to the home team, and that, taking advantage of the knowledge thus obtained, Wyndham was prepared to block Oakdale's every play, and was doing this in a manner which appeared to the average spectator like almost uncanny foresight and cleverness at the game. In the very first inning, with only one out and a runner on third, the Oakdale batter, taking his instructions from Captain Eliot, had walked out to the plate with the bat held in his right hand, handle downward, which was the signal for the squeeze play. But Wyndham had known what was coming quite as well as Oakdale, and Newbert, pitching the ball beyond the batsman's reach, gave the catcher every chance to get the runner as he came lunging hopelessly toward the pan. The second inning, also, had opened promisingly for Oakdale, but the enemy's knowledge of the meaning of those signals had made it a simple matter to bring that auspicious opening to a fruitless and discouraging close. Meanwhile Wyndham got a run in the first, and in the third she pushed two more happy fellows over the rubber, aided by errors; for Grant was pitching in excellent form, and not a tally of the three was really earned. The sight of Roy Hooker, wearing Springer's own suit and sitting on the bench as a spare pitcher, did not serve in any way to make Phil more comfortable. He knew that by every bond of loyalty and decency he should be there himself when he was not working on the slab. Like some other fellows, in the past he had occasionally laughed and joked about Roy's aspirations to become a pitcher; but now, at last having gotten his eyes open to some of his faults, and having succeeded in restraining his jealousy of others who were in some respects his superiors, Hooker was pursuing a course that had already led him to be accepted in place of the deserter. Phil held himself aloof from the crowd of sympathizers with the team who had come over from Oakdale to root for the crimson; he did not even wear the school colors. When he saw them waving their bright banners and heard them cheering he thought, with a heavy heart and no feeling of satisfaction, that they little knew how utterly useless their enthusiasm was. The game was fixed; the cards were stacked, and there was no chance for Oakdale to win. He bit his lip as he saw Grant working steadily and coolly on the slab, doing splendidly, little dreaming that, as the situation stood, he might "wallop his wing off" with scarcely a ghost of a prospect that Oakdale could overcome the lead the locals had already obtained. "I'm glad--as far as _he_ is concerned," Springer whispered to himself; "but I'm sus-sorry for the rest of the fellows. It's a rotten piece of business, and Rackliff ought to be ashamed of himself." Where was Rackliff? He knew Herbert had come to Wyndham after changing his clothes for dry ones, following his rescue from the river by Grant, but Phil had not put eyes on the fellow since his arrival on the scene of the game. It seemed very strange that Rackliff should not be somewhere on hand to watch the progress of the contest. "One thing is sure," was the promise the unhappy youth made himself, "I'll tell him just what I think of him when I get a good chance, and I won't mum-mince my words. Oh, I wish I'd never let him have that money to bet on Wyndham! If I hadn't done that----" He stopped short, thinking that, even though he had not wagered his money, his hatred for Rod Grant and his desire to see the fellow pitch a losing game would be sufficient to keep him silent concerning the betrayal of the signals. He sought to convince himself that, as he was not concerned in that wretched piece of work, he was in no way responsible. His rebellious conscience, however, kept prodding him with the knowledge that he was "an accessory to the crime." Again and again he longed to rise and shout a warning to Eliot--yearned to tell him loudly, that all might hear, that Wyndham knew Oakdale's signals. If he were to do such a thing as that--do it dramatically before that great crowd--would it not serve to restore him to sudden popularity with the fellows who now held him in contempt because of the petty, peevish, jealous course he had pursued? "I wish they'd ha-hammer Grant out," he muttered. "If they'd only do that, I'd warn Eliot. Of course I wouldn't give it away that I knew abub-bout the crookedness all the time, for that would queer me worse than ever. I've got to kuk-keep that a dark secret, sure enough." He wondered what explanation he could make if he should warn Eliot; surely he would have to tell how he came to believe that Wyndham was wise to the signals of her opponents. There seemed only one reasonable story for him to put forward: he would be compelled to claim that he had overheard some persons in the crowd telling each other that such was the case. And that would be a lie! "I lied once on account of that fellow Grant, and got caught at it," thought Phil. "If I should tell Eliot now, Rackliff might---- But he doesn't know that I know he gave our signals to Wyndham. Still, if I come out publicly and warn Roger, Rackliff may get sore and blow around that part of the money he bet on Wyndham belonged to me." Thus, wavering, tortured and miserable, he followed the progress of the game, realizing more and more as it went on that Oakdale had absolutely no chance at all while the players of the other side could see and understand every batting and base-running signal that was given. Fighting against such odds without knowledge of the fact seemed to Phil to be a most outrageous thing, and he pledged himself that, from this day forward, he would have no more dealings with Rackliff. As it was not necessary for the first batter in an inning to signal, Wyndham could not "lay for him" by the aid of knowledge gained in advance, and to open the fourth Sile Cane strode forth and fell on one of Newbert's slants, straightening it out handsomely for two sacks. Grant, following, took his cue from Eliot and signalled Crane that he would bunt, on which sacrifice the lanky fellow was to take third. Springer's teeth grated together as he beheld the entire Wyndham infield prepare to handle Rod's bunt, while Newbert drove Josh back and held him as close as possible to the second sack. Suddenly the ball was whipped over the pan, high and close, in spite of which the batter succeeded in sending it rolling heavily into the diamond. But Newbert, racing forward as soon as the sphere left his fingers, scooped it cleanly with one hand and snapped it across to third without straightening up. The baseman was covering the sack in a position to get the long-geared runner, and, catching the ball, he put it on to Crane with considerable viciousness as Josh slid. "Out at third!" shouted the umpire, with up-flung hand. The attempted sacrifice had been turned into a miserable failure solely because the locals had known precisely what their opponents would try to do. "I can't stand much more of this!" groaned Springer aloud. "It's worse than robbery! I'll have to get out." Hearing the words, a rejoicing Wyndham sympathizer slapped him heavily on the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard," laughingly advised the familiar fellow. "It's just what everybody expected." "Oh, is that so?" snapped Phil resentfully, turning his head to look up at the chap. "Well, if this was a square game they might get their expectations stepped on." "A square game!" retorted the other. "What do you mean by that? What's the matter with it? So far, it's the cleanest game I've seen this year. "It's the dirtiest game I ever saw! It's cuc-crooked from the start. Oakdale hasn't a sus-show." "Of course she hasn't; she's outclassed. You Oakdalers are poor losers; you always squeal." "Outclassed--nothing!" fumed Phil. "Oakdale is playing just as good baseball as Wyndham--and playing it on the level." "And by that I suppose you mean that Wyndham isn't playing on the level?" "You don't have to gug-guess twice; that's what I mean." "Oh, go crawl into your hole! There hasn't been a kick. Anybody can see that we're playing all round you simply because we've got the best team. Dade Newbert is a dandy." "Yes, he's a dandy at this sort of baseball. I happen to know just what he is, and a fellow who'll do what he's dud-done to win this game hasn't any right to pitch on a respectable nine." "You're dotty. Look here, you better be careful about shooting off that sort of talk, or you may have a chance to prove it." "I can bub-back up anything I've said," declared Phil, now thoroughly aroused. "I'm dead onto the whole dirty deal. If I should tell Roger Eliot what I know you'd sus-see a change in the complexion of this game in short order." "Oh, really!" scoffed the incredulous Wyndhamite. "If you know so much, why don't you tell it? If you know anything that amounts to anything, you'll tell it--unless you're crooked yourself." That cut deeply, and Springer choked back further heated words which were boiling to his lips. What right had he to rail against Newbert? Under the circumstances, his failure to warn his former teammates made him fully as dishonest and deserving of contempt as the Wyndham pitcher--far more so. The white anger of his face turned to a crimson flush of shame. Silenced, he saw Wyndham, ready to block the hit and run, take Cooper's zipping grounder and turn into a double play what possibly might otherwise have been a safety. In that moment Springer's mind was made up, and he immediately left his seat on the bleachers. "I'll tell Eliot the truth at any cost," he muttered. CHAPTER XXVIII. WHEN THE SIGNALS WERE CHANGED. While Phil Springer was making his way round to the Oakdale side of the field an accident took place. The first Wyndham batter to face Grant in that inning hit the ball squarely and hard, driving it on a dead line toward the pitcher, but a trifle to his right. Grant might have dodged, but, instead of that, he tried to catch that red-hot liner with his bare right hand, and the ball split two of his fingers. Nevertheless, he stopped it, caught it up with his left hand when it fell to the ground, and tossed it to Sile Crane at first in time for a put-out. Rod showed his blood-streaming hand to the umpire, who promptly called "time." Then the Texan walked toward the bench, Eliot running to join him. "How bad are you hurt, old man?" asked the captain anxiously. "I don't know," was the answer. "Didn't know I was hurt at all until I saw the claret spouting; reckoned my paw was benumbed a bit, and that was all." But when water was poured over those bleeding fingers and Roger saw just what had happened to them, he turned quickly to Hooker, saying in a low tone: "Get a ball, Hook, and warm up. You'll have to pitch the game out." A doctor pressed through the crowd that had surrounded the injured player. "Fix these busted fingers up quick, doc," urged Grant, "so I can get back into the game without delaying things too long." "You'll play no more baseball to-day, my boy," said the physician; "nor for some days to come. You're out of it, and you may as well accept the alternative with good grace." And so Springer saw Hooker go in to pitch, aware that only for his jealousy and blind folly he would have been the one called upon to replace the injured chap. "Serves me right," he muttered. Which was proof sufficient that he was getting his eyes open. Naturally, Hooker was very nervous, although secretly elated by the opportunity to pitch in this most important game. Eliot talked with him a moment or two about signals, finishing by placing a hand on his shoulder and saying: "Now, keep cool, Hook, and take your time. Mind my signals, and do your best for control. It's your chance to show the stuff that's in you. Don't be afraid of Wyndham, and don't listen to the crowd. Close your ears and eyes to everything outside of the game. You may surprise yourself and everybody else, if you keep your head." There was something in Roger's words and manner that proved very steadying to Roy, and he toed the slab with an outward show of confidence, whether or not he was inwardly perturbed. The majority of the Oakdale players were much cast down, however, and it was a rather feeble and heartless cheer that the rooters with the crimson banners gave the substitute pitcher. Hooker pitched two balls wide, and then put one over; which the batsman hit, rolling a grounder into the diamond for Chipper Cooper to handle. Chipper managed to get it and wing it across to Crane for a clean put-out. "Two gone, fellows," called Eliot. "We'll keep right on playing baseball. Get this next man, now." The next man hoisted a long fly to center, where Ben Stone, sure as fate, took charge of it; and Hooker, now really quite calm and confident, jogged to the bench. "See if you can't start something, Sleuth," urged Roger as Piper found his bat. "We've got to make some runs pretty soon, and we may as well begin now." Springer, walking swiftly out to the bench, spoke Eliot's name. "I want a few words with you, Roger," he said; "I've gug-gug-got something--something important to--to tell you." He stumbled more than usual over his words, and his face was very pale; but his manner was resolute and determined. A slight frown fell on the face of the Oakdale captain as he turned his eyes upon the speaker. "What is it, Springer?" he asked almost repellantly. "Just sus-step one side a bit so I can tell you without anybody else hearing," begged Phil. Roger complied, lending an ear to the startling information Springer had to impart, but, after his usual composure, retaining his self-possessed atmosphere to such a degree that scarcely any one who chanced to be watching them could have dreamed how disturbing that information really was. "How do you happen to know about this, Phil?" Eliot asked. "Don't ask me. I can't tut-tell you now. But it's dead straight, Roger, and Oakdale hasn't a ghost of a show as long as you continue to stick by those signals." "We'll change them right away." Piper had succeeded in bumping a slow grounder into the diamond, on which he scudded for first with amazing speed, for he was really a splendid sprinter. The ball was handled a bit too slowly, giving the Oakdale lad time to reach the sack by the narrowest margin. "Never mind that, fellows," grinned Orv Foxhall from his position at second. "I'll get him when he comes down this way. He may be pretty speedy, but----" "He won't run off the bridge," cried Cooper, on the coaching line. "Your speed has made you pawn things more than once, and now you've gone and soaked your daddy's automobubble." "Bright boy," scoffed Foxhall. "I always enjoy it when you make a choke, but I'd enjoy it more if you'd make one that would finish you." Sile Crane came running down from the bench, catching Cooper by the shoulders and whispering something into his ear. Chipper looked surprised, and then, as Crane was jogging back, in violation of the rules, the coacher ran out to first, grabbed Piper and whispered to him. "Hey?" gasped Sleuth, staring at Chub Tuttle, who was walking to the plate with his bat held in a manner which seemed to indicate that he would bunt the ball. "What's the----" "Shut up!" hissed Chipper. "Mind! Get a lead now! Be ready!" Then he skipped back over the chalk-mark before the umpire could order him back. The Wyndham infielders crept forward, crouching and ready. Newbert, contemptuous of Tuttle's skill as a batter, handed up an easy one. Instead of bunting, the fat lad rapped out a little fly, that sailed over the heads of the in-drawn infielders, and Cooper, having obtained a good start, went twinkling over second and on to third. Wyndham had been deceived, much to the annoyance of the local players, who looked at one another inquiringly. It was rather remarkable that Tuttle had not followed his own signal, plainly given. It was possible, however, that, seeing the infielders prepared to take his bunt, the fellow had decided at the last moment to do something else. Nelson followed Tuttle, and he held his bat in a manner that seemed to proclaim he would "take one," giving Chub a chance to try to steal second on the first ball pitched. Believing this was the program, Newbert whipped over a beautiful straight ball for a called strike. But Nelson did not let that handsome one pass; it was just the kind he liked, and he fell on it with great glee, smashing a liner into the outfield, between right and center. Piper, laughing, scored at a jog trot; while Tuttle, his fists clenched, his eyes glaring, his cheeks puffed out like toy balloons, galloped over the sacks with all the grace of a frightened elephant. "Score, Chub--score!" shrieked Crane, who had pranced down onto the coaching line back of third, and who was waving his long arms grotesquely. "Make it or bust! You kin do it!" Tuttle continued to the plate, where, raising a great cloud of dust, he arrived on an attempted slide, a moment ahead of the ball, being declared safe. The Wyndham crowd was filled with dismay; the Oakdalers with the crimson banners were leaping and shrieking on the bleachers. The local players knew something was wrong, and they showed the greatest confusion and consternation. Dade Newbert was making some remarks that would not look well in print. Captain Eliot had instructed his players to abandon the use of signals for the time being, and to bat and run bases wholly as their judgment might dictate, and this sudden change threatened totally to demoralize the Wyndhamites. Not a man was out, and the visitors, having already secured two tallies, had a runner moored at third. Berlin Barker stepped forth briskly, urging the umpire to keep the game in motion, his bat held as if he intended to try for a safe bingle. As matters stood, it seemed logical that he should do this, and the Wyndhamites got ready for him. But Berlin, trusting the speedy Nelson to take advantage of it, bunted the first ball. His confidence in Nelson was not misplaced, Jack sprinting to the plate, while the baffled home players bestirred themselves too late even to get Barker, whose bunt went for a safe hit. The score was tied. Foxhall, rushing up to Newbert, whispered excitedly: "They've changed their signals! That's what's fooling us. We've got to----" There was a yell. Observing that second base was left practically unguarded, Barker scooted down from first, and he got there ahead of the shortstop, who made an effort to cover the sack. "This is a great year for high flying," laughingly whooped Cooper. "Ten thousand feet in an aeroplane isn't so much; why, this whole Wyndham bunch is up in the air higher than that this very minute. They're liable to come down hard, too." Like Foxhall, the Wyndham captain had decided that Oakdale was no longer using the known code of batting and base-running signals, and he made haste to warn his players to place no further reliance upon the information they had obtained concerning those signals. "We want another run to take the lead, Stoney," said Eliot as Ben stepped into the batter's box. Stone took in the situation and also did the unexpected, dropping another bunt in front of the pan. The catcher got the ball in time to throw Stone out, but the batter's object was obtained, for Barker had sailed along to third. The Oakdaleites on the seats implored Eliot to get a hit, and Roger responded by cutting a grounder through into short right field, which let Barker score and placed the visitors in the lead. Newbert's face was white as chalk. Up to this inning he had been insolent in his self-confidence and contempt for the visitors, but the strain now put upon him proved too much, and he hit Crane in the ribs, following with a pass to Hooker, which filled the corners. Then, amid the tumultuous cheering and laughter of the Oakdale crowd. Captain Holley sent Newbert to the bench and called Twitt Crowell forth to take his place. CHAPTER XXIX PHIL GETS HIS EYES OPEN "Too bad little Herbie Rackliff isn't here to witness the fate of his chum, the wonderful pitcher from Boston," laughed Jack Nelson. "Where is Rackliff?" questioned Stone. "Why, don't you know? He's sick abed; just went down flat after reaching this town, and had to have a doctor." With the bases full, Chipper Cooper longed for a handsome clean drive; but fortune seemed to favor Crowell, for when Chipper did hit the ball he simply rolled it straight at the man on the slab, who scooped it and snapped it back to the catcher with Eliot only a little more than halfway down the line from third. Taking the ball, with one foot on the plate, the catcher hummed it past Cooper's ear to first, completing a double play. Of course the downcast Wyndhamites awoke and cheered, but the visitors, although disappointed by the abrupt ending of their "streak," felt very well satisfied. "Now keep steady and play the game, boys," called Eliot. "This is the game we want to win." Springer, literally a-tingle with joy over the turn the game had taken, watched Hooker, who was given excellent support, pull through the fifth without letting more than one man reach first base. "I'm glad," muttered Phil. "I don't care if it does cost me seven dollars, for Wyndham deserves to be beaten." Eliot, removing his cage at the end of the inning, looked for Springer and found him. "Come here, Phil," he called, beckoning. Phil hesitated, more than half disposed to pretend that he did not hear and to get away from that locality at once; but, realizing he would find it necessary to face Roger's questions sooner or later, he finally plucked up courage to answer the summons. Greatly to his relief, the captain of the nine did not question him then; instead of that, Roger said: "I'm much obliged to you, old fellow, for putting me wise, although I'm ashamed that I didn't tumble to the fact myself. I hope we can win this game now; we must win it somehow. Grant is knocked out for some time to come, and there's only Hooker left to depend on. If anything happens to Hook, it's all off; there's no one to take his place." Suddenly Phil understood what Roger was driving at, and his pale face flamed with color. "If I can----" he began eagerly, and then stopped, choking a bit. "I thought so!" exclaimed Roger, with great satisfaction; "I thought you must be still loyal and true. I've got to pay close attention to the run of the game. Won't you find Grant and ask him to let you have his suit? Get into it as soon as you can, and hurry back here; for Wyndham is liable to solve Hook's delivery any minute. Hustle, old chap--do." With this admonition, he turned to give his attention to his players. "Still loyal and true!" muttered Phil. "If he only knew the truth! Well, I suppose he'll find out before long, for Rackliff will blow on me. I'll have to face it, that's all. I wonder wh-where Grant is." A few moments later he found the fellow he was seeking, the doctor having just finished bandaging Rod's injured fingers. Springer hesitated, feeling that it was almost impossible for him to approach the Texan, and, as he was wavering, Grant, still wearing his playing suit, started for the Oakdale bench. "I--I bub-beg your pardon," stammered Phil as Rodney was passing. "Oh!" exclaimed the young Texan, stopping short. "Is it you--Phil? What's the matter?" "I--want--your--suit." Springer could not meet Rod's eyes, and he could feel his cheeks burning; for over him had swept a full and complete understanding of his own folly in permitting jealousy to lead him into the course he had been pursuing. "My--my suit?" said Rod, as if he did not quite understand. "You----" "Eliot sus-sent me for it," Phil hastened to explain. "You know he hasn't a spare man on the bench now, and if anything should happen to another pup-player----" "Come on," said Rod, turning sharply. "The dressing room is over back of the seats here." In the dressing room Grant got out of the playing suit as quickly as possible, while Springer stripped off his street clothes and unhesitatingly donned each piece as it was tossed to him. Both were silent, for the situation was such that neither could seem to find words to fit it. However, having put on Rod's clothes down to the brass-clipped pitching shoes and being on the point of leaving the Texan struggling slowly into his everyday garments, Phil stopped and half turned, after taking a step toward the door. "I'm sus-sorry you got your fingers busted," he stated in a low tone. "Thanks," returned Rod, without looking up. "He despises me," whispered Springer, as soon as he was outside. "Well, perhaps I deserve it." At the end of the tiered seats he came upon Herbert Rackliff, who had just arrived at the field. Herbert's eyes widened on beholding Springer in that suit. His face was pale save for two burning spots upon his hollow cheeks. "What the dickens does this mean?" exclaimed Rackliff, his wondering eyes flashing over Phil from head to heels. "Nothing," was the answer, "only Grant's hurt, and I'm going onto the bub-bench as spare man--at Eliot's request." An odd smile twisted Rackliff's lips. "Now wouldn't that kill you dead!" he coughed. "At Eliot's request! Ha! ha! ha! If he only knew! But of course he doesn't suspect, for I haven't given you away. Well, this is a joke!" "I'm in a hurry, so I'll hustle along." "Wait a jiffy. I've just got here. Sort of went to pieces after landing in this town, and they stowed me in bed, with a pill-slinger looking at my tongue, taking my pulse and asking a lot of tiresome questions. He even sounded my lungs, though I protested against it. And then he told me I was to stay in bed, and left a lot of nasty medicine for me to take. I stayed in bed as long as I could, knowing this game was going on. Now that I'm here, how does it stand?" "Your great pup-pitcher, Newbert, was batted out in the fifth inning." "What's that? I don't believe it!" "It's a fact." "The score--what's the score?" "It was four to three in Oakdale's favor at the end of the fifth." "Rotten!" snarled Herbert, and a tempestuous burst of coughing shook him frightfully. When Phil started away the still coughing lad grasped his arm and restrained him. "You--you wait!" gasped Rackliff. "Wyndham must win this game--she just must, that's all. Did you say Grant was hurt?" "Yes." "How much?" "Enough to knock him out; he got two fingers busted by a liner hot from the bub-bat." "Good! Then I suppose that dub Hooker is pitching now?" "Yes." "Well, if I had any more money I'd be willing to bet the limit that Wyndham gets to him, all right. He'll get his." "Perhaps not. He fuf-finished the fifth in style." "He'll get his," repeated Herbert positively. "Then you'll be run in. That's why Eliot wants you. That will fix things beautifully. You know what to do." "Yes, I know what to do," said Phil slowly, "and I shall do it if I get the chance." "That's the talk! You can do it cleverly enough so no one will suspect that you're throwing the game, and we'll win----" "If I'm put in to pitch," said Springer, still uttering his words in that slow and positive manner, "I shall do my level best to hold Wyndham down and give Oakdale a chance to win the game." "You--you'll what?" spluttered Rackliff incredulously. "Why, you're joking! Your money, seven dollars which you gave me, is bet on Wyndham. If Oakdale wins you lose the seven." "If I could do anything to help Oakdale win, I'd do it, even if I stood to lose seven hundred dollars by it," declared Phil. CHAPTER XXX. THE GREATEST VICTORY. The sixth inning was over before Springer reached the Oakdale bench. He found the boys in high spirits, for they had gathered two more tallies by taking Crowell's measure, while again Hooker had pulled through without being scored upon, which made the scorers' record six to three in favor of the visitors at the beginning of the seventh. Oakdale seemed to have the game bagged. When the seventh passed with the score unchanged on either side and Hooker apparently "still going strong," it began to look as if Springer would get no chance to do any pitching in that game. But baseball is sometimes most uncertain, which is one reason why the game is so popular in America. In the last of the eighth, with one man gone, the locals finally took Hooker's measure and began batting him to all quarters of the field. Almost before the gasping, excited spectators could realize it, Wyndham had made one run and the bases were all occupied, with one of the strongest hitters of the home team at bat. Springer had limbered up, with Stone catching him, in the first of the seventh while Oakdale was at bat, and now Eliot stepped upon the plate, giving a signal which meant that Roy was to retire and Phil was to take his place. Phil was sorry for Hooker, who showed that he was fearfully upset and chagrined, and, as he passed the unlucky pitcher on his way out to the firing line, he said in a low, sympathetic tone: "Don't you care, old ch-chap. It happens to the best of us; I got mine in that Barville game, you know. Next time you'll make good." But could he now "make good" himself? That was the question, of a most disturbing sort, which insinuated itself upon Springer as he stepped into position and received the ball from Captain Eliot. The anxious Oakdale crowd gave him a cheer. "There's Springer!" he heard a voice shout. "He'll stop it. Hold 'em, Phil--hold 'em!" "I must, and I will," thought Phil. Eliot smiled on him encouragingly as he adjusted the cage and stepped back into position, crouching to give a signal. The Wyndham coachers began chattering, and the local crowd "rooted" hard. Surely it was a moment to test the nerve of any young pitcher. [Illustration: The local crowd "rooted" hard.] Phil caught Roger's signal, nodded, and bent the first ball over. The batter hit it to the left of the pitcher, and Springer, shooting out his gloved hand, simply deflected the ball enough to prevent Nelson, who was almost directly in line, from getting it. The Wyndham crowd yelled madly as another runner scored and the hitter reached first safely. "This pitcher's the easiest one yet!" shrieked one of the coachers. "Nail the game right here, fellows. It's easy! it's easy!" Fear sought to fasten its benumbing clutch upon Springer. What if he could not stop Wyndham? Rackliff would hear that he had warned Eliot about the signals, and, seeking retaliation, would betray the fact that he had likewise wagered money that Wyndham would win. To everybody it must seem that Phil had at last shown himself thoroughly despicable and untrustworthy by betraying his own team on the field. This thought actually made him sick and giddy for a moment. "Never mind, Spring--never mind," Eliot was saying. "That was an accident; it wasn't a hit. Get the next man; get this fellow. You can do it." "I must, and I will!" thought Phil once more. He shook off the touch of fear and steadied himself. Again Eliot gave a signal, and again he nodded. Strangely enough, the next batter hit a liner to the left of Springer, almost precisely as the other had done; but this time the pitcher's gloved fingers caught and held the ball, following which he instantly turned and snapped it to first base before the runner, who had started down the line, could get back. It was a double play, and a mighty shout of joy was flung forth from beneath the fluttering crimson banners of the Oakdale spectators. Again Phil was cheered. "Well done, Spring," complimented Eliot quietly, as Phil reached the bench. Then Herbert Rackliff, pale and desperate, rushed forth to the bench, catching Eliot's arm and saying: "Perhaps you're not aware that Mr. Springer has bet money on this game. He has bet money that Wyndham will win. If you don't believe me, ask him." Roger turned to Phil. "Is this true?" "Yes," was the husky answer, "it's true. I gave this sus-sneaking blabber seven dollars to bet on Wyndham, and I'll never gug-get over being ashamed of it as long as I live. He's the creature who gave away our signals to Wyndham. I hope I lose that mum-money, and, if you'll trust me, I'll do my level best to make myself lose it." The Oakdale captain turned on Rackliff. "Get off the field," he ordered sternly. "Get back where you belong, and be quick about it." Herbert retired, his last remaining hope being that Phil would go to pieces in the ninth. But Springer was strengthened and steadied by a great desire, and, although Oakdale's lead was not increased, he pitched so well that the slender margin was sufficient to give the visitors the victory. Not a Wyndhamite reached first, and two of the three who faced Springer were mowed down on strikes. The overjoyed Oakdale crowd charged onto the diamond and surrounded the winners as they were giving Wyndham a cheer. Springer was swept off his feet and caught up on the shoulders of the crowd, who bellowed his name again and again. Looking downward, he saw that his right leg rested on the shoulder of Rodney Grant, who was cheering madly. In the dressing room, a little later, Grant came up quietly and put forth his uninjured left hand. "Put it there, partner," he begged. "You sure turned the trick, and you held them down handsomely. It was a great victory." Springer seized the proffered hand, laughing to hide the fact that joy threatened to blind his eyes with tears. "It was a great victory," he agreed, thinking, however, of the victory he had won over himself. "Sure," beamed the Texan. "And now Oakdale ought to win the championship; she ought to win it with you and me--and Hooker, for pitchers." He said this laughing in a way that robbed his words of any touch of egotism. Oakdale did win the championship, without the loss of a single game. Grant and Springer did the greater part of the pitching, the work being divided almost equally between them; but Hooker was not wholly forgotten, and he obtained some opportunities, actually pitching one complete game in a most creditable manner. Herbert Rackliff saw no more baseball after the Wyndham game, for his parents were notified that he had contracted a pronounced case of pulmonary trouble, and, this being confirmed later by the family physician, he was hurriedly shipped to Colorado, in hopes that the dry and bracing atmosphere of that State might restore him to health. Although the boys of Oakdale charitably refrained from making much talk about him, he was little missed by them. 
39020	----	Transcriber's Notes: --A Table of Contents has been added by the transcriber for the convenience of the reader; it was not present in the original. --Remaining transcriber's notes are at the end of the text. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. TOUCHING SECOND 1 II. "MAKING THE TEAM" 16 III. THE "INSIDE" GAME 33 IV. THE TRIPLE PLAY 53 V. WINNING HIS SPURS 65 VI. THE FIRE 93 VII. TAKING HIS MEDICINE 107 VIII. SHOOTING THEM OVER 123 IX. A GALLANT RESCUE 144 X. A WILD RIDE 160 XI. THE NINTH INNING 182 BERT WILSON'S Fadeaway Ball BY J. W. DUFFIELD AUTHOR OF "BERT WILSON AT THE WHEEL," "BERT WILSON, MARATHON WINNER," "BERT WILSON, WIRELESS OPERATOR." Copyright, 1913, By SULLY AND KLEINTEICH _All rights reserved._ Published and Printed, 1924, by Western Printing & Lithographing Company Racine, Wisconsin Printed in U. S. A. Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball CHAPTER I TOUCHING SECOND Crack!--and the ball soared into center field, while the batter, swift as a flash, sped down to first. A tremendous roar went up from the thirty thousand loyal "fans" who packed the grandstands and filled the bleachers to overflowing. Staid citizens danced up and down like howling dervishes, hats were tossed into the air or jovially crushed on their owners' heads, and happy riot reigned everywhere. Pandemonium broke loose. The fight for the pennant had been a bitter one all season. First one team and then another had taken the lead, while the whole country had been as excited as though the fate of an empire hung in the balance. The third chief contender, fighting grimly to the last, had fallen hopelessly behind, and the contest had narrowed down to a life-and-death struggle between the Giants and the Cubs. The team from the Western city had hung on doggedly and every battle had been fought "for blood." Contesting every inch, they had at last drawn up on even terms with the leaders, and to-day's game was to decide which club should be hailed as champions of the National League and, later on, do battle with the leaders of the American League for the proud title of Champions of the World. The excitement was intense, and, to a foreigner, would have been inconceivable. Men stood in line all the night before to make sure of tickets when the gates should open in the morning. The newspapers devoted columns of space to the gladiators of the opposing teams. Delegations poured in on special trains from neighboring cities. The surface cars and elevated trains, packed to the limit, rolled up to the grounds and deposited their sweltering throngs. The lines of ticket buyers extended for blocks, and the speculators did a rushing business. Long before the hour set for the game to begin, the grounds were crowded to suffocation, and thousands, unable to get in, were turned away from the gates. The scene within was inspiring. A band played popular airs, while those within hearing joined lustily in the chorus. The great field, gleaming like green velvet beneath the afternoon sun, had been especially groomed and rolled for this day of days. The base lines, freshly marked, stood out in white and dazzling relief. All four sides of the huge enclosure held their thousands of enthusiasts, and the host of special policemen had their hands full to keep them from encroaching on the diamond. As each white-uniformed athlete of the home team came from the club house for preliminary practice, he was boisterously and affectionately greeted. Nor did the gray-clad visitors come short of a cordial reception. The great crowd hoped that the home team would win, but they were fair, and, mingled with the good-natured chaffing, was a wholesome respect and fear of their prowess. Above all they wanted a rattling game and a hair-raising finish, with the Giants winning "by an eyelash." The bell rang. The Giants took their places in the field and the umpire cried "Play ball!" The head of the Cubs' batting order came to the plate and the game was on. From the start it was a battle "for keeps." Both teams were "on their toes." It meant not only honor but lucre. The winners would contest in the World's Series, and this meant thousands of dollars for every player. Every point was bitterly fought, and plays were made that under other circumstances would not even have been attempted. For eight innings, Fortune divided her favors equally, and it looked as though the game were destined to go into extra innings. The Cubs were easily disposed of in their half of the ninth, and the Giants came to the bat. The crowd, which had been alternately on the heights of hope or in the depths of despair, rose to their feet and cheered them wildly. The batters were frantically besought to "hit it on the seam," "give the ball a ride," "show them where you live." The players responded nobly. By the time that two were out, a Giant was perched on third and another on first. The shortstop, a sure hitter in a pinch, strode to the plate. Now, indeed, excitement was at fever heat. A safe hit into the outfield would bring the man on third to the plate with the winning run. The visitors were plainly worried. The "Peerless Leader" came in from first, ostensibly to advise the pitcher, but really to give him a moment's rest before the final test. Hoots of derision showed the spectators' appreciation of the trick. The pitcher glanced at the man dancing about third, wound up deliberately and let the ball go with all the force of his brawny arm. The batter caught it squarely "on the trademark" and shot it like a rifle bullet into center field, while the man on third tore down the line and came like a racehorse to the plate. He crossed the rubber with the winning run, and thirty thousand men went stark, raving mad. The man on first ran part way toward second, and then, seeing that his comrade would certainly score, turned and scurried to the club house in right field. The jubilant crowd began to invade the diamond. Suddenly the second baseman of the visitors secured the ball, rushed to his base, and then, surrounded by his teammates, ran toward the umpire, waving his hands wildly. The crowd, at first bewildered, then angered, soon became panic-stricken. Few of them understood the nature of the claim. They only felt that the hard-won victory was being called in question, and a tidal wave of wrath and resentment swept over the field. The point made by the quick-witted second baseman was simple, but sufficiently important to engage the grave attention of the umpires. His contention was that the man on first had not touched second base, and, as he was legally compelled to leave first in order to make room for the batter and had not touched second before the ball got there, he was _forced out_, and therefore the run didn't count. The rules on this point were clear and explicit. If the claim was granted, three men were out, no run had come in and the score was still a tie at one to one. The final decision was held in suspense, and the throng passed out, more like a funeral than a triumphal procession. Disputes were rife among heated partisans, and in all the vast city that night and, in a lesser degree, in every city from New York to San Francisco, the game was fought over and over again. The unfortunate first baseman almost lost his mind over the blunder. There was more pity than bitterness felt toward him, however, as it was known that he had merely followed a general custom that had been taken as a matter of course. Among the crowd that filed out of the gates were Bert Wilson and his inseparable friends, Dick Trent and Tom Henderson. With them also was a Mr. Hollis, a gentleman much older than they in years, but quite as young in spirit. He had been in charge of the summer camp from which the boys had recently returned, and the respect and confidence that his sterling character evoked had become steadily stronger. They were all very fond of the great national game, and had shared the enthusiasm over the supposed victory of the home team. Now, from the reaction, their ardor was correspondingly dampened. "There's no use talking," broke out Tom hotly, "it was a low down trick. They couldn't beat us with the bat, so they try to do it on a quibble." "I don't know," said Dick, "it's about a stand off. We may have been a little bit better off in brawn, but they had it on us in the matter of brain. Whatever we may think of their sportsmanship, their wits were not wool gathering." "And after all," chimed in Bert, "it is brain that counts to-day in baseball as well as in everything else. More and more, the big leaguers are putting a premium on quick thinking. The mere 'sand lot slugger' is going to the rear, and the college man is coming to the front. It isn't that the collegian is necessarily any brainier, but he has been taught how to use his brains. This is simply a case where the husky hit of the Giants' short-stop was wasted because of the nimble wit of the Cubs' second baseman. It was hit against wit, and wit won out." "All the same," maintained Tom, "it was taking advantage of a technicality. The same thing has been done a hundred times, and there has never been a kick about it. Whenever a player has been sure that the winning run has come in, he has considered it all over, and made a break for the clubhouse. I don't think the question has ever been raised before." "Yes it has," said Mr. Hollis. "That same quick thinker made a point of it the other day in Pittsburgh, and that is all the more reason why the home team ought to have been wide awake. But there is nothing to be gained by post mortems, and anyway the thing isn't settled yet. It looks rather bad for us now, but there will be a full discussion of the matter and the umpires may find something in the rules that will cover the case and give us the run. Even if they don't, it leaves it a tie, and the game will have to be played over. We may win then and get the pennant after all." "I hope so," said Tom, "but just at present I know how they felt in Mudville: "'O somewhere birds are singing and somewhere children shout, But there's no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.'" A few days later when the point had been decided in favor of the Cubs and the game played over, only to result in a conclusive victory for the men from the shore of Lake Michigan, the chums met in Bert's rooms. "Well," said Dick, "I see that they put it over, all right. They've copped the pennant and we are only an 'also ran.'" "Yes," replied Tom, "that hit by Tinker over Seymour's head did the business. But there's no use crying over spilt milk. We'll stand them on their heads next year and get even." "By the way, Bert," asked Dick, changing the subject, "have you heard from your examinations yet? How did you make out?" "Fine," answered Bert. "I heard from the Dean this morning and he says that I passed with something to spare. The chemical and electrical marks were especially good. He says that the questions along those lines were unusually severe, but they didn't strike me that way. I suppose it's because I'm so interested in them that they come easy." "Good for you, old scout," cried Dick, delightedly. "I'm tickled to death that the thing is settled. You'll find that we have one of the finest scientific schools in the country. I've been there a year now, and it's come to seem like home. I'll show you the ropes and we'll room together. I only wish Tom here were coming along with us next week." "So do I," said Tom ruefully, "but Father seems to think I'd better stick to my engineering course right here in New York. It isn't that he thinks the course is any better than at your college, if as good. I suppose the real reason is that he wants me to be where I can live at home. I'm going to get Mr. Hollis to have a talk with him. Perhaps he can show him that it would be a good thing for me to get away from home and be thrown on my own responsibility. Dad's pretty stubborn when he gets an idea in his head, but he thinks a lot of Mr. Hollis, and what he says will go a long way with him." It was a wholesome group of young fellows that thus discussed their future plans. They were the best type of manly, red-blooded American youth, full of energy and ambition and alive to their finger tips. Tom was of medium height, while Bert and Dick were fully six feet tall. All were strongly built and looked as though they could give a good account of themselves in any contest, whether of mind or body. A similarity of tastes and habits had drawn them closely together, and among their friends they were jokingly referred to as the "Three Guardsmen." They were rarely apart, and now their plans for the coming school year were destined to cement their friendship still more firmly. In reality with them it was "one for all and all for one." All of them had chosen their life work along practical and scientific lines. The literary professions did not tempt them strongly. Dick, who was the elder, was preparing to become a mining engineer, and had already spent a year at college with that end in view. Tom aimed at civil engineering while Bert was strongly drawn toward electrical science and research. This marvelous field had a fascination for him that he could not resist. His insight was so clear, he leaped so intuitively from cause to conclusion, that it was felt that it would be almost a crime if he were not permitted to have every advantage that the best scientific schools could give him. For a long time past he had been studying nights, preparing for his entrance examinations, and now that he had passed them triumphantly, nothing intervened between him and his cherished ambition. Absorbed as he was in his studies, however, he spent enough time in athletic sports to keep himself in superb physical condition. His was the old Greek ideal of a "sound mind in a sound body." His favorite sport was baseball, and, like most healthy young Americans, he was intensely fond of the great game. In public school and high school he had always "made the team." Although at times he had played every position in the infield and outfield and behind the bat, he soon gravitated towards the pitcher's box, and for the last three years had played that position steadily. He was easily the best "flinger" in the Inter-Scholastic League, and had received more than one invitation to join some of the semi-professional teams that abound in the great city. He elected, however, to remain purely and simply an amateur. Even when a "big league" scout, who had watched him play, gave him a quiet tip that his club would take him on the Spring training trip to Texas and pay all his expenses, with a view to finding out whether he was really "major league timber," the offer did not tempt him. He had no idea of making a business of his chosen sport, but simply a pleasant though strenuous recreation. With him, it was "sport for sport's sake"; the healthy zest of struggle, the sheer physical delight in winning. And now, as they talked over the coming year, the athletic feature also came to the fore. "I wonder if I'll have the slightest show to make the baseball team," said Bert. "I suppose, as a newcomer I'll be a rank outsider." "Don't you believe that for a minute," replied Dick warmly. "Of course there'll be lots of competition and a raft of material to pick from. I suppose when the coach sends out the call for candidates in the Spring, there'll be dozens of would-be players and a bunch too of have-beens that will trot out on the diamond to be put through their paces. One thing is certain, though, and that is that you'll get your chance. There may be a whole lot of snobbery in college life--though there isn't half as much as people think--but, out on the ball field, it's a pure democracy. The only question there is whether you can deliver the goods. If you can, they don't care whether you're a new man or an old-timer. All they want is a winner." "Well," chimed in Tom, "they'll find that they have one in Bert. Just show them a little of the 'big medicine' you had in that last game with Newark High when you put out the side on three pitched balls. Gee, I never saw a more disgusted bunch of ball tossers. Just when they thought they had the game all sewed up and put away in their bat bag, too." "That's all right," said Bert, "but you must remember that those high school fellows were a different proposition from a bunch of seasoned old college sluggers. When I come up against them, if I ever do, they'll probably smash the back fences with the balls I feed to them." "Some of them certainly can slaughter a pitcher's curves," laughed Dick. "Old Pendleton, for instance, would have the nerve to start a batting rally against three-fingered Brown, and Harry Lord wouldn't be hypnotized even if Matty glared at him." "I understand you did some fence breaking yourself last Spring on the scrubs," said Tom. "Steve Thomas told me you were the heaviest batter in college." "O, I don't know," returned Dick modestly, "I led them in three-base hits and my batting average was .319, but Pendleton was ahead of me in the matter of home runs. I hope to do better next Spring, though, as Ainslee, the coach, gave me some valuable tips on hitting them out. At first I swung too much and tried to knock the cover off the ball. The result was that when I did hit the ball it certainly traveled some. But many a time I missed them because I took too long a swing. Ainslee showed me how to chop at the ball with a sharp, quick stroke that caught it just before the curve began to break. Then all the power of my arms and shoulders leaned up against the ball at just the right second. Ainslee says that Home-Run Baker uses that method altogether, and you know what kind of a hitter he is. I got it down pretty fine before the season ended, and if I make the team next Spring----" "If you make it," said Bert incredulously. "As though it wasn't a dead certainty." "Not a bit of it," protested Dick, seriously. "You never can tell from year to year. You can't live on your reputation at college. There may be a regular Hal Chase among the new recruits, and he may win the first base position over me without half trying. It's a good thing it is so, too, because we have to keep hustling all the time or see somebody else step into our shoes. The result is that when the team is finally licked into shape by the coaches, it represents the very best the college can turn out. It's a fighting machine that never knows when it is whipped and never quits trying until the last man is out in the ninth inning." "Yes," broke in Tom, "and that's what makes college baseball so much more pleasing than the regular professional game. The fellows go at it in such deadly earnest. It is the spirit of Napoleon's Marshal: 'The Old Guard dies, but never surrenders.' The nine may be beaten, but not disgraced, and, when the game is over, the winning team always knows that it has been in a fight." "Well," said Bert, as the fellows rose to go, "if we do make the team, it won't be through lack of trying if we fail to land the pennant." "No," laughed Dick. "Our epitaph at least will be that of the Texas cowboy, "'He done his blamedest--angels can no more.'" A week later, the three friends--for Tom and Mr. Hollis had won his father over--stood on the deck of a Sound steamer, saying goodby to those who had come to see them off. Mr. Hollis wrung Bert's hand, just as the last bell rang and he prepared to go down the gangway. "Good luck, Bert, and whatever else you do, don't forget to touch second." He smiled at Bert's puzzled expression, and added: "I mean, my boy, be thorough in all you do. End what you begin. Don't be satisfied with any half-way work. Many a man has made a brilliant start, but a most dismal finish. In work, in play, in the whole great game of life--touch second." CHAPTER II "MAKING THE TEAM" The Fall and Winter passed quickly. Bert and Dick roomed together in one of the dormitories close to the main buildings, while Tom had his quarters on the floor below. The feeling of strangeness, inevitable at the start, soon wore off, and they quickly became a part of the swarming life that made the college a little world of its own. Here, too, as in the greater world outside, Bert found all sorts and conditions. There were the rich and the poor, the polished and the uncouth, the lazy and the energetic, good fellows and bad. But the good predominated. The great majority were fine, manly fellows, sound to the core. Dick's wide acquaintanceship with them and his familiarity with college customs were immensely helpful to Bert from the beginning, and he was soon a general favorite. The football season had been a triumphant one, and another gridiron championship had been added to the many that had preceded it. There had been a surplus of good material left over from the year before, and the time was so short that Bert had not tried for the team. At the outset, too, his studies taxed him so heavily that he did not feel justified in giving the necessary attention to the great game, that, in his estimation, almost divided honors with baseball. He had done a little playing with the scrubs, however, and on his class team, and the qualities he displayed in "bucking the line" had marked him out to the coaches, as a factor to be reckoned with in the following seasons. The Christmas holidays had come and gone almost before he knew it, and when he returned for his second term, he buckled down to work with all his might. His chosen field of electricity held constant surprises for him, as it became more familiar. If he had any specialty, it was wireless telegraphy. There was an irresistible attraction in the mysterious force that bound the ends of the earth together by an electric spark, that leaped over oceans with no conductor but the air, that summoned help for sinking vessels when all other hope was gone. He felt that the science was as yet only in its infancy, and that it held untold possibilities for the future. The splendidly equipped laboratories gave him every opportunity and encouragement for original work, and his professors foresaw a brilliant future for the enthusiastic young student. Spring came early that year. A soft wind blew up from the south, the sun shone warmly on the tender grass, the sap stirred blindly in the trees. It stirred also in the veins of the lusty college youth and called them to the outdoor life. Going down the hall, one morning, to his recitation room, Bert came across an eager group surrounding the bulletin board. He crowded nearer and saw that it was the call of the coach to baseball candidates to report on the following day. His heart leaped in response and the morrow seemed long in coming. Dressed in the old baseball togs that had done yeoman service on many a hard-fought field, he with Dick and Tom, who were quite as eager as himself, reported for the tryout. Perhaps a hundred ambitious youngsters were on hand, all aflame with desire to make the team and fight for the glory of Alma Mater. It was apparent at a glance, however, that many had ambition but nothing else. The qualities that had made them heroes on some village nine were plainly inadequate, when it came to shaping up for a college team. The hopes of many faded away when they saw the plays made by the seasoned veterans, who nonchalantly "ate up" balls and did stunts in practice that would have called out shouts of applause in a regular game. But whether marked for acceptance or rejection, all were as frolicsome as colts turned out to pasture. It was good to be young and to be alive. The coach threaded his way through the groups with an eye that apparently saw nothing, but, in reality, saw everything. He was a famous pitcher, known from one end of the country to the other. Himself an old-time graduate, he had the confidence of the faculty and the unbounded respect and admiration of the students. He had been given full charge and was an absolute autocrat. Whatever he said "went," and from his decision there was no appeal. He played no favorites, was not identified with any clique, and his sole desire was to duplicate the success of the preceding season and turn out a winner. To do this, he realized, would be no easy task. While his two chief rivals had maintained their strong teams almost intact, his own was "shot to pieces." Three had graduated, and they were among his heaviest hitters. Good old Pendleton, who had been a tower of strength at first base, who could take them with equal ease to right or left and "dig them out of the dirt," and whose hard slugging had many a time turned defeat into victory, would be hard to replace. His pitching staff was none too good. Winters lacked control, and Benson's arm was apt to give out about the seventh inning. Hinsdale was a good backstop, but his throwing to second was erratic. They had done too much stealing on him last year. Barry would be sadly missed at third, and it would be mighty hard to find a capable guardian for the "difficult corner." It was clear that he faced a tough problem, and the only solution was to be found, if at all, in the new material. As he glanced musingly around his eyes fell on Bert. They rested there. He knew a thoroughbred when he saw one, and this was undeniably a thoroughbred. The lithe form, supple as a leopard's, the fine play of shoulder muscles that the uniform could not conceal, the graceful but powerful swing, the snap with which the ball shot from his fingers as though released by a spring--all these he noticed in one practised glance. He sauntered over to where Bert was pitching. "Done much in the pitching line?" he asked carelessly. "A little," answered Bert modestly, "only on high school nines though." "What have you got in stock?" asked the coach. "Not much besides the old 'roundhouse' curve," replied Bert. "I don't think so much of my incurve, though I'm trying to make it break a little more sharply. I can do a little 'moist' flinging, too, though I haven't practised that much." "Don't," said the coach. "Cut out the spitball. It's bound to hurt your arm in the long run. Trot out your curve and let's have a look at it. Easy now," he said as Bert wound up, "don't put too much speed in it. You'll have plenty of chances to do that later on." The ball left Bert's hand with a jerk, and, just before it reached the center of the plate, swept in a sharp, tremendous curve to the outside, so that the catcher just touched it with the end of his fingers. "Not so bad," commented the coach carelessly, though his eyes lighted up. "Here, Drake," he called to a burly veteran who was looking on with interest, "take your wagon tongue and straighten out this youngster's curves." The good-natured giant, thus addressed, picked up his bat and came to the plate. "Get it over the plate now, kid, and I'll kill it," he grinned. A little flustered by this confidence, Bert sent one in waist high, just cutting the corner. Drake swung at it and missed it by six inches. "One strike," laughed the coach, and Drake, looking a little sheepish, set himself for the next. "Give him a fast one now, shoulder high," ordered the coach. Again the ball sped toward the plate and Drake struck at it after it had passed him and thudded into the catcher's glove. "Gee, I can't hit them if I can't see them," he protested, and the coach chuckled. "No," he said, as Bert poised himself for a third pitch, "no more just now. I don't want you to throw your arm out at practice. There are other days coming, and you won't complain of lack of work. Come out again to-morrow," and he walked away indifferently, while his heart was filled with exultation. If he had not unearthed a natural-born pitcher, he knew nothing about ball players. Drake was more demonstrative. While Bert was putting on his sweater, he came up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Say, Freshie," he broke out, "that was a dandy ball you whiffed me with. You certainly had me guessing. If that swift one you curled around my neck had hit me, I would have been seeing stars and hearing the birdies sing. And I nearly broke my back reaching for that curve. You've surely got something on the ball." "Oh, you'd have got me all right, if I'd kept on," answered Bert. "That was probably just a fluke, and I was lucky enough to get away with it." "Well, you can call it a fluke if you like," rejoined Drake, "but to me it looked suspiciously like big league pitching. Go to it, my boy, and I'll root for you to make the team." Bert flushed with pleasure at this generous meed of praise, doubly grateful as coming from an upper class man and hero of the college diamond. Dick coming up just then, they said good-by to Drake and started toward their dormitory. "What's this I hear about you, Bert?" asked Dick; "you've certainly made yourself solid with Ainslee. I accidentally heard him telling one of the assistant coaches that, while of course he couldn't be sure until he'd tried you out a little more, he thought he'd made a find." "One swallow doesn't make a summer," answered Bert. "I had Drake buffaloed all right, but I only pitched two balls. He might knock me all over the lot to-morrow." "Sufficient unto the day are the hits thereof," rejoined Dick; "the fact is that he _didn't_ hit you, and he has the surest eye in college. If he had fouled them, even, it would have been different, but Ainslee said he missed them by a mile. And even at that you weren't at full speed, as he told you not to cut loose to-day." "Well," said Bert, "if the lightning strikes my way, all right. But now I've got to get busy on my 'Sci' work, or I'll surely flunk to-morrow." The next day Bert was conscious of sundry curious glances when he went out for practice. News travels fast in a college community and Drake had passed the word that Ainslee had uncovered a "phenom." But the coach had other views and was in no mood to satisfy their curiosity. He had turned the matter over in his mind the night before and resolved to bring Bert along slowly. To begin with, while delighted at the boy's showing on the first time out, he realized that this one test was by no means conclusive. He was naturally cautious. He was "from Missouri" and had to be "shown." A dozen questions had to be answered, and, until they were, he couldn't reach any definite decision. Did the boy have stamina enough to last a full game? Was that wonderful curve of his under full control? Was his heart in the right place, or, under the tremendous strain of a critical game, would he go to pieces? Above all, was he teachable, willing to acknowledge that he did not "know it all," and eager to profit by the instruction that would be handed out in the course of the training season? If all these questions could be answered to his satisfaction, he knew that the most important of all his problems--that of the pitcher's box--was already solved, and that he could devote his attention to the remaining positions on the team. Pursuing this plan of "hastening slowly," he cut out all "circus" stunts in this second day's practice. Bert was instructed to take it easy, and confine himself only to moderately fast straight balls, in order to get the kinks out of his throwing arm. Curves were forbidden until the newness wore off and his arm was better able to stand the strain. The coach had seen too many promising young players ruined in trying to rush the season, and he did not propose to take any such chances with his new find. His keen eyes sparkled, as from his position behind the pitcher, he noted the mastery that Bert had over the ball. He seemed to be able to put it just where he wished. Whether the coach called for a high or a low ball, straight over the center of the plate or just cutting the corners, the ball obeyed almost as though it were a living thing. Occasionally it swerved a little from the exact "groove" that it was meant to follow, but in the main, as Ainslee afterward confided to his assistant, "the ball was so tame that it ate out of his hand." He was far too cautious to say as much to Bert. Of all the dangers that came to budding pitchers, the "swelled head" was the one he most hated and detested. "Well," he said as he pretended to suppress a yawn, "your control is fairly good for a beginner. Of course I don't know how it will be on the curves, but we'll try them out too before long." "That," he went on warming to his subject, "is the one thing beyond all others you want to work for. No matter how much speed you've got or how wide your curve or how sharp your break, it doesn't amount to much, unless you can put the ball where you want it to go. Of course, you don't want to put every ball over the plate. You want to make them 'bite' at the wide ones. But when you are 'in the hole,' when there are two strikes and three balls, the winning pitcher is the one that nine times out of ten can cut the plate, and do it so surely that the umpire will have no chance to call it a ball. One of the greatest pitchers I ever knew was called the 'Curveless Wonder.' He didn't have either an incurve or an outcurve that was worth mentioning. But he had terrific speed, and such absolute ability to put the ball just where he wanted it, that for years he stood right among the headliners in the major leagues. Take my word for it, Wilson, a pitcher without control is like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out. Don't forget that." The respect with which Bert listened was deepened by his knowledge that Ainslee was himself famous, the country over, in this same matter of control. A few more comments on minor points, and the coach walked away to watch the practice of his infield candidates. Now that Pendleton had graduated, the logical successor of the great first baseman seemed to be Dick Trent, who had held the same position on the scrubs the year before, and who had pressed Pendleton hard for the place. The first base tradition demands that it be occupied by a heavy batter, and there was no doubt that in this particular Dick filled the bill. His average had been well above the magic .300 figures that all players covet, and now that he had conquered his propensity to excessive swinging, he might fairly be expected to better these figures this year. As a fielder, he was a sure catch on thrown balls either to right or left, and his height and reach were a safe guarantee that not many wild ones would get by him. He was lightning quick on double plays, and always kept his head, even in the most exciting moments of the game. If he had any weakness, it was, perhaps, that he did not cover quite as deep a field as Pendleton used to, but that was something that careful coaching could correct. None of the other candidates seemed at all above the average, and, while yet keeping an open mind, the coach mentally slated Dick for the initial bag. Second and short, as he said to himself with a sigh of relief, were practically provided for. Sterling at the keystone bag and White at shortfield were among the brightest stars of the college diamond, and together with Barry and Pendleton had formed the famous "stonewall" infield that last year had turned so many sizzling hits to outs. Barry--ah, there was a player! A perfect terror on hard hit balls, a fielder of bunts that he had never seen excelled, even among professional players. He remembered the screeching liner that he had leaped into the air and pulled down with one hand, shooting it down to first for a double play in the last game of the season. It had broken up a batting rally and saved the game when it seemed lost beyond redemption. Well, there were as good fish in the sea as ever were caught, and no man was so good but what another just as good could be found to take his place. But where to find him? There was the rub. That cub trying out now at third--what was his name?--he consulted the list in his hand--oh, yes, Henderson--he rather fancied his style. He certainly handled himself like a ball player. But there--you never could tell. He might simply be another "false alarm." At this moment the batter sent a scorching grounder toward third, but a little to the left of the base. Tom flung himself toward it, knocked it down with his left hand, picked it up with the right and scarcely waiting to get "set" shot it like a flash to first. The coach gasped at the scintillating play, and White called out: "Classy stuff, kid, classy stuff. That one certainly had whiskers on it." "Hey, there, Henderson," yelled the coach, "go easy there. Float them down. Do you want to kill your arm with that kind of throwing?" But to himself he said: "By George, what a 'whip' that fellow's got. That ball didn't rise three inches on the way to first. And it went into Drake knee high. That youngster will certainly bear watching." And watch him he did with the eye of a hawk, not only that afternoon, but for several weeks thereafter until the hope became a certainty that he had found a worthy successor to the redoubtable Barry, and his infield would be as much of a "stonewall" that season as the year before. With Hodge in right, Flynn in center and Drake in left, his outfield left nothing to be desired, either from a fielding or batting point of view, and he could now devote himself entirely to the development of his batteries. Under his masterly coaching, Bert advanced with great rapidity. He had never imagined that there was so much in the game. He learned from this past-master in the art how to keep the batter "hugging first"; the surest way of handling bunts; the quick return of the ball for the third strike before the unsuspecting batter can get "set," and a dozen other features of "inside stuff" that in a close game might easily turn the scale. Ainslee himself often toed the plate and told Bert to send in the best he had. His arm had attained its full strength, under systematic training, and he was allowed to use his curves, his drop, his rise ball and the swift, straight one that, as Flynn once said, "looked as big as a balloon when it left his hand, but the size of a pea when it crossed the plate." One afternoon, when Ainslee had taken a hand in the batting practice, Bert fed him an outcurve, and the coach smashed it to the back fence. A straight high one that followed it met with no better fate. It was evident that Ainslee had his "batting eye" with him that afternoon, and could not be easily fooled. "Send in the next," he taunted, good-naturedly, "I don't think you can outguess me to-day." A little nettled at his discomfiture, Bert wound up slowly. For some time past he had been quietly trying out a new delivery that he had stumbled upon almost by accident. He called it his "freak" ball. He had thrown it one day to Dick, when, after the regular practice, they were lazily tossing the ball to and fro. It had come in way below where Dick's hands were waiting for it, and the latter was startled. It was a "lulu," he said emphatically. It could not be classed with any of the regulation curves. Bert had kept it under cover until he could get perfect control of it. Now he had got it to the point where he could put it just where he wanted it, and as he looked at the smiling face of the coach he resolved to "uncork" it. He took a long swing and let it go. It came to the plate like a bullet, hesitated, slowed, then dropped down and in, a foot below the wild lunge that the coach made for it. His eyes bulged, and he almost dropped the bat. "What was that?" he asked. "How did you do it? Put over another one." A second one proved just as puzzling, and the coach, throwing his bat aside, came down to the pitcher's box. He was clearly excited. "Now, what was it?" he asked; "it wasn't an incurve, a drop, or a straight, but a sort of combination of them all. It was a new one on me. How do you hold your hand when you throw it?" "Why," replied Bert, "when I throw it, the palm is held toward the ground instead of toward the sky, as it is when I pitch an outcurve. The wrist is turned over and the hand held down with the thumb toward the body, so that when the ball slips off the thumb with a twisting motion it curves in toward the batter. I grip it in the same way as an outcurve. Just as it twists off the thumb I give it a sharp snap of the wrist. It spins up to the plate, goes dead, then curves sharply down and in." "Well," said the coach, "it's certainly a dandy. We must develop it thoroughly, but we'll do it on the quiet. I rather think we'll have a surprise for 'our friends the enemy,' when the race begins. It's just as well to have an ace up our sleeve. That ball is in a class by itself. It just seems to melt while you are trying to locate it. If I were to give it a name at all, I'd call it a 'fadeaway.'" And so Bert's new delivery was christened. As they walked back to the college both were exultant. They would have been still more so, if at that moment they had begun to realize the havoc and dismay that would be spread among their opponents before the season ended by Bert's fadeaway ball. CHAPTER III THE "INSIDE" GAME "Well, Tom, I see that you lead off in the batting order," said Bert, as they sat in his rooms at the close of the day's work. "Yes," said Tom, "Ainslee seems to think that I am a good waiter, as well as a pretty fair sprinter, and I suppose that is the reason he selected me." "'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" recited Dick, who was always ready with an apt quotation. "Well," laughed Bert, "I don't suppose the poet ever dreamed of that application, but, all the same, it is one of the most important things in the game to lead off with a man who has nerve and sense enough to wait. In the first place, the pitcher is apt to be a little wild at the start and finds it hard to locate the plate. I know it's an awful temptation to swing at a good one, if it is sandwiched in between a couple of wild ones, and, of course, you always stand the chance of being called out on strikes. But at that stage of the game he is more likely to put over four balls than three strikes, and if you do trot down to first, you've got three chances of reaching home. A sacrifice will take you down to second, and then with only one man out and two good batters coming up, a single to the outfield brings you home." "Then, too, you went around the bases in fifteen seconds flat, the other day," said Dick, "and that's some running. I noticed Ainslee timing you with his split-second watch, and when he put it back in his pocket he was smiling to himself." "Flynn comes second, I see," said Bert, consulting his list, "and that's a good thing too. He is one of the best 'place' hitters on the team. He has the faculty that made Billy Keeler famous, of 'hitting them where they ain't.' He's a dandy too at laying down a bunt, just along the third-base line. If any man can advance you to second, Flynn can." "Yes," said Tom, "with Drake up next, swinging that old wagon tongue of his, and then Dick coming on as a clean-up hitter, it will have to be pretty nifty pitching that will keep us from denting the home plate." "Last year the team had a general batting average of .267," chimed in Dick. "If we can match that this year, I guess there'll be no complaint. As a matter of fact, however, I'm a little dubious of doing that, especially with old Pendleton off the team. But if we come short a little there, I am counting on Bert holding down the batters on the other nines enough to make up for it." "If I get a chance, I'll do my very best," said Bert, "but perhaps I won't pitch in a regular game all season. You know how it is with a Freshman. He may have to sit on the bench all the time, while the upper class pitchers take their turn in the box. They've won their spurs and I haven't. They've 'stood the gaff' under the strain of exciting games, and pulled victories out of the fire. I might do it too, but nobody knows that, and I probably would not be called on to go in the box, except as a last resort. They may believe that I have the curve, but they are not at all sure that I have the nerve. Winters and Benson are going along now like a house afire, and if they are at top speed when the season begins I'll see the pennant won or lost from my seat on the bench." "Neither one of them has anything on you," maintained Tom stoutly. "Of course they are, in a certain sense, veterans, and then, too, they have the advantage of having faced before many of the players on the other teams. That counts for a lot, but you must remember that Hinsdale has caught for the last two years, and he knows these things as well as the pitchers. He knows their weak and their strong points, the ones that simply kill a low outcurve, but are as helpless as babies before a high fast one. He could quickly put you on to the batters' weakness. But outside of that you've got them faded. You have more speed than Winters and more endurance than Benson. Neither one of them has a license to beat you at any stage of the pitching game." "Perhaps it's your friendship rather than your judgment that's talking now, Tom," smiled Bert. "No," said Dick, "it isn't. Tom's right. You've got everything that they have, and then some. Winters' rise ball is certainly a peach, but it hasn't the quick jump yours has just before it gets to the plate. My eye isn't so bad, but in practice I bat under it every time. Even when I don't miss it altogether, I hit it on the underside and raise a fly to the fielders. It's almost impossible to line it out. And your fast high one is so speedy that a fellow backs away from the plate when he sees it coming. I don't know that your outcurve is any better than Benson's, but you certainly have it under better control." "On the dead quiet," he went on, "I'm rather worried about Winters this year, anyway. I think he's gone back. He's in with a fast bunch, and I fear has been going the pace. His fine work in the box last year made him a star and turned his head. It brought him a lot of popularity, and I'm afraid he isn't the kind that can stand prosperity. He doesn't go at his work in the right spirit this year. You all saw how he shirked the other day when we were training for wind." They readily recalled the incident to which Dick alluded. The practice had been strenuous that day, but the coach had been insistent. As a wind up, he had called for a run around the track to perfect their wind and endurance, as well as to get off some of the superfluous flesh that still interfered with their development. The players were tired, but, as the trainer didn't ask them to do what he was unwilling to do himself, they lined up without protest and trotted behind him around the track. At one place, there was a break in the fence which had not yet been repaired. Twice they made the circuit of the track, and some of them were blowing hard, when the relentless leader started on the third round. As they came abreast of the break, Winters, with a wink, slipped out of the line and got behind the fence. Here he stayed, resting, while the others jogged along. They made two circuits more, and when they came to where he was, Winters, fresh as a daisy, and grinning broadly, slipped into line again, and trotted along as though nothing had happened. The joke seemed certainly on the coach, who hadn't once turned his head, but pounded steadily along, in apparent unconsciousness that one of his sheep had not been following his leader. At the bench, after the sixth round, he slowed up. "Good work, boys," he said pleasantly, "that makes six full laps for all of us except Winters. We'll wait here, while he takes his other two." The grin faded from Winters' face, to be replaced by a hot flush, as his eyes fell before the steady look of the coach. There was no help for it, however. He had been caught "red-handed," and with a sheepish glance at his laughing comrades, he started on his lonely run around the course while they stood and watched him. Twice he made the circuit and then rejoined his companions. The coach said nothing more, as he felt that the culprit had been punished enough, but the story was too good to keep, and Winters was "joshed" unmercifully by his mates. The incident deepened the general respect felt for the coach, and confirmed the conviction that it was useless to try to fool him, as he had "eyes in the back of his head." He certainly needed all his keenness, in order to accomplish the task he had set himself. The time was wearing away rapidly, and before long he would have to rejoin his own team for the championship season. There had been a good deal of rain, and practice in the field had been impossible for days at a time. To be sure he had the "cage" for use in rainy weather. This was a large rectangular enclosure, perhaps twice as long as the distance from the pitcher's box to home plate. The sides were made of rope that stopped the batted balls. There was ample room for battery work, and here, in bad weather, the pitchers and catchers toiled unceasingly, while the other players cultivated their batting eye, and kept their arms limber by tossing the ball about. But, at best, it was a makeshift, and did not compare for a moment with work in the open air on the actual diamond. And the days that now remained for that were distressingly few. So he drove them on without mercy. No galley slaves worked harder than these college boys for their temporary master. He was bound that not an ounce of superfluous flesh should remain on their bones at the beginning of the season. Gradually his work began to tell. The soreness and lameness of the first days disappeared. Arnica and witch hazel were no longer at a premium. The waistbands went in and the chests stood out. Their eyes grew bright, their features bronzed, their muscles toughened, and before long they were like a string of greyhounds tugging at the leash. He noted the change with satisfaction. Superb physical condition was the first essential of a winning team. His problem, however, was far from solved. It was only changed. He had made them athletes. Now he must make them ball players. Individually they were that already, in the purely mechanical features of the game. They were quick fielders, speedy runners and heavy batters. But they might be all these, and yet not be a winning team. They needed team work, the deft fitting in of each part with every other, the quick thinking that, in a fraction of a second, might change defeat to victory. His quick eye noticed, in the practice games, how far they came short of his ideal. Flynn, the other day, when he caught that fly far out in center, had hurled it into the plate when he had no earthly chance of getting the runner. If he had tried for Ames, who was legging it to third, it would have been an easy out. A moment later Ames counted on a single. Then there was that bonehead play, when, with Hinsdale on third and Hodge on first, he had given the signal for Hodge to make a break for second, so as to draw a throw from the catcher and thus let Hinsdale get in from third. Hodge had done his part all right, but Hinsdale had been so slow in starting that the catcher was waiting for him with the ball, when he was still twenty feet from the plate. He hated to think of that awful moment, when, with the bases full, White had deliberately tried to steal second, where Dick was already roosting. The crestfallen way in which White had come back to the bench, amid ironical cheers and boisterous laughter, was sufficient guarantee that that particular piece of foolishness would never be repeated. Luckily, it had only been in a practice game. Had it happened in a regular contest, a universal roar would have gone up from one end of the college world to the other, and poor White would never have heard the last of it. The coach was still sore from this special exhibition of "solid ivory," when, after their bath and rubdown, he called the boys together. "Now, fellows," he said, "I am going to talk to you as though you were human beings, and I want you to bring your feeble intelligence to bear, while I try to get inside your brain pans. They say that Providence watches over drunkards, fools and the Congress of the United States. I hope it also includes this bunch of alleged ball players. If ever any aggregation needed special oversight, this crowd of ping-pong players needs it. Now, you candidates for the old ladies' home, listen to me." And listen they did, while he raked them fore and aft and rasped and scorched them, until, when he finally let them go, their faces were flaming. No one else in college could have talked to them that way and "gotten away with it." But his word was law, his rule absolute, and, behind his bitter tongue, they realized his passion for excellence, his fierce desire of winning. It was sharp medicine, but it acted like a tonic, and every man left the "dissecting room," as Tom called it, determined from that time on he would play with his brains as well as his muscles. As the three chums went toward their rooms, they were overtaken by "Reddy," the trainer of the team. With the easy democracy of the ball field, he fell into step and joined in the conversation. "Pretty hot stuff the old man gave you, just now," he said, with his eyes twinkling. "Right you are," replied Bert, "but I guess we deserved it. I don't wonder that he was on edge. It certainly was some pretty raw baseball he saw played to-day." "Sure," assented Reddy, frankly. "It almost went the limit. And yet," he went on consolingly, "it might have been worse. He only tried to steal one base with a man already on it. Suppose he'd tried to steal three." The boys laughed. Reddy was a privileged character about the college. The shock of fiery hair, from which he had gained his nickname, covered a shrewd, if uneducated, mind. He had formerly been a big league star, but had fractured an ankle in sliding to second. The accident had only left a slight limp, but it had effectually destroyed his usefulness on the diamond. As a trainer and rubber, however, he was a wonder, and for many years he had been connected with the college in that capacity. It was up to him to keep the men in first-class condition, and he prided himself on his skill. No "charlie horse" could long withstand his ministrations, and for strains and sprains of every kind he was famous in the athletic world. His interest in and loyalty to the college was almost as great as that of the students themselves. He was in the full confidence of the coach, and was regarded by the latter as his right hand. If one was the captain of the college craft, the other was the first mate, and between them they made a strong combination. He was an encyclopedia of information on the national game. He knew the batting and fielding averages of all the stars for many years past, and his shrewd comments on men and things made him a most interesting companion. His knowledge of books might be limited, but his knowledge of the world was immense. He had taken quite a fancy to Bert and shared the conviction of the coach that he was going to be a tower of strength to the team. He never missed an opportunity of giving him pointers, and Bert had profited greatly by his advice and suggestion. Now, as they walked, he freed his mind along the same lines followed by the coach a little earlier. "That was the right dope that Ainslee gave you, even if it was mixed with a little tabasco," he said. "It's the 'inside stuff' that counts. I'd rather have a team of quick thinkers than the heaviest sluggers in the league. "Why," he went on, warming to his subject, "look at the Phillies when Ed Delehanty, the greatest natural hitter that ever lived, was in his prime. Say, I saw that fellow once make four home runs in one game against Terry of the Brooklyns. I don't suppose that a heavier batting bunch ever existed than the one they had in the league for three seasons, handrunning. Besides Ed himself, there was Flick and Lajoie, and a lot of others of the same kind, every one of them fence-breakers. You couldn't blame any pitcher for having palpitation of the heart when he faced that gang. They were no slouches in the field, either. Now, you'd naturally think that nobody would have a chance against them. Every year the papers touted them to win the pennant, but every year, just the same, they came in third or fourth at the end of the season. Now, why was it they didn't cop the flag? I'll tell you why. It was because every man was playing for himself. He was looking out for his record. Every time a man came to the bat, he'd try to lose the ball over the back fence. They wouldn't bunt, they wouldn't sacrifice, they wouldn't do anything that might hurt that precious record of theirs. It was every man for himself and no man for the team, and they didn't have a manager at the head of them that was wise enough or strong enough to make them do as they were told. "Now, on the other hand, look at the White Sox. Dandy fielders, but for batting--why, if they fell in the river they wouldn't strike the water. All around the league circuit, they were dubbed the 'Hitless Wonders.' But they were quick as cats on their feet, and just as quick in knowing what to do at any stage of the game. What hits they did get counted double. They didn't get men on the bases as often as the Phillies, but they got them home oftener, and that's what counts when the score is added up. That sly old fox, Comiskey, didn't miss a point. It was a bunt or a sacrifice or a long fly to the outfield or waiting for a base on balls or anything else he wanted. The men forgot about themselves and only thought of the team, and those same 'Hitless Wonders' won the pennant in a walk. "Now, that's just the difference between dumb and brainy playing and that's what makes Ainslee so hot when he sees a bonehead stunt like that one this afternoon." "I suppose that you saw no end of that inside stuff pulled off while you were in the big league," said Tom. "What do you think is the brightest bit of thinking you ever saw on the ball field?" "Well," said Reddy musingly, "that's hard to tell. I've certainly seen some stunts on the diamond that would make your hair curl. Some of them went through, and others were good enough to go through, even if they didn't. It often depends on the way the umpire looks at it. And very often it gets by, because the umpire doesn't look at it at all. Many's the time I've seen Mike Kelly of the old Chicagos--the receiving end of the ten-thousand-dollar battery--cut the corners at third when the umpire wasn't looking, and once I saw him come straight across the diamond from second to the plate without even making a bluff of going to third. Oh, he was a bird, was Mike. "I shall never forget one day when the Chicagos were behind until they came to the plate for their ninth inning. They were a husky bunch of swatters and never more dangerous than when they were behind. Well, they made two runs in that inning, tieing the score and then putting themselves one to the good. The Bostons came in for their last turn at the bat and by the time two men were out they had the bases full. One safe hit to the outfield was all they needed, and they sent a pinch-hitter to the bat to bring in the fellows that were dancing about on the bases. "It was a dreary, misty afternoon, and, from the grandstand you could hardly see the fielders. Mike was playing right that day, and the man at the bat sent a screaming liner out in his direction. He saw at a glance that he couldn't possibly get his hands on it, but he turned around and ran with the ball, and, at the last moment, jumped into the air and apparently collared it. He waved his hands as a signal that he had it and made off to the clubhouse. The umpire called the batter out and the game was over. His own teammates hadn't tumbled to the trick, until Mike told them that he hadn't come anywhere near the ball, and that at that very moment it was somewhere out on the playing field. It came out later, and there was some talk of protesting the game, but nothing ever came of it. When it came to quick work, Mike was certainly 'all wool and a yard wide.'" The boys did not express an opinion as to the moral quality of the trick, and Reddy went on: "Perhaps the slickest thing I ever saw was one that Connie Mack put over on old Cap Anson of the Chicagos, and, believe me, anybody who could fool him was going some. His playing days are over now, and all you kids know of him is by reputation, but, take him by and large, a better player never pulled on a glove. Well, as I was saying, Anson was playing one day in Pittsburgh and Mack was catching against him. It had been a game of hammer and tongs right up to the last inning. The Chicagos, as the visiting team, came to the bat first in the ninth inning. The Pittsburghs were one ahead and all they needed to win was to hold the Chicagos scoreless. Two were out and two on bases when old 'Pop' Anson came to the bat. There wasn't a man in the league at that time that a pitcher wouldn't rather have seen facing him than the 'Big Swede.' However, there was no help for it, and the twirler put on extra steam and managed to get two strikes on him. The old man set himself for the third, with fierce determination to 'kill' the ball or die in the attempt. Mack walked up to the pitcher and told him to send in a ball next time, and then, the instant the ball was returned to him, to put over a strike. The pitcher did as directed, and sent over a wide one. Of course, Anson didn't offer to hit it, but Mack caught it. "'Third strike,' he said, throwing off his mask and shin-guards, as though the game were over. "'Third strike nothing,' growled Anson. 'What's the matter with you, anyway?' and the umpire also motioned Connie back to the plate. "'Why, wasn't that a strike?' said Mack, coming back to the plate. At the same instant the pitcher sent a beauty right over the center of the rubber. Mack caught it, and before Anson knew the ball had been pitched, the umpire said, 'You're out.' "Holler? Say, you could have heard him from Pittsburgh to Chicago. It went, though. You see, Anson, looking at Connie without his mask or shin-guards, was figuring that he would have to get into all that harness again, before the game went on. He took too much for granted, and it doesn't pay to do that in baseball. I don't suppose he ever forgave Connie for making him look like thirty cents before that holiday crowd. And I don't suppose that Mack would have taken a thousand dollars for the satisfaction it gave him to tally one on the old man. "You fellows wouldn't believe me, I suppose, if I told you I seen a dog pull some of that inside stuff once? Sure, I ain't fooling, although of course the pup didn't know he was doing it. It was in Detroit when a big game was on and the home team was at the bat. They needed three runs to win and there were two men on bases. The batter lined out a peach between left and center. There were no automobiles in those days, but a whole raft of carriages were down back of center field. A big coach dog saw the ball coming and chased it, got it in his mouth and scooted down under the bleachers, the left and center fielders yelling to him to drop it and racing after him like mad. He was a good old rooter for the home team, all right, though, and, by the time they got it away from him, the whole bunch had crossed the plate and the game was won. The home team boys found out whom he belonged to, and clubbed together and got him a handsome collar. "Another funny thing I seen one time that makes me laugh whenever I think of it," continued Reddy, "was when a high fly was hit to left field with three men on bases. It ought to have been an easy out and nine times out of ten would have been. But, as luck would have it, the ball slipped through the fielder's fingers and went into the outside upper pocket of his baseball shirt. He tried desperately to get it out, but it was wedged in so tight he couldn't. All this time the men were legging it around the bases. At last, Mitchell--that was the fellow's name--ran in toward third and caught the batter, just as he was rounding the base on his way to home. He grabbed him and hugged him tight and they fell to the ground together. Say, you'd have died laughing if you'd seen them two fellows wrestling, Mitchell trying to force the other man's hand into his pocket so that the ball could touch him, and the other fighting to keep his hand out. It was a hard thing for the umpire to settle, but he finally let the run count on the ground that Mitchell had no right to interfere with him. Poor old Mitchell was certainly up against it that day, good and plenty." By this time they had reached the college dormitory, and the boys reluctantly bade Reddy good-by. They had been immensely amused and interested by his anecdotes, although they did not altogether agree with his easy philosophy of life. To Reddy all was fair in love or war or baseball, provided you could "put it over." "But it isn't," said Bert, as they went upstairs. "Strategy is one thing and cheating is another. It's all right to take your opponent unawares and take advantage of his carelessness or oversight. If he's slow and you're quick, if he's asleep and you're awake, you've got a perfect right to profit by it. Now take for instance that case of Mack and Anson. Whether that was a strike or a ball was a thing to be decided by the umpire alone, and Anson ought not to have paid any attention to Mack's bluff. Then, too, because Mack usually put on his mask and shin-guards before the ball was pitched, Anson had no right to assume that he would _always_ do so. Mack acted perfectly within his rights, and Anson was simply caught napping and had no kick coming. "But when you come to 'cutting the corners' and pretending that the ball was caught when it wasn't, that isn't straight goods. It's 'slick,' all right, but it is the slickness of the crooked gambler and the three-card monte man. It's playing with marked cards and loaded dice, and I don't care for any of it in mine." "Right you are, old fellow," said Tom, heartily, clapping him on the back, "my sentiments to a dot. I want to win and hate to lose, but I'd rather lose a game any day than lie or cheat about it." Which he was to prove sooner than he expected. CHAPTER IV THE TRIPLE PLAY The days flew rapidly by and the time drew near for the Spring trip. All the members of the team were to get a thorough trying out in actual games with the crack teams of various colleges before the regular pennant race began. Then the "weeding out" process would have been completed, and only those remain on the team who had stood the test satisfactorily. The trip was to take about two weeks, and they were to "swing around the circle" as far west as Cincinnati and as far south as Washington. They did not expect much trouble in coming back with a clean score. As one of the "Big Three," their team was rarely taken into camp by any of the smaller colleges. They usually won, occasionally tied, but very seldom lost. Yet, once in a while, their "well-laid schemes" "went agley" and they met with a surprise party from some husky team that faced them unafraid and refused to be cowed by their reputation. Bert's college was one of the largest and most important in the country. The "Big Three" formed a triangular league by themselves alone. Each played three games with each of the other two, and the winner of the majority was entitled to claim the championship of the "Big Three." And it was generally, though not officially, admitted, that the team capable of such a feat was the greatest college baseball team in the whole country. Their games were followed by the papers with the greatest interest and fully reported. The "Blues," as Bert's college was usually referred to on account of the college colors, had won the pennant the year before from the "Grays" and the "Maroons," their traditional opponents, after a heart-breaking struggle, and columns of newspaper space had been devoted to the concluding game. This year, however, the prediction had been freely made that history would not repeat itself. Both the Grays and Maroons were composed of tried and tested veterans, while, as we have seen, Ainslee had been compelled to fill several important positions with new material. No matter how good this might prove to be, it takes time and practice to weld it together in one smooth machine, and it is seldom done in a single season. Moreover, the time was at hand when Ainslee would have to rejoin his own team, and his keen eye still noted a number of rough places that needed planing and polishing. For this reason he was all the more anxious to secure good results during this trip. After it was over, he would have to turn over the team to a manager and to Reddy, the assistant coach and trainer. The manager would confine himself chiefly to the technical and financial features, but it was arranged that Reddy should have full charge of the team on the field. Ainslee reposed implicit confidence in him because of his shrewd judgment, his knowledge of men, and his vast baseball experience. West Point was to be their first stop, and it was a jolly crowd, full of the joy and zest of living, that embarked on the steamer _Hendrik Hudson_, and sailed up the lordly river, the finest in the world, as most of the boys agreed, though some, who had traveled, were inclined to favor the claims of the Rhine to that distinction. They were disposed to envy the Dutch explorer, who, first among civilized men, had sailed up the river that bore his name and feasted his eyes upon its incomparable beauty; a delight that contrasted so strongly with the final scene when he and his little son had been thrust by a mutinous crew into an open boat on storm-tossed Arctic waters, and left to perish miserably. The reward, as Dick cynically insisted, of most of the world's great benefactors, who have been stoned, burned, or otherwise slain by their fellows, while posterity, too late, has crowned them with laurels and honored them with monuments. The game with Uncle Sam's cadets was a fight "for blood," as was entirely appropriate for future soldiers. In the seventh, with the cadets one run behind, one of them attempted to steal from second to third. Hinsdale got the ball down to Tom like a shot, but, in the mix-up, it was hard to tell whether the runner had made the base or not. The umpire at first called it out, but the captain of the cadets kicked so vigorously that the umpire asked Tom directly whether he had touched him in time. For an instant Tom hesitated, but only for an instant. Then he straightened up and answered frankly: "No, I didn't; he just beat me to it." It is only just to Tom's companions to say that, after the first minute of disappointment, they felt that he could and should have done nothing else. The standard of college honor is high, and when it came to a direct issue, few, if any, of the boys would have acted differently. Even Reddy, with his free and easy views on winning games "by hook or crook," as long as you win them, felt a heightened respect for Tom, although he shook his head dubiously when the man from third came home on a sacrifice, tieing the score. The tie still persisted in the ninth, and the game went into extra innings. In the tenth the Blues scored a run and the cadets made a gallant effort to do the same, or even "go them one better." A man was on second and another on third, when one of their huskiest batters came to the plate. He caught the ball squarely "on the seam" and sent it straight toward third, about two feet over Tom's head. He made a tremendous jump, reached up his gloved hand and the ball stuck there. That of course put out the batter. The man on third, thinking it was a sure hit, was racing to the plate. As Tom came down, he landed right on the bag, thus putting out the runner, who had turned and was desperately trying to get back. In the meantime the man on second, who had taken a big lead, had neared third. As he turned to go back to second, Tom chased him and touched him just before he reached the bag. Three men were out, the game was won, and Tom was generously cheered, even by the enemy, while his comrades went wild. He had made a "triple play unassisted," the dream of every player and one of the rarest feats ever "pulled off" on the baseball diamond. During the trip, Winters and Benson occupied the pitcher's box more often than Bert, and it was evident that, despite Bert's showing in the early spring practice, both Ainslee and Reddy were more inclined to pin their faith this season on their tested stars than on the new recruit. They really believed that Bert had "more on the ball" than either of the others, but were inclined to let him have a year on the bench before putting him in for the "big" games. They knew the tremendous importance of experience and they also knew how nerve-racking was the strain of playing before a crowd of perhaps twenty-five thousand frenzied rooters. Bert _might_ do this, but Winters and Benson had actually _done_ it, and they could not leave this significant fact out of their calculations. So they carried him along gradually, never letting up on their instruction and advice and occasionally putting him in to pitch one or two innings to relieve the older men after the game was pretty surely won. Bert was too sensible and sportsmanlike to resent this, and followed with care and enthusiasm the training of his mentors. A better pair of teachers could not have been found and Bert made rapid progress. Something new was constantly coming up, and, as he confided to Dick, he never dreamed there was such a variety of curves. There was "the hook," "the knuckle," "the palm," "the high floater," "the thumb jump," "the cross fire," and so many others that there seemed to be no end to them. But though he sought to add them all to his repertory, he followed Ainslee's earnest urging to perfect his wonderful fadeaway, and gave more attention to that than to any other. "And to think," he said to Tom, one day, "it isn't so very long ago that people didn't believe it was possible to throw a curve ball at all and learned men wrote articles to show that it couldn't be done." "Yes," said Tom, "they remind me of the eminent scientist who wrote a book proving, to his own satisfaction, at least, that a vessel couldn't cross the Atlantic under steam. But the first copy of the book that reached America was brought over by a steamer." "Yes," chimed in Dick, "they were like the farmer who had read the description of a giraffe and thought it a fairy story. One day a circus came to town with a giraffe as one of its attractions. The farmer walked all around it, and then, turning to his friends, said stubbornly, 'There ain't no such animal.'" Reddy joined in the laugh that followed and took up the conversation. "Well," he said, while the others in the Pullman car in which they were traveling drew around him, for they always liked to see him get started on his recollections, "the honor of having discovered the curve rests between Arthur Cummings and Bobby Mathews. It's never been clearly settled which 'saw it first.' Before their time it used to be straight, fast ones and a slow teaser that was thrown underhand. But even at that, don't run away with the idea that those old fellows weren't some pitchers. Of course, they were handicapped by the fact that at first they had to keep on pitching until the player hit it. The four-ball rule, and making a foul count for a hit, and all those modern things that have been invented to help the pitcher, hadn't been thought of then. Naturally, that made heavy batting games. Why, I know that the old Niagara team of Buffalo won a game once by 201 to 11." "Yes," broke in Ainslee, "and the first college game in 1859 was won by Amherst over Williams by a score of 66 to 32." "Gee," said Hinsdale, "the outfielders in those days must have had something to do, chasing the ball." "They certainly did," agreed Reddy, "but, of course, that sort of thing didn't last very long. The pitchers soon got the upper hand, and then, good-by to the big scores. "I suppose," he went on, "that the real beginning of baseball, as we know it to-day, goes back to the old 'Red Stockings' of Cincinnati, in '69 and '70. There was a team for you. George and Harry Wright and Barnes and Spalding, and a lot of others just as good, went over the country like a prairie fire. There wasn't anybody that could stand up against them. Why, they went all though one season without a single defeat. It got to be after a while that the other teams felt about them just as they say boxers used to feel when they stood up against Sullivan. They were whipped before they put up their hands. The next year they got their first defeat at the hands of the old Atlantics of Brooklyn. I was a wee bit of a youngster then, but I saw that game through a hole in the fence. Talk about excitement! At the end of the ninth inning the score was tied, and the Atlantics were anxious to stop right there. It was glory enough to tie the mighty Red Stockings--a thing that had never been done before--without taking any further chances. But Harry Wright, the captain, was stubborn--I guess he was sorry enough for it afterwards--and the game went on, only to have the Atlantics win in the eleventh by a score of 7 to 6. I've seen many a game since, but never one to equal that. "Of course the game has kept on improving all the time. I ain't denying that. There used to be a good deal of 'rough stuff' in the old days. The gamblers started in to spoil it, and sometimes as much as $20,000 would be in the mutual pools that used to be their way of betting. Then, too, the players didn't use to get much pay and, with so much money up, it was a big temptation to 'throw' games. It got to be so, after a while, that you wouldn't know whether the game was on the level or not. The only salvation of the game was to have some good strong men organize and put it on a solid footing and weed out the grafters. They did this and got a gang of them 'dead to rights' in the old Louisville team. They expelled four of them and barred them from the game forever, and, although they moved heaven and earth to get back, they never did. And since that time the game has been as clean as a hound's tooth. As a matter of fact, it's about the only game in America, except perhaps football, that you can count on as being absolutely on the square. "It's a great sport, all right, and I don't wonder it is called the national game. It's splendid exercise for every muscle of the body and every faculty of the brain. Rich or poor, great or small, everybody with a drop of sporting blood in his veins likes it, even if he can't play it. At the Washington grounds a box seat is reserved for the President, and I notice that no matter how heavy the 'cares of state,' he's usually on hand and rooting for the home team. Why, I've heard that when the committee went to notify Lincoln that he was nominated for President, he was out at the ball ground, playing 'one old cat,' and the committee had to wait until he'd had his turn at bat. It may not be true, but it's good enough to be." "And not only is it our national game," put in Ainslee, "but other countries are taking it up as well. They have dandy baseball teams in Cuba and Japan, that would make our crack nines hustle to beat them, and, in Canada, it is already more popular than cricket." "I've heard," said Tom, "that not long ago they made a cable connection with some island way up in the Arctic Circle. The World's Series was being played then, and the very first message that came over the cable from the little bunch of Americans up there was: 'What's the score?'" "Yes," laughed Ainslee, "it gets in the blood, and with the real 'dyed in the wool' fan it's the most important thing in the world. You've heard perhaps of the pitcher who was so dangerously sick that he wasn't expected to live. The family doctor stood at the bedside and took his temperature. He shook his head gravely. "'It's 104,' he said. "'You're a liar,' said the pitcher, rousing himself, 'my average last season was .232, and it would have been more if the umpire hadn't robbed me.'" The train drew up at Washington just then, and the laughing crowd hustled to get their traps together. Here they played the last game of the season with the strong Georgetown University nine, and just "nosed them out" in an exciting game that went eleven innings. While in the city they visited the Washington Monument, that matchless shaft of stone that dwarfs everything else in the National Capital. Of course the boys wanted to try to catch a ball dropped from the top, but the coach would not consent. "Only two or three men in the world have been able to do that," he said, "and they took big chances. I've had too much trouble getting you fellows in good condition, to take any needless risks." So the boys turned homeward, bronzed, trained, exultant over their string of well-earned victories, and, in the approving phrase of Reddy, "fit to fight for a man's life." Ainslee left them at New York to join his team amid a chorus of cheers from the young athletes that he had done so much to form. From now on, it was "up to them" to justify his hopes and bring one more pennant to the dear old Alma Mater. CHAPTER V WINNING HIS SPURS "Play ball!" shouted the umpire, and the buzz of conversation in the grandstand ceased. All eyes were fastened on the two teams about to enter on the first important game of the season, and people sat up straight and forgot everything else, so great was their interest in the forthcoming event. All the games that the Blues had played up to this time had been with teams over which they felt reasonably sure of winning a victory, but the nine they had to face to-day was a very different proposition. Most of the young fellows composing it were older and had had more experience than the Blues, and the latter knew that they would have to do their very utmost to win, if win they did. The thing they most relied on, however, was the fact that their pitcher was very good, and they believed that he would probably win the day for them. Of course, they had a lot of confidence in themselves, too, but the importance of a steady, efficient pitcher to any team can hardly be exaggerated. It gives them a solid foundation on which to build up a fast, winning team, and nobody realized this better than Mr. Ainslee, their veteran coach. "Only give me one good pitcher," he was wont to say, "and I'll guarantee to turn out a team that will win the college championship." The star on the college team this year, Winters, was, without doubt, an exceptionally good pitcher. He had considerable speed and control, and his curves could generally be counted on to elude the opposing batsmen. He was the only son in a wealthy family, however, and, as a consequence, had a very exaggerated idea of his own importance. He was inclined to look down on the fellows who did not travel in what he called "his set," and often went out of his way to make himself disagreeable to them. As Dick put it, "He liked to be the 'main squeeze,'" and he had been much irritated over the way in which Bert had attracted the coach's attention, and the consequent talk on the campus regarding the "new pitcher." He and his friends made it a point to sneer at and discredit these stories, however, and to disparage Bert on every possible occasion. The veteran trainer had not forgotten, however, and moreover he was worried in secret about Winters. It was, of course, his duty to see that all the players attended strictly to business, and let no outside interests interfere with their training. Of late, however, he had heard from several sources that Winters had been seen in the town resorts at various times when he was supposed to be in bed, and Reddy knew, none better, what that meant. However, he hoped that the pitcher would not force him to an open rebuke, and so had said nothing as yet. Nevertheless, as has been said, he kept Bert in mind as a possible alternative, although he hoped that he would not be forced to use him. "He's had too little experience yet," he mused. "If I should put him in a game, he'd go up like a rocket, most likely. Them green pitchers can't be relied upon, even if he did fool Ainslee," and the veteran, in spite of his worry, was forced to smile over the memory of how Bert had struck the great coach out in practice. Previous to the actual start of the game both teams had been warming up on the field, and each had won murmurs of applause from the grandstands. To the wise ones, however, it was apparent that the Blues were a trifle shaky in fielding work, and many were seen to shake their heads dubiously. "The youngsters will have to do some tall hustling if they expect to win from the visitors," one gray-haired man was heard to say, "but they say they have a crackerjack pitcher, that's one thing in their favor." "Yes, of course," agreed his friend, "but it's not only that; the other fellows have had a whole lot more experience than our boys. And that counts an awful lot when it comes to a pinch." "You're right, it does," acquiesced the other; "however, there's no use crossing the bridge till we come to it. We'll hope for the best, anyway." After a little more practice both teams retired to the clubhouse to make their last preparations. Not many minutes later everything was in readiness, and the teams trotted into their positions. Of course, the visitors went to bat first, and then could be heard the umpire's raucous cry of "Play ball!" that ushered in the game. A wave of handclapping and a storm of encouraging shouts and yells swept over the grandstand, and then ensued a breathless silence. The first two balls Winters pitched were wild, but then he steadied down, and struck the first batter out. The second man up swung wildly, but after having two strikes called, popped an easy fly toward first base that Dick smothered "easier than rolling off a log," as he afterwards said. The third man met with no better fate, and Winters struck him out with apparent ease. As the fielders trotted in, the elderly gentleman who had entertained such doubts before chuckled, "Well, now if our boys can only get in a little stick work, and keep on holding them down like this, it looks as though they might win, after all." Tom was the first man up at the bat for the Blues. But the pitcher opposed to him had lots of "stuff" on his delivery, and the best Tom could do was to lift an easy foul that dropped into the catcher's glove. The next man up was struck out, as was also the third, and the inning ended without a run for either team. From his seat on the substitutes' bench, Bert had watched the game up to this point with eager eyes, and had felt that he would almost have given ten years of his life to take part in it. He knew there was practically no chance of this, however, and so with a sigh of regret settled back to watch the further progress of the game. The next two innings also passed without a run scored on either side, and it became more and more evident as the game went on that this was to be a pitchers' battle. The first man up at bat for the visitors at the beginning of the fourth inning was considered their heaviest hitter, and as he walked up to the plate he was swinging two bats, one of which he threw aside as he stepped to the plate. From the way he crouched in readiness for the ball it could be seen that he meant business, and the coach called Winters over to him. "You want to be mighty careful what you feed this man," he whispered, "and whatever you do, keep them low. He likes high balls, and if you give him one up as high as his shoulder, he'll swat it, sure." "Oh, you can bet he won't get a hit off me," replied Winters, carelessly. "I've got that team eating out of my hand." "Don't be too sure of that, my lad," warned the coach, but Winters only smiled in a superior fashion and strolled back to the box. The first ball he pitched was an incurve, but it looked good to the batter, and he swung at it viciously. He missed it clean, and the umpire shouted, "One strike!" This made Winters a little careless, and the next ball he pitched was just the one that the coach had warned him against. The batter took a step forward, swung fiercely at the ball, and there was a sharp crack as the ball and bat connected. The ball shot back with the speed of a bullet, and the outfielders started in hopeless chase. Baird, the batter, tore around the bases, and amid a veritable riot of cheering from the visiting rooters and a glum silence from the home supporters, charged across the sack for a home run! Too late now Winters thought of Reddy's warning, and wished he had given it more heed. He knew that in so close a contest as this promised to be, one run would probably be enough to win the game, and this knowledge made him nervous. The breaks from training that he had been guilty of lately began to tell, also, and he commenced to lose confidence, a fatal thing in a pitcher. However, he managed to get through the inning somehow, and walked to the bench with a crestfallen air. The coach forbore to reproach him just then, as he knew that it would probably do more harm than good. However, he kept a sharp eye on him, and inwardly was very much worried. He knew that Benson was not speedy enough to stand much chance against as strong a team as they were now playing, and though a great admirer of Bert, he did not know whether he had the stamina to go a full game. He resolved to give Winters every chance to recover himself, and prayed that he would be able to do so. The first man of the home team to go to bat struck out on the hot curves served up to him, but Dick connected with the ball for a clean two-base hit. A great cheer went up at this feat, but it was destined to have little effect. The second man fouled out and the third raised an easy fly to the pitcher's box, and so Dick's pretty drive did them no good. In the fifth inning Winters' pitching became more and more erratic, and to Reddy's experienced eye it became evident that he would soon "blow up." So he strolled over to the substitutes' bench and sat down beside Bert. "How does your arm feel to-day, Wilson?" he inquired. "Do you feel as though you could pitch if I happened to need you?" Bert's heart gave a great leap, but he managed to subdue his joy as he realized the trainer's meaning, and answered, "Why, yes, I think I could make out all right. Do you think you will need me?" "Well, there's just a chance that I may," replied Reddy, "and I want you to be ready to jump out and warm up the minute I give you the signal." "I'll be ready, sir, I can promise you that," replied Bert, earnestly, and the trainer appeared a little more hopeful as he turned away. "I can at least count on that young chap doing the best that is in him, at any rate," he thought; "he certainly doesn't look like a quitter to me." In their half of the fifth inning the home team was unable to make any headway against the opposing pitcher's curves, which seemed to get better and better as the game progressed. Dick felt, in some mysterious way, that his team was losing heart, and his one hope was that the coach would give Bert a chance to pitch. The boys, one after another, struck out or lifted easy flies, and not one man reached first base. The visitors now came to bat again, and the first ball Winters pitched was slammed out into left field for a two-base hit. The next batter up stepped to the plate with a grin on his face, and one of his teammates called, "Go to it, Bill. Eat 'em alive. We've got their goat now." The man thus adjured leaned back, and as Winters delivered a slow, easy ball he swung viciously and sent a smoking grounder straight for the pitcher's box. The ball passed Winters before he had time to stoop for it, but White, the shortstop, made a pretty pick-up, and slammed the ball to Dick at first. The ball arrived a second too late to put the runner out, however, and in the meantime the first man had reached third. Now was a crucial moment, and everything depended on the pitcher. All eyes were fastened on him, but from something in his attitude Reddy knew that he was on the verge of a breakdown. Nor was he mistaken in this, for out of the next five balls Winters pitched, only one strike was called. The rest were balls, and the umpire motioned to the batter to take first base. Of course this advanced the man on first to second base, thus leaving all the bases full and none out. As Winters was winding up preparatory to delivering one of his erstwhile famous drops, Reddy motioned to Bert, and in a second the latter was up and had shed his sweater. He trotted over to where Reddy was standing, and said, "You wanted me, didn't you?" "Yes," replied Reddy, in a tense voice; "get Armstrong there"--motioning toward the substitute catcher--"and warm up as quickly as you can. Take it easy, though!" he commanded; "don't start in too hard! You might throw your arm out on the first few balls. Just limber up gradually." "All right, sir," replied Bert, and called to Armstrong. In the meantime Winters had pitched two wild balls, and the visiting rooters were yelling like maniacs. The third ball was an easy inshoot, and the batter, making a nice calculation, landed it fair and square. It flew over into left field, between the pitcher's box and third base, and before it could be returned to the waiting catcher two runners had crossed the plate. This made the score three to none in favor of the visitors, with two men on base and none out. Matters looked hopeless indeed for the home team, and one of the spectators groaned, "It's all over now but the shouting, fellows. Winters is up higher than a kite, and we've got nobody to put in his place. This game will just be a slaughter from now on." "How about young Wilson?" asked his friend. "I heard the other day that he had showed up pretty well in practice. It looks now as though Reddy meant to put him in the box. See, he's warming up over there right now." "Ye gods and little fishes!" lamented the other. "Now we are cooked, for fair. It was bad enough with Winters pitching, but now when they put that greenhorn Freshie in, we'll just be a laughing stock, that's all. Why doesn't the band play the funeral march?" "Aw, wait and see," said the other. "I don't suppose we've got the ghost of a show, but Dick Trent was telling me of some pretty good stunts this boy Wilson has pulled off before this. He was telling me about a race in which Wilson drove a car across the tape a winner after a dickens of a grilling race. Any fellow that's got nerve enough to drive a racing auto ought to be able to hold his own at baseball or anything else. You just sit tight and don't groan so much, and he may show us something yet." "Forget it, Bill, forget it," returned the other. "They've got our team running, and they'll keep it running, take my word for it." "That's right," agreed another, "we might as well go home now as to wait for the slaughter. This game is over, right now." "Hey, look at that!" yelled the first speaker, excitedly. "There goes Wilson into the box. Three cheers for Wilson, fellows. Now! One! two! three!" The cheers were given by the faithful fans, but they had given up hope. It was indeed, as the rooter had said, however, and Bert was actually being given an opportunity to pitch in a big game, when he had only been with the team a few months! Many a pitcher has been a substitute until his junior year, and never had a chance like this one. And, to tell the truth, Reddy himself would have been the last one to put what he considered an inexperienced pitcher into the box, if he had had any alternative. Now, however, it was a case of having no choice, because he knew that the game was irretrievably lost if Winters continued to pitch, so he put Bert in as a forlorn hope, but without any real expectation that he would win. As he noticed the confident way in which Bert walked to the box, however, he plucked up courage a little, but immediately afterward shook his head. "Pshaw," he thought, "they've got too big a lead on us. If Wilson can only hold them down so that they don't make monkeys of us, it will be more than I have a right to hope." For all Bert's nonchalant air, however, it must not be thought that he was not excited or nervous. He had had comparatively little baseball experience in such fast company as this. He had learned, however, to keep a cool and level head in times of stress, and he knew that everything depended on this. So he just gritted his teeth, and when he motioned to the catcher to come up and arrange signals, the latter hardly suspected what a turmoil was going on under Bert's cool exterior. "Just take it easy, kid," he advised. "Don't try to put too much stuff on the ball at first, and pitch as though we were only practising back of the clubhouse. Don't let those blamed rooters get you nervous, either. Take your time before each ball, and we'll pull through all right. Now, just get out there, and show them what you've got." Bert took his position in the box, and the umpire tossed him a brand new ball. Remembering the catcher's advice, he wound up very deliberately, and pitched a swift, straight one square over the middle of the plate. The batsman had expected the "greenhorn" to try a fancy curve, and so was not prepared for a ball of this kind. "One str-r-rike!" yelled the umpire, and the catcher muttered approvingly to himself. The batter, however, took a fresh grip on his bat, and resolved to "knock the cover off" the next one. Bert delivered a wide out curve, and the batter swung hard, but only touched the ball, for a foul, and had another strike called on him. "Aw, that kid's running in luck," he thought. "But watch me get to him this time." The next ball Bert pitched looked like an easy one, and the batter, measuring its flight carefully with his eye, drew his bat back and swung with all the weight of his body. Instead of sending the ball over the fence, however, as he had confidently expected, the momentum of his swing was spent against empty air, and so great was its force that the bat flew out of his hand. "Three strikes," called the umpire, and amid a riot of cheering from the home rooters the batter gazed stupidly about him. "By the great horn spoon," he muttered, under his breath, "somebody must have come along and stolen that ball just as I was going to hit it. I'll swear that if it was in the air when I swung at it that I would have landed it." As he walked to the bench the captain said, "What's the matter with you, Al? Has the freshie got you buffaloed?" "Aw, nix on that, cap," replied the disgruntled batter. "Wait until you get up there. Either that kid's having a streak of luck or else he's got that ball hypnotized. That last one he pitched just saw my bat coming and dodged under it. I think he's got 'em trained." "Why, you poor simp," laughed the captain; "just wait till I get up there. Why, we all saw that last ball you bit on so nicely. It was a cinch, wasn't it, boys?" It sure was, they all agreed, but the unfortunate object of these pleasantries shook his head in a puzzled way, and stared at Bert. As it happened, the next batter was the same who had scored the home run in the first part of the game, and he swaggered confidently to the plate. Bert had overheard what the coach had told Winters in regard to this batter, so he delivered a low ball, which the batter let pass. "One ball," called the umpire, and the captain of the visitors' team remarked, "I thought he couldn't last. That was just a streak of 'beginner's luck,' that's all." The next ball looked good to the batsman, and he lunged hard at the white sphere. It was a tantalizing upshoot, however, and he raised an easy fly to Dick at first. The man on second had become so absorbed in watching Bert, that when Dick wheeled like lightning and snapped the ball to second, he was almost caught napping, and barely got back in time. The home rooters, who up to now had been rather listless in their cheering, now started in with a rush, and a veritable storm of cheering and singing shook the grandstand. The coach drew a deep breath, and began to allow himself the luxury of a little hope. The third man up was the captain, who had boasted so of what he was going to do to the "green" pitcher. As he rose to go to the plate he remarked, "Watch me, now, Al, and I'll show you what it is like to swat a ball over the fence." He selected a very heavy bat, and stepped jauntily to the plate. Bert had been warned to do his best against this man, as he was popularly known as the "pitcher's hoodoo." He resolved to use his "fadeaway" ball for all it was worth, and shook his head at all the catcher's signals until the latter signaled for the fadeaway. He then nodded his head, and wound up very deliberately. Then he pitched what looked like a straight, fast ball to the expectant batsman. The latter gripped his bat and put all his strength into what he fondly hoped would be a "homer." His bat whistled as it cut the air, but in some mysterious way failed to even touch the ball, which landed with a loud "plunk!" in the catcher's mitt. A roar of derisive laughter went up from the rooters, and the captain looked rather foolish. "That's mighty queer," he thought, "there must be something the matter with the balance of this bat. I guess I'll try another." Accordingly, he took a fresh bat, and waited with renewed confidence for the next ball. This time he swung more carefully, but with no better result. "Two strikes!" barked the umpire, and the frenzied rooters stood up on their seats and yelled themselves hoarse. "Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!" they roared in unison, and Bert felt a great surge of joy go through him. His arm felt in perfect condition, and he knew that if called upon he could have pitched the whole game and not have been overtired. He handled the ball carefully, and fitted it in just the right position in his hand. He resolved to try the same ball once more, as he thought the batter would probably think that he would try something else. This he did, and although the batter felt sure that he had this ball measured to the fraction of an inch, his vicious swing encountered nothing more substantial than air. "Three strikes!" called the umpire, and amid a storm of cheering and ridicule from the grandstand the discomfited batter slammed his bat down and walked over to his teammates. It was now Al's turn to crow, and he did so unmercifully. "What's the matter, cap?" he inquired, grinning wickedly. "That kid hasn't got your goat, has he? Where's that homer over the fence that you were alluding to a few minutes ago?" "Aw, shut up!" returned the captain, angrily. "That Freshie's got a delivery that would fool Ty Cobb. There's no luck about that. It's just dandy pitching." "I could have told you that," said the other, "but I thought I'd let you find it out for yourself. That boy's a wonder." The home team trotted in from the field eagerly, and there was a look in their eyes that Reddy was glad to see. "They've got some spirit and confidence in them now," he thought. "I certainly think I've got a kingpin pitcher at last. But I'd better not count my chickens before they're hatched. He may go all to pieces in the next inning." As they came in, Dick and Tom slapped Bert on the back. "We knew you could do it, old scout!" they exulted. "What will old Winters' pals have to say after this?" Reddy said little, but scanned Bert's face carefully, and seemed satisfied. "I guess you'll do, Wilson," he said. "We'll let you pitch this game out, and see what you can do." Sterling was the first man up, and he walked to the plate with a resolve to do or die written on his face. He planted his feet wide apart, and connected with the first pitched ball for a hot grounder that got him safely to first base. The rooters cheered frantically, and the cheering grew when it was seen that Bert was the next batter. This was more in recognition, however, of his good work in the box. Heavy hitting is not expected of a pitcher, and nobody looked to see Bert do much in this line. While he had been watching the game from the bench, he had studied the opposing pitcher's delivery carefully, and had learned one or two facts regarding it. He felt sure that if the pitcher delivered a certain ball, he would be able to connect with it, but was disappointed at first. Bert bit at a wide out curve, and fouled the next ball, which was a fast, straight one. But as the pitcher wound up for the third one Bert's heart leaped, for he saw that this was going to be the ball that he had been hoping for. He grasped his bat near the end, for Bert was what is known as a "free swinger," and crouched expectantly. The ball came to him like a shot, but he swung his bat savagely and clipped the ball with terrific force toward third base. Almost before the spectators realized that the ball had been hit, Bert was racing toward first base, and the man already on base was tearing up the sod toward second. The ball scorched right through the hands of the third baseman, and crashed against the left field fence. The fielders scurried wildly after it, but before they could return it to the infield, the man on first base had scored, and Bert was on third. "We'll win yet! We'll win yet! We'll win yet!" croaked a rooter, too hoarse to yell any longer. "What's the matter with Wilson?" and in one vast roar came the answer, "HE'S ALL RIGHT!" The home team players were all dancing around excitedly, and they pounded Hinsdale unmercifully on the back, for he was up next. "Bust a hole through the fence, Hinsdale," they roared; "they're on the run now. Go in and break a bat over the next ball!" "Hin" fairly ran to the plate in his eagerness, and, as he afterward said, he felt as though he "couldn't miss if he tried." The first ball over the plate he slammed viciously at the pitcher, who stopped the ball, but fumbled it a few seconds, thus giving him a chance to get to first. The pitcher then hurled the ball to the home plate, in the hope of cutting off Bert from scoring, but was a fraction of a second too late, and Bert raced in with one more run. The pitcher now tightened up, however, and put his whole soul into stopping this winning streak, and it looked as though he had succeeded. The next two batters struck out on six pitched balls, and the visiting rooters had a chance to exercise their voices, which had had a rest for some time. Drake was up next, and he knocked out a long fly that looked good, but was pulled down by a fielder after a pretty run. This ended the sixth inning, and the visitors were still one run ahead. As Bert was about to go onto the field, Reddy said, "Don't take it too hard, Wilson. Don't mind if they do hit a ball sometimes. If you try to strike each man out without fail, it makes too great a tax on your arm. Let the fielders work once in a while." With these instructions in mind, Bert eased up a little in the next inning, but the visitors had no chance to do any effective slugging. Twice they got a man on first base, but each time Bert struck out the following batter or only allowed him to hit the ball for an easy fly that was smothered without any trouble. Consequently the visitors failed to score that inning, but they were still one run ahead, and knew that if they could hold Bert's team down they would win the game. The home team failed to "get to" the ball for anything that looked like a run, and the seventh inning ended with no change in the score. "Well, Wilson, it's up to you to hold them down," said Reddy, as the players started for their positions in the beginning of the eighth inning. "Do you feel as though you could do it?" "Why, I'll do my best," replied Bert, modestly. "My arm feels stronger than it did when I started, so I guess I'm good for some time yet, at any rate." "All right, go in and win," replied Reddy, with a smile, and Bert needed no urging. The first man to bat for the visitors was the one called Al, who had first had a taste of Bert's "fadeaway." He swung viciously on the first ball that Bert offered him, which happened to be a fast in-curve. By a combination of luck and skill he managed to land the sphere for a safe trip to first. The cover of the ball was found to be torn when it was thrown back. Consequently, Bert had to pitch with a new ball, and failed to get his customary control. Much to his disgust he pitched four balls and two strikes, and the batter walked to first, forcing the man already on first to second base. "Yah, yah!" yelled a visiting rooter. "It's all over. He's blowing up! Pitcher's got a glass arm! Yah! Yah!" Others joined him in this cry, and Reddy looked worried. "That's enough to rattle any green pitcher," he thought. "I only hope they don't know what they're talking about, and I don't think they do. Wilson's a game boy, or I'm very much mistaken." "Don't let 'em scare you, Bert," called Dick, from first base. "Let 'em yell their heads off if they want to. Don't mind 'em." "No danger of that," returned Bert, confidently. "Just watch my smoke for a few minutes, that's all." Bert struck out the next batter in three pitched balls, and the clamor from the hostile rooters died down. The next batter was the captain, and he was burning for revenge, but popped a high foul to Hinsdale, the catcher, and retired, saying things not to be approved. The third man was struck out after Bert had had two balls called on him, and this ended the visitors' half of the eighth inning. The home team could make no better headway against the visitors' pitching and team work, however, and the inning ended without a tally. The score stood three to two in the visitors' favor, and things looked rather dark for the home boys. At the beginning of the ninth the visitors sent a pinch hitter, named Burroughs, to the plate to bat in place of Al, who by now had an almost superstitious fear of Bert's delivery, and declared that "he couldn't hit anything smaller than a football if that Freshie pitched it." Burroughs was hampered by no such feelings, however, and, after two strikes had been called on him, he managed to connect with a fast, straight ball and sent it soaring into the outfield. It looked like an easy out, but at the last moment the fielder shifted his position a little too much, and the ball dropped through his fingers. Before he could get it in, the runner had reached third base, where he danced excitedly and emitted whoops of joy. Bert felt a sinking sensation at his heart, as he realized how much depended on him. The next man up made a clever bunt, and although he was put out, Burroughs reached home ahead of the ball, bringing in another run. He was rewarded with a storm of applause from the visiting rooters, and it seemed as though all hope had departed for the home team. With the next batter Bert made unsparing use of his fadeaway, and struck him out with little trouble. The third man shared the same fate, but it seemed as though the game were irretrievably lost. A two-run lead in the ninth inning seemed insurmountable, and Reddy muttered things under his breath. When the boys came trooping over to the bench, he said, "What's the matter with you fellows, anyway? What good does it do for Wilson to hold the other team down, if you don't do any stick work to back him up? Get in there now, and see if you can't knock out a few runs. A game is never finished until the last half of the ninth inning, and you've got a good chance yet. Go to it." Every chap on the team resolved to make a run or die in the attempt, and Reddy could see that his speech had had some effect. Dick was the first batter up, and he selected a heavy "wagon tongue" and stepped to the plate. The pitcher may have been a little careless, but at any rate Dick got a ball just where he wanted it, and swung with all his strength. The ball fairly whistled as it left the bat and dashed along the ground just inside the right foul line. Dick sprinted frantically around the bases, and got to third before he was stopped by Tom, who had been waiting for him. "No further, old sock," said Tom, excitedly. "That was a crackerjack hit, but you could never have got home on it. Gee! if Hodge will only follow this up we've got a chance." Hodge was a good batter, and he waited stolidly until he got a ball that suited him. Two strikes were called on him, and still he waited. Then the pitcher sent him a long out curve, and Hodge connected with the ball for a safe one-bag hit, while Dick raced home. It looked bright for the home team now, but the next batter struck out, and although Hodge made a daring slide to second, a splendid throw cut him off. Sterling was up next, and on the third pitched ball he managed to plant a short drive in left field that got him safely to first base. Then it was Bert's turn at the bat, and a great roar greeted him as he stepped to the plate. "Win your own game, Wilson," someone shouted, and Bert resolved to do so, if possible. He tried to figure out what the pitcher would be likely to offer him, and decided that he would probably serve up a swift, straight one at first. He set himself for this, but the pitcher had different ideas, and sent over a slow drop that Bert swung at, a fraction of a second too late. "Strike," called the umpire, and the hostile fans yelled delightedly. The next one Bert drove out for what looked like a good hit, but it turned out to be a foul. "Two strikes," barked the umpire, and some of the people in the grandstand rose as if to leave, evidently thinking that the game was practically over. Bert watched every motion of the pitcher as he wound up, and so was pretty sure what kind of a ball was coming. The pitcher was noted for his speed, and, almost at the moment the ball left his hand, Bert swung his bat straight from the shoulder, with every ounce of strength he possessed in back of it. There was a sharp crack as the bat met the ball, and the sphere mounted upward and flew like a bullet for the center field fence. As if by one impulse, every soul in the grandstand and bleachers rose to his or her feet, and a perfect pandemonium of yells broke forth. The fielders sprinted madly after the soaring ball, but they might have saved themselves the trouble. It cleared the fence by a good ten feet, and Bert cantered leisurely around the bases, and came across the home plate with the winning run. Then a yelling, cheering mob swept down on the field, and enveloped the players. In a moment Bert and some of the others were hoisted up on broad shoulders, and carried around the field by a crowd of temporary maniacs. It was some time before Bert could get away from his enthusiastic admirers, and join the rest of his teammates. As he entered the dressing rooms, Reddy grasped his hand, and said, "Wilson, you have done some great work to-day, and I want to congratulate you. From now on you are one of the regular team pitchers." "Thank you, sir," replied Bert, "but I don't deserve any special credit. We all did the best we could, and that was all anybody could do." So ended the first important game of the season, and Bert's position in the college was established beyond all question. Winters' friends made a few half-hearted efforts to detract from his popularity, but were met with such a cold reception that they soon gave up the attempt, and Bert was the undisputed star pitcher of the university team. CHAPTER VI THE FIRE "Gee whiz! I'm glad I don't have to do this every day," said Tom, as he stood, ruefully regarding his trunk, whose lid refused to close by several inches. "I'm jiggered if I see why it should look like that. Even with the fellows' things, it isn't half as full as it was when I came from home, and it didn't cut up like that." The Easter holidays were approaching, and "the three guardsmen" had received a most cordial invitation from Mr. Hollis to spend them with him at his home. Feeling the strain of the baseball season, the fellows were only too glad of a short breathing spell and had gratefully accepted the invitation. They were looking forward with eager anticipation to the visit. They would not need very much luggage for just a few days' stay, so, as Tom owned a small steamer trunk, they had decided to make it serve for all three. The fellows had brought their things in the night before and left Tom to pack them. Tom had heard people say that packing a trunk was a work of time, and had congratulated himself on the quickness and ease with which that particular trunk was packed; but when he encountered the almost human obstinacy with which that lid resisted his utmost efforts, he acknowledged that it wasn't "such a cinch after all." After one more ineffectual effort to close it, he again eyed it disgustedly. "I can't do a blamed thing with it," he growled, and then catching the sound of voices in Dick's room overhead, he shouted: "Come on in here, fellows, and help me get this apology for a trunk shut." When Dick and Bert reached him, Tom was stretched almost full length on the trunk and raining disgusted blows in the region of the lock. He looked so absurdly funny that the fellows executed a war dance of delight and roared with laughter, and then proceeded to drag Tom bodily off the trunk. Landing him with scant ceremony on the floor, they proceeded to show the discomfited Freshman that a trunk lid with any spirit could not consent to close over an indiscriminate mixture of underwear, pajamas, suits of clothes, collar boxes, and shoe and military brushes--most of these latter standing upright on end. With the brushes lying flat, boxes stowed away in corners, and clothing smoothly folded, the balky trunk lid closed, as Tom, grinning sheepishly, declared, "meeker a hundred times than Moses." This disposed of, and dressed and ready at last, their thoughts and conversation turned with one accord to the delightful fact that Mr. Hollis was to send the old "Red Scout" to take them to his home. The very mention of the name "Red Scout" was sufficient to set all three tongues going at once, as, during the half-hour before they could expect the car, they recalled incidents of that most glorious and exciting summer at the camp, when the "Red Scout" had been their unending source of delight. "Do you remember," said Tom, "the first time we went out in her, when we were so crazy with the delight of it that we forgot everything else, and gave her the speed limit, and came near to having a once-for-all smash-up?" They certainly did. "And," said Dick, "the day we gave poor old Biddy Harrigan her first 'artymobile' ride. Didn't she look funny when the wind spread out that gorgeous red feather?" They all laughed heartily at this recollection, but their faces grew grave again as they recalled the time when, the brake failing to work, they rushed over the bridge with only a few inches between them and disaster. "That certainly was a close call," said Bert, "but not so close as the race we had with the locomotive. I sure did think then that our time had come." "But," Tom broke in, "'all's well that ends well,' and say, fellows, _did_ it end well with us? Will you ever forget that wonderful race with the 'Gray Ghost'? Great Scott! I can feel my heart thump again as it did that final lap. And that last minute when the blessed old 'Red Scout' poked her nose over the line--_ahead_!" and in his excitement Tom began forging around the room at great speed, but made a rush for the window at the sound of a familiar "toot, to-oo-t." "There she is," he announced joyfully, and, taking the stairs three steps at a time, and crossing the campus in about as many seconds, they gave three cheers for the old "Red Scout," which bore them away from college scenes with its old-time lightning speed. Easter was late that year and spring had come early. There had been a number of warm days, and already the springing grass had clothed the earth in its Easter dress of soft, tender green. Tree buds were bursting into leaf, and in many of the gardens that they passed crocuses were lifting their little white heads above the ground. Robins flashed their red and filled the air with music. Spring was everywhere! And, as the warm, fragrant air swept their faces they thrilled with the very joy of living, and almost wished the ride might last forever. At last, "There is Mr. Hollis' house, the large white one just before us," said the chauffeur, and, so swiftly sped the "Red Scout" that almost before the last word was spoken, they stopped and were cordially welcomed by Mr. Hollis. As they entered the hall they stood still, looked, rubbed their eyes and looked again. Then Tom said in a dazed way, "Pinch me, Bert, I'm dreaming." For there in a row on either side of the hall stood every last one of the fellows who had camped with them that never-to-be-forgotten summer. Bob and Frank and Jim Dawson, Ben Cooper and Dave and Charlie Adams, and--yes--peeping mischievously from behind the door, Shorty, little Shorty! who now broke the spell with: "Hello, fellows. What's the matter? Hypnotized?" Then--well it was fortunate for Mr. Hollis that he was used to boys, and so used also to noise; for such a shouting of greetings and babel of questions rose, that nobody could hear anybody else speak. Little they cared. They were all together once more, with days of pure pleasure in prospect. Nothing else mattered; and Mr. Hollis, himself as much a boy at heart as any one of them, enjoyed it all immensely. Glancing at the clock, he suddenly remembered that dinner would soon be served, and drove the three latest arrivals off to their room to prepare. Short as the ride had seemed to the happy automobilists, it had lasted several hours. Though they had eaten some sandwiches on the way, they were all in sympathy with Tom who, while they prepared for dinner confided to his chums that he was a "regular wolf!" It goes without saying that they all did ample justice to that first dinner, and that there never was a jollier or more care-free company. None of the boys ever forgot the wonderful evening with Mr. Hollis. A man of large wealth and cultivated tastes, his home was filled with objects of interest. He spared no pains to make his young guests feel at home and gave them a delightful evening. The pleasant hours sped so rapidly that all were amazed when the silvery chimes from the grandfather's clock in the living room rang out eleven o'clock, and Mr. Hollis bade them all "good-night." They had not realized that they were tired until they reached their rooms. Once there, however, they were glad to tumble into their comfortable beds, and, after a unanimous vote that Mr. Hollis was a brick, quiet reigned at last. To Bert in those quiet hours came a very vivid dream. He thought he was wandering alone across a vast plain in perfect darkness at first, in which he stumbled blindly forward. Suddenly there came a great flash of lightning which gleamed for a moment and was gone. Instantly there came another and another, one so closely following the other that there was an almost constant blinding glare, while all the while the dreamer was conscious of a feeling of apprehension, of impending danger. So intense did this feeling become and so painful, that at last the dreamer awoke--to find that it was not all a dream! The room was no longer dark and he saw a great light flashing outside his window pane. Springing from bed it needed only one glance to show him that the wing of the neighboring house only a few hundred feet away was in flames. Giving the alarm, and at the same time pulling on a few clothes, he rushed out of the house and over to the burning building. So quick was his action that he had entered into the burning house and shouted the alarm of fire before Mr. Hollis and his guests realized what was happening. Very soon all the inmates of Mr. Hollis' house and of the neighboring houses rushed to the scene to do what they could, while awaiting the arrival of the local fire engines. In the meantime Bert had stopped a screaming, hysterical maid as she was rushing from the house and compelled her to show him where her mistress slept. The poor lady's room was in the burning wing and Bert and Mr. Hollis, who had now joined him, broke open the door. They found her unconscious from smoke and, lifting her, carried her into the open air. Nothing could be learned from the maids. One had fainted and the other was too hysterical from fright to speak coherently. One of the neighbors told them that the owner was away on business and not expected home for several days. He asked if the child were safe, and just at that moment the little white-clad figure of a child about six years old appeared at one of the upper gable windows. By this time, though the engines had arrived, and were playing streams of water on the burning building, the fire had spread to the main house and both the lower floors were fiercely burning. Entrance or escape by the stairways was an impossibility, and the longest ladders reached barely to the second story windows. The local fire company was not supplied with nets. It seemed to all that the little child must perish, and, to add to the horror of the scene, the child's mother had regained consciousness, and, seeing her little one in such mortal danger, rushed frantically toward the burning house. She was held back by tender but strong hands. She could do nothing to help her child, but her entreaties to be allowed to go to her were heart-breaking. All but one were filled with despair. Bert, scanning the building for some means of rescue, saw that a large leader pipe ran down a corner of the building from roof to ground, and was secured to the walls of the house by broad, iron brackets. The space between it and the window where the child stood seemed to be about three feet. If he could climb that leader by means of those iron supports, he might be able to leap across the intervening space and reach the window. All this passed through Bert's mind with lightning-like rapidity. He knew that if he failed to reach the window--well, he would not consider that. Coming to quick decision, he ran forward, dodged the detaining hands stretched out, and before anyone had an inkling of his purpose, was climbing the ladder from bracket to bracket. More than one called frantically to come back, but with the thought of that despairing mother, and with his eyes fixed on the little child in the window, he went on steadily up, foot by foot, until, at last, he was on a level with the window. Now he found that distance had deceived him and that the window was fully five feet away instead of three. The crowd, standing breathless now, and still as death, saw him pause and every heart ached with apprehension, fearing that he would be forced to return and leave the little one to her awful fate. Eyes smarted with the intensity with which they stared. Could he with almost nothing to brace his feet upon, spring across that five feet of wall? He could not even take a half-minute to think. The flames might at any second burst through the floor into the room in which the little child had taken refuge. He dared not look down, but in climbing he had noticed that the flames, as the wind swayed them, were sweeping across the ladders. He must decide. His resolve was taken, and he gathered his muscles together for the spring. Now, Bert, you have need to call upon all your resources. Well for you that your training on the diamond has limbered and strengthened your muscles, steadied your nerves, quickened your eye, taught you lightning perception and calculation and decision. You have need of them all now. Courage, Bert! Ready, now! The frantic mother saw him gather himself together and spring to what seemed to be certain death. His fingers grip the window sill, but, as his weight drags upon them, they slip. Ah! he never can hold that smooth surface--and many turn away their faces, unable to bear the sight. But look! he is still there. His fingers desperately tighten their grip upon the sill, and now he begins to draw himself up, slowly, reaching inside the window for a firmer hold. He has his knee on the sill--and a great shout goes up from the crowd as he drops inside the window beside the child. But their relief was short-lived, for now the same thought seized everyone. How was he to get back? He could not return the way he went up, for, even unhampered by the child, he could not make the leap back to the pipe. With anxious, despairing eyes, they watched the window from which great clouds of smoke were pouring now, mingled with tiny tongues of flame. It seemed an hour that they had waited, but it was only a few moments before the brave fellow reappeared at the window, with the child wrapped in a blanket, strapped firmly to his shoulders. Another moment and a long woolen blanket dangled from the window sill, and with the agility of a monkey Bert began to let himself down hand over hand. With beating hearts into which hope had begun again to creep, the breathless people watched him. But surely the flames, sweeping now up and out from the second story window will shrivel that blanket and burn it through. But they do not, for though they wrap themselves fiercely about it, they seem unable to destroy it; and now his feet touch the topmost round of the ladder. Another moment and his hands are upon it also. Now at last the crowd bursts into cheer upon cheer. Willing hands reach up and seize the now almost exhausted young hero, and lift him and his burden to the ground. The child, thanks to the blanket in which Bert had wrapped her, was unhurt and in a moment was sobbing in her mother's arms, that happy mother who, overcome with joy, could only strain her rescued treasure to her heart with murmured words of love and thanksgiving. Bert's friends crowded around him with joyful congratulations, while Mr. Hollis, filled with rejoicing at his young friend's wonderful escape from death and with admiration for his fearless bravery, grasped him by the hand, saying, "I'm proud of you, Bert, I'm proud of you! You're a hero." Bert winced at that close grip and Mr. Hollis, looking down, saw that the hands were badly burned and hurried him from the scene, the admiring fellows closely following. The mother with her child had been taken away by kind and sympathetic friends, but not before she had thanked Bert with full heart for giving her child back to her. No king ever held higher court or with more devoted or admiring subjects than did Bert while they waited at Mr. Hollis' home for the coming of a doctor to dress his burns. Nothing was talked of but the exciting events of the day and Bert's share in them. With faces still glowing with excitement, they lived over again all the events of the early morning, and Bert had to answer all sorts of questions as to "How he ever came to think of that leader pipe?" "What he would have done if the blanket had burned through?" and a dozen others. "Well," Shorty summed up, "Bert sure is a wonder," to which there was a hearty assent. The arrival of the doctor put an end to all this to Bert's great relief, for he was much too modest to enjoy being praised. The burns were found to be not very serious, but the pain added to the great physical exertion and the intense nervous strain had brought poor Bert almost to the breaking point, and the doctor ordered him to bed. Very gladly he settled down after so many hours of excitement with Mr. Hollis' parting words in his ears, "If I had a son like you, Bert, I should be very proud of him to-day." He was drifting happily into dreamland when Tom poked his head inside the door and said, "You've got to answer one more question before you go to sleep, old man. What charm did you work around that old blanket you came down on from the window so that it would not burn?" "Made it soaking wet, bonehead," came the sleepy reply, and Tom vanished. CHAPTER VII TAKING HIS MEDICINE The team had been tested almost to its limit this season, and the strain was beginning to show. Each player was worked up to the highest possible nervous tension, and no man can last long under such conditions. Even with professional players this condition becomes very apparent in a hard-fought series, and so was even more plainly seen among these comparatively inexperienced contestants for the honor of their alma mater. Another thing that tended strongly to demoralize them was the fact of Bert's being unable to play. His burned hands, while rapidly mending, were still unable to grip the ball. Of course, they knew that this was merely a temporary calamity, but even to have the pitcher on whom they had based their strongest hopes out of commission for almost two weeks meant much to them. Winters and Benson, while undoubtedly good pitchers, fell considerably short of the standard set by Bert, and all the players realized this. Of course, it may be argued that they should not allow themselves to be affected by anything of this kind, but no one who has not actually been a ball player can fully realize what it means to a team, when they are nearing the end of a neck and neck struggle, to be deprived of their star pitcher. It must also be remembered that Bert, while not by any means as good a batter as he was a pitcher, was nevertheless a strong batsman, and had the happy faculty of "swatting them out" at the time when they would do the most good. On this account, his loss was felt more keenly than would have ordinarily been the case. Another thing, but one that was never openly alluded to, was the knowledge that each boy had, that Winters was not the pitcher he had been once upon a time. His breaks from training were becoming more and more frequent, and all that the coach could say in the way of threat or entreaty seemed to have no effect. Winters had gotten in with a fast set, and no argument or persuasion could induce him to see the error of his way. Reddy did not dare to remove him from the team, however, as that would have left him only one pitcher of any value, namely, Benson, and nobody knew better than the wily trainer that Benson could seldom be depended on to pitch good ball during an entire game. Again and again Reddy had cursed the fate that deprived him of his star pitcher at such a crucial time, but of course, as is usually the case, that did little good. It was too late now to try to develop another pitcher, even had he known of anyone capable of training for that important post, which he did not. So he just set his jaw, and resolved to make the best of what he had. Up to to-day, which was destined to see one of the season's most important battles, he had managed, by dint of skillful coaching and substituting at critical moments, to maintain the lead that the team had gained largely through Bert's remarkable work in the box. He felt that if the team won to-day's game, they would have a comfortable lead until Bert was able to resume his pitching. If, on the other hand, they lost, he realized that they would have small chance of winning the championship. No one would have suspected from his outward appearance what thoughts were going on in his mind, but if they had, they would have been astonished. To the players, and to everybody else, he presented such a calm and composed exterior that the boys felt more confident the minute they saw him. As the time for the game drew near, he gathered the boys together in the clubhouse, and proceeded to make a little speech and give them some valuable advice. They listened attentively, and went out on the diamond with a do-or-die expression written on their faces. Needless to say, Bert was there, and nobody felt worse than he over his misfortune. "Gee!" he exclaimed to Tom, ruefully, "this is certainly what you might call tough luck. Here I am, with my arm feeling better than it ever did before, and just on account of a few pesky burns I can't pitch." "It's tough, all right, and no mistake," sympathized Dick, "but never mind. If Winters can only do half way decent pitching, we'll come through all right." Bert said nothing, not wishing to discourage his friend, but to himself he admitted that things had a rather bad aspect. The team they were to play to-day was noted for its heavy batters, and he knew that it would take a pitcher in the most perfect condition to stand the strain of nine long innings against such sluggers. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest, therefore, as he sat on the bench, nibbling a blade of grass, and watched the practice of the two teams with critical eyes. Murray, reputed to be the heaviest hitter on the Maroon team, was knocking out flies to his teammates, and Bert was forced to admire the confident way in which he lined the ball out, without ever missing a swing. His own team was playing with snap and ginger, though, and this fact comforted Bert somewhat. "Well," he thought to himself, "the teams seem to be about equally matched, and if nothing out of the ordinary happens, we ought to have a good show to win. I only hope that all the rumors I've been hearing about Winters lately are not true." As Bert had seen, both teams showed up well in the preliminary practice, and each made several plays that evoked applause from the grandstands and bleachers. Soon the umpire walked out on the field, adjusting his mask and protecting pads, and the crowds settled down for a couple of hours of what they realized would be intense excitement. "Battery for the Maroons, Moore and Hupfel!" shouted the umpire. "For the Blues, Winters and Hinsdale!" As they were the visitors to-day, the Blues of course went to the bat first. They were quickly retired by snappy work and took the field. Winters seemed in fine form, and struck out the opposing batters in good shape, only one getting a hit, and he was caught stealing. This ended the first inning, with no runs scored for either side, and Reddy began to feel more confident. However, little could be prophesied regarding the outcome at this early stage of the game, and Reddy walked over to the bench and sat down beside Bert. "Well, my boy," he said, "if they don't get any more hits off us than they did in that inning, we won't be so bad off, after all. Winters seems to be in fine shape, don't you think?" "He certainly does," replied Bert, "he's holding them down in fine style. You couldn't ask for better pitching than he's putting up." "Ye couldn't, fer a fact," said the trainer, and both settled back to see what the Blues would accomplish in their turn at bat. Dick was next on the batting list, and he strode to the plate with his usual jaunty step. He waited two balls before he got one to suit him, but then landed out a hot grounder, and just managed to beat it to first base. "That's good! that's good!" yelled Reddy, dancing about on one leg. "The boys are beginning to get their batting caps on now, and it won't be long before we have a string of runs longer than a Dachshund. Go to it, Blues, go to it!" Poor Reddy! His high hopes were doomed to fall quickly. Hodge struck out, and with lightning-like rapidity the catcher snapped the ball down to second. For once, Dick was the fraction of a second too slow, and the ball beat him to the base by a hair's breadth. "Two out!" yelled the umpire, and Reddy dropped into his seat with a dismal groan. White, the strong hitting shortstop, was the next batsman, but after knocking two high flies, he was struck out by a fast inshoot. However, Winters appeared to be pitching airtight ball, and while a few feeble flies were garnered from his delivery, the fielders had no difficulty in catching them. When the home team came to bat, their first man up, who happened to be the catcher, cracked out a swift, low fly between Winters and Tom, and tore around to second base before the ball came in from the field. To Reddy's keen eyes, studying carefully every phase and mood of game and man, it was apparent that Winters' confidence was shaken a little by this occurrence. His pitching to the next batter was wild, and he finally gave the man a base on balls. Bert leaned forward intently, and his eyes were fairly glued on the players. Oh, if he could only go out there and pitch for the rest of the game! But he knew this was impossible with his hands in the condition they were, and he uttered an impatient exclamation. With two men on bases and none out, matters began to look doubtful for the devoted Blues. The very first ball Winters pitched to the next batter was hit for a long two-bagger, and the runner on second cantered leisurely home. Now even the fans in the bleachers realized that something was amiss with the pitcher of the Blues, and those opposed to them set up an uproarious clapping and hooting in the hope of rattling him still further. This was not wholly without effect, and Bert noted with ever-growing anxiety that Winters appeared to be unable to stand quietly in the box during the pauses in the game, but fidgeted around nervously, at one time biting his nails, and at another, shifting constantly from one foot to the other. A meaner nature than our hero might have been glad to note the discomfiture of one whom he had every reason to dislike, but Bert was not built after such a pattern. His one thought was that the college would suffer heavily if this game were lost, and he hardly gave a thought to his private grievances. The college was the thing that counted. Winters, by a great effort, tightened up a little after this, and with the help of snappy support retired the Maroons, but not before the latter had garnered another precious run. The visiting team did nothing, however, for although they got a runner to third at one time, he was put out by a quick throw from pitcher to first. Thus ended the second inning, and to the casual observer it seemed as though the teams were pretty evenly matched. To Reddy's practised eye, however, it was apparent that the Blues had a little the edge on their opponents, except in the matter of pitching. Here, indeed, it was hard to tell who was the better pitcher, the Maroon boxman or Winters. Both were pitching good ball, and Reddy realized that it would probably narrow down to a question of which one had the greater staying power. "If only we had young Wilson pitching," he thought to himself, "I would breathe a whole lot easier. However, there's no use crossing a bridge till you come to it, and I may be having all my worriment for nothin'. Somethin' tells me, though, that we're goin' to have trouble before this game is over. May all the Saints grant that I'm wrong." For the next three innings, however, it appeared as though the trainer's forebodings were without foundation. Both teams played with snap and dash, and as yet only two runs had been scored. At the beginning of the sixth inning, Tom was slated as the first man up, and he walked to the plate filled with a new idea Bert had given him. "Wait until about the fourth ball that that fellow pitches," Bert had told him, "and then bounce on it good and plenty. The first two or three balls he pitches are full of steam, but then, if nobody has even struck at them, he gets careless, and puts one over that you ought to be able to land on without any trouble. You just try that and see what happens." This Tom proceeded to do, and found that it was indeed as Bert had said. The first ball pitched seemed good, but Tom let it go by, and had a strike called on him. The next one was a ball, but the third one was a hot curve that looked good, and ordinarily Tom would have taken a chance and swung at it. Now, however, he was resolved to follow Bert's advice to the letter, and so allowed the ball to pass him. "Gee, that guy's scared stiff," someone yelled from the bleachers, and the crowd laughed. It certainly did seem as though Tom had lost his nerve, and his teammates, who were not in on the secret yet, looked puzzled. Tom paid no attention to the shouts from the grandstand, and his well-known ability as a "waiter" stood him in good stead. True to Bert's prediction, the pitcher eased up a little when winding up for the next ball, and Tom saw that he shared the general impression that he had lost his nerve. The ball proved to be a straight, fast one, and Tom slugged it squarely with all the strength in his body. Amid a hoarse roar from the watching thousands, he tore around the bases and slid into third before he was stopped by White, who was waiting for him. "Gee, Tom!" ejaculated the excited and delighted shortstop. "How in time did you ever think of such a clever trick. You sure fooled that pitcher at his own game." "It wasn't my idea, it was Bert's," said Tom, truthfully. "Whoever's it was, it was a crackerjack one, at any rate," said White, jubilantly. "If Flynn can only get a hit now we'll have a run, and it looks as though we would need all that we can get." Flynn, in accordance with instructions from Reddy, laid an easy bunt down toward first base, and, although he was put out, Tom scurried over the plate about two jumps in front of the ball, and the first run for the Blues had been scored. The small band of loyal rooters for the Blues struck up one of the familiar college songs, and things looked bright for their team. The opposing pitcher was not to be fooled again, however, and while Drake was waiting for a ball to suit him he was struck out, much to the delight of the hostile fans. Thus at the end of the seventh inning the score stood two to one in favor of the Maroons, and their pitcher was "as good as new," as he himself put it. Now Dick went to bat, and waited, with no sign of the nervousness that was beginning to be manifested by his teammates, for a ball that was to his liking. He let the first one go past, but swung hard at the second, and cracked out a hot liner right at the pitcher. Most pitchers would have let a smoking fly like that pass them, for fear of injuring their hands, but evidently this boxman was not lacking in nerve. The ball cracked into his outstretched mitt with a report like a pistol shot, and he held on to it. "Out!" shouted the umpire, and Dick, who had started to sprint to first, walked to the bench with a disgusted air. "Hang it all, anyway," he exclaimed disgustedly, "who'd have thought he would stop that one? I could just see myself resting peacefully at second base, and then he has to go and do a thing like that. A mean trick, I call it." Dick made a pretence of taking the matter in this light manner in order to keep up the spirits of his teammates, but not by any means because he felt happy about it. Quite the contrary. Hodge, the right fielder, came up next, but only succeeded in popping up a feeble fly that the third baseman caught easily after a short run in. White waited patiently for one to suit him, but while he was waiting, three strikes were called on him, and he retired in a crestfallen manner. In the meantime, Reddy had been talking to Winters. "How do you feel, Winters?" he had inquired anxiously, "do you feel strong enough to hold them down for the rest of this game?" "Aw, don't worry yourself about me," Winters had replied in a surly voice. "I'm all right. I never felt better in my life," but something in his voice belied his words. "All right," returned the trainer, "but remember this, my lad: if we put Benson in now, we might be able to hold them down. I'm going to take your say so, though, and let you pitch the next inning. If they get to you, however, you'll have to take your medicine. It will be too late then to put Benson in, and of course Wilson is in no shape to pitch. Now, it's up to you." "That's all right," growled Winters. Then he suddenly flared up: "I suppose if that blamed Freshie were in condition you'd have put him in to pitch long ago, wouldn't you?" "That I would, my lad," returned Reddy, in an ominously quiet voice. "Now, go in there and pitch, and don't give me any more back talk that you'll be sorry for afterward." Winters seemed about to make some hot reply to this, but after a moment's hesitation, thought better of it, and turned sullenly away, putting on his glove as he walked slowly to his position. He vented his anger on the first few balls he pitched, and they went over the plate with speed and to spare. This did not last long, however, and after he had struck out one man his speed began to slacken. The second man up landed a high fly into right field that Hodge, although he made a brave try for it, was unable to get to in time. The runner raced around to third before he was stopped by the warning cries of his teammates. "We've got 'em going! We've got 'em going!" chanted the home rooters in one mighty chorus, and Winters scowled at them viciously. The next five balls he pitched were "wild as they make 'em," and only one strike was registered. In consequence the batter walked leisurely to first, and as he neared Winters said, "Much obliged, old chap." If looks could have killed, Winters would surely have been a murderer, but fortunately it takes more than that to kill a ball player, and so the game went on without interruption. The following batter made a clever sacrifice bunt, and the man on third brought home a run, while the one on first reached second. "Gee, it's all over now, I'm afraid," groaned Bert to himself. "Winters is up in the air sky high, and after their argument Reddy probably will not put Benson in, because he's cold and it would do no good. We'll be baked brown on both sides before this game is finished." And Bert was not far wrong. The Maroons landed on Winters "like a ton of brick," as Tom afterward said, and proceeded to wipe up the field with him. The game became a massacre, and when the home team was finally retired the score stood six to one in their favor. When Winters came in from the field he was white and shaking, and Reddy felt sorry for him. "Just the same," he reflected, "this will teach him a lesson, maybe, and it may lead to his sticking more closely to regulations and the training table. Midnight booze-fighting and good ball playing don't mix very well." Reddy might have gone further, and said that "booze fighting" did not mix very well with anything worth while, and not have been far wrong. Actuated by these reflections, the trainer resolved to make Winters pitch out the rest of the game, as it was hopelessly lost anyway, in the hope of making him reform. The Blues were thoroughly demoralized by this time, and their half-hearted attempts to score met with little success. Hinsdale, after both the batsmen preceding him had been struck out, landed on the ball for a long high fly into center, and got to second on it. He went no further, however, as Tom lifted a high foul to the opposing catcher. Of course this ended the game, as it would have been useless to finish the ninth inning. The Maroon rooters rose in a body and rent the air with their songs and college yells. The loyal Blues present did their best, but could not make themselves heard amidst the general uproar. "The Blues haven't got a chance for the pennant now," exulted one rooter to his friend. "They're on the downward road now, and will stay there till the end of the season. You watch and see if they don't." But there was a Freshman pitcher on the bench that knew better. CHAPTER VIII SHOOTING THEM OVER Bert and Dick and some of the other fellows were having a discussion. They had been talking on various topics, and, as was usually the case, the talk had drifted around to baseball. They had discussed the game pro and con, when Dick said: "I wonder how fast a pitcher really can throw a ball, anyway. Of course, there's no possibility of such a thing, but it certainly would be interesting, if we could measure the speed of a pitched ball, and settle the question once and for all." "That's easy," laughed Bert. "You just stand up there, Dick, and give me a baseball and let me hit you with it. If it kills you, we will know it was going pretty fast, but if it just cripples you, we will be forced to the conclusion that the ball wasn't traveling so very fast, after all." "Yes, that certainly is a brilliant idea," snorted Dick, "and there is only one thing that keeps me from doing it. If, as you say, it should kill me, you fellows would have settled the question, all right, but then it would be too late for me to share in the knowledge. Therefore, I guess we'll leave the question open for the present." "Aw, gee, Dick," laughed one of the others, "you certainly have a mean disposition. Here you are in college, and yet you evidently haven't enough of the college spirit to make a sacrifice of yourself for the general good. Besides, it doesn't show the scientific desire for knowledge that we would like to see in you, does it, fellows?" appealing to the laughing group. Everybody seemed to think the same thing, judging from the unanimous chorus of assent to this speech, but, strange to say, Dick proved very obstinate, and refused to offer his services in the capacity of official tester. "But seriously, fellows," said one of the boys, John Bennett by name, "I don't see why we couldn't do something of the kind. I shouldn't think it would be so hopeless, after all." At first they thought he was joking, but when they realized that he was in earnest, a chorus of ridicule arose. Bennett refused to be hooted down, however, and finally managed to get a hearing. "You see, it's this way," he explained: "My father, as you all know, manufactures guns and rifles of all descriptions. Now, some people with a little more sense in their noodles than you poor boobs," with a sarcastic inflection, "have asked what the speed of a rifle bullet was, and what's more, have managed to find out. Going on the same principle, I don't see why we couldn't find out the speed of a baseball." "How do they find that out?" asked one, unbelievingly, "a rifle bullet has been known to go pretty fast at times, you know." "You don't mean it, do you?" asked Bennett, sarcastically. "I always thought bullets crept along the ground something after the manner of snails, or something equally fast, didn't you fellows?" "Go on, go on," they laughed, "if you've got an idea in what you call your brain, for heaven's sake get it out before you forget it. Go on and tell us how it is that they measure the speed of a bullet." "Well, it's this way," said Bennett, "they arrange an electric wire in front of the muzzle of the gun, so that as the bullet comes out it is bound to break it. Then, the object at which the gun is aimed is also connected up by electricity. Observe, gentlemen, what happens when the gun is discharged. The bullet, as it saunters from the gun, cuts the electric wire, and by so doing registers the exact fraction of a second that this happens. When it hits the target, a similar process takes place, and then of course it is a simple matter to subtract the time the bullet left the gun from the time it hit the target, and thus, gentlemen, we arrive at the result, namely, the time it took the bullet to go across the intervening distance. I trust, gentlemen (and others), that I have made myself perfectly clear." "Aw," spoke up one of the fellows, popularly known as "Curley," "who couldn't think of a simple thing like that. The only reason that I didn't think of it right off was that it was too easy for me even to consider." "Oh, sure, we all understand that perfectly," replied Bennett, "but, seriously, fellows, if you would care to try the experiment, I am sure that my father would help us all he could. It wouldn't be any trick at all for him to rig up something on the same principle that would give us an accurate idea of how fast Bert, for instance, could propel a baseball through the surrounding atmosphere. Say the word, and I'll write to him about it to-night. We ought to hear from him by the day after to-morrow, at the latest." Bert saw that Bennett was in earnest, and so said: "It certainly would be very interesting, old man. I've often wondered just what speed I was capable of, and I don't see why your plan shouldn't be feasible. What do you think, Dick?" "I think it would be well worth the try, at all events," replied Dick, "and say, fellows, while we were about it, Bennett's father might be willing to show us over the factory and give us an idea of how the guns are made. Do you think he would, old top?" addressing Bennett. "Surest thing you know," responded the latter, heartily. "I know he would be glad to have you come, even if you are a bunch of bums," smilingly. "All right, we'll consider that settled, then," said Bert. "You write to him right away, and we'll try our little experiment as soon as possible. Believe me, I'm anxious to try it. I sure would like to know." Thus the matter was settled, and after a little more talk and speculation on the same subject, the boys dispersed to their rooms to prepare recitations for the morrow. A day or so later, when some of them had forgotten about the proposed test, Bennett came up to the group assembled in Bert's and Dick's room, and said: "See here, fellows! What did I tell you? I just received this letter from dad, and he says to go as far as we like. He says that he spoke of the matter to the foreman of the testing department, and he thinks our plan is feasible." "Gee, that's fine," exclaimed Tom, who was of the group. "How long did he think it would be before he would be ready?" "Oh, pretty near any time that we could get to the factory. Of course, it will take him a few days to rig up the apparatus, but he says he will have it ready by next Saturday, and as that is a holiday for most of us, I think it would be a good time to go. How would that suit you, Bert?" "First rate," replied Bert, "I'll take it as easy as I can this week in the line of pitching, so that I will have full strength for the test. I'll have to establish a record," laughingly. "I'll tell you what we can do," said Walter Harper, one of the "subs" on the team, "let's get up a race between Bert's baseball and a bullet. I think that Bert ought to beat a bullet easily." "Well," laughed Bert, "maybe I can't exactly beat a bullet, but I'll bet my ball will have more curve on it than any bullet ever invented." "That reminds me of a story I heard the other day," spoke up one. "The father of a friend of mine went out to hunt deer last fall. He had fair luck, but everybody was talking about a deer that had been fooling all the hunters for several seasons. It seems that this deer was such an expert dodger, that when anyone started to shoot at him he would run around in circles and thus avoid the bullet. Well, my friend's father thought over the matter for a long time, and finally hit on a plan to outwit the deer. Can you guess how he did it?" Many were the schemes offered by the ingenious listeners, but none of them seemed satisfactory. Finally all gave up the problem, and begged the story teller to give them the explanation. "Well," he said, "it's very simple, and I'm surprised and grieved that none of you fatheads have thought of it. Why, he simply bent the barrel of the gun around, so that when the bullet came out it chased the deer around in circles, and killed him without any trouble. Now----" but here he was interrupted by a storm of indignant hoots and hisses, and rushed from the room amid a perfect shower of books of all descriptions. "Gee," said Tom, "I've heard some queer hunting stories, but that one was the limit. Many a man has died for less." "Oh, well, he's more to be pitied than scorned," laughed Dick, and they proceeded to discuss the details of Saturday's trip. "It will be no end of fun, I can promise you," said Bennett. "It's really an education in itself to go through that factory and see the way things are done. You can bet there's no time or effort wasted there. Everything is figured down to the very last word for efficiency, and if all the world were run on the same basis it would be a pretty fine place to live in." "List to the philosopher, fellows," said Bert. "I'm afraid Bennett's studies are going to his head, and he's actually beginning to believe what the profs tell him." "That is indeed a sign of failing mental powers," laughed Tom. "I'm afraid that if we don't do something for our poor friend, he will degenerate until finally he becomes nothing but a 'greasy grind.' After that, of course, he can sink no lower." "Aw, you fellows think you're funny, don't you," grunted Bennett, disgustedly, "you're such boneheads that when somebody with real brains, like myself, for instance, gets off a little gem of thought you are absolutely incapable of appreciating it." "Fellows," said Bert, gravely, "we have made an important discovery. Bennett has brains. We know this is so, because he himself admits it. Well, well, who would have suspected it?" This sally was greeted with laughter, but, seeing that Bennett was becoming a little angry, Bert changed the subject, and they were soon deep in details of the forthcoming trip. Dick was delegated to buy the tickets, and when all had paid in their money it was seen that twenty-four were going. "That will just be a good crowd," said Bert. "We'll leave here on the 9:21 train, and that will take us to W---- at a little after ten. We can look over the factory in the morning, and tell Mr. Bennett how to run it,"--with a mischievous glance at Bennett, "and in the afternoon, gentlemen, I will make my world renowned attempt to pitch a baseball against time. Do you think that will suit your father, John?" "Sure, that will be all right," answered Bennett, and so the matter was settled. The following Saturday turned out to be ideal, and everybody was in high spirits when they gathered at the station. They had to wait ten or fifteen minutes for the train, which had been delayed, but they found plenty to do in the meantime. They sang, played leap frog, and in a dozen other ways gave vent to their high spirits. Some of the passengers envied their light hearts, and remembered the days when they, too, had been full of life and fun, and the world had just been a place to be merry in. The waiting passed like a flash, and before they knew it the train came into sight around a curve. When it drew up they all made a rush to get on, and before the train was finally started again had almost driven the conductor frantic. "Byes will be byes, though," he grinned to himself, later on, "and be the same token, Oi don't begrudge the youngsters any of their fun, even if it did hold the thrain back a full three minutes. Have a good time while yer living, says Oi, for yez'll be a long time dead." The train fairly flew along, as the engineer was making up for lost time, and it was not long before the conductor sang out, "W----!" and they had arrived. They all tumbled off, and Tom, to save time, went through the car window. "Be gorry, yez are a wild bunch of youngsters," said the old conductor to Bert. "But Oi remember when Oi was a lad Oi was the same way, so Oi fergives yez the delays and worriments yez have caused me this day. Have a good toime, and luck be wid yez." "Thanks," laughed Bert; "won't you come along?" "Thank ye kindly, but Oi guess Oi'll have to deny meself the pleasure, me bye," grinned the conductor, and the train drew out of the station. "Gee," said Tom, as he gazed around, "I don't think we'll have much trouble locating the factory, Bennett. It seems to be a rather conspicuous part of the landscape." It was, indeed. The whole town was founded on the factory industry, and practically every able-bodied man in the place worked there. The factory was an immense six-story affair, with acres and acres of floor space. All around it were streets lined with comfortable-looking cottages, in which the workmen lived. Everything had a prosperous and neat appearance, and the boys were agreeably surprised. Most of them had expected to see a grimy manufacturing town, and were quite unprepared for the clean community they saw spread out before them. Bennett headed them straight toward the factory, but as they went along pointed out features of the town. "You see," he explained, "the whole town is practically part of the factory. When that was established a few houses were built around it, and as the factory grew, the town grew along with it, until now it is what you see it. We have one of the biggest gun manufacturing plants in the world here," he added, proudly. "It certainly is some class, John," admitted Bert; "it's bigger and cleaner than I ever expected it would be." Soon they had reached the factory itself, and Bennett ushered them into the office. There they were presented to a gray-haired man whom John proudly introduced as his father, and they were made perfectly at home. After a little talk, Mr. Bennett pressed a button, and a capable looking man appeared. "Sawkins," said Mr. Bennett, "here are the young men for whom we've been turning the factory upside down the last few days. Just show them around, will you, and explain things to them a little." "Certainly," acquiesced Sawkins, who was the foreman. "Step right this way, gentlemen." The following two hours were probably among the most interesting any of the boys had ever known. The foreman started at the beginning, showing them the glowing molten metal in immense cauldrons. He was a man of considerable education, and great mechanical ability. He explained every process in words as free as possible of technicalities, and the young fellows felt that they understood everything that he undertook to explain. He showed them how the metal was cast, how the guns were bored out, the delicate rifling cut in, and a thousand other details. His listeners paid close attention to everything he said, and seeing this, he took extra pains to make everything clear to them. As he said to Mr. Bennett afterward, "It was a pleasure to talk to a bunch of men that understood what was told them." Finally they came to the testing room, and this proved, if possible, even more interesting than what had gone before. The foreman showed them the various ranges, and some of the penetrating feats of which the rifles were capable. It was almost unbelievable. "See this little toy?" he said, picking out a beautifully made gun from a rack on the wall. "The projectile discharged from this arm will penetrate over forty-five planks, each one seven-eighths of an inch thick. And then, look at this,"--holding up an ax-head with three clean holes bored through it--"here's what it can do to tempered steel. I don't think it would be very healthy to stand in its way." "No, I guess it wouldn't," said Dick. "I'd prefer to be somewhere else when one of those bullets was wandering around loose." Mr. Sawkins then showed them some photographs of bullets taken while in flight. At first sight this seems an impossibility, but nevertheless it is an accomplished fact. The method used is much the same as John Bennett has described in the early part of this chapter. As the bullet leaves the gun it cuts a wire, which in turn snaps the shutter of a very high-speed camera. The lenses on a camera of this kind are very expensive, a single lens sometimes costing five hundred dollars. Then the foreman showed them the apparatus that they had rigged up to test the speed of Bert's pitching. After examining the ingenious arrangement the boys were lavish in their praise. Mr. Sawkins made light of this, but it was easy to see that he was pleased. "Oh, it's nothing much," he said. "I just fooled around a little bit, and soon had this planned out. It was easy for me, because when I was a little younger I used to do a little myself in the pitching line on our local team, so I knew about what would be required." While they were discussing this, Mr. Bennett strolled in, and asked the enthusiastic group what they thought of what they had seen so far. "Gee," said Tom, impulsively, "it certainly is the greatest ever, Mr. Bennett. I never had any idea there was such an awful lot to know about gun-making. On thinking it over," he added, laughing, "I don't think of a single way that we could improve matters; do you, fellows?" "You are more modest than my son, then," said Mr. Bennett, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. "Every time John comes here he has a lot of ideas that he is sure will better anything we have here at present. However, I have just been in this line for the last thirty years or so, and so, of course, have lots to learn." "Aw, cut it out, Dad," grumbled the younger Bennett. "As far as I can find out, you've never tried any of the things I've proposed, and so how do you know how good or bad they are?" "Well, the only objection to your plans was that they would generally have meant building a new factory to carry them out. Otherwise I have no fault to find with them," returned Mr. Bennett. After a little further talk, Mr. Bennett insisted that the boys come home to his house for luncheon. Needless to say, they had no very strong objections to this, and were easily persuaded. The proprietor's home was a large, comfortable mansion, and the good cheer offered within carried out the impression received without. There was an abundance of good fare, and the young fellows rose from the table at last with a satisfied air. Mr. Bennett had quite a long talk with Bert during the progress of the meal, and seemed very much interested in him. It turned out that Mr. Bennett was quite a baseball enthusiast himself, so he entered heartily into Bert's enthusiasm over the game. "I used to be quite some player myself when I was your age," he told Bert, "only I used to play a different position. I usually played catcher, and was on my team at H----. In those days we never bothered with catcher's mitts, however, and we catchers worked with bare hands. Once I was catching in this manner, and a ball caught my thumb and half tore it off. I was so excited at the time, though, that I never noticed it, until one of my teammates noticed blood on the ball and called my attention to it. After that, when my thumb healed, you may be sure I caught with a glove. You can see the scar still," and he showed the boys the scar of what had evidently been a nasty wound. "Well, boys," he said, at the conclusion of this narrative, "what do you say if we go on back to the factory and make that test of young Wilson's speed. I am very much interested, I assure you." Of course there were no objections raised to this, and after a pleasant walk they arrived again at the factory. They proceeded directly to the testing room, and Bert shed his coat and vest. "Come ahead, Dick; you catch for me until I warm up, will you?" he said, and Dick ran to the requisite distance and donned a catcher's mitt that he had brought along for the purpose. Bert pitched him a few easy balls, and then began to work up a little speed. As he shot them to Dick with ever-increasing pace, Mr. Bennett's face lighted up with interest, and finally he said, "Say, just let me try catching a few, will you, Trent? It's a long time since I've had a catcher's mitt on, but I'd like to take a try at it just for the fun of the thing." "Certainly," responded Dick, promptly, and handed his glove to Mr. Bennett. The latter donned it quickly, and punched it a few resounding blows to "put a hole in it." "All right, my boy," he said, when the glove was prepared to his satisfaction. "Shoot 'em over, and don't be afraid to put some speed into 'em. You can't send them too fast to suit me." Bert sent over a few easy ones at first, just to see how Mr. Bennett would handle them. The latter caught the offerings in a practised manner, and said, "Come on, young man, put some whiskers on the ball. That wasn't the best you could do, was it?" Bert made no answer to this, but on his next pitch his arm swung around like a flail, and the ball left his hand as though propelled by a catapult. The factory owner managed to catch the ball, but he wrung his hand. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, "that ball stung my hand pretty hard right through the glove." Young Bennett laughed in unholy glee, and danced about first on one foot and then on the other. "That's one on you, dad," he crowed; "but you ought to feel lucky that you even caught the ball. If Bert wanted to, he could pitch a ball that you couldn't even touch. Give him a fadeaway, Bert." "Fadeaway, you say," grunted his father. "There never was a pitcher yet that could pitch a ball that I couldn't even touch. Give me a sample of this wonderful ball, Wilson." "All right, sir," said Bert, and grinned. He wound up in the old familiar way that the boys knew so well, and shot over a ball that Mr. Bennett figured was a "cinch." He held his glove in what he thought was the proper place, but at the last moment the ball dropped abruptly and swung under the glove, missing it by several inches. "Well, I'll be hanged," muttered Mr. Bennett, gazing stupidly at his glove. He soon recovered himself, however, and handed the glove back to Dick. "You've certainly got a wonderful ball there, Wilson," he said. "You fooled me very neatly, and I have no excuse to offer." Which showed the fellows that Mr. Bennett was a "good sport." Pretty soon Bert announced himself as ready for the speed test, and Mr. Bennett led the way over to what looked like an empty hoop, but which, upon closer inspection, was seen to be crossed and recrossed by a web of fine, hairlike wires. "These wires are so connected," explained Mr. Bennett, "that no matter where the ball goes, provided, of course, that it goes somewhere inside the hoop, it will break a wire, and the exact second will be recorded. Then, there is another hoop fifty feet away," pointing to a similar contrivance nearer the other end of the testing room, "and all you have to do, Wilson, is to pitch the ball through both hoops. That back hoop is a good deal bigger than any catcher's glove, so you oughtn't to have any difficulty doing it. Do you think you can manage that all right?" "Why, I guess I can do that," replied Bert, and took up his position about eight or ten feet this side of the front hoop. Dick tossed him the ball, and Bert fitted it carefully in his hand. Then he drew his arm back as far as possible, and a second later the ball shot from his fingers at a terrific pace. It struck almost the exact center of the first hoop, parting the fragile wires as though they had been so many cobwebs, and shot through the second hoop about a foot from its edge. "Good shot!" exclaimed Mr. Bennett, and he and the foreman hurried to the recording instruments, and started figuring up the time. "Gee, Bert," said Tom, "I don't think I ever saw you pitch a faster ball, even when the team has been in a tight place in the ninth inning. I'd almost swear I saw it smoke as it went through the air." "Well, fast or slow, it was the best I could do, anyway," said Bert, "so there's no use worrying about it." In a short time, Mr. Bennett and the foreman had arrived at a result, and hurried over to where the boys were discussing the probable outcome of the test. "You sent that ball at the rate of 114 feet a second, which is equivalent to about eighty-three or eighty-four miles an hour!" he exclaimed. "In other words, you could throw a ball after the Twentieth Century express traveling at its average speed and overtake it. As you probably know, any object traveling at a speed of a mile a minute traverses eighty-eight feet in one second, and it is on this that we have based our calculations." "Say, Bert, that certainly was going some," said Dick, proudly, and the others were not far behind in congratulating our hero on his truly astonishing performance. It is safe to say that few professional pitchers could better Bert's record. After the excitement had died down somewhat, John Bennett proposed that they have a shooting contest, and his idea met with instant approval. John had had unlimited facilities for perfecting himself in this art since a boy, however, and outclassed any of the others both at long and short-distance shooting. When they had grown tired of this, it was growing late, and Bert proposed that they return. Needless to say, nobody wanted to go, but they had no choice, and so proceeded to take their leave. They all thanked their host heartily, also the good-natured and obliging foreman. Mr. Bennett shook Bert's hand last of all, and as he ushered them to the door, said, "I'm going to take a holiday and see the next big game in which you pitch, Wilson. I'm quite anxious to see you in action." "We'll all be glad to see you, I'm sure," returned Bert, "and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to show you over the college after the game." "Much obliged," replied Mr. Bennett, and watched the laughing, singing group until it was hidden by a turn in the road. The return journey seemed much longer than it had that morning, but they arrived at last, and voted it one of the best days they had ever known. The news of Bert's feat soon spread over the campus, and when it reached Reddy's ears, he nodded his head sagely. "Just make believe I don't know a crack pitcher when I see one," he grinned to himself. CHAPTER IX A GALLANT RESCUE "Say, fellows, what have you got on hand for to-day?" asked Tom, as he burst into the "sanctum-sanctorum," as Bert and Dick called their room, and sank into an easy chair. "Nothing," said Bert, turning from a not too promising survey of the surrounding country, "absolutely and emphatically nothing! This promises to be one of the slowest days in my short and brilliant career----" "Hear, hear!" cried Tom from the depths of his chair. "That's fine for a starter, old top. Keep it up and perhaps you can actually persuade us that you amount to something. It's rather a hopeless task, but it wouldn't do any harm to try." "You're such a bonehead that you don't recognize real worth when you see it," Bert retorted, good-naturedly. "There's another one," he added, pointing to Dick, who was trying to figure out a calculus problem. "He prefers grinding in calculus to listening to an interesting tale of my trials and tribulations." "It isn't a question of preference, it's a case of dire necessity," Dick sighed, despondently. "If only I hadn't cut class the other day I would be all right, but as it is I'll have to cram to make up for it. Oh, if I only had the fellow who invented calculus here, I'd----" and in the absence of anything better Dick pulled his own mop of tangled hair and applied himself furiously to the solving of what he called "an unsolvable problem." "Poor old chap, never mind," consoled Tom. "When I come back to-night with old Pete under my arm I'll tell you just how I caught him." "Do you mean to say that you are going fishing for old Pete to-day?" Dick asked, forgetting all about calculus in his excitement. "Sure," Tom replied, placidly. "Didn't we agree that the first clear Saturday we had off we'd take for our fishing trip?" "So we did, but that was so long ago that I'd clean forgotten it. Why didn't you remind us of it sooner, Tom? You would have spared me a lot of useless worry as to how I was going to spend a baseball-less day." "I didn't think of it myself until I came into the room," Tom admitted, "but I suppose Dick can't go with us now. It's too bad he cut the other day," he added, with a sly glance at the discarded calculus. "Don't let it worry you," Dick retorted. "Do you suppose that anything in earth could keep me from hunting Old Pete to-day, now that you have brought him so forcibly to my mind? Go on down and get your tackle, Tom. Bert and I will join you in no time." "But, really, Dick," Tom protested, with mock severity, "don't you realize that duty----" "Get out before I put you out," roared Dick, making a dash for Tom, who promptly disappeared through the door. "Since you insist," laughed the fugitive through the keyhole, "meet me on the campus in half an hour." "We'll be there with bells on," said Bert and Dick with one voice, and at once began their preparations for the trip. As Dick put the calculus back on the shelf, he said, half apologetically, "I'll see you to-night, old fellow." * * * * * Half an hour later, the trio were swinging rapidly down the road, carrying their fishing poles and tackle. This was an outing that they had planned for early in the season, but up to this time they had had no opportunity to carry it out. Nearly every Saturday they had had extra baseball practice, or something unexpected had come up, but now at last they had their chance and were only too anxious to take advantage of it. Besides them was Pete. Old Pete was a huge pickerel who was sly and wary beyond the general run of fishes. Many a confident angler had come to the lake, absolutely certain of his ability to land the big fellow, only to return, sheepish and crestfallen, to acknowledge his defeat. So it was no wonder that our fellows were excited at the prospect of a game of hide-and-seek with the biggest and most cunning of the pickerel family. "Just think," Bert was saying, "what it will mean if we land him. Almost all the other fellows in college have tried it without success, and if we could manage to bring back Old Pete we would be popular heroes." "I know, but there's not much chance of that," Tom sighed. "If old Si Perkins couldn't catch him napping, I'm afraid we can't." "Never say die, Tom," Dick said, gaily. "A day like this makes you feel equal to anything." "So say I," Bert added, heartily. "Say, do you see that mill in front of us? Well, that belongs to Herr Hoffmeyer, and it's one of the classiest little mills I ever saw." "It sure is working some, but where do they get the power?" Dick asked. "Why, there's a dam right back of the mill. You can't see it from here, but when we get a little nearer I'll point it out to you. See," he added, as they neared the mill, "isn't that a great arrangement. Alongside the mill there is a narrow, deep sluice. In this is arranged a large paddle wheel and, as the water rushes through, it acts on the paddles and turns the wheel. By a system of cogs the power is then transmitted to the grinding stone." "That sure is fine," said Tom. "I don't know that I have ever had a chance to see a working mill at such close range. Just look how the water rushes through that sluice. I wouldn't like to get in the way." "Nor I," said Dick. "The current must be very strong the other side of the dam." "You bet your life it is. If anybody should get caught in it, I wouldn't give that," snapping his fingers, "for his chance of life." At this moment a bald-headed, red-faced man appeared at the door of the mill. He regarded the boys with a broad smile on his face as he carefully dusted his hands on his white apron. "Goot morning, young shentlemens," he said, affably. "Fine morning, fine morning, fine morning," and after each repetition of this sentiment he shook his head vigorously and his smile became broader. "It is, indeed, sir," Bert said. "We stopped for a moment to see your mill in operation. It's a very fine mill," he added. "Yah, yah," the big miller assented, cheerfully, "it's a very goot mill. For over five year now by me it has worked. Von't you step on the insides for a minute, young shentlemens?" "Sure thing," said Tom. "Come on, fellows. It isn't often you get a chance to see a real mill working. Old Pete can wait, I guess," and so, led by the good-natured Herr Hoffmeyer, the trio entered the mill. For the better part of an hour they wandered around to their hearts' content. The miller showed the working of the mill wheels, and led the way into every nook and cranny, explaining as they went. At last, when they had seen everything there was to be seen, the boys thanked their host heartily, and started on their way once more. Before they rounded a bend in the road, they turned for a last look at the mill. At the door stood their erstwhile host, honest, round face shining like the moon, while the rays of the sun glanced off in little golden darts from the smooth surface of his bald head. "Well, that was some adventure," Bert exclaimed. "I've always wanted to see the inside of a mill, and now I've realized my heart's desire." "I like Herr Hoffmeyer, too," Tom said, "even if I did think he was a trifle weak in the head at first. Isn't this the pickerel stream?" he asked, a minute later. "Yes, but the fellows say that the big pickerel is further down the stream. Come along." With these words, Bert led them down the bank until they reached a shady spot, shaded by spreading trees, and carpeted with green and velvety moss. "This place looks good to me," said Dick; "let's camp here." "I guess this ought to be about right," Bert agreed. In a few minutes the reels were fixed, the hooks were baited, and the lines were lowered carefully into the clear depths of the stream. "This is what you might call comfort," said Tom, as he leaned lazily against a convenient tree. "Bet your life," Bert agreed. "Now, if Pete will only consent to come along and get the hook, like any other respectable, right-minded fish, my contentment would be absolute." "Huh," Tom grunted sarcastically. "He'd be likely to do that, wouldn't he, especially if you keep up this gabfest?" "I guess a little polite conversation won't scare that wary old reprobate. I imagine he's heard so much conversation that couldn't be called exactly polite, especially when he calmly detaches the bait from the hook without stopping to leave his card, that he wouldn't mind our talk at all." "Shut up," said Tom, in a low voice, "I've got a bite, and the line's pulling hard." Then, amid a breathless silence, Tom gave a quick, experienced pull to the line, and landed--not the renowned old Pete, but a small-sized sunfish, that wriggled and twisted desperately in its efforts to get away. At this minute Bert happened to glance at Tom's face, and the look he found there was so eloquent of absolute dismay and chagrin, that he burst into a shout of uncontrollable laughter, in which Dick joined him. "That was sure one on you, old man," he said, when he had breath enough. "Humph," Tom grunted, disgustedly, "it sure was a sell. I thought I had old Pete cinched that time. However," he added, "I don't see that you fellows have much to say. You haven't even caught a sunfish." "Not so you could notice it," Dick agreed cheerfully. "There's plenty of time yet, though, and all things come to him who waits. I'm right on the job, when it comes to waiting." Bert, who had been thinking his own thoughts, suddenly broke into the conversation with an irrelevant "Say, fellows, did you ever hear the story of the man who went for a sail on a windy day----" "And a man coming out of the cabin asked him," Tom broke in, "if the moon had come up yet, and he answered, 'No, but everything else has'? Yes, we've heard that old chestnut cracked before." "Well, it just struck me," Bert mused, "that it fitted your case pretty well." "I suppose it does, in a way," Tom admitted, "but you just wait and see if I don't land that old rascal before night." "Go in and win, my boy, and take my blessing. It doesn't make much difference who does the catching so long as he is caught," Dick said, and once more leaned his broad back against the tree with a sigh of content. But into Tom's head had come a scheme, and he determined to carry it out at the very first opportunity. For a long time the trio sat on the grassy bank, listening to the myriad indescribable sounds of spring. They watched the gorgeous butterfly as it winged its lazily graceful way from blossom to blossom, and heard the buzzing of the bee as it invaded the heart of flowerland, and stole its nectar. The perfumed air, hot from the touch of the sun, stole upon their senses, and made them delightfully lazy. Suddenly, Bert gave a jerk to his line and landed a fair-sized pickerel. Their luck had changed, and in a short time they had a very good mess of fish. But the great pickerel seemed farther from showing himself than ever. Tom landed the next fish, but, instead of taking it off the hook, he threw the line, fish, and all back into the water. "What's that for?" Dick asked. "We have plenty of bait left, and there's no use in wasting a perfectly good fish." "Wait," Tom remarked, laconically. They had not long to wait, however, for in a few minutes there was another jerk on Tom's line. "Catch hold, fellows," Tom cried, "and help me pull. Gee, I can't hold it, much less pull it in." Intensely excited, Dick added his strength to Tom's and pulled hard. "Pull, pull!" Tom cried, almost crazy with excitement. "We can't lose him now. Come on! Come on!--now!" And with one concerted effort they pulled the line up, falling over one another in their attempt to keep their balance. And there, at their feet, was the largest pickerel they had ever seen--old Pete. Quick as a flash, Tom landed on the prize, just in time to keep it from slipping back into the water. "Look at him, look at him, fellows!" Tom shouted. "Here's old Pete, the biggest pickerel in the world, the wary old codger that has defied every fisherman for miles around, and has even eluded the deadly machinations of Si Perkins. Don't stand there like wooden statues--come here and help me unhook this old reprobate. Why don't you say something?" "For the very good reason," Bert answered, drily, "that you haven't given us a chance. And for the second reason, I am so dazed I can't realize our good fortune." "Our good fortune," Tom repeated, scornfully. "You mean my brains and common sense. Who thought of putting that fish back into the water to fool old Pete, I'd like to know?" "You did, and we are perfectly willing to give you all the credit," said Bert. "The really important thing is that he's caught. I can hardly believe it yet. Isn't he a beauty?" he added, enthusiastically. "Look at the length of him, and the thickness---- Say, fellows, I bet we could feed the whole college on him for a month." "I shouldn't wonder," Bert laughed. "I, for one, have never seen his equal, and never expect to again." "What's that?" Tom demanded, sharply, as a cry of terror rent the air. "Let's find out." "It sounded further down the stream, near the mill. Come on, fellows. Hurry!" and Bert instinctively took command, as he always did in cases of emergency. As the boys burst through the bushes further down, the cry came again, a wild call for help, and they saw a white clad figure struggling desperately against the force of the current. With a shout of encouragement Bert plunged into the water, and with long, powerful strokes was nearing the spot where the girl had disappeared. Once more the figure rose to the surface, but Bert knew it was for the last time. The girl was terribly close to the sluice, and as Bert swam he felt the tug of the current. Just as the girl was about to go under, Bert caught her dress and pulled her to the surface. But how, how, could he swim with his burden against the current to the bank, which seemed to him a hundred miles off! With resolute courage he mustered his strength and began the struggle with that merciless current. One stroke, two, three,--surely he was gaining, and a great wave of joy and hope welled up in his heart. He _must_ make it, for not only was his life at stake, but the life of the young girl dependent upon his success. But it became harder and harder to make headway, and finally he realized that he was barely holding his own--that he had to exert all his remaining strength to prevent them both from being drawn through the sluice to a cruel death below. Desperately he strove to push against that mighty wall of water, that, like some merciless giant, was forcing him and his helpless burden, inch by inch, to destruction. In the agony of his soul a great cry of despair broke from his lips. "It will all be over soon," he muttered. "I wouldn't care so much for myself, but the girl," and he looked down at the pale face and dark, tangled hair of the girl he was giving his life to save. They were very, very close to the entrance of the sluice now, and nearing it more swiftly every moment. But what was that black object coming toward them so rapidly? "Bert, Bert, keep up your courage. I'm coming!" cried Dick's voice. "I'll be with you in a minute. Just a minute, old fellow." Oh, could Dick reach them in time. Bert could only pray for strength to hold on for a few minutes. He was very near them now, and shouting encouragement at every stroke. Now he was beside them, and had taken the girl from Bert's nerveless grasp. "Here, take this rope, old fellow," he cried, "put it over your head, quick. That's the way. Now let the fellows on shore pull you in." Bert wondered afterward why he had not felt any great exultation at his sudden and almost miraculous deliverance. As it was, only a great feeling of weariness settled down upon him, and he wanted to sleep--sleep. Then the sky came down to meet the earth, and everything went black before his eyes. * * * * * "Bert, dear old Bert, wake up. You're safe. You're safe. Don't you hear me, old fellow?" a voice at a great distance was saying, and Bert opened uncomprehending eyes on a strange world. "Hello, fellows," he said, with the ghost of his old smile. "Came pretty near to 'shuffling off this mortal coil,' didn't I? Where is----" he asked, looking around, inquiringly. "The girl you so bravely rescued?" came a sweet voice behind him. "And who never, never can repay you for what you have done to-day if she lives forever?" With the assistance of his friends Bert got to his feet and faced the girl who had so nearly gone to her death with him. For the first time in his life he felt embarrassed. "Please don't thank me," he said; "I'm repaid a thousandfold when I see you standing there safe. It might so easily have been the other way," and he shuddered at the thought. Before the girl could answer, another figure strode forth and grasped our hero's hand in both of his. "Professor Davis," Bert exclaimed, as he recognized one of the college professors. "Yes, it's Mr. Davis, Bert, and he owes you a debt of gratitude he can never cancel. Bert, it was my daughter you rescued from a hideous death to-day, and, dear boy, from this day, you can count on me for anything in the world." "Thank you, Professor; I don't deserve all this----" "Yes, you do, my boy--every bit of it and more, and now," he added, seeing that the strain was telling on Bert, "I think you, Dick, and Tom had better get Bert home as quickly as you can. This daughter of mine insisted on staying until you revived, but I guess she will excuse you, now. I'd ask you to take supper with us to-night, but I know that what you most need is rest. It is only a pleasure deferred, however." As they turned to go, the girl held out her hands to Tom and Dick, and lastly to Bert. "I am very, very grateful," she said, softly. "And I am very, very grateful that I have been given a chance to serve you," he answered, and watched her disappear with her father through the bushes. Then he turned to Dick and Tom. "You fellows deserve more credit than I, a thousand times more," he said, in a voice that was a trifle husky. "Huh," said Tom, "all that I did was to run to the nearest house for a rope, and all Dick did was to hand you the rope, while Professor Davis and I hauled you in." "Yes, that's all," Bert repeated, softly, "that's all." "Well, come on, Bert, it's time you got back to college. I guess you're about all in," said Dick, putting his arm through Bert's and starting off in the direction of the college. "Say, you forgot something," Tom said, suddenly. "You forgot all about old Pete." "So we did," Dick exclaimed; "suppose you go and get the fish and poles, if they are still there, and join us at the crossing." And they did meet at the crossing, and jogged along home, their bodies tired, but their hearts at rest, while their friendship was welded still more strongly by one other experience, shared in common. CHAPTER X A WILD RIDE It was a rather gloomy morning on which the team started for the college where they were to play one of the most important games of the series. If they won, they would eliminate the Grays and have only to contend with the Maroons; if they lost, all their splendid work of the season might have gone for nought. They were a sober bunch, therefore, as they gathered at the railway station to await their train. There was little of the usual joking and horse play to be seen, but this may have been partly due to the depressing state of the weather. As the train came in sight, however, they chirked up somewhat at the thought of having something to occupy their minds, and piled aboard their special car in a little more cheerful mood. A dense, clammy fog hung low over the ground, and it was impossible to see more than a hundred feet or so into it in any direction. The town in which they were to play to-day was almost a hundred miles distant, and so they had a considerable journey ahead of them. The train was a little behind time, and was making extra speed in an effort to catch up with its schedule. They had traversed several miles, and were relieving the monotony of the journey with jokes and riddles. As they passed over a particularly high trestle, and looked down into the dizzy void below, Sterling, the second baseman, said: "Say, fellows, this trestle reminds me of a story I heard a little while ago. If somebody would beg me to real hard, I might be induced to tell it to you." "Go ahead!" "Shoot!" "Let's hear it!" came a chorus of supplication, and Sterling said, "Well, if you insist, I suppose I will have to tell it to you. The scene of this thrilling anecdote is laid in the Far West, when it was much wilder and woollier than it is at present. It seems that two horse thieves had been captured by a band of 'vigilantes,' and after a trial notable for its brevity and lack of hampering formalities, they were both sentenced to be hanged. It was in a country in which there were no trees worthy of the name, and the only available place for the execution within several miles was a high railroad bridge. To this, accordingly, the 'vigilantes' conducted their prisoners, one of whom was a Swede and the other of Irish persuasion. The two were forced to draw lots to see which one should be hanged first, and, as it turned out, the Swede drew the short straw, and so was pronounced the first victim of justice. "The noose of a stout lariat was fastened around his neck, and when everything was ready he was shoved off the bridge. As the strain of his weight came on the rope, however, the knot of the noose became untied, and the Swede fell to the rushing river below. He was not hurt much, and those on the bridge saw him swim to the bank and scramble ashore. There was no way of getting at him, so the lynchers had to satisfy themselves with many and varied oaths. The Irishman, of course, had watched the proceeding in a fascinated manner, and as the cowboys tied the rope around his neck, he said, in an imploring voice, 'For Hivin's sake, byes, tie the rope tight this time, for I can't swim a stroke.'" Hearty laughter greeted Sterling's narrative, and the boys felt in better spirits after it. "That reminds me of a story I heard once," began Hinsdale. "It was when I was on a visit to my uncle's ranch in Montana, and----" But he was interrupted by a crash that sounded as though the end of the world had come, and the car in which they were riding reared up in the air like a bucking horse. It rose almost to a perpendicular position, and then crashed over on its side. It scraped along a few rods in this position, and then came to a grinding halt. For a few seconds there was silence, and then a pandemonium of muffled screams and cries broke forth. Bert's voice was the first to be heard in their car, and it inquired, anxiously, "Where are you, Dick, Tom, and the rest of you? Are you alive yet? Here, you, get off my neck, will you, and give me a chance to breathe." There was a general scramble and struggle among the debris, and soon one boy after another climbed and crawled through the broken windows until finally they all stood accounted for. Many had painful scratches and bruises, but none were hurt at all seriously. Reddy, the trainer, drew a sigh of relief. "Thank Heaven for its mercies," said he, fervently, and then, "Well, me lads, get a wiggle on, and we'll see if everybody else has been as lucky as we have. From the looks of things up forward there, it's more than I dare hope." The front part of the train, which had sustained the greatest shock of the collision, was indeed a terrible spectacle. Running full speed, the two trains had crashed into each other out of the fog before their engineers had fairly realized that anything was amiss. The locomotives were practically demolished, and one huge Mogul lay on its side beside the roadbed, steam still hissing from its broken pipes. The other engine still was on the rails, but its entire front had been demolished, and it was a total wreck. The coaches immediately back of the locomotives had been driven on by the momentum of the cars back of them, and had been partly telescoped; that is, the cars in the rear had plowed half way through before their progress was checked. To add to the horror of the scene, thin red flames were licking up from the wreckage, probably started by the coals from the engine. Many of the passengers were unable to extricate themselves from the wreckage, being pinned down by beams and other heavy articles. Their cries and supplications to be saved were pitiful as they saw the hungry flames gathering headway and eating their way toward them, and Reddy turned fiercely to the horror-stricken boys. "Here, what are ye standing around for?" he snarled. "Git back to our car and get out the axes and fire extinguishers there. You can get at them if you try. Come on; hurry!" and the trainer sprinted back toward the rear cars, followed in a body by the willing and eager boys. In less time than it takes to tell it, they returned, some with axes and some with extinguishers. The latter could make little progress against the flames, however, which by now had gained considerable headway, so the boys, assisted by such other of the passengers who were in a position to do so, proceeded to chop and dig their way to the imprisoned unfortunates. Person after person they dragged out in this manner, until they had rescued all but one man. He was pinned down by a timber that had all the weight of one of the heavy trucks on it, and it seemed impossible that they could get him out before the fire got to him. Already they could feel its intense heat as they chopped and pulled, wrenched and lifted, in a frenzy of haste. Nearer and nearer crept the all-embracing fire, until eyebrows and hair began to singe with the deadly heat, and they were forced to work in relays, relieving each other every minute or so. "For God's sake, if you can't get me out of here before the fire reaches me, kill me," pleaded the unfortunate prisoner, "don't let me roast here by degrees!" "No danger of that," gasped Bert, as he swung a huge timber aside that under ordinary circumstances he would have been unable even to move. "We'll have you out in a jiffy, now." "Come on boys, we've got to move this truck," yelled Reddy. "Here, everybody get hold on this side, and when I say pull, _pull_ for your lives! Now! get hold! Ready?" "Yes!" they gasped between set teeth. "Pull!" fairly screamed Reddy, and every man and boy grasping the obstinate mass of twisted metal put every ounce of strength in his body into one supreme effort. The mass swayed, gave, and then toppled back where it had been before! "Don't give up!" yelled Bert, frantically, as he saw some of the men release their hold and turn away, evidently despairing of accomplishing their object. "Try it again! For God's sake remember you're men, and try again! It's a human life that's at stake!" Thus adjured, they returned to the task, and at the signal from Reddy, wrenched and tore frantically at the inert mass that appeared to mock their puny efforts. "Keep it up, keep it up!" gritted Reddy. Slowly but surely, every muscle straining to its utmost and threatening to snap under the terrific strain, they raised the heavy truck, and with one last mad heave and pull sent it toppling down the railroad embankment. With a wild yell they fell upon the few light timbers lying between them and the imprisoned man, and soon had him stretched out safely beside the track. On examination it proved that he had an arm wrenched and several minor injuries, but nothing fatal. "Nothing I can say will express half the gratitude I feel toward you young men," he said, smiling weakly up into the faces of the boys grouped about him, "you have saved me from a horrible death, and I will never forget it." While waiting for the arrival of the wrecking crew and a doctor, the rescued man had considerable further talk with the members of the team, and they learned, much to their surprise, that he was an alumnus of their college. Their pleasure at this discovery was very great, and that of the stranger seemed little less. "The old college has done me a whole lot of good, all through my life," he said, "but never as much as it did to-day, through her baseball team. You will hear further from me, young men." "Oh, it was nothing much to do," deprecated Bert, "we did the only thing there was to be done under the circumstances, and that was all there was to it!" "Not a bit of it," insisted the gentleman. "Why, just take a look at your faces. You are all as red as though you had been boiled, and your eyebrows are singed. I declare, anybody looking at us would think that you had had a good deal harder time of it than I had." And nothing the boys could say would induce him to alter his opinion of their heroism in the slightest degree. Soon they heard a whistle far down the track, and shortly afterward the wrecking train hove in view. It consisted, besides the locomotive and tender, of a tool car, in which were stored all kinds of instruments, jacks, etc., that could possibly be required, and a flat car on which a sturdy swinging crane was mounted. The railroad company had also sent several physicians, who were soon busily engaged in taking proper care of the injured. In the meantime, the crew of the wrecking train, headed by a burly foreman, got in strenuous action, and the boys marveled at the quick and workmanlike manner in which they proceeded to clear the line. As is the case with all wrecking crews, their orders were to clear the road for traffic in the shortest time regardless of expense. The time lost in trying to save, for instance, the remains of a locomotive or car for future use, would have been much more valuable than either. A gang of Italians were set to work clearing off the lighter portion of the wreckage, and the wrecking crew proper proceeded to get chains under the locomotive that remained on the tracks. It was so twisted and bent that not one of its wheels would even turn, so it was impossible to tow it away. The only solution of the problem, then, was to lift it off the track. After the crew had placed and fastened the chains to the satisfaction of the foreman, who accompanied the process with a string of weird oaths, the signal was given to the man operating the steam crane to "hoist away." The strong engine attached to the massive steel crane began to whirr, and slowly the great mass of the locomotive rose, inch by inch, into the air. When the front part was entirely clear of the tracks, the operator touched another lever, and the crane swung outward, carrying the huge locomotive with it as a child might play with a toy. It was a revelation of the unlimited might of that powerful monster, steam. Further and further swung the crane, until the locomotive was at right angles to the track, with its nose overhanging the embankment. Then, with the foreman carefully directing every movement with uplifted hand and caustic voice, the locomotive was lowered gently down the embankment, partly sliding and partly supported by the huge chain, every link of which was almost a foot long. In speaking of this chain afterward one of the boys said he wished he had stolen it so that he might wear it as a watch-chain. The engine finally came to rest at the foot of the incline, and the chain was slackened and cast off. Then the crane took the next car in hand, and went through much the same process with it. Car after car was slid down the embankment, and in an incredibly short time the roadway was cleared of wreckage. Then it was seen that several rails had been ripped up, but these were quickly replaced by others from racks built along the right of way, such as the reader has no doubt often seen. In a little over an hour from the time the wrecking crew came on the scene the last bolt on the rail connecting plates had been tightened, and the track was ready again for traffic. "Gee," exclaimed Tom, "that was quick work, for fair. Why, if anybody had asked me, I would have said that no train would have been able to use this roadway for at least a day. That crew knows its business, and no mistake." "They sure do," agreed Dick, "they cleared things up in jig time. But it only shows what can be done when you go about it in the right way." "I only wish we had had that crane when we were trying to lift the truck up," said the trainer, who had sauntered up to the group. "It wouldn't have been any trick at all with that little pocket instrument." "No," laughed Bert. "I think that in the future I will carry one around with me in case of emergencies. You don't know when it might come in handy." "Great head, great head," approved Dick, solemnly, and then they both laughed heartily, and the others joined in. After their recent narrow escape from death, life seemed a very pleasant and jolly thing. But suddenly Bert's face sobered. "How the dickens are we going to get to the game in time?" he inquired. "The service is all tied up, and it will be hours and hours before we can get there." This was indeed a problem, and there seemed to be no solution. There was no other railroad running within twenty miles of this one, and while a trolley line connecting the towns was building, it had not as yet been completed. As Tom expressed it, "they were up against it good and plenty." While they were discussing the problem, and someone had despairingly suggested that they walk, Mr. Clarke, the gentleman whom the boys had rescued from the wreck, strolled up, with his arm neatly done up in a sling. His face looked pale and drawn, but aside from the wrenched arm he appeared none the worse for his harrowing experience. When informed of the problem facing the team, he appeared nonplussed at first, but then his face lightened up. "My home isn't more than a mile from here," he said, "and I have recently bought a large seven-passenger automobile. You could all pack into that without much trouble, and there is a fine macadam road leading from within a few blocks of my house to the town for which you are bound. But there," and his face clouded over, "I forgot. I discharged my chauffeur the other day, and I have not had time as yet to engage another. I don't know whom I could get to drive the car. I can't do it on account of my broken arm." "Shucks, that's too bad," said Reddy, in a disappointed tone, "that would be just the thing, if we only had someone to run it. That's what I call tough luck. I guess there's no game for us to-day, boys, unless we think of something else." But here Bert spoke up. "If Mr. Clarke wouldn't be afraid to trust the car to me," he said, "I know how to drive, and I can promise we will take the best care of it. I know that car fore and aft, from radiator to taillight." "Why, certainly, go as far as you like," said Mr. Clarke, heartily. "If you are sure you can handle it I will be only too glad to let you have it. Nothing I can do will repay a thousandth part of what I owe you boys." "You're sure you're capable of handling a car, are you, Wilson?" inquired the trainer, with a searching look. "I don't want to take a chance on getting mixed up in any more wrecks to-day. The one we've had already will satisfy me for some time to come." "Watch me," was all Bert said, but Dick and Tom both chimed in indignantly, "I guess you don't know whom we have with us," said Tom, "why, Bert has forgotten more about automobiles than I ever knew, and I'm no slouch at that game." "That's right," confirmed Dick. "Bert's some demon chauffeur, Reddy. Believe me, we'll have to move some, too, if we expect to get to D---- in time for the game. Why!" he exclaimed, glancing at his watch, "it's after one now, and we're due to be at the grounds at 2:30. How far is it, Mr. Clarke, from your house to D----?" Mr. Clarke calculated a moment, and then said, "Why, I guess it must be from fifty to fifty-five miles. You'll have to burn up the road to get there in anything like time," he said, and glanced quizzically at Bert. "That's easy," returned the latter, "a car like yours ought to be capable of seventy miles an hour in a pinch." Mr. Clarke nodded his head. "More than that," he said, "but be careful how you try any stunts like seventy miles an hour. I don't care about the car, but I don't want the old college to be without a baseball team owing to an automobile smashup." "Never fear," said Bert, confidently. "You may be sure I will take no unnecessary chances. I don't feel as though I wanted to die yet awhile." "All right," said Mr. Clarke, and proceeded to give them directions on the shortest way to reach his home. When he had finished, Reddy sang out, "All right, boys, let's get a move on. Double quick now! We haven't a minute to lose." Accordingly the whole team started off at a swinging trot, and it was not long before Mr. Clarke's handsome residence came into view. Mr. Clarke had given them a note, which they presented to his wife, who met them at the door. She was much agitated at the news contained therein, but, after a few anxious questions, proceeded to show them where the machine was located, and gave them the key to the garage. They raced down a long avenue of stately trees, and soon came to the commodious stone garage. Reddy unlocked the doors, and swung them wide. "Gee, what a machine," breathed Bert, and stood a moment in mute admiration. The automobile was of the very latest pattern, and was the finest product of an eminent maker. The sun sparkled on its polished enamel and brass work. But Bert had no eyes for these details. He raised the hood and carefully inspected the engine. Then he peered into the gasoline and oil tanks, and found both plentifully supplied. "All right," he announced, after this inspection. "Pile in someway, and we'll get a move on. What time is it, Tom?" "Just twenty-five minutes of two," announced Tom, after consulting his watch. "I hope we don't get arrested for speeding, that's all. This reminds me of the old 'Red Scout' days, doesn't it you, Dick?" "It sure does," agreed the latter, with a reminiscent smile. "We'll have to go mighty fast to break the records we made then, won't we, old sock?" slapping Bert on the shoulder. "That's what," agreed Bert, as he cranked the motor. The big engine coughed once or twice, and then settled down into a contented purring. Bert threw in the reverse and backed out of the garage. He handled the big car with practised hands, and Reddy, who had been watching him carefully, drew a sigh of relief. "I guess he knows his business, all right," he reflected, and settled back on the luxurious cushions of the tonneau. The car was packed pretty solidly, you may be sure, and everyone seated on the cushions proper had somebody else perched on his lap. This did not matter, however, and everybody was too excited to feel uncomfortable. As they passed the porch, they stopped, and Mrs. Clarke, who had been waiting to see them off, gave Bert directions on how to find the main road. "Follow the road in front of the house due south for about half or three-quarters of a mile," she said, "and then turn to your left on the broad, macadam road that you will see at about this point. That will take you without a break to D----. Be careful of that car, though," she said to Bert, "I'm almost afraid of it, it's so very powerful." "It will need all its power to-day," said Bert, smiling, and they all said good-bye to Mrs. Clarke. Then Bert slipped in the clutch, and the big car glided smoothly out on the road in front of the house, and in a very short time they came to the main road of which Mrs. Clarke had spoken. "Now, Bert, let her rip," said Dick, who was in the seat beside our hero. Bert did. Little by little he opened the throttle till the great machine was rushing along the smooth road at terrific speed. Faster and faster they flew. The wind whistled in their ears, and all who were not holding on to their caps lost them. There was no time to stop for such a trivial item, and indeed nobody even thought of such a thing. To get to the game, that was the main thing. Also, the lust of speed had entered their hearts, and while they felt horribly afraid at the frightful pace, there was a certain mad pleasure in it, too. The speedometer needle crept up and up, till it touched the sixty-mile-an-hour mark. Reddy wanted to tell Bert to slacken speed, but feared that the boys would think he was "scared," so said nothing. Bert's heart thrilled, and the blood pounded madly through his veins. His very soul called for speed, speed! and he gradually opened the throttle until it would go no further. The great car responded nobly, and strained madly ahead. The whirring gears hummed a strident tune, and the explosions from the now open muffler sounded in an unbroken roar. The passengers in the machine grew dizzy, and some were forced to close their eyes to protect them from the rushing, tearing wind. The fields on both sides streaked away in back of them like a vari-colored ribbon, and the gray road seemed leaping up to meet them. The speedometer hand pointed to eighty miles an hour, and now there was a long decline in front of them. The boys thought that then Bert would surely reduce the power somewhat, but apparently no such thought entered his mind. Down the long slope they swooped, and then--What was that in front of them, that they were approaching at such terrific speed? At a glance Bert saw that it consisted of two farm wagons traveling along toward them at a snail's pace, their drivers engaged in talk, and oblivious of the road in front of them. Bert touched the siren lever, and a wild shriek burst from the tortured siren. The drivers gave one startled glance at the flying demon approaching them, and then started to draw up their horses to opposite sides of the road. They seemed fairly to crawl and Bert felt an awful contraction of his heart. What if they could not make it? He knew that it would have been folly to apply the brakes at the terrific speed at which they were traveling, and his only chance lay in going between the two wagons. Slowly--slowly--the wagons drew over to the side of the road, and Bert calculated the distance with straining eyes. His hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles stood out white and tense. Now they were upon the wagons--and through! A vision of rearing horses, excited, gesticulating drivers--and they were through, with a scant half foot to spare on either side. A deep sigh went up from the passengers in the car, and tense muscles were relaxed. Gradually, little by little, Bert reduced the speed until they were traveling at a mere forty miles an hour, which seemed quiet, safe and slow, after their recent hair-raising pace. Reddy pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration. "We looked death in the face that time," he declared, gravely. "I never expected to get out of that corner alive. If we had hit one of those wagons, it would have been all up with us. For heaven's sake, Wilson, take it a little easier in the future, will you? I don't want to decorate a marble slab in the morgue just yet awhile." Tom pulled out his watch, and found that it was after two o'clock. "We can't be far from the town now," he declared. "I'll bet that's it, where you see the steeple over there in the distance." "That's what it is," chimed in several of the others, who had been to the town before; "we'll get there with time to spare." The intervening mile or so was covered in a jiffy, and the car entered the town. Almost immediately they were recognized by some in the crowd, and were greeted with cheers. A couple of young fellows whom they knew jumped up on the running-board as Bert slowed down for them. "Gee," said one, "there's some class to you fellows, all right, all right. It isn't every baseball team that can travel around the country in a giddy buzz wagon like the one you have there. Who belongs to it, anyway?" "Oh, it's too long a story to tell now," said the trainer. "We'll tell you all about it after the game. It's about time we were starting in to practise a little." They soon arrived at the grounds, and were greeted by an ovation. The news of the wreck had just been telegraphed in, and the spectators had been a sorely disappointed lot until the arrival of the car bearing the Blues. The news had spread over the field, and some of the spectators had started to leave, thinking that, of course, there would be no game. These soon returned, however, and settled down to see the struggle. It would seem as though the Blues would have little energy left after such an exciting day as they had passed through, but such is the wonderful elasticity and recuperative powers of youth, that they played one of the snappiest games of the season, and after a hotly contested fight won out by a score of four to two. As they returned to the clubhouse after the game, they were surprised beyond measure to see Mr. Clarke waiting for them. He greeted them with a smile, and shook hands all around with his uninjured arm. "I caught the first train that went through," he explained, "and got here in time to see the last inning. You fellows put up a cracker-jack game, and I think you are an honor to the old college. It was a wonder you did not lose. After what you have been through to-day I should not have been a bit surprised or disappointed." They thanked him for his kind speech, and then nothing would do but that they must have supper with him at the most expensive hotel in town. Needless to say, this meal was done ample justice, and when Mr. Clarke informed them that he had hired rooms for them for the night the announcement was greeted with a cheer. "I have telegraphed home, so nobody will be worried about you," he said. "They know you're in safe hands," and his eyes twinkled. It was a tired lot of athletes that tumbled up to bed that night, and soon they were sleeping the deep, dreamless sleep of healthy exhaustion. CHAPTER XI THE NINTH INNING The morning of the all-important day on which the Blues and Maroons were to lock horns in order that the pennant question might be finally settled dawned gloriously. There was not a cloud in the sky and scarcely a breath of wind stirring. A storm two days before had cooled the air and settled the dust, and altogether a finer day for the deciding struggle could not have been imagined. The game was to be played on the enemy's grounds, and that, of course, gave them a great advantage. This was further increased by the fact that it was Commencement Week, and from all parts of the country great throngs of the old graduates had been pouring for days into the little town that held so large a place in their memories and affections. They could be depended on to a man to be present that afternoon, rooting with all their might and yelling their heads off to encourage the home team. However, they would not have it all their own way in that matter, although of course they would be in the majority. The train that brought Bert and his comrades on the day before was packed with wildly enthusiastic supporters, and a whole section of the grandstand would be reserved for them. They had rehearsed their songs and cheers and were ready to break loose at any time on the smallest provocation and "make Rome howl." And, as is the way of college rooters, they had little doubt that when they took the train for home they would carry their enemies' scalps at their belts. They would have mobbed anybody for the mere suggestion that their favorites could lose. They packed the hotel corridors with an exuberant and hilarious crowd that night that "murdered sleep" for any one within earshot, and it was in the "wee, sma' hours" when they at last sought their beds, to snatch a few hours' sleep and dream of the great game on the morrow. Not so the team themselves, however. They had been carried away to a secluded suite, where after a good supper and a little quiet chat in which baseball was not permitted to intrude, they were tucked away in their beds by their careful trainer and by ten o'clock were sleeping soundly. At seven the next morning they were astir, and, after a substantial breakfast, submitted themselves to "Reddy's" rubdown and massage, at the conclusion of which their bodies were glowing, their eyes bright, and they felt "fine as silk," in Reddy's phrase, and ready for anything. It was like getting a string of thoroughbreds thoroughly groomed and sending them to the post fit to race for a kingdom. To keep them from dwelling on the game, Reddy took them for a quiet stroll in the country, returning only in time for a leisurely though not hearty dinner, after which they piled into their 'bus and started for the ball field. As they drove into the carriage gate at the lower end of the field they fairly gasped at the sight that met their eyes. They had never played before such a tremendous crowd as this. Grandstands and bleachers, the whole four sides of the field were packed with tier upon tier of noisy and jubilant rooters. Old "grads," pretty girls and their escorts waving flags, singing songs, cheering their favorites, shouting their class cries, made a picture that, once seen, could never be forgotten. "Some crowd, all right," said Dick to Bert, as they came out on the field for preliminary practise. "Yes," said Bert, "and nine out of ten of them expect and hope to see us lose. We must put a crimp in that expectation, from the stroke of the gong." "And we will, too," asserted Tom, confidently, "they never saw the day when they were a better team than ours, and it's up to our boys to prove it to them, right off the reel." "How does your arm feel to-day?" asked Dick. "Can you mow them down in the good old way, if you go in the box?" "Never felt better in my life," rejoined Bert. "I feel as though I could pitch all day if necessary." "That sounds good," said Dick, throwing his arm over Bert's shoulder. "If that's the way you feel, we've got the game sewed up already." "Don't be too sure, old man," laughed Bert. "You'd better 'knock wood.' We've seen too many good things go wrong to be sure of anything in this world of chance. By the way," he went on, "who is that fellow up near our bench? There's something familiar about him. By George, it's Ainslee," and they made a rush toward the stalwart figure that turned to meet them with a smile of greeting. "In the name of all that's lucky," cried Dick, as he grasped his hand and shook it warmly, "how did you manage to get here? I thought you were with your team at Pittsburgh. There's no man on earth I'd rather see here to-day." "Well," returned the coach, his face flushing with pleasure at the cordial greeting, "I pitched yesterday, and as it will be two or three days before my turn in the box comes round again, I made up my mind it was worth an all-night's journey to come up here and see you whale the life out of these fellows. Because of course that's what you're going to do, isn't it? You wouldn't make me spend all that time and money for nothing, would you?" he grinned. "You bet we won't," laughed Dick, "just watch our smoke." The presence of the coach was an inspiration, and they went on for their fifteen minutes' practise with a vim and snap that sobered up the over-confident rooters on the other side. Their playing fairly sparkled, and some of the things put across made the spectators catch their breath. Just in front of the grandstand, Bert and Winters tried out their pitching arms. Commencing slowly, they gradually increased their pace, until they were shooting them over with railroad speed. The trainer and manager, reinforced by Mr. Ainslee, carefully watched every ball thrown, so as to get a line on the comparative speed and control. While they intended to use Bert, other things being equal, nobody knew better than they that a baseball pitcher is as variable as a finely strung race horse. One day he is invincible and has "everything" on the ball; the next, a village nine might knock him all over the lot. But to-day seemed certainly Bert's day. He had "speed to burn." His curves were breaking sharply enough to suit even Ainslee's critical eye, and while Winters also was in fine fettle, his control was none too good. Hinsdale was called into the conference. "How about it, Hin?" asked Ainslee. "How do they feel when they come into the glove?" "Simply great," replied the catcher, "they almost knock me over, and his change of pace is perfect." "That settles it," said Ainslee, and the others acquiesced. So that when at last the starting gong rang and a breathless silence fell over the field, as Tom strode to the plate, Bert thrilled with the knowledge that he had been selected to carry the "pitching burden," and that upon him, more than any other member of the team, rested that day's defeat or victory. The lanky, left-handed pitcher wound up deliberately and shot one over the plate. Tom didn't move an eyelash. "Strike one!" called the umpire, and the home crowd cheered. The next one was a ball. "Good eye, old man!" yelled Dick from the bench. "You've got him guessing." The next was a strike, and then two balls followed in rapid succession. The pitcher measured the distance carefully, and sent one right over the center of the rubber. Tom fouled it and grinned at the pitcher. A little off his balance, he sent the next one in high, and Tom trotted down to first, amid the wild yells of his college mates. Flynn came next with a pretty sacrifice that put Tom on second. Drake sent a long fly that the center fielder managed to get under. But before he could get set for the throw in, Tom, who had left second the instant the catch was made, slid into third in a cloud of dust just before the ball reached there. "He's got his speed with him to-day," muttered Ainslee, "now if Trent can only bring him home." But Tom had other views. He had noticed that the pitcher took an unusually long wind-up. Then too, being left-handed, he naturally faced toward first instead of third, as he started to deliver the ball. Foot by foot, Tom increased his lead off third, watching the pitcher meanwhile, with the eye of a hawk. Two balls and one strike had been called on Dick, when, just as the pitcher began his wind-up, Tom made a dash for the plate and came down the line like a panic-stricken jack-rabbit. Warned by the roar that went up from the excited crowd, the pitcher stopped his wind-up, and hurriedly threw the ball to the catcher. But the unexpectedness of the move rattled him and he threw low. There was a mixup of legs and arms, as Tom threw himself to the ground twenty feet from the plate and slid over the rubber, beating the ball by a hair. The visiting crowd went wild, and generous applause came even from the home rooters over the scintillating play, while his mates fairly smothered him as he rose and trotted over to the bench. "He stole home," cried Reddy, whose face was as red as his hair with excitement. "The nerve of him! He stole home!" It was one of the almost impossible plays that one may go all through the baseball season without seeing. Not only did it make sure of one precious run--and that run was destined to look as big as a mountain as the game progressed--but it had a tendency to throw the opposing team off its balance, while it correspondingly inspired and encouraged the visitors. However, the pitcher pulled himself together, and although he passed Dick to first by the four-ball route, he made Hodge send up a high foul to the catcher and the side was out. The home crowd settled back with a sigh of relief. After all, only one run had been scored, and the game was young. Wait till their heavy artillery got into action and there would be a different story to tell. They had expected that Winters, the veteran, would probably be the one on whom the visitors would pin their hopes for the crucial game, and there was a little rustle of surprise when they saw a newcomer move toward the box. They took renewed hope when they learned that he was a Freshman, and that this was his first season as a pitcher. No matter how good he was, it stood to reason that when their sluggers got after him they would quickly "have his number." "Well, Wilson," said Ainslee, as Bert drew on his glove, "the fellows have given you a run to start with. You can't ask any more of them than that. Take it easy, don't let them rattle you, and don't use your fadeaway as long as your curves and fast straight ones are working right. Save that for the pinches." "All right," answered Bert, "if the other fellows play the way Tom is doing, I'll have nothing left to ask for in the matter of support, and it's up to me to do the rest." For a moment as he faced the head of the enemy's batting order, and realized all that depended on him, his head grew dizzy. The immense throng of faces swam before his eyes and Dick's "Now, Bert, eat them up," seemed to come from a mile away. The next instant his brain cleared. He took a grip on himself. The crowd no longer wavered before his eyes. He was as cold and hard as steel. "Come, Freshie," taunted Ellis, the big first baseman, as he shook his bat, "don't cheat me out of my little three bagger. I'll make it a homer if you don't hurry up." He jumped back as a swift, high one cut the plate right under his neck. "Strike," called the umpire. "Naughty, naughty," said Ellis, but his tone had lost some of its jauntiness. The next was a wide outcurve away from the plate, but Ellis did not "bite," and it went as a ball. Another teaser tempted him and he lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale, who smothered it easily. Hart, who followed, was an easy victim, raising a pop fly to Sterling at second. Gunther, the clean-up hitter of the team, sent a grounder to short that ordinarily would have been a sure out, but, just before reaching White, it took an ugly bound and went out into right. Sterling, who was backing up White, retrieved it quickly, but Gunther reached first in safety. The crowd roared their delight. "Here's where we score," said one to his neighbor. "I knew it was only a matter--Thunder! Look at that." "That" was a lightning snap throw from Bert to Dick that caught Gunther five feet off first. The move had been so sudden and unexpected that Dick had put the ball on him before the crowd fairly realized that it had left the pitcher's hand. It was a capital bit of "inside stuff" that brought the Blues to their feet in tempestuous cheering, as Bert walked in to the bench. "O, I guess our Freshie is bad, all right," shouted one to Ellis, as he walked to his position. "We'll get him yet," retorted the burly fielder. "He'll blow up when his time comes." But the time was long in coming. In the next three innings, only nine men faced him, and four of these "fanned." His "whip" was getting better and better as the game progressed. His heart leaped with the sense of mastery. There was something uncanny in the way the ball obeyed him. It twisted, curved, rose and fell like a thing alive. A hush fell on the crowd. All of them, friend and foe, felt that they were looking at a game that would make baseball history. Ainslee's heart was beating as though it would break through his ribs. Could he keep up that demon pitching? Would the end come with a rush? Was it in human nature for a mere boy before that tremendous crowd to stand the awful strain? He looked the unspoken questions to Reddy, who stared back at him. "He'll do it, Mr. Ainslee, he'll do it. He's got them under his thumb. They can't get to him. That ball fairly talks. He whispers to it and tells it what to do." The other pitcher, too, was on his mettle. Since the first inning, no one of his opponents had crossed the rubber. Only two hits had been garnered off his curves and his drop ball was working beautifully. He was determined to pitch his arm off before he would lower his colors to this young cub, who threatened to dethrone him as the premier twirler of the league. It looked like a pitchers' duel, with only one or two runs deciding the final score. In the fifth, the "stonewall infield" cracked. Sterling, the "old reliable," ran in for a bunt and got it easily, but threw the ball "a mile" over Dick's head. By the time the ball was back in the diamond, the batter was on third, and the crowd, scenting a chance to score, was shouting like mad. The cheer leaders started a song that went booming over the field and drowned the defiant cheer hurled at them in return. The coachers danced up and down on the first and third base lines, and tried to rattle Bert by jeers and taunts. "He's going up now," they yelled, "all aboard for the air ship. Get after him, boys. It's all over but the shouting." But Bert had no idea of going up in the air. The sphere whistled as he struck out Allen on three pitched balls. Halley sent up a sky scraper that Sterling redeemed himself by getting under in fine style. Ellis shot a hot liner straight to the box, that Bert knocked down with his left hand, picked up with his right, and got his man at first. It was a narrow escape from the tightest of tight places, and Ainslee and Reddy breathed again, while the disgusted home rooters sat back and groaned. To get a man on third with nobody out, and yet not be able to get him home. Couldn't they melt that icicle in the pitcher's box? What license did he have anyway to make such a show of them? The sixth inning passed without any sign of the icicle thawing, but Ainslee detected with satisfaction that the strain was beginning to tell on the big southpaw. He was getting noticeably wild and finding it harder and harder to locate the plate. When he did get them over, the batters stung them hard, and only superb support on the part of his fielders had saved him from being scored upon. At the beginning of the seventh, the crowd, as it always does at that stage, rose to its feet and stretched. "The lucky seventh," it shouted. "Here's where we win." They had scarcely settled down in their seats however, when Tom cracked out a sharp single that went like a rifle shot between second and short. Flynn sent him to second with an easy roller along the first base line. The pitcher settled down and "whiffed" Drake, but Dick caught one right on the end of the bat and sent it screaming out over the left fielder's head. It was a clean home run, and Dick had followed Tom over the plate before the ball had been returned to the infield. Now it was the Blues' turn to howl, and they did so until they were hoarse, while the home rooters sat back and glowered and the majority gave up the game as lost. With such pitching to contend against, three runs seemed a sure winning lead. In the latter half of the inning, however, things changed as though by magic. The uncertainty that makes the chief charm of the game asserted itself. With everything going on merrily with the visitors, the goddess of chance gave a twist to the kaleidoscope, and the whole scene took on a different aspect. Gunther, who was still sore at the way Bert had showed him up at first, sent up a "Texas leaguer" just back of short. White turned and ran for it, while big Flynn came rushing in from center. They came together with terrific force and rolled over and over, while the ball fell between them. White rose dizzily to his feet, but Flynn lay there, still and crumpled. His mates and some of the opposing team ran to him and bore him to the bench. It was a clean knockout, and several minutes elapsed before he regained consciousness and was assisted from the field, while Ames, a substitute outfielder, took his place. Tom had regained the ball in the meantime and held Gunther at second. The umpire called "play" and the game went on. But a subtle something had come over the Blues. An accident at a critical time like this was sure to be more or less demoralizing. Their nerves, already stretched to the utmost tension, were not proof against the sudden shock. Both the infield and outfield seemed to go to pieces all at once. The enemy were quick to take advantage of the changed conditions. Gunther took a long lead off second, and, at a signal from his captain, started for third. Hinsdale made an awful throw that Tom only stopped by a sideway leap, but not in time to get the runner. Menken sent a grounder to White that ordinarily he would have "eaten up," but he fumbled it just long enough to let the batter get to first, while Gunther cantered over the plate for their first run of the game amid roars of delight from the frantic rooters. It looked as though the long-expected break was coming at last. The next man up struck out and the excitement quieted down somewhat, only to be renewed with redoubled fervor a moment later, when Halley caught a low outcurve just below the waist and laced it into center for a clean double. Smart fielding kept the man on first from getting further than third, but that seemed good enough. Only one man was out and two were on bases, and one of their heaviest batters was coming up. Bert looked him over carefully and then sent him deliberately four wide balls. He planned to fill the bases and then make the next man hit into a double play, thus retiring the side. It was good judgment and Ainslee noted it with approval. Many a time he had done the same thing himself in a pinch and "gotten away with it." As Bert wound up, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Halley was taking a long lead off second. Quick as lightning, he turned and shot the ball to White, who ran from short to cover the base. The throw was so true that he could easily have nailed Halley, as he frantically tried to get back. But although White had pluckily insisted on being allowed to play, his head was still spinning like a top from the recent collision, and a groan went up from the "Blue" supporters as the ball caromed off his glove and rolled out to center. The three men on bases fairly burned up the base lines as they galloped around the bags, and when Ames' hurried return of the ball went over Hinsdale's head to the grand stand, all the bases were cleared, and the score stood four to three in favor of the home team. It had all occurred so suddenly that the visitors were in a daze, and the home nine itself could hardly realize how quickly the tables had been turned. For a moment rage took possession of Bert. What was the matter with the fellows anyway? Why were they playing like a bunch of "Rubes"? Did they expect him to win the game all by himself? Was the victory to be snatched away just as it was within sight? Were these jubilant, yelling rooters, dancing about and hugging each other, to send him and his comrades away, downcast and beaten? Were they to "laugh last" and therefore "best"? And the fellows hundreds of miles away, gathered at this moment around the bulletin board of the dear old college---- No! No! A thousand times, no! In a moment he was himself again--the same old Bert, cool, careful, self-reliant. He stooped down and pretended to tie his shoe lace, in order to give his comrades a moment to regain their self-possession. Then he straightened up and shot a beauty right over the plate. The batter, who had been ordered to wait and take advantage of Bert's expected case of "rattles," let it go by. Two perfect strikes followed and the batter was out. The next man up dribbled a roller to the box and Bert threw him out easily. The inning was over, and Bert had to take off his cap to the storm of cheers that came from the "Blue" supporters as he walked to the bench. Ainslee scanned him carefully for any sign of collapse after this "baptism of fire." Where were the fellow's nerves? Did he have any? Bert met his glance with an easy smile, and the coach, reassured, heaved a sigh of relief. No "yellow streak" there, but clear grit through and through. "It's the good old fadeaway from now on, Wilson," he said as he clapped him on the back, "usually I believe in letting them hit and remembering that you have eight men behind you to help you out. But just now there's a little touch of panic among the boys, and while that would soon wear off, you only have two innings left. This game has got to be won in the pitcher's box. Hold them down and we will bat out a victory yet." "All right," answered Bert; "I've only used the fadeaway once or twice this game, and they've had no chance to size it up. I'll mix it in with the others and try to keep them guessing." Drake and Dick made desperate attempts to overcome the one run advantage in their half of the eighth. Each cracked out a hot single, but the three that followed were unable to bring them home, despite the frantic adjurations of their friends to "kill the ball." Only one more inning now, one last chance to win as a forlorn hope, or fall fighting in the last ditch. A concerted effort was made to rattle Bert as he went into the box, but for all the effect it had upon him, his would-be tormentors might as well have been in Timbuctoo. He was thoroughly master of himself. The ball came over the plate as though shot from a gatling gun for the first batter, whose eye was good for curves, but who, twice before, had proved easy prey for speedy ones. A high foul to the catcher disposed of him. Allen, the next man up, set himself for a fast one, and was completely fooled by the lazy floater that suddenly dropped a foot below his bat, just as it reached the plate. A second and third attempt sent him sheepishly back to the bench. "Gee, that was a new one on me," he muttered. "I never saw such a drop in my life. It was just two jerks and a wiggle." His successor was as helpless as a baby before the magical delivery, and amid a tempest of cheers, the Blues came in for their last turn at bat. Sterling raised their hopes for a moment by a soaring fly to center. But the fielder, running with the ball, made a beautiful catch, falling as he did so, but coming up with the ball in his hand. Some of the spectators started to leave, but stopped when White shot a scorcher so hot that the second baseman could not handle it. Ames followed with a screaming single to left that put White on third, which he reached by a desperate slide. A moment later Ames was out stealing second, and with two men out and hope nearly dead, Bert came to the plate. He caught the first ball pitched on the end of his bat and sent it on a line between right and center. And then he ran. How he ran! He rounded first like a frightened deer and tore toward second. The wind whistled in his ears. His heart beat like a trip hammer. He saw as in a dream the crowds, standing now, and shouting like fiends. He heard Dick yelling: "Go it, Bert, go it, go it!" He caught a glimpse of Tom running toward third base to coach him in. He passed second. The ground slipped away beneath his feet. He was no longer running, he was flying. The third baseman tried to block him, but he went into him like a catapult and rolled him over and over. Now he was on the road to home. But the ball was coming too. He knew it by the warning cry of Reddy, by the startled urging of Tom, by the outstretched hands of the catcher. With one tremendous effort he flung himself to the ground and made a fallaway slide for the plate, just touching it with his finger tips, as the ball thudded into the catcher's mitt. Two men in and the score five to four, while the Blues' stand rocked with thunders of applause. "By George," cried Ainslee, "such running! It was only a two base hit, and you stretched it into a homer." The next batter was out on a foul to left, and the home team came in to do or die. If now they couldn't beat that wizard of the box, their gallant fight had gone for nothing. They still had courage, but it was the courage of despair. They were used to curves and rifle shots. They might straighten out the one and shoot back the other, but that new mysterious delivery, that snaky, tantalizing, impish fadeaway, had robbed them of confidence. Still, "while there was life there was hope," so---- Ainslee and Reddy were a little afraid that Bert's sprint might have tired him and robbed him of his speed. But they might have spared their fears. His wind was perfect and his splendid condition stood him in good stead. He was a magnificent picture of young manhood, as for the last time he faced his foes. His eyes shone, his nerves thrilled, his muscles strained, his heart sang. His enemies he held in the hollow of his hand. He toyed with them in that last inning as a cat plays with a mouse. His fadeaway was working like a charm. No need now to spare himself. Ellis went out on three pitched balls. Hart lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale. Gunther came up, and the excitement broke all bounds. The vast multitude was on its feet, shouting, urging, begging, pleading. A hurricane of cheers and counter cheers swept over the field. Reddy was jumping up and down, shouting encouragement to Bert, while Ainslee sat perfectly still, pale as death and biting his lips till the blood came. Bert cut loose savagely, and the ball whistled over the plate. Gunther lunged at it. "One strike!" called the umpire. Gunther had been expecting the fadeaway that had been served to the two before him, and was not prepared for the swift high one, just below the shoulder. Bert had outguessed him. Hinsdale rolled the ball slowly back along the ground to the pitcher's box. Bert stopped, picked it up leisurely, and then, swift as a flash, snapped it over the left hand corner of the plate. Before the astonished batsman knew it was coming, Hinsdale grabbed it for the second strike. "Fine work, Bert!" yelled Dick from first. "Great head." Gunther, chagrined and enraged, set himself fiercely for the next. Bert wound up slowly. The tumult and the shouting died. A silence as of death fell on the field. The suspense was fearful. Before Bert's eyes came up the dear old college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowd at this moment gathered there about the bulletin---- Then he let go. For forty feet the ball shot toward the plate in a line. Gunther gauged it and drew back his bat. Then the ball hesitated, slowed, seemed to reconsider, again leaped forward, and, eluding Gunther's despairing swing, curved sharply down and in, and fell like a plummet in Hinsdale's eager hands. "You're out," cried the umpire, tearing off his mask. The crowd surged down over the field, and Bert was swallowed up in the frantic rush of friends and comrades gone crazy with delight. And again he saw the dear old college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowd at this moment gathered there about the bulletin----. * * * * * Some days after his fadeaway had won the pennant--after the triumphal journey back to the college, the uproarious reception, the bonfires, the processions, the "war dance" on the campus--Bert sat in his room, admiring the splendid souvenir presented to him by the college enthusiasts. The identical ball that struck out Gunther had been encased in a larger one of solid gold, on which was engraved his name, together with the date and score of the famous game. Bert handled it caressingly. "Well, old fellow," he said, half aloud, "you stood by me nobly, but it was a hard fight. I never expect to have a harder one." He would have been startled, had he known of the harder one just ahead. That Spring he had fought for glory; before the Summer was over he would fight for life. How gallant the fight he made, how desperate the chances he took, and how great the victory he won, will be told in "BERT WILSON, WIRELESS OPERATOR." THE END Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --The author's long dash style has been preserved. 
19246	----	The Young Pitcher By Zane Grey 1911 CONTENTS I. The Varsity Captain II. A Great Arm III. Prisoner of the Sophs IV. The Call for Candidates V. The Cage VI. Out on the Field VII. Annihilation VIII. Examinations IX. President Halstead on College Spirit X. New Players XI. State University Game XII. Ken Clashes with Graves XIII. Friendship XIV. The Herne Game XV. A Matter of Principle XVI. The First Place Game XVII. Ken's Day XVIII. Breaking Training I THE VARSITY CAPTAIN Ken Ward had not been at the big university many days before he realized the miserable lot of a freshman. At first he was sorely puzzled. College was so different from what he had expected. At the high school of his home town, which, being the capital of the State, was no village, he had been somebody. Then his summer in Arizona, with its wild adventures, had given him a self-appreciation which made his present situation humiliating. There were more than four thousand students at the university. Ken felt himself the youngest, the smallest, the one of least consequence. He was lost in a shuffle of superior youths. In the forestry department he was a mere boy; and he soon realized that a freshman there was the same as anywhere. The fact that he weighed nearly one hundred and sixty pounds, and was no stripling, despite his youth, made not one whit of difference. Unfortunately, his first overture of what he considered good-fellowship had been made to an upper-classman, and had been a grievous mistake. Ken had not yet recovered from its reception. He grew careful after that, then shy, and finally began to struggle against disappointment and loneliness. Outside of his department, on the campus and everywhere he ventured, he found things still worse. There was something wrong with him, with his fresh complexion, with his hair, with the way he wore his tie, with the cut of his clothes. In fact, there was nothing right about him. He had been so beset that he could not think of anything but himself. One day, while sauntering along a campus path, with his hands in his pockets, he met two students coming toward him. They went to right and left, and, jerking his hands from his pockets, roared in each ear, "How dare you walk with your hands in your pockets!" Another day, on the library step, he encountered a handsome bareheaded youth with a fine, clean-cut face and keen eyes, who showed the true stamp of the great university. "Here," he said, sharply, "aren't you a freshman?" "Why--yes," confessed Ken. "I see you have your trousers turned up at the bottom." "Yes--so I have." For the life of him Ken could not understand why that simple fact seemed a crime, but so it was. "Turn them down!" ordered the student. Ken looked into the stern face and flashing eyes of his tormentor, and then meekly did as he had been commanded. "Boy, I've saved your life. We murder freshmen here for that," said the student, and then passed on up the steps. In the beginning it was such incidents as these that had bewildered Ken. He passed from surprise to anger, and vowed he would have something to say to these upper-classmen. But when the opportunity came Ken always felt so little and mean that he could not retaliate. This made him furious. He had not been in college two weeks before he could distinguish the sophomores from the seniors by the look on their faces. He hated the sneering "Sophs," and felt rising in him the desire to fight. But he both feared and admired seniors. They seemed so aloof, so far above him. He was in awe of them, and had a hopeless longing to be like them. And as for the freshmen, it took no second glance for Ken to pick them out. They were of two kinds--those who banded together in crowds and went about yelling, and running away from the Sophs, and those who sneaked about alone with timid step and furtive glance. Ken was one of these lonesome freshmen. He was pining for companionship, but he was afraid to open his lips. Once he had dared to go into Carlton Hall, the magnificent club-house which had been given to the university by a famous graduate. The club was for all students--Ken had read that on the card sent to him, and also in the papers. But manifestly the upper-classmen had a different point of view. Ken had gotten a glimpse into the immense reading-room with its open fireplace and huge chairs, its air of quiet study and repose; he had peeped into the brilliant billiard-hall and the gymnasium; and he had been so impressed and delighted with the marble swimming-tank that he had forgotten himself and walked too near the pool. Several students accidentally bumped him into it. It appeared the students were so eager to help him out that they crowded him in again. When Ken finally got out he learned the remarkable fact that he was the sixteenth freshman who had been accidentally pushed into the tank that day. So Ken Ward was in a state of revolt. He was homesick; he was lonely for a friend; he was constantly on the lookout for some trick; his confidence in himself had fled; his opinion of himself had suffered a damaging change; he hardly dared call his soul his own. But that part of his time spent in study or attending lectures more than made up for the other. Ken loved his subject and was eager to learn. He had a free hour in the afternoon, and often he passed this in the library, sometimes in the different exhibition halls. He wanted to go into Carlton Club again, but his experience there made him refrain. One afternoon at this hour Ken happened to glance into a lecture-room. It was a large amphitheatre full of noisy students. The benches were arranged in a circle running up from a small pit. Seeing safety in the number of students who were passing in, Ken went along. He thought he might hear an interesting lecture. It did not occur to him that he did not belong there. The university had many departments and he felt that any lecture-room was open to him. Still, caution had become a habit with him, and he stepped down the steep aisle looking for an empty bench. How steep the aisle was! The benches appeared to be on the side of a hill. Ken slipped into an empty one. There was something warm and pleasant in the close contact of so many students, in the ripple of laughter and the murmur of voices. Ken looked about him with a feeling that he was glad to be there. It struck him, suddenly, that the room had grown strangely silent. Even the shuffling steps of the incoming students had ceased. Ken gazed upward with a queer sense of foreboding. Perhaps he only imagined that all the students above were looking down at him. Hurriedly he glanced below. A sea of faces, in circular rows, was turned his way. There was no mistake about it. He was the attraction. At the same instant when he prayed to sink through the bench out of sight a burning anger filled his breast. What on earth had he done now? He knew it was something; he felt it. That quiet moment seemed an age. Then the waiting silence burst. "_Fresh on fifth!_" yelled a student in one of the lower benches. "FRESH ON FIFTH!" bawled another at the top of his lungs. Ken's muddled brain could make little of the matter. He saw he was in the fifth row of benches, and that all the way around on either side of him the row was empty. The four lower rows were packed, and above him students were scattered all over. He had the fifth row of benches to himself. "Fresh on fifth!" Again the call rang up from below. It was repeated, now from the left of the pit and then from the right. A student yelled it from the first row and another from the fourth. It banged back and forth. Not a word came from the upper part of the room. Ken sat up straight with a very red face. It was his intention to leave the bench, but embarrassment that was developing into resentment held him fast. What a senseless lot these students were! Why could they not leave him in peace? How foolish of him to go wandering about in strange lecture-rooms! A hand pressed Ken's shoulder. He looked back to see a student bending down toward him. "_Hang, Freshie!_" this fellow whispered. "What's it all about?" asked Ken. "What have I done, anyway? I never was in here before." "All Sophs down there. They don't allow freshmen to go below the sixth row. There've been several rushes this term. And the big one's coming. Hang, Freshie! We're all with you." "Fresh on fifth!" The tenor of the cry had subtly changed. Good-humored warning had changed to challenge. It pealed up from many lusty throats, and became general all along the four packed rows. "_Hang, Freshie!_" bellowed a freshman from the topmost row. It was acceptance of the challenge, the battle-cry flung down to the Sophs. A roar arose from the pit. The freshmen, outnumbering the sophomores, drowned the roar in a hoarser one. Then both sides settled back in ominous waiting. Ken thrilled in all his being. The freshmen were with him! That roar told him of united strength. All in a moment he had found comrades, and he clenched his fingers into the bench, vowing he would hang there until hauled away. "Fresh on fifth!" shouted a Soph in ringing voice. He stood up in the pit and stepped to the back of the second bench. "Fresh on fifth! Watch me throw him out!" He was a sturdily built young fellow and balanced himself gracefully on the backs of the benches, stepping up from one to the other. There was a bold gleam in his eyes and a smile on his face. He showed good-natured contempt for a freshman and an assurance that was close to authority. Ken sat glued to his seat in mingled fear and wrath. Was he to be the butt of those overbearing sophomores? He thought he could do nothing but hang on with all his might. The ascending student jumped upon the fourth bench and, reaching up, laid hold of Ken with no gentle hands. His grip was so hard that Ken had difficulty in stifling a cry of pain. This, however, served to dispel his panic and make him angry clear through. The sophomore pulled and tugged with all his strength, yet he could not dislodge Ken. The freshmen howled gleefully for him to "Hang! hang!" Then two more sophomores leaped up to help the leader. A blank silence followed this move, and all the freshmen leaned forward breathlessly. There was a sharp ripping of cloth. Half of Ken's coat appeared in the hands of one of his assailants. Suddenly Ken let go his hold, pushed one fellow violently, then swung his fists. It might have been unfair, for the sophomores were beneath him and balancing themselves on the steep benches, but Ken was too angry to think of that. The fellow he pushed fell into the arms of the students below, the second slid out of sight, and the third, who had started the fray, plunged with a crash into the pit. The freshmen greeted this with a wild yell; the sophomores answered likewise. Like climbing, tumbling apes the two classes spilled themselves up and down the benches, and those nearest Ken laid hold of him, pulling him in opposite directions. Then began a fierce fight for possession of luckless Ken. Both sides were linked together by gripping hands. Ken was absolutely powerless. His clothes were torn to tatters in a twinkling; they were soon torn completely off, leaving only his shoes and socks. Not only was he in danger of being seriously injured, but students of both sides were handled as fiercely. A heavy trampling roar shook the amphitheatre. As they surged up and down the steep room benches were split. In the beginning the sophomores had the advantage and the tug-of-war raged near the pit and all about it. But the superior numbers of the freshmen began to tell. The web of close-locked bodies slowly mounted up the room, smashing the benches, swaying downward now and then, yet irresistibly gaining ground. The yells of the freshmen increased with the assurance of victory. There was one more prolonged, straining struggle, then Ken was pulled away from the sophomores. The wide, swinging doors of the room were knocked flat to let out the stream of wild freshmen. They howled like fiends; it was first blood for the freshman class; the first tug won that year. Ken Ward came to his senses out in the corridor surrounded by an excited, beaming, and disreputable crowd of freshmen. Badly as he was hurt, he had to laugh. Some of them looked happy in nothing but torn underclothes. Others resembled a lot of ragamuffins. Coats were minus sleeves, vests were split, shirts were collarless. Blood and bruises were much in evidence. Some one helped Ken into a long ulster. "Say, it was great," said this worthy. "Do you know who that fellow was--the first one who tried to throw you out of number five?" "I haven't any idea," replied Ken. In fact, he felt that his ideas were as scarce just then as his clothes. "That was the president of the Sophs. He's the varsity baseball captain, too. You slugged him!... Great!" Ken's spirit, low as it was, sank still lower. What miserable luck he had! His one great ambition, next to getting his diploma, had been to make the varsity baseball team. II A GREAT ARM The shock of that battle, more than the bruising he had received, confined Ken to his room for a week. When he emerged it was to find he was a marked man; marked by the freshmen with a great and friendly distinction; by the sophomores for revenge. If it had not been for the loss of his baseball hopes, he would have welcomed the chance to become popular with his classmates. But for him it was not pleasant to be reminded that he had "slugged" the Sophs' most honored member. It took only two or three meetings with the revengeful sophomores to teach Ken that discretion was the better part of valor. He learned that the sophomores of all departments were looking for him with deadly intent. So far luck had enabled him to escape all but a wordy bullying. Ken became an expert at dodging. He gave the corridors and campus a wide berth. He relinquished his desire to live in one of the dormitories, and rented a room out in the city. He timed his arrival at the university and his departure. His movements were governed entirely by painfully acquired knowledge of the whereabouts of his enemies. So for weeks Ken Ward lived like a recluse. He was not one with his college mates. He felt that he was not the only freshman who had gotten a bad start in college. Sometimes when he sat near a sad-faced classmate, he knew instinctively that here was a fellow equally in need of friendship. Still these freshmen were as backward as he was, and nothing ever came of such feelings. The days flew by and the weeks made months, and all Ken did was attend lectures and study. He read everything he could find in the library that had any bearing on forestry. He mastered his text-books before the Christmas holidays. About the vacation he had long been undecided; at length he made up his mind not to go home. It was a hard decision to reach. But his college life so far had been a disappointment; he was bitter about it, and he did not want his father to know. Judge Ward was a graduate of the university. Often and long he had talked to Ken about university life, the lasting benefit of associations and friendships. He would probably think that his son had barred himself out by some reckless or foolish act. Ken was not sure what was to blame; he knew he had fallen in his own estimation, and that the less he thought of himself the more he hated the Sophs. On Christmas day he went to Carlton Hall. It was a chance he did not want to miss, for very few students would be there. As it turned out he spent some pleasant hours. But before he left the club his steps led him into the athletic trophy room, and there he was plunged into grief. The place was all ablaze with flags and pennants, silver cups and gold medals, pictures of teams and individuals. There were mounted sculls and oars, footballs and baseballs. The long and proud record of the university was there to be read. All her famous athletes were pictured there, and every one who had fought for his college. Ken realized that here for the first time he was in the atmosphere of college spirit for which the university was famed. What would he not have given for a permanent place in that gallery! But it was too late. He had humiliated the captain of the baseball team. Ken sought out the picture of the last season's varsity. What a stocky lot of young chaps, all consciously proud of the big letter on their shirts! Dale, the captain and pitcher, was in the centre of the group. Ken knew his record, and it was a splendid one. Ken took another look at Dale, another at the famous trainer, Murray, and the professional coach, Arthurs--men under whom it had been his dream to play--and then he left the room, broken-hearted. When the Christmas recess was over he went back to his lectures resigned to the thought that the athletic side of college life was not for him. He studied harder than ever, and even planned to take a course of lectures in another department. Also his adeptness in dodging was called upon more and more. The Sophs were bound to get him sooner or later. But he did not grow resigned to that; every dodge and flight increased his resentment. Presently he knew he would stop and take what they had to give, and retaliate as best he could. Only, what would they do to him when they did catch him? He remembered his watch, his money, and clothes, never recovered after that memorable tug-of-war. He minded the loss of his watch most; that gift could never be replaced. It seemed to him that he had been the greater sufferer. One Saturday in January Ken hurried from his class-room. He was always in a hurry and particularly on Saturdays, for that being a short day for most of the departments, there were usually many students passing to and fro. A runaway team clattering down the avenue distracted him from his usual caution, and he cut across the campus. Some one stopped the horses, and a crowd collected. When Ken got there many students were turning away. Ken came face to face with a tall, bronze-haired, freckle-faced sophomore, whom he had dodged more than once. There was now no use to dodge; he had to run or stand his ground. "Boys, here's that slugging Freshie!" yelled the Soph. "We've got him now." He might have been an Indian chief so wild was the whoop that answered him. "Lead us to him!" "Oh, what we won't do to that Freshie!" "Come on, boys!" Ken heard these yells, saw a number of boys dash at him, then he broke and ran as if for his life. The Sophs, a dozen strong, yelling loudly, strung out after him. Ken headed across the campus. He was fleet of foot, and gained on his pursuers. But the yells brought more Sophs on the scene, and they turned Ken to the right. He spurted for Carlton Hall, and almost ran into the arms of still more sophomores. Turning tail, he fled toward the library. When he looked back it was to see the bronze-haired leader within a hundred yards, and back of him a long line of shouting students. If there was a place to hide round that library Ken could not find it. In this circuit he lost ground. Moreover, he discovered he had not used good judgment in choosing that direction. All along the campus was a high iron fence. Ken thought desperately hard for an instant, then with renewed speed he bounded straight for College Hall. This was the stronghold of the sophomores. As Ken sped up the gravel walk his pursuers split their throats. "Run, you Freshie!" yelled one. "The more you run--" yelled another. "The more we'll skin you!" finished a third. Ken ran into the passageway leading through College Hall. It was full of Sophs hurrying toward the door to see where the yells came from. When Ken plunged into their midst some one recognized him and burst out with the intelligence. At the same moment Ken's pursuers banged through the swinging doors. A yell arose then in the constricted passageway that seemed to Ken to raise College Hall from its foundation. It terrified him. Like an eel he slipped through reaching arms and darted forward. Ken was heavy and fast on his feet, and with fear lending him wings he made a run through College Hall that would have been a delight to the football coach. For Ken was not dodging any sophomores now. He had played his humiliating part of dodger long enough. He knocked them right and left, and many a surprised Soph he tumbled over. Reaching the farther door, he went through out into the open. The path before him was clear now, and he made straight for the avenue. It was several hundred yards distant, and he got a good start toward it before the Sophs rolled like a roaring stream from the passage. Ken saw other students running, and also men and boys out on the avenue; but as they could not head him off he kept to his course. On that side of the campus a high, narrow stairway, lined by railings, led up to the sidewalk. When Ken reached it he found the steps covered with ice. He slipped and fell three times in the ascent, while his frantic pursuers gained rapidly. Ken mounted to the sidewalk, gave vent to a gasp of relief, and, wheeling sharply, he stumbled over two boys carrying a bushel basket of potatoes. When he saw the large, round potatoes a daring inspiration flashed into his mind. Taking the basket from the boys he turned to the head of the stairway. The bronze-haired Soph was half-way up the steps. His followers, twelve or more, were climbing after him. Then a line of others stretched all the way to College Hall. With a grim certainty of his mastery of the situation Ken threw a huge potato at his leading pursuer. Fair and square on the bronze head it struck with a sharp crack. Like a tenpin the Soph went down. He plumped into the next two fellows, knocking them off their slippery footing. The three fell helplessly and piled up their comrades in a dense wedge half-way down the steps. If the Sophs had been yelling before, it was strange to note how they were yelling now. Deliberately Ken fired the heavy missiles. They struck with sodden thuds against the bodies of the struggling sophomores. A poor thrower could not very well have missed that mark, and Ken Ward was remarkably accurate. He had a powerful overhand swing, and the potatoes flew like bullets. One wild-eyed Soph slipped out of the tangle to leap up the steps. Ken, throwing rather low, hit him on the shin. He buckled and dropped down with a blood-curdling yell. Another shook himself loose and faced upward. A better-aimed shot took him in the shoulder. He gave an exhibition of a high and lofty somersault. Then two more started up abreast. The first Ken hit over the eye with a very small potato, which popped like an explosive bullet and flew into bits. As far as effect was concerned a Martini could not have caused a more beautiful fall. Ken landed on the second fellow in the pit of the stomach with a very large potato. There was a sound as of a suddenly struck bass-drum. The Soph crumpled up over the railing, slid down, and fell among his comrades, effectually blocking the stairway. For the moment Ken had stopped the advance. The sophomores had been checked by one wild freshman. There was scarcely any doubt about Ken's wildness. He had lost his hat; his dishevelled hair stood up like a mane; every time he hurled a potato he yelled. But there was nothing wild about his aim. All at once he turned his battery on the students gathering below the crush, trying to find a way through the kicking, slipping mass on the narrow stairs. He scattered them as if they had been quail. Some ran out of range. Others dove for cover and tried to dodge. This dodging brought gleeful howls from Ken. "Dodge, you Indian!" yelled Ken, as he threw. And seldom it was that dodging was of any use. Then, coming to the end of his ammunition, he surveyed the battle-field beneath him and, turning, ran across the avenue and down a street. At the corner of the block he looked back. There was one man coming, but he did not look like a student. So Ken slackened his pace and bent his steps toward his boarding-house. "By George! I stole those potatoes!" he exclaimed, presently. "I wonder how I can make that good." Several times as he turned to look over his shoulder he saw the man he had noticed at first. But that did not trouble him, for he was sure no one else was following him. Ken reached his room exhausted by exertion and excitement. He flung himself upon his bed to rest and calm his mind so that he could think. If he had been in a bad light before, what was his position now? Beyond all reasoning with, however, was the spirit that gloried in his last stand. "By George!" he kept saying. "I wouldn't have missed that--not for anything. They made my life a nightmare. I'll have to leave college--go somewhere else--but I don't care." Later, after dinner as he sat reading, he heard a door-bell ring, a man's voice, then footsteps in the hall. Some one tapped on his door. Ken felt a strange, cold sensation, which soon passed, and he spoke: "Come in." The door opened to admit a short man with little, bright eyes sharp as knives. "Hello, Kid," he said. Then he leisurely removed his hat and overcoat and laid them on the bed. Ken's fear of he knew not what changed to amazement. At least his visitor did not belong to the faculty. There was something familiar about the man, yet Ken could not place him. "Well up in your studies?" he asked, cordially. Then he seated himself, put a hand on each knee, and deliberately and curiously studied Ken. "Why, yes, pretty well up," replied Ken. He did not know how to take the man. There was a kindliness about him which relieved Ken, yet there was also a hard scrutiny that was embarrassing. "All by your lonely here," he said. "It is lonely," replied Ken, "but--but I don't get on very well with the students." "Small wonder. Most of 'em are crazy." He was unmistakably friendly. Ken kept wondering where he had seen him. Presently the man arose, and, with a wide smile on his face, reached over and grasped Ken's right arm. "How's the whip?" "What?" asked Ken. "The wing--your arm, Kid, your arm." "Oh--Why, it's all right." "It's not sore--not after peggin' a bushel of potatoes on a cold day?" Ken laughed and raised his arm up and down. "It's weak to-night, but not sore." "These boys with their India-rubber arms! It's youth, Kid, it's youth. Say, how old are you?" "Sixteen." "What! No more than that?" "No." "How much do you weigh?" "About one hundred and fifty-six." "I thought you had some beef back of that stunt of yours to-day. Say, Kid, it was the funniest and the best thing I've seen at the university in ten years--and I've seen some fresh boys do some stunts, I have. Well... Kid, you've a grand whip--a great arm--and we're goin' to do some stunts with it." Ken felt something keen and significant in the very air. "A great arm! For what?... who are you?" "Say, I thought every boy in college knew me. I'm Arthurs." "The baseball coach! Are you the baseball coach?" exclaimed Ken, jumping up with his heart in his throat. "That's me, my boy; and I'm lookin' you up." Ken suddenly choked with thronging emotions and sat down as limp as a rag. "Yes, Kid, I'm after you strong. The way you pegged 'em to-day got me. You've a great arm!" III PRISONER OF THE SOPHS "But if--it's really true--that I've a great arm," faltered Ken, "it won't ever do me any good. I could never get on the varsity." "Why not?" demanded the coach. "I'll make a star of a youngster like you, if you'll take coachin'. Why not?" "Oh, you don't know," returned Ken, with a long face. "Say, you haven't struck me as a kid with no nerve. What's wrong with you?" "It was I who slugged Captain Dale and caused that big rush between the freshmen and sophomores. I've lived like a hermit ever since." "So it was you who hit Dale. Well--that's bad," replied Arthurs. He got up with sober face and began to walk the floor. "I remember the eye he had. It was a sight.... But Dale's a good fellow. He'll--" "I'd do anything on earth to make up for that," burst out Ken. "Good! I'll tell you what we'll do," said Arthurs, his face brightening. "We'll go right down to Dale's room now. I'll fix it up with him somehow. The sooner the better. I'm goin' to call the baseball candidates to the cage soon." They put on coats and hats and went out. Evidently the coach was thinking hard, for he had nothing to say, but he kept a reassuring hand on Ken's arm. They crossed the campus along the very path where Ken had fled from the sophomores. The great circle of dormitories loomed up beyond with lights shining in many windows. Arthurs led Ken through a court-yard and into a wide, bright hallway. Their steps sounded with hollow click upon the tiled floor. They climbed three flights of stairs, and then Arthurs knocked at a door. Ken's heart palpitated. It was all so sudden; he did not know what he was going to say or do. He did not care what happened to him if Arthurs could only, somehow, put him right with the captain. A merry voice bade them enter. The coach opened the door and led Ken across the threshold. Ken felt the glow of a warm, bright room, colorful with pennants and posters, and cozy in its disorder. Then he saw Dale and, behind him, several other students. There was a moment's silence in which Ken heard his heart beat. Dale rose slowly from his seat, the look on his frank face changing from welcome to intense amazement and then wild elation. "Whoop!" he shouted. "Lock the door! Worry Arthurs, this's your best bet ever!" Dale dashed at the coach, hugged him frantically, then put his head out of the door to bawl: "Sophs! Sophs! Sophs! Hurry call! Number nine!... Oh, my!" Then he faced about, holding the door partially open. He positively beamed upon the coach. "Say, Cap, what's eatin' you?" asked Arthurs. He looked dumfounded. Ken hung to him desperately; he thought he knew what was coming. There were hurried footsteps in the corridor and excited voices. "Worry, it's bully of you to bring this freshman here," declared the captain. "Well, what of it?" demanded the coach. "I looked him up to-night. He's got a great arm, and will be good material for the team. He told me about the little scrap you had in the lecture-room. He lost his temper, and no wonder. Anyway, he's sorry, Cap, and I fetched him around to see if you couldn't make it up. How about it, Kid?" "I'm sorry--awfully sorry, Captain Dale," blurted out Ken. "I was mad and scared, too--then you fellows hurt me. So I hit right out.... But I'll take my medicine." "So--oh!" ejaculated Dale. "Well, this beats the deuce! _That's_ why you're here?" The door opened wide to admit half a dozen eager-faced youths. "Fellows, here's a surprise," said Dale. "Young Ward, the freshman! the elusive slugging freshman, fast on his feet, and, as Worry here says, a lad with a great arm!" "WARD!" roared the Sophs in unison. "Hold on, fellows--wait--no rough-house yet--wait," ordered Dale. "Ward's here of his own free will!" Silence ensued after the captain spoke. While he turned to lock the door the Sophs stared open-mouthed at Ken. Arthurs had a worried look, and he kept his hand on Ken. Dale went to a table and began filling his pipe. Then he fixed sharp, thoughtful eyes upon his visitors. "Worry, you say you brought this freshman here to talk baseball?" he asked. "Sure I did," blustered Arthurs. It was plain now where he got the name that Dale called him. "What's in the wind, anyhow?" Dale then gravely spoke to Ken. "So you came here to see me? Sorry you slugged me once? Want to make up for it somehow, because you think you've a chance for the team, and don't want me to be sore on you? That it?" "Not exactly," replied Ken. "I'd want to let you get square with me even if you weren't the varsity captain." "Well, you've more than squared yourself with me--by coming here. You'll realize that presently. But don't you know what's happened, what the freshmen have done?" "No; I don't." "You haven't been near the university since this afternoon when you pulled off the potato stunt?" "I should say I haven't." This brought a laugh from the Sophs. "You were pretty wise," went on Dale. "The Sophs didn't love you then. But they're going to--understand?" Ken shook his head, too bewildered and mystified to reply. "Well, now, here's Giraffe Boswick. Look what you did to him!" Ken's glance followed the wave of Dale's hand and took in the tall, bronze-haired sophomore who had led the chase that afternoon. Boswick wore a huge discolored bruise over his left eye. It was hideous. Ken was further sickened to recollect that Boswick was one of the varsity pitchers. But the fellow was smiling amiably at Ken, as amiably as one eye would permit. The plot thickened about Ken. He felt his legs trembling under him. "Boswick, you forgive Ward, don't you--now?" continued Dale, with a smile. "With all my heart!" exclaimed the pitcher. "To see him here would make me forgive anything." Coach Arthurs was ill at ease. He evidently knew students, and he did not relish the mystery, the hidden meaning. "Say, you wise guys make me sick," he called out, gruffly. "Here's a kid that comes right among you. He's on the level, and more'n that, he's game! Now, Cap, I fetched him here, and I won't stand for a whole lot. Get up on your toes! Get it over!" "Sit down Worry, here's a cigar--light up," said Dale, soothingly. "It's all coming right, lovely, I say. Ward was game to hunt me up, a thousand times gamer than he knows.... See here, Ward, where are you from?" "I live a good long day's travel from the university," answered Ken, evasively. "I thought so. Did you ever hear of the bowl-fight, the great event of the year here at Wayne University?" "Yes, I've heard--read a little about it. But I don't know what it is." "I'll tell you," went on Dale. "There are a number of yearly rushes and scrapes between the freshmen and sophomores, but the bowl-fight is the one big meeting, the time-honored event. It has been celebrated here for many years. It takes place on a fixed date. Briefly, here's what comes off: The freshmen have the bowl in their keeping this year because they won it in the last fight. They are to select one of their number, always a scrappy fellow, and one honored by the class, and they call him the bowl-man. A week before the fight, on a certain date, the freshmen hide this bowl-man or protect him from the sophomores until the day of the fight, when they all march to Grant field in fighting-togs. Should the sophomores chance to find him and hold him prisoner until after the date of the bowl-fight they win the bowl. The same applies also in case the bowl is in possession of the sophomores. But for ten years neither class has captured the other's bowl-man. So they have fought it out on the field until the bowl was won." "Well, what has all that got to do with me?" asked Ken. He felt curiously light-headed. "It has a _little_ to do with you--hasn't it, fellows?" said Dale, in slow, tantalizing voice. Worry Arthurs lost his worried look and began to smile and rub his hands. "Ward, look here," added Dale, now speaking sharply. "You've been picked for the bowl-man!" "Me--me?" stammered Ken. "No other. The freshmen were late in choosing a man this year. To-day, after your stunt--holding up that bunch of sophomores--they had a meeting in Carlton Club and picked you. Most of them didn't even know your name. I'll bet the whole freshman class is hunting for you right now." "What for?" queried Ken, weakly. "Why, I told you. The bowl-fight is only a week off--and here you are. _And here you'll stay until that date's past!_" Ken drew a quick breath. He began to comprehend. The sudden huzzahs of Dale's companions gave him further enlightenment. "But, Captain Dale," he said, breathlessly, "if it's so--if my class has picked me--I can't throw them down. I don't know a soul in my class. I haven't a friend. But I won't throw them down--not to be forever free of dodging Sophs--not even to square myself with you." "Ward, you're all right!" shouted Dale, his eyes shining. In the quiet moment that followed, with all the sophomores watching him intently, Ken Ward instinctively felt that his measure had been taken. "I won't stay here," said Ken, and for the first time his voice rang. "Oh yes, you will," replied Dale, laughing. Quick as a cat Ken leaped for the door and got it unlocked and half open before some one clutched him. Then Dale was on him close and hard. Ken began to struggle. He was all muscle, and twice he broke from them. "His legs! Grab his legs! He's a young bull!" "We'll trim you now, Freshie!" "You potato-masher!" "Go for his wind!" Fighting and wrestling with all his might Ken went down under a half dozen sophomores. Then Dale was astride his chest, and others were sitting on his hands and feet. "Boys, don't hurt that arm!" yelled Worry Arthurs. "Ward, will you be good now and stop scrapping or shall we tie you?" asked Dale. "You can't get away. The thing to do is to give your word not to try. We want to make this easy for you. Your word of honor, now?" "Never!" cried Ken. "I knew you wouldn't," said Dale. "We'll have to keep you under guard." They let him get up. He was panting, and his nose was bleeding, and one of his knuckles was skinned. That short struggle had been no joke. The Sophs certainly meant to keep him prisoner. Still, he was made to feel at ease. They could not do enough for him. "It's tough luck, Ward, that you should have fallen into our hands this way," said Dale. "But you couldn't help it. You will be kept in my rooms until after the fifteenth. Meals will be brought you, and your books; everything will be done for your comfort. Your whereabouts, of course, will be a secret, and you will be closely watched. Worry, remember you are bound to silence. And Ward, perhaps it wasn't an ill wind that blew you here. You've had your last scrap with a Soph, that's sure. As for what brought you here--it's more than square; and I'll say this: if you can play ball as well as you can scrap, old Wayne has got a star." IV THE CALL FOR CANDIDATES There were five rooms in Dale's suite in the dormitory, and three other sophomores shared them with him. They confined Ken in the end room, where he was safely locked and guarded from any possible chance to escape. For the first day or two it was irksome for Ken; but as he and his captors grew better acquainted the strain eased up, and Ken began to enjoy himself as he had not since coming to the university. He could not have been better provided for. His books were at hand, and even notes of the lectures he was missing were brought to him. The college papers and magazines interested him, and finally he was much amused by an account of his mysterious disappearance. All in a day he found himself famous. Then Dale and his room-mates were so friendly and jolly that if his captivity had not meant the disgrace of the freshman class, Ken would have rejoiced in it. He began to thaw out, though he did not lose his backwardness. The life of the great university began to be real to him. Almost the whole sophomore class, in squads of twos and threes and sixes, visited Dale's rooms during that week. No Soph wanted to miss a sight of a captive bowl-man. Ken felt so callow and fresh in their presence that he scarcely responded to their jokes. Worry Arthur's nickname of "Kid" vied with another the coach conferred on Ken, and that was "Peg." It was significant slang expressing the little baseball man's baseball notion of Ken's throwing power. The evening was the most interesting time for Ken. There was always something lively going on. He wondered when the boys studied. When some of the outside students dropped in there were banjo and guitar playing, college songs, and college gossip. "Come on, Peg, be a good fellow," they said, and laughed at his refusal to smoke or drink beer. "Molly!" mocked one. "Willy-boy!" added another. Ken was callow, young, and backward; but he had a temper, and this kind of banter roused it easily. The red flamed into his cheeks. "I promised my mother I wouldn't smoke or drink or gamble while I was in college," he retorted, struggling with shame and anger. "And I--I won't." Dale stopped the good-natured chaff. "Fellows, stop guying Ward; cut it out, I tell you. He's only a kid freshman, but he's liable to hand you a punch, and if he does you'll remember it. Besides, he's right.... Look here, Ward, you stick to that promise. It's a good promise to stick to, and if you're going in for athletics it's the best ever." Worry Arthurs happened to be present on this evening, and he seconded Dale in more forceful speech. "There's too much boozin' and smokin' of them coffin nails goin' on in this college. It's none of my affair except with the boys I'm coachin', and if I ketch any one breakin' my rules after we go to the trainin'-table he'll sit on the bench. There's Murray; why, he says there are fellows in college who could break records if they'd train. Half of sprintin' or baseball or football is condition." "Oh, Worry, you and Mac always make a long face over things. Wayne has won a few championships, hasn't she?" "The varsity ball team will be a frost this year, that's sure," replied Arthurs, gloomily. "How do you make that out?" demanded Dale, plainly nettled. "You've hinted it before to me. Why won't we be stronger than last season? Didn't we have a crackerjack team, the fastest that ever represented old Wayne? Didn't we smother the small college teams and beat Place twice, shut out Herne the first game, and play for a tie the second?" "You'll see, all right, all right," replied Arthurs, gloomier than ever; and he took his hat and went out. Dale slammed his cards down on the table. "Fellows, is it any wonder we call him Worry? Already he's begun to fuss over the team. Ever since he's been here he has driven the baseball captains and managers crazy. It's only his way, but it's so irritating. He's a magnificent coach, and Wayne owes her great baseball teams to him. But he's hard on captains. I see my troubles. The idea of this year's team being a frost--with all the old stars back in college--with only two positions to fill! And there are half a dozen cracks in college to fight for these two positions--fellows I played against on the summer nines last year. Worry's idea is ridiculous." This bit of baseball talk showed Ken the obstacles in the way of a freshman making the varsity team. What a small chance there would be for him! Still he got a good deal of comfort out of Arthurs' interest in him, and felt that he would be happy to play substitute this season, and make the varsity in his sophomore year. The day of the bowl-fight passed, and Ken's captivity became history. The biggest honor of the sophomore year went to Dale and his room-mates. Ken returned to his department, where he was made much of, as he had brought fame to a new and small branch of the great university. It was a pleasure to walk the campus without fear of being pounced upon. Ken's dodging and loneliness--perhaps necessary and curbing nightmares in the life of a freshman--were things of the past. He made acquaintances, slowly lost his backwardness, and presently found college life opening to him bright and beautiful. Ken felt strongly about things. And as his self-enforced exile had been lonely and bitter, so now his feeling that he was really a part of the great university seemed almost too good to be true. He began to get a glimmering of the meaning of his father's love for the old college. Students and professors underwent some vague change in his mind. He could not tell what, he did not think much about it, but there was a warmer touch, a sense of something nearer to him. Then suddenly a blow fell upon the whole undergraduate body. It was a thunderbolt. It affected every student, but Ken imagined it concerned his own college fortunes more intimately. The athletic faculty barred every member of the varsity baseball team! The year before the faculty had advised and requested the players not to become members of the summer baseball nines. Their wishes had not been heeded. Captain Dale and his fast players had been much in demand by the famous summer nines. Some of them went to the Orange Athletic Club, others to Richfield Springs, others to Cape May, and Dale himself had captained the Atlantic City team. The action of the faculty was commended by the college magazine. Even the students, though chafing under it, could not but acknowledge its justice. The other universities had adopted such a rule, and Wayne must fall in line. The objections to summer ball-playing were not few, and the particular one was that it affected the amateur standing of the college player. He became open to charges of professionalism. At least, all his expenses were paid, and it was charged that usually he was paid for his services. Ken's first feeling when he learned this news was one of blank dismay. The great varsity team wiped off the slate! How Place and Herne would humble old Wayne this year! Then the long, hard schedule, embracing thirty games, at least one with every good team in the East--how would an untried green team fare against that formidable array? Then Ken suddenly felt ashamed of a selfish glee, for he was now sure of a place on the varsity. For several days nothing else was talked about by the students. Whenever Dale or his players appeared at Carlton Hall they were at once surrounded by a sympathetic crowd. If it was a bitter blow to the undergraduates, what was it to the members of the varsity? Their feeling showed in pale, stern faces. It was reported about the campus that Murray and Arthurs and Dale, with the whole team, went to the directors of the athletic faculty and besought them to change or modify the decision. Both the trainer and the coach, who had brought such glory to the university, threatened to resign their places. The disgrace of a pitiably weak team of freshmen being annihilated by minor colleges was eloquently put before the directors. But the decision was final. One evening early in February Worry Arthurs called upon Ken. His face was long, and his mustache drooped. "Kid, what do you think of 'em fat-heads on the faculty queerin' my team?" he asked. "Best team I ever developed. Say, but the way they could work the hit-and-run game! Any man on the team could hit to right field when there was a runner goin' down from first." "Maybe things will turn out all right," suggested Ken, hopefully. Worry regarded his youthful sympathizer with scorn. "It takes two years to teach most college kids the rudiments of baseball. Look at this year's schedule." Worry produced a card and waved it at Ken. "The hardest schedule Wayne ever had! And I've got to play a kid team." Ken was afraid to utter any more of his hopes, and indeed he felt them to be visionary. "The call for candidates goes out to-morrow," went on the coach. "I'll bet there'll be a mob at the cage. Every fool kid in the university will think he's sure of a place. Now, Ward, what have you played?" "Everywhere; but infield mostly." "Every kid has played the whole game. What position have you played most?" "Third base." "Good! You've the arm for that. Well, I'm anxious to see you work, but don't exert yourself in the cage. This is a tip. See! I'll be busy weedin' out the bunch, and won't have time until we get out on the field. You can run around the track every day, get your wind and your legs right, hold in on your arm. The cage is cold. I've seen many a good wing go to the bad there. But your chance looks good. College baseball is different from any other kind. You might say it's played with the heart. I've seen youngsters go in through grit and spirit, love of playin' for their college, and beat out fellows who were their superiors physically. Well, good-night.... Say, there's one more thing. I forgot it. Are you up in your subjects?" "I surely am," replied Ken. "I've had four months of nothing but study." "The reason I ask is this: That faculty has made another rule, the one-year residence rule, they call it. You have to pass your exams, get your first year over, before you can represent any athletic club. So, in case I can use you on the team, you would have to go up for your exams two months or more ahead of time. That scare you?" "Not a bit. I could pass mine right now," answered Ken, confidently. "Kid, you and me are goin' to get along.... Well, good-night, and don't forget what I said." Ken was too full for utterance; he could scarcely mumble good-night to the coach. He ran up-stairs three steps to the jump, and when he reached his room he did a war dance and ended by standing on his head. When he had gotten rid of his exuberance he sat down at once to write to his brother Hal about it, and also his forest-ranger friend, Dick Leslie, with whom he had spent an adventurous time the last summer. At Carlton Hall, next day, Ken saw a crowd of students before the bulletin-board and, edging in, he read the following notice: BASEBALL! CALL FOR CANDIDATES FOR THE VARSITY BASEBALL TEAM The Athletic Directors of the University earnestly request every student who can play ball, or who thinks he can, to present himself to Coach Arthurs at the Cage on Feb. 3rd. There will be no freshman team this year, and a new team entirely will be chosen for the varsity. Every student will have a chance. Applicants are requested to familiarize themselves with the new eligibility rules. V THE CAGE Ken Ward dug down into his trunk for his old baseball suit and donned it with strange elation. It was dirty and torn, and the shoes that went with it were worn out, but Ken was thinking of what hard ball-playing they represented. He put his overcoat on over his sweater, took up his glove and sallied forth. A thin coating of ice and snow covered the streets. Winter still whistled in the air. To Ken in his eagerness spring seemed a long way off. On his way across the campus he saw strings of uniformed boys making for Grant Field, and many wearing sweaters over their every-day clothes. The cage was situated at one end of the field apart from the other training-quarters. When Ken got there he found a mob of players crowding to enter the door of the big barn-like structure. Others were hurrying away. Near the door a man was taking up tickets like a doorkeeper of a circus, and he kept shouting: "Get your certificates from the doctor. Every player must pass a physical examination. Get your certificates." Ken turned somewhat in disgust at so much red tape and he jostled into a little fellow, almost knocking him over. "Wull! Why don't you fall all over me?" growled this amiable individual. "For two cents I'd hand you one." The apology on Ken's lips seemed to halt of its own accord. "Sorry I haven't any change in these clothes," returned Ken. He saw a wiry chap, older than he was, but much smaller, and of most aggressive front. He had round staring eyes, a protruding jaw, and his mouth turned down at the corners. He wore a disreputable uniform and a small green cap over one ear. "Aw! don't get funny!" he replied. Ken moved away muttering to himself: "That fellow's a grouch." Much to his amazement, when he got to the training-house, Ken found that he could not get inside because so many players were there ahead of him. After waiting an hour or more he decided he could not have his physical examination at that time, and he went back to the cage. The wide door was still blocked with players, but at the other end of the building Ken found an entrance. He squeezed into a crowd of students and worked forward until stopped by a railing. Ken was all eyes and breathless with interest. The cage was a huge, open, airy room, lighted by many windows, and, with the exception of the platform where he stood, it was entirely enclosed by heavy netting. The floor was of bare ground well raked and loosened to make it soft. This immense hall was full of a motley crowd of aspiring ball-players. Worry Arthurs, with his head sunk in the collar of his overcoat, and his shoulders hunched up as if he was about to spring upon something, paced up and down the rear end of the cage. Behind him a hundred or more players in line slowly marched toward the slab of rubber which marked the batting position. Ken remembered that the celebrated coach always tried out new players at the bat first. It was his belief that batting won games. "Bunt one and hit one!" he yelled to the batters. From the pitcher's box a lanky individual was trying to locate the plate. Ken did not need a second glance to see that this fellow was no pitcher. "Stop posin', and pitch!" yelled Arthurs. One by one the batters faced the plate, swung valiantly or wildly at balls and essayed bunts. Few hit the ball out and none made a creditable bunt. After their turn at bat they were ordered to the other end of the cage, where they fell over one another trying to stop the balls that were hit. Every few moments the coach would yell for one of them, any one, to take a turn at pitching. Ken noticed that Arthurs gave a sharp glance at each new batter, and one appeared to be sufficient. More and more ambitious players crowded into the cage, until there were so many that batted balls rarely missed hitting some one. Presently Ken Ward awoke from his thrilling absorption in the scene to note another side of it. The students around him were making game of the players. "What a bunch!" "Look at that fuzzy gosling with the yellow pants!" "Keep your shanks out of the way, Freshie!" "Couldn't hit a balloon!" Whenever a batter hit a ball into the crowd of dodging players down the cage these students howled with glee. Ken discovered that he was standing near Captain Dale and other members of the barred varsity. "Say, Dale, how do the candidates shape up?" asked a student. "This is a disgrace to Wayne," declared Dale, bitterly. "I never saw such a mob of spindle-legged kids in my life. Look at them! Scared to death! That fellow never swung at a ball before--that one never heard of a bunt--they throw like girls--Oh! this is sickening, fellows. I see where Worry goes to his grave this year and old Wayne gets humbled by one-horse colleges." Ken took one surprised glance at the captain he had admired so much and then he slipped farther over in the crowd. Perhaps Dale had spoken truth, yet somehow it jarred upon Ken's sensitive nature. The thing that affected Ken most was the earnestness of the uniformed boys trying their best to do well before the great coach. Some were timid, uncertain; others were rash and over-zealous. Many a ball cracked off a player's knee or wrist, and more than once Ken saw a bloody finger. It was cold in the cage. Even an ordinarily hit ball must have stung the hands, and the way a hard grounder cracked was enough to excite sympathy among those scornful spectators, if nothing more. But they yelled in delight at every fumble, at everything that happened. Ken kept whispering to himself: "I can't see the fun in it. I can't!" Arthurs dispensed with the bunting and ordered one hit each for the batters. "Step up and hit!" he ordered, hoarsely. "Don't be afraid--never mind that crowd--step into the ball and swing natural.... Next! Hurry, boys!" Suddenly a deep-chested student yelled out with a voice that drowned every other sound. "Hard luck, Worry! No use! You'll never find a hitter among those misfits!" The coach actually leaped up in his anger and his face went from crimson to white. Ken thought it was likely that he recognized the voice. "You knocker! You knocker!" he cried. "That's a fine college spirit, ain't it? You're a fine lot of students, I don't think. Now shut up, every one of you, or I'll fire you out of the cage.... And right here at the start you knockers take this from me--I'll find more than one hitter among those kids!" A little silence fell while the coach faced that antagonistic crowd of spectators. Ken was amazed the second time, and now because of the intensity of feeling that seemed to hang in the air. Ken felt a warm rush go over him, and that moment added greatly to his already strong liking for Worry Arthurs. Then the coach turned to his work, the batting began again, and the crack of the ball, the rush of feet, the sharp cries of the players mingled once more with the laughter and caustic wit of the unsympathetic audience. Ken Ward went back to his room without having removed his overcoat. He was thoughtful that night and rebellious against the attitude of the student body. A morning paper announced the fact that over three hundred candidates had presented themselves to Coach Arthurs. It went on to say that the baseball material represented was not worth considering and that old Wayne's varsity team must be ranked with those of the fifth-rate colleges. This, following Ken's experience at the cage on the first day, made him angry and then depressed. The glamour of the thing seemed to fade away. Ken lost the glow, the exhilaration of his first feelings. Everybody took a hopeless view of Wayne's baseball prospects. Ken Ward, however, was not one to stay discouraged long, and when he came out of his gloom it was with his fighting spirit roused. Once and for all he made up his mind to work heart and soul for his college, to be loyal to Arthurs, to hope and believe in the future of the new varsity, whether or not he was lucky enough to win a place upon it. Next day, going early to the training-quarters, he took his place in a squad waiting for the physical examination. It was a wearisome experience. At length Ken's turn came with two other players, one of whom he recognized as the sour-complexioned fellow of the day before. "Wull, you're pretty fresh," he said to Ken as they went in. He had a most exasperating manner. "Say, I don't like you a whole lot," retorted Ken. Then a colored attendant ushered them into a large room in which were several men. The boys were stripped to the waist. "Come here, Murray," said the doctor. "There's some use in looking these boys over, particularly this husky youngster." A tall man in a white sweater towered over Ken. It was the famous trainer. He ran his hands over Ken's smooth skin and felt of the muscles. "Can you run?" he asked. "Yes," replied Ken. "Are you fast?" "Yes." Further inquiries brought from Ken his name, age, weight, that he had never been ill, had never used tobacco or intoxicating drinks. "Ward, eh? 'Peg' Ward," said Murray, smiling. "Worry Arthurs has the call on you--else, my boy, I'd whisper football in your ear. Mebbe I will, anyhow, if you keep up in your studies. That'll do for you." Ken's companions also won praise from the trainer. They gave their names as Raymond and Weir. The former weighed only one hundred and twenty-two, but he was a knot of muscles. The other stood only five feet, but he was very broad and heavy, his remarkably compact build giving an impression of great strength. Both replied in the negative to the inquiries as to use of tobacco or spirits. "Boys, that's what we like to hear," said the doctor. "You three ought to pull together." Ken wondered what the doctor would have said if he had seen the way these three boys glared at each other in the dressing-room. And he wondered, too, what was the reason for such open hostility. The answer came to him in the thought that perhaps they were both trying for the position he wanted on the varsity. Most likely they had the same idea about him. That was the secret of little Raymond's pugnacious front and Weir's pompous air; and Ken realized that the same reason accounted for his own attitude toward them. He wanted very much to tell Raymond that he was a little grouch and Weir that he looked like a puffed-up toad. All the same Ken was not blind to Weir's handsome appearance. The sturdy youngster had an immense head, a great shock of bright brown hair, flashing gray eyes, and a clear bronze skin. "They'll both make the team, I'll bet," thought Ken. "They look it. I hope I don't have to buck against them." Then as they walked toward the cage Ken forced himself to ask genially: "Raymond, what're you trying for? And you, Weir?" "Wull, if it's any of your fresh business, I'm not _trying_ for any place. I'm going to play infield. You can carry my bat," replied Raymond, sarcastically. "Much obliged," retorted Ken, "I'm not going to substitute. I've a corner on that varsity infield myself." Weir glanced at them with undisguised disdain. "You can save yourselves useless work by not trying for my position. I intend to play infield." "Wull, puff-up, now, puff-up!" growled Raymond. Thus the three self-appointed stars of the varsity bandied words among themselves as they crossed the field. At the cage door they became separated to mingle with the pushing crowd of excited boys in uniforms. By dint of much squeezing and shoulder-work Ken got inside the cage. He joined the squad in the upper end and got in line for the batting. Worry Arthurs paced wildly to and fro yelling for the boys to hit. A dense crowd of students thronged the platform and laughed, jeered, and stormed at the players. The cage was in such an uproar that Arthurs could scarcely be heard. Watching from the line Ken saw Weir come to bat and stand aggressively and hit the ball hard. It scattered the flock of fielders. Then Raymond came along, and, batting left-handed, did likewise. Arthurs stepped forward and said something to both. After Ken's turn at bat the coach said to him: "Get out of here. Go run round the track. Do it every day. Don't come back until Monday." As Ken hurried out he saw and felt the distinction with which he was regarded by the many players whom he crowded among in passing. When he reached the track he saw Weir, Raymond, and half a dozen other fellows going round at a jog-trot. Weir was in the lead, setting the pace. Ken fell in behind. The track was the famous quarter-mile track upon which Murray trained his sprinters. When Ken felt the spring of the cinder-path in his feet, the sensation of buoyancy, the eager wildfire pride that flamed over him, he wanted to break into headlong flight. The first turn around the track was delight; the second pleasure in his easy stride; the third brought a realization of distance. When Ken had trotted a mile he was not tired, he still ran easily, but he began to appreciate that his legs were not wings. The end of the second mile found him sweating freely and panting. Two miles were enough for the first day. Ken knew it and he began to wonder why the others, especially Weir, did not know it. But Weir jogged on, his head up, his hair flying, as if he had not yet completed his first quarter. The other players stretched out behind him. Ken saw Raymond's funny little green cap bobbing up and down, and it made him angry. Why could not the grouch get a decent cap, anyway? At the end of the third mile Ken began to labor. His feet began to feel weighted, his legs to ache, his side to hurt. He was wringing wet; his skin burned; his breath whistled. But he kept doggedly on. It had become a contest now. Ken felt instinctively that every runner would not admit he had less staying power than the others. Ken declared to himself that he could be as bull-headed as any of them. Still to see Weir jogging on steady and strong put a kind of despair on Ken. For every lap of the fourth mile a runner dropped out, and at the half of the fifth only Weir, Raymond, and Ken kept to the track. Ken hung on gasping at every stride. He was afraid his heart would burst. The pain in his side was as keen as a knife thrust. His feet were lead. Every rod he felt must be his last, yet spurred on desperately, and he managed to keep at the heels of the others. It might kill him, but he would not stop until he dropped. Raymond was wagging along ready to fall any moment, and Weir was trotting slowly with head down. On the last lap of the fifth mile they all stopped as by one accord. Raymond fell on the grass; Ken staggered to a bench, and Weir leaned hard against the fence. They were all blowing like porpoises and regarded each other as mortal enemies. Weir gazed grandly at the other two; Raymond glowered savagely at him and then at Ken; and Ken in turn gave them withering glances. Without a word the three contestants for a place on the varsity then went their several ways. VI OUT ON THE FIELD When Ken presented himself at the cage on the following Monday it was to find that Arthurs had weeded out all but fifty of the candidates. Every afternoon for a week the coach put these players through batting and sliding practice, then ordered them out to run around the track. On the next Monday only twenty-five players were left, and as the number narrowed down the work grew more strenuous, the rivalry keener, and the tempers of the boys more irascible. Ken discovered it was work and not by any means pleasant work. He fortified himself by the thought that the pleasure and glory, the real play, was all to come as a reward. Worry Arthurs drove them relentlessly. Nothing suited him; not a player knew how to hold a bat, to stand at the plate, to slide right, or to block a ground ball. "Don't hit with your left hand on top--unless you're left-handed. Don't grip the end of the bat. There! Hold steady now, step out and into the ball, and swing clean and level. If you're afraid of bein' hit by the ball, get out of here!" It was plain to Ken that not the least of Arthurs' troubles was the incessant gibing of the students on the platform. There was always a crowd watching the practice, noisy, scornful, abusive. They would never recover from the shock of having that seasoned champion varsity barred out of athletics. Every once in a while one of them would yell out: "Wait, Worry! oh! Worry, wait till the old varsity plays your yanigans!" And every time the coach's face would burn. But he had ceased to talk back to the students. Besides, the athletic directors were always present. They mingled with the candidates and talked baseball to them and talked to Arthurs. Some of them might have played ball once, but they did not talk like it. Their advice and interference served only to make the coach's task harder. Another Monday found only twenty players in the squad. That day Arthurs tried out catchers, pitchers, and infielders. He had them all throwing, running, fielding, working like Trojans. They would jump at his yell, dive after the ball, fall over it, throw it anywhere but in the right direction, run wild, and fight among themselves. The ever-flowing ridicule from the audience was anything but a stimulus. So much of it coming from the varsity and their adherents kept continually in the minds of the candidates their lack of skill, their unworthiness to represent the great university in such a popular sport as baseball. So that even if there were latent ability in any of the candidates no one but the coach could see it. And often he could not conceal his disgust and hopelessness. "Battin' practice!" he ordered, sharply. "Two hits and a bunt to-day. Get a start on the bunt and dig for first. Hustle now!" He placed one player to pitch to the hitters, another to catch, and as soon as the hitters had their turn they took to fielding. Two turns for each at bat left the coach more than dissatisfied. "You're all afraid of the ball," he yelled. "This ain't no dodgin' game. Duck your nut if the ball's goin' to hit you, but stop lookin' for it. Forget it. Another turn now. I'm goin' to umpire. Let's see if you know the difference between a ball and a strike." He changed the catcher and, ordering Ken to the pitcher's box, he stepped over behind him. "Peg," he said, speaking low, "you're not tryin' for pitcher, I know, but you've got speed and control and I want you to peg 'em a few. Mind now, easy with your arm. By that I mean hold in, don't whip it. And you peg 'em as near where I say as you can; see?" As the players, one after another, faced the box, the coach kept saying to Ken: "Drive that fellow away from the plate... give this one a low ball... now straight over the pan. Say, Peg, you've got a nice ball there... put a fast one under this fellow's chin." "Another turn, now, boys!" he yelled. "I tell you--_stand up to the plate!_" Then he whispered to Ken. "Hit every one of 'em! Peg 'em now, any place." "Hit them?" asked Ken, amazed. "That's what I said." "But--Mr. Arthurs--" "See here, Peg. Don't talk back to me. Do as I say. We'll peg a little nerve into this bunch. Now I'll go back of the plate and make a bluff." Arthurs went near to the catcher's position. Then he said: "Now, fellows, Ward's pretty wild and I've told him to speed up a few. Stand right up and step into 'em." The first batter was Weir. Ken swung easily and let drive. Straight as a string the ball sped for the batter. Like a flash he dropped flat in the dust and the ball just grazed him. It was a narrow escape. Weir jumped up, his face flaring, his hair on end, and he gazed hard at Ken before picking up the bat. "Batter up!" ordered the coach. "Do you think this's a tea-party?" Weir managed by quick contortions to get through his time at bat without being hit. Three players following him were not so lucky. "Didn't I say he was wild?" yelled the coach. "Batter up, now!" The next was little Raymond. He came forward cautiously, eying Ken with disapproval. Ken could not resist putting on a little more steam, and the wind of the first ball whipped off Raymond's green cap. Raymond looked scared and edged away from the plate, and as the second ball came up he stepped wide with his left foot. "Step into the ball," said the coach. "Don't pull away. Step in or you'll never hit." The third ball cracked low down on Raymond's leg. "Oh!--Oh!--Oh!" he howled, beginning to hop and hobble about the cage. "Next batter!" called out Arthurs. And so it went on until the most promising player in the cage came to bat. This was Graves, a light-haired fellow, tall, built like a wedge. He had more confidence than any player in the squad and showed up well in all departments of the game. Moreover, he was talky, aggressive, and more inclined to be heard and felt. He stepped up and swung his bat at Ken. "You wild freshman! If you hit me!" he cried. Ken Ward had not fallen in love with any of his rivals for places on the team, but he especially did not like Graves. He did not stop to consider the reason of it at the moment, still he remembered several tricks Graves had played, and he was not altogether sorry for the coach's order. Swinging a little harder, Ken threw straight at Graves. "_Wham!_" The ball struck him fair on the hip. Limping away from the plate he shook his fist at Ken. "Batter up!" yelled Arthurs. "A little more speed now, Peg. You see it ain't nothin' to get hit. Why, that's in the game. It don't hurt much. I never cared when I used to get hit. Batter up!" Ken sent up a very fast ball, on the outside of the plate. The batter swung wide, and the ball, tipping the bat, glanced to one side and struck Arthurs in the stomach with a deep sound. Arthurs' round face went red; he gurgled and gasped for breath; he was sinking to his knees when the yelling and crowing of the students on the platform straightened him up. He walked about a few minutes, then ordered sliding practice. The sliding-board was brought out. It was almost four feet wide and twenty long and covered with carpet. "Run hard, boys, and don't let up just before you slide. Keep your speed and dive. Now at it!" A line of players formed down the cage. The first one dashed forward and plunged at the board, hitting it with a bang. The carpet was slippery and he slid off and rolled in the dust. The second player leaped forward and, sliding too soon, barely reached the board. One by one the others followed. "Run fast now!" yelled the coach. "Don't flinch.... Go down hard and slide... light on your hands... keep your heads up... slide!" This feature of cage-work caused merriment among the onlookers. That sliding-board was a wonderful and treacherous thing. Most players slid off it as swift as a rocket. Arthurs kept them running so fast and so close together that at times one would shoot off the board just as the next would strike it. They sprawled on the ground, rolled over, and rooted in the dust. One skinned his nose on the carpet; another slid the length of the board on his ear. All the time they kept running and sliding, the coach shouted to them, and the audience roared with laughter. But it was no fun for the sliders. Raymond made a beautiful slide, and Graves was good, but all the others were ludicrous. It was a happy day for Ken, and for all the candidates, when the coach ordered them out on the field. This was early in March. The sun was bright, the frost all out of the ground, and a breath of spring was in the air. How different it was from the cold, gloomy cage! Then the mocking students, although more in evidence than before, were confined to the stands and bleachers, and could not so easily be heard. But the presence of the regular varsity team, practising at the far end of Grant Field, had its effect on the untried players. The coach divided his players into two nines and had them practise batting first, then fielding, and finally started them in a game, with each candidate playing the position he hoped to make on the varsity. It was a weird game. The majority of the twenty candidates displayed little knowledge of baseball. School-boys on the commons could have beaten them. They were hooted and hissed by the students, and before half the innings were played the bleachers and stands were empty. That was what old Wayne's students thought of Arthurs' candidates. In sharp contrast to most of them, Weir, Raymond, and Graves showed they had played the game somewhere. Weir at short-stop covered ground well, but he could not locate first base. Raymond darted here and there quick as a flash, and pounced upon the ball like a huge frog. Nothing got past him, but he juggled the ball. Graves was a finished and beautiful fielder; he was easy, sure, yet fast, and his throw from third to first went true as a line. Graves's fine work accounted for Ken Ward's poor showing. Both were trying for third base, and when Ken once saw his rival play out on the field he not only lost heart and became confused, but he instinctively acknowledged that Graves was far his superior. After all his hopes and the kind interest of the coach it was a most bitter blow. Ken had never played so poor a game. The ball blurred in his tear-wet eyes and looked double. He did not field a grounder. He muffed foul flies and missed thrown balls. It did not occur to him that almost all of the players around him were in the same boat. He could think of nothing but the dashing away of his hopes. What was the use of trying? But he kept trying, and the harder he tried the worse he played. At the bat he struck out, fouled out, never hit the ball square at all. Graves got two well-placed hits to right field. Then when Ken was in the field Graves would come down the coaching line and talk to him in a voice no one else could hear. "You've got a swell chance to make this team, you have, _not!_ Third base is my job, Freshie. Why, you tow-head, you couldn't play marbles. You butter-finger, can't you stop anything? You can't even play sub on this team. Remember, Ward, I said I'd get you for hitting me that day. You hit me with a potato once, too. I'll chase you off this team." For once Ken's spirit was so crushed and humbled that he could not say a word to his rival. He even felt he deserved it all. When the practice ended, and he was walking off the field with hanging head, trying to bear up under the blow, he met Arthurs. "Hello! Peg," said the coach, "I'm going your way." Ken walked along feeling Arthurs' glance upon him, but he was ashamed to raise his head. "Peg, you were up in the air to-day--way off--you lost your nut." He spoke kindly and put his hand on Ken's arm. Ken looked up to see that the coach's face was pale and tired, with the characteristic worried look more marked than usual. "Yes, I was," replied Ken, impulsively. "I can play better than I did to-day--but--Mr. Arthurs, I'm not in Graves's class as a third-baseman. I know it." Ken said it bravely, though there was a catch in his voice. The coach looked closely at him. "So you're sayin' a good word for Graves, pluggin' his game." "I'd love to make the team, but old Wayne must have the best players you can get." "Peg, I said once you and me were goin' to get along. I said also that college baseball is played with the heart. You lost your heart. So did most of the kids. Well, it ain't no wonder. This's a tryin' time. I'm playin' them against each other, and no fellow knows where he's at. Now, I've seen all along that you weren't a natural infielder. I played you at third to-day to get that idea out of your head. To-morrow I'll try you in the outfield. You ain't no quitter, Peg." Ken hurried to his room under the stress of a complete revulsion of feeling. His liking for the coach began to grow into something more. It was strange to Ken what power a few words from Arthurs had to renew his will and hope and daring. How different Arthurs was when not on the field. There he was stern and sharp. Ken could not study that night, and he slept poorly. His revival of hope did not dispel his nervous excitement. He went out into Grant Field next day fighting himself. When in the practice Arthurs assigned him to a right-field position, he had scarcely taken his place when he became conscious of a queer inclination to swallow often, of a numbing tight band round his chest. He could not stand still; his hands trembled; there was a mist before his eyes. His mind was fixed upon himself and upon the other five outfielders trying to make the team. He saw the players in the infield pace their positions restlessly, run without aim when the ball was hit or thrown, collide with each other, let the ball go between their hands and legs, throw wildly, and sometimes stand as if transfixed when they ought to have been in action. But all this was not significant to Ken. He saw everything that happened, but he thought only that he must make a good showing; he must not miss any flies, or let a ball go beyond him. He absolutely must do the right thing. The air of Grant Field was charged with intensity of feeling, and Ken thought it was all his own. His baseball fortune was at stake, and he worked himself in such a frenzy that if a ball had been batted in his direction he might not have seen it at all. Fortunately none came his way. The first time at bat he struck out ignominiously, poking weakly at the pitcher's out-curves. The second time he popped up a little fly. On the next trial the umpire called him out on strikes. At his last chance Ken was desperate. He knew the coach placed batting before any other department of the game. Almost sick with the torture of the conflicting feelings, Ken went up to the plate and swung blindly. To his amaze he cracked a hard fly to left-centre, far between the fielders. Like a startled deer Ken broke into a run. He turned first base and saw that he might stretch the hit into a three-bagger. He knew he could run, and never had he so exerted himself. Second base sailed under him, and he turned in line for the third. Watching Graves, he saw him run for the base and stand ready to catch the throw-in. Without slacking his speed in the least Ken leaped into the air headlong for the base. He heard the crack of the ball as it hit Graves's glove. Then with swift scrape on hands and breast he was sliding in the dust. He stopped suddenly as if blocked by a stone wall. Something hard struck him on the head. A blinding light within his brain seemed to explode into glittering slivers. A piercing pain shot through him. Then from darkness and a great distance sounded a voice: "Ward, I said I'd get you!" VII ANNIHILATION That incident put Ken out of the practice for three days. He had a bruise over his ear as large as a small apple. Ken did not mind the pain nor the players' remarks that he had a swelled head anyway, but he remembered with slow-gathering wrath Graves's words: "I said I'd get you!" He remembered also Graves's reply to a question put by the coach. "I was only tagging him. I didn't mean to hurt him." That rankled inside Ken. He kept his counsel, however, even evading a sharp query put by Arthurs, and as much as it was possible he avoided the third-baseman. Hard practice was the order of every day, and most of it was batting. The coach kept at the candidates everlastingly, and always his cry was: "Toe the plate, left foot a little forward, step into the ball and swing!" At the bat Ken made favorable progress because the coach was always there behind him with encouraging words; in the field, however, he made a mess of it, and grew steadily worse. The directors of the Athletic Association had called upon the old varsity to go out and coach the new aspirants for college fame. The varsity had refused. Even the players of preceding years, what few were in or near the city, had declined to help develop Wayne's stripling team. But some of the older graduates, among them several of the athletic directors, appeared on the field. When Arthurs saw them he threw up his hands in rage and despair. That afternoon Ken had three well-meaning but old-fashioned ball-players coach him in the outfield. He had them one at a time, which was all that saved him from utter distraction. One told him to judge a fly by the sound when the ball was hit. Another told him to play in close, and when the ball was batted to turn and run with it. The third said he must play deep and sprint in for the fly. Then each had different ideas as to how batters should be judged, about throwing to bases, about backing up the other fielders. Ken's bewilderment grew greater and greater. He had never heard of things they advocated, and he began to think he did not know anything about the game. And what made his condition of mind border on imbecility was a hurried whisper from Arthurs between innings: "Peg, don't pay the slightest attention to 'em fat-head grad. coaches." Practice days succeeding that were worse nightmares to Ken Ward than the days he had spent in constant fear of the sophomores. It was a terribly feverish time of batting balls, chasing balls, and of having dinned into his ears thousands of orders, rules of play, talks on college spirit in athletics--all of which conflicted so that it was meaningless to him. During this dark time one ray of light was the fact that Arthurs never spoke a sharp word to him. Ken felt vaguely that he was whirling in some kind of a college athletic chaos, out of which he would presently emerge. Toward the close of March the weather grew warm, the practice field dried up, and baseball should have been a joy to Ken. But it was not. At times he had a shameful wish to quit the field for good, but he had not the courage to tell the coach. The twenty-fifth, the day scheduled for the game with the disgraced varsity team, loomed closer and closer. Its approach was a fearful thing for Ken. Every day he cast furtive glances down the field to where the varsity held practice. Ken had nothing to say; he was as glum as most of the other candidates, but he had heard gossip in the lecture-rooms, in the halls, on the street, everywhere, and it concerned this game. What would the old varsity do to Arthurs' new team? Curiosity ran as high as the feeling toward the athletic directors. Resentment flowed from every source. Ken somehow got the impression that he was blamable for being a member of the coach's green squad. So Ken Ward fluctuated between two fears, one as bad as the other--that he would not be selected to play, and the other that he would be selected. It made no difference. He would be miserable if not chosen, and if he was--how on earth would he be able to keep his knees from wobbling? Then the awful day dawned. Coach Arthurs met all his candidates at the cage. He came late, he explained, because he wanted to keep them off the field until time for practice. To-day he appeared more grave than worried, and where the boys expected a severe lecture, he simply said: "I'll play as many of you as I can. Do your best, that's all. Don't mind what these old players say. They were kids once, though they seem to have forgotten it. Try to learn from them." It was the first time the candidates had been taken upon the regular diamond of Grant Field. Ken had peeped in there once to be impressed by the beautiful level playground, and especially the magnificent turreted grand-stand and the great sweeping stretches of bleachers. Then they had been empty; now, with four thousand noisy students and thousands of other spectators besides, they stunned him. He had never imagined a crowd coming to see the game. Perhaps Arthurs had not expected it either, for Ken heard him mutter grimly to himself. He ordered practice at once, and called off the names of those he had chosen to start the game. As one in a trance Ken Ward found himself trotting out to right field. A long-rolling murmur that was half laugh, half taunt, rose from the stands. Then it quickly subsided. From his position Ken looked for the players of the old varsity, but they had not yet come upon the field. Of the few balls batted to Ken in practice he muffed only one, and he was just beginning to feel that he might acquit himself creditably when the coach called the team in. Arthurs had hardly given his new players time enough to warm up, but likewise they had not had time to make any fumbles. All at once a hoarse roar rose from the stands, then a thundering clatter of thousands of feet as the students greeted the appearance of the old varsity. It was applause that had in it all the feeling of the undergraduates for the championship team, many of whom they considered had been unjustly barred by the directors. Love, loyalty, sympathy, resentment--all pealed up to the skies in that acclaim. It rolled out over the heads of Arthurs' shrinking boys as they huddled together on the bench. Ken Ward, for one, was flushing and thrilling. In that moment he lost his gloom. He watched the varsity come trotting across the field, a doughty band of baseball warriors. Each wore a sweater with the huge white "W" shining like a star. Many of those players had worn that honored varsity letter for three years. It did seem a shame to bar them from this season's team. Ken found himself thinking of the matter from their point of view, and his sympathy was theirs. More than that, he gloried in the look of them, in the trained, springy strides, in the lithe, erect forms, in the assurance in every move. Every detail of that practice photographed itself upon Ken Ward's memory, and he knew he would never forget. There was Dale, veteran player, captain and pitcher of the nine, hero of victories over Place and Herne. There was Hogan, catcher for three seasons, a muscular fellow, famed for his snap-throw to the bases and his fiendish chasing of foul flies. There was Hickle, the great first-baseman, whom the professional leagues were trying to get. What a reach he had; how easily he scooped in the ball; low, high, wide, it made no difference to him. There was Canton at second, Hollis at short, Burns at third, who had been picked for the last year's All-American College Team. Then there was Dreer, brightest star of all, the fleet, hard-hitting centre-fielder. This player particularly fascinated Ken. It was a beautiful sight to see him run. The ground seemed to fly behind him. When the ball was hit high he wheeled with his back to the diamond and raced out, suddenly to turn with unerring judgment--and the ball dropped into his hands. On low line hits he showed his fleetness, for he was like a gleam of light in his forward dash; and, however the ball presented, shoulder high, low by his knees, or on a short bound, he caught it. Ken Ward saw with despairing admiration what it meant to be a great outfielder. Then Arthurs called "Play ball!" giving the old varsity the field. With a violent start Ken Ward came out of his rhapsody. He saw a white ball tossed on the diamond. Dale received it from one of the fielders and took his position in the pitcher's box. The uniform set off his powerful form; there was something surly and grimly determined in his face. He glanced about to his players, as if from long habit, and called out gruffly: "Get in the game, fellows! No runs for this scrub outfit!" Then, with long-practised swing, he delivered the ball. It travelled plateward swift as the flight of a white swallow. The umpire called it a strike on Weir; the same on the next pitch; the third was wide. Weir missed the fourth and was out. Raymond followed on the batting list. To-day, as he slowly stepped toward the plate, seemingly smaller and glummer than ever, it was plain he was afraid. The bleachers howled at the little green cap sticking over his ear. Raymond did not swing at the ball; he sort of reached out his bat at the first three pitches, stepping back from the plate each time. The yell that greeted his weak attempt seemed to shrivel him up. Also it had its effect on the youngsters huddling around Arthurs. Graves went up and hit a feeble grounder to Dale and was thrown out at first. Ken knew the half-inning was over; he saw the varsity players throw aside their gloves and trot in. But either he could not rise or he was glued to the bench. Then Arthurs pulled him up, saying, "Watch sharp, Peg, these fellows are right-field hitters!" At the words all Ken's blood turned to ice. He ran out into the field fighting the coldest, most sickening sensation he ever had in his life. The ice in his veins all went to the pit of his stomach and there formed into a heavy lump. Other times when he had been frightened flitted through his mind. It had been bad when he fought with Greaser, and worse when he ran with the outlaws in pursuit, and the forest fire was appalling. But Ken felt he would gladly have changed places at that moment. He dreaded the mocking bleachers. Of the candidates chosen to play against the varsity Ken knew McCord at first, Raymond at second, Weir at short, Graves at third. He did not know even the names of the others. All of them, except Graves, appeared too young to play in that game. Dreer was first up for the varsity, and Ken shivered all over when the lithe centre-fielder stepped to the left side of the plate. Ken went out deeper, for he knew most hard-hitting left-handers hit to right field. But Dreer bunted the first ball teasingly down the third-base line. Fleet as a deer, he was across the bag before the infielder reached the ball. Hollis was next up. On the first pitch, as Dreer got a fast start for second, Hollis bunted down the first-base line. Pitcher and baseman ran for the bunt; Hollis was safe, and the sprinting Dreer went to third without even drawing a throw. A long pealing yell rolled over the bleachers. Dale sent coaches to the coaching lines. Hickle, big and formidable, hurried to the plate, swinging a long bat. He swung it as if he intended to knock the ball out of the field. When the pitcher lifted his arm Dreer dashed for home-base, and seemed beating the ball. But Hickle deftly dumped it down the line and broke for first while Dreer scored. This bunt was not fielded at all. How the bleachers roared! Then followed bunts in rapid succession, dashes for first, and slides into the bag. The pitcher interfered with the third-baseman, and the first-baseman ran up the line, and the pitcher failed to cover the bag, and the catcher fell all over the ball. Every varsity man bunted, but in just the place where it was not expected. They raced around the bases. They made long runs from first to third. They were like flashes of light, slippery as eels. The bewildered infielders knew they were being played with. The taunting "boo-hoos" and screams of delight from the bleachers were as demoralizing as the illusively daring runners. Closer and closer the infielders edged in until they were right on top of the batters. Then Dale and his men began to bunt little infield flies over the heads of their opponents. The merry audience cheered wildly. But Graves and Raymond ran back and caught three of these little pop flies, thus retiring the side. The old varsity had made six runs on nothing but deliberate bunts and daring dashes around the bases. Ken hurried in to the bench and heard some one call out, "Ward up!" He had forgotten he would have to bat. Stepping to the plate was like facing a cannon. One of the players yelled: "Here he is, Dale! Here's the potato-pegger! Knock his block off!" The cry was taken up by other players. "Peg him, Dale! Peg him, Dale!" And then the bleachers got it. Ken's dry tongue seemed pasted to the roof of his mouth. This Dale in baseball clothes with the lowering frown was not like the Dale Ken had known. Suddenly he swung his arm. Ken's quick eye caught the dark, shooting gleam of the ball. Involuntarily he ducked. "Strike," called the umpire. Then Dale had not tried to hit him. Ken stepped up again. The pitcher whirled slowly this time, turning with long, easy motion, and threw underhand. The ball sailed, floated, soared. Long before it reached Ken it had fooled him completely. He chopped at it vainly. The next ball pitched came up swifter, but just before it crossed the plate it seemed to stop, as if pulled back by a string, and then dropped down. Ken fell to his knees trying to hit it. The next batter's attempts were not as awkward as Ken's, still they were as futile. As Ken sat wearily down upon the bench he happened to get next to coach Arthurs. He expected some sharp words from the coach, he thought he deserved anything, but they were not forthcoming. The coach put his hand on Ken's knee. When the third batter fouled to Hickle, and Ken got up to go out to the field, he summoned courage to look at Arthurs. Something in his face told Ken what an ordeal this was. He divined that it was vastly more than business with Worry Arthurs. "Peg, watch out this time," whispered the coach. "They'll line 'em at you this inning--like bullets. Now try hard, won't you? _Just try!_" Ken knew from Arthurs' look more than his words that _trying_ was all that was left for the youngsters. The varsity had come out early in the spring, and they had practised to get into condition to annihilate this new team practically chosen by the athletic directors. And they had set out to make the game a farce. But Arthurs meant that all the victory was not in winning the game. It was left for his boys to try in the face of certain defeat, to try with all their hearts, to try with unquenchable spirit. It was the spirit that counted, not the result. The old varsity had received a bitter blow; they were aggressive and relentless. The students and supporters of old Wayne, idolizing the great team, always bearing in mind the hot rivalry with Place and Herne, were unforgiving and intolerant of an undeveloped varsity. Perhaps neither could be much blamed. But it was for the new players to show what it meant to them. The greater the prospect of defeat, the greater the indifference or hostility shown them, the more splendid their opportunity. For it was theirs to try for old Wayne, to try, to fight, and never to give up. Ken caught fire with the flame of that spirit. "Boys, come on!" he cried, in his piercing tenor. "_They can't beat us trying!_" As he ran out into the field members of the varsity spoke to him. "You green-backed freshman! Shut up! You scrub!" "I'm not a varsity has-been!" retorted Ken, hurrying out to his position. The first man up, a left-hander, rapped a hard twisting liner to right field. Ken ran toward deep centre with all his might. The ball kept twisting and curving. It struck squarely in Ken's hands and bounced out and rolled far. When he recovered it the runner was on third base. Before Ken got back to his position the second batter hit hard through the infield toward right. The ball came skipping like a fiendish rabbit. Ken gritted his teeth and went down on his knees, to get the bounding ball full in his breast. But he stopped it, scrambled for it, and made the throw in. Dale likewise hit in his direction, a slow low fly, difficult to judge. Ken over-ran it, and the hit gave Dale two bases. Ken realized that the varsity was now executing Worry Arthurs' famous right-field hitting. The sudden knowledge seemed to give Ken the blind-staggers. The field was in a haze; the players blurred in his sight. He heard the crack of the ball and saw Raymond dash over and plunge down. Then the ball seemed to streak out of the grass toward him, and, as he bent over, it missed his hands and cracked on his shin. Again he fumbled wildly for it and made the throw in. The pain roused his rage. He bit his lips and called to himself: "I'll stop them if it kills me!" Dreer lined the ball over his head for a home-run. Hollis made a bid for a three-bagger, but Ken, by another hard sprint, knocked the ball down. Hickle then batted up a tremendously high fly. It went far beyond Ken and he ran and ran. It looked like a small pin-point of black up in the sky. Then he tried to judge it, to get under it. The white sky suddenly glazed over and the ball wavered this way and that. Ken lost it in the sun, found it again, and kept on running. Would it never come down? He had not reached it, he had run beyond it. In an agony he lunged out, and the ball fell into his hands and jumped out. Then followed a fusillade of hits, all between second base and first, and all vicious-bounding grounders. To and fro Ken ran, managing somehow to get some portion of his anatomy in front of the ball. It had become a demon to him now and he hated it. His tongue was hanging out, his breast was bursting, his hands were numb, yet he held before him the one idea to keep fiercely trying. He lost count of the runs after eleven had been scored. He saw McCord and Raymond trying to stem the torrent of right-field hits, but those they knocked down gave him no time to recover. He blocked the grass-cutters with his knees or his body and pounced upon the ball and got it away from him as quickly as possible. Would this rapid fire of uncertain-bounding balls never stop? Ken was in a kind of frenzy. If he only had time to catch his breath! Then Dreer was at bat again. He fouled the first two balls over the grand-stand. Some one threw out a brand-new ball. Farther and farther Ken edged into deep right. He knew what was coming. "Let him--hit it!" he panted. "I'll try to get it! This day settles me. I'm no outfielder. But I'll try!" The tired pitcher threw the ball and Dreer seemed to swing and bound at once with the ringing crack. The hit was one of his famous drives close to the right-field foul-line. Ken was off with all the speed left in him. He strained every nerve and was going fast when he passed the foul-flag. The bleachers loomed up indistinct in his sight. But he thought only of meeting the ball. The hit was a savage liner, curving away from him. Cinders under his flying feet were a warning that he did not heed. He was on the track. He leaped into the air, left hand outstretched, and felt the ball strike in his glove. Then all was dark in a stunning, blinding crash-- VIII EXAMINATIONS When Ken Ward came fully to his senses he was being half carried and half led across the diamond to the players' bench. He heard Worry Arthurs say: "He ain't hurt much--only butted into the fence." Ken tried manfully to entertain Worry's idea about it, but he was too dazed and weak to stand alone. He imagined he had broken every bone in his body. "Did I make the catch--hang to the ball?" he asked. "No, Peg, you didn't," replied the coach, kindly. "But you made a grand try for it." He felt worse over failing to hold the ball than he felt over half killing himself against the bleachers. He spent the remainder of that never-to-be-forgotten game sitting on the bench. But to watch his fellow-players try to play was almost as frightful as being back there in right field. It was no consolation for Ken to see his successor chasing long hits, misjudging flies, failing weakly on wicked grounders. Even Graves weakened toward the close and spoiled his good beginning by miserable fumbles and throws. It was complete and disgraceful rout. The varsity never let up until the last man was out. The team could not have played harder against Place or Herne. Arthurs called the game at the end of the sixth inning with the score 41 to 0. Many beaten and despondent players had dragged themselves off Grant Field in bygone years. But none had ever been so humiliated, so crushed. No player spoke a word or looked at another. They walked off with bowed heads. Ken lagged behind the others; he was still stunned and lame. Presently Arthurs came back to help him along, and did not speak until they were clear of the campus and going down Ken's street. "I'm glad that's over," said Worry. "I kicked against havin' the game, but 'em fat-head directors would have it. Now we'll be let alone. There won't be no students comin' out to the field, and I'm blamed glad." Ken was sick and smarting with pain, and half crying. "I'm sorry, Mr. Arthurs," he faltered, "we were--so--so--rotten!" "See here, Peg," was the quick reply, "that cuts no ice with me. It was sure the rottenest exhibition I ever seen in my life. But there's excuses, and you can just gamble I'm the old boy who knows. You kids were scared to death. What hurts me, Peg, is the throw-down we got from my old team and from the students. We're not to blame for rules made by fat-head directors. I was surprised at Dale. He was mean, and so were Hollis and Hickle--all of 'em. They didn't need to disgrace us like that." "Oh, Mr. Arthurs, what players they are!" exclaimed Ken. "I never saw such running, such hitting. You said they'd hit to right field like bullets, but it was worse than bullets. And Dreer!... When he came up my heart just stopped beating." "Peg, listen," said Worry. "Three years ago when Dreer came out on the field he was greener than you, and hadn't half the spunk. I made him what he is, and I made all of 'em--I made that team, and I can make another." "You are just saying that to--to encourage me," replied Ken, hopelessly. "I can't play ball. I thought I could, but I know now. I'll never go out on the field again." "Peg, are you goin' to throw me down, too?" "Mr. Arthurs! I--I--" "Listen, Peg. Cut out the dumps. Get over 'em. You made the varsity to-day. Understand? You earned your big W. You needn't mention it, but I've picked you to play somewhere. You weren't a natural infielder, and you didn't make much of a showin' in the outfield. But it's the spirit I want. To-day was a bad day for a youngster. There's always lots of feelin' about college athletics, but here at Wayne this year the strain's awful. And you fought yourself and stage-fright and the ridicule of 'em quitter students. You _tried_, Peg! I never saw a gamer try. You didn't fail me. And after you made that desperate run and tried to smash the bleachers with your face the students shut up their guyin'. It made a difference, Peg. Even the varsity was a little ashamed. Cheer up, now!" Ken was almost speechless; he managed to mumble something, at which the coach smiled in reply and then walked rapidly away. Ken limped to his room and took off his baseball suit. The skin had been peeled from his elbow, and his body showed several dark spots that Ken knew would soon be black-and-blue bruises. His legs from his knees down bore huge lumps so sore to the touch that Ken winced even at gentle rubbing. But he did not mind the pain. All the darkness seemed to have blown away from his mind. "What a fine fellow Worry is!" said Ken. "How I'll work for him! I must write to brother Hal and Dick Leslie, to tell them I've made the varsity.... No, not yet; Worry said not to mention it.... And now to plug. I'll have to take my exams before the first college game, April 8th, and that's not long." In the succeeding days Ken was very busy with attendance at college in the mornings, baseball practice in the afternoons, and study at night. If Worry had picked any more players for the varsity, Ken could not tell who they were. Of course Graves would make the team, and Weir and Raymond were pretty sure of places. There were sixteen players for the other five positions, and picking them was only guesswork. It seemed to Ken that some of the players showed streaks of fast playing at times, and then as soon as they were opposed to one another in the practice game they became erratic. His own progress was slow. One thing he could do that brought warm praise from the coach--he could line the ball home from deep outfield with wonderful speed and accuracy. After the varsity had annihilated Worry's "kids," as they had come to be known, the students showed no further interest. When they ceased to appear on the field the new players were able to go at their practice without being ridiculed. Already an improvement had been noticeable. But rivalry was so keen for places, and the coach's choice so deep a mystery, that the contestants played under too great a tension, and school-boys could have done better. It was on the first of April that Arthurs took Ken up into College Hall to get permission for him to present himself to the different professors for the early examinations. While Ken sat waiting in the office he heard Arthurs talking to men he instantly took to be the heads of the Athletic Association. They were in an adjoining room with the door open, and their voices were very distinct, so that Ken could not help hearing. "Gentlemen, I want my answer to-day," said the coach. "Is there so great a hurry? Wait a little," was the rejoinder. "I'm sorry, but this is April 1st, and I'll wait no longer. I'm ready to send some of my boys up for early exams, and I want to know where I stand." "Arthurs, what is it exactly that you want? Things have been in an awful mess, we know. State your case and we'll try to give you a definite answer." "I want full charge of the coachin'--the handlin' of the team, as I always had before. I don't want any grad coaches. The directors seem divided, one half want this, the other half that. They've cut out the trainin' quarters. I've had no help from Murray; no baths or rub-downs or trainin' for my candidates. Here's openin' day a week off and I haven't picked my team. I want to take them to the trainin'-table and have them under my eye all the time. If I can't have what I want I'll resign. If I can I'll take the whole responsibility of the team on my own shoulders." "Very well, Arthurs, we'll let you go ahead and have full charge. There has been talk this year of abolishing a private training-house and table for this green varsity. But rather than have you resign we'll waive that. You can rest assured from now on you will not be interfered with. Give us the best team you can under the circumstances. There has been much dissension among the directors and faculty because of our new eligibility rules. It has stirred everybody up, and the students are sore. Then there has been talk of not having a professional coach this year, but we overruled that in last night's meeting. We're going to see what you can do. I may add, Arthurs, if you shape up a varsity this year that makes any kind of a showing against Place and Herne you will win the eternal gratitude of the directors who have fostered this change in athletics. Otherwise I'm afraid the balance of opinion will favor the idea of dispensing with professional coaches in the future." Ken saw that Arthurs was white in the face when he left the room. They went out together, and Worry handed Ken a card that read for him to take his examinations at once. "Are you up on 'em?" asked the coach, anxiously. "I--I think so," replied Ken. "Well, Peg, good luck to you! Go at 'em like you went at Dreer's hit." Much to his amazement it was for Ken to discover that, now the time had come for him to face his examinations, he was not at all sanguine. He began to worry. He forgot about the text-books he had mastered in his room during the long winter when he feared to venture out because of the sophomores. It was not very long till he had worked himself into a state somewhat akin to his trepidation in the varsity ball game. Then he decided to go up at once and have it done with. His whole freshman year had been one long agony. What a relief to have it ended! Ken passed four examinations in one morning, passed them swimmingly, smilingly, splendidly, and left College Hall in an ecstasy. Things were working out fine. But he had another examination, and it was in a subject he had voluntarily included in his course. Whatever on earth he had done it for he could not now tell. The old doctor who held the chair in that department had thirty years before earned the name of Crab. And slowly in the succeeding years he had grown crabbier, crustier, so student rumor had it. Ken had rather liked the dry old fellow, and had been much absorbed in his complex lectures, but he had never been near him, and now the prospect changed color. Foolishly Ken asked a sophomore in what light old Crab might regard a student who was ambitious to pass his exams early. The picture painted by that sophomore would have made a flaming-mouthed dragon appear tame. Nerving himself to the ordeal, Ken took his card and presented himself one evening at the doctor's house. A maid ushered him into the presence of a venerable old man who did not look at all, even in Ken's distorted sight, like a crab or a dragon. His ponderous brow seemed as if it had all the thought in the world behind it. He looked over huge spectacles at Ken's card and then spoke in a dry, quavering voice. "Um-m. Sit down, Mr. Ward." Ken found his breath and strangely lost his fear and trembling. The doctor dryly asked him why he thought he knew more than the other students, who were satisfied to wait months longer before examination. Ken hastened to explain that it was no desire of his; that, although he had studied hard and had not missed many lectures, he knew he was unprepared. Then he went on to tell about the baseball situation and why he had been sent up. "Um-m." The professor held a glass paperweight up before Ken and asked a question about it. Next he held out a ruler and asked something about that, and also a bottle of ink. Following this he put a few queries about specific gravity, atomic weight, and the like. Then he sat thrumming his desk and appeared far away in thought. After a while he turned to Ken with a smile that made his withered, parchment-like face vastly different. "Where do you play?" he asked. "S-sir?" stammered Ken. "In baseball, I mean. What place do you play? Catch? Thrower? I don't know the names much." Ken replied eagerly, and then it seemed he was telling this stern old man all about baseball. He wanted to know what fouls were, and how to steal bases, and he was nonplussed by such terms as "hit-and-run." Ken discoursed eloquently on his favorite sport, and it was like a kind of dream to be there. Strange things were always happening to him. "I've never seen a game," said the professor. "I used to play myself long ago, when we had a yarn ball and pitched underhand. I'll have to come out to the field some day. President Halstead, why, he likes baseball, he's a--a--what do you call it?" "A fan--a rooter?" replied Ken, smiling. "Um-m. I guess that's it. Well, Mr. Ward, I'm glad to meet you. You may go now." Ken got up blushing like a girl. "But, Doctor, you were to--I was to be examined." "I've examined you," he drawled, with a dry chuckle, and he looked over his huge spectacles at Ken. "I'll give you a passing mark. But, Mr. Ward, you know a heap more about baseball than you know about physics." As Ken went out he trod upon air. What a splendid old fellow! The sophomore had lied. For that matter, when had a sophomore ever been known to tell the truth? But, he suddenly exclaimed, he himself was no longer a freshman. He pondered happily on the rosy lining to his old cloud of gloom. How different things appeared after a little time. That old doctor's smile would linger long in Ken's memory. He felt deep remorse that he had ever misjudged him. He hurried on to Worry Arthurs' house to tell him the good news. And as he walked his mind was full with the wonder of it all--his lonely, wretched freshman days, now forever past; the slow change from hatred; the dawning of some strange feeling for the college and his teachers; and, last, the freedom, the delight, the quickening stir in the present. IX PRESIDENT HALSTEAD ON COLLEGE SPIRIT Wayne's opening game was not at all what Ken had dreamed it would be. The opposing team from Hudson School was as ill-assorted an aggregation as Ken had ever seen. They brought with them a small but noisy company of cheering supporters who, to the shame of Ken and his fellows, had the bleachers all to themselves. If any Wayne students were present they either cheered for Hudson or remained silent. Hudson won, 9 to 2. It was a game that made Arthurs sag a little lower on the bench. Graves got Wayne's two tallies. Raymond at second played about all the game from the fielding standpoint. Ken distinguished himself by trying wildly and accomplishing nothing. When he went to his room that night he had switched back to his former spirits, and was disgusted with Wayne's ball team, himself most of all. That was on a Wednesday. The next day rain prevented practice, and on Friday the boys were out on the field again. Arthurs shifted the players around, trying resignedly to discover certain positions that might fit certain players. It seemed to Ken that all the candidates, except one or two, were good at fielding and throwing, but when they came to play a game they immediately went into a trance. Travers College was scheduled for Saturday. They had always turned out a good minor team, but had never been known to beat Wayne. They shut Arthurs' team out without a run. A handful of Wayne students sat in the bleachers mocking their own team. Arthurs used the two pitchers he had been trying hard to develop, and when they did locate the plate they were hit hard. Ken played or essayed to play right field for a while, but he ran around like a chicken with its head off, as a Travers player expressed it, and then Arthurs told him that he had better grace the bench the rest of the game. Ashamed as Ken was to be put out, he was yet more ashamed to feel that he was glad of it. Hardest of all to bear was the arrogant air put on by the Travers College players. Wayne had indeed been relegated to the fifth rank of college baseball teams. On Monday announcements were made in all the lecture-rooms and departments of the university, and bulletins were posted to the effect, that President Halstead wished to address the undergraduates in the Wayne auditorium on Tuesday at five o'clock. Rumor flew about the campus and Carlton Club, everywhere, that the president's subject would be "College Spirit," and it was believed he would have something to say about the present condition of athletics. Ken Ward hurried to the hall as soon as he got through his practice. He found the immense auditorium packed from pit to dome, and he squeezed into a seat on the steps. The students, as always, were exchanging volleys of paper-balls, matching wits, singing songs, and passing time merrily. When President Halstead entered, with two of his associates, he was greeted by a thunder of tongues, hands, and heels of the standing students. He was the best-beloved member of the university faculty, a distinguished, scholarly looking man, well-stricken in years. He opened his address by declaring the need of college spirit in college life. He defined it as the vital thing, the heart of a great educational institution, and he went on to speak of its dangers, its fluctuations. Then he made direct reference to athletics in its relation to both college spirit and college life. "Sport is too much with us. Of late years I have observed a great increase in the number of athletic students, and a great decrease in scholarship. The fame of the half-back and the short-stop and the stroke-oar has grown out of proportion to their real worth. The freshman is dazzled by it. The great majority of college men cannot shine in sport, which is the best thing that could be. The student's ideal, instead of being the highest scholarship, the best attainment for his career, is apt to be influenced by the honors and friendships that are heaped upon the great athlete. This is false to university life. You are here to prepare yourselves for the battle with the world, and I want to state that that battle is becoming more and more intellectual. The student who slights his studies for athletic glory may find himself, when that glory is long past, distanced in the race for success by a student who had not trained to run the hundred in ten seconds. "But, gentlemen, to keep well up in your studies and _then_ go in for athletics--that is entirely another question. It is not likely that any student who keeps to the front in any of the university courses will have too much time for football or baseball. I am, as you all know, heartily in favor of all branches of college sport. And that brings me to the point I want to make to-day. Baseball is my favorite game, and I have always been proud of Wayne's teams. The new eligibility rules, with which you are all familiar, were brought to me, and after thoroughly going over the situation I approved of them. Certainly it is obvious to you all that a university ball-player making himself famous here, and then playing during the summer months at a resort, is laying himself open to suspicion. I have no doubt that many players are innocent of the taint of professionalism, but unfortunately they have become members of these summer teams after being first requested, then warned, not to do so. "Wayne's varsity players of last year have been barred by the directors. They made their choice, and so should abide by it. They have had their day, and so should welcome the opportunity of younger players. But I am constrained to acknowledge that neither they nor the great body of undergraduates welcomed the change. This, more than anything, proves to me the evil of championship teams. The football men, the baseball men, the crew men, and all the student supporters want to win _all_ the games _all_ the time. I would like to ask you young gentlemen if you can take a beating? If you cannot, I would like to add that you are not yet fitted to go out into life. A good beating, occasionally, is a wholesome thing. "Well, to come to the point now: I find, after studying the situation, that the old varsity players and undergraduates of this university have been lacking in--let us be generous and say, college spirit. I do not need to go into detail; suffice it to say that I know. I will admit, however, that I attended the game between the old varsity and the new candidates. I sat unobserved in a corner, and a more unhappy time I never spent in this university. I confess that my sympathies were with the inexperienced, undeveloped boys who were trying to learn to play ball. _Put yourselves in their places._ Say you are mostly freshmen, and you make yourselves candidates for the team because you love the game, and because you would love to bring honor to your college. You go out and try. You meet, the first day, an implacable team of skilled veterans who show their scorn of your poor ability, their hatred of your opportunity, and ride roughshod--I should say, run with spiked shoes--over you. You hear the roar of four thousand students applauding these hero veterans. You hear your classmates, your fellow-students in Wayne, howl with ridicule at your weak attempts to compete with better, stronger players.... Gentlemen, how would you feel? "I said before that college spirit fluctuates. If I did not know students well I would be deeply grieved at the spirit shown that day. I know that the tide will turn.... And, gentlemen, would not you and the old varsity be rather in an embarrassing position if--if these raw recruits should happen to develop into a team strong enough to cope with Place and Herne? Stranger things have happened. I am rather strong for the new players, not because of their playing, which is poor indeed, but for the way they _tried_ under peculiarly adverse conditions. "That young fellow Ward--what torture that inning of successive hard hits to his territory! I was near him in that end of the bleachers, and I watched him closely. Every attempt he made was a failure--that is, failure from the point of view of properly fielding the ball. But, gentlemen, that day was not a failure for young Ward. It was a grand success. Some one said his playing was the poorest exhibition ever seen on Grant Field. That may be. I want to say that to my mind it was also the most splendid effort ever made on Grant Field. For it was made against defeat, fear, ridicule. It was elimination of self. It was made for his coach, his fellow-players, his college--that is to say, for the students who shamed themselves by scorn for his trial. "Young men of Wayne, give us a little more of such college spirit!" X NEW PLAYERS When practice time rolled around for Ken next day, he went upon the field once more with his hopes renewed and bright. "I certainly do die hard," he laughed to himself. "But I can never go down and out now--never!" Something seemed to ring in Ken's ears like peals of bells. In spite of his awkwardness Coach Arthurs had made him a varsity man; in spite of his unpreparedness old Crab had given him a passing mark; in spite of his unworthiness President Halstead had made him famous. "I surely am the lucky one," said Ken, for the hundredth time. "And now I'm going to force my luck." Ken had lately revolved in his mind a persistent idea that he meant to propound to the coach. Ken arrived on the field a little later than usual, to find Arthurs for once minus his worried look. He was actually smiling, and Ken soon saw the reason for this remarkable change was the presence of a new player out in centre field. "Hello, Peg! things are lookin' up," said the coach, beaming. "That's Homans out there in centre--Roy Homans, a senior and a crackerjack ball-player. I tried to get him to come out for the team last year, but he wouldn't spare the time. But he's goin' to play this season--said the president's little talk got him. He's a fast, heady, scientific player, just the one to steady you kids." Before Ken could reply his attention was attracted from Homans to another new player in uniform now walking up to Arthurs. He was tall, graceful, powerful, had red hair, keen dark eyes, a clean-cut profile and square jaw. "I've come out to try for the team," he said, quietly, to the coach. "You're a little late, ain't you?" asked Worry, gruffly; but he ran a shrewd glance over the lithe form. "Yes." "Must have been stirred up by that talk of President Halstead's, wasn't you?" "Yes." There was something quiet and easy about the stranger, and Ken liked him at once. "Where do you play?" went on Worry. "Left." "Can you hit? Talk sense now, and mebbe you'll save me work. Can you hit?" "Yes." "Can you throw?" "Yes." He spoke with quiet assurance. "Can you run?" almost shouted Worry. He was nervous and irritable those days, and it annoyed him for unknown youths to speak calmly of such things. "Run? Yes, a little. I did the hundred last year in nine and four-fifths." "What! You can't kid me! Who are you?" cried Worry, getting red in the face. "I've seen you somewhere." "My name's Ray." "Say! Not _Ray_, the intercollegiate champion?" "I'm the fellow. I talked it over with Murray. He kicked, but I didn't mind that. I promised to try to keep in shape to win the sprints at the intercollegiate meet." "Say! Get out there in left field! Quick!" shouted Worry.... "Peg, hit him some flies. Lam 'em a mile! That fellow's a sprinter, Peg. What luck it would be if he can play ball! Hit 'em at him!" Ken took the ball Worry tossed him, and, picking up a bat, began to knock flies out to Ray. The first few he made easy for the outfielder, and then he hit balls harder and off to the right or left. Without appearing to exert himself Ray got under them. Ken watched him, and also kept the tail of his eye on Worry. The coach appeared to be getting excited, and he ordered Ken to hit the balls high and far away. Ken complied, but he could not hit a ball over Ray's head. He tried with all his strength. He had never seen a champion sprinter, and now he marvelled at the wonderful stride. "Oh! but his running is beautiful!" exclaimed Ken. "That's enough! Come in here!" yelled Worry to Ray.... "Peg, he makes Dreer look slow. I never saw as fast fieldin' as that." When Ray came trotting in without seeming to be even warmed up, Worry blurted out: "You ain't winded--after all that? Must be in shape?" "I'm always in shape," replied Ray. "Pick up a bat!" shouted Worry. "Here, Duncan, pitch this fellow a few. Speed 'em, curve 'em, strike him out, hit him--anything!" Ray was left-handed, and he stood up to the plate perfectly erect, with his bat resting quietly on his shoulder. He stepped straight, swung with an even, powerful swing, and he hit the first ball clear over the right-field bleachers. It greatly distanced Dreer's hit. "What a drive!" gasped Ken. "Oh!" choked Worry. "That's enough! You needn't lose my balls. Bunt one, now." Ray took the same position, and as the ball came up he appeared to drop the bat upon it and dart away at the same instant. Worry seemed to be trying to control violent emotion. "Next batter up!" he called, hoarsely, and sat down on the bench. He was breathing hard, and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. Ken went up to Worry, feeling that now was the time to acquaint the coach with his new idea. Eager as Ken was he had to force himself to take this step. All the hope and dread, nervousness and determination of the weeks of practice seemed to accumulate in that moment. He stammered and stuttered, grew speechless, and then as Worry looked up in kind surprise, Ken suddenly grew cool and earnest. "Mr. Arthurs, will you try me in the box?" "What's that, Peg?" queried the coach, sharply. "Will you give me a trial in the box? I've wanted one all along. You put me in once when we were in the cage, but you made me hit the batters." "Pitch? you, Peg? Why not? Why didn't I think of it? I'm sure gettin' to be like 'em fat-head directors. You've got steam, Peg, but can you curve a ball? Let's see your fingers." "Yes, I can curve a ball round a corner. Please give me a trial, Mr. Arthurs. I failed in the infield, and I'm little good in the outfield. But I know I can pitch." The coach gave Ken one searching glance. Then he called all the candidates in to the plate, and ordered Dean, the stocky little catcher, to don his breast-protector, mask, and mitt. "Peg," said the coach, "Dean will sign you--one finger for a straight ball, two for a curve." When Ken walked to the box all his muscles seemed quivering and tense, and he had a contraction in his throat. This was his opportunity. He was not unnerved as he had been when he was trying for the other positions. All Ken's life he had been accustomed to throwing. At his home he had been the only boy who could throw a stone across the river; the only one who could get a ball over the high-school tower. A favorite pastime had always been the throwing of small apples, or walnuts, or stones, and he had acquired an accuracy that made it futile for his boy comrades to compete with him. Curving a ball had come natural to him, and he would have pitched all his high-school games had it not been for the fact that no one could catch him, and, moreover, none of the boys had found any fun in batting against him. When Ken faced the first batter a feeling came over him that he had never before had on the ball field. He was hot, trembling, hurried, but this new feeling was apart from these. His feet were on solid ground, and his arm felt as it had always in those throwing contests where he had so easily won. He seemed to decide from McCord's position at the plate what to throw him. Ken took his swing. It was slow, easy, natural. But the ball travelled with much greater speed than the batter expected from such motion. McCord let the first two balls go by, and Arthurs called them both strikes. Then Ken pitched an out-curve which McCord fanned at helplessly. Arthurs sent Trace up next. Ken saw that the coach was sending up the weaker hitters first. Trace could not even make a foul. Raymond was third up, and Ken had to smile at the scowling second-baseman. Remembering his weakness for pulling away from the plate, Ken threw Raymond two fast curves on the outside, and then a slow wide curve, far out. Raymond could not have hit the first two with a paddle, and the third lured him irresistibly out of position and made him look ridiculous. He slammed his bat down and slouched to the bench. Duncan turned out to be the next easy victim. Four batters had not so much as fouled Ken. And Ken knew he was holding himself in--that, in fact, he had not let out half his speed. Blake, the next player, hit up a little fly that Ken caught, and Schoonover made the fifth man to strike out. Then Weir stood over the plate, and he was a short, sturdy batter, hard to pitch to. He looked as if he might be able to hit any kind of a ball. Ken tried him first with a straight fast one over the middle of the plate. Weir hit it hard, but it went foul. And through Ken's mind flashed the thought that he would pitch no more speed to Weir or players who swung as he did. Accordingly Ken tried the slow curve that had baffled Raymond. Weir popped it up and retired in disgust. The following batter was Graves, who strode up smiling, confident, sarcastic, as if he knew he could do more than the others. Ken imagined what the third-baseman would have said if the coach had not been present. Graves always ruffled Ken the wrong way. "I'll strike him out if I break my arm!" muttered Ken to himself. He faced Graves deliberately and eyed his position at bat. Graves as deliberately laughed at him. "Pitch up, pitch up!" he called out. "Right over the pan!" retorted Ken, as quick as an echo. He went hot as fire all over. This fellow Graves had some strange power of infuriating him. Ken took a different swing, which got more of his weight in motion, and let his arm out. Like a white bullet the ball shot plateward, rising a little so that Graves hit vainly under it. The ball surprised Dean, knocked his hands apart as if they had been paper, and resounded from his breast-protector. Ken pitched the second ball in the same place with a like result, except that Dean held on to it. Graves had lost his smile and wore an expression of sickly surprise. The third ball travelled by him and cracked in Dean's mitt, and Arthurs called it a strike. "Easy there--that'll do!" yelled the coach. "Come in here, Peg. Out on the field now, boys." Homans stopped Ken as they were passing each other, and Ken felt himself under the scrutiny of clear gray eyes. "Youngster, you look good to me," said Homans. Ken also felt himself regarded with astonishment by many of the candidates; and Ray ran a keen, intuitive glance over him from head to foot. But it was the coach's manner that struck Ken most forcibly. Worry was utterly unlike himself. "Why didn't you tell me about this before--you--you--" he yelled, red as a beet in the face. He grasped Ken with both hands, then he let him go, and picking up a ball and a mitt he grasped him again. Without a word he led Ken across the field and to a secluded corner behind the bleachers. Ken felt for all the world as if he was being led to execution. Worry took off his coat and vest and collar. He arranged a block of wood for a plate and stepped off so many paces and placed another piece of wood to mark the pitcher's box. Then he donned the mitt. "Peg, somethin's comin' off. I know it. I never make mistakes in sizin' up pitchers. But I've had such hard luck this season that I can't believe my own eyes. We've got to prove it. Now you go out there and pitch to me. Just natural like at first." Ken pitched a dozen balls or more, some in-curves, some out-curves. Then he threw what he called his drop, which he executed by a straight overhand swing. "Oh--a beauty!" yelled Worry. "Where, Peg, where did you learn that? Another, lower now." Worry fell over trying to stop the glancing drop. "Try straight ones now, Peg, right over the middle. See how many you can pitch." One after another, with free, easy motion, Ken shot balls squarely over the plate. Worry counted them, and suddenly, after the fourteenth pitch, he stood up and glared at Ken. "Are you goin' to keep puttin' 'em over this pan all day that way?" "Mr. Arthurs, I couldn't miss that plate if I pitched a week," replied Ken. "Stop callin' me Mister!" yelled Worry. "Now, put 'em where I hold my hands--inside corner... outside corner... again... inside now, low... another... a fast one over, now... high, inside. Oh, Peg, this ain't right. I ain't seein' straight. I think I'm dreamin'. Come on with 'em!" Fast and true Ken sped the balls into Worry's mitt. Seldom did the coach have to move his hands at all. "Peg Ward, did you know that pitchin' was all control, puttin' the ball where you wanted to?" asked Worry, stopping once more. "No, I didn't," replied Ken. "How did you learn to peg a ball as straight as this?" Ken told him how he had thrown at marks all his life. "Why didn't you tell me before?" Worry seemed not to be able to get over Ken's backwardness. "Look at the sleepless nights and the gray hairs you could have saved me." He stamped around as if furious, yet underneath the surface Ken saw that the coach was trying to hide his elation. "Here now," he shouted, suddenly, "a few more, and _peg_ 'em! See? Cut loose and let me see what steam you've got!" Ken whirled with all his might and delivered the ball with all his weight in the swing. The ball seemed to diminish in size, it went so swiftly. Near the plate it took an upward jump, and it knocked Worry's mitt off his hand. Worry yelled out, then he looked carefully at Ken, but he made no effort to go after the ball or pick up the mitt. "Did I say for you to knock my block off?... Come here, Peg. You're only a youngster. Do you think you can keep that? Are you goin' to let me teach you to pitch? Have you got any nerve? Are you up in the air at the thought of Place and Herne?" Then he actually hugged Ken, and kept hold of him as if he might get away. He was panting and sweating. All at once he sat down on one of the braces of the bleachers and began mopping his face. He seemed to cool down, to undergo a subtle change. "Peg," he said, quietly, "I'm as bad as some of 'em fat-head directors.... You see I didn't have no kind of a pitcher to work on this spring. I kept on hopin'. Strange why I didn't quit. And now--my boy, you're a kid, but you're a natural born pitcher." XI STATE UNIVERSITY GAME Arthurs returned to the diamond and called the squad around him. He might have been another coach from the change that was manifest in him. "Boys, I've picked the varsity, and sorry I am to say you all can't be on it. Ward, Dean, McCord, Raymond, Weir, Graves, Ray, Homans, Trace, Duncan, and Schoonover--these men will report at once to Trainer Murray and obey his orders. Then pack your trunks and report to me at 36 Spring Street to-night. That's all--up on your toes now.... The rest of you boys will each get his uniform and sweater, but, of course, I can't give you the varsity letter. You've all tried hard and done your best. I'm much obliged to you, and hope you'll try again next year." Led by Arthurs, the players trotted across the field to Murray's quarters. Ken used all his eyes as he went in. This was the sacred precinct of the chosen athletes, and it was not open to any others. He saw a small gymnasium, and adjoining it a large, bright room with painted windows that let in the light, but could not be seen through. Around the room on two sides were arranged huge box-like bins with holes in the lids and behind them along the wall were steam-pipes. On the other two sides were little zinc-lined rooms, with different kinds of pipes, which Ken concluded were used for shower baths. Murray, the trainer, was there, and two grinning negroes with towels over their shoulders, and a little dried-up Scotchman who was all one smile. "Murray, here's my bunch. Look 'em over, and to-morrow start 'em in for keeps," said Arthurs. "Well, Worry, they're not a bad-looking lot. Slim and trim. We won't have to take off any beef. Here's Reddy Ray. I let you have him this year, Worry, but the track team will miss him. And here's Peg Ward. I was sure you'd pick him, Worry. And this is Homans, isn't it? I remember you in the freshmen games. The rest of you boys I'll have to get acquainted with. They say I'm a pretty hard fellow, but that's on the outside. Now, hustle out of your suits, and we'll give you all a good stew and a rub-down." What the stew was soon appeared plain to Ken. He was the first player undressed, and Murray, lifting up one of the box-lids, pushed Ken inside. "Sit down and put your feet in that pan," he directed. "When I drop the lid let your head come out the hole. There!" Then he wrapped a huge towel around Ken's neck, being careful to tuck it close and tight. With that he reached round to the back of the box and turned on the steam. Ken felt like a jack-in-the-box. The warm steam was pleasant. He looked about him to see the other boys being placed in like positions. Raymond had the box on one side, and Reddy Ray the one on the other. "It's great," said Ray, smiling at Ken. "You'll like it." Raymond looked scared. Ken wondered if the fellow ever got any enjoyment out of things. Then Ken found himself attending to his own sensations. The steam was pouring out of the pipe inside the box, and it was growing wetter, thicker, and hotter. The pleasant warmth and tickling changed to a burning sensation. Ken found himself bathed in a heavy sweat. Then he began to smart in different places, and he was hard put to it to keep rubbing them. The steam grew hotter; his body was afire; his breath labored in great heaves. Ken felt that he must cry out. He heard exclamations, then yells, from some of the other boxed-up players, and he glanced quickly around. Reddy Ray was smiling, and did not look at all uncomfortable. But Raymond was scarlet in the face, and he squirmed his head to and fro. "_Ough!_" he bawled. "Let me out of here!" One of the negro attendants lifted the lid and helped Raymond out. He danced about as if on hot bricks. His body was the color of a boiled lobster. The attendant put him under one of the showers and turned the water on. Raymond uttered one deep, low, "O-o-o-o!" Then McCord begged to be let out; Weir's big head, with its shock of hair, resembled that of an angry lion; little Trace screamed, and Duncan yelled. "Peg, how're you?" asked Murray, walking up to Ken. "It's always pretty hot the first few times. But afterward it's fine. Look at Reddy." "Murray, give Peg a good stewin'," put in Arthurs. "He's got a great arm, and we must take care of it." Ken saw the other boys, except Ray, let out, and he simply could not endure the steam any longer. "I've got--enough," he stammered. "Scotty, turn on a little more stew," ordered Murray, cheerfully; then he rubbed his hand over Ken's face. "You're not hot yet." Scotty turned on more steam, and Ken felt it as a wet flame. He was being flayed alive. "Please--please--let me out!" he implored. With a laugh Murray lifted the lid, and Ken hopped out. He was as red as anything red he had ever seen. Then Scotty shoved him under a shower, and as the icy water came down in a deluge Ken lost his breath, his chest caved in, and he gasped. Scotty led him out into the room, dried him with a towel, rubbed him down, and then, resting Ken's arm on his shoulder, began to pat and beat and massage it. In a few moments Ken thought his arm was a piece of live India rubber. He had never been in such a glow. When he had dressed he felt as light as air, strong, fresh, and keen for action. "Hustle now, Peg," said Arthurs. "Get your things packed. Supper to-night at the trainin'-house." It was after dark when Ken got an expressman to haul his trunk to the address on Spring Street. The house was situated about the middle of a four-storied block, and within sight of Grant Field. Worry answered his ring. "Here you are, Peg, the last one. I was beginnin' to worry about you. Have your trunk taken right up, third floor back. Hurry down, for dinner will be ready soon." Ken followed at the heels of the expressman up to his room. He was surprised and somewhat taken back to find Raymond sitting upon the bed. "Hello! excuse me," said Ken. "Guess I've got the wrong place." "The coach said you and I were to room together," returned Raymond. "Us? Room-mates?" ejaculated Ken. Raymond took offence at this. "Wull, I guess I can stand it," he growled. "I hope I can," was Ken's short reply. It was Ken's failing that he could not help retaliating. But he was also as repentant as he was quick-tempered. "Oh, I didn't mean that.... See here, Raymond, if we've got to be room-mates--" Ken paused in embarrassment. "Wull, we're both on the varsity," said Raymond. "That's so," rejoined Ken, brightening. "It makes a whole lot of difference, doesn't it?" Raymond got off the bed and looked at Ken. "What's your first name?" queried he. "I don't like 'Peg.'" "Kenneth. Ken, for short. What's yours?" "Mine's Kel. Wull, Ken--" Having gotten so far Raymond hesitated, and it was Ken who first offered his hand. Raymond eagerly grasped it. That broke the ice. "Kel, I haven't liked your looks at all," said Ken, apologetically. "Ken, I've been going to lick you all spring." They went down-stairs arm in arm. It was with great interest and curiosity that Ken looked about the cozy and comfortable rooms. The walls were adorned with pictures of varsity teams and players, and the college colors were much in evidence. College magazines and papers littered the table in the reading-room. "Boys, we'll be pretty snug and nice here when things get to runnin' smooth. The grub will be plain, but plenty of it." There were twelve in all at the table, with the coach seated at the head. The boys were hungry, and besides, as they had as yet had no chance to become acquainted, the conversation lagged. The newness and strangeness, however, did not hide the general air of suppressed gratification. After dinner Worry called them all together in the reading-room. "Well, boys, here we are together like one big family, and we're shut in for two months. Now, I know you've all been fightin' for places on the team, and have had no chance to be friendly. It's always that way in the beginnin', and I dare say there'll be some scraps among you before things straighten out. We'll have more to say about that later. The thing now is you're all varsity men, and I'm puttin' you on your word of honor. Your word is good enough for me. Here's my rules, and I'm more than usually particular this year, for reasons I'll tell later. "You're not to break trainin'. You're not to eat anything anywhere but here. You're to cut out cigarettes and drinks. You're to be in bed at ten o'clock. And I advise, although I ain't insistin', that if you have any leisure time you'll spend most of it here. That's all." For Ken the three days following passed as so many hours. He did not in the least dread the approaching game with State University, but his mind held scarcely anything outside of Arthurs' coaching. The practice of the players had been wholly different. It was as if they had been freed from some binding spell. Worry kept them at fielding and batting for four full hours every afternoon. Ken, after pitching to Dean for a while, batted to the infield and so had opportunity to see the improvement. Graves was brilliant at third, Weir was steady and sure at short, Raymond seemed to have springs in his legs and pounced upon the ball with wonderful quickness, and McCord fielded all his chances successfully. On the afternoon of the game Worry waited at the training-house until all the players came down-stairs in uniform. "Boys, what's happened in the past doesn't count. We start over to-day. I'm not goin' to say much or confuse you with complex team coachin'. But I'm hopeful. I sort of think there's a nigger in the woodpile. I'll tell you to-night if I'm right. Think of how you have been roasted by the students. Play like tigers. Put out of your mind everything but tryin'. Nothin' counts for you, boys. Errors are nothin'; mistakes are nothin'. Play the game as one man. Don't think of yourselves. You all know when you ought to hit or bunt or run. I'm trustin' you. I won't say a word from the bench. And don't underrate our chances. Remember that I think it's possible we may have somethin' up our sleeves. That's all from me till after the game." Worry walked to Grant Field with Ken. He talked as they went along, but not on baseball. The State team was already out and practising. Worry kept Ken near him on the bench and closely watched the visitors in practice. When the gong rang to call them in he sent his players out, with a remark to Ken to take his warming-up easily. Ken thought he had hardly warmed up at all before the coach called him in. "Peg, listen!" he whispered. His gaze seemed to hypnotize Ken. "Do you have any idea what you'll do to this bunch from State?" "Why--no--I--" "Listen! I tell you I know they won't be able to touch you.... Size up batters in your own way. If they look as if they'd pull or chop on a curve, hand it up. If not, peg 'em a straight one over the inside corner, high. If you get in a hole with runners on bases use that fast jump ball, as hard as you can drive it, right over the pan.... Go in with perfect confidence. I wouldn't say that to you, Peg, if I didn't feel it myself, honestly. I'd say for you to do your best. But I've sized up these State fellows, and they won't be able to touch you. Remember what I say. That's all." "I'll remember," said Ken, soberly. When the umpire called the game there were perhaps fifty students in the bleachers and a few spectators in the grand-stand, so poor an attendance that the State players loudly voiced their derision. "Hey! boys," yelled one, "we drew a crowd last year, and look at that!" "It's Wayne's dub team," replied another. They ran upon the field as if the result of the game was a foregone conclusion. Their pitcher, a lanky individual, handled the ball with assurance. Homans led off for Wayne. He stood left-handed at the plate, and held his bat almost in the middle. He did not swing, but poked at the first ball pitched and placed a short hit over third. Raymond, also left-handed, came next, and, letting two balls go, he bunted the third. Running fast, he slid into first base and beat the throw. Homans kept swiftly on toward third, drew the throw, and, sliding, was also safe. It was fast work, and the Wayne players seemed to rise off the bench with the significance of the play. Worry Arthurs looked on from under the brim of his hat, and spoke no word. Then Reddy Ray stepped up. "They're all left-handed!" shouted a State player. The pitcher looked at Reddy, then motioned for his outfielders to play deeper. With that he delivered the ball, which the umpire called a strike. Reddy stood still and straight while two more balls sped by, then he swung on the next. A vicious low hit cut out over first base and skipped in great bounds to the fence. Homans scored. Raymond turned second, going fast. But it was Ray's speed that electrified the watching players. They jumped up cheering. "Oh, see him run!" yelled Ken. He was on third before Raymond reached the plate. Weir lifted a high fly to left field, and when the ball dropped into the fielder's hands Ray ran home on the throw-in. Three runs had been scored in a twinkling. It amazed the State team. They were not slow in bandying remarks among themselves. "Fast! Who's that red-head? Is this your dub team? Get in the game, boys!" They began to think more of playing ball and less of their own superiority. Graves, however, and McCord following him, went out upon plays to the infield. As Ken walked out toward the pitcher's box Homans put a hand on his arm, and said: "Kid, put them all over. Don't waste any. Make every batter hit. Keep your nerve. We're back of you out here." Then Reddy Ray, in passing, spoke with a cool, quiet faith that thrilled Ken, "Peg, we've got enough runs now to win." Ken faced the plate all in a white glow. He was far from calmness, but it was a restless, fiery hurry for the action of the game. He remembered the look in Worry's eyes, and every word that he had spoken rang in his ears. Receiving the ball from the umpire, he stepped upon the slab with a sudden, strange, deep tremor. It passed as quickly, and then he was eying the first batter. He drew a long breath, standing motionless, with all the significance of Worry's hope flashing before him, and then he whirled and delivered the ball. The batter struck at it after it had passed him, and it cracked in Dean's mitt. "Speed!" called the State captain. "Quick eye, there!" The batter growled some unintelligible reply. Then he fouled the second ball, missed the next, and was out. The succeeding State player hit an easy fly to Homans, and the next had two strikes called upon him, and swung vainly at the third. Dean got a base on balls for Wayne, Trace went out trying to bunt, and Ken hit into short, forcing Dean at second. Homans lined to third, retiring the side. The best that the State players could do in their half was for one man to send a weak grounder to Raymond, one to fly out, and the other to fail on strikes. Wayne went to bat again, and Raymond got his base by being hit by a pitched ball. Reddy Ray bunted and was safe. Weir struck out. Graves rapped a safety through short, scoring Raymond, and sending Ray to third. Then McCord fouled out to the catcher. Again, in State's inning, they failed to get on base, being unable to hit Ken effectively. So the game progressed, State slowly losing its aggressive playing, and Wayne gaining what its opponents had lost. In the sixth Homans reached his base on an error, stole second, went to third on Raymond's sacrifice, and scored on Reddy's drive to right. State flashed up in their half, getting two men to first on misplays of McCord and Weir, and scored a run on a slow hit to Graves. With the bases full, Ken let his arm out and pitched the fast ball at the limit of his speed. The State batters were helpless before it, but they scored two runs on passed strikes by Dean. The little catcher had a hard time judging Ken's jump ball. That ended the run-getting for State, though they came near scoring again on more fumbling in the infield. In the eighth Ken landed a safe fly over second, and tallied on a double by Homans. Before Ken knew the game was half over it had ended--Wayne 6, State 3. His players crowded around him and some one called for the Wayne yell. It was given with wild vehemence. From that moment until dinner was over at the training-house Ken appeared to be the centre of a humming circle. What was said and done he never remembered. Then the coach stopped the excitement. "Boys, now for a heart-to-heart talk," he said, with a smile both happy and grave. "We won to-day, as I predicted. State had a fairly strong team, but if Ward had received perfect support they would not have got a man beyond second. That's the only personal mention I'll make. Now, listen...." He paused, with his eyes glinting brightly and his jaw quivering. "I expected to win, but before the game I never dreamed of our possibilities. I got a glimpse now of what hard work and a demon spirit to play together might make this team. I've had an inspiration. We are goin' to beat Herne and play Place to a standstill." Not a boy moved an eyelash as Arthurs made this statement, and the sound of a pin dropping could have been heard. "To do that we must pull together as no boys ever pulled together before. We must be all one heart. We must be actuated by one spirit. Listen! If you will stick together and to me, I'll make a team that will be a wonder. Never the hittin' team as good as last year's varsity, but a faster team, a finer machine. Think of that! Think of how we have been treated this year! For that we'll win all the greater glory. It's worth all there is in you, boys. You would have the proudest record of any team that ever played for old Wayne. "I love the old college, boys, and I've given it the best years of my life. If it's anything to you, why, understand that if I fail to build up a good team this year I shall be let go by those directors who have made the change in athletics. I could stand that, but--I've a boy of my own who's preparin' for Wayne, and my heart is set on seein' him enter--and he said he never will if they let me go. So, you youngsters and me--we've much to gain. Go to your rooms now and think, think as you never did before, until the spirit of this thing, the possibility of it, grips you as it has me." XII KEN CLASHES WITH GRAVES Two weeks after the contest with State University four more games with minor colleges had been played and won by Wayne. Hour by hour the coach had drilled the players; day by day the grilling practice told in quickening grasp of team-play, in gradual correction of erratic fielding and wild throwing. Every game a few more students attended, reluctantly, in half-hearted manner. "We're comin' with a rush," said Worry to Ken. "Say, but Dale and the old gang have a surprise in store for 'em! And the students--they're goin' to drop dead pretty soon.... Peg, Murray tells me he's puttin' weight on you." "Why, yes, it's the funniest thing," replied Ken. "To-day I weighed one hundred and sixty-four. Worry, I'm afraid I'm getting fat." "Fat, nothin'," snorted Worry. "It's muscle. I told Murray to put beef on you all he can. Pretty soon you'll be able to peg a ball through the back-stop. Dean's too light, Peg. He's plucky and will make a catcher, but he's too light. You're batterin' him all up." Worry shook his head seriously. "Oh, he's fine!" exclaimed Ken. "I'm not afraid any more. He digs my drop out of the dust, and I can't get a curve away from him. He's weak only on the jump ball, and I don't throw that often, only when I let drive." "You'll be usin' that often enough against Herne and Place. I'm dependin' on that for those games. Peg, are you worryin' any, losin' any sleep, over those games?" "Indeed I'm not," replied Ken, laughing. "Say, I wish you'd have a balloon ascension, and have it quick. It ain't natural, Peg, for you not to get a case of rattles. It's comin' to you, and I don't want it in any of the big games." "I don't want it either. But Worry, pitching is all a matter of control, you say so often. I don't believe I could get wild and lose my control if I tried." "Peg, you sure have the best control of any pitcher I ever coached. It's your success. It'll make a great pitcher out of you. All you've got to learn is where to pitch 'em to Herne and Place." "How am I to learn that?" "Listen!" Worry whispered. "I'm goin' to send you to Washington next week to see Place and Herne play Georgetown. You'll pay your little money and sit in the grand-stand right behind the catcher. You'll have a pencil and a score card, and you'll be enjoyin' the game. But, Peg, you'll also be usin' your head, and when you see one of 'em players pull away on a curve, or hit weak on a drop, or miss a high fast one, or slug a low ball, you will jot it down on your card. You'll watch Place's hard hitters with hawk eyes, my boy, and a pitcher's memory. And when they come along to Grant Field you'll have 'em pretty well sized up." "That's fine, Worry, but is it fair?" queried Ken. "Fair? Why, of course. They all do it. We saw Place's captain in the grand-stand here last spring." The coach made no secret of his pride and faith in Ken. It was this, perhaps, as much as anything, which kept Ken keyed up. For Ken was really pitching better ball than he knew how to pitch. He would have broken his arm for Worry; he believed absolutely in what the coach told him; he did not think of himself at all. Worry, however, had plenty of enthusiasm for his other players. Every evening after dinner he would call them all about him and talk for an hour. Sometimes he would tell funny baseball stories; again, he told of famous Wayne-Place games, and how they had been won or lost; then at other times he dwelt on the merits and faults of his own team. In speaking of the swift development of this year's varsity he said it was as remarkable as it had been unforeseen. He claimed it would be a bewildering surprise to Wayne students and to the big college teams. He was working toward the perfection of a fast run-getting machine. In the five games already played and won a good idea could be gotten of Wayne's team, individually and collectively. Homans was a scientific short-field hitter and remarkably sure. Raymond could not bat, but he had developed into a wonder in reaching first base, by bunt or base on balls, or being hit. Reddy Ray was a hard and timely batter, and when he got on base his wonderful fleetness made him almost sure to score. Of the other players Graves batted the best; but taking the team as a whole, and comparing them with Place or Herne, it appeared that Reddy and Homans were the only great hitters, and the two of them, of course, could not make a great hitting team. In fielding, however, the coach said he had never seen the like. They were all fast, and Homans was perfect in judgment on fly balls, and Raymond was quick as lightning to knock down base hits, and as to the intercollegiate sprinter in left field, it was simply a breath-taking event to see him run after a ball. Last of all was Ken Ward with his great arm. It was a strangely assorted team, Worry said, one impossible to judge at the moment, but it was one to watch. "Boys, we're comin' with a rush," he went on to say. "But somethin's holdin' us back a little. There's no lack of harmony, yet there's a drag. In spite of the spirit you've shown--and I want to say it's been great--the team doesn't work together as one man _all_ the time. I advise you all to stick closer together. Stay away from the club, and everywhere except lectures. We've got to be closer 'n brothers. It'll all work out right before we go up against Herne in June. That game's comin', boys, and by that time the old college will be crazy. It'll be _our_ turn then." Worry's talks always sank deeply into Ken's mind and set him to thinking and revolving over and over the gist of them so that he could remember to his profit. He knew that some of the boys had broken training, and he pondered if that was what caused the drag Worry mentioned. Ken had come to feel the life and fortunes of the varsity so keenly that he realized how the simplest deviations from honor might affect the smooth running of the team. It must be perfectly smooth. And to make it so every player must be of one mind. Ken proved to himself how lack of the highest spirit on the part of one or two of the team tended toward the lowering of the general spirit. For he began to worry, and almost at once it influenced his playing. He found himself growing watchful of his comrades and fearful of what they might be doing. He caught himself being ashamed of his suspicions. He would as lief have cut off his hand as break his promise to the coach. Perhaps, however, he exaggerated his feeling and sense of duty. He remembered the scene in Dale's room the night he refused to smoke and drink; how Dale had commended his refusal. Nevertheless, he gathered from Dale's remark to Worry that breaking training was not unusual or particularly harmful. "With Dale's team it might not have been so bad," thought Ken. "But it's different with us. We've got to make up in spirit what we lack in ability." Weir and McCord occupied the room next to Ken's, and Graves and Trace, rooming together, were also on that floor. Ken had tried with all his might to feel friendly toward the third-baseman. He had caught Graves carrying cake and pie to his room and smoking cigarettes with the window open. One night Graves took cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to Kel, Trace, and Ken, who all happened to be in Ken's room at the time. Trace readily accepted; Kel demurred at first, but finally took one. Graves then tossed the pack to Ken. "No, I don't smoke. Besides, it's breaking training," said Ken. "You make me sick, Ward," retorted Graves. "You're a wet blanket. Do you think we're going to be as sissy as that? It's hard enough to stand the grub we get here, without giving up a little smoke." Ken made no reply, but he found it difficult to smother a hot riot in his breast. When the other boys had gone to their rooms Ken took Kel to task about his wrong-doing. "Do you think that's the right sort of thing? What would Worry say?" "Ken, I don't care about it, not a bit," replied Kel, flinging his cigarette out of the window. "But Graves is always asking me to do things--I hate to refuse. It seems so--" "Kel, if Worry finds it out you'll lose your place on the team." "No!" exclaimed Raymond, staring. "Mark what I say. I wish you'd stop letting Graves coax you into things." "Ken, he's always smuggling pie and cake and candy into his room. I've had some of it. Trace said he'd brought in something to drink, too." "It's a shame," cried Ken, in anger. "I never liked him and I've tried hard to change it. Now I'm glad I couldn't." "He doesn't have any use for you," replied Kel. "He's always running you down to the other boys. What'd you ever do to him, Ken?" "Oh, it was that potato stunt of mine last fall. He's a Soph, and I hit him, I guess." "I think it's more than that," went on Raymond. "Anyway, you look out for him, because he's aching to spoil your face." "He is, is he?" snapped Ken. Ken was too angry to talk any more, and so the boys went to bed. The next few days Ken discovered that either out of shame or growing estrangement Raymond avoided him, and he was bitterly hurt. He had come to like the little second-baseman, and had hoped they would be good friends. It was easy to see that Graves became daily bolder, and more lax in training, and his influence upon several of the boys grew stronger. And when Dean, Schoonover, and Duncan appeared to be joining the clique, Ken decided he would have to talk to some one, so he went up to see Ray and Homans. The sprinter was alone, sitting by his lamp, with books and notes spread before him. "Hello, Peg! come in. You look a little glum. What's wrong?" Reddy Ray seemed like an elder brother to Ken, and he found himself blurting out his trouble. Ray looked thoughtful, and after a moment he replied in his quiet way: "Peg, it's new to you, but it's an old story to me. The track and crew men seldom break training, which is more than can be said of the other athletes. It seems to me baseball fellows are the most careless. They really don't have to train so conscientiously. It's only a kind of form." "But it's different this year," burst out Ken. "You know what Worry said, and how he trusts us." "You're right, Peg, only you mustn't take it so hard. Things will work out all right. Homans and I were talking about that to-day. You see, Worry wants the boys to elect a captain soon. But perhaps he has not confided in you youngsters. He will suggest that you elect Homans or me. Well, I won't run for the place, so it'll be Homans. He's the man to captain us, that's certain. Graves thinks, though, that he can pull the wires and be elected captain. He's way off. Besides, Peg, he's making a big mistake. Worry doesn't like him, and when he finds out about this break in training we'll have a new third-baseman. No doubt Blake will play the bag. Graves is the only drag in Worry's baseball machine now, and he'll not last.... So, Peg, don't think any more about it. Mind you, the whole team circles round you. You're the pivot, and as sure as you're born you'll be Wayne's captain next year. That's something for you to keep in mind and work for. If Graves keeps after you--hand him one! That's not against rules. Punch him! If Worry knew the truth he would pat you on the back for slugging Graves. Cheer up, Peg! Even if Graves has got all the kids on his side, which I doubt, Homans and I are with you. And you can just bet that Worry Arthurs will side with us.... Now run along, for I must study." This conversation was most illuminating to Ken. He left Reddy's room all in a quiver of warm pleasure and friendliness at the great sprinter's quiet praise and advice. To make such a friend was worth losing a hundred friends like Graves. He dismissed the third-baseman and his scheming from mind, and believed Reddy as he had believed Arthurs. But Ken thought much of what he divined was a glimmering of the inside workings of a college baseball team. He had one wild start of rapture at the idea of becoming captain of Wayne's varsity next year, and then he dared think no more of that. The day dawned for Ken to go to Washington, and he was so perturbed at his responsibilities that he quite forgot to worry about the game Wayne had to play in his absence. Arthurs intended to pitch Schoonover in that game, and had no doubt as to its outcome. The coach went to the station with Ken, once more repeated his instructions, and saw him upon the train. Certainly there was no more important personage on board that Washington Limited than Ken Ward. In fact, Ken was so full of importance and responsibility that he quite divided his time between foolish pride in his being chosen to "size up" the great college teams and fearful conjecture as to his ability. At any rate, the time flew by, the trip seemed short, and soon he was on the Georgetown field. It was lucky that he arrived early and got a seat in the middle of the grand-stand, for there was a throng in attendance when the players came on the diamond. The noisy bleachers, the merry laughter, the flashing colors, and especially the bright gowns and pretty faces of the girls gave Ken pleasurable consciousness of what it would mean to play before such a crowd. At Wayne he had pitched to empty seats. Remembering Worry's prophecy, however, he was content to wait. From that moment his duty absorbed him. He found it exceedingly fascinating to study the batters, and utterly forgot his responsibility. Not only did he jot down on his card his idea of the weakness and strength of the different hitters, but he compared what he would have pitched to them with what was actually pitched. Of course, he had no test of his comparison, but he felt intuitively that he had the better of it. Watching so closely, Ken had forced home to him Arthurs' repeated assertion that control of the ball made a pitcher. Both pitchers in this game were wild. Locating the plate with them was more a matter of luck than ability. The Herne pitcher kept wasting balls and getting himself in the hole, and then the heavy Georgetown players would know when he had to throw a strike, if he could, and accordingly they hit hard. They beat Herne badly. The next day in the game with Place it was a different story. Ken realized he was watching a great team. They reminded him of Dale's varsity, though they did not play that fiendish right-field-hitting game. Ken had a numbness come over him at the idea of facing this Place team. It soon passed, for they had their vulnerable places. It was not so much that they hit hard on speed and curves, for they got them where they wanted them. Keene flied out on high fast balls over the inside corner; Starke bit on low drops; Martin was weak on a slow ball; MacNeff, the captain, could not touch speed under his chin, and he always struck at it. On the other hand, he killed a low ball. Prince was the only man who, in Ken's judgment, seemed to have no weakness. These men represented the batting strength of Place, and Ken, though he did not in the least underestimate them, had no fear. He would have liked to pitch against them right there. "It's all in control of the ball," thought Ken. "Here are seventeen bases on balls in two games--four pitchers. They're wild.... But suppose I got wild, too?" The idea made Ken shiver. He travelled all night, sleeping on the train, and got home to the training-house about nine the next morning. Worry was out, Scotty said, and the boys had all gone over to college. Ken went up-stairs and found Raymond in bed. "Why, Kel, what's the matter?" asked Ken. "I'm sick," replied Kel. He was pale and appeared to be in distress. "Oh, I'm sorry. Can't I do something? Get you some medicine? Call Murray?" "Ken, don't call anybody, unless you want to see me disgraced. Worry got out this morning before he noticed my absence from breakfast. I was scared to death." "Scared? Disgraced?" "Ken, I drank a little last night. It always makes me sick. You know I've a weak stomach." "Kel, you didn't drink, _say_ you didn't!" implored Ken, sitting miserably down on the bed. "Yes, I did. I believe I was half drunk. I can't stand anything. I'm sick, sick of myself, too, this morning. And I hate Graves." Ken jumped up with kindling eyes. "Kel, you've gone back on me--we'd started to be such friends--I tried to persuade you--" "I know. I'm sorry, Ken. But I really liked you best. I was--you know how it is, Ken. If only Worry don't find it out!" "Tell him," said Ken, quickly. "What?" groaned Kel, in fright. "Tell him. Let me tell him for you." "No--no--no. He'd fire me off the team, and I couldn't stand that." "I'll bet Worry wouldn't do anything of the kind. Maybe he knows more than you think." "I'm afraid to tell him, Ken. I just can't tell him." "But you gave your word of honor not to break training. The only thing left is to confess." "I won't tell, Ken. It's not so much my own place on the team--there are the other fellows." Ken saw that it was no use to argue with Raymond while he was so sick and discouraged, so he wisely left off talking and did his best to make him comfortable. Raymond dropped asleep after a little, and when he awakened just before lunch-time he appeared better. "I won't be able to practise to-day," he said; "but I'll go down to lunch." As he was dressing the boys began to come in from college and ran whistling up the stairs. Graves bustled into the room with rather anxious haste. "How're you feeling?" he asked. "Pretty rocky. Graves--I told Ward about it," said Raymond. Upon his hurried entrance Graves had not observed Ken. "What did you want to do that for?" he demanded, arrogantly. Raymond looked at him, but made no reply. "Ward, I suppose you'll squeal," said Graves, sneeringly. "That'll about be your speed." Ken rose and, not trusting himself to speak, remained silent. "You sissy!" cried Graves, hotly. "Will you peach on us to Arthurs?" "No. But if you don't get out of my room I'll hand you one," replied Ken, his voice growing thick. Graves's face became red as fire. "What? Why, you white-faced, white-haired freshman! I've been aching to punch you!" "Well, why don't you commence?" With the first retort Ken had felt a hot trembling go over him, and having yielded to his anger he did not care what happened. "Ken--Graves," pleaded Raymond, white as a sheet. "Don't--please!" He turned from one to the other. "Don't scrap!" "Graves, it's up to some one to call you, and I'm going to do it," said Ken, passionately. "You've been after me all season, but I wouldn't care for that. It's your rotten influence on Kel and the other boys that makes me wild. You are the drag in this baseball team. You are a crack ball-player, but you don't know what college spirit means. You're a mucker!" "I'll lick you for that!" raved Graves, shaking his fists. "You can't lick me!" "Come outdoors. I dare you to come outdoors. I dare you!" Ken strode out of the room and started down the hall. "Come on!" he called, grimly, and ran down the stairs. Graves hesitated a moment, then followed. Raymond suddenly called after them: "Give it to him, Ken! Slug him! Beat him all up!" XIII FRIENDSHIP A half-hour or less afterward Ken entered the training-house. It chanced that the boys, having come in, were at the moment passing through the hall to the dining-room, and with them was Worry Arthurs. "Hello! you back? What's the matter with you?" demanded the coach. Ken's lips were puffed and bleeding, and his chin was bloody. Sundry red and dark marks disfigured his usually clear complexion. His eyes were blazing, and his hair rumpled down over his brow. "You've been in a scrap," declared Worry. "I know it," said Ken. "Let me go up and wash." Worry had planted himself at the foot of the stairway in front of Ken. The boys stood silent and aghast. Suddenly there came thumps upon the stairs, and Raymond appeared, jumping down three steps at a time. He dodged under Worry's arm and plunged at Ken to hold him with both hands. "Ken! You're all bloody!" he exclaimed, in great excitement. "He didn't lick you? Say he didn't! He's got to fight me, too! You're all bunged up!" "Wait till you see him!" muttered Ken. "A-huh!" said Worry. "Been scrappin' with Graves! What for?" "It's a personal matter," replied Ken. "Come, no monkey-biz with me," said the coach, sharply. "Out with it!" There was a moment's silence. "Mr. Arthurs, it's my fault," burst out Raymond, flushed and eager. "Ken was fighting on my account." "It wasn't anything of the kind," retorted Ken, vehemently. "Yes it was," cried Raymond, "and I'm going to tell why." The hall door opened to admit Graves. He was dishevelled, dirty, battered, and covered with blood. When he saw the group in the hall he made as if to dodge out. "Here, come on! Take your medicine," called Worry, tersely. Graves shuffled in, cast down and sheepish, a very different fellow from his usual vaunting self. "Now, Raymond, what's this all about?" demanded Worry. Raymond changed color, but he did not hesitate an instant. "Ken came in this morning and found me sick in bed. I told him I had been half drunk last night--and that Graves had gotten me to drink. Then Graves came in. He and Ken had hard words. They went outdoors to fight." "Would you have told me?" roared the coach in fury. "Would you have come to me with this if I hadn't caught Peg?" Raymond faced him without flinching. "At first I thought not--when Ken begged me to confess I just couldn't. But now I know I would." At that Worry lost his sudden heat, and then he turned to the stricken Graves. "Mebbe it'll surprise you, Graves, to learn that I knew a little of what you've been doin'. I told Homans to go to you in a quiet way and tip off your mistake. I hoped you'd see it. But you didn't. Then you've been knockin' Ward all season, for no reason I could discover but jealousy. Now, listen! Peg Ward has done a lot for me already this year, and he'll do more. But even if he beats Place, it won't mean any more to me than the beatin' he's given you. Now, you pack your things and get out of here. There's no position for you on this varsity." Without a word in reply and amid intense silence Graves went slowly up-stairs. When he disappeared Worry sank into a chair, and looked as if he was about to collapse. Little Trace walked hesitatingly forward with the manner of one propelled against his will. "Mr. Arthurs, I--I," he stammered--"I'm guilty, too. I broke training. I want to--" The coach waved him back. "I don't want to hear it, not another word--from anybody. It's made me sick. I can't stand any more. Only I see I've got to change my rules. There won't be any rules any more. You can all do as you like. I'd rather have you all go stale than practise deceit on me. I cut out the trainin' rules." "_No!_" The team rose up as one man and flung the refusal at the coach. "Worry, we won't stand for that," spoke up Reddy Ray. His smooth, cool voice was like oil on troubled waters. "I think Homans and I can answer for the kids from now on. Graves was a disorganizer--that's the least I'll say of him. We'll elect Homans captain of the team, and then we'll cut loose like a lot of demons. It's been a long, hard drill for you, Worry, but we're in the stretch now and going to finish fast. We've been a kind of misfit team all spring. You've had a blind faith that something could be made out of us. Homans has waked up to our hidden strength. And I go further than that. I've played ball for years. I know the game. I held down left field for two seasons on the greatest college team ever developed out West. That's new to you. Well, it gives me license to talk a little. I want to tell you that I can _feel_ what's in this team. It's like the feeling I have when I'm running against a fast man in the sprints. From now on we'll be a family of brothers with one idea. And that'll be to play Place off their feet." Coach Arthurs sat up as if he had been given the elixir of life. Likewise the members of the team appeared to be under the spell of a powerful stimulus. The sprinter's words struck fire from all present. Homans' clear gray eyes were like live coals. "Boys! One rousing cheer for Worry Arthurs and for Wayne!" Lusty, strained throats let out the cheer with a deafening roar. It was strange and significant at that moment to see Graves, white-faced and sullen, come down the stairs and pass through the hall and out of the door. It was as if discord, selfishness, and wavering passed out with him. Arthurs and Homans and Ray could not have hoped for a more striking lesson to the young players. Dave, the colored waiter, appeared in the doorway of the dining-room. "Mr. Arthurs, I done call yo' all. Lunch is sho' gittin' cold." That afternoon Wayne played the strong Hornell University nine. Blake, new at third base for Wayne, was a revelation. He was all legs and arms. Weir accepted eight chances. Raymond, sick or not, was all over the infield, knocking down grounders, backing up every play. To McCord, balls in the air or at his feet were all the same. Trace caught a foul fly right off the bleachers. Homans fielded with as much speed as the old varsity's centre and with better judgment. Besides, he made four hits and four runs. Reddy Ray drove one ball into the bleachers, and on a line-drive to left field he circled the bases in time that Murray said was wonderful. Dean stood up valiantly to his battering, and for the first game had no passed balls. And Ken Ward whirled tirelessly in the box, and one after another he shot fast balls over the plate. He made the Hornell players hit; he had no need to extend himself to the use of the long swing and whip of his arm that produced the jump ball; and he shut them out without a run, and gave them only two safe hits. All through the game Worry Arthurs sat on the bench without giving an order or a sign. His worried look had vanished with the crude playing of his team. That night the Hornell captain, a veteran player of unquestionable ability, was entertained at Carlton Club by Wayne friends, and he expressed himself forcibly: "We came over to beat Wayne's weak team. It'll be some time till we discover what happened. Young Ward has the most magnificent control and speed. He's absolutely relentless. And that frog-legged second-baseman--oh, say, can't he cover ground! Homans is an all-round star. Then, your red-headed Ray, the sprinter--he's a marvel. Ward, Homans, Ray--they're demons, and they're making demons of the kids. I can't understand why Wayne students don't support their team. It's strange." What the Hornell captain said went from lip to lip throughout the club, and then it spread, like a flame in wind-blown grass, from club to dormitory, and thus over all the university. "Boys, the college is wakin' up," said Worry, rubbing his hands. "Yesterday's game jarred 'em. They can't believe their own ears. Why, Hornell almost beat Dale's team last spring. Now, kids, look out. We'll stand for no fussin' over us. We don't want any jollyin'. We've waited long for encouragement. It didn't come, and now we'll play out the string alone. There'll be a rush to Grant Field. It cuts no ice with us. Let 'em come to see the boys they hissed and guyed early in the spring. We'll show 'em a few things. We'll make 'em speechless. We'll make 'em so ashamed they won't know what to do. We'll repay all their slights by beatin' Place." Worry was as excited as on the day he discovered that Ken was a pitcher. "One more word, boys," he went on. "Keep together now. Run back here to your rooms as quick as you get leave from college. Be civil when you are approached by students, but don't mingle, not yet. Keep to yourselves. Your reward is comin'. It'll be great. Only wait!" And that was the last touch of fire which moulded Worry's players into a family of brothers. Close and warm and fine was the culmination of their friendship. On the field they were dominated by one impulse, almost savage in its intensity. When they were off the field the springs of youth burst forth to flood the hours with fun. In the mornings when the mail-man came there was always a wild scramble for letters. And it developed that Weir received more than his share. He got mail every day, and his good-fortune could not escape the lynx eyes of his comrades. Nor could the size and shape of the envelope and the neat, small handwriting fail to be noticed. Weir always stole off by himself to read his daily letter, trying to escape a merry chorus of tantalizing remarks. "Oh! Sugar!" "Dreamy Eyes!" "Gawge, the pink letter has come!" Weir's reception of these sallies earned him the name of Puff. One morning, for some unaccountable reason, Weir did not get down-stairs when the mail arrived. Duncan got the pink letter, scrutinized the writing closely, and put the letter in his coat. Presently Weir came bustling down. "Who's got the mail?" he asked, quickly. "No letters this morning," replied some one. "Is this Sunday?" asked Weir, rather stupidly. "Nope. I meant no letters for you." Weir looked blank, then stunned, then crestfallen. Duncan handed out the pink envelope. The boys roared, and Weir strode off in high dudgeon. That day Duncan purchased a box of pink envelopes, and being expert with a pen, he imitated the neat handwriting and addressed pink envelopes to every boy in the training-house. Next morning no one except Weir seemed in a hurry to answer the postman's ring. He came in with the letters and his jaw dropping. It so happened that his letter was the very last one, and when he got to it the truth flashed over him. Then the peculiar appropriateness of the nickname Puff was plainly manifest. One by one the boys slid off their chairs to the floor, and at last Weir had to join in the laugh on him. Each of the boys in turn became the victim of some prank. Raymond betrayed Ken's abhorrence of any kind of perfume, and straightway there was a stealthy colloquy. Cheap perfume of a most penetrating and paralyzing odor was liberally purchased. In Ken's absence from his room all the clothing that he did not have on his back was saturated. Then the conspirators waited for him to come up the stoop, and from their hiding-place in a window of the second floor they dropped an extra quart upon him. Ken vowed vengeance that would satisfy him thrice over, and he bided his time until he learned who had perpetrated the outrage. One day after practice his opportunity came. Raymond, Weir, and Trace, the guilty ones, went with Ken to the training quarters to take the steam bath that Murray insisted upon at least once every week. It so turned out that the four were the only players there that afternoon. While the others were undressing, Ken bribed Scotty to go out on an errand, and he let Murray into his scheme. Now, Murray not only had acquired a strong liking for Ken, but he was exceedingly fond of a joke. "All I want to know," whispered Ken, "is if I might stew them too much--really scald them, you know?" "No danger," whispered Murray. "That'll be the fun of it. You can't hurt them. But they'll think they're dying." He hustled Raymond, Weir, and Trace into the tanks and fastened the lids, and carefully tucked towels round their necks to keep in the steam. "Lots of stew to-day," he said, turning the handles. "Hello! Where's Scotty?... Peg, will you watch these boys a minute while I step out?" "You bet I will," called Ken to the already disappearing Murray. The three cooped-in boys looked askance at Ken. "Wull, I'm not much stuck--" Raymond began glibly enough, and then, becoming conscious that he might betray an opportunity to Ken, he swallowed his tongue. "What'd you say?" asked Ken, pretending curiosity. Suddenly he began to jump up and down. "Oh, my! Hullabelee! Schoodoorady! What a chance! You gave it away!" "Look what he's doing!" yelled Trace. "Hyar!" added Weir. "Keep away from those pipes!" chimed in Raymond. "Boys, I've been laying for you, but I never thought I'd get a chance like this. If Murray only stays out three minutes--just three minutes!" "Three minutes! You idiot, you won't keep us in here that long?" asked Weir, in alarm. "Oh no, not at all.... Puff, I think you can stand a little more steam." Ken turned the handle on full. "Kel, a first-rate stewing will be good for your daily grouch." To the accompaniment of Raymond's threats he turned the second handle. "Trace, you little poll-parrot, you will throw perfume on me? Now roast!" The heads of the imprisoned boys began to jerk and bob around, and their faces to take on a flush. Ken leisurely surveyed them and then did an Indian war-dance in the middle of the room. "Here, let me out! Ken, you know how delicate I am," implored Raymond. "I couldn't entertain the idea for a second," replied Ken. "I'll lick you!" yelled Raymond. "My lad, you've got a brain-storm," returned Ken, in grieved tones. "Not in the wildest flights of your nightmares have you ever said anything so impossible as that." "Ken, dear Ken, dear old Peggie," cried Trace, "you know I've got a skinned place on my hip where I slid yesterday. Steam isn't good for that, Worry says. He'll be sore. You must let me out." "I intend to see, Willie, that you'll be sore too, and skinned all over," replied Ken. "Open this lid! At once!" roared Weir, in sudden anger. His big eyes rolled. "Bah!" taunted Ken. Then all three began to roar at Ken at once. "Brute! Devil! Help! Help! Help! We'll fix you for this!... It's hotter! it's fire! Aghh! Ouch! Oh! Ah-h-h!... O-o-o-o!... Murder! MURDER-R!" At this juncture Murray ran in. "What on earth! Peg, what did you do?" "I only turned on the steam full tilt," replied Ken, innocently. "Why, you shouldn't have done that," said Murray, in pained astonishment. "Stop talking about it! Let me out!" shrieked Raymond. Ken discreetly put on his coat and ran from the room. XIV THE HERNE GAME On the morning of the first of June, the day scheduled for the opening game with Herne, Worry Arthurs had Ken Ward closeted with Homans and Reddy Ray. Worry was trying his best to be soberly calculating in regard to the outcome of the game. He was always trying to impress Ken with the uncertainty of baseball. But a much younger and less observing boy than Ken could have seen through the coach. Worry was dead sure of the result, certain that the day would see a great gathering of Wayne students, and he could not hide his happiness. And the more he betrayed himself the more he growled at Ken. "Well, we ain't goin' to have that balloon-ascension to-day, are we?" he demanded. "Here we've got down to the big games, and you haven't been up in the air yet. I tell you it ain't right." "But, Worry, I couldn't go off my head and get rattled just to please you, could I?" implored Ken. To Ken this strain of the coach's had grown to be as serious as it was funny. "Aw! talk sense," said Worry. "Why, you haven't pitched to a college crowd yet. Wait! Wait till you see that crowd over to Place next week! Thousands of students crazier 'n Indians, and a flock of girls that'll make you bite your tongue off. Ten thousand yellin' all at once." "Let them yell," replied Ken; "I'm aching to pitch before a crowd. It has been pretty lonesome at Grant Field all season." "Let 'em yell, eh?" retorted Worry. "All right, my boy, it's comin' to you. And if you lose your nut and get slammed all over the lot, don't come to me for sympathy." "I wouldn't. I can take a licking. Why, Worry, you talk as if--as if I'd done something terrible. What's the matter with me? I've done every single thing you wanted--just as well as I could do it. What are you afraid of?" "You're gettin' swelled on yourself," said the coach, deliberately. The blood rushed to Ken's face until it was scarlet. He was so astounded and hurt that he could not speak. Worry looked at him once, then turning hastily away, he walked to the window. "Peg, it ain't much wonder," he went on, smoothly, "and I'm not holdin' it against you. But I want you to forget yourself--" "I've never had a thought of myself," retorted Ken, hotly. "I want you to go in to-day like--like an automatic machine," went on Worry, as if Ken had not spoken. "There'll be a crowd out, the first of the season. Mebbe they'll throw a fit. Anyway, it's our first big game. As far as the university goes, this is our trial. The students are up in the air; they don't know what to think. Mebbe there won't be a cheer at first.... But, Peg, if we beat Herne to-day they'll tear down the bleachers." "Well, all I've got to say is that you can order new lumber for the bleachers--because we're going to win," replied Ken, with a smouldering fire in his eyes. "There you go again! If you're not stuck on yourself, it's too much confidence. You won't be so chipper about three this afternoon, mebbe. Listen! The Herne players got into town last night, and some of them talked a little. It's just as well you didn't see the morning papers. It came to me straight that Gallagher, the captain, and Stern, the first-baseman, said you were pretty good for a kid freshman, but a little too swelled to stand the gaff in a big game. They expect you to explode before the third innin'. I wasn't goin' to tell you, Peg, but you're so--" "They said that, did they?" cried Ken. He jumped up with paling cheek and blazing eye, and the big hand he shoved under Worry's nose trembled like a shaking leaf. "What I won't do to them will be funny! Swelled! Explode! Stand the gaff! Look here, Worry, maybe it's true, but I don't believe it.... _I'll beat this Herne team!_ Do you get that?" "Now you're talkin'," replied Worry, with an entire change of manner. "You saw the Herne bunch play. They can field, but how about hittin'?" "Gallagher, Stern, Hill, and Burr are the veterans of last year's varsity," went on Ken, rapidly, as one who knew his subject. "They can hit--if they get what they like." "Now you're talkin'. How about Gallagher?" "He hits speed. He couldn't hit a slow ball with a paddle." "Now you're talkin'. There's Stern, how'd you size him?" "He's weak on a low curve, in or out, or a drop." "Peg, you're talkin' some now. How about Hill?" "Hill is a bunter. A high ball in close, speedy, would tie him in a knot." "Come on, hurry! There's Burr." "Burr's the best of the lot, a good waiter and hard hitter, but he invariably hits a high curve up in the air." "All right. So far so good. How about the rest of the team?" "I'll hand them up a straight, easy ball and let them hit. I tell you I've got Herne beaten, and if Gallagher or any one else begins to guy me I'll laugh in his face." "Oh, you will?... Say, you go down to your room now, and stay there till time for lunch. Study or read. Don't think another minute about this game." Ken strode soberly out of the room. It was well for Ken that he did not see what happened immediately after his exit. Worry and Homans fell into each other's arms. "Say, fellows, how I hated to do it!" Worry choked with laughter and contrition. "It was the hardest task I ever had. But, Cap, you know we had to make Peg sore. He's too blamed good-natured. Oh, but didn't he take fire! He'll make some of those Herne guys play low-bridge to-day. Wouldn't it be great if he gave Gallagher the laugh?" "Worry, don't you worry about that," said Homans. "And it would please me, too, for Gallagher is about as wordy and pompous as any captain I've seen." "I think you were a little hard on Ken," put in Reddy. His quiet voice drew Worry and Homans from their elation. "Of course, it was necessary to rouse Ken's fighting blood, but you didn't choose the right way. You hurt his feelings. You know, Worry, that the boy is not in the least swelled." "'Course I know it, Reddy. Why, Peg's too modest. But I want him to be dead in earnest to-day. Mind you, I'm thinkin' of Place. He'll beat Herne to a standstill. I worked on his feelin's just to get him all stirred up. You know there's always the chance of rattles in any young player, especially a pitcher. If he's mad he won't be so likely to get 'em. So I hurt his feelin's. I'll make it up to him, don't you fear for that, Reddy." "I wish you had waited till we go over to Place next week," replied Ray. "You can't treat him that way twice. Over there's where I would look for his weakening. But it may be he won't ever weaken. If he ever does it'll be because of the crowd and not the players." "I think so, too. A yellin' mob will be new to Peg. But, fellows, I'm only askin' one game from Herne and one, or a good close game, from Place. That'll give Wayne the best record ever made. Look at our standin' now. Why, the newspapers are havin' a fit. Since I picked the varsity we haven't lost a game. Think of that! Those early games don't count. We've had an unbroken string of victories, Peg pitchin' twelve, and Schoonover four. And if wet grounds and other things hadn't cancelled other games we'd have won more." "Yes, we're in the stretch now, Worry, and running strong. We'll win three out of these four big games," rejoined Reddy. "Oh, say, that'd be too much! I couldn't stand it! Oh, say, Cap, don't you think Reddy, for once, is talkin' about as swift as he sprints?" "I'm afraid to tell you, Worry," replied Homans, earnestly. "When I look back at our work I can't realize it. But it's time to wake up. The students over at college are waking up. They will be out to-day. You are the one to judge whether we're a great team or not. We keep on making runs. It's runs that count. I think, honestly, Worry, that after to-day we'll be in the lead for championship honors. And I hold my breath when I tell you." It was remarkably quiet about the training-house all that morning. The coach sent a light lunch to the boys in their rooms. They had orders to be dressed, and to report in the reading-room at one-thirty. Raymond came down promptly on time. "Where's Peg?" asked Worry. "Why, I thought he was here, ahead of me," replied Raymond, in surprise. A quick survey of the uniformed players proved the absence of Ken Ward and Reddy Ray. Worry appeared startled out of speech, and looked helplessly at Homans. Then Ray came down-stairs, bat in one hand, shoes and glove in the other. He seated himself upon the last step and leisurely proceeded to put on his shoes. "Reddy, did you see Peg?" asked Worry, anxiously. "Sure, I saw him," replied the sprinter. "Well?" growled the coach. "Where is he? Sulkin' because I called him?" "Not so you'd notice it," answered Reddy, in his slow, careless manner. "I just woke him up." "What!" yelled Arthurs. "Peg came to my room after lunch and went to sleep. I woke him just now. He'll be down in a minute." Worry evidently could not reply at the moment, but he began to beam. "What would Gallagher say to that?" asked Captain Homans, with a smile. "Wayne's varsity pitcher asleep before a Herne game! Oh no, I guess that's not pretty good! Worry, could you ask any more?" "Cap, I'll never open my face to him again," blurted out the coach. Ken appeared at the head of the stairs and had started down, when the door-bell rang. Worry opened the door to admit Murray, the trainer; Dale, the old varsity captain, and the magnificently built Stevens, guard and captain of the football team. "Hello! Worry," called out Murray, cheerily. "How're the kids? Boys, you look good to me. Trim and fit, and all cool and quiet-like. Reddy, be careful of your ankles and legs to-day. After the meet next week you can cut loose and run bases like a blue streak." Dale stepped forward, earnest and somewhat concerned, but with a winning frankness. "Worry, will you let Stevens and me sit on the bench with the boys to-day?" Worry's face took on the color of a thunder-cloud. "I'm not the captain," he replied. "Ask Homans." "How about it, Roy?" queried Dale. Homans was visibly affected by surprise, pleasure, and something more. While he hesitated, perhaps not trusting himself to reply quickly, Stevens took a giant stride to the fore. "Homans, we've got a hunch that Wayne's going to win," he said, in a deep-bass voice. "A few of us have been tipped off, and we got it straight. But the students don't know it yet. So Dale and I thought we'd like them to see how we feel about it--before this game. You've had a rotten deal from the students this year. But they'll more than make it up when you beat Herne. The whole college is waiting and restless." Homans, recovering himself, faced the two captains courteously and gratefully, and with a certain cool dignity. "Thank you, fellows! It's fine of you to offer to sit with us on the bench. I thank you on behalf of the varsity. But--not to-day. All season we've worked and fought without support, and now we're going to beat Herne without support. When we've done that you and Dale--all the college--can't come too quick to suit us." "I think I'd say the same thing, if I were in your place," said Dale. "And I'll tell you right here that when I was captain I never plugged any harder to win than I'll plug to-day." Then these two famous captains of championship teams turned to Homans' players and eyed them keenly, their faces working, hands clenched, their powerful frames vibrating with the feeling of the moment. That moment was silent, eloquent. It linked Homans' team to the great athletic fame of the university. It radiated the spirit to conquer, the glory of past victories, the strength of honorable defeats. Then Dale and Stevens went out, leaving behind them a charged atmosphere. "I ain't got a word to say," announced Worry to the players. "And I've very little," added Captain Homans. "We're all on edge, and being drawn down so fine we may be over-eager. Force that back. It doesn't matter if we make misplays. We've made many this season, but we've won all the same. At the bat, remember to keep a sharp eye on the base-runner, and when he signs he is going down, bunt or hit to advance him. That's all." Ken Ward walked to the field between Worry Arthurs and Reddy Ray. Worry had no word to say, but he kept a tight grip on Ken's arm. "Peg, I've won many a sprint by not underestimating my opponent," said Reddy, quietly. "Now you go at Herne for all you're worth from the start." When they entered the field there were more spectators in the stands than had attended all the other games together. In a far corner the Herne players in dark-blue uniforms were practising batting. Upon the moment the gong called them in for their turn at field practice. The Wayne team batted and bunted a few balls, and then Homans led them to the bench. Upon near view the grand-stand and bleachers seemed a strange sight to Ken Ward. He took one long look at the black-and-white mass of students behind the back-stop, at the straggling lines leading to the gates, at the rapidly filling rows to right and left, and then he looked no more. Already an immense crowd was present. Still it was not a typical college baseball audience. Ken realized that at once. It was quiet, orderly, expectant, and watchful. Very few girls were there. The students as a body had warmed to curiosity and interest, but not to the extent of bringing the girls. After that one glance Ken resolutely kept his eyes upon the ground. He was conscious of a feeling that he wanted to spring up and leap at something. And he brought all his will to force back his over-eagerness. He heard the crack of the ball, the shouts of the Herne players, the hum of voices in the grand-stand, and the occasional cheers of Herne rooters. There were no Wayne cheers. "Warm up a little," said Worry, in his ear. Ken peeled off his sweater and walked out with Dean. A long murmur ran throughout the stands. Ken heard many things said of him, curiously, wonderingly, doubtfully, and he tried not to hear more. Then he commenced to pitch to Dean. Worry stood near him and kept whispering to hold in his speed and just to use his arm easily. It was difficult, for Ken felt that his arm wanted to be cracked like a buggy-whip. "That'll do," whispered Worry. "We're only takin' five minutes' practice.... Say, but there's a crowd! Are you all right, Peg--cool-like and determined?... Good! Say--but Peg, you'd better look these fellows over." "I remember them all," replied Ken. "That's Gallagher on the end of the bench; Burr is third from him; Stern's fussing over the bats, and there's Hill, the light-headed fellow, looking this way. There's--" "That'll do," said Worry. "There goes the gong. It's all off now. Homans has chosen to take the field. I guess mebbe you won't show 'em how to pitch a new white ball! Get at 'em now!" Then he called Ken back as if impelled, and whispered to him in a husky voice: "It's been tough for you and for me. Listen! Here's where it begins to be sweet." Ken trotted out to the box, to the encouraging voices of the infield, and he even caught Reddy Ray's low, thrilling call from the far outfield. "Play!" With the ringing order, which quieted the audience, the umpire tossed a white ball to Ken. For a single instant Ken trembled ever so slightly in all his limbs, and the stands seemed a revolving black-and-white band. Then the emotion was as if it had never been. He stepped upon the slab, keen-sighted, cool, and with his pitching game outlined in his mind. Burr, the curly-haired leader of Herne's batting list, took his position to the left of the plate. Ken threw him an underhand curve, sweeping high and over the inside corner. Burr hit a lofty fly to Homans. Hill, the bunter, was next. For him Ken shot one straight over the plate. Hill let it go by, and it was a strike. Ken put another in the same place, and Hill, attempting to bunt, fouled a little fly, which Dean caught. Gallagher strode third to bat. He used a heavy club, stood right-handed over the plate, and looked aggressive. Ken gave the captain a long study and then swung slowly, sending up a ball that floated like a feather. Gallagher missed it. On the second pitch he swung heavily at a slow curve far off the outside. For a third Ken tried the speedy drop, and the captain, letting it go, was out on strikes. The sides changed. Worry threw a sweater around Ken. "The ice's broke, Peg, and you've got your control. That settles it." Homans went up, to a wavering ripple of applause. He drew two balls and then a strike from Murphy, and hit the next hard into short field. Frick fumbled the ball, recovered it, and threw beautifully, but too late to catch Homans. Raymond sacrificed, sending his captain to second. Murphy could not locate the plate for Reddy Ray and let him get to first on four balls. Weir came next. Homans signed he was going to run on the first pitch. Weir, hitting with the runner, sent a double into right field, and Homans and Ray scored. The bleachers cheered. Homans ran down to third base to the coaching lines, and Ray went to first base. Both began to coach the runner. Dean hit into short field, and was thrown out, while Weir reached third on the play. "Two out, now! Hit!" yelled Homans to Blake. Blake hit safely over second, scoring Weir. Then Trace flied out to left field. "Three runs!" called Homans. "Boys, that's a start! Three more runs and this game's ours! Now, Peg, now!" Ken did not need that trenchant thrilling _now_. The look in Worry's eyes had been enough. He threw speed to Halloway, and on the third ball retired him, Raymond to McCord. Stern came second to bat. In Ken's mind this player was recorded with a weakness on low curves. And Ken found it with two balls pitched. Stern popped up to Blake. Frick, a new player to Ken, let a strike go by, and missed a drop and a fast ball. "They can't touch you, Ken," called Raymond, as he tossed aside his glove. Faint cheers rose from scattered parts of the grand-stand, and here and there shouts and yells. The audience appeared to stir, to become animated, and the Herne players settled down to more sober action on the field. McCord made a bid for a hit, but failed because of fast work by Stern. Ken went up, eager to get to first in any way. He let Murphy pitch, and at last, after fouling several good ones, he earned his base on balls. Once there, he gave Homans the sign that he would run on the first pitch, and he got a fair start. He heard the crack of the ball and saw it glinting between short and third. Running hard, he beat the throw-in to third. With two runners on bases, Raymond hit to deep short. Ken went out trying to reach home. Again Reddy Ray came up and got a base on balls, filling the bases. The crowd began to show excitement, and seemed to be stifling cheers in suspense. Weir hurried to bat, his shock of hair waving at every step. He swung hard on the first ball, and, missing it, whirled down, bothering the catcher. Homans raced home on a half-passed ball. Then Weir went out on a fly to centre. "Peg, keep at them!" called Reddy Ray. "We've got Murphy's measure." It cost Ken an effort to deliberate in the box, to think before he pitched. He had to fight his eagerness. But he wasted few balls, and struck Mercer out. Van Sant hit to Weir, who threw wild to first, allowing the runner to reach third. Murphy, batting next, hit one which Ken put straight over the plate, and it went safe through second, scoring Van Sant. The Herne rooters broke out in loud acclaim. Burr came up, choking his bat up short. Again Ken gave him the high, wide curve. He let it pass and the umpire called it a strike. Ken threw another, a little outside this time. Evidently Burr was trying out Ken's control. "He can't put them over!" yelled Gallagher, from the coaching line. "Here's where he goes up! Wait him out, Burr. Good eye, old man! Here's where we explode the freshman!" Ken glanced at Gallagher and laughed. Then he sped up another high curve, which the umpire called a strike. "That's the place, Peg! Put another there!" floated from Reddy in the outfield. Burr swung viciously, hitting a bounder toward second base. Raymond darted over, went down with his bird-like quickness, came up with the ball, and then he touched the bag and threw to first. It was a play in which he excelled. The umpire called both runners out, retiring the side. A short, sharp yell, like a bark, burst from the bleachers. Worry was smilingly thoughtful as his boys trotted in to bat. "Say, if you get a couple of runs this time we'll be _It_. Look at the students. Ready to fall out of the stands.... Peg, I'm glad Herne got a run. Now we won't think of a shut-out. That'll steady us up. And, boys, break loose now, for the game's ours." Dean started off with a clean single. On the first pitch he broke for second, and had to slide to make it, as Blake missed the strike. Then Blake went out to first. Trace walked. McCord poked a little fly over the infield, scoring Dean. Ken fouled out. The unerring Homans again hit safely, sending Trace in. With two out and McCord on third and Homans on second, Raymond laid down a beautiful bunt, tallying McCord. And when the Herne catcher tried to head Homans from making third Raymond kept on toward second. It was a daring dash, and he dove to the bag with a long slide, but the decision was against him. The coach called Homans, Ward, and Ray to him and gathered them close together. "Boys, listen!" he said, low and tense. "MacNeff and Prince, of Place, are in the grand-stand just behind the plate. They're up there to get a line on Peg. We'll fool 'em, and make 'em sick in the bargain. Peg, you let out this innin' and show up the first three hitters. Then I'll take you out and let Schoonover finish the game. See?" "Take me--out?" echoed Ken. "That's it, if you make these next three hitters look like monkeys. Don't you see? We've got the Herne game cinched. We don't need to use our star twirler. See? That'll be a bone for Place to chew on. How about it, Cap? What do you think, Reddy?" "Oh, Worry, if we dared to do it!" Homans exclaimed, under his breath. "Herne would never get over it. And it would scare Place to death.... But, Worry, Reddy, dare we risk it?" "It's playin' into our very hands," replied Worry. His hazel eyes were afire with inspiration. Reddy Ray's lean jaw bulged. "Homans, it's the trick, and we can turn it." "What's the score--7 to 1?" muttered Homans. It was a tight place for him, and he seemed tortured between ambition and doubt. "That fellow Murphy hasn't got one in my groove yet," said Reddy. "I'm due to lace one. We're good for more runs." That decided Homans. He patted Ken on the shoulder and led him out to the box, but he never spoke a word. Ken felt like a wild colt just let loose. He faced Hill with a smile, and then, taking his long, overhand swing, he delivered the jump ball. Hill made no move. The umpire called strike. The crowd roared. Ken duplicated the feat. Then Hill missed the third strike. Gallagher walked up doggedly, and Ken smiled at him, too. Then using three wicked, darting drops, Ken struck Gallagher out. "That's twice!" called Reddy's penetrating voice from the outfield. "Give him a paddle!" Halloway drew two balls and then three strikes. Ken ran for the bench amid an uproar most strange and startling to his untried ear. The long, tardy, and stubborn students had broken their silence. Dale leaped out of the grand-stand to lead the cheering. The giant Stevens came piling out of the bleachers to perform a like office. And then they were followed by Bryan, captain of the crew, and Hilbrandt, captain of the track team. Four captains of Wayne teams inspiriting and directing the cheering! Ken's bewildered ears drank in one long, thundering "_Ward! Ward! Ward!_" and then his hearing seemed drowned. The whole mass of students and spectators rose as one, and the deafening stamp of feet only equalled the roar of voices. But now the volume of sound was regular and rhythmic. It was like the approach of a terrible army. For minutes, while the umpire held play suspended, the Wayne supporters in hoarse and stamping tumult came into their own again. It was a wild burst of applause, and as it had been long delayed, so now it was prolonged fiercely to the limit of endurance. When those waves of sound had rolled away Ken Ward felt a difference in Grant Field, in the varsity, in himself. A different color shone from the sky. Ken saw Reddy Ray go to bat and drive the ball against the right-field fence. Then as the sprinter got into his wonderful stride once more the whole audience rose in yelling, crashing clamor. And when on Weir's fly to the outfield Reddy raced in to the plate, making the throw-in look feeble, again the din was terrific. As one in a glorious dream, Ken Ward crouched upon the bench and watched the remainder of that game. He grasped it all as if baseball was all that made life worth living, and as if every moment was his last. He never thought of himself. He was only a part of the team, and that team, every moment, grew sharper, faster, fiercer. He revelled in the game. Schoonover was hit hard, but fast play by Raymond and Weir kept Herne's score down. The little second-baseman was here, there, everywhere, like a glint of light. Herne made runs, but Wayne also kept adding runs. Blake caught a foul fly off the bleachers; Trace made a beautiful catch; McCord was like a tower at first base, and little Dean went through the last stages of development that made him a star. Once in the eighth inning Ken became aware that Worry was punching him in the back and muttering: "Look out, Peg! Listen! Murphy'll get one in Reddy's groove this time.... Oh-h!" The crack of the ball, as well as Worry's yell, told Ken what had happened. Besides, he could see, and as the ball lined away for the fence, and the sprinter leaped into action, Ken jumped up and screamed: "Oh, Reddy, it's over--over! No! Run! Run! Oh-h-h!" In the shrill, piercing strife of sound Ken's scream seemed only a breath at his ears. He held to it, almost splitting his throat, while the sprinter twinkled round third base and came home like a thunderbolt. Another inning passed, a confusion of hits, throws, runs, and plays to Ken, and then Worry was pounding him again. "Dig for the trainin'-house!" yelled Worry, mouth on his ear. "The students are crazy! They'll eat us alive! They're tearin' the bleachers down! Run for it, Peg!" XV A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE Ken found himself running across Grant Field, pursued by a happy, roaring mob of students. They might have been Indians, judging from the way Ken and his fellow-players fled before them. The trained athletes distanced their well-meaning but violent pursuers and gained the gate, but it was a close shave. The boys bounded up the street into the training-house and locked the door till the puffing Arthurs arrived. They let him in and locked the door again. In another moment the street resounded with the rush of many feet and the yells of frantic students. Murray, the trainer, forced a way through the crowd and up the stoop. He closed and barred the outside door, and then pounded upon the inside door for admittance. Worry let him in. "They'd make a bowl-fight or a football rush look tame," panted Murray. "Hey! Scotty--lock up tight down in the basement. For Heaven's sake don't let that push get in on us! Lock the windows in the front." "Who's that poundin' on the door?" yelled Worry. He had to yell, for the swelling racket outside made ordinary conversation impossible. "Don't open it!" shouted Murray. "What do we care for team-captains, college professors, athletic directors, or students? They're all out there, and they're crazy, I tell you. I never saw the like. It'd be more than I want to get in that jam. And it'd never do for the varsity. Somebody would get crippled sure. I'm training this baseball team." Murray, in his zealous care of his athletes, was somewhat overshooting the mark, for not one of the boys had the slightest desire to be trusted to the mob outside. In fact, Ken looked dazed, and Raymond scared to the point of trembling; Trace was pale; and all the others, except Homans and Reddy Ray, showed perturbation. Nor were the captain and sprinter deaf to the purport of that hour; only in their faces shone a kindling glow and flush. By-and-by the boys slipped to their rooms, removed their uniforms, dressed and crept down-stairs like burglars and went in to dinner. Outside the uproar, instead of abating, gathered strength as time went by. At the dinner-table the boys had to yell in each other's ears. They had to force what they ate. No one was hungry. When Worry rose from the table they all flocked after him. It was growing dark outside, and a red glow, brightening upon the windows, showed the students had lighted bonfires. "They're goin' to make a night of it," yelled Worry. "How'll my boys be able to sleep?" shouted Murray. Both coach and trainer were as excited as any of the boys. "The street's packed solid. Listen!" The tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of feet keeping time was like the heavy tread of a marching multitude. Then the tramp died away in a piercing cheer, "_Wayne!_" nine times, clear and sustained--a long, beautiful college cheer. In the breathing spell that followed, the steady tramp of feet went on. One by one, at intervals, the university yells were given, the broken rattling rally, the floating melodious crew cheer, and the hoarse, smashing boom of football. Then again the inspiriting "_Wayne!_" nine times. After that came shrill calls for the varsity, for Homans, Reddy Ray, Raymond, and Peggie Ward. "Come up-stairs to the windows, boys!" shouted Worry. "We've got to show ourselves." Worry threw up the windows in Weir's room, and the boys gingerly poked their heads out. A roar greeted their appearance. The heads all popped in as if they had been struck. "Homans, you'll have to make a speech," cried the coach. "I will not!" "You've got to say somethin'. We can't have this crazy gang out here all night." Then Worry and Murray coaxed and led Homans to the window. The captain leaned out and said something that was unintelligible in the hubbub without. The crowd cheered him and called for Reddy, Ward, and Raymond. Worry grasped the second-baseman and shoved him half over the sill. Raymond would have fallen out but for the coach's strong hold. "Come on, Peg!" yelled Worry. "Not on your life!" cried Ken, in affright. He ran away from the coach, and dived under the bed. But Reddy Ray dragged him out and to the window, and held him up in the bright bonfire glare. Then he lifted a hand to silence the roaring crowd. "Fellows, here he is--Worry's demon, Wayne's pitcher!" called Reddy, in ringing, far-reaching voice. "Listen! Peggie didn't lose his nerve when he faced Herne to-day, but he's lost it now. He's lost his voice, too. But he says for you to go away and save your cheers for this day two weeks, when we meet Place. Then, he says, you'll have something to cheer for!" The crafty sprinter knew how to appeal to the students. All of voice and strength and enthusiasm left in them went up in a mighty bawl that rattled the windows and shook the house. They finished with nine "_Waynes!_" and a long, rousing "_Peggie Ward!_" and then they went away. "By George! look here, Peg," said Reddy, earnestly, "they gave you Wayne's Nine! _Wayne's Nine!_ Do you hear? I never knew a freshman varsity man to get that cheer." "You've got to beat Place now, after tellin' 'em you'd do it," added Worry. "But, Worry, I didn't say a word--it was Reddy," replied Ken, in distress. "Same thing," rejoined the coach. "Now, boys, let's quiet down and talk over the game. I won't waste any time jollyin' you. I couldn't praise you enough if I spent the rest of the season tryin' to. One and all, by yourselves and in a bunch, you played Herne off their feet. I'll bet MacNeff and Prince are dizzy figurin' what'll happen Saturday week. As to the score, why, scores don't mean much to us--" "What was the score, anyway?" asked Ken. The boys greeted this with shouts of doubtful laughter, and Worry glanced with disapproval at his star. "Peg, you keep me guessin' a lot. But not to know how much we beat Herne would be more 'n I could stand. On the level, now, don't you know the score?" "Fair and square, I don't, Worry. You never would let me think of how many runs we had or needed. I can count seven--yes, and one more, that was Reddy's home-run." "Peg, you must have been up in the air a little; 14 to 4, that's it. And we didn't take our bat in the last of the ninth." Then followed Worry's critical account of the game, and a discussion in which the boys went over certain plays. During the evening many visitors called, but did not gain admission. The next morning, however, Worry himself brought in the newspapers, which heretofore he had forbidden the players to read, and he told them they were now free to have any callers or to go where they liked. There was a merry scramble for the papers, and presently the reading-room was as quiet as a church. The account that held Ken Ward in rapt perusal was the _Morning Times-Star's_. At first the print blurred in Ken's sight. Then he read it over again. He liked the glowing praise given the team, and was shamefully conscious of the delight in his name in large letters. A third time he read it, guiltily this time, for he did not dream that his comrades were engrossed in like indulgence. WAYNE OUTCLASSES HERNE ARTHURS DEVELOPS ANOTHER GREAT TEAM. PEGGIE WARD AND REDDY RAY STARS. Wayne defeated Herne yesterday 14 to 4, and thereby leaped into the limelight. It was a surprise to every one, Herne most of all. Owing to the stringent eligibility rules now in force at Wayne, and the barring of the old varsity, nothing was expected of this season's team. Arthurs, the famous coach, has built a wonderful nine out of green material, and again establishes the advisability of professional coaches for the big universities. With one or two exceptions Wayne's varsity is made up of players developed this year. Homans, the captain, was well known about town as an amateur player of ability. But Arthurs has made him into a great field captain and a base-getter of remarkable skill. An unofficial computing gives him the batting average of .536. No captain or any other player of any big college team in the East ever approached such percentage as that. It is so high that it must be a mistake. Reddy Ray, the intercollegiate champion in the sprints, is the other seasoned player of the varsity, and it is safe to say that he is the star of all the college teams. A wonderful fielder, a sure and heavy hitter, and like a flash on the bases, he alone makes Homans' team formidable. Then there is Peg Ward, Worry Arthurs' demon pitcher, of freshman bowl-fight fame. This lad has been arriving since spring, and now he has arrived. He is powerful, and has a great arm. He seems to pitch without effort, has twice the speed of Dale, and is as cool in the box as a veteran. But it is his marvellous control of the ball that puts him in a class by himself. In the fourth inning of yesterday's game he extended himself, probably on orders from Coach Arthurs, and struck out Herne's three best hitters on eleven pitched balls. Then he was taken out and Schoonover put in. This white-headed lad is no slouch of a pitcher, by-the-way. But it must have been a bitter pill for Herne to swallow. The proud Herne varsity have been used to knocking pitchers out of the box, instead of seeing them removed because they were too good. Also, MacNeff and Prince, of Place, who saw the game, must have had food for reflection. They did not get much of a line on young Ward, and what they saw will not give them pleasant dreams. We pick Ward to beat the heavy-hitting Place team. Other youngsters of Arthurs' nine show up well, particularly Raymond and Weir, who have springs in their feet and arms like whips. Altogether Arthurs' varsity is a strangely assorted, a wonderfully chosen group of players. We might liken them to the mechanism of a fine watch, with Ward as the mainspring, and the others with big or little parts to perform, but each dependent upon the other. Wayne's greatest baseball team! Ken read it all thirstily, wonderingly, and recorded it deep in the deepest well of his memory. It seemed a hundred times as sweet for all the misery and longing and fear and toil which it had cost to gain. And each succeeding day grew fuller and richer with its meed of reward. All the boys of the varsity were sought by the students, Ken most of all. Everywhere he went he was greeted with a regard that made him still more bashful and ashamed. If he stepped into Carlton Club, it was to be surrounded by a frankly admiring circle of students. He could not get a moment alone in the library. Professors had a smile for him and often stopped to chat. The proudest moment of his college year was when President Halstead met him in the promenade, and before hundreds of students turned to walk a little way with him. There seemed not to be a single student of the university or any one connected with it, who did not recognize him. Bryan took him to watch the crew practise; Stevens played billiards with him at the club; Dale openly sought his society. Then the fraternities began to vie with one another for Ken. In all his life he had not imagined a fellow could be treated so well. It was an open secret that Ken Ward was extremely desired in the best fraternities. He could not have counted his friends. Through it all, by thinking of Worry and the big games coming, he managed to stay on his feet. One morning, when he was at the height of this enjoyable popularity, he read a baseball note that set him to thinking hard. The newspaper, commenting on the splendid results following Wayne's new athletic rules, interpreted one rule in a way astounding to Ken. It was something to the effect that all players who had been _on_ a team which paid any player or any expenses of any player were therefore ineligible. Interpretation of the rules had never been of any serious moment to Ken. He had never played on any but boy teams. But suddenly he remembered that during a visit to the mountains with his mother he had gone to a place called Eagle's Nest, a summer hotel colony. It boasted of a good ball team and had a rival in the Glenwoods, a team from an adjoining resort. Ken had been in the habit of chasing flies for the players in practice. One day Eagle's Nest journeyed over to Glenwood to play, and being short one player they took Ken to fill in. He had scarcely started in the game when the regular player appeared, thus relieving him. The incident had completely slipped Ken's mind until recalled by the newspaper note. Whereupon Ken began to ponder. He scouted the idea of that innocent little thing endangering his eligibility at Wayne. But the rule, thus made clear, stood out in startlingly black-and-white relief. Eagle's Nest supported a team by subscription among the hotel guests. Ken had ridden ten miles in a 'bus with the team, and had worn one of the uniforms for some few minutes. Therefore, upon a technicality, perhaps, he had been _on_ a summer nine, and had no right to play for Wayne. Ken went to Homans and told him the circumstance. The captain looked exceedingly grave, then getting more particulars he relaxed. "You're safe, Peg. You're perfectly innocent. But don't mention it to any one else, especially Worry. He'd have a fit. What a scare you'd throw into the varsity camp! Forget the few minutes you wore that Eagle's Nest suit." For the time being this reassured Ken, but after a while his anxiety returned. Homans had said not to mention it, and that bothered Ken. He lay awake half of one night thinking about the thing. It angered him and pricked his conscience and roused him. He wanted to feel absolutely sure of his position, for his own sake first of all. So next morning he cornered Worry and blurted out the secret. "Peg, what're you givin' me!" he ejaculated. Ken repeated his story, somewhat more clearly and at greater length. Worry turned as white as a ghost. "Good gracious, Peg, you haven't told anybody?" "No one but Homans." Worry gave a long sigh of relief, and his face regained some of its usual florid color. "Well, that's all right then.... Say, didn't I tell you once that I had a weak heart? Peg, of course you're an amateur, or there never was one. But 'em fat-head directors! Why, I wouldn't have 'em find that out for a million dollars. They're idiots enough to make a shinin' example of you right before the Place games. Keep it under your hat, see!" This last was in the nature of a command, and Ken had always religiously obeyed Worry. He went to his room feeling that the matter had been decided for him. Relief, however, did not long abide with him. He began to be torn between loyalty to Worry and duty to himself. He felt guiltless, but he was not sure of it, and until he was sure he could not be free in mind. Suddenly he thought of being actually barred from the varsity, and was miserable. That he could not bear. Strong temptation now assailed Ken and found him weak. A hundred times he reconciled himself to Worry's command, to Homan's point of view, yet every time something rose within him and rebelled. But despite the rebellion Ken almost gave in. He fought off thought of his new sweet popularity, of the glory of being Wayne's athletic star. He fought to look the thing fairly in the face. To him it loomed up a hundredfold larger than an incident of his baseball career. And so he got strength to do the thing that would ease the voice of conscience. He went straight to the coach. "Worry, I've got to go to the directors and tell them. I--I'm sorry, but I've got to do it." He expected a storm of rage from Worry, but never had the coach been so suave, so kindly, so magnetic. He called Homans and Raymond and Weir and others who were in the house at the moment and stated Ken's case. His speech flowed smooth and rapid. The matter under his deft argument lost serious proportions. But it seemed to Ken that Worry did not tell the boys the whole truth, or they would not have laughed at the thing and made him out over-sensitive. And Ken was now growing too discouraged and bewildered to tell them. Moreover, he was getting stubborn. The thing was far from a joke. The cunning of the coach proved that. Worry wound the boys round his little finger. At this juncture Reddy Ray entered the training-house. More than once Ken had gone to the great sprinter with confidences and troubles, and now he began impulsively, hurriedly, incoherently, to tell the story. "And Reddy," concluded Ken, "I've got to tell the directors. It's something--hard for me to explain. I couldn't pitch another game with this hanging over me. I must--tell them--and take my medicine." "Sure. It's a matter of principle," replied Reddy, in his soft, slow voice. His keen eyes left Ken's pale face and met the coach's. "Worry, I'll take Peg up to see the athletic faculty. I know Andrews, the president, and he's the one to hear Peg's story." Worry groaned and sank into a chair crushed and beaten. Then he swore, something unusual in him. Then he began to rave at the fat-headed directors. Then he yelled that he would never coach another ball team so long as he lived. Ken followed Reddy out of the training-house and along the street. The fact that the sprinter did not say a word showed Ken he was understood, and he felt immeasurably grateful. They crossed the campus and entered College Hall, to climb the winding stairway. To Ken that was a long, hateful climb. Andrews, and another of the directors whom Ken knew by sight, were in the office. They greeted the visitors with cordial warmth. "Gentlemen," began Reddy, "Ward thinks he has violated one of the eligibility rules." There was no beating about the bush with Reddy Ray, no shading of fact, no distortion of the truth. Coolly he stated the case. But, strangely to Ken, the very truth, told by Reddy in this way, somehow lost its terrors. Ken's shoulders seemed unburdened of a terrible weight. Andrews and his colleague laughed heartily. "You see--I--I forgot all about it," said Ken. "Yes, and since he remembered he's been worrying himself sick," resumed Reddy. "Couldn't rest till he'd come over here." "Ward, it's much to your credit that you should confide something there was never any chance of becoming known," said the president of the athletic faculty. "We appreciate it. You may relieve your mind of misgivings as to your eligibility. Even if we tried I doubt if we could twist a rule to affect your standing. And you may rest assured we wouldn't try in the case of so fine a young fellow and so splendid a pitcher for Wayne." Then Andrews courteously shook hands with Ken and Reddy and bowed them out. Ken danced half-way down the stairway and slid the rest on the bannister. "Reddy, wasn't he just fine?" cried Ken, all palpitating with joy. "Well, Peg, Andrews is a nice old thing if you approach him right," replied Reddy, dryly. "You wouldn't believe me, would you, if I said I had my heart in my throat when we went in?" "No, I wouldn't," replied Ken, bluntly. "I thought not," said Reddy. Then the gravity that had suddenly perplexed Ken cleared from the sprinter's face. "Peg, let's have some fun with Worry and the boys." "I'm in for anything now." "We'll go back to the training-house with long faces. When we get in you run up-stairs as if you couldn't face any one, but be sure to sneak back to the head of the stairs to see and hear the fun. I'll fix Worry all right. Now, don't flunk. It's a chance." Ken could not manage to keep a straight face as they went in, so he hid it and rushed up-stairs. He bumped into Raymond, knocking him flat. "Running to a fire again?" growled Raymond. "Got a fire-medal, haven't you? Always falling over people." Ken tried to simulate ungovernable rage and impotent distress at once. He waved one fist and tore his hair with the other hand. "Get out of my way!" roared Ken. "What'll you say when I tell you I'm barred from the varsity!" "Oh! Ken! No, no--don't say it," faltered Raymond, all sympathy in an instant. Ken ran into his room, closed the door and then peeped out. He saw Raymond slowly sag down-stairs as if his heart was broken. Then Ken slipped out and crawled down the hall till he could see into the reading-room. All the boys were there, with anxious faces, crowded round the coach. Worry was livid. Reddy Ray seemed the only calm person in the room and he had tragedy written all over him. "Out with it!" shouted Worry. "Don't stand there like a mournful preacher. What did 'em fat-heads say?" Reddy threw up his hands with a significant gesture. "I knew it!" howled Worry, jumping up and down. "I knew it! Why did you take the kid over there? Why didn't you let me and Homans handle this thing? You red-headed, iron-jawed, cold-blooded wind-chaser! You've done it now, haven't you? I--Oh--" Worry began to flounder helplessly. "They said a few more things," went on Reddy. "Peg is barred, Raymond is barred, I am barred. I told them about my baseball career out West. The directors said some pretty plain things about you, Worry, I'm sorry to tell. You're a rotten coach. In fact, you ought to be a coach at an undertaker's. Homans gets the credit for the work of the team. They claim you are too hard on the boys, too exacting, too brutal, in fact. Andrews recited a record of your taking sandwiches from us and aiding and abetting Murray in our slow starvation. The directors will favor your dismissal and urge the appointment of Professor Rhodes, who as coach will at least feed us properly." Reddy stopped to catch his breath and gain time for more invention. Of all the unhappy mortals on earth Worry Arthurs looked the unhappiest. He believed every word as if it had been gospel. And that about Professor Rhodes was the last straw. Ken could stand the deception no longer. He marvelled at Reddy's consummate lying and how he could ever stand that look on Worry's face. Bounding down-stairs four steps at a jump, Ken burst like a bomb upon the sad-faced group. "Oh, Worry, it's all a joke!" XVI THE FIRST PLACE GAME Rain prevented the second Herne game, which was to have been played on the Herne grounds. It rained steadily all day Friday and Saturday, to the disappointment of Wayne's varsity. The coach, however, admitted that he was satisfied to see the second contest with Herne go by the board. "I don't like big games away from home," said Worry. "It's hard on new teams. Besides, we beat Herne to death over here. Mebbe we couldn't do it over there, though I ain't doubtin'. But it's Place we're after, and if we'd had that game at Herne we couldn't have kept Place from gettin' a line on us. So I'm glad it rained." The two Place games fell during a busy week at Wayne. Wednesday was the beginning of the commencement exercises and only a comparatively few students could make the trip to Place. But the night before the team left, the students, four thousand strong, went to the training-house and filled a half-hour with college songs and cheers. Next morning Dale and Stevens, heading a small band of Wayne athletes and graduates, met the team at the railroad station and boarded the train with them. Worry and Homans welcomed them, and soon every Wayne player had two or more for company. Either by accident or design, Ken could not tell which, Dale and Stevens singled him out for their especial charge. The football captain filled one seat with his huge bulk and faced Ken, and Dale sat with a hand on Ken's shoulder. "Peg, we're backing you for all we're worth," said Stevens. "But this is your first big game away from home. It's really the toughest game of the season. Place is a hard nut to crack any time. And her players on their own backyard are scrappers who can take a lot of beating and still win out. Then there's another thing that's no small factor in their strength: They are idolized by the students, and rooting at Place is a science. They have a yell that beats anything you ever heard. It'll paralyze a fellow at a critical stage. But that yell is peculiar in that it rises out of circumstances leading to almost certain victory. That is, Place has to make a strong bid for a close, hard game to work up that yell. So if it comes to-day you be ready for it. Have your ears stuffed with cotton, and don't let that yell blow you up in the air." Dale was even more earnest than Stevens. "Peg, Place beat me over here last year, beat me 6-3. They hit me harder than I ever was hit before, I guess. You went down to Washington, Worry said, to look them over. Tell me what you think--how you sized them up." Dale listened attentively while Ken recited his impressions. "You've got Prince and MacNeff figured exactly right," replied Dale. "Prince is the football captain, by-the-way. Be careful how you run into second base. If you ever slide into him head first--good-bye! He's a great player, and he can hit any kind of a ball. MacNeff now, just as you said, is weak on a high ball close in, and he kills a low ball. Kills is the word! He hits them a mile. But, Peg, I think you're a little off on Keene, Starke, and Martin, the other Place cracks. They're veterans, hard to pitch to; they make you cut the plate; they are as apt to bunt as hit, and they are fast. They keep a fellow guessing. I think Starke pulls a little on a curve, but the others have no weakness I ever discovered. But, Peg, I expect you to do more with them than I did. My control was never any too good, and you can throw almost as straight as a fellow could shoot a rifle. Then your high fast ball, that one you get with the long swing, it would beat any team. Only I'm wondering, I'm asking--can you use it right along, in the face of such coaching and yelling and hitting as you'll run against to-day? I'm asking deliberately, because I want to give you confidence." "Why, yes, Dale, I think I can. I'm pretty sure of it. That ball comes easily, only a little longer swing and more snap, and honestly, Dale, I hardly ever think about the plate. I know where it is, and I could shut my eyes and throw strikes." "Peg, you're a wonder," replied Dale, warmly. "If you can do that--and hang me if I doubt it--you will make Place look like a lot of dubs. We're sure to make a few runs. Homans and Ray will hit Salisbury hard. There's no fence on Place Field, and every ball Reddy hits past a fielder will be a home-run. You can gamble on that. So set a fast clip when you start in, and hang." Some time later, when Ken had changed seats and was talking to Raymond, he heard Worry say to somebody: "Well, if Peg don't explode to-day he never will. I almost wish he would. He'd be better for it, afterward." This surprised Ken, annoyed him, and straightway he became thoughtful. Why this persistent harping on the chance of his getting excited from one cause or another, losing his control and thereby the game? Ken had not felt in the least nervous about the game. He would get so, presently, if his advisers did not stop hinting. Then Worry's wish that he might "explode" was puzzling. A little shade of gloom crept over the bright horizon of Ken's hopes. Almost unconsciously vague doubts of himself fastened upon him. For the first time he found himself looking forward to a baseball game with less eagerness than uncertainty. Stubbornly he fought off the mood. Place was situated in an old college town famed for its ancient trees and quaint churches and inns. The Wayne varsity, arriving late, put on their uniforms at the St. George, a tavern that seemed never to have been in any way acquainted with a college baseball team. It was very quiet and apparently deserted. For that matter the town itself appeared deserted. The boys dressed hurriedly, in silence, with frowning brows and compressed lips. Worry Arthurs remained down-stairs while they dressed. Homans looked the team over and then said: "Boys, come on! To-day's our hardest game." It was only a short walk along the shady street to the outskirts of the town and the athletic field. The huge stands blocked the view from the back and side. Homans led the team under the bleachers, through a narrow walled-in aisle, to the side entrance, and there gave the word for the varsity to run out upon the field. A hearty roar of applause greeted their appearance. Ken saw a beautiful green field, level as a floor, with a great half-circle of stands and bleachers at one end. One glance was sufficient to make Ken's breathing an effort. He saw a glittering mass, a broad, moving band of color. Everywhere waved Place flags, bright gold and blue. White faces gleamed like daisies on a golden slope. In the bleachers close to the first base massed a shirt-sleeved crowd of students, row on row of them, thousands in number. Ken experienced a little chill as he attached the famous Place yell to that significant placing of rooters. A soft breeze blew across the field, and it carried low laughter and voices of girls, a merry hum, and subdued murmur, and an occasional clear shout. The whole field seemed keenly alive. From the bench Ken turned curious, eager eyes upon the practising Place men. Never had he regarded players with as sharp an interest, curiosity being mingled with admiration, and confidence with doubt. MacNeff, the captain, at first base, veteran of three years, was a tall, powerful fellow, bold and decisive in action. Prince, Place's star on both gridiron and diamond, played at second base. He was very short, broad and heavy, and looked as if he would have made three of little Raymond. Martin, at short-stop, was of slim, muscular build. Keene and Starke, in centre and left, were big men. Salisbury looked all of six feet, and every inch a pitcher. He also played end on the football varsity. Ken had to indulge in a laugh at the contrast in height and weight of Wayne when compared to Place. The laugh was good for him, because it seemed to loosen something hard and tight within his breast. Besides, Worry saw him laugh and looked pleased, and that pleased Ken. "Husky lot of stiffs, eh, Peg?" said Worry, reading Ken's thought. "But, say! this ain't no football game. We'll make these heavyweights look like ice-wagons. I never was much on beefy ball-players. Aha! there goes the gong. Place's takin' the field. That suits me.... Peg, listen! The game's on. I've only one word to say to you. _Try to keep solid on your feet!_" A short cheer, electrifying in its force, pealed out like a blast. Then Homans stepped to the plate amid generous hand-clapping. The Place adherents had their favorites, but they always showed a sportsmanlike appreciation of opponents. Salisbury wound up, took an enormous stride, and pitched the ball. He had speed. Homans seldom hit on the first pitch, and this was a strike. But he rapped the next like a bullet at Griffith, the third-baseman. Griffith blocked the ball, and, quickly reaching it, he used a snap underhand throw to first, catching Homans by a narrow margin. It was a fine play and the crowd let out another blast. Raymond, coming up, began his old trick of trying to work the pitcher for a base. He was small and he crouched down until a wag in the bleachers yelled that this was no kindergarten game. Raymond was exceedingly hard to pitch to. He was always edging over the plate, trying to get hit. If anybody touched him in practice he would roar like a mad bull, but in a game he would cheerfully have stopped cannon-balls. He got in front of Salisbury's third pitch, and, dropping his bat, started for first base. The umpire called him back. Thereupon Raymond fouled balls and went through contortions at the plate till he was out on strikes. When Reddy Ray took his position at bat audible remarks passed like a wave through the audience. Then a long, hearty cheer greeted the great sprinter. When roar once again subsided into waiting suspense a strong-lunged Wayne rooter yelled, "_Watch him run!_" The outfielders edged out deeper and deeper. MacNeff called low to Salisbury: "Don't let this fellow walk! Keep them high and make him hit!" It was evident that Place had gotten a line on one Wayne player. Salisbury delivered the ball and Reddy whirled with his level swing. There was a sharp crack. Up started the crowd with sudden explosive: "Oh!" Straight as a bee-line the ball sped to Keene in deep centre, and Reddy was out. Wayne players went running out and Place players came trotting in. Ken, however, at Worry's order, walked slowly and leisurely to the pitcher's box. He received an ovation from the audience that completely surprised him and which stirred him to warm gratefulness. Then, receiving the ball, he drew one quick breath, and faced the stern issue of the day. As always, he had his pitching plan clearly defined in mind, and no little part of it was cool deliberation, study of the batter to the point of irritating him, and then boldness of action. He had learned that he was not afraid to put the ball over the plate, and the knowledge had made him bold, and boldness increased his effectiveness. For Keene, first batter up, Ken pitched his fast ball with all his power. Like a glancing streak it shot over. A low whistling ran through the bleachers. For the second pitch Ken took the same long motion, ending in the sudden swing, but this time he threw a slow, wide, tantalizing curve that floated and waved and circled around across the plate. It also was a strike. Keene had not offered to hit either. In those two balls, perfectly controlled, Ken deliberately showed the Place team the wide extremes of his pitching game. "Keene, he don't waste any. Hit!" ordered MacNeff from the bench. The next ball, a high curve, Keene hit on the fly to Homans. The flaxen-haired Prince trotted up with little, short steps. Ken did not need the wild outburst from the crowd to appreciate this sturdy hero of many gridiron and diamond battles. He was so enormously wide, almost as wide as he was long, that he would have been funny to Ken but for the reputation that went with the great shoulders and stumpy legs. "Ward, give me a good one," said Prince, in a low, pleasant voice. He handled his heavy bat as if it had been light as a yardstick. It was with more boldness than intention of gratifying Prince that Ken complied, using the same kind of ball he had tried first on Keene. Prince missed it. The next, a low curve, he cracked hard to the left of Raymond. The second-baseman darted over, fielded the ball cleanly, and threw Prince out. Then the long, rangy MacNeff, home-run hitter for Place, faced Ken. His position at bat bothered Ken, for he stood almost on the plate. Remembering MacNeff's weakness, Ken lost no time putting a swift in-shoot under his chin. The Place captain lunged round at it, grunting with his swing. If he had hit the ball it would have been with the handle of his bat. So Ken, knowing his control, and sure that he could pitch high shoots all day over the incomer of the plate, had no more fear of the Place slugger. And it took only three more pitches to strike him out. From that on the game see-sawed inning by inning, Ken outpitching Salisbury, but neither team scored. At intervals cheers marked the good plays of both teams, and time and again the work of the pitchers earned applause. The crowd seemed to be holding back, and while they waited for the unexpected the short, sharp innings slipped by. Trace for Wayne led off in the seventh with a safe fly over short. Ken, attempting to sacrifice, rolled a little bunt down the third-base line and beat the throw. With no one out and the head of the batting list up, the Wayne players awoke to possibilities. The same fiery intensity that had characterized their play all season now manifested itself. They were all on their feet, and Weir and McCord on the coaching lines were yelling hoarsely at Salisbury, tearing up the grass with their spikes, dashing to and fro, shouting advice to the runners. "Here's where we score! Oh! you pitcher! We're due to trim you now! Steady, boys, play it safe, play it safe!--don't let them double you!" Up by the bench Homans was selecting a bat. "Worry, I'd better dump one," he whispered. "That's the trick," replied the coach. "Advance them at any cost. There's Reddy to follow." The reliable Salisbury rolled the ball in his hands, feinted to throw to the bases, and showed his steadiness under fire. He put one square over for Homans and followed it upon the run. Homans made a perfect bunt, but instead of going along either base line, it went straight into the pitcher's hands. Salisbury whirled and threw to Prince, who covered the bag, and forced Trace. One out and still two runners on bases. The crowd uttered a yell and then quickly quieted down. Raymond bent low over the plate and watched Salisbury's slightest move. He bunted the first ball, and it went foul over the third-base line. He twisted the second toward first base, and it, too, rolled foul. And still he bent low as if to bunt again. The infield slowly edged in closer. But Raymond straightened up on Salisbury's next pitch and lined the ball out. Prince leaped into the air and caught the ball in his gloved hand. Homans dove back into first base; likewise Ken into second, just making it in the nick of time, for Martin was on the run to complete a possible double play. A shout at once hoarse and shrill went up, and heavy clattering thunder rolled along the floor of the bleachers. Two out and still two men on bases. If there was a calm person on Place Field at that moment it was Reddy Ray, but his eyes glinted like sparks as he glanced at the coach. "Worry, I'll lace one this time," he said, and strode for the plate. Weir and McCord were shrieking: "Oh, look who's up! Oh-h! Oh-h! Play it safe, boys!" "_Watch him run!_" That came from the same deep-chested individual who had before hinted of the sprinter's fleetness, and this time the Wayne players recognized the voice of Murray. How hopeful and thrilling the suggestion was, coming from him! The Place infield trotted to deep short-field; the outfielders moved out and swung around far to the right. Salisbury settled down in the box and appeared to put on extra effort as he delivered the ball. It was wide. The next also went off the outside of the plate. It looked as if Salisbury meant to pass Reddy to first. Then those on the bench saw a glance and a nod pass between Reddy Ray and Coach Arthurs. Again Salisbury pitched somewhat to the outside of the plate, but this time Reddy stepped forward and swung. _Crack!_ Swift as an arrow and close to the ground the ball shot to left field. Starke leaped frantically to head it off, and as it took a wicked bound he dove forward head first, hands outstretched, and knocked it down. But the ball rolled a few yards, and Starke had to recover from his magnificent effort. No one on the field saw Ward and Homans running for the plate. All eyes were on the gray, flitting shadow of a sprinter. One voice only, and that was Murray's, boomed out in the silence. When Reddy turned second base Starke reached the ball and threw for third. It was a beautiful race between ball and runner for the bag. As Reddy stretched into the air in a long slide the ball struck and shot off the ground with a glancing bound. They reached the base at the same time. But Griffith, trying to block the runner, went spinning down, and the ball rolled toward the bleachers. Reddy was up and racing plateward so quickly that it seemed he had not been momentarily checked. The few Wayne rooters went wild. "Three runs!" yelled the delirious coaches. Weir was so overcome that he did not know it was his turn at bat. When called in he hurried to the plate and drove a line fly to centre that Keene caught only after a hard run. Ken Ward rose from the bench to go out on the diamond. The voices of his comrades sounded far away, as voices in a dream. "Three to the good now, Ward! It's yours!" said Captain Homans. "Only nine more batters! Peg, keep your feet leaded!" called Reddy Ray. "It's the seventh, and Place hasn't made a safe hit! Oh, Ken!" came from Raymond. So all the boys vented their hope and trust in their pitcher. There was a mist before Ken's eyes that he could not rub away. The field blurred at times. For five innings after the first he had fought some unaccountable thing. He had kept his speed, his control, his memory of batters, and he had pitched magnificently. But something had hovered over him, and had grown more tangible as the game progressed. There was a shadow always before his sight. In the last of the seventh, with Keene at bat, Ken faced the plate with a strange unsteadiness and a shrinking for which he hated himself. What was wrong with him? Had he been taken suddenly ill? Anger came to his rescue, and he flung himself into his pitching with fierce ardor. He quivered with a savage hope when Keene swung ineffectually at the high in-shoot. He pitched another and another, and struck out the batter. But now it meant little to see him slam down his bat in a rage. For Ken had a foreboding that he could not do it again. When Prince came up Ken found he was having difficulty in keeping the ball where he wanted it. Prince batted a hot grounder to Blake, who fumbled. MacNeff had three balls and one strike called upon him before he hit hard over second base. But Raymond pounced upon the ball like a tiger, dashed over the bag and threw to first, getting both runners. "Wull, Ken, make them hit to me," growled Raymond. Ken sat down upon the bench far from the coach. He shunned Worry in that moment. The warm praise of his fellow-players was meaningless to him. Something was terribly wrong. He knew he shrank from going into the box again, yet dared not admit it to himself. He tried to think clearly, and found his mind in a whirl. When the Wayne batters went out in one, two, three order, and it was time for Ken to pitch again, he felt ice form in his veins. "Only six more hitters!" called Reddy's warning voice. It meant cheer and praise from Reddy, but to Ken it seemed a knell. "Am I weakening?" muttered Ken. "Am I going up in the air? _What_ is wrong with me?" He was nervous now and could not stand still and he felt himself trembling. The ball was wet from the sweat in his hands; his hair hung damp over his brow and he continually blew it out of his eyes. With all his spirit he crushed back the almost overwhelming desire to hurry, hurry, hurry. Once more, in a kind of passion, he fought off the dreaded unknown weakness. With two balls pitched to Starke he realized that he had lost control of his curve. He was not frightened for the loss of his curve, but he went stiff with fear that he might lose control of his fast ball, his best and last resort. Grimly he swung and let drive. Starke lined the ball to left. The crowd lifted itself with a solid roar, and when Homans caught the hit near the foul flag, subsided with a long groan. Ken set his teeth. He knew he was not right, but did any one else know it? He was getting magnificent support and luck was still with him. "Over the pan, Peg! Don't waste one!" floated from Reddy, warningly. Then Ken felt sure that Reddy had seen or divined his panic. How soon would the Place players find it out? With his throat swelling and his mouth dry and his whole body in a ferment Ken pitched to Martin. The short-stop hit to Weir, who made a superb stop and throw. Two out! From all about Ken on the diamond came the low encouraging calls of his comrades. Horton, a burly left-hander, stepped forward, swinging a wagon-tongue. Ken could no longer steady himself and he pitched hurriedly. One ball, two balls, one strike, three balls--how the big looming Horton stood waiting over the plate! Almost in despair Ken threw again, and Horton smote the ball with a solid rap. It was a low bounder. Raymond pitched forward full length toward first base and the ball struck in his glove with a crack, and stuck there. Raymond got up and tossed it to McCord. A thunder of applause greeted this star play of the game. The relief was so great that Ken fairly tottered as he went in to the bench. Worry did not look at him. He scarcely heard what the boys said; he felt them patting him on the back. Then to his amaze, and slowly mounting certainty of disaster, the side was out, and it was again his turn to pitch. "Only three more, Peg! The tail end of the batting list. _Hang on!_" said Reddy, as he trotted out. Ken's old speed and control momentarily came back to him. Yet he felt he pitched rather by instinct than intent. He struck Griffith out. "Only two more, Peg!" called Reddy. The great audience sat in depressed, straining silence. Long since the few Wayne rooters had lost their vocal powers. Conroy hit a high fly to McCord. "Oh, Peg, _only one more!_" came the thrilling cry. No other Wayne player could speak a word then. With Salisbury up, Ken had a momentary flash of his old spirit and he sent a straight ball over the plate, meaning it to be hit. Salisbury did hit it, and safely, through short. The long silent, long waiting crowd opened up with yells and stamping feet. A horrible, cold, deadly sickness seized upon Ken as he faced the fleet, sure-hitting Keene. He lost his speed, he lost his control. Before he knew what had happened he had given Keene a base on balls. Two on bases and two out! The Place players began to leap and fling up their arms and scream. When out of their midst Prince ran to the plate a piercing, ear-splitting sound pealed up from the stands. As in a haze Ken saw the long lines of white-sleeved students become violently agitated and move up and down to strange, crashing yells. Then Ken Ward knew. That was the famed Place cheer for victory at the last stand. It was the trumpet-call of Ken's ordeal. His mind was as full of flashes of thought as there were streaks and blurs before his eyes. He understood Worry now. He knew now what was wrong with him, what had been coming all through that terrible game. The whole line of stands and bleachers wavered before him, and the bright colors blended in one mottled band. Still it was in him to fight to the last gasp. The pain in his breast, and the nausea in his stomach, and the whirling fury in his mind did not make him give up, though they robbed him of strength. The balls he threw to Prince were wide of the plate and had nothing of his old speed. Prince, also, took his base on balls. Bases full and two out! MacNeff, the captain, fronted the plate, and shook his big bat at Ken. Of all the Place hitters Ken feared him the least. He had struck MacNeff out twice, and deep down in his heart stirred a last desperate rally. He had only to keep the ball high and in close to win this game. Oh! for the control that had been his pride! The field and stands seemed to swim round Ken and all he saw with his half-blinded eyes was the white plate, the batter, and Dean and the umpire. Then he took his swing and delivered the ball. It went true. MacNeff missed it. Ken pitched again. The umpire held up one finger of each hand. One ball and one strike. Two more rapid pitches, one high and one wide. Two strikes and two balls. Ken felt his head bursting and there were glints of red before his eyes. He bit his tongue to keep it from lolling out. He was almost done. That ceaseless, infernal din had benumbed his being. With a wrenching of his shoulder Ken flung up another ball. MacNeff leaned over it, then let it go by. Three and two! It was torture for Ken. He had the game in his hands, yet could not grasp it. He braced himself for the pitch and gave it all he had left in him. "_Too low!_" he moaned. MacNeff killed low balls. The big captain leaped forward with a terrific swing and hit the ball. It lined over short, then began to rise, shot over Homans, and soared far beyond, to drop and roll and roll. Through darkening sight Ken Ward saw runner after runner score, and saw Homans pick up the ball as MacNeff crossed the plate with the winning run. In Ken's ears seemed a sound of the end of the world. He thought himself the centre of a flying wheel. It was the boys crowding around him. He saw their lips move but caught no words. Then choking and tottering, upheld by Reddy Ray's strong arm, the young pitcher walked off the field. XVII KEN'S DAY The slow return to the tavern, dressing and going to the station, the ride home, the arrival at the training-house, the close-pressing, silent companionship of Reddy Ray, Worry, and Raymond--these were dim details of that day of calamity. Ken Ward's mind was dead--locked on that fatal moment when he pitched a low ball to MacNeff. His friends left him in the darkness of his room, knowing instinctively that it was best for him to be alone. Ken undressed and crawled wearily into bed and stretched out as if he knew and was glad he would never move his limbs again. The silence and the darkness seemed to hide him from himself. His mind was a whirling riot of fire, and in it was a lurid picture of that moment with MacNeff at bat. Over and over and over he lived it in helpless misery. His ears were muffled with that huge tide of sound. Again and again and again he pitched the last ball, to feel his heart stop beating, to see the big captain lunge at the ball, to watch it line and rise and soar. But gradually exhaustion subdued his mental strife, and he wandered in mind and drifted into sleep. When he woke it was with a cold, unhappy shrinking from the day. His clock told the noon hour; he had slept long. Outside the June sunlight turned the maple leaves to gold. Was it possible, Ken wondered dully, for the sun ever to shine again? Then Scotty came bustling in. "Mr. Wau-rd, won't ye be hovin' breakfast?" he asked, anxiously. "Scotty, I'll never eat again," replied Ken. There were quick steps upon the stairs and Worry burst in, rustling a newspaper. "Hello, old man!" he called, cheerily. "Say! Look at this!" He thrust the paper before Ken's eyes and pointed to a column: Place Beat Wayne by a Lucky Drive. Young Ward Pitched the Greatest Game Ever Pitched on Place Field and Lost It in the Ninth, with Two Men Out and Three and Two on MacNeff Ken's dull, gloom-steeped mind underwent a change, but he could not speak. He sat up in bed, clutching the paper, and gazing from it to the coach. Raymond came in, followed by Homans, and, last, Reddy Ray, who sat down upon the bed. They were all smiling, and that seemed horrible to Ken. "But, Worry--Reddy--I--I lost the game--threw it away!" faltered Ken. "Oh no, Peg. You pitched a grand game. Only in the stretch you got one ball too low," said Reddy. "Peg, you started to go up early in the game," added Worry, with a smile, as if the fact was amusing. "You made your first balloon-ascension in the seventh. And in the ninth you exploded. I never seen a better case of up-in-the-air. But, Peg, in spite of it you pitched a wonderful game. You had me guessin'. I couldn't take you out of the box. Darn me if I didn't think you'd shut Place out in spite of your rattles!" "Then--after all--it's not so terrible?" Ken asked, breathlessly. "Why, boy, it's all right. We can lose a game, and to lose one like that--it's as good as winnin'. Say! I'm a liar if I didn't see 'em Place hitters turnin' gray-headed! Listen! That game over there was tough on all the kids, you most of all, of course. But you all stood the gaff. You've fought out a grillin' big game away from home. That's over. You'll never go through that again. But it was the makin' of you.... Here, look this over! Mebbe it'll cheer you up." He took something from Raymond and tossed it upon the bed. It looked like a round, red, woolly bundle. Ken unfolded it, to disclose a beautiful sweater, with a great white "W" in the centre. "The boys all got 'em this mornin'," added Worry. It was then that the tragedy of the Place game lost its hold on Ken, and retreated until it stood only dimly in outline. "I'll--I'll be down to lunch," said Ken, irrelevantly. His smiling friends took the hint and left the room. Ken hugged the sweater while reading the _Times-Star's_ account of the game. Whoever the writer was, Ken loved him. Then he hid his face in the pillow, and though he denied to himself that he was crying, when he arose it was certain that the pillow was wet. An hour later Ken presented himself at lunch, once more his old amiable self. The boys freely discussed baseball--in fact, for weeks they had breathed and dreamed baseball--but Ken noted, for the first time, where superiority was now added to the old confidence. The Wayne varsity had found itself. It outclassed Herne; it was faster than Place; it stood in line for championship honors. "Peg, you needn't put on your uniform to-day," said the coach. "You rest up. But go over to Murray and have your arm rubbed. Is it sore or stiff?" "Not at all. I could work again to-day," replied Ken. That afternoon, alone in his room, he worked out his pitching plan for Saturday's game. It did not differ materially from former plans. But for a working basis he had self-acquired knowledge of the Place hitters. It had been purchased at dear cost. He feared none of them except Prince. He decided to use a high curve ball over the plate and let Prince hit, trusting to luck and the players behind him. Ken remembered how the Place men had rapped hard balls at Raymond. Most of them were right-field hitters. Ken decided to ask Homans to play Reddy Ray in right field. Also he would arrange a sign with Reddy and Raymond and McCord so they would know when he intended to pitch speed on the outside corner of the plate. For both his curve and fast ball so pitched were invariably hit toward right field. When it came to MacNeff, Ken knew from the hot rankling deep down in him that he would foil that hitter. He intended to make the others hit, pitching them always, to the best of his judgment and skill, those balls they were least likely to hit safely, yet which would cut the corners of the plate if let go. No bases on balls this game, that he vowed grimly. And if he got in a pinch he would fall back upon his last resort, the fast jump ball; and now that he had gone through his baptism of fire he knew he was not likely to lose his control. So after outlining his plan he believed beyond reasonable doubt that he could win the game. The evening of that day he confided his plan to Reddy Ray and had the gratification of hearing it warmly commended. While Ken was with Reddy the coach sent word up to all rooms that the boys were to "cut" baseball talk. They were to occupy their minds with reading, study, or games. "It's pretty slow," said Reddy. "Peg, let's have some fun with somebody." "I'm in. What'll we do?" "Can't you think? You're always leaving schemes to me. Use your brains, boy." Ken pondered a moment and then leaped up in great glee. "Reddy, I've got something out of sight," he cried. "Spring it, then." "Well, it's this: Kel Raymond is perfectly crazy about his new sweater. He moons over it and he carries it around everywhere. Now it happens that Kel is a deep sleeper. He's hard to wake up. I've always had to shake him and kick him to wake him every morning. I'm sure we could get him in that sweater without waking him. So to-morrow morning you come down early, before seven, and help me put the sweater on Kel. We'll have Worry and the boys posted and we'll call them in to see Kel, and then we'll wake him and swear he slept in his sweater." "Peg, you've a diabolical bent of mind. That'll be great. I'll be on the job bright and early." Ken knew he could rely on the chattering of the sparrows in the woodbine round his window. They always woke him, and this morning was no exception. It was after six and a soft, balmy breeze blew in. Ken got up noiselessly and dressed. Raymond snored in blissful ignorance of the conspiracy. Presently a gentle tapping upon the door told Ken that Reddy was in the hall. Ken let him in and they held a whispered consultation. "Let's see," said Reddy, picking up the sweater. "It's going to be an all-fired hard job. This sweater's tight. We'll wake him." "Not on your life!" exclaimed Ken. "Not if we're quick. Now you roll up the sweater so--and stretch it on your hands--so--and when I lift Kel up you slip it over his head. It'll be like pie." The operation was deftly though breathlessly performed, and all it brought from Raymond was a sleepy: "Aw--lemme sleep," and then he was gone again. Ken and Reddy called all the boys, most of whom were in their pajamas, and Worry and Scotty and Murray, and got them all up-stairs in Raymond's room. Raymond lay in bed very innocently asleep, and no one would have suspected that he had not slept in his sweater. "Well, I'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated Worry, laughing till he cried. Murray was hugely delighted. These men were as much boys as the boys they trained. The roar of laughter awakened Raymond, and he came out of sleep very languid and drowsy. "Aw, Ken, lemme sleep s'more." He opened his eyes and, seeing the room full of boys and men, he looked bewildered, then suspicious. "Wull, what do all you guys want?" "We only came in to see you asleep in your new varsity sweater," replied Ken, with charming candor. At this Raymond discovered the sweater and he leaped out of bed. "It's a lie! I never slept in it! Somebody jobbed me! I'll lick him!... It's a lie, I say!" He began to hop up and down in a black fury. The upper half of him was swathed in the red sweater; beneath that flapped the end of his short nightgown; and out of that stuck his thin legs, all knotted and spotted with honorable bruises won in fielding hard-batted balls. He made so ludicrous a sight that his visitors roared with laughter. Raymond threw books, shoes, everything he could lay his hands upon, and drove them out in confusion. Saturday seemed a long time in arriving, but at last it came. All morning the boys kept close under cover of the training-house. Some one sent them a package of placards. These were round, in the shape of baseballs. They were in the college colors, the background of which was a bright red, and across this had been printed in white the words: "_Peg Ward's Day!_" "What do you think of that?" cried the boys, with glistening eyes. But Ken was silent. Worry came in for lunch and reported that the whole west end of the city had been placarded. "The students have had millions of 'em cards printed," said Worry. "They're everywhere. Murray told me there was a hundred students tackin' 'em up on the stands and bleachers. They've got 'em on sticks of wood for pennants for the girls.... 'Peg Ward's Day!' Well, I guess!" At two-thirty o'clock the varsity ran upon the field, to the welcoming though somewhat discordant music of the university band. What the music lacked in harmony it made up in volume, and as noise appeared to be the order of the day, it was most appropriate. However, a great booming cheer from the crowded stands drowned the band. It was a bright summer day, with the warm air swimming in the thick, golden light of June, with white clouds sailing across the blue sky. Grant Field resembled a beautiful crater with short, sloping sides of white and gold and great splashes of red and dots of black all encircling a round lake of emerald. Flashes of gray darted across the green, and these were the Place players in practice. Everywhere waved and twinkled and gleamed the red-and-white Wayne placards. And the front of the stands bore wide-reaching bands of these colored cards. The grand-stand, with its pretty girls and gowns, and waving pennants, and dark-coated students, resembled a huge mosaic of many colors, moving and flashing in the sunlight. One stand set apart for the Place supporters was a solid mass of blue and gold. And opposite to it, in vivid contrast, was a long circle of bleachers, where five thousand red-placarded, red-ribboned Wayne students sat waiting to tear the air into shreds with cheers. Dale and Stevens and Bryan, wearing their varsity sweaters, strode to and fro on the cinder-path, and each carried a megaphone. Cheers seemed to lurk in the very atmosphere. A soft, happy, subdued roar swept around the field. Fun and good-nature and fair-play and love of college pervaded that hum of many voices. Yet underneath it all lay a suppressed spirit, a hidden energy, waiting for the battle. When Wayne had finished a brief, snappy practice, Kern, a National League umpire, called the game, with Place at bat. Ken Ward walked to the pitcher's slab amid a prolonged outburst, and ten thousand red cards bearing his name flashed like mirrors against the sunlight. Then the crashing Place yell replied in defiance. Ken surveyed his fellow-players, from whom came low, inspiriting words; then, facing the batter, Keene, he eyed him in cool speculation, and swung into supple action. The game started with a rush. Keene dumped the ball down the third-base line. Blake, anticipating the play, came rapidly in, and bending while in motion picked up the ball and made a perfect snap-throw to McCord, beating Keene by a foot. Prince drove a hot grass-cutter through the infield, and the Place stand let out shrill, exultant yells. MacNeff swung powerfully on the first ball, which streaked like a flitting wing close under his chin. Prince, with a good lead, had darted for second. It was wonderful how his little, short legs carried him so swiftly. And his slide was what might have been expected of a famous football player. He hit the ground and shot into the bag just as Raymond got Dean's unerring throw too late. Again the Place rooters howled. MacNeff watched his second strike go by. The third pitch, remorselessly true to that fatal place, retired him on strikes; and a roll of thunder pealed from under the Wayne bleachers. Starke struck at the first ball given him. The Place waiters were not waiting on Ken to-day; evidently the word had gone out to hit. Ken's beautiful, speedy ball, breast high, was certainly a temptation. Starke lifted a long, lofty fly far beyond Homans, who ran and ran, and turned to get it gracefully at his breast. Worry Arthurs sat stern and intent upon the Wayne bench. "Get that hit back and go them a run better!" was his sharp order. The big, loose-jointed Salisbury, digging his foot into the dirt, settled down and swung laboriously. Homans waited. The pitch was a strike, and so was the next. But strikes were small matters for the patient Homans. He drew three balls after that, and then on the next he hit one of his short, punky safeties through the left side of the infield. The Wayne crowd accepted it with vigor of hands and feet. Raymond trotted up, aggressive and crafty. He intended to bunt, and the Place infield knew it and drew in closer. Raymond fouled one, then another, making two strikes. But he dumped the next and raced for the base. Salisbury, big and slow as he was, got the ball and threw Raymond out. Homans over-ran second, intending to go on, but, halted by Weir's hoarse coaching, he ran back. When Reddy Ray stepped out it was to meet a rousing cheer, and then the thousands of feet went crash! crash! crash! Reddy fouled the first ball over the grand-stand. Umpire Kern threw out a new one, gleaming white. The next two pitches were wide; the following one Reddy met with the short poke he used when hitting to left field. The ball went over Martin's head, scoring Homans with the first run of the game. That allowed the confident Wayne crowd to get up and yell long and loud. Weir fouled out upon the first ball pitched, and Blake, following him, forced Reddy out at second on an infield hit. Place tied the score in the second inning on Weir's fumble of Martin's difficult grounder, a sacrifice by Horton, and Griffith's safe fly back of second. With the score tied, the teams blanked inning after inning until the fifth. Wayne found Salisbury easy to bat, but a Place player was always in front of the hit. And Place found Peg Ward unsolvable when hits meant runs. Ken kept up his tireless, swift cannonading over the plate, making his opponents hit, and when they got a runner on base he extended himself with the fast raise ball. In the first of the fifth, with two out, Prince met one of Ken's straight ones hard and fair and drove the ball into the bleachers for a home-run. That solid blue-and-gold square of Place supporters suddenly became an insane tossing, screeching mêlée. The great hit also seemed to unleash the fiery spirit which had waited its chance. The Wayne players came in for their turn like angry bees. Trace got a base on balls. Dean sacrificed. Ken also essayed to bunt and fouled himself out on strikes. Again Homans hit safely, but the crafty Keene, playing close, held Trace at third. "We want the score!" Crash! crash! crash! went the bleachers. With Raymond up and two out, the chance appeared slim, for he was not strong at batting. But he was great at trying, and this time, as luck would have it, he hit clean through second. Trace scored, and Homans, taking desperate risk, tried to reach home on the hit and failed. It was fast, exciting work, and the crowd waxed hotter and hotter. For Place the lumbering Horton hit a twisting grounder to McCord, who batted it down with his mitt, jumped for it, turned and fell on the base, but too late to get his man. Griffith swung on Ken's straight ball and, quite by accident, blocked a little bunt out of reach of both Dean and Ken. It was a safe hit. Conroy stepped into Ken's fast ball, which ticked his shirt, and the umpire sent him down to first amid the vociferous objections of the Wayne rooters. Three runners on bases and no one out. How the Place students bawled and beat their seats and kicked the floor! Ken took a longer moment of deliberation. He showed no sign that the critical situation unnerved him. But his supple shoulders knit closer, and his long arm whipped harder as he delivered the ball. Salisbury, a poor batter, apparently shut his eyes and swung with all his might. All present heard the ringing crack of the bat, but few saw the ball. Raymond leaped lengthwise to the left and flashed out his glove. There was another crack, of different sound. Then Raymond bounded over second base, kicking the bag, and with fiendish quickness sped the ball to first. Kern, the umpire, waved both arms wide. Then to the gasping audience the play became clear. Raymond had caught Salisbury's line hit in one hand, enabling him to make a triple play. A mighty shout shook the stands. Then strong, rhythmic, lusty cheers held the field in thrall for the moment, while the teams changed sides. In Wayne's half of the sixth both Weir and McCord hit safely, but sharp fielding by Place held them on base. Again the formidable head of Place's batting order was up. Keene lined to right field, a superb hit that looked good for a triple, but it had not the speed to get beyond the fleet sprinter. Ken eyed the curly-haired Prince as if he was saying to himself: "I'm putting them over to-day. Hit if you can!" Prince appeared to jump up and chop Ken's first pitch. The ball struck on fair ground and bounded very high, and was a safe hit. Prince took a long lead off first base, and three times slid back to the bag when Ken tried to catch him. The fast football man intended to steal; Ken saw it, Dean saw it; everybody saw it. Whereupon Ken delivered a swift ball outside of the plate. As Prince went down little Dean caught the pitch and got the ball away quick as lightning. Raymond caught it directly in the base-line, and then, from the impact of the sliding Prince, he went hurtling down. Runner, baseman, and ball disappeared in a cloud of dust. Kern ran nimbly down the field and waved Prince off. But Raymond did not get up. The umpire called time. Worry Arthurs ran out, and he and Weir carried Raymond to the bench, where they bathed his head and wiped the blood from his face. Presently Raymond opened his eyes. "Wull, what struck me?" he asked. "Oh, nothin'. There was a trolley loose in the field," replied Worry. "Can you get up? Why did you try to block that football rusher?" Raymond shook his head. "Did I tag the big fat devil?" he queried, earnestly. "Is he out?" "You got him a mile," replied Worry. After a few moments Raymond was able to stand upon his feet, but he was so shaky that Worry sent Schoonover to second. Then the cheering leaders before the bleachers bellowed through their megaphones, and the students, rising to their feet, pealed out nine ringing "_Waynes!_" and added a roaring "Raymond!" to the end. With two out, Kern called play. Once again MacNeff was at bat. He had not made a foul in his two times up. He was at Ken's mercy, and the Wayne rooters were equally merciless. "Ho! the slugging captain comes!" "Get him a board!" "Fluke hitter!" "Mac, that was a lucky stab of yours Wednesday! Hit one _now_!" No spectator of that game missed Ken's fierce impetuosity when he faced MacNeff. He was as keen strung as a wire when he stood erect in the box, and when he got into motion he whirled far around, swung back bent, like a spring, and seemed to throw his whole body with the ball. One--two--three strikes that waved up in their velocity, and MacNeff for the third time went out. Clatter and smash came from the bleachers, long stamping of feet, whistle and bang, for voices had become weak. A hit, an error, a double play, another hit, a steal, and a forced out--these told Wayne's dogged, unsuccessful trial for the winning run. But Worry Arthurs had curtly said to his pitcher: "Peg, cut loose!" and man after man for Place failed to do anything with his terrific speed. It was as if Ken had reserved himself wholly for the finish. In the last of the eighth Dean hit one that caromed off Griffith's shin, and by hard running the little catcher made second. Ken sent him to third on a fielder's choice. It was then the run seemed forthcoming. Salisbury toiled in the box to coax the wary Homans. The Wayne captain waited until he got a ball to his liking. Martin trapped the hit and shot the ball home to catch Dean. It was another close decision, as Dean slid with the ball, but the umpire decided against the runner. "Peg, lam them over now!" called Reddy Ray. It was the first of the ninth, with the weak end of Place's hitting strength to face Ken. Griffith, Conroy, Salisbury went down before him as grass before a scythe. To every hitter Ken seemed to bring more effort, more relentless purpose to baffle them, more wonderful speed and control of his fast ball. Through the stands and bleachers the word went freely that the game would go to ten innings, eleven innings, twelve innings, with the chances against the tiring Salisbury. But on the Wayne bench there was a different order of conviction. Worry sparkled like flint. Homans, for once not phlegmatic, faced the coaching line at third. Raymond leaned pale and still against the bench. Ken was radiant. Reddy Ray bent over the row of bats and singled out his own. His strong, freckled hands clenched the bat and whipped it through the air. His eyes were on fire when he looked at the stricken Raymond. "Kel, something may happen yet before I get up to the plate," he said. "But if it doesn't--" Then he strode out, knocked the dirt from his spikes, and stepped into position. Something about Reddy at that moment, or something potent in the unforeseen play to come, quieted the huge crowd. Salisbury might have sensed it. He fussed with the ball and took a long while to pitch. Reddy's lithe form whirled around and seemed to get into running motion with the crack of the ball. Martin made a beautiful pick-up of the sharply bounding ball, but he might as well have saved himself the exertion. The championship sprinter beat the throw by yards. Suddenly the whole Wayne contingent arose in a body, a tribute to what they expected of Reddy, and rent Grant Field with one tremendous outburst. As it ceased a hoarse voice of stentorian volume rose and swelled on the air. "_Wayne wins!_ WATCH HIM RUN!" It came from Murray, who loved his great sprinter. Thrice Salisbury threw to MacNeff to hold Reddy close to first base, but he only wasted his strength. Then he turned toward the batter, and he had scarcely twitched a muscle in the beginning of his swing, when the keen sprinter was gone like a flash. His running gave the impression of something demon-like forced by the wind. He had covered the ground and was standing on the bag when Prince caught Conroy's throw. Pandemonium broke out in the stands and bleachers, and a piercing, continuous scream. The sprinter could not be stopped. That was plain. He crouched low, watching Salisbury. Again and again the pitcher tried to keep Reddy near second base, but as soon as Martin or Prince returned the ball Reddy took his lead off the bag. He meant to run on the first pitch; he was on his toes. And the audience went wild, and the Place varsity showed a hurried, nervous strain. They yelled to Salisbury, but neither he nor any one else could have heard a thunderbolt in that moment. Again Salisbury toed the rubber, and he hesitated, with his face turned toward second. But he had to pitch the ball, and as his elbow trembled the sprinter shot out of his tracks with the start that had made him famous. His red hair streaked in the wind like a waving flame. His beautiful stride swallowed distance. Then he sailed low and slid into the base as the ball struck Griffith's hands. Reddy was on third now, with no one out, with two balls upon Weir and no strikes. In the fury of sound runner and batter exchanged a glance that was a sign. The sprinter crouched low, watching Salisbury. For the third time, as the pitcher vibrated with the nervous force preceding his delivery, Reddy got his start. He was actually running before the ball left Salisbury's hand. Almost it seemed that with his marvellous fleetness he was beating the ball to the plate. But as the watchers choked in agony of suspense Weir bunted the ball, and Reddy Ray flashed across the plate with the winning run. Then all that seemed cheering, din, and stamping roar deadened in an earth-shaking sound like an avalanche. The students piled out of the bleachers in streams and poured on the field. An irresistible, hungry, clamoring flood, they submerged the players. Up went Ken upon sturdy shoulders, and up went Reddy Ray and Kel and Homans and Dean--all the team, and last the red-faced Worry Arthurs. Then began the triumphant march about Grant Field and to the training-house. It was a Wayne day, a day for the varsity, for Homans and Raymond, and for the great sprinter, but most of all it was Peg Ward's day. XVIII BREAKING TRAINING The Wayne varsity was a much-handled, storm-tossed team before it finally escaped the clutches of the students. Every player had a ringing in his ears and a swelling in his heart. When the baseball uniforms came off they were carefully packed in the bottoms of trunks, and twelve varsity sweaters received as tender care as if they were the flimsy finery dear to the boys' sisters. At six the players were assembled in the big reading-room, and there was a babel of exultant conversation. Worry suddenly came in, shouting to persons without, who manifestly wanted to enter. "Nothin' doin' yet! I'll turn the boys over to you in one hour!" Then he banged the door and locked it. Worry was a sight to behold. His collar was unbuttoned, and his necktie disarranged. He had no hat. His hair was damp and rumpled, and his red face worked spasmodically. "Where's Peg?" he yelled, and his little bright eyes blinked at his players. It was plain that Worry could not see very well then. Some one pushed Ken out, and Worry fell on his neck. He hugged him close and hard. Then he dived at Reddy and mauled him. Next he fell all over little crippled Raymond, who sat propped up in an arm-chair. For once Raymond never murmured for being jumped on. Upon every player, and even the substitutes, Worry expressed his joy in violent manner, and then he fell down himself, perspiring, beaming, utterly exhausted. This man was not the cold, caustic coach of the cage-days, nor the stern, hard ruler from the bench, nor the smooth worker on his players' feelings. This was Worry Arthurs with his varsity at the close of a championship season. No one but the boys who had fought at his bidding for Wayne ever saw him like that. "Oh, Peg, it was glorious! This game gives us the record and the championship. Say, Peg, this was the great game for you to win. For you made Place hit, and then when they got runners on bases you shut down on 'em. You made MacNeff look like a dub. You gave that home-run to Prince." "I sure was after MacNeff's scalp," replied Ken. "And I put the ball over for Prince to hit. What else could I do? Why, that little chunky cuss has an eye, and he can sting the ball--he's almost as good as Reddy. But, Worry, you mustn't give me the credit. Reddy won the game, you know." "You talk like a kid," replied Reddy, for once not cool and easy. "I cut loose and ran some; but, Peg, you and Raymond won the game." "Wull, you make me sick," retorted Raymond, threatening to get up. "There wasn't anything to this day but Peg Ward." Ken replied with more heat than dignity, and quick as a flash he and Reddy and Raymond were involved in a wordy war, trying to place the credit for winning the game. They dragged some of the other boys into the fierce argument. Worry laughed and laughed; then, as this loyal bunch of players threatened to come to blows, he got angry. "_Shut up!_" he roared. "I never seen such a lot of hot-headed kids. Shut up, and let me tell you who won this Place game. It'll go down on record as a famous game, so you'll do well to have it straight. Listen! The Wayne varsity won this game. Homans, your captain, won it, because he directed the team and followed orders. He hit and run some, too. Reddy Ray won this game by bein' a blue streak of chain lightnin' on the bases. Raymond won it by makin' a hit when we all expected him to fall dead. He won it twice, the second time with the greatest fieldin' play ever pulled off on Grant Field. Dean won the game by goin' up and hangin' onto Peg's jump ball. McCord won it by diggin' low throws out of the dirt. Weir was around when it happened, wasn't he--and Blake and Trace? Then there was Peg himself. He won the game a _little_. Say! he had Place trimmed when he stepped on the slab in the first innin'. So you all won the big Wayne-Place game." Then Worry advanced impressively to the table, put his hand in his breast pocket and brought forth a paper. "You've won this for me, boys," he said, spreading the paper out. "What is it?" they asked, wonderingly. "Nothin' of much importance to you boys as compared with winnin' the game, but some to Worry Arthurs." He paused with a little choke. "It's a five-year contract to coach Wayne's baseball teams." A thundering cheer attested to the importance of that document to the boys. "Oh, Worry, but I'm glad!" cried Ken. "Then your son Harry will be in college next year--will be on the team?" "Say, he'll have to go some to make next year's varsity, with only two or three vacancies to fill. Now, fellows, I want to know things. Sit down now and listen." They all took seats, leaving the coach standing at the table. "Homans, is there any hope of your comin' back to college next year?" "None, I'm sorry to say," replied the captain. "Father intends to put me in charge of his business." "Reddy, how about a post-graduate course for you? You need that P.G." "Worry, come to think of it, I really believe my college education would not be complete without that P.G.," replied Reddy, with the old cool speech, and a merry twinkle in his eye. At this the boys howled like Indians, and Worry himself did a little war-dance. "Raymond, you'll come back?" went on the coach. The second-baseman appeared highly insulted. "Come back? Wull, what do you take me for? I'd like to see the guy who can beat me out of my place next season." This brought another hearty cheer. Further questioning made clear that all the varsity except Homans, Blake, and McCord would surely return to college. "Fine! Fine! Fine!" exclaimed Worry. Then he began to question each player as to what he intended to do through the summer months, and asked him to promise not to play ball on any summer nines. "Peg, you're the one I'm scared about," said Worry, earnestly. "These crack teams at the seashore and in the mountains will be hot after you. They've got coin too, Peg, and they'll spend it to get you." "All I've got to say is they'll waste their breath talking to me," replied Ken, with a short laugh. "What are you goin' to do all summer?" asked Worry, curiously. "Where will you be?" "I expect to go to Arizona." "Arizona? What in the deuce are you goin' way out there for?" Ken paused, and then when about to reply Raymond burst out. "Worry, he says it's forestry, but he only took up that fool subject because he likes to chase around in the woods. He's nutty about trees and bears and mustangs. He was in Arizona last summer. You ought to hear some of the stories he's told me. Why, if they're true he's got Frank Nelson and Jim Hawkins skinned to a frazzle." "For instance?" asked Worry, very much surprised and interested. "Why stories about how he was chased and captured by outlaws, and lassoed bears, and had scraps with Mexicans, and was in wild caves and forest fires, and lots about a Texas ranger who always carried two big guns. I've had the nightmare ever since we've been in the training-house. Oh, Ken can tell stories all right. He's as much imagination as he's got speed with a ball. And say, Worry, he's got the nerve to tell me that this summer he expects to help an old hunter lasso mountain-lions out there in Arizona. What do you think of that?" "It's straight goods!" protested Ken, solemnly facing the bright-eyed boys. "We want to go along!" yelled everybody. "Say, Peg, I ain't stuck on that idee, not a little bit," replied the coach, dubiously. "Worry has begun to worry about next season. He's afraid Peg will get that arm chewed off," put in Reddy. "Well, if I've got to choose between lettin' Peg chase mountain-lions and seein' him chased by 'em fat-head directors, I'll take my chances with the lions." Then all in a moment Worry became serious. "Boys, it's time to break trainin'. I ain't got much to say. You're the best team I ever developed. Let it go at that. In a few minutes you are free to go out to the banquets and receptions, to all that's waitin' for you. And it will be great. To-morrow you will be sayin' good-bye to me and to each other and scatterin' to your homes. But let's not forget each other and how we plugged this year. Sure, it was only baseball, but, after all, I think good, hard play, on the square and against long odds, will do as much for you as your studies. Let the old baseball coach assure you of that." He paused, paced a few steps to and fro, hands behind his back, thoughtful and somewhat sad. The members of the varsity sat pale and still, faces straight before them, eyes shining with memory of that long up-hill struggle, and glistening, too, with the thought that the time had come for parting. "Homans, will you please see to the election of the new captain?" said Worry. Homans stepped out briskly and placed a hat, twelve folded slips of paper, and a pencil upon the table. "Fellows, you will follow me in our regular batting order," directed Homans. "Each man is to write his name on one side of a slip of paper and his choice for captain on the other side. Drop the paper in the hat." Homans seated himself at the table and quickly cast his vote. Raymond hobbled up next. Reddy Ray followed him. And so, in silence, and with a certain grave dignity of manner that had yet a suggestion of pleasure, the members of the varsity voted. When they had resumed their seats Homans turned the slips out of the hat and unfolded them. "These votes will be given to the athletic directors and kept on record," he said. "But we will never see but one side of them. That is Wayne's rule in electing captains, so the players will not know how each voted. But this is an occasion I am happy to see when we shall all know who voted for who. It shall be a little secret of which we will never speak." He paused while he arranged the slips neatly together. "There are here twelve votes. Eleven have been cast for one player--one for another player! Will you all please step forward and look?" In an intense stillness the varsity surrounded the table. There was a sudden sharp gasp from one of them. With a frank, glad smile Homans held out his hand. "CAPTAIN WARD!" THE END 
27338	----	[Illustration: IT WAS A HAMMER-AND-TONGS CONFLICT FROM START TO FINISH. _Baseball Joe Around the World_ Page 221] BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD or Pitching on a Grand Tour By LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS," "BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE," "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "THE RIGHT-OARED VICTORS," ETC. ILLUSTRATED New York CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE BASEBALL JOE AT YALE BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES 12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK BATTING TO WIN THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York Copyright, 1918, by Cupples & Leon Company Baseball Joe Around the World Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I In Deadly Peril 1 II Quick As Lightning 12 III The Stranger's Visit 22 IV The Top Of The Wave 32 V Lucky Joe 40 VI Circling The Globe 49 VII The Gathering Of The Clans 60 VIII The Rival Teams 67 IX The Under Dog 75 X By A Hair 84 XI A Close Call 93 XII A Dastardly Attack 103 XIII Danger Signals 112 XIV A Weird Game 119 XV The Bewildered Umpire 128 XVI Putting Them Over 135 XVII "Man Overboard" 143 XVIII One Strike And Out 150 XIX Braxton Joins The Party 155 XX In Mikado Land 164 XXI Running Amuck 175 XXII Taking A Chance 183 XXIII An Embarrassed Rescuer 191 XXIV The Blow Falls 200 XXV The Cobra In The Room 207 XXVI In The Shadow Of The Pyramids 213 XXVII The Signed Contract 220 XXVIII Whirlwind Pitching 227 XXIX The Ruined Castle 234 XXX Brought To Book--Conclusion 240 BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD CHAPTER I IN DEADLY PERIL "Great Scott! Look at this!" Joe Matson, or "Baseball Joe," as he was better known throughout the country, sprang to his feet and held out a New York paper with headlines which took up a third of the page. There were three other occupants of the room in the cozy home at Riverside, where Joe had come to rest up after his glorious victory in the last game of the World's Series, and they looked up in surprise and some alarm. "Land's sakes!" exclaimed his mother, pausing just as she was about to bite off a thread. "You gave me such a start, Joe! What on earth has happened?" "What's got my little brother so excited?" mocked his pretty sister, Clara. "Has an earthquake destroyed the Polo Grounds?" drawled Jim Barclay, Joe's special chum and fellow pitcher on the Giant team. "Not so bad as that," replied Joe, cooling down a bit; "but it's something that will make McRae and the whole Polo Grounds outfit throw a fit if it's true." Jim snatched the paper from Joe's hands, with the familiarity born of long acquaintance, and as his eyes fell on the headlines he gave a whistle of surprise. "'Third Major League a Certainty,'" he read. "Gee whiz, Joe! I don't wonder it upset you. That's news for fair." "Is that all?" pouted Clara, who had been having a very interesting conversation with handsome Jim Barclay, and did not relish being interrupted. Mrs. Matson also looked relieved and resumed her sewing. "Is that all?" cried Joe, as he began to pace the floor excitedly. "I tell you, Sis, it's plenty. If it's true, it means the old Brotherhood days all over again. It means a fight to disrupt the National and the American Leagues. It means all sorts of trickery and breaking of contracts. It means distrust and suspicion between the members of the different teams. It means--oh, well, what doesn't it mean? I'd rather lose a thousand dollars than know that the news is true." "But perhaps it isn't true," suggested Clara, sobered a little by her brother's earnestness. "You can't believe half the things you see in the papers." "Will it hurt your position with the Giants, Joe?" asked Mrs. Matson, her motherly instincts taking alarm at anything that threatened her idolized son. Joe stopped beside his mother's chair and patted her head affectionately. "Not for a long time if at all, Momsey," he replied reassuringly. "My contract with the Giants has two years to run, and it's as good as gold, even if I didn't throw a ball in all that time. It wasn't the money I was thinking about. As a matter of fact, I could squeeze double the money out of McRae, if I were mean enough to take advantage of him. It's the damage that will be done to the game that's bothering me." "Perhaps it won't be as bad as you think," ventured his mother. "You know the old saying that 'the worst things that befall us are the things that never happen.'" "That's the way to look at it," broke in Jim heartily. "Let's take a squint at the whole article and see how much fire there is in all this smoke." "And read it out loud," said Clara. "I'm just as much of a baseball fan as either of you two. And Momsey is, too, after all the World's Series games she's seen played." It is to be feared that Mrs. Matson's eyes had been so riveted on Joe alone, in that memorable Series when he had pitched his team to victory, that she had not picked up many points about the game in general. But anything that concerned her darling boy concerned her as well, and she let her sewing lie unheeded in her lap as Joe read the story from beginning to end. "Seems to be straight goods," remarked Jim, as Joe threw the paper aside. "They've got the money all right," rejoined Joe. "They've got two or three millionaires who are willing to take a chance and put up the coin." "One of the names seems to be rather familiar," remarked Jim, with a sidewise look at Joe. "Do you remember him?" "I remember him," replied Joe grimly, "but I'd bet a dollar against a plugged nickel that he remembers me better yet." "Who is it?" asked Clara with quickened interest. "Beckworth Fleming," replied Joe. "Rather a pretty name," remarked Mrs. Matson absently. "Prettier than he was when Joe got through with him," interposed Jim with a grin. Mrs. Matson looked up, shocked. "Oh, I hope Joe didn't hurt him!" she exclaimed. "Whatever Joe did was for the good of his soul," laughed Jim. "I can't say as much for his body." "It's all right, Momsey," smiled Joe. "He was insolent to Mabel, and I had to give him a thrashing. But that's neither here nor there. He's the spoiled son of a very rich man, and he's one of the men behind this new league. 'A fool and his money are soon parted,' and he'll probably be wiser when he gets through with this than he is now." "But why shouldn't they start a new league if they want to?" asked Mrs. Matson. "I should think they had a right to, if they wanted to do it." "Of course they have a right to," agreed Joe. "This is a free country, and any man has a right to go into any legitimate business if he thinks there's money in it. Neither the National League nor the American League have a mortgage on the game. But the trouble is that there aren't enough good players to go round. All the really good ones have been already gobbled up by the present leagues. If the new league started in with unknown players, it wouldn't take in enough money to pay the batboys. The consequence is that it tries to get the players who are already under contract by making them big offers, and that leads to all sorts of dishonesty. You take a man who is making three thousand a year and offer him six if he'll break his contract, and it's a big temptation." "They'll be after you, Joe, sure as shooting," remarked Jim. "It would be a big feather in their cap to start off with copping the greatest pitcher in the game. They'd be willing to offer you a fortune to get you. They figure that after that start the other fellows they want will be tumbling over themselves to get aboard." "Let them come," declared Joe. "I'll send them off with a flea in their ear. They'll find that I'm no contract jumper." "I'm sure that you'd never do anything mean," said his mother, looking at him fondly. "There isn't a crooked bone in his head," laughed Clara, making a face at him as he threatened her with his fist. "The contract is enough," said Joe; "but even if I were a free agent, I wouldn't go with the new league and leave McRae in the hole. I feel that I owe him a lot for the way he has treated me. He took me from a second-string team and gave me a chance to make good on the Giants. He took a chance in offering me a three-year contract in place of one. I'm getting four thousand, five hundred a year, which is a good big sum whatever way you look at it. And you remember how promptly he came across with that thousand dollars for winning twenty games last season." "We remember that, don't we, Momsey?" said Clara, patting her mother's hand. "I should say we did," replied Mrs. Matson, while a suspicious moisture came into her eyes. "Will we ever forget the day when we opened that letter from the dear boy, and the thousand-dollar bill fell out on the table? It gave us all the happiest time we have had in all our lives." Jim, too, mentally blessed that big bill which had brought the Matson family to witness the World's Series games and so had enabled him to meet Joe's charming sister. Perhaps that vivacious young lady read what was passing in his mind, for her eyes suddenly dropped as they met Jim's eloquent ones. Joe flushed at this reference to his generosity, and Clara was quick to cover her own slight confusion by rallying her brother. "He's blushing!" she declared. "I'm not," denied Joe stoutly, getting still redder. "You are so," averred his sister in mock alarm. "Stop it, Joe, before it gets to your hair. I don't want a red-headed brother." Joe made a dash at his tormentor, but she eluded him and got into another room. "Come along, Jim," said Joe, picking up his cap. "Let's warm up a little. We want to keep our salary wings in good condition, and maybe the open air will help to get the bad taste of the new league out of our mouths." They went into an open lot near by and had a half-hour's practice, pitching to each other at a moderate pace, only now and then unlimbering some of the fast balls that had been wont to stand opposing batters "on their heads" in the exciting games of the season just ended. "How does the old soup bone feel?" inquired Jim. "Fine as silk," replied Joe; "I was afraid I might have strained it in that last game. But it feels as strong now as it did at the beginning of the season." They had supper a little earlier than usual that night, for with the exception of Joe's father, who was busy on a new invention, they were all going to a show that evening at the Riverside Opera House. It promised to be an interesting entertainment, for the names of several popular actors appeared on the program. But what made it especially attractive to Joe and his party was the fact that Nick Altman, the famous pitcher of the "White Sox" of Chicago, was on the bill for a monologue. Although, being in the American League, Joe and Jim had never played against him, they knew him well by reputation and respected him for his ability in their chosen profession. "As a pitcher he sure is classy," remarked Joe. "They say that fast inshoot of his is a lulu. But that doesn't say that he's any good on the stage." "He's pulling in the coin all right," replied Jim. "They say that his contract calls for two hundred dollars a week. He won't have to eat snowballs this winter." "Jim tells me that a vaudeville manager offered you five hundred dollars a week the day after you won the championship for the Giants," said Clara. "So he did," replied Joe, "but it would have been a shame to take the money." "Such a shrinking violet," teased his sister. "I'm sure he would make a very good actor," said his mother, who would have been equally sure that he would make a good president of the United States. The night was fine, and the town Opera House was crowded to its capacity. There was a buzz and whispering as Joe and his party entered and made their way to their reserved seats near the center of the house, for Riverside regarded the famous pitcher as one of its greatest assets. He had given the quiet little village a fame that it would never have had otherwise. In the words of Sol Cramer, the hotel keeper and village oracle, Joe had "put Riverside on the map." There were three or four sketches and vaudeville turns before Altman, who, of course, was the chief attraction as far as Joe and his folks were concerned, came on the stage. He had a clever skit in which baseball "gags" and "patter" were the chief ingredients, and as he was a natural humorist his act went "big" in the phrase of the profession. Knowing that Joe lived in Riverside and would probably be in the audience, Altman adroitly introduced his name in one of his anecdotes, and was rewarded by a storm of applause which clearly showed how Joe stood in his home town. "You own this town, Joe," laughed Jim, who was seated between him and Clara--Jim could be depended on these days never to be farther away from Clara than he could help. "Yes," mocked Clara. "Any time he runs for poundkeeper he's sure to be elected." Joe was about to make some laughing retort, when his quick eye caught sight of something that made the flush fade from his face and his heart lose a beat. From the wing at the left of the stage _a tiny wisp of smoke was stealing_. Like lightning, his quick brain sensed the situation. The house was old and would burn like tinder. There were only the two exits--one on each side of the hall. And the place was crowded--and his mother was there--and Clara! His plan was formed in an instant. He must reach a narrow corridor, by which, out of sight of the audience, he could gain the back of the stage and stamp out whatever it was that was making that smoke. He rose to slip out, but at that moment a big bulk of a man sitting two seats ahead of him jumped to his feet with a yell. "Fire! Fire!" he shouted wildly. "The house is on fire!" CHAPTER II QUICK AS LIGHTNING For one awful instant the crowd sat as though paralyzed. But in that instant Joe acted. With one powerful leap he reached the frenzied shouter, his fist shot out, and the man went down as though hit with an axe. Up the aisle Joe went like a flash, cleared the orchestra rail at a bound, and with one more jump was on the stage. The audience had risen now and was crowding toward the aisles. Women screamed, some fainted, and all the conditions were ripe for a panic. Above the hubbub, Joe's voice rang out like a trumpet. "Keep your seats!" he shouted. "There's no danger. I tell you to keep your seats." The crowd halted uncertainly, fearfully, and Joe took instant advantage of the hesitation. "You know me," he cried. "I tell you there's no danger. Haven't you ever smelled cigar smoke before?" The suggestion was a happy one, and the crowd began to quiet down, regaining their courage at the sight of that indomitable figure on the stage. Jim had been only two jumps behind Joe in his rush to the front, and while Joe was calming the crowd Jim had rushed into the wing and dragged down some draperies that had caught fire from a gas jet. In a moment he had trampled them underfoot and the danger was over. The orchestra had seemed to keep its wits better than the rest of the throng, and Joe signaled to the leader to strike up a tune. The next instant the musicians swung into a popular air, and completely reassured, the people settled down into their seats. And while Joe stands there, exulting in his triumph over the panic, it may be well for the sake of those who have not read the preceding books of this series to sketch something of his life and adventures up to this time. Joe's first experience in the great game in which he was to become so famous was gained on the diamond of his own home town. He did so well there that he soon became known in the towns around as one of the best players in the county. He had many mishaps and difficulties, and how he overcame them is told in the first volume of the series, entitled, "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars; Or The Rivals of Riverside." A little later on, when playing on his school nine, he had obstacles of a different character to surmount. The bully of the school sought to down him, but found that he had made a mistake in picking out his victim. Joe's natural skill and constant practice enabled him to win laurels for himself and his school on the diamond, and prepared him for the larger field that awaited him when later on he went to Yale. As may be easily understood, with all the competition he had to meet at the great University his chance was long in coming to prove his class in the pitching box. But the homely old saying that "it is hard to keep a squirrel on the ground" was never better exemplified than in his case. There came a time when the Yale "Bulldog" was hard beset by the Princeton "Tiger," and Joe was called on to twist the Tiger's tail. How well he did it and what glory he won for his Alma Mater can be read in the third volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe at Yale; Or, Pitching for the College Championship." But even at the top notch of his popularity, Joe was restless at college. He was bright and keen in his studies and had no difficulty in standing up well in his classes. But all his instincts told him that he was made for the out-of-door life. His mother had hoped that Joe would enter the ministry, but Joe, although he had the greatest respect for that profession, did not feel that his life work lay in that direction. He had been so successful in athletic sports and took such pleasure in them that he yielded to his natural bent and decided to adopt professional baseball as his vocation. His mother was sorely grieved at first, and the more so as she felt that Joe was "stepping down" in entering the professional ranks. But Joe was able to show her that scores of college men were doing the same thing that he planned to do, and she had too good sense to press her opposition too far. The opening that Joe was looking for came when he was offered a chance to play in the Pittston team of the Central League. It was only a minor league, but all the great players have been developed in that way, and Joe determined to make it a stepping stone to something higher. How he speedily rose to leadership among the twirlers of his league is told in the fourth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the Central League; Or, Making Good as a Professional Pitcher." While Joe had been winning his spurs, the keen-eyed scouts of the big leagues had not been idle. The St. Louis team of the National League drafted him into their ranks and took him away from the "bushes." Now he felt that he was really on the highway to success. Almost from the start he created a sensation, and it was his pitching that brought his team into the first division. A still wider field opened up before him when after one year with St. Louis he was bought by the New York Giants. This had been his ambition from the start, but he had scarcely dared to hope that his dream would come true. He promised himself that he would "pitch his head off" to justify the confidence that McRae, the Giants' manager, had put in him. How he came through an exciting season and in the final game won the championship for his team can be seen in the sixth volume of the series, entitled: "Baseball Joe on the Giants; Or, Making Good as a Ball Twirler in the Metropolis." Of course this brought him into the World's Series, in which that year the Boston Red Sox were the Giants' opponents. It proved to be a whirlwind series, whose result remained in doubt until the last inning of the last game. Joe had fearful odds to contend against since an accident to Hughson, the Giants' standby, put the bulk of the pitching burden on our hero's shoulders. Unscrupulous enemies also sought by foul means to keep him out of the Series, but Joe's indomitable will and magnificent pitching won out against all odds, as told in the volume preceding this, entitled: "Baseball Joe in the World Series; Or, Pitching for the Championship." If ever a man had earned a rest it was Joe, and, as we have seen, he was taking it now in his home town. Jim Barclay, a fine young Princeton man and second-string pitcher on the Giants, had come with him, not so much, it is to be suspected, because of his fondness for Joe, though that was great, as to be near Clara, Joe's charming sister, who had been working all sorts of havoc with poor Jim's heart. By the time the orchestra had finished the tune, the panic had about subsided. But Joe was taking no chances and he motioned for a repetition. The leader obeyed, and at the end of this second playing the danger was entirely over. The audience was seated, with the exception of the man whom Joe had knocked down, who slunk shame-facedly out of the hall holding his hand on the place where the blow had landed. And now that the peril had passed, it was Joe who was panic-stricken. Though brave as a lion and quick as a panther in an emergency, he was the most modest of men and hated to pose as a hero. He was wondering what he should say or do, when Altman solved the problem by coming up to him with both hands extended. That gave the audience its cue, and in a moment a tempest of cheers swept the hall. "What's the matter with Matson?" someone shouted in a stentorian voice. "He's all right!" came back in a roar. "Who's all right?" "Matson! Joe Matson! Baseball Joe!" Men crowded forward, and in a moment Joe was surrounded by his friends and fellow townsmen, most of whom had known him when he was in knickerbockers and now were more proud of him than they had ever been, even when he returned to Riverside crowned with the laurels of his last great season. Joe was mauled and pounded until he was almost out of breath, and it was a relief when at last he had made his way back to his mother and sister. They were both crying openly with joy and pride, and the looks they turned on Joe were a greater reward than all the plaudits of his friends. There was no going on with the performance after that. The nerves of the audience were too highly keyed by the great peril that had been escaped. And they had a more dramatic scene to remember and talk about than anything that could be given them from the stage. In the excitement, a great many of those present had lost track of the friends or relatives that had been with them, and from all sides came various calls. "Where is Frank?" "Did you see what became of my sister Bessie?" "Oh, Bill! I say, Bill! Where are you?" Many of the scenes were most affecting. Women would rush into each other's arms, crying with joy to find that the lost ones were safe. "I can tell you it's a grand good thing that panic was stopped so quickly," remarked one man to another, as he gazed admiringly at the hero of the occasion. As Joe and his folks were leaving, a tall, well-dressed man stepped up to Joe and extended his hand. "Let me congratulate you, Mr. Matson," he said effusively. "That was a splendid thing you did to-night. I never saw anything finer." "I'm afraid you exaggerate it," deprecated Joe. "Not at all," said the stranger. "By the way, Mr. Matson, it's a coincidence that I came to town with the express purpose of seeing you on a business matter. But I didn't expect that my first meeting with you would be under such exciting circumstances." He took a card from his pocket and handed it to Joe. "My name, as you see, is Westland," he continued. "I'm stopping at the hotel, and I would be glad to see you there or at any place that may be convenient to you some time to-morrow." "Suppose you call at my home to-morrow morning," said Joe. "It's only about five minutes' walk from the hotel." "You needn't bother about giving me the directions," said Westland, with an ingratiating smile. "Everybody in Riverside knows where Baseball Joe lives. I'll be around at eleven o'clock." He lifted his hat and departed, while Joe and the others walked toward home. "What do you suppose he wants of you, Joe?" asked Clara, with lively curiosity. "Oh, I don't know," answered her brother carelessly. "Some reporter probably who wants to get the sad story of my life." "If it is, he'll have something to write about after to-night," put in Jim. "Great Scott! Joe, if that had happened in New York it would be spread all over the front page of to-morrow's papers." "Oh, Joe, I'm so proud of you," sighed his mother happily. "You're a brother worth having!" exclaimed Clara warmly. Jim was on the point of saying that Joe was a brother-in-law worth having, but checked himself in time. They had almost reached the house when Clara began to laugh. "What's the joke?" inquired Jim. But Clara only laughed the harder until they became a little alarmed. "No, I'm not hysterical," she said, when she could speak. "I only happened to remember what tune it was the orchestra played. I suppose it was the first thing the leader thought of, and he didn't have time to pick out another. Do you remember what it was?" They cudgeled their brains, but could not recall it. "What was it?" asked Jim. "'There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night!'" CHAPTER III THE STRANGER'S VISIT Promptly the next morning at eleven, Westland put in an appearance at the Matson home. He was carefully groomed and everything about him indicated money. He fairly exuded prosperity. He greeted Joe with a cordiality that seemed a trifle overdone, considering their brief acquaintance. "By George, Mr. Matson," he said, "this town has fallen for you all right. The whole place is buzzing with that affair of last night, and I don't wonder. If it hadn't been for you, the coroner and undertaker would be busy this morning." "Oh, I don't know," responded Joe. "If I hadn't got to it someone else would. It wasn't much of a blaze anyway, and ten to one it would have gone out of itself." "Modest I see," laughed Westland. "They say that all great men are. But you can't get anyone in this town to take such a slighting view of it as you do yourself." "You said last night that you had a business matter you wanted to see me about," suggested Joe, in order to change the subject. "So I have," replied Westland, "and I've traveled over a thousand miles to talk to you personally about it." He lighted a fresh cigar while Joe waited indifferently. He had been interviewed so much in the last year or two on all conceivable subjects that his curiosity was scarcely awakened. "Of course, Mr. Matson," began Westland, "you've heard of the new major league that has just been organized and----" Joe's bored feeling vanished and he was wide-awake in an instant. So this was what the visit meant! Jim's prediction was coming true sooner than he had expected. "Pardon me, Mr. Westland," he interrupted, "but if this is about baseball, I have a friend visiting me who is as much interested in the game as I am. In fact, he's a player himself. It's Jim Barclay of the Giants. You've heard of him, of course. Hello there, Jim!" he called, as he threw open the door into the adjoining room, where Jim was watching a distracting dimple come and go in Clara's cheek as they chatted together. "Really, Mr. Matson," said Westland, visibly flustered, "much as I would like to meet Mr. Barclay, I would rather----" But just then Jim came strolling in, and Joe hastened to introduce him. He had used the stratagem in order to have a witness at hand. He was determined that no false or twisted version of the interview should be given out broadcast in the interest of the new league. Despite his annoyance, Westland was diplomat enough to make the best of the situation, and he acknowledged the introduction graciously. "Mr. Westland called in connection with the new league we were reading about yesterday, Jim," explained Joe, "and I knew that you would be interested and so I called you in." Jim's jaw set a trifle, but he only nodded and Westland went on: "I'm a business man, Mr. Matson, and so are you. So I won't beat around the bush, but come straight to the point. You're the greatest pitcher in the country, and we want to secure your services for the new league. We've got oceans of money behind us, and we're prepared to let you name your own terms. We'll give you anything in reason--or out of reason for that matter--if you'll sign up with us." He delivered himself of this with the air of a man sure of having his offer accepted. But if he had expected Joe to gasp with astonishment and delight, he was disappointed. "Well," said Joe quietly, after a moment's pause, "that's certainly a very liberal proposition----" "Oh, we're no pikers," put in Westland complacently. "But there's one little thing in the way," Joe went on; "and that is that I'm already signed up with the Giants for the next two years." Westland saw that he was in for a tussle and braced himself. "Of course, of course," he said, with the tolerant smile of a man of the world. "I didn't think for a minute that McRae would let his kingpin run around loose without being signed up. But you know what baseball contracts are. They're so jug handled that no court would uphold them for a minute. In fact, McRae wouldn't dare to bring it into court. He may threaten and bluster, but that will be the end of it. That ten-day clause alone would kill it with any judge." "Even admitting that I could break my contract with the Giants and get away with it," said Joe, leading him on, "what guarantee would you have that I wouldn't do the same thing with you if I should want to?" "The guarantee of your own self-interest," replied Westland, flicking the ash from his cigar. "We'd make it so much worth your while to stay with us that there wouldn't be any inducement to go anywhere else." "In other words," said Joe, with a touch of sarcasm, "if you once bought me you'd rely on your money to see that I'd stay bought." "Now, now, Mr. Matson," put in Westland deprecatingly, "there's no use putting it in so harsh a way as that. This is simply business I'm talking to you, and in this world every man has got to look out for Number One. Now I don't know how much money McRae pays you, but I make a guess that it's about five thousand a year, a little more or a little less. Now I'll tell you what we're prepared to do. We'll hand you twenty thousand dollars the day you put your signature to a contract with us. Then we'll agree to pay you fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-years' term. And to make the whole thing copper riveted, we'll put the whole amount in the bank now, subject to your order as you go along. So that even if the new league should break up, you could loaf for three years and be sixty-five thousand dollars to the good." With the air of one who had played his trump card and felt sure of taking the trick, Westland from out his pocket drew a fountain pen. "Put up your pen, Mr. Westland," said Joe calmly, "unless you want to write to those who sent you here that there's nothing doing." Jim brought his fist down on the arm of his chair with a bang. "That's the stuff, Joe!" he cried jubilantly. "You knocked a home run that time." A look of blended astonishment and vexation came into Westland's eyes. He seemed to doubt the evidence of his ears. "Surely you're joking, Mr. Matson," he said. "No man in his senses would turn down such an offer as that." "I must be out of my senses then," replied Joe, "for that's exactly what I'm doing." "Perhaps you think we're bluffing," said Westland, "but money talks, and here is where it fairly shouts." He drew from his pocket a roll of bills of large denominations and laid it on the table. "There's the signing-up money," he explained. "They wanted me to bring a certified check, but I insisted on the actual cash. Count it if you like and take it to the bank if you doubt that it's good. There's twenty thousand dollars in that roll, and every cent of it's yours if you put your name at the bottom of this contract." He laid an official-looking document on the table beside the bills, and leaned back in his chair, ostensibly intent on the end of his cigar, but watching Joe keenly from the corner of his eyes. That pile of crisp yellowbacks was more money than Joe had ever seen at one time in his life, except through the bars of a cashier's cage. And all he had to do was to reach out, sign his name, and the next minute thrust the bills into his pocket. They meant independence. They meant security. They meant the power and comfort and luxury that money can give. But they also meant treachery and dishonor, and Joe never wavered for an instant. "It's a lot of money, Mr. Westland," he agreed, "but it isn't enough." A look of relief came into Westland's eyes. Perhaps his task wasn't hopeless after all. "If that's the case, perhaps we can raise the figures a little," he said eagerly, "although we thought we were making a very liberal offer. But as I said before, we're no pikers, and we wouldn't let a few thousands stand between us. State your terms." "You don't understand," replied Joe. "What I meant was that there isn't money enough in your whole crowd to make me go back on my word and jump my contract." "Hot off the bat!" exclaimed Jim. "Gee, I wish McRae and Robbie and the rest of the Giant bunch could have heard this pow-wow." Westland evidently had all he could do to contain himself. He had felt so serenely confident in the power of his money that he had scarcely allowed himself to think of failure. Yet here was his money flouted as though it were counterfeit, and he himself, instead of being greeted with open arms, was being treated with scorn and contempt. "Upon my word, Mr. Matson," he said, with an evident effort to keep cool, "you have a queer way of meeting a legitimate business proposition." "That's just the trouble," retorted Joe. "It isn't legitimate and you know it. In the first place you're offering me a good deal more than I'm worth." "Oh, I don't know about that," expostulated Jim loyally. "There's at least one man in the league getting that much, and he never saw the day when he was a better man than you are." "More than I'm worth," repeated Joe. "Still, if that were all, and you were simply trying to buy my baseball ability, it would be your own affair if you were bidding too high. But you don't want to give me all this money because I'm a good pitcher. It's because you want to make me a good liar. You think that every man has his price and it's only a matter of bidding to find out mine." "Now, now!" said Westland, spots of color coming into his cheeks. "And more than that," went on Joe, not heeding the interruption, "you want to make me a tool to lead others to break their contracts, too. I'm to be the bellwether of the flock. You figure that if it's once spread abroad that Matson has jumped into the new league, it will start a stampede of contract breakers. I tell you straight, Westland, it's dirty business. If you want to start a new league, go ahead and do it in a decent way. Get new players and develop them, or get star players whose contracts have expired. Play the game, but do it without marked cards or loaded dice." Westland saw that he had lost, and he threw diplomacy to the winds. "Keep your advice till it's asked for!" he snarled, snatching up the money and jamming it viciously into his pocket. "I didn't come to this jay town to be lectured by a hick----" "What's that?" cried Joe, springing to his feet. Westland was so startled by the sudden motion that he almost swallowed his cigar. Before Joe's sinewy figure he stepped back and mumbled an apology. Then he reached for his hat, and without another word stalked out of the house, his features convulsed with anger and chagrin. As he flung himself out of the gate, he almost collided with a messenger boy bringing a telegram to Joe. The latter signed for it and tore it open hastily. It was from the Giants' manager and read: "I hear the new league is coming after you hotfoot. But I'm betting on you, Joe. "McRae." He handed it over to Jim who read it with a smile. "Betting on me, is he?" said Joe. "Well, Mac, you win!" CHAPTER IV THE TOP OF THE WAVE While they were still discussing the telegram, Joe's father came home to lunch from the harvester works where he was employed. He seemed ten years younger than he had before the trip to the World's Series, which he in his quiet way had enjoyed quite as much as the rest of the family. He greeted the young men cordially. "I met a man a little way down the street who seemed to have come from here," he said, as he hung up his hat. "He had his hat jammed down on his head, and was muttering to himself as though he were sore about something." "He was," replied Jim with a grin. "He laid twenty-five thousand dollars on the table, and he was sore because Joe wouldn't take it up." Mr. Matson looked bewildered, but his astonishment was not as great as that of Clara, who at that moment put her head in the door to announce that lunch was ready. "What are you millionaires talking about?" she asked. "What do millionaires usually talk about?" answered Jim loftily. "Money--the long green--iron men--filthy lucre--yellowbacks----" "If you don't stop your nonsense you sha'n't have any lunch," threatened Clara, "and that means something, too, for mother has spread herself in getting it up." "Take it all back," said Jim promptly. "I'm as sober as a judge. Lead me to this lunch, fair maiden, and I'll tell you nothing but the plain, unvarnished truth. But even at that, I'm afraid you'll think I'm romancing." The merry group seated themselves at the table, and Clara, all alive with curiosity, demanded the fulfilment of Jim's promise. "Well," said Jim, "the simple truth is that that fellow who was here this morning offered Joe sixty-five thousand dollars for three years' work." Mrs. Matson almost dropped her knife and fork in her amazement. Mr. Matson sat up with a jerk, and Clara's eyes opened to their widest extent. "Sixty-five thousand dollars!" gasped Joe's father. "For three years' work!" exclaimed Mrs. Matson. "Why," stammered Clara, "that's--that's--let me see--why, that's more than twenty-one thousand dollars a year." "That's what," replied Jim, keenly relishing the sensation he was causing. "And it wasn't stage money either. He had brought twenty thousand dollars with him in bills, and he laid it down on the table as carelessly as though it was twenty cents. And all that this modest youth, who sits beside me and isn't saying a word, had to do to get that money was to put his name on a piece of paper." "Joe," exclaimed Clara, "do tell us what all this means! Jim is just trying to tantalize us." "Stung!" grinned Jim. "That's what comes from mixing in family matters." "Why, it's this way, Sis," laughed Joe. "That fellow traveled a thousand miles to call me a hick. I wouldn't stand for it and made him take it back and then he got mad and skipped." "Momsey," begged Clara in desperation, "can't you make these idiots tell us just what happened?" "Them cruel woids!" ejaculated Jim mournfully. "Do tell us, Joe!" entreated his mother. "I'm just dying to know all about it." Teasing his mother was a very different thing from teasing Clara, who was an adept at that art herself, and Joe surrendered immediately. They forgot to eat--all except Jim, who seldom carried forgetfulness so far--while he told them about Westland's call and his proposition to Joe to break his contract and jump to the new league. Sixty-five thousand dollars was a staggering amount of money, a fortune, in fact, in that quiet town, and yet there was not one of that little family who didn't rejoice that Joe had turned the offer down. "You did the right thing, Joe," said his father heartily; "and the fact that lots of people would call you foolish doesn't change things in the least. A man who sells himself for a hundred thousand dollars is just as contemptible as one who sells himself for a dollar. I'm proud of you, my boy." "I could have told beforehand just what Joe would do," said Mrs. Matson, wiping her eyes. "You're the darlingest brother ever!" exclaimed Clara, coming round the table and giving him a hug and a kiss. The thought of Clara being a sister to him had never appealed to Jim before, but just at that moment it would have had its advantages. For the rest of the meal all were engrossed in talking of the great event of the morning--that is, all but Joe, who kept casting surreptitious glances at the clock. "Don't get worried, Joe," said his sister mischievously, as she intercepted one of his glances. "Mabel's train doesn't get in until half-past two, and it isn't one o'clock yet." Joe flushed a little and Jim laughed. "Can you blame him?" he asked. "Not a bit," answered Clara. "Mabel's a darling and I'm crazy to get hold of her. After Joe, though, of course," she added. Joe threw his napkin at her but missed. "Sixty-five thousand dollars for a baseball player who can't throw any straighter than that," she mocked. "It's a lucky thing for the new league that you didn't take their money." "Maybe I had better take their money after all!" cried Joe tantalizingly. At these words Clara threw up her hands in mock horror. "You just dare, Joe Matson, and I'll disown you!" "Ah-ha! And now I'm disowned and cast out of my home!" exclaimed the young baseball player tragically. "Woe is me!" "I don't believe any decent player would ever have anything to say to you, Joe, if you did such a mean thing as that," went on Clara seriously. And at this Joe nodded affirmatively. An hour later, all three, chatting merrily, were on their way to the train. But their progress was slow, for at almost every turn they were stopped by friends who wanted to shake hands with Joe and congratulate him on his presence of mind the night before. "One of the penalties of having a famous brother," sighed Clara, when this had happened for the twentieth time. "You little hypocrite," laughed Jim. "You know that you're just bursting with pride. You're tickled to death to be walking alongside of him. Stop your sighing. Follow my example. I'm tickled to death to be walking alongside of you and you don't hear _me_ sighing. I feel more like singing." "For goodness' sake, don't," retorted Clara in mock alarm. "Oh, dear, here's another one!" "Were you addressing me when you said 'dear'?" asked Jim politely. Clara flashed him an indignant glance, just as Professor Enoch Crabbe, of the Riverside Academy, stepped up and greeted Joe. He was earnest in his congratulations, but his manner was so stilted that they looked at each other with an amused smile, as he stalked pompously away. "I wonder if he believes now that I can throw a curve," laughed Joe. "He ought to ask some of the Red Sox who whiffed away at them in the World Series," said Jim with a grin. "They didn't have any doubt about it." "Professor Crabbe had very serious doubts," explained Joe. "In fact, he said it was impossible. Against all the laws of motion and all that sort of thing. I had to rig up a couple of bamboo rods in a line, and get Dick Talbot, a friend of mine in the moving-picture business, to take a picture of the ball as it curved around the rods, before I could prove my point." "Did it convince him?" queried Jim. "It stumped him, anyway," replied Joe. "But sometimes I have a sneaking notion that he thinks yet that Dick and I played some kind of a bunco game on him by doctoring the film." "Well, I hope that nobody else stops us," remarked Clara. "It seems to me that almost everybody in Riverside is on the street this afternoon." "It wouldn't be such an awful mob at that," replied Jim. "But it's a safe bet that one man at least won't stop Joe to shake hands with him." "Who is that?" asked Clara. "The fellow who yelled 'Fire' in the hall last night," answered Jim with a grin. "I hope I didn't hurt him," observed Joe, thoughtfully. "Perish the thought," replied Jim. "You just caressed him. He was a big fellow, and he probably sat down just to take a load off his feet." "I'm glad he wasn't a Riverside man, anyway," remarked Joe, loyal to his home town. "I never saw him before. Probably he came from some place near by." "Oh, then, of course he won't mind it," chaffed Jim. "Of all the nonsense----" Clara was beginning, when her eye caught sight of a figure she recognized on the station platform which they had nearly reached. She nudged her brother's elbow. "There's the man you were talking to this morning," she said in a low voice. "By George, so it is!" replied Joe, as he followed her glance. "And he's talking to Altman. Trying to make him a convert." "A renegade, you mean," growled Jim. CHAPTER V LUCKY JOE Westland saw the party coming, and with a scowl turned his back upon them. Altman, however, greeted Joe with a smile and, excusing himself to Westland, went over to meet him with extended hand. "How are you, old scout?" he exclaimed. "You sure batted .300 last night." Joe greeted him cordially, while Jim and Clara strolled on toward the end of the platform. It was astonishing what good company those two were to each other, and how well they bore the absence of anybody else from their conversation. "I'm feeling fine as silk," was Joe's response to Altman's question. "Didn't sprain your salary wing, or anything like that?" grinned Altman. "You fetched that fellow an awful hit in the jaw." "I hated to do it, but it was coming to him," laughed Joe. "Well, if there are any doctors' bills, I guess the Riverside people will be willing to take up a collection to pay them," replied Altman. "It's mighty lucky for the town that you happened to be in the crowd last night." "I suppose you're off to keep your next engagement," said Joe, to change the subject. "By the way, Nick, that was a mighty nifty skit of yours at the hall last night. It brought down the house. It ought to pull big everywhere." "I'm glad you liked it," replied Altman. "I'm booked for twenty weeks and I'm drawing down good money." "I suppose you'll be with the White Sox next year, as usual," said Joe. Altman hesitated. "W-why, I suppose so," he said slowly. "My contract with them has another year to run. To tell the truth, though, Joe, I'm somewhat unsettled." "Why," said Joe, "you're not going to give up the game for the stage, are you?" "Oh, nothing like that," replied Altman. "I'd rather play ball than eat, and I'll stick to the game as long as this old wing of mine can put them over the plate. But whether I'll be with the White Sox or not is another question." "Some other team in the American league trying to make a dicker for you?" asked Joe. "Not that I've heard anything about," responded Altman. "But the American League isn't the whole cheese in baseball--nor the National League, either, for that matter." "I see Westland has been talking to you," said Joe. "I don't want to butt in, Nick, but don't let him put one over on you." "The new league seems to have barrels of money," replied Altman, evading a direct answer. "This fellow Westland seems aching to throw it to the birds--he's got a wad in his pocket that would choke a horse." "Yes," said Joe dryly, "I've seen that wad before. But take a fool's advice, Nick, and stick to the old ship." "That's all very well," said Altman. "But a man's worth all that he will bring in any other line of work--and why shouldn't it be so in baseball? Who is it that brings the money in at the gate, anyway? We're the ones that the public come to see, but it's the bosses that get all the money." "Lay off on that 'poor, down-trodden slave' talk, Nick," said Joe earnestly. "You know as well as I do that there are mighty few fellows who get as well paid for six months' work as we ball players do. But, leave that out of the question for a minute--don't you suppose the backers of this new league are just as eager to make money out of us as anybody else? Do you think they're in the game for the sport of it? And don't you know that the coming of a new league just now is likely to wreck the game? You know how it was in the old Brotherhood days--they did the same crooked work then that they're trying to do now--bribing men to jump their contracts by offers of big money. The game got a blow then that it took years to recover from, and there wasn't a single major league player that in the long run, didn't suffer from it. Play the game, Nick--and let's show these fellows that they can't buy us as they would so many cattle." Altman was visibly impressed, and Westland, who had been watching proceedings out of the corner of his eye, thought it time to intervene. He strolled down toward them and without looking at Joe, spoke directly to Altman. "Train's coming, Nick," he said. "I just heard the whistle. I'll stay with you so that we can get seats together in the smoker." "Well, good-bye, Joe!" said Altman. "I'm glad to have seen you again, anyway, and I'll promise not to do anything hastily." And as Jim and Clara came hurrying up at that moment, Joe had to be content with the hope that, at least, he had put a spoke in Westland's wheel. The train was in sight now, and all thoughts of baseball were banished for the moment at the thought of what that train was bringing to him. With a rush and a roar the train drew up at the station. The colored porter jumped down the steps of the parlor car to assist the descending passengers. Joe uttered an exclamation, and Clara gave a little squeal of delight as two young people, whom a family resemblance proclaimed to be brother and sister, came hurriedly down the steps. In a moment they were the center of an eager and tumultuous group. "Mabel!" exclaimed Joe,--at least that was all that they heard him say just then. What he said to her later on is none of our business. The girls hugged and kissed each other, much to the aggravation of the masculine contingent, while Reggie Varley extended his two hands, which were grasped cordially by Joe and Jim. The romance which had culminated in the engagement of Mabel Varley and Joe dated back two years earlier. Joe had been in a southern training camp, in spring practice with his team, when one day he had been lucky enough to stop a runaway horse which Mabel had been driving, and thus saved her from imminent danger and possible death. The acquaintance, so established, rapidly deepened into friendship and then into something stronger. Mabel was a charming girl with lustrous brown eyes, wonderful complexion and dimples that came and went in a distracting fashion, and it was no wonder that Joe before long was a helpless but willing captive. She, on her part, developed a sudden fondness for the great national game to which she had hitherto been indifferent. They had met many times during the season, and with every meeting her witchery over Joe had become more potent. He had stolen a glove from her during one of his visits to Goldsboro, her home town in the South, and during the exciting games of the last World's Series he had worn it close to his heart when he had pitched his team to victory. And when he told her this on the night following the famous game that had set the whole country wild with excitement, and told her too, that victory meant nothing, unless she shared it with him, she had capitulated and promised to become his wife. Reggie, her brother, had formed Joe's acquaintance earlier than Mabel and in a less pleasant way. He was a rather foppish young man who cultivated a mustache that the girls called "darling," and affected what he fondly believed to be an English accent. In a railway station he had left his valise near where Joe was sitting, and, on his return, found that the valise had been opened and some valuable jewelry stolen from it. He had rashly accused Joe of the theft, and had narrowly escaped a thrashing from that indignant young man, in consequence. The matter had been patched up at the time, and afterward, when Joe learned that he was Mabel's brother, had been forgiven entirely. The men were now on the most cordial of terms, for Reggie, despite his peculiarities and though he would never "set the river on fire" with his intellectual ability, was by no means a bad fellow. There was a merry hubbub of greetings and exclamations while the men arranged for the baggage and the girls asked each other twenty questions at once and then the party paired off for the walk to the Matson home--that is, Joe and Mabel and Jim and Clara, formed the pairs, while Reggie was, so to speak, a fifth wheel to the coach! Not that this bothered Reggie in the least. He ambled along amiably, dividing his talk and attentions impartially, serenely unconscious that each pair was willing to bestow him upon the other. "We ought to have a band playing 'See, the Conquering Hero Comes,'" remarked Jim to Mabel, who was walking in front with Joe. "I know he's a hero," said Mabel, her eyes eloquent as she looked at Joe. "I can hardly pick up the paper but what it calls him the hero of the World's Series." "I don't mean a baseball hero," said Jim, "but a real, honest-to-goodness hero--the life-saver and all that kind of stuff, you know." "Yes," joined in Clara, "you came a day too late, Mabel. You ought to have seen Joe at the Opera House last night. He was simply great." "At the Opera House?" Mabel repeated, in some bewilderment. "Sure," chaffed Jim. "Didn't you know Joe'd gone on the stage?" "Yes," said Clara, carrying out the mystification. "He made a hit, too." "There was at least one man in the audience he made a hit with," chuckled Jim. "Don't let them fool you, Mabel," said Joe, tenderly. "There was just a little excitement at the Opera House last night and Jim and I took a hand in stopping it. They're making an awful lot of a very simple matter." "You've no idea what a voice Joe has for public speaking," persisted the irrepressible Jim. "Last night he was a howling success." "Clara, dear, tell me all about it," entreated Mabel. "We girls are the only ones who can talk sense." Thus appealed to, Clara told about the circumstances of the night before, and, as may be imagined, Joe did not suffer in the telling. If the latter had needed any other reward for his exploit he found it in Mabel's eyes as she looked at him. "I thought I knew all about you before," she said, in a half whisper, "but I'm learning all the time!" CHAPTER VI CIRCLING THE GLOBE When the party reached the Matson home, motherly Mrs. Matson took Mabel into her arms as she had long since taken her into her heart. Then Clara took her up to her room to refresh herself after the journey, while Jim and Joe took care of Reggie and his belongings. "Oh, I'm so glad that you've got here at last!" exclaimed Clara, as she placed an affectionate hand on Mabel's shoulder. "And you may be sure that I'm glad that I am here," was the happy response. "I declare, this place almost feels like home to me." "Well, you know, we want it to feel like home to you, Mabel," answered Joe's sister, and looked so knowingly at the visitor that Mabel suddenly began to blush. In the meantime, Joe had taken Reggie to the room which the young man was to occupy during his stay. Joe carried both of the bags, which were rather heavy, for the fashionable young man was in the habit of taking a good share of his wardrobe along whenever he left home. "Some weight to one of these bags, Reggie," remarked Joe good-naturedly, as he deposited the big Gladstone on the floor with a thud. "You must have about three hundred and fifteen new neckties in there." "Bah Jove, that's a good joke, Joe, don't you know!" drawled Reggie. "But you're wrong, my boy; I haven't more than ten neckties with me on this trip." "Say, I'm glad to know you've got so many. Maybe I'll want to borrow one," went on Joe, continuing his joke. "Of course you can have one of my neckties if you want it, Joe," returned the fashionable young man quickly. "I've got a beautiful lavender one that ought to just suit you. And then there is a fancy striped one, red and green and gold, which is the most stunning thing, don't you know, you ever saw. I purchased it at a fashionable shop on Fifth Avenue the last time I was in New York. If you wore that tie, Joe, you would certainly make a hit." "Well, you see, I'm not so much of a hitter as I am of a pitcher," returned Joe; "so I guess I'd better not rob you of that tie. Come to think of it, I got several new ties myself last Christmas and on my birthday. I think they'll see me through very nicely. But I'm much obliged just the same. And now, Reggie, make yourself thoroughly at home." "Oh, I'll be sure to do that," returned Mabel's brother. "You're a fine fellow, Joe; and I often wonder how it was I quarreled with you the first time we met." "We'll forget about that," answered Joe shortly. Naturally the men returned to the living room first, and while they were waiting impatiently for the girls to rejoin them, Joe caught sight of a letter resting against the clock on the mantelpiece. He took it up and saw that it was addressed to himself, and that it bore the postmark of New York. He recognized the handwriting at once. "It's from McRae," he said. "The second message I've received from the old boy to-day, counting the telegram this morning. Excuse me, fellows, while I look it over." He tore it open hastily and read with glowing interest and excitement. "The World Tour's a go!" he cried, handing the letter over to Jim. "Mac's got it all settled at last. When we said good-bye to him in New York it was all up in the air. But trust Mac to hustle--he's got enough promises to make up the two teams and now he's calling on us, Jim, to keep our word and go with the party. We're all to meet in Chicago for the start on the nineteenth of the month." "Gee!" exclaimed Jim. "That doesn't give us very much time. Let's see," as he snatched up a newspaper and scanned the top line. "To-day's the sixteenth. We'll have to get a wiggle on." "Bah Jove," lisped Reggie. "It's bally short notice, don't you know? How long will you fellows be gone?" "Just about six months," said Joe, his face lengthening as he reflected on what it meant to be all that time away from Mabel. "What's all this pow-wow about?" came a merry voice from the door, as the girls tripped in, their arms about each other's waist. "I'm glad we girls aren't as talkative as you men," said Clara, mischievously. "When we do talk we at least say something," added Mabel. "What is it, Joe?" "I'm afraid it's rather bad news in a way," said Joe. "I've just got a letter from McRae in which he tells me that he's completed all arrangements for a baseball tour around the world. You know, Mabel, that I spoke to you about it just before we left New York. But it was only a vague idea then and something of the kind is talked about at the end of every baseball season. Usually though, it only ends in talk, and the teams make a barnstorming trip to San Francisco or to Cuba. But this time it seems to have gone through all right. And now Mac is calling upon Jim and me to go along." "My word!" broke in Reggie, "anyone would think it was a bally funeral to hear you talk and see your face. I should think you'd be no-end pleased to have a chance to go." To tell the truth, neither Joe nor Jim seemed elated at the prospect. Joe's eyes sought Mabel, while Jim's rested on Clara, and neither one of those young ladies was so obtuse as not to know what the young men were thinking. "When do you have to go?" asked Clara, soberly. "We have to be in Chicago by the nineteenth," answered Joe, "and we'll have to leave here the day before. To-day's the sixteenth and you can see for yourself how much time that gives us to stay in Riverside." "No rest for the wicked," said Reggie, jocularly. "'Pon honor, you boys have earned a rest after the work you did against the Red Sox." Clara was very far from her vivacious self as she thought of the coming separation, but Joe was surprised and the least bit hurt to see how lightly Mabel seemed to regard it. "It's too bad, of course," she said, cheerfully, "but we'll have to make the best of these two days at least. It's a pity, though, that it wasn't November nineteenth instead of October." "We could have started a bit later if it were only for the foreign trip," explained Jim, "but we're going to play a series of exhibition games between here and the Coast, and we've got to take advantage of what good weather there is left. If we can only get to the Rockies before it's too cold to play, we'll be all right, because in California they're able to play all the year round." "My word!" exclaimed Reggie, "I don't see why they don't cut out the exhibition games altogether. I should think this country had had baseball enough for one season." "Not when the Giants and an All-American team are the players," replied Joe. "The people will come out in crowds--they'll fairly beg us to take their money." "And it will be worth taking," chimed in Jim. "Do you know how much money the teams took in before they reached the coast on their last World's Trip? Ninety-seven thousand dollars. Count them, ladies and gentlemen--ninety-seven thousand dollars in good American dollars!" he added grandly. "That sounds like a lot of money," said Reggie, thoughtfully. "And they'll need every cent of it too," said Joe. "It's the only way a trip of that kind can be carried on. The teams travel in first-class style, have the finest quarters on the ship, and stay at the best hotels. In the games abroad there won't be money enough taken in, probably, to cover expenses. Then the money we've taken in from the exhibition games will come in handy." "How many men are going in the two teams?" inquired Clara. "I imagine each team will carry about fourteen men," replied Joe. "That will give them three pitchers, two catchers, an extra infielder and outfielder, beside the other members of the team. That ought to be enough to allow for sickness or accident." "How much do you fellows expect to get out of it for yourselves?" asked Reggie. "That's just a matter of guess work," Joe replied. "I understand that what is left after all expenses are paid will be divided equally among the players. On the last World's Trip I think it amounted to about a thousand dollars apiece. But then again, it may not be a thousand cents. All we really know is that we'll have a chance to see the world in first-class style without its actually costing us a dollar." "Oh, you lucky men!" said Clara, with a sigh. "You can go trotting all over the world, while we poor girls have to stay at home and look for an occasional letter from your highnesses--that is, if you deign to write to us at all." "I'll guarantee to keep the postman busy," said Jim, fervently. "Same here," said Joe, emphatically, as his eyes met Mabel's. "Do you know just what route you'll follow?" Reggie asked. "Our first stop will be at Hawaii," replied Joe, consulting his letter. "So that the first game we play outside of the States will still be under the American flag. We'll see Old Glory again, too, when we strike the Philippines. But that will come a little later. After we leave Hawaii, we won't see dry land again until we get to Japan." "I fancy we'll get some good games there, too," broke in Jim. "Those little Japs have gone in for the game with a vengeance. Do you remember the time when their Waseda and Keio University teams came over to this country? They gave our Princeton and Yale fellows all they could do to beat them." "Yes," said Joe, "they're nifty players when it comes to fielding and they're fleet as jack rabbits on the bases--but they're a little light at the bat. When it comes to playing before their home crowds they'll be a pretty stiff proposition." "Do you take in China at all?" asked Reggie. "We'll probably stop at Shanghai and Hongkong," replied Joe. "I don't imagine the Chinks can scrape up any kind of a baseball team, but there are big foreign colonies at both of those places and they'll turn out in force to see players from the States. Then after touching at Manila, we'll go to Australia, taking in all the big towns like Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide. While of course the Australians are crazy about cricket, like all Englishmen, they're keen for every kind of athletic sport, and we're sure of big crowds there. After that we sail for Ceylon and from there to Egypt." "I'd like to see Egypt better than any other place," broke in Clara. "I've always been crazy to go there." "It's full of curiosities," remarked Jim. "There's the Sphinx, for instance--a woman who hasn't said a word for five thousand years." Clara flashed a withering glance at him, under which he wilted. "Don't mix your Greek fable and your Egyptian facts, Jim," chuckled Joe. "Huh?" "Fact. Since this trip's been in the wind, I've been reading up. Those Egyptian sphinxes--those that haven't a ram's or a hawk's head--have a man's, not a woman's, head." "That's why they've been able to keep still so long, then!" exclaimed Jim. "You mean thing!" cried Mabel. "Don't lay that up against me," he begged, penitently, "and I'll send you back a little crocodile from the Nile." "Oh, the horrid thing!" cried Clara with a shudder. "I'm doing the best I can," said Jim, plaintively. "I can't send you one of the pyramids." "That's the last we'll see of Africa," went on Joe. "After that, we set sail for Italy and land at Naples. Then we work our way up through Rome, Florence, Milan, Monte Carlo, Marseilles, Paris and London. We'll stay about a month in Great Britain, visiting Glasgow, Edinburgh and Dublin. Then we'll make tracks for home, and maybe we won't be glad to get here!" The vision conjured up by this array of famous cities offered such scope for endless surmise and speculation that they were surprised at the flight of time when Mrs. Matson smilingly summoned them to supper. Of course, Joe sat beside Mabel and Jim beside Clara. If, in the course of the evening meal, Joe's hand and Mabel's met beneath the table, it was purely by accident. Jim, on his side would cheerfully have risked such an accident, but had no such luck. Joe was happy, supremely happy in the presence by his side of the dearest girl in all the world. Yet there was a queer little ache at his heart because of the apparent indifference with which Mabel had viewed their coming separation. "You haven't said once," he said to her in a low tone, with a touch of tender reproach, "that you were sorry I was going." "Why should I," answered Mabel, demurely, "since I am going with you?" CHAPTER VII THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS If Mabel had counted on creating a sensation, she succeeded beyond her wildest hopes. For a moment, Joe thought that he must have taken leave of his senses. "What!" he cried, incredulously, half rising to his feet. This sudden ejaculation drew the attention of all the others seated at the table. "Land sakes, Joe!" expostulated his mother, "you almost made me upset my tea cup. What's the matter?" "Enough's the matter," responded Joe, jubilantly. "That is, if Mabel really means what she said just now." "What was it you said, Mabel dear?" asked Clara. "Come, 'fess up," invited Jim. "I guess I'll let Reggie tell the rest of it," said Mabel, blushing under the battery of eyes turned upon her. "All right, Sis," said Reggie, affably. "Bah Jove, I give you credit for holding in as long as you have. The fact is," he continued, beaming amiably upon all the party, "the governor asked me to take a trip to Japan and China, and Mabel put in to come along. I didn't twig what the little minx was up to, until she said we could go on the same steamer that took the baseball party. Lots of other women--wives of the managers and players and so on--will go along, I understand. So there's the whole bally story in a nutshell. Rippin' good idea I call it--what?" "Glory hallelujah!" cried Joe, grasping Mabel's hand, openly this time. "It's simply great!" cried Jim, enthusiastically. "You darling, lucky girl!" exclaimed Clara, while Mr. and Mrs. Matson smiled their pleasure. "Had you up in the air for a minute, didn't it, old top?" grinned Reggie. "I should say it did," Joe admitted. "I thought for a minute I was going crazy. Somebody pinch me." Jim reached over and accommodated him. "Ouch!" cried Joe, rubbing his arm. "You needn't be so literal." "There's nothing I wouldn't do for my friends," said Jim, piously. Questions poured in thick and fast. "How can you possibly get ready in time?" asked Clara. "It's the sixteenth now, and the teams leave Chicago on the nineteenth." "Oh, we're not going to make the trip across the country," explained Mabel, flushed with happiness. "Reggie and I will join the party in San Francisco or Seattle, or wherever they start from. So that will give us nearly a month, and I'm going to spend most of that right here--if you can stand me that long." Clara came round the table and gave her an impulsive hug. "I'd be glad to have you stay here forever," said Mrs. Matson fervently. Just here a thought struck Joe. "It's the greatest thing ever that you're going as far as Japan," he said. "But why can't you keep on with us and swing right around the circle?" "You greedy boy!" murmured Mabel. "We've thought of that too," explained Reggie. "The governor promised Mabel a trip round the world as soon as she got through with the finishing school. She could have gone last year if she had chosen, but she got so interested in baseball----" "Reggie!" murmured Mabel, warningly. "Well, anyway," said Reggie a little lamely, "she didn't go, and so I put it up to the governor that there was no reason she couldn't go now. He saw it the same way--he's a rippin' good sort, the governor is--and he's left it to us to make the trip all the way round--that is, if I can get through my business in Japan in time." "If you don't get through in time, there'll be murder done," threatened Joe. In the animated talk that ensued all took a part. But toward the end of the meal, Joe noticed that Jim was a little more subdued than was usual with him, and that some of the sparkle and vivacity had vanished from Clara's eyes and voice. He glanced from one to the other and knew the reason. He knew how deep the feeling was growing between the two and realized what the coming six-months' separation would mean to them. A generous impulse came to him like a flash. "Listen folks," he said. "Surprises seem to be in fashion, so here's another one. Clara's going along with us." Astonishment and delight held Clara speechless--then she rose and flung her arms impulsively about her brother's neck, and for the second time that day Jim would have been willing to let her be a sister to him also. Jim reached his brawny hand across the table. "Put her there, Joe, old boy!" he said. "You're the finest fellow that ever wore shoe leather." "Won't it be just glorious!" exulted Mabel. "There never was such a boy in all the world," murmured Joe's mother. "But, Joe dear, won't it be too great an expense?" suggested Clara. "You know it's less than a month since you sent us that thousand-dollar bill that took us to the World's Series." "That's all right, Sis," reassured Joe, patting her hand. "Remember I cleared nearly four thousand dollars extra in the World's Series, and this won't put much of a dent in that. You just go ahead and doll yourself up--and hang the expense." And so it was settled, and it is safe to say that a group of happier young people could not be found anywhere than those who discussed excitedly, until late into the night, the coming trip with all its marvelous possibilities. The next two days flew by all too rapidly. The girls, of course, had plenty of time, but Joe and Jim had a host of things to attend to and a very limited time to do them in. But somehow, Joe made time enough to say a lot of things to Mabel that, to lovers at least, seem important, and Jim, though not daring to go quite so far, looked and said quite enough to deepen the roses in Clara's cheeks and the loveliness in her eyes. It was hard to part when the time for parting came, but this time there was no long six-months' separation to be dreaded--that is, as far as the young folks were concerned. Mr. and Mrs. Matson had counted on having their son with them throughout the fall and winter, but they had been accustomed for so long to merge their own happiness in that of their children that they kept up bright faces while they said good-bye, although Mrs. Matson's smile was tremulous. A day and night of traveling and the ball players reached Chicago, where, at the Blackstone, they found McRae awaiting them--the same old McRae, aggressive, pugnacious, masterful, and yet with a glint of worry in his eyes that had not been there at the close of the World's Series. Robbie was there too, rotund and rubicund, but not just the Robbie who had danced the tango with McRae before the clubhouse on the occasion of the great victory. But if worry and anxiety had set their mark upon the manager and trainer of the Giants, it had not affected the players, who were lounging about the corridor of the hotel. A bunch of them, including Burkett and Denton and good old Larry, gave the newcomers a tumultuous welcome. "Cheer, cheer, the gang's all here!" cried Larry. McRae clasped Joe's hand in a grip that almost made him wince. "So the new league hasn't got you yet, Joe?" he cried. "No," laughed Joe, returning his clasp; "and it never will!" CHAPTER VIII THE RIVAL TEAMS Robbie, who had come up just in time to hear Joe's last words, gave him a resounding thump on the back. "That's the way to talk, Joe, old boy!" he cried. "I've been telling Mac all along that no matter who else weakens he could bet his last dollar on you." "Not that I needed any bracing up," declared McRae. "I know a man when I see one, and I count on you to the limit. I didn't send that telegram because I had any doubt, but I knew that they'd make a break for you first of all and I didn't want you to be taken by surprise. By the way, have any of them turned up yet?" "A chap named Westland came to see me the very day I got your telegram," replied Joe. "And he came well heeled, too," put in Jim. "Money was fairly dripping from him. He just ached to give it away. It was only up to Joe to become a bloated plutocrat on the spot." "Offered good money, did he?" asked McRae, with quickened interest. "Twenty thousand dollars right off the bat," replied Jim. "Fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three-year contract. And as if that weren't enough, he offered to put the money in the bank in advance and let Joe draw against it as he went along." McRae and Robbie exchanged glances. Here was proof that the new league meant business right from the start. It was a competitor to be dreaded and it was up to them to get their fighting clothes on at once. "That's a whale of an offer," ejaculated Robbie. "They've thrown their hat into the ring," remarked McRae. "From now on it's a fight for blood." "There's no need of asking what Joe said to that," said Robbie. "I wish you'd been behind the door to hear it," grinned Jim. "The way Joe lighted into him was a sin and a shame. He fairly skinned him alive. It looked at one time as if there would be a scrap sure." "It would have been a tremendous card for them to get the star pitcher of the World's Series," said McRae with a sigh of relief. "And in these days, when so many rumors are flying round it's a comfort to know there's one man, at least, that money can't buy. There isn't a bit of shoddy in you, Joe. You're all wool and a yard wide." At this moment, Hughson, the famous pitcher who had been a tower of strength to the Giants for ten years past, came strolling up, and Joe and Jim fell upon him with a shout. "How are you, Hughson, old man?" cried Joe. "How's that wing of yours getting along?" "All to the good," replied Hughson. "I stopped off for a day or two at Youngstown and had it treated by Bonesetter Reese. I tell you, that old chap's a wonder. He tells me it will be as good as ever when the season opens." "I'm mighty glad you're going along with us on this trip," said Jim, heartily. "It wouldn't seem like the Giant team with you out of it." "I'm going through as far as the coast anyway," answered Hughson. "More for the fun of being with the boys than anything else. But I don't think I'll make the trip around the world. I made a half promise some time ago to coach the Yale team this coming spring, and they don't seem inclined to let me out of it. And I don't know if after all it may not be best to rest up this winter and get in shape for next year." The three strolled on down the corridor, leaving McRae and Robbie in earnest conversation. "How many of the boys is Mac taking along?" asked Joe. "I think he figures on about fourteen men," replied Hughson. "That will give him three pitchers, two catchers, an extra infielder and outfielder, besides the seven other men in their regular positions. That'll allow for accident or sickness and ought to be enough." "Just as I doped it out," remarked Joe. "On a pinch, McRae could play himself," laughed Jim. "No better player ever held down the third bag than Mac when he was on the old Orioles. The old boy could give the youngsters points even now on winging them down to first." "For that matter, Robbie himself might go in behind the bat," grinned Joe. "No ball could get by him without hitting him somewhere." "It would be worth the price of admission to see Robbie running down to first," admitted Hughson, with a smile. "What kind of a team has Brennan got together for the All-American?" asked Joe. "Believe me; it's a good one," replied Hughson. "He's got a bunch of the sweetest hitters that he could get from either league. They're a bunch of fence breakers, all right. When those birds once get going, they're apt to send any pitcher to the shower. You'll have all you want to do, Joe, to keep them from straightening out your curves." "I don't ask anything better," replied Joe, with a laugh. "I'd get soft if they were too easy. But who are these ball killers? Let me know the worst." "Well," said Hughson, "there's Wallie Schalk behind the bat--you know how he can line them out. Then there's Miller at first, Ebers at second, McBride at short and Chapman at third. The outfielders will probably be Cooper and Murray and Lange. For pitchers Brennan will have Hamilton, Fraser and Ellis,--although Ellis was troubled with the charley-horse toward the end of the season, and Banks may take his place." "It's a strong team," commented Jim, "and they can certainly make the ball scream when they hit it. They're a nifty lot of fielders, too. I guess we'll have our work cut out for us, all right." "Both Mac and Brennan have got the right idea," said Hughson. "Too many of these barnstorming trips have been made up of second string men, and when people came to see the teams play and didn't find the real stars in the line-up they naturally felt sore. But they're going to get the simon-pure article this time and the games are to be for blood. Anyone that lays down on his job is going to get fired. It'll be easy enough to pick up a good man to take his place." "What's the scheme?" asked Joe. "Are we two teams to play against each other all the time, or are we to take on some of the local nines?" "I don't think that's been fully worked out yet," replied Hughson. "I know we're going to play the Denver nine and some of the crack California teams." "Easy meat," commented Jim with a grin. "Don't you believe it," rejoined Hughson. "Don't you remember how the Waco team trimmed us last spring? Those fellows will play their heads off to beat us--and they'll own the town if they succeed. They figure that they'll catch us off our guard and get the Indian sign on us before we wake up." "Yes. But do you think they can get the Indian sign so easily?" "No, I don't." "Of course, those minor teams will play their very best, because it would be a feather in their cap if they could take a game away from us. They'll probably look around and pick up the very best players they can, even if they have to put up some money for the purpose. Just the same, we ought to be able to polish them off with these." "Well, of course, we've got to expect to lose some games. It would be a remarkable thing to go around the world and win every game." "Yet it might be done," broke in Jim. "I suppose there'll be quite a party going along with the teams, just for the sake of the trip," observed Joe. "You've said it," replied Hughson. "At least half of the men will have their wives along, and then there's a whole bunch of fans who have been meaning to go round the world anyway who will think this a good chance to mix baseball and globe trotting. Altogether I shouldn't wonder if there would be about a hundred in the party. Some of the fellows will have their sisters with them, and you boys had better look out or you'll lose your hearts to them. But perhaps," he added, as he saw a look of quick intelligence pass between the chums, "you're already past praying for." Neither one of them denied the soft impeachment. "By the way," said Hughson, changing the subject, "while I think of it, Joe, I want to give you a tip to be on your guard against 'Bugs' Hartley." "Why, what's he up to, now?" inquired Joe. "I don't know," Hughson replied. "But I do know that he's sore at you through and through. He's got the idea in that twisted brain of his that you got him off the Giant team. I met him in the street the other day----" "Half drunk, I suppose," interjected Jim. "More than half," replied Hughson. "He's got to be a regular panhandler--struck me for a loan, and while I was getting it for him, he talked in a rambling way of how he was going to get even with you. Of course I shut him up, but I couldn't talk him out of his fixed idea. He'll do you a mischief if he ever gets the chance." "He's tried it before," said Joe. "He nearly knocked me out when he doped my coffee. Poor old 'Bugs'--he's his own worst enemy." "But he's your enemy too," persisted Hughson. "And don't forget that a crazy man is a dangerous man." "Thanks for the tip," replied Joe. "But 'threatened men live long' and I guess I'm no exception to the rule!" CHAPTER IX THE UNDER DOG "Talking of angels!" exclaimed Jim, giving Joe a sharp nudge in the ribs. Joe looked up quickly and saw Hartley coming down the corridor. "It's 'Bugs,' sure enough," he said. "And, for a wonder, he's walking straight." "Guess he's on his good behavior," remarked Hughson. "There's a big meeting of the American League here just now, winding up the affairs of the league, now that the playing season is over. Maybe Hartley thinks he has a chance to catch on somewhere. Like everybody else that's played in the big leagues, he hates to go back to the bushes. He'd be a find, too, if he'd only cut out the booze--there's lots of good baseball in him yet." "He's a natural player," said Joe, generously. "And one of the best pitchers I ever saw. You know how Mac tried to hold on to him." "I don't think he has a Chinaman's chance, though, of staying in big league company," observed Jim. "After the way he tried to give away our signals in that game at Boston, the Nationals wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole, and I don't think the American has any use for him either. You might forgive him for being a drunkard, but not for being a traitor." Hartley had caught sight of the group, and at first seemed rather undecided whether to go on or stop. The bitter feeling he had for Joe, however, was too strong to resist, and he came over to where they were. He paid no attention to Jim, and gave a curt nod to Hughson and fixed a malignant stare on Joe. "All dolled up," he said, with a sneer, as he noted the quiet but handsome suit that Joe was wearing. "I could have glad rags, too, if you hadn't bilked me out of four thousand dollars." "Cut out that talk, Bugs," said Joe, though not unkindly. "I never did you out of anything and you know it." "Yes, you did," snarled Hartley. "You got me fired from the Giants and did me out of my share of the World's Series money." "You did yourself out of it, Bugs," said Joe, patiently. "I did my best to have Mac hold on to you. I never was anything but your friend. Do you remember how Jim and I put you to bed that night in St. Louis when you were drunk? We took you up the back way so Mac wouldn't get next. Take a fool's advice, Bugs--cut out the liquor and play the game." "I don't want any advice from you!" sneered Hartley. "And take it from me, I'll get you yet." "Beat it, Bugs!" Jim broke in sternly, "while the going's good. Roll your hoop now, or I'll help you." Hartley hesitated a moment, but took Jim's advice and with a muttered threat went on his way. "Mad as a March hare," murmured Jim, as they watched the retreating figure. "Do a man a favor and he'll never forgive you," quoted Joe. "Where did he get his grouch against you?" asked Hughson, curiously. "Search me," replied Joe. "I think it dates from the time when he was batted out of the box and Mac sent me in to take his place. I won the game and Bugs has been sore at me ever since. He figured that I tried to show him up." "I wonder how he got here?" mused Hughson. "The last time I saw him was in New York, and the money I lent him wasn't enough to bring him on." "Perhaps Mac gave him transportation," suggested Jim. "Not on your life," rejoined Hughson. "Mac's got a heart as big as a house, but he hates a traitor. You see, though, Joe, I was right in giving you the tip. Keep your eyes open, old man." Joe was about to make a laughing reply, but just at that moment Larry and Denton came along with broad smiles of welcome on their faces, and the unpleasant episode was forgotten. It was a jolly party that left Chicago the next morning for the trip around the world. The managers had chartered a special train which was made up wholly of Pullman sleepers, a dining car and a smoker. It was travel _de luxe_, and the sumptuous train was to be their home for the full month that would elapse before they reached the coast. "Rather soft, eh, for the poor baseball slaves," grinned Jim, as he stretched out his long legs luxuriously and gazed out of the window at the flying telegraph poles. "This is the life," chanted Larry Barrett. "Nothing to do till to-morrow," chimed in Denton. "And not much even then." "Don't you boys go patting yourselves on the back," smiled Robbie, looking more like a cherub than ever, as he stopped beside their seats on his way along the aisle. "These games, remember, are to be the real thing--there's going to be no sloppy or careless work just because you're not playing for the championship. They're going to be fights from the time the gong rings till the last man is out in the ninth inning." If Robbie wanted action, he got it, and the first games had a snap and vim about them that augured well for the success of the trip. It is true that the players had not the stimulus that comes from a fight for the pennant, but other motives were not lacking. There was one game which was a nip-and-tuck affair from start to finish. At the end of the fourth inning the score stood 1 to 1, and at the end of the sixth inning the score had advanced so that it stood 2 to 2. "Say, we don't seem to be getting anywhere in this game," remarked Jim to Joe. "Oh, well, we've got three more innings to play," was the answer. In the seventh inning a most remarkable happening occurred. The All-Americans had three men on bases with nobody out. It looked as if they might score, but Joe took a sudden brace and pitched the next man at the bat out in one-two-three order. The next man up knocked a pop fly, which Joe gathered in with ease. "That's the way to do it, Joe!" sang out one of his companions. "Now go for the third man!" The third fellow to the bat was a notable hitter, and nearly every one thought he would lace out at least a two-bagger, bringing in probably three runs. Instead, however, he knocked two fouls, and then sent a liner down to first base, which the baseman caught with ease; and that ended the chance for scoring. "That's pulling it out of the fire!" cried McRae. The showing had been a good one, but what made the inning so remarkable was the fact that in one-two-three order the Giants got the bases filled exactly as they had been filled before. Then, more amazing still, the next man was pitched out, the second man knocked a pop fly to the pitcher, and it was Joe himself, coming to the bat, hit out a liner to third base, which was gathered in by the baseman, thus ending the Giants hope of scoring. "Well, what do you know about that!" cried Brennan. "The inning on each side was exactly alike, with the exception that our third man out flied to first base, while your man flied to third." But that ended the similarity both in batting and in scoring, for in the eighth inning the Giants added another run to their score, and held this lead to the end, even though the All-Americans fought desperately in the effort to tie the score. "Oh, we had to win," said one of the Giants. "Too many of our folks looking at us to lose." Many members of the teams had their wives or sisters with them, and defeat would have been galling under the eyes of the fair spectators. Then, too, the Giants had their reputation to sustain as the Champions of the World. On the other hand, the All-Americans were anxious to show that even though they had not been in the World's Series, they ought to have been--and it was a keen delight to them to make their adversaries bite the dust. Add to this the fact that there was a strong spirit of rivalry, good-natured but intense, between the scrappy McRae and the equally pugnacious Brennan, whose team had been nosed out by the Giants in that last desperate race down the stretch for the pennant, and it is no wonder that the crowds kept getting larger in every city they played, that the gate receipts made the managers chuckle, that the great city papers gave extended reports of the games and that the baseball trip around the world began to engross the attention of every lover of sports in the country. Joe had never been in finer fettle. His fast balls went over the plate like bullets from a gatling gun. His fadeaway was working to a charm. He wound the ball near the batters' necks and curved it out of reach of their bats with an ease and precision that explained to the applauding crowds why he was rated as the foremost pitcher of the day. Jim, too, showed the effect of his season's work and Joe's helpful coaching, and between the two they accounted for three of the games won by the Giants before they reached Colorado. Two other games had gone to the All-Americans in slap-dash, ding-dong finishes, and it was an even thing as to which team would have the most games to its credit by the time they had reached the Pacific coast. The tension was relaxed somewhat when they reached Denver, where, for the first time, instead of fighting it out between themselves a team picked from both nines was to play the local club. "Here's where we get a rest," sighed Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giant team. "It will be no trick at all to wipe up the earth with these bushers," laughed Larry Barrett. "What we'll do to them will be a sin and a shame," agreed "Red" Curry, he of the flaming mop, who was accustomed to play the "sun field" at the Polo Grounds. "It's almost a crime to show them up before their home crowd," chimed in Iredell, the Giant shortstop. But if the local club was in for a beating, they showed no special trepidation as they came out on the field for practice. If the haughty major leaguers had expected their humble adversaries to roll over and play dead in advance of the game itself, they were certainly doomed to disappointment. The home team went through its preliminary work in a snappy, finished way that brought frequent applause from the crowds that thronged the stand. Before the game, Brennan, of the Chicagos, sauntered over to Thorpe, the local manager, who chanced to be an old acquaintance. "Got a dandy crowd here to-day, Bill," he said. "We ought to give them a run for their money. Suppose I lend you one of our star pitchers, just to make things more interesting." "Thank you, Roger," Thorpe replied, with a slow smile, "but I think we're going to make it interesting for you fellows, anyway." "Quit your kidding," grinned Brennan, with a facetious poke in the ribs, and strolled back to the bench. The gong rang, the field cleared, and the visiting team came to the bat. Larry, who had finished the season in a blaze of glory as the leading batsman of the National League came up to the plate, swinging three bats. He threw away two of them, tapped his heels for luck and grinned complacently at the Denver pitcher. "Trot out the best you've got, kid," he called, "and if you can put it over the plate I'll murder it." CHAPTER X BY A HAIR The pitcher, a dark-skinned, rangy fellow, wound up deliberately and shot the ball over. It split the plate clean. Larry swung at it--and missed it by two inches. He looked mildly surprised, but set it down to the luck of the game and squared himself for a second attempt. This time he figured on a curve, but the boxman out-guessed him with a slow one that floated up to the plate as big as a balloon. Larry almost broke his back in reaching for it, but again fanned the air. The visiting players, who had looked on rather languidly, straightened up on the bench. "Some class to that pitcher," ejaculated Willis. "It isn't often that a bush leaguer makes a monkey out of Larry," replied Burkett. "I've seen these minor league pitchers before," grinned "Red" Curry. "They start off like a house afire, but about the fifth inning they begin to crumple up." The third ball pitched was a wide outcurve at which Larry refused to bite. He fouled off the next two and then swung savagely at a wicked drop that got away from him. "You're out," called the umpire as the ball thudded into the catcher's mitt, and Larry came back a little sheepishly to his grinning comrades on the bench. "What's the matter, Larry?" queried Iredell, as he moved up to make room for him. "Off your feed to-day?" "You'll find out what the matter is when you face that bird," snorted Larry. "He's the real goods, and don't you forget it." Denton, the second man in the batting order, took a ball and a strike, and then dribbled an easy roller to the box, which the swarthy pitcher had no trouble in getting to first on time. Burkett, who followed, had better luck and sent a clean single between first and second. A shout went up from the Giant bench, which became a groan a moment later, when a snap throw by the pitcher nailed Burkett three feet off the bag. The half inning had been smartly played and the Giants took the field with a slightly greater respect for their opponents. Joe had pitched the day before, and it was up to Fraser to take his turn in the box. He walked out to his position with easy confidence. He was one of the best pitchers in either league, and it was he who had faced Joe in that last battle royal of the World's Series and had gone down defeated, but not disgraced. But to-day from the start, it was evident that he was not himself. His speed was there and the curves, but control was lacking. "Wild as a hawk," muttered McRae, as the first Denver man trotted down to base on balls. "Can't seem to locate the plate at all," grunted Robbie. "He'll pull himself together all right," remarked Brennan, hopefully. But the prophecy proved false, and the next two men up waited him out and were also rewarded with passes. The bases were full without a hit having been made, and the crowds in the stand were roaring like mad. Brennan from the coaching lines at first waved to Fraser and the latter, drawing off his glove, walked disgustedly to the bench. "What's the matter with you to-day?" queried McRae. "You seemed to think the plate was up in the grandstand." "Couldn't get the hang of it, somehow," Fraser excused himself. "Just my off day, I guess." Hamilton succeeded him in the box, and from the way he started out it seemed as though he were going to redeem the poor work of his predecessor. He struck out the first man on three pitched balls, made the second send up a towering foul that Mylert caught after a long run, and the major leaguers began to breathe more freely. "Guess he'll pull out of the hole all right," remarked Robbie. But for the next batter, Hamilton, grown perhaps a trifle too confident, put one over in the groove, and the batter banged out a tremendous three-bagger to right field. Curry made a gallant try for it but could not quite reach. Three runs came over the plate, while the panting batsman slid to third. The crowd in the stands went wild then, and Thorpe, the manager of the local team, grinned in a mocking way at Brennan. "Is this interesting enough?" he drawled, referring to Brennan's patronizing offer to lend him a player. "Just a bit of luck," growled Brennan. "A few inches more and Curry would have got his hooks on the ball. Beside, the game's young yet. We've got the class and that's bound to tell." Hamilton, whose blood was up, put on more steam, and the third player went out on an infield fly. But the damage had been done, and those three runs at the very start loomed up as a serious handicap. "Three big juicy ones," mourned McRae. "And all of them on passes," groaned Robbie. "Too bad we didn't put Hamilton in right at the start." Neither team scored in the second inning, and the third also passed without result. Hamilton was mowing down the opposing batters with ease and grace. But the swarthy flinger for the local club was not a bit behind him. The heavy sluggers of the visiting teams seemed as helpless before him as so many school-boys. "That fellow won't be in the minors long," commented Brennan. "I wonder some of my scouts haven't gone after him before this. Who is he, anyway?" "I'll tell you who he is," broke in Robbie, suddenly. "I knew I'd seen him before somewhere, and I've been puzzling all this time to place him. Now I've tumbled. It's Alvarez, the crack pitcher of Cuba." "Do you mean the fellow that stood the Athletics on their heads when they made that winter trip to Cuba a couple of years ago?" asked McRae. "The same one," affirmed Robbie. "I happened to be there at one of the games, and he showed them up--hundred thousand dollar infield and all. Connie was fairly dancing as he saw his pets slaughtered. I tell you, that fellow's a wonder--he'd have been in a major league long ago if it hadn't been for his color. He may be only a Cuban, and he says he is, but he's so dark-skinned that there'd be some prejudice against him and that's barred him out." "That's what made Thorpe so confident," growled Brennan. "He's worked in a 'ringer' on us. We ought to make a kick." "That would put us in a nice light, wouldn't it?" replied McRae, stormily. "We'd like to see it in the papers, that the major leagues played the baby act because they couldn't bat a bush pitcher. Not on your life! Thorpe would be tickled to death to have us make a squeal. We'll simply have to lick him." But if the promised licking was yet to come, it was not in evidence in the next two innings. Alvarez seemed as fresh as at the beginning, and his arm worked with the force and precision of a piston rod. "What's the matter with you fellows, anyway?" raged McRae, when the end of the fifth inning saw the score remain unchanged. "You ought to be in the old ladies' home. It's a joke to call you ball players." "It must be this Denver air," ventured Willis. "It's so high up here that a fellow finds it hard to breathe. These Denver boobs are used to it and we're not." "Air! air!" snapped McRae. "I notice you've got plenty of hot air. Go in and play the game, you bunch of false alarms." Whether it was owing to his rasping tongue or their own growing resentment at the impudence of the minor leaguers, the All-Americans broke the ice in the sixth. Burkett lined out a beauty between left and center that was good for two bases. Willis followed with a towering sky scraper to right, which, although it was caught after a long run, enabled Burkett to get to third before the ball was returned. Then Becker who had perished twice before on feeble taps to the infield, whaled out a home run to the intense jubilation of his mates. "We've got his number!" yelled Larry, doing a jig on the coaching lines. "He's going up," sang out "Red" Curry. "I knew he couldn't last," taunted Iredell, as he threw his cap in the air. But Alvarez was not through, by any means. Undaunted by that tremendous home run which might have taken the heart out of any pitcher, he braced himself, and the next two men went out on fouls. "I thought we had them on the run that time," observed McRae, "but he's got the old comeback right with him." "Never mind," exulted Robbie. "We're beginning to find him now, and we've cut down that big lead of theirs to one run. The boys will get after him the next inning." But even the lucky seventh passed without bringing any luck to the visitors, and although the major leaguers got two men on bases in the eighth, the inning ended with the score still three to two in favor of the local club. "Looks as though we were up against it," said Jim, anxiously, as the Giants went to bat for the last time. "It sure does," responded Joe. "I'll hate to look at the papers to-morrow morning. The whole country will have the laugh on us." "The boys will want to keep away from McRae if they lose," said Jim. "He'll be as peeved as a bear with a sore head for the next three days or so." "Now, Larry, show them where you live," sang out Curry, as the head of the Giant batting order strode to the plate. "Kill it," entreated Willis. "Hit it on the seam." "Send it a mile," exhorted Becker. It was not a mile that Larry sent it, but it looked so to the left and center fielders who chased it as it went on a line between the two. A cleaner home run had probably never been knocked out on the Denver grounds. Larry came galloping in to be mauled and pounded by his exulting mates, while McRae brought down his hand on Robbie's knee with a force that made that worthy wince. "That ties it up," he cried. "Now, boys, for a whirlwind finish!" CHAPTER XI A CLOSE CALL The crowds in the stand, which had been uproarious a few moments before, were quiet now. The lead which the local club had held throughout the game had vanished; the visitors had played an uphill game worthy of their reputation, and now they had at least an even chance. Denton came to the bat, eager to emulate Larry's feat, but Alvarez was unsteady now--that last home run had taken something out of him. He found it hard to locate the plate, and Denton trotted down to first on balls. As no man was out and only one run was needed to gain the lead, a sacrifice was the proper play, and Burkett laid down a neat bunt in front of the plate that carried Denton to second, although the batter died at first. Alvarez purposely passed Willis on the chance of the next batter hitting into a double play, which would have retired the side. Becker made a mighty effort to bring his comrades in, but hit under the ball, and it went high in the air and was caught by Alvarez as it came down, without the pitcher moving from his tracks. With two out, there was no need of a double play and the infielders, who had been playing close in, resumed their usual positions. Iredell, the next man up caught the ball square on the end of his bat and sent it whistling between center and third. The shortstop leaped up and knocked the ball down, but it was going too fast for him to hold. Denton had left second at the crack of the bat, and by the time the infielder regained the ball had rounded third and was tearing like a racehorse toward the plate. There was little time to get set and the hurried throw home went over the catcher's head. Denton slid feet first over the plate, scoring the run that put his team in the lead. Willis tried to make it good measure by coming close behind him, but by this time the catcher had recovered the ball and shot it back to Alvarez who was guarding the plate. He nipped Willis by three feet and the side was out. But that one run in the lead looked as big as a house at that stage in the game. "All you've got to do now, Hamilton, old man, is to hold them down in their half," said Brennan. "Cinch," grinned Hamilton. "I'll have them eating out of my hand." But the uncertainty that makes the national game the most fascinating one in the world was demonstrated when the Denver team came in to do-or-die in their half of the ninth. Hamilton fed the first batter a snaky curve, which he lashed at savagely but vainly. The next was a slow one and resulted in a chop to the infield which Larry would have ordinarily gobbled up without trouble. But the ball took an ugly bound just as he was all set for it and went over his head toward right. Before Curry could get the ball the batter had reached second and the stands were once more in an uproar. The uproar increased when Hamilton, somewhat shaken by the incident, gave the next batter a base on balls, and the broad smiles which had suffused the faces of Robbie and McRae began to fade. "Is Hamilton going up, do you think?" asked the Giant manager, anxiously. "Looks something like it," replied Robbie, "but he'll probably brace. You see Denton's talking to him now, to give him a chance to rest up a little." The third baseman had strolled over to Hamilton on pretense of discussing some point of play, but the crowd saw through the subterfuge, and shouts of protest went up: "Hire a hall!" "Write him a letter!" "Play ball!" Not a bit flustered by the shouts, Denton took his time, and after encouraging his team mate sauntered slowly back to his position. But Hamilton's good right arm had lost its cunning. His first ball was wild, and the batter, seeing this, waited him out and was given a pass. His comrades moved up and the bags were full, with none out and the heaviest sluggers of the team coming to the bat. McRae and Brennan had been holding an earnest conference, and now on a signal from them Hamilton came in from the box. "It's no use," said McRae to Brennan, while the crowd howled in derision. "We'll have to play our trump and put Matson in to hold them down." "But he hasn't warmed up," said Brennan dubiously. "That makes no difference," replied McRae. "I'd rather put him in cold than anyone else warm." "All right; do as you please," responded the other manager. McRae called over to where Joe was sitting. The crack pitcher had been watching the progress of the game with keen interest, although making comparatively few comments. As McRae approached Joe, the crowd howled louder than ever at Hamilton. "Why don't you learn how to pitch?" "Say, let us send one of the high-school boys into the box for you!" "Too bad, old man, but I guess we've got your goat all right!" "I guess you know what I want, Joe," cried McRae. "I want you to get in the box for us." "All right, Mac," was the young pitcher's answer. "And, Joe," went on the other earnestly, "try to think for the next five minutes that you're pitching for the pennant." "I'll do anything you say," was Joe's reply; and then he drew on his glove and walked out upon the ball field. "Hello! what do you know about that?" "Matson is going to pitch for them!" "I guess they've enough of that other dub!" "Oh, Hamilton isn't a dub, by any means," replied one of the spectators sharply. "He's a good player, but a pitcher can't always be at his best." "But just you wait and see how we do up Matson!" cried a local sympathizer. At a signal the next man to bat stepped away from the plate, and Joe had the privilege of warming up by sending three hot ones to the catcher. "He'll put 'em over all right enough!" cried one of his friends. "That's what he will!" returned another. "Not much! He'll be snowed under!" "This is our winning day!" So the cries continued until the umpire held up his hand for silence. "He's going to make an announcement!" cried a number of the spectators. "Ladies and gentlemen," roared the umpire, removing his cap, "Matson now pitching for the All-Americans." A howl went up from the stands, made up in about equal parts of derision and applause. Derision because the All-American team must, they figured, be scared to death when they had to send their greatest player into the game. Whether they won or lost it was a great compliment to the Denver team. The applause came from the genuine sportsmen who knew the famous pitcher by reputation and welcomed the chance to see him in action. The three men on the bases were dancing about like dervishes in the hope of rattling the newcomer. They did not know Joe. Never cooler than when the strain was greatest and the need most urgent, Joe bent down to pick up the ball. As he did so, he touched it, apparently accidentally, against his right heel. It was a signal meant for Denton, the third baseman, who was watching him like a hawk. Joe took up his position in the box, took a grip on the ball, but instead of delivering it to the batter turned suddenly on his left heel, as though to snap it down to first. The Denver player at that bag, who had taken a lead of several feet, made a frantic slide back to safety. But the ball never got to first, for Joe had swung himself all the way round and shot the ball like a bullet to Denton at third. The local player at third had been watching eagerly the outcome of the supposed throw to first and was caught completely unawares. Down came Denton's hand, clapping the ball on his back, while the victim stood dazed as though in a trance. It was the prettiest kind of "inside work," and even the home crowd went into convulsions of laughter as the trapped player came sheepishly in from third to the bench. McRae was beaming, and Robbie's rubicund face became several degrees redder under the strain of his emotion. "Say, is that boy class, John?" Robbie gurgled, as soon as he could speak. "Never saw a niftier thing on the ball field," responded McRae warmly. "When that boy thinks, he runs rings around lightning." "And he's thinking all the time," chimed in Jim. But the peril was not yet over. The man at the most dangerous corner had been disposed of, yet there was still a man on first and another on second. A safe hit would tie the game at least, and possibly win it. Joe wound up deliberately and shot a high fast one over the plate. It came so swiftly that the batter did not offer at it, and looked aggrieved when the umpire called it a strike. The next was a crafty outcurve which went as a ball. The batsman fouled off the next. With two strikes on and only one ball called, Joe was on "easy street" and could afford to "waste a few." Twice in succession he tempted the batsman with balls that were wide of the plate, but the batter was wary and refused them. Now the count was "two and three," and the crowd broke into a roar. "Good eye, old man!" they shouted to the batter. "You've got him in a hole!" "It only takes one to do it!" "He's got to put it over!" With all the force of his sinewy arm, Joe "put it over." The batsman made a wicked drive at it and sent it hurtling to the box about two feet over Joe's head. Joe saw it coming, leaped into the air and speared it with his gloved hand. The men on bases had started to run, thinking it a sure hit. Joe wheeled and sent the ball down to Burkett at first. "Look at that!" "Some speed, eh?" "I should say so." "Matson has got them going!" The man who had left the bag strove desperately to get back, but he was too late. That rattling double play had ended the game with the All-American team a victor by a score of four to three. Joe's fingers tingled as he pulled off the glove, for that terrific drive had stung. The crowd had been stunned for a moment by the suddenness with which the game and their hopes of victory had gone glimmering. But it had been a remarkable play and the first silence was followed by a round of sportsmanlike applause--though of course it was nothing to what would have greeted the victory of the home team. "Fine work, Matson!" "Best I ever saw!" "You're the boy to do it." "Best pitcher in the world!" Joe found himself the center of a joyous crowd when he reached his own bench. All were jubilant that they had escaped the humiliation of being whipped by a minor league team. "You've brought home the bacon, Joe!" chortled McRae. "We all did," replied Joe. "But we almost dropped it on the way!" he added, with a grin. CHAPTER XII A DASTARDLY ATTACK The tourists' train was scheduled to leave Denver at eleven-thirty that night, so that there was ample time after the game for a leisurely meal and a few hours for recreation for any of the party that felt so inclined. Some went to the theater, others played cards, while others sat about the lobby of the leading hotel and discussed the exciting events of the afternoon's game. As for Joe and Jim, their recreation took the form of long letters to two charming young ladies whose address, by coincidence, happened to be Riverside. Both seemed to have much to write about, for it was nearly ten o'clock before the bulky letters were ready for mailing. "Give them to me and I'll take them down to the hotel lobby and mail them," said Jim, as they rose from the writing table. "I don't know," replied Joe, as he looked at his watch. "Perhaps the last collection for the outgoing eastbound mail has already been made. What do you say to going down to the post-office itself and dropping them in there? Then they'll be sure to go." "All right," Jim acquiesced. "It's a dandy night anyway for a walk and I'd like to stretch my legs a little. Come along." They went out into the brilliantly lighted streets, which at that hour were still full of people, and turned toward the post-office which was about half a mile distant. As they were passing a corner, Jim suddenly clutched Joe's arm. "Did you see that fellow who went into that saloon just now?" he asked, indicating a rather pretentious café. "No," said Joe, dryly. "But it isn't such an unusual thing that I'd pay a nickel to see it." "Quit your fooling," said Jim. "If that fellow wasn't Bugs Hartley, then my eyes are going back on me." "You're dreaming," Joe retorted. "What in the world would Bugs be doing in Denver?" "Panhandling, maybe," returned Jim. "Drinking, certainly. But it isn't what he's doing that interests me. It's the fact that he's here." "Let's take a look," suggested Joe, impressed by his friend's earnestness. They went up to the swinging door, pushed it open and looked in. There were perhaps a dozen men in the place, but Hartley was not among them. "Barking up the wrong tree, Jim," chaffed Joe. "Maybe," agreed Jim a little perplexed, "but if it wasn't Bugs it was his double." They reached the post-office and after mailing their letters turned back towards the hotel. "It's taken us a little longer than I thought," remarked Jim, looking at his watch. "We won't have any more than time to get our traps together and get down to the train." "This looks like a short cut," said Joe, indicating a side street which though rather dark and deserted cut into the main thoroughfare, as they could see by the bright lights at the further end. "We'll save something by going this way." They had gone perhaps a couple of blocks when they reached a part of the street which had no dwelling houses on it. On one side was a factory, dark and forbidding, and on the side where the young men were walking was a high board fence enclosing a coal yard. "Wait a minute, Jim," said Joe. "It feels as though my shoe lace had come untied." He stooped down to fasten the lace, and just as he did so, a jagged piece of rock came whizzing past where his head had been a second before and crashed against the fence. Joe straightened up with a jerk. "Who threw that?" he exclaimed. Jim's face was white at the peril his friend had so narrowly escaped. "Somebody who knew how to throw," he cried, "and I can make a guess at who it was. There he is now!" he shouted, as he caught sight of a dim figure slinking away in the darkness on the further side of the factory. They darted across the street in pursuit, but when they turned the corner there was no one to be seen. Several alleys branched off from the street, up any one of which the fugitive might have made his escape. Although they tried them one after the other they could find no trace of the rascal. Baffled and chagrined, they made their way back to the scene of the attack. Joe picked up the piece of rock and weighed it in his hand. "About half a pound," he judged. "And look at those rough edges! It would have been all up with me, if it had landed." "Do you notice that that's about the weight of a baseball?" asked Jim significantly. "And it went for your head as straight as a bullet. It would have caught you square if you hadn't stooped just as you did. You can thank your lucky stars that your shoelace came untied. That fellow knew just how to throw, as I said before." "You don't mean," replied Joe, "that Bugs----" "Just that," affirmed Jim grimly. "Now maybe you'll believe me when I say that I saw him to-night. That skunk thought that I had seen him, and slipped into the saloon to get out of sight. Probably he went out through a rear door and has been following us ever since." "But why----" began Joe. "Why?" repeated Jim. "Why does a crazy man do crazy things? Just because he is crazy. He doesn't have to have a reason. If he thinks you've injured him he's just as bitter as though you really had. Hughson's tip was a good one, Joe. The fellow's deadly dangerous. It's only luck that he isn't a murderer this minute." "It's good for him I didn't lay my hands on him," replied Joe. "I wouldn't have hit him, because I don't think he's responsible for what he does. But I'd have had him put where he couldn't do any more mischief for a while." "It gives me the creeps to think of what a close call that was," said Jim, as they walked along. "Don't say anything about it to the boys," cautioned Joe. "The thing would get out, and before we knew it the folks at home would have heard of it. And they wouldn't have an easy minute for all the rest of the trip." They made quick time to the hotel, and as most of their luggage had remained on the train, they had only to gather a few things together in a small hand bag and start out for the station. Their special train had been standing on a side track a few hundred yards east of the main platform. They were picking their way toward it across a network of tracks, when, just as they rounded the corner of a freight car, they came face to face with Hartley. They almost dropped their handbags at the unexpectedness of the meeting. But if they were startled, Bugs was frightened and turned on his heel to run. In an instant Joe had him by the collar in a grip of iron, while Jim stood on the alert to stop him should he break away. "Let me go!" cried Hartley in stifled tones, for Joe's grip was almost choking him. "Not until you tell me why you tried to murder me to-night," said Joe, grimly. "I don't know what you're talking about," snarled Bugs, trying to wrench himself loose from Joe's hold on his collar. "You know well enough," replied his captor. "Own up." "You might as well, Bugs," put in Jim. "We've got the goods on you." "You fellows are crazy," replied Bugs. "I've never laid eyes on you since I saw you in Chicago. And you can't prove that I did either." "You're the only enemy I have in the world," declared Joe. "And the man who threw that rock at me to-night was a practiced thrower. Besides, you're all in a sweat--that's from running away when we chased you." "Swell proof that is," sneered Hartley. "Tell that to a judge and see what good it will do you." The point was well taken, and Joe and Jim knew in their hearts that they had no legal proof, although they were morally certain Bugs was guilty. Besides, they had no time to have him arrested, for their train was scheduled to start in ten minutes. "Now listen, Bugs," said Joe, at the same time shaking him so that his teeth rattled. "I know perfectly well that you're lying, and I'm giving you warning for the last time. You've had it in for me from the time you doped my coffee and nearly put me out of the game altogether. Ever since that you've bothered me, and to-night you've tried to kill me. I tell you straight, I've had enough of it. If I didn't think that your brain was twisted, I'd thrash you now within an inch of your life. But I'm telling you now, and you let it sink in, that the next time you try to do me, I'm going to put you where the dogs won't bite you." He dug his knuckles into Bugs' neck and gave him a fling that sent him several yards away. The fellow kept his feet with an effort, and then with a muttered threat slunk away into the darkness. They watched him for a minute, and then picked up their handbags and started toward the train. "Hope that's the last we see of him," remarked Joe. "So do I," Jim replied. "But we felt that way before and he's turned up just the same. I won't feel easy till I know that he's behind the bars." "He's usually in front of the bars," joked Joe. "But I'm glad anyway that we had a chance to throw a scare into him. He knows now that we'll be on our guard and perhaps even he will have sense enough to let us alone." Jim consulted his watch. "Great Scott!" he ejaculated. "What's the matter, Jim?" "We haven't any time to spare if we want to catch that train." "All right, let's run for it." As best they could, they began sprinting in the direction of the railroad station, but their handbags were somewhat heavy, and this impeded their progress. Then, turning a corner, they suddenly found themselves confronted by a long sewer trench, lit up here and there by red lanterns. "We've got to get over that trench somehow!" cried Joe. "Can you jump it?" questioned Jim anxiously. "I'm going to try," returned the crack pitcher. He threw his handbag to the other side of the sewer trench, and then, backing up a few steps, ran forward and took the leap in good shape. His chum followed him, but Jim might have slipped back into the sewer trench had not Joe been watching, and grabbed him by one hand. "Gosh, that was a close shave!" panted Jim, when he felt himself safe. "Don't waste time thinking about it. We have still a couple of blocks to go," Joe returned, and set off once more on the run, with Jim at his heels. Soon they rounded another corner, and came in sight of the railroad station. There stood their train, and the conductor was signaling to start. "Wait! Wait!" yelled Joe. But in the general confusion around the railroad station nobody seemed to notice him. "We've got to make that train--we've just got to!" cried Joe, and dashed forward faster than ever, with Jim beside him. They scrambled up the steps just as a warning whistle sounded; and a few moments later the train drew out on its climb over the Rockies. CHAPTER XIII DANGER SIGNALS The travelers were now in the most picturesque part of their journey, and the magnificent views that spread before them as they topped the ridges of the continent and dropped down on the other side into the land of flowers and eternal summer were a source of unending interest and pleasure. "I'll tell you what, Joe," remarked Jim: "I never had an idea that this section of our country was so truly grand." "It certainly is magnificent scenery," was Joe's answer. "Just look at those mountain tops, will you? Some height there, believe me!" "Yes. And just see the depth of some of those canyons, will you? Say! if a fellow ever fell over into one of those, he'd never know what happened to him." "I've been watching this particular bit of scenery for some time," remarked Joe. "It somehow had a familiar look to it, and now I know why." "And why is it, Joe?" "I'll tell you. Some time ago I saw a moving picture with the scene laid in the Rocky Mountains, and, unless I'm greatly mistaken, some of the scenes were taken right in this locality." "Was that a photo-play called 'The Girl From Mountain Pass?'" questioned another player who was present. "It was." "Then you're right, Matson; because I was speaking about that film to the conductor of this train, and he said that some of the pictures were taken right around here. His train was used in one of the scenes." This matter was talked over for several minutes, but then the conversation changed; and, presently, the chums went off to talk about other matters. Joe and Jim were lounging in the rear of the observation car, talking over the stirring events of the night before, when McRae happened along and dropped into a seat beside them. "Some game that was yesterday, boys," he remarked genially. "Those Denver fellows were curly bears, but we trimmed them just the same." "Yes," grinned Jim. "But we weren't comfortable while we were doing it." "They sure did worry us," acquiesced Joe. "They made us know at least that we'd been in a fight." "It was that ninth-inning work of yours that pulled us through, Joe," declared McRae. "That stunt you pulled of whirling on your heel and shooting it over to third was a pretty bit of inside stuff. And there wasn't anything slow either about spearing that ball that Thompson hit." "I'd have let the fielders take care of that," admitted Joe, "if there hadn't been so much at stake. My hand stung for an hour afterward. But I'd have hated to let those fellows crow over us." "That fellow, Alvarez, that Thorpe rang in on us was a sure-enough pitcher," observed McRae. "I'd sign him up in a minute if it weren't for that dark skin of his. But it wouldn't work. We had a second baseman like that one time, and although he was a rattling good player it nearly broke up the team. It's too bad that color should stand in the way of a man's advancement, but it can't be helped. "By the way," he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket, "here's something that may interest you. It's the official record of the National League of the pitching averages for this season. It made me feel good when I read it and you'll see the reason why." He handed them the paper, which they opened eagerly to the sporting page. Joe's heart felt a thrill of satisfaction as he saw that his name stood at the head of the list, and Jim, too, was elated, as he noted that although this was his first year in a major league his name was among the first fifteen--a rare distinction for a "rookie." "Some class to the Giants, eh?" grinned McRae. "There's sixty names in that list and no single team has as many in the first twelve as we have. That average of yours, Joe, of 1.53 earned runs per game is a hummer. Hughson is close on your heels with 1.56. The Rube, you see, is eighth in the list with 1.95, and Jim's eleventh with 2.09. I tell you, boys, that's class, and to cap it all we won the pennant." "Two pennants, you mean," corrected Jim with a smile. "And neither one to be sneezed at," grinned Joe. "We sure had a great season," observed McRae. "If we start next year with the same team we ought to go through the league like a prairie fire. I have every reason to think that Hughson will be in tip-top shape when the season opens, and if he is, there won't be any pitching staff that can hold a candle to ours. But----" He paused uncertainly and looked at Joe as though he wanted to speak to him privately. Jim saw the look and took the hint. "I guess I'll go into the smoker and see what the rest of the fellows are doing, if you'll excuse me," he said, rising and strolling back. McRae greeted his departure with evident satisfaction. "I'm glad to have a chance to talk to you alone, Joe," he said. "You're my right bower and I can talk to you more freely than to anyone else, except Hughson. I don't mind telling you that this new league is worrying me a lot." "What is it?" asked Joe with quick interest. "Anything happened lately?" "Plenty," replied McRae. "I've kidded myself with the idea that the thing was going to peter out of its own accord. Every few seasons something of the kind crops up, but it usually comes to nothing. Usually the men who put up the coin get scared when they see what a big proposition it is they've tackled and back out. Sometimes, too, they go about it in such a blundering way that it's bound to fail from the start. "But this time it's different. They've got barrels of money behind them, and they're spending it like water. There's one of them named Fleming, whose father is a millionaire many times over, and he seems to have money to burn. They certainly are making big offers to star players all over the country. You saw the way they came at you, and they're doing the same in other places. There isn't a paper that I pick up that doesn't give the name of some big player that they're tampering with. The last one I saw was Altman of the Chicago White Sox. I guess though, that is a wrong steer, for Altman has come out flat for his old team and denies any intention of jumping his contract." "Bully for Nick!" exclaimed Joe. "I guess I helped to queer that deal. I saw Westland talking to him, and he seemed to have him going, but I put a few things straight to Nick and he seems to have come to his senses before it's too late." "There's Munsey of the Cincinnatis, he's left his reservation," continued McRae. "He's the crack shortstop of the country. They've got a line out, too, for Wilson of the Bostons, and you know they don't make any better outfielders than he is. In fact, they're biting into the teams everywhere, and none of them know where they're at. If I'd known they were going at it so seriously, and hadn't got so far in my preparations for this trip, I think I wouldn't have gone on this world's tour. It looks to me as though the major leagues would be backed up against the wall and fighting for their lives before this winter's over." "It may not be as bad as you think," said Joe consolingly. "Even if they get a lot of the stars, there will be a great many left. And, besides, they may have trouble in finding suitable grounds to play on." "But they will," declared McRae. "They've got the refusal of first-class locations in every big city of the major league. I tell you, there's brains behind this new league and that's what's worrying me. I don't know whether it's Fleming----" "No," interrupted Joe, smiling contemptuously, as he thought of the dissipated young fellow whom he had thrashed so soundly. "It isn't Fleming. He's got money enough, but there's a vacuum where his brains ought to be." "Then it's his partners," deduced McRae. "And their brains with his money make a strong combination." "Well," comforted Joe, "there's one good thing about this trip, anyway. You've got the Giants out of reach of their schemes." McRae looked around to see if anyone were within earshot, and then leaned over toward Joe. "Don't fool yourself," he said earnestly. "I'm afraid right now there are traitors in the camp!" CHAPTER XIV A WEIRD GAME Baseball Joe was startled and showed it plainly. "What do you mean?" he asked, as his mind ran over the names of his team-mates. "Just what I say," replied McRae. "I tell you, Joe, somebody's getting in his fine work with our boys and I know it." "Where's your proof?" asked Joe. "I hate to think that any of our fellows would welch on their contracts." "So do I," returned McRae. "We've been like one big family, and I've always tried to treat the boys right. I've got a rough tongue, as everybody knows, and in a hot game I've called them down many a time when they've made bonehead plays. But at the same time I've tried to be just, and I've never given any of them the worst end of the deal. They've been paid good money, and I've carried them along sometimes when other managers would have let them go." "You've been white all right," assented Joe warmly. He recalled an occasion when a muff by a luckless center-fielder had lost a World Series and fifty thousand dollars for the team, and yet McRae had "stood the gaff" and never said a word, because he knew the man was trying to do his best. "I'm telling this to you, Joe," went on McRae, "because I want you to help me out. You've proved yourself true blue when you were put to the test. I know you'll do all you can to hold the boys in the traces. They all like you and feel that they owe you a lot because it was your pitching that pulled us through the World's Series. Besides, they'll be more impressed by what you say than by the talk I'd give them. They figure that I'm the manager and am only looking after my own interests, and for that reason what I say has less effect." "I'll stand by you, Mac," returned Joe, "and help you in any way I can. Who are the boys that you think are trying to break loose?" "There are three of them," replied McRae. "Iredell, Curry and Burkett, and all three of them are stars, as you know as well as I do." "They're cracks, every one of them," agreed Joe. "And they're among the last men that I'd suspect of doing anything of the kind. What makes you think they've been approached?" "A lot of things," replied McRae. "In the first place, I have noticed that they are stiff and offish in their manner when I speak to them. Then, too, I've come across them several times lately with their heads together, and when they saw me coming they'd break apart and start talking of something else, as if I had interrupted them. Beside that, all three have struck me lately for a raise in salary next season." "That's nothing new for ball players," said Joe, with a smile. "No," admitted McRae, an answering smile relieving the gravity of his face for the moment. "And I stand ready of my own accord to give the boys a substantial increase on last year's pay because of their winning the pennant. But what these three asked for was beyond all reason, and made me think there was a nigger in the woodpile. They either had had a big offer from somebody else and were using that as a club to hold me up with, or else they were just trying to give themselves a better excuse for jumping." "How long do their contracts have to run?" asked Joe. "Iredell has one year more and Curry and Burkett are signed up for two years yet," replied the Giants' manager. "Of course I could try to hold them to their contracts, but you know as well as I do that baseball contracts are more a matter of honesty than of legal obligation. If a man is straight, he'll keep it, if he's crooked, he'll break it. And you know what a hole it would leave in the Giant team if those three men went over the fence. There isn't a heavier slugger in the team than Burkett, except Larry. His batting average this year was .332, and as a fielding first baseman he's the class of the league." "You're right there," acquiesced Joe, as he recalled the ease and precision with which Burkett took them on either side and dug them out of the dirt. "He's saved a game for me many and many a time." "As for Iredell," went on McRae, "he hasn't his equal in playing short and in covering second as the pivot for a double play. And nobody has played the infield as Curry does since I've been manager of the team." "It would certainly break the Giants all up to lose the three of them," agreed Joe. "But we haven't lost them yet. Remember that the game isn't over till the last man is out in the ninth inning." "I know that. You've helped me win two fights this year, Joe, one for the championship of the league and the other for the championship of the world. Now I'm counting on you to help me win a third, perhaps the hardest of them all." "Put 'er there, Mac," said Joe, extending his hand. "Shake--I'm with you till the cows come home." "Of course, they'll be willing to put up big money, Joe. You know that already." "It doesn't make a particle of difference, Mac, how much money they put up," returned the crack pitcher warmly. "There isn't enough cash in the U. S. treasury to tempt me." "I know that, Joe. And I only wish that I could be as certain of the rest of the players." "Well, of course, I can't speak for the others. But you can be sure that I'll use my influence on the right side every time. Some of them may weaken and break away, but I doubt very much if they'll be any of your main-stays. If I were you, Mac, I wouldn't let this worry me too much." "Yes, I know it's getting on my nerves, Joe, because, you see, it means so much to me. But having you on my side has braced me up a good deal," went on the manager. They shook hands warmly, and McRae, evidently encouraged and braced by the talk with his star pitcher, made his way back to his own immediate party. The teams were slated to play in Salt Lake City and in Ogden. In both places they "cleaned up" easily, and it was not until a few days later when they reached the slope that they encountered opposition that made them exert themselves to win. At Bakersfield, with Jim in the box, the game went to eleven innings before it was finally placed to the credit of the Giants by a score of three to two. The 'Frisco team also put up a stiff fight for eight innings, but were overwhelmed by a storm of hits which rained from Giant bats in the ninth. The game with Oakland was the last on the schedule before the teams left for the Orient, and an enormous crowd was in attendance. Joe was in the box for the All-American team. He was in fine form, and held the home team down easily until the fifth inning, but the Oaklands also, undaunted by the reputation of their adversaries, and under the guidance of a manager who had formerly been a famous first baseman of the Chicago team, were also out to win if possible, and with first-class pitching and supported by errorless fielding, they held their redoubtable opponents on even terms. At the end of the fifth, neither team had scored, although the Giants had threatened to do so on two separate occasions. A singular condition developed in the sixth. It was the Giants' turn at bat and Curry had reached first on a clean single to right. A neat sacrifice by Joe advanced him to second. A minute later he stole third, sliding feet first into the bag and narrowly escaping the ball in the third baseman's hand. With only one out and Larry coming to the bat, the prospects for a run were bright. Larry let the first go by, but swung at the second, which was coming straight to the plate. His savage lunge caught the ball on the underside, and it went soaring through the air to a tremendous height. Both the second and third baseman started for the ball. It looked as though neither would be able to reach it, and Curry ran half-way down the line between third and home, awaiting the result. If the ball were caught he figured that he would easily have time to get back to third. If it were dropped, he could make home and score. The third baseman got under the descending ball, but it was coming from such a height that it was difficult to judge. It slipped through his fingers, but instead of falling to the ground, went plump into the pocket of his baseball shirt. He tugged desperately to get it out, at the same time running toward Curry, who danced about on the line between third and home in an agony of indecision. Was the ball caught or not? If it were, he would have to return to third. If it were not, he must make a break for home. The teams were all shouting now, while the crowd went into convulsions. The third baseman reached Curry and grabbed him with one hand, while with the other he frantically tried to get the ball from his pocket and clap it on him. But the ball stuck, and in the mixup both players fell to the ground and rolled over and over. Larry, in the meanwhile, was tearing round the bases, but he himself wasn't sure whether he was really out or whether he ought to strike for home. He reached third and pulled up there, still in the throes of doubt. He could have easily gone on past the struggling combatants, but in that case, if Curry were finally declared not out, Larry would also be out for having passed him and got home first. On the other hand, if Curry should finally escape and get back to third, one of them would still be out because he was occupying the bag to which his comrade was entitled. He did not really know whether he was running for exercise or to score a run. It was the funniest mixup that even the veteran players had ever seen on a ball field, and as for the crowd they were wild with joy. The third baseman, finding that Curry was about to get away from him and unable to get the ball out of his pocket, finally threw his arms about him and hugged him close in the wild hope that some part of the protruding ball would touch his prisoner's person and thus put him out. The sight of those burly gladiators, locked in a fond embrace, threatened the sanity of the onlookers, but the farce was ended when Curry finally wriggled out from the anaconda grasp of his opponent and took a chance for the plate. Then there was a hot debate, as the umpire, himself laughing until the tears ran down his face, tried to solve the situation. Had Curry been touched by the ball, or had he not? Had the ball been caught or not? Players on both sides tugged at him as they debated the matter _pro_ and _con_. "I don't know what that umpire's name is," grinned Jim to Joe, who was weak with laughter, "but I know what it ought to be." "What?" asked Joe. "Solomon," chuckled Jim. CHAPTER XV THE BEWILDERED UMPIRE But whatever the umpire's name might have been, he only resembled Solomon in one respect. He was inclined to compromise and cut the play in two, giving one part to the major leaguers and the other to the Oakland team. He was not to blame for being bewildered, for the baseball magnates who had framed the rules had never contemplated the special case of a player catching the ball in his pocket. Between the opposing claims he pulled out his book and scanned it carefully but with no result. "It's easy enough," rasped McRae. "He tried to catch a ball and muffed it. It goes for a hit and Curry scores." "Not on your life," barked Everett, the manager of the Oakland team. "He got the ball and it never touched the ground." "Got it," sneered McRae. "This is baseball, not pool. He can't pocket the ball." There was a laugh at this, and Mackay, the third baseman, looked a little sheepish. The baited umpire suggested that the whole play be called off and that Curry go back to third while Larry resumed his place at the bat. Larry set up a howl at this, as he saw his perfectly good three-baser go glimmering. "Oh, hire a hall," snapped Everett. "Even if the umpire decides against the catch it was only an error and you ought to have been out anyway." "You can't crawl out of it that way," said McRae to the umpire. "A play is a play and you've got to settle it one way or the other, even if you settle it wrong." The umpire hesitated, wiped his brow and finally decided that the ball was caught. That put Larry out, and he retreated, growling, to the bench, while Everett grinned his satisfaction. "That's all right, Ump," said the latter. "But how about Curry? Mackay put the ball on him all right and that makes three out." "Say, what do you want, the earth?" queried McRae. "He didn't put the ball on him. He didn't have the ball to put. It was in his pocket all the time." "Of course I put the ball on him," declared Mackay. "I must have. When I fell on him I hit him everywhere at once." The umpire finally decided that Mackay had not put the ball on Curry, and the red-headed right-fielder chuckled at the thought of the run he had scored. "That makes it horse and horse," said the umpire. "Get back to your places." If he thought he was at the end of his troubles he was mistaken, for Everett suddenly cried out: "Look here. You said that Mackay caught that ball, didn't you?" "That's what I said," snorted the umpire. "Well, then," crowed Everett triumphantly, "why didn't Curry go back to third and touch the bag before he lit out for home? He has to do that on a caught fly ball, hasn't he?" The umpire looked fairly stumped. Here was something on which the rules were explicit. It was certain that Curry should have returned to the base and it was equally certain that he hadn't. Mackay had caught him half-way between third and home. But McRae was equal to the occasion. "Suppose he did have to," he cried. "You said that Mackay hadn't touched him and he's free to go back yet." "And I'm free to touch him with the ball," Mackay came back at him. "But the ball isn't in play," put in Robbie, adding his mite to the general confusion. "You called time when you came in to settle this." "Who wouldn't be an umpire?" laughed Jim to Joe, as he saw the look of despair on that worried individual's face. "The most glorious mixup I ever saw on the ball field," answered Joe. "'How happy he could be with either were 'tother dear charmer away,'" chuckled Jim, pointing to the two pugnacious disputants on either side of the umpire. "Curry's out--Curry isn't out. Love me--love me not," responded Joe. By this time the crowd had got over their laugh and impatiently demanded action. The umpire cut the Gordian knot by sending Curry back to third, where he and Mackay chaffed each other and the game went on. It was not much of a game after that, however, as the laughable incident had put all the players in a more or less frivolous mood. It finally ended in a score of six to three in favor of the All-Americans, and the teams made a break for the showers. "The last game we play on American soil for many moons," remarked Joe, as, having bathed and dressed, the two young athletes strolled toward their hotel. "And every one of them a victory," observed Jim. "Not a single mark on the wrong side of the ledger!" "That game at Denver was the closest call we had," said Joe. "The trip so far has been a big money-maker, too. McRae was telling me yesterday that we'd already topped ninety-five thousand, and there was ten thousand in that crowd to-day if there was a penny." "I guess Mac won't have any trouble in buying steamship tickets," laughed Jim. "By the way, we haven't had a look at the old boat yet. Let's go down to-morrow and inspect her." "Why not make it the day after to-morrow?" suggested Joe. "The girls will be here by that time and we'll take them with us." "That will suit me, Joe." "I've been thinking of something, Jim," went on the crack pitcher, after a pause. "It won't be long now before we leave America. What do you say if we do a little shopping, and buy some things for ourselves and for the girls?" "Say, that's queer! I was thinking the same thing." Jim paused for a moment. "Won't it be fine to have the others with us again?" "Yes; I'll be very glad to see Mabel, and glad to see Clara, too. I suppose you've been getting letters pretty regularly, eh, Jim?" "I don't believe I've been getting any more letters than you have, Joe," returned the other. "Well, you're welcome to them, Jim. I wish you luck!" said Joe, and placed a hand on his chum's shoulder. For a moment they looked into each other's eyes, and each understood perfectly what was passing in the other's mind. But Jim just then did not feel he could say too much. "I'll be glad to see Reggie again, too," remarked Joe, after a moment of silence. "He's something of a queer stick, but pretty good at that." "Oh, he's all right, Joe," answered Jim. "As he grows older and sees more of the seamy side of life, he'll get some of that nonsense knocked out of him." They ate their supper that night with a sense of relaxation to which they had long been strangers. For the first time since they had gone to the training camp at Texas in the spring, they were out of harness. There had been the fierce, tense race for the pennant that had strained them to the utmost. Then, with only a few days intervening, had come the still more exciting battle for the championship of the world. They had won and won gloriously, but even then they had not felt wholly free, for the long trip across the continent which they had just finished was then before them, and although this struggle had been less close and important, it had still kept them on edge and in training. But now their strenuous year had ended. Before them lay a glorious trip around the world, a voyage over summer seas, a pilgrimage through lands of mystery and romance, the fulfillment of cherished dreams, and with them were to go the two charming girls who represented to them all that was worth while in life and who even now were hurrying toward them as fast as steam could bring them. "This is the end of a perfect day," hummed Jim, as he sat back and lighted a cigar. "You're wrong there, Jim," replied Joe, with a smile. "The perfect day will be to-morrow." "Right you are!" Yet little did Baseball Joe and his chum dream of the many adventures and perils which lay ahead of them. CHAPTER XVI PUTTING THEM OVER As the two baseball players sauntered down the corridor after supper they chanced upon Iredell. He was sitting at a reading table, intent upon a letter which had attached to it what looked like an official document of some kind. It was a chance for which Joe had been looking, and he gave Jim a sign to go on while he himself dropped into a seat beside the famous shortstop. "How are you, Dell, old boy?" he said, genially. "Able to sit up and take nourishment," replied the other, at the same time thrusting the document into his pocket with what seemed like unnecessary haste. "Most of the boys are that way," laughed Joe. "There are just two things that every ball player is ready to do, take nourishment and nag the umpire." Iredell laughed as he bit off the end of a cigar. "That poor umpire got his this afternoon," he said. "With McRae on one side and Everett on the other I thought he'd be pulled to pieces." "He was sure up against a hard proposition," agreed Joe. "The next hardest was in a play that happened when I was on the Pittston team. A fellow poled out a hit that went down like a shot between left and center. A lot of carriages were parked at the end of the field and a big coach dog ran after the ball, got it in his mouth and skipped down among the carriages where the fielders couldn't get at him. It would have doubled you up to have seen them coaxing the brute to be a good dog and give the ball up. In the meantime, the batter was tearing around the bases and made home before the ball got back." "And how did his Umps decide it?" asked Iredell, with interest. "He was flabbergasted for a while," replied Joe, "but he finally called it a two-base hit and let it go at that." "An umpire's life is not a happy one," laughed Iredell. "He earns every dollar that he gets. I suppose that's what some of us fellows will be doing, too, when we begin to go back." "It will be a good while before you come to that, Dell," Joe replied. "You've played a rattling game at short this year, and you're a fixture with the Giants." "I don't know about that," said the shortstop slowly. "Fixtures sometimes work loose, you know." "It won't be so in this case," said Joe, purposely misunderstanding him. "McRae wouldn't let go of you." "Not if he could help it," responded Iredell. "Well, he doesn't have to worry about that just yet," said Joe. "How long does your contract have to run?" "A year yet," replied Iredell. "But contracts, you know, are like pie crust, they're easily broken." "What do you mean by that?" demanded Joe sharply. "Oh, nothing, nothing at all," said Iredell, a little nervously, as though he had said more than he intended. "But to tell the truth, Joe, I'm sore on this whole question of contracts. It's like a yoke that galls me." "Oh, I don't know," responded Joe. "A good many folks would like to be galled that way. A good big salary, traveling on Pullmans, stopping at the best hotels, posing for pictures, and having six months of the year to ourselves. If that's a yoke, it's lined with velvet." "But it's a yoke, just the same," persisted Iredell stubbornly. "Most men in business are free to accept any offer that's made to them. We can't. We may be offered twice as much as we're getting, but we have to stay where we are just the same." "Well, that's simply because it's baseball," argued Joe. "You know just as well as I do that that's the only way the game can be carried on. It wouldn't last a month if players started jumping from one team to another, or from one league to another. The public would lose all interest in it, and it's the public that pays our salaries." "Pays our salaries!" snapped Iredell. "Puts money in the hands of the owners, you mean. They get the feast and we get the crumbs. What's our measly salary compared with what they get? I was just reading in the paper that the Giants cleaned up two hundred thousand dollars this year, net profit, and yet it's the players that bring this money in at the gate." "Yes," Joe admitted. "But they are the men who put up the capital and take the chances. Suppose they had lost two hundred thousand dollars this year. We'd have had our salaries just the same." Just then Burkett and Curry came along and dropped into seats beside the pair. "Hello, Red," greeted Joe, at the same time nodding to Burkett. "How are your ribs feeling, after that bear hug you got this afternoon?" Curry grinned. "That's all right," he said. "But he never touched me with the ball. And that umpire was a boob not to give me the run." "What were you fellows talking about so earnestly?" asked Burkett, with some curiosity. "Oh, jug-handled things like baseball contracts," responded Iredell. "They're the bunk all right," declared Burkett, emphatically. "Bunk is right," said Curry. "What's the use of quarreling with your bread and butter?" asked Joe good-naturedly. "What's the use of bread and butter, if you can have cake and ought to have it?" Iredell came back at him. "Cake is good," agreed Joe, "but the point is that if a man has agreed to take bread and butter, it's up to him to stand by his agreement. A man's word is the best thing he has, and if he is a man he'll hold to it." "You seem to be taking a lot for granted, Joe," said Burkett, a little stiffly. "Who is talking of breaking his word? We've got a right to talk about our contracts, haven't we, when we think the owners are getting the best end of the deal?" "Sure thing," said Joe genially. "It's every man's privilege to kick, but the time to kick is before one makes an agreement, not when kicking won't do any good." "Maybe it can do some good," said Curry significantly. "How so?" asked Joe innocently. "No other club in the American or National League would take us if we broke away from the Giants." "There are other leagues," remarked Iredell. "Surely. The minors," replied Joe, again purposely misunderstanding. "But who wants to be a busher?" "There's the All-Star League that's just forming," suggested Burkett, with a swift look at his two companions. "'All-Star,'" repeated Joe, a little contemptuously. "That sounds good, but where are they going to get the stars?" "They're getting them all right," said Iredell. "The papers are full of the names of players who have jumped or are going to jump." "You don't mean players," said Joe. "You mean traitors." The others winced a little at this. "'Traitors' is a pretty hard word," objected Curry. "It's the only word," returned Joe stiffly. "You can't call a man a traitor who simply tries to better himself," remarked Burkett defensively. "Benedict Arnold tried to better himself," returned Joe. "But it didn't get him very far. The fellows that jumped, in the old Brotherhood days, thought they were going to better themselves, but they simply got in bad with the public and nearly ruined the game. This new league will promise all sorts of things, but how do you know it will keep them? What faith can you put in men who try to induce other men to be crooked?" "Well, you know, with most men business is business, as they put it." "I admit business is business. But so far as I am concerned, it is no business at all if it isn't on the level," answered Joe earnestly. "A great many men think they can do something that is shady and get away with it, and sometimes at first it looks as if they were right about it. But sooner or later they get tripped up and are exposed." "Well, everybody has got a right to make a living," grumbled Curry. "Sure he has--and I'm not denying it." "And everybody has got a right to go into baseball if he feels like investing his money that way." "Right again. But if he wants to make any headway in the great national game, he has got to play it on the level right from the start. If he doesn't do that, he may, for a certain length of time, hoodwink the public. But, as I said before, sooner or later he'll be exposed; and you know as well as I do that the public will not stand for any underhand work in any line of sports. I've talked, not alone to baseball men, but also to football men, runners, skaters, and even prize fighters, and they have all said exactly the same thing--that the great majority of men want their sports kept clean." There was no reply to this and Joe rose to his feet. "But what's the use of talking?" he added. "Let the new league do as it likes. There's one bully thing, anyway, that it won't touch--our Giants. Whatever it does to the other teams, we will all stick together. We'll stand by Robbie and McRae till the last gun's fired. So long, fellows, see you later." He strode off down the corridor, leaving three silent men to stare after his retreating figure thoughtfully. CHAPTER XVII "MAN OVERBOARD" Baseball Joe found Jim waiting for him near the clerk's desk. "Been having quite a confab," remarked the latter. "Yes," replied Joe carelessly. "Burkett and Red came along and we had a fanfest." The next day was the first of their real vacation, and they spent the morning strolling about the city and marveling at the quick recovery it had made from the earthquake. They had a sumptuous dinner on the veranda of the Cliff House, where they had a full view of the famous harbor and watched the seals sporting on the rocks. The commerce of the port was in full swing, and out through the Golden Gate passed great fleets with their precious argosies bound for the Orient, for immobile China, for restless and awakened Japan, for the islands of the sea, for the lands of the lotus and the palm, of minaret and mosque and pagoda, for all the realms of mystery and romance that lie beneath the Southern Cross. It would have been a wrench to tear themselves away had it been any other day than this, but to-day was the one to which they had looked eagerly forward through all the month of exhibition playing, since they had left the quiet home at Riverside, and they kept looking at their watches to see if it were not time to go to the train and meet the girls. They were at the station long before the appointed time, and when at last the Overland Flyer drew in they scanned each Pullman anxiously to catch a sight of two charming faces. They were not kept long in suspense, for down the steps of the second car tripped Clara and Mabel, looking more wonderfully alluring than ever, although a month before neither Jim nor Joe would have admitted that such a thing were possible. Reggie, too, was there, dressed "to the limit" as usual, and with his supposed English accent twice as pronounced as ever. But Reggie for the moment did not count, compared with the lovely charges whom he had brought across the continent. Of course, the boys felt grateful to him, but their eyes and their thoughts were fastened on his two charming companions. "I'm awfully glad you've got here at last," cried Joe, as he rushed up to Mabel and caught her by both hands. He would have liked very much to have kissed her, but did not dare do it in such a public place. "Oh, what a grand trip we've had!" declared Clara, as she shook hands first with Jim and then with her brother. "I never had any idea our country was so big and so magnificent." "That's just what Joe and I were remarking on our trip across the Rockies," answered Jim. He could not take his eyes from the face of his chum's sister. Clara looked the picture of health, showing that the trip from her little home town had done her a world of good. But if Clara looked good, Mabel looked even better--at least in the eyes of Joe. He could not keep his gaze from her face. And she was certainly just as glad to see him. "Ye-es, it was quite a trip, don't you know," remarked Reggie. "I met several bally good chaps on the way, so the time passed quickly enough. But I'm glad to be here, and hope that before long we'll be on shipboard." "Oh, I'm so excited to think that I'm going to take a real ocean trip!" burst out Clara. "Just to think of it--a girl like me going around the world! I never dreamed I'd get that far." "And just think of the many queer sights we'll see!" broke in Mabel. "And the queer people we'll meet!" The girls were all on the _qui vive_ with excitement in their anticipation of the delightful trip that lay before them, and there were no pauses in their conversation on the way to the hotel. Here they were introduced to the other members of the party, which by this time had increased to large proportions, for beside the ladies who had accompanied the players across the continent, many others had followed the same plan as Mabel and Clara and joined their friends in San Francisco. Altogether, there were more than a hundred of the tourists, of whom perhaps a third were women. All were out for a good time, and the atmosphere of good will and jollity was infectious. There was an utter absence of snobbery and affectation, and the boys were delighted to see how quickly the girls fell into the spirit of the gathering and with their own fun and high spirits added more than their quota to the general hilarity. That night there was a big banquet given to the tourists by the railroad officials who had had the party in charge from the beginning and by some of the leading citizens of San Francisco. It was a jolly occasion, where for once in affairs of the kind the "flowing bowl" was notable for its absence. The stalwart, clear-eyed athletes who, with their friends, were the guests of the occasion, had no use for the cup that both cheers and inebriates. A striking feature of the table decorations was a cake weighing one hundred and twenty-five pounds, on whose summit was a bat and ball, and whose frosted slopes were accurate representations of the Polo Grounds and the baseball park at Chicago. It is needless to say how pronounced a hit this made with the "fans" of both sexes. It was a great send-off to the globe-encircling baseball teams. The next day, Joe and Jim took the girls down to the pier to see the ship on which they were to sail. It was a splendid craft of twenty thousand tons and sumptuously fitted up. The girls exclaimed at the beauty of her lines and the superb decoration of the cabins and saloons. "The _Empress of Japan_!" read Clara, as she scanned the name on the steamer's stern. "Most fittingly named," said Jim gallantly, "since she carries two queens." "What a pretty compliment," said Clara, as she flashed a radiant look at Jim. "I'm afraid," said Mabel, "that Jim's been practising on some of the nice girls in the party." "Have I, Joe?" appealed the accused one. "Haven't I been an anchorite, a senobite, an archimandrite----" "Goodness, I thought you were bad," laughed Clara. "But now I know you're worse." "Keep it up, old man, as long as the 'ites' hold out," said Joe. "I guess there are plenty more in the dictionary. But honest, girls, Jim hasn't looked twice at any girl since he came away from Riverside." "I've looked more than twice at one girl since yesterday," Jim was beginning, but Clara, flushing rosily, thought it was high time to change the subject. The next day, with all the party safely on board, the ship weighed anchor, threaded its way through the crowded commerce of the bay and then, dropping its tug, turned its prow definitely toward the east and breasted the billows of the Pacific. "The last we'll see of Old Glory for many months," remarked Joe, as, standing at the rail, they watched the Stars and Stripes floating out from the flag-pole on the top of the government station. "Not so long as that," corrected Jim. "We will still be on the soil of God's country when we reach Hawaii seven days from now." The first two days of the voyage passed delightfully. The girls proved good sailors, and had the laugh on many of the so-called stronger sex, who were conspicuous by their absence from the table during that period. On the afternoon of the third day out, Joe and Mabel were pacing the deck with Jim and Clara at a discreet distance behind them. It was astonishing how willing each pair was not to intrude upon the other. Suddenly there was a tumult of excited exclamations near the stern of the vessel, and then above it rose a shout that is never heard at sea without a chill of terror. "Man overboard!" CHAPTER XVIII ONE STRIKE AND OUT The two young baseball players and the girls joined the throng that was racing toward the stern. A number of people were pointing wildly over the port side at a small object some distance behind the ship. They followed the pointing fingers and saw the head of a man who was swimming desperately toward the receding ship. The steamer, which had been taking advantage of the favorable weather and had been ploughing ahead under full steam, found it hard to stop, although orders had been given at once to shut off steam. It was maddening to the onlookers to see the distance increase between the giant ship and that bobbing, lonely speck far out in the waste of waters. With all the celerity possible the great steamer swung round in a circle and bore down upon the struggling swimmer, while at the same time preparations were made to lower a boat as soon as they should be near enough. "They're going to save him!" cried Mabel, half-sobbing in her excitement. "Oh, Joe, they're going to save him after all!" It seemed as though there were no doubt of this now, for the man was evidently a strong swimmer and seemed to be maintaining himself without great effort, and it was certain that within the next few minutes the boat, already filled with oarsmen and swaying at the davits, ready to be lowered, would reach him. Suddenly Clara, with a stifled scream, clutched at Jim's arm. "Oh, Jim!" she cried, "what is that? Look, look----" Jim looked and turned pale under his tan. "Great heavens!" he cried. "It's a shark!" The cry was taken up by scores. "A shark! A shark!" There, cleaving the water and coming toward the swimmer like an arrow at its mark, was a great black dorsal fin which bespoke the presence of the pirate of the seas. The steamer had lessened speed in order to lower its boat, but the momentum under which it was carried it within twenty yards of the castaway. Almost instantly the ship's boat struck the water, and the sinewy backs of the sailors bent almost double as they drove it toward the swimmer. From the crowded deck they could see his face now, pale and dripping, but lighted with a gleam of hope as he saw the boat approaching. But the horrified onlookers saw something else, that ominous, awful fin, that came rushing on like a relentless fate toward its intended prey. Some of the women were sobbing, others almost fainting, while the men, pale and with gritted teeth, groaned at their helplessness. It was a question now of which would reach the luckless man first, the boat or the shark. The boat was nearer and the men were rowing like demons, but the shark was swifter, coming on like an express train. There must have been something in those faces high above him that warned the man of some impending peril. He cast a swift look behind him, and then in frantic terror redoubled his efforts to reach the boat. "Oh, Joe, they'll be too late! They'll never reach him in time!" sobbed Mabel. "Oh, can't we do anything to help him?" Joe, as frantic as she, looked wildly about him. His eyes fell on a heavy piece of iron, left on the deck by some seaman who had been repairing the windlass. Like a flash he grabbed it. It seemed as though the swimmer were doomed, and a gasp of horror went up from the spectators as they saw that the boat would be too late. For now the fin had disappeared, and they saw a hideous shape take form as the monster came into plain sight, a foot beneath the surface, and turned over upon its back to seize its prey. Then Joe took a chance--a long chance, a desperate chance, an almost hopeless chance--and yet, a chance. With all the force of his powerful arm he sent the jagged piece of iron hurtling at the fiendish open jaws. And the chance became a certainty. The missile crashed into the monster's nose, its most sensitive point. The brute was so near the surface that the thin sheet of water was no protection. The effect was startling. There was a tremendous plunging and leaping that lashed the waters into foam, and then the crippled monster sank slowly into the ocean depths. The next instant the ship's boat had reached the castaway, and strong arms pulled him aboard, where he sank panting and exhausted across a thwart. It had all happened with the speed of light. There was a moment of stunned surprise, a gasp from the crowd, and then a roar went up that swelled into a deafening thunder of applause. Joe had reversed the baseball rule of "three strikes and out." This time it was just one strike--and the shark was out! CHAPTER XIX BRAXTON JOINS THE PARTY The passengers crowded around Joe in wild delight and exhilaration, reaching for his hand, pounding him on the back, vociferous in their praise and congratulations, until he was almost ready to pray to be rescued from his friends. Mabel, starry-eyed, slipped a hand within his arm and the pressure was eloquent. Jim almost wrenched his arm from the shoulder, and Clara hugged her brother openly. Naturally, Joe's great feat appealed especially to the baseball players of the party. They felt that he had honored the craft to which they belonged. He had justified his reputation as the star pitcher of the country, and they felt that they shared in the reflected glory. "Great Scott, Joe!" beamed Larry. "You put it all over his sharklet that time." "Straight over the plate!" chuckled Burkett. "Against the rules, though," grinned Denton. "You know that the 'bean ball' is barred." The rescued man had now been brought on board. He had been too excited and confused to understand how he had been snatched from the jaws of death--and such a death! He proved to be a member of the crew, a Lascar, whose knowledge of the English language was limited, and whose ignorance of the great national game was fathomless. But when he had recovered and had learned the name of his rescuer, he sought Joe out and thanked him in accents that were none the less sincere because broken and imperfect, and from that time on throughout the trip he was almost doglike in his devotion. A few days more and the ship reached Hawaii, that far-flung outpost of Uncle Sam's dominions, which breaks the long ocean journey between America and Japan. The hearts of the tourists leaped as the ship drew near the harbor and they caught sight of the Stars and Stripes, floating proudly in the breeze. "I never knew how I loved that flag before," cried Mabel enthusiastically. "The most beautiful flag that floats," chimed in Clara. "The flag that stands for liberty everywhere," remarked Jim. "Yes," was Joe's tribute. "The flag that when it has gone up anywhere has never been pulled down." As the ship drew near the shore the beauty of the island paradise brought exclamations of delight from the passengers who thronged the steamer's rails. The harbor was a scene of busy life and animation. The instant the ship dropped anchor she was surrounded by native boats, paddled by Hawaiian youngsters, who indulged in exhibitions of diving and swimming that were a revelation of skill. "They've got it all over the fishes when it comes to swimming," remarked Jim with a grin. "Cough up all your spare coin, Joe, and see these little beggars dive for it." They tossed coin after coin into the transparent waters and swiftly as each piece sank, the young swimmer was swifter. Every one was caught before it reached bottom, and came up clutched in some dusky hand or shining between ivory teeth. "I'll be bankrupt if this keeps up long," laughed Joe. "Yes," said Jim. "You'll wish you'd joined the All-Star League and copped that twenty thousand." "How do they ever do it?" marveled Clara. "In the blood I suppose," replied Joe. "Their folks throw them into the water when they're babies, and like puppies, they have to swim or drown." "They're more at home in the water than they are on land," remarked Jim. "Those fellows will swim out in the ocean and stay there all day long." "I should think they'd be afraid of sharks," remarked Mabel, with a shudder, as she thought of the recent incident in which that hideous brute had figured. "Sharks are easy meat for them," replied Jim. "You ought to pity the sharks instead of wasting it on these fellows. Give them a knife, and the shark hasn't a Chinaman's chance." "Not even a knife," chimed in Joe. "A stick sharpened at both ends is enough." "A stick?" exclaimed Mabel, wonderingly. "Sure thing," replied Joe. "They simply wait until the shark turns over to grab them and then thrust it right into the open jaws. You've no idea how effective that can be." "It's a case of misplaced confidence," laughed Jim. "The poor trustful shark lets his jaws come together with a snap, or rather he thinks he does, and instead of a nice juicy human, those guileless jaws of his close on the two ends of the pointed stick and stay there. He can't close his mouth and he drowns." "Poor thing," murmured Clara involuntarily, while the boys put up a shout. "I don't care," she added, flushing. "I'm always sorry for the underdog----" "That's why she's taken such a fancy to you, Jim, old man," laughed Joe. "Well, as long as pity is akin to----" began Joe, when Mabel, tired with laughing, interrupted him: "But suppose the stick should break," she said. "Then there would be just one less native," answered Jim, solemnly. "By the way, Joe," he added, "speaking of sharks--what's the difference between a dog and a shark?" "Give it up," replied Joe promptly. "Because," chuckled Jim, "a dog's bark is worse than his bite, but a shark's bite is--is--worse than his--er----" "Go ahead," said Joe bitterly, while the girls giggled. "Perpetrate it. What shark has a bark?" "A dog-faced shark," crowed Jim triumphantly. "Of all the idiots," lisped Reggie, joining them at the rail. "'Pon honor, you know, I never heard such bally nonsense." The gibe that followed this remark was cut short by the approach of the lighter on which the passengers were to be carried to the shore. They were to spend two days in Hawaii while the steamer discharged its cargo, but they would have gladly made it two weeks or two months. Only one game was played, and that was between the Giant and the All-American teams. There was no native talent which was quite strong enough to stand a chance against the seasoned veterans, although Hawaii boasts of many ball teams. There was a big crowd present, made up chiefly of government officials and representatives of foreign commercial houses from all over the world who had established branches on the island. The contests between the two teams had been waxing hotter and hotter, despite the fact that there was nothing at stake except the pleasure of winning. But this was enough for these high-strung athletes, to whom the cry "play ball" was like a bugle call. The fight was close from start to finish, and resulted in a victory for the All-Americans by a score of three to two. "That makes it 'even Stephen,'" chortled Brennan to his friend and rival, McRae. "We've won just as many games as you have, now." "It's hoss and hoss," admitted McRae. "But just wait; what we'll do to you fellows before we get to the end of the trip will be a crime." The time that still remained before the steamer resumed its journey was one of unalloyed delight. The scenery was wonderful and the weather superb. Jim and Joe hired a touring car and with Joe at the wheel--it is unnecessary to state who sat beside him--they visited all the most picturesque and romantic spots in that glorious bit of Nature's handiwork. "Do you remember our last ride in an automobile, Mabel?" asked Joe with a smile, as she snuggled into the seat beside him. "Indeed I do," replied Mabel. "It was the day that horrid Fleming carried me off and you chased us." "I caught you all right, anyway," Joe replied. "Yes," said Mabel saucily. "Only to spend all your spare moments afterward in regretting it." Joe's reproachful denial both in words and looks was eloquent. They visited the famous volcano with its crater Kilaeua, and watched in awe and wonder the great sea of flame that surged hideously and writhed like a chain of fiery serpents. They saw the famous battlefield where Kamehameha, "the Napoleon of the Pacific," had won the great victory that made him undisputed ruler of the island. They saw the steep precipice where the three thousand Aohu, fighting to the last gasp, had made their final stand, and had at last been driven over the cliff to the death awaiting them below. It was with a feeling of genuine regret that they finally bade farewell to the enchanting island and again took ship to pursue their journey. A large number of new passengers had come on board at Honolulu, and among them was a man who soon attached himself to the baseball party. He was tall and distinguished in appearance, smooth and plausible in his conversation, and seemed to be thoroughly versed in the great national game. His ingratiating manners soon made him a favorite with the women of the party also, and he spared no pains to deepen this impression. Reggie liked him immensely, largely, no doubt, owing to the hints that Braxton, which was the stranger's name, had dropped of having aristocratic connections. He had traveled widely, and the names of distinguished personages fell from his lips with ease and familiarity. "How do you like the new fan, Joe?" Jim asked, a day or two later. "I can't say that I'm stuck on him much," responded Joe. "He seems to be pretty well up in baseball dope, and that in itself I suppose ought to be a recommendation, to a ball player especially, but somehow or other, he doesn't hit me very hard." "I think he's very handsome," remarked Mabel, with a mischievous glance at Joe, and that young man's instinctive dislike of the newcomer became immediately more pronounced. "He seems very friendly and pleasant," put in Clara. "Why don't you like him, Joe?" "How can I tell?" replied her brother. "I simply know I don't." CHAPTER XX IN MIKADO LAND But if Braxton sensed the slight feeling of antipathy which Joe felt for him, he gave no sign of it, and Joe himself, who wanted to be strictly just, took pains to conceal it. Braxton had a fund of anecdotes that made him good company, and the friendship that Reggie felt for him made him often a member of Joe's party. "Fine fellow, that Mr. Matson of yours," he remarked one afternoon, when he and Reggie and Mabel were sitting together under an awning, which the growing heat of every day, as the vessel made its way deeper into the tropics, made very grateful for its shade and coolness. "Indeed he is," remarked Mabel, warmly, to whom praise of Joe was always sweet. "He's a ripper, don't you know," agreed Reggie. "Not only as a man but as a player," continued Braxton. "Hughson used to be king pin once, but I think it can be fairly said that Matson has taken his place as the star pitcher of America. Hughson's arm will probably never be entirely well again." "Joe thinks that Hughson is a prince," remarked Mabel. "He says he stands head and shoulders above everybody else." "He used to," admitted Braxton. "For ten years there was nobody to be compared with him. But now it's Matson's turn to wear the crown." "Have you ever seen Joe pitch?" asked Mabel. "I should say I have," replied Braxton. "And it's always been a treat to see the way he did his work. I saw him at the Polo Grounds when in that last, heartbreaking game he won the championship for the Giants. And I saw him, too, in that last game of the World's Series, when it seemed as though only a miracle could save the day. That triple play was the most wonderful thing I ever beheld. The way he nailed that ball and shot it over to Denton was a thing the fans will talk over for many years to come." "Wasn't it great?" cried Mabel, enthusiastically, at the same time privately resolving to tell all this to Joe and show him how unjust he was in feeling the way he did toward this generous admirer. "The fact is," continued Braxton, "that Matson's in a class by himself. He's the big cog in the Giant machinery. It's a pity they don't appreciate him more." "Why, they do appreciate him!" cried Mabel, her eyes opening wide with wonder. "Mr. McRae thinks nothing's too good for him." "Nothing's too good except money," suggested Braxton. "They give him plenty of that, too," put in Mabel, loyally. "He gets a ripping salary, don't you know," put in Reggie. "And he almost doubled it in this last World's Series." "A man's worth what he can get," returned Braxton. "Now, of course, I don't know and perhaps it might be an impertinence for me even to guess what his salary is, but I should say that it isn't a bit more than ten thousand a year." "Oh, it isn't anything like that," said Reggie, a little chop fallen. Braxton raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise. "I didn't think the Giants were so niggardly," he remarked, with a touch of contempt. "It's simply robbery for them to hold his services at such a figure. Mr. Matson could demand vastly more than that." "Where?" asked Reggie. "He's under contract with the Giants and they wouldn't let him go to any other club." "Why doesn't he go without asking leave?" asked Braxton. "But no other club in the big leagues would take him if he broke his contract with the Giants," said Mabel, a little bewildered. "I've heard there was a new league forming," said Braxton, carelessly. "Let's see, what is it they call it? The All-Star League. There would be no trouble with Matson's getting an engagement with them. They'd welcome him with open arms." "They've already tried to get him," cried Mabel, proudly. "Is that so? I suppose they made him a pretty good offer. I've heard they're doing things on a big scale." "It was a wonderful offer," said Mabel. "It certainly was, 'pon honor," chimed in Reggie. "Would it be indiscreet to ask the amount?" said Braxton. "I don't think there's any bally secret 'bout it," complied Reggie. "They offered him twenty thousand dollars to sign a contract and fifteen thousand dollars a year for a three years' term. Many a bank or railroad president doesn't get that much, don't you know." "And Matson refused it?" asked Braxton, incredulously. "How could he help it?" replied Mabel. "His contract with the Giants has two years yet to run." "My dear young lady," said Braxton, "don't you know that a baseball contract isn't as binding as the ordinary kind? In the first place, it's one-sided, and that itself makes it worthless." "In what way is it so one-sided?" asked Mabel. "Well, just to take one instance," replied Braxton. "A baseball club may engage a man for a year and yet if it gets tired of its bargain, it can let him go on ten days' notice. That doesn't seem fair, does it?" "No-o, it doesn't," admitted Mabel slowly. "It would be all right," continued Braxton, "if the player also could leave his club by giving ten days' notice. But he can't. That's what makes it unfair. The club can do to the player what the player can't do to the club. So the supposed contract is only a bit of paper. It's no contract at all." "Not in the legal sense, perhaps," said Reggie, dubiously. "Well, if not in the legal sense, then in no sense at all," persisted Braxton. "The law is supposed to be based on justice, isn't it, and to do what is right? "Of course," he went on, "it's none of my business; but if I were in Mr. Matson's place, I shouldn't hesitate a moment in going where my services were in the most demand." Mabel felt there was sophistry somewhere in the argument, but could hardly point out where it was. "I wouldn't like to be quoted in this matter, of course," said Braxton, suavely. "And it might be just as well not to mention to Mr. Matson that I have spoken about it. He might think I was trying to pry into his affairs." As Joe and Jim came up just then from the engine-room of the ship which they had been inspecting, the subject, of course, was dropped, and after a while Braxton strode away with a self-satisfied smile on his lips. The travelers were now in the heart of the typhoon region but luckily for them it was the winter season when such storms are least frequent and although they met a half gale that for two days kept them in their cabins, they were favored on the whole by fair weather and at the appointed time dropped anchor in the harbor of Yokohama. Now they were on the very threshold of the Oriental world of whose wonders they had heard and dreamed, and all were on tiptoe with curiosity and interest. The sights and scenes were as strange almost as though they were on another planet. Everything was new to their young blood and unjaded senses in this "Land of the Rising Sun." The great city itself, teeming with commerce and busy life, had countless places of interest, but far more enchanting were the trips they took in the jinrikishas drawn by tireless coolies which carried them to the little dreaming, rustic towns with their tiny houses, their quaint pagodas, their charming gardens and their unhurried life, so different from the feverish, restless tumult of western lands. "Really, this seems to be a different world from ours," was Clara's comment. "It certainly is vastly different from anything we have in America," replied Mabel. "It's interesting--I'll admit that," said Joe. "Just the same, I like things the way we have them much better." "To me these people--or at least a large part of them--seem to lead a dreamlike existence," was Jim's comment. "They don't seem to belong to the hurry and bustle of life such as we know it." "And yet there is noise enough, goodness knows!" answered Clara. "I think I really prefer the good old U. S. A., don't you know," drawled Reggie. "There may be society here, but really it's so different from ours that I shouldn't like to take part in it." "Yes, there is plenty of noise, but, at the same time, there is a good deal of calm and quiet," said Joe. But the calm and quiet that seemed to be prevailing features of Japanese life were wholly absent from the ball games where the visiting teams met the nines of Keio and Waseda Universities. The Giants were to play the first named team, while later on the All-Americans were slated to tackle the Waseda men. In the first game the contrast was laughable between the sturdy Giant players and their diminutive opponents. "What are we playing against?" laughed Larry to Denton. "A bunch of kids?" "It would take two of them to make a mouthful," grinned Denton. "I feel almost ashamed of myself," chimed in Burkett. "We ought to tackle fellows of our own size." "You don't find many of that kind in Japan," said Joe. "But don't you hold these fellows too cheap. They may have a surprise in store for us." The snap and vim that the Japs put into their practice before the game seemed to add point to his prophecy. They shot the ball around the bases with a speed and precision that would have done credit to seasoned veterans and made McRae, who watched them keenly, give his men a word of caution. "Don't get too gay, boys," he warned. The game that followed was "for blood." The universities had poured out their crowds to a man to cheer their players on to victory. And for the first five innings the scales hung in the balance. The Keio pitcher had a world of speed and a tantalizing drop, and only two safe hits were made off him. Behind him his team mates fielded like demons. No ball seemed too hard for them to get, and even when a Giant got to first base he found it difficult to advance against the accurate throwing to second of the Jap catcher. At the bat the home players were less fortunate. They hit the ball often enough but they couldn't "lean against it" with the power of their sturdier rivals. They were skillful bunters, however, and had the Giant players "standing on their heads" in trying to field the balls that the clever Jap players laid deftly in front of the plate. By these tactics they scored a run in the sixth inning, against which the Giants had only a string of goose eggs. "It's like a bear against a wildcat," muttered Robbie to McRae, as the little Jap scurried over the plate. "And it looks as if the wildcat might win," grunted the Giant manager, not at all pleased at the possibility. "Not a bit of it," denied Robbie sturdily. "A good big man is better than a good little man any time." And his faith was justified when, in the seventh inning, the Giants, stung by the taunts of their manager, really woke up and got into action. A perfect storm of hits broke from their bats and had the Japanese players running after the ball until their tongues hung out. Five runs came in and it was "all over but the shouting." There was not much shouting, however, for the home crowd had seen its dream of victory shattered. But though the Giants won handily in the end by a score of six to two, it had been a red-hot game, and had taken some of the conceit out of the major leaguers. It was a tip, too, to the All-Americans, who, when they played the Waseda team a little later, went in with determination to win the game from the start and trimmed their opponents handsomely. "Those Japs are the goods all right," conceded McRae, when at last they were ready to embark for Hongkong. "You're right they are," agreed Robbie. "We call ourselves the world's champions," grinned Jim. "But, after all, we're only champions of the United States. The time may come when there will be a real World's Series and then the pennant will mean something more than it does now." "It would be some big jump between the games," said Joe. "Lots of queer things happen," said Larry sagely. "The time yet may come when the umpire will take off his hat, bow to the crowd and say-- "'Ladies and gentlemen: the batteries for to-day's game are Matsuda and Nagawiki for the All-Japans, Matson and Mylert for the All-Americans.'" CHAPTER XXI RUNNING AMUCK If Japan had been a revelation to the tourists, China was a still greater one. For Japan, however much she clung to the dreamy life of former times, had at last awakened and was fast adapting herself to modern, civilized conditions. If Japan was still half dreaming, China was sound asleep. This, of course, was not true of the foreign quarter, where the great English government buildings and commercial houses might have been those of Paris or London. But just behind this lay the real China, looking probably the same as three hundred thousand years ago. The little streets, so narrow in places that the houses almost touched and a carriage could not pass! That strange medley of sounds and smells and noises! Here a tinker mending his pans on the sidewalk! There a dentist, pulling a tooth in the open street, jugglers performing their tricks, snake charmers exhibiting their slimy pets. There was a bewildering jumble of trades, occupations and amusements, so utterly different from what the tourists had ever before seen that it held their curiosity unabated and their interest stimulated to its highest pitch during the period of their stay. "Everything is so topsy turvy!" exclaimed Mabel, as she threaded the noisome streets, clinging close to Joe's arm. "I feel like Alice in Wonderland." "It's not surprising that things should be upside down when we're in the Antipodes," laughed Joe. "If we saw men walking on their heads it would seem natural out here," said Jim. "All that a Chinaman wants to know is what other people do, then he does something different." "Sure thing," said Joe. "See those fellows across the street. They're evidently old friends and each one is shaking hands with himself." "You can't dope out anything here," said Jim. "When an American's puzzled he scratches his head--the Chinaman scratches his foot. We wear black for mourning, they wear white. We pay the doctor when we're sick----" "If the doctor's lucky," interrupted Joe. "They pay him only while they're well. They figure that it's to his interest then to keep them well. We think what few brains we have are in our head. The Chinaman thinks they're in the stomach. Whenever he gets off what he thinks is a good thing he pats his stomach in approval. We put a guest of honor on our right, the Chinaman puts him on his left." "Anything else?" asked Clara laughingly. "Lots of things," replied Joe. "And we'll probably find them out before we go away." As they passed a corner they saw a man standing there, rigged out in a queer fashion. About him was what seemed to be a tree box, from which only his head protruded. "Why is he going around that way?" asked Mabel, curiously. "You wouldn't care to know that," said Joe, hurrying her along, but Mabel was not to be disposed of in so cavalier a fashion. "But I do want to know," she persisted. "Might as well tell her," said Jim, "and let her suffer." "Well," said Joe, reluctantly, "that fellow's being executed." "What do you mean?" exclaimed Mabel, in horror. "Just that," replied Joe. "That thing that looked like a tree box is what they call a cangue. They put him in there so that he's standing on thin slabs of wood that just enable him to keep his head above that narrow opening around his neck. Every little while they take one of the slabs of wood from underneath him; then he has to stand on tiptoe. By and by his feet can't touch the slabs at all, and then he chokes to death." The girls shuddered and Mabel regretted her ill-timed curiosity. "What a hideous thing!" exclaimed Clara. "And what cruel people!" added Mabel. "One of the most cruel on God's earth," replied Jim. "You see in all this crowd there is nobody looking at that fellow with pity. They don't seem to have the slightest tincture of it." "Let's go back to our hotel," pleaded Mabel. "I've seen all I want to for to-day." The games at Hong Kong were interesting and largely attended. There was one rattling contest between the major leaguers that after an eleventh-inning fight was won by the Giants. A few days later a second game was played in which a picked team from the visitors opposed a nine of husky "Jackies" selected from the United States battleships that lay in the harbor. To make the game more even, the Giants loaned them a catcher and second baseman, and a contest ensued that was full of fun and excitement. Of course, the Jackies were full of naval slang, and sometimes their talk was utterly unintelligible to the landsmen. At the end of the third inning the Giants had three runs to their credit, while the boys from the navy had nothing. "Say there, Longneck, we've got to get some runs," howled one Jackie to his mate. "Give 'em a shot from a twelve-inch gun!" "Aye! aye! Give it 'em." In the next inning the Jackies took a brace, and, as a consequence, got two runs. Immediately they and their friends began to cheer wildly. "Down with the pirates!" "Let's feed 'em to the sharks!" "A double portion of plum duff for every man on our side who makes a run!" cried one enthusiastic sailor boy. Several of the Jackies were quite good when it came to batting the ball, but hardly any of them could do any efficient running, for the reason that they got but scant practice while on shipboard. The way that some of them wabbled around the bases was truly amusing, and set the crowd to laughing loudly. "Our men don't like this running," declared one sailor, who sat watching the contest. "If, instead of running around those bases, you fellows had to climb a mast, you'd see who would come out ahead." The Jackies managed to get two more runs, due almost entirely to the lax playing of the Giants. This, however, was as far as they were able to go, and, when the game came to an end, the score stood 12 to 5 in favor of the Giants. A visit to Shanghai followed, where only one game was played, and this by a rally in the last inning went to the All-Americans, thus keeping the total score of won and lost even between the rival teams. They spent a few more days in sightseeing, and then set sail for the Philippines, glad at the prospect of soon being once more under the flag of their own country. "Look at those queer little boats!" exclaimed Mabel, as they stood at the rail while the ship was weighing anchor and looked at the native sampans with their bright colors and lateen sails as they darted to and fro like so many gaudy butterflies. "What are those things they have on each side of the bow?" asked Clara. "They look like eyes." "That's what they are," replied Jim, seriously. Clara looked at him to see if he were joking. "Honest to goodness, cross my heart, hope to die," returned Jim. "But why do they put eyes there?" asked Clara, mystified. "So that the boat can see where it's going," replied Jim. "Well," said Mabel, with a gasp, "whatever else I take away from this country, I'll have a choice collection of nightmares." The steamer made splendid weather of the trip to the Philippines, and in a few days they were steaming into Manila bay. Their hearts swelled with pride as they recalled the splendid achievement of Admiral Dewey, when, with his battle fleet, scorning mines and torpedoes, like Farragut at Mobile, he had signaled for "full speed ahead." "That fellow was the real stuff," remarked Jim. "As good as they make them," agreed Joe. "And foxy, too. Remember how he kept that cable cut because he didn't want the folks at Washington to queer his game. He had his work cut out and he wasn't going to be interfered with." "Something like Nelson, when his chief ran up the signal to withdraw," suggested Denton. "He looked at it with that blind eye of his and said he couldn't see it." "Dewey was a good deal like Nelson," said Joe. "Do you remember how he trod on the corns of that German admiral who tried to butt in?" "Do I?" said Jim. "You bet I do." The party met with a warm welcome when they went ashore at Manila. American officers and men from the garrison thronged the dock to meet the veterans of the diamond, whose coming had been widely heralded. Many of them knew the players personally and all knew them by reputation. The baseball teams went to their hotel and after they were comfortably settled in their new quarters, the two chums accompanied by the girls went out for a stroll. But they had not gone far before they were startled by excited shouts a little way ahead of them and saw groups of people scattering right and left in wild panic and confusion. Down the street came a savage figure, running with the speed of a hare, and holding in either hand a knife with which he slashed savagely right and left at all that stood in his way. His eyes were flaming with demoniacal fury, foam stood out upon his lips, and from those lips issued a wailing cry that ended in a shriek: "Amuck! Amuck!" CHAPTER XXII TAKING A CHANCE There was a scream from the frightened girls and a gasp from the young men as they saw this messenger of death bearing down upon them. They knew at a glance what had happened. A Malay, yielding to the insidious mental malady that seems peculiar to his race, had suddenly gone mad and started out to kill. That he himself would inevitably be killed did not deter him for a moment. He wanted to die, but he wanted at the same time to take as many with him as possible. He had made his offering to the infernal gods, had blackened his teeth and anointed his head with cocoa oil, and had started out to slay. With his eyes blazing, his head rolling from side to side like a mad dog, and with that blood-chilling cry coming from his foam-flecked lips, he was like a figure from a nightmare. For a moment the Americans stood rooted to the spot. That instant past, Baseball Joe, as usual, took the lead. "Look after the girls, Jim!" he cried, and started full tilt toward the awful figure that came plunging down the street. Mabel and Clara screamed to him to stop, but he only quickened his pace, running like a deer, as though bent on suicide. The Malay saw him coming, and for a second hesitated. He had seen everyone else scurry from him in fear. What did this man mean by coming to meet him? It was just this instant of indecision upon which Joe had counted, and like a flash he seized it. When within twenty feet of the Malay, Joe launched himself into the air, and came down flat on the hard dirt road, as he had done many a time before when sliding to base. The Malay, confused by the unlooked-for action, slashed down at him. Had Joe gone straight toward him, the knife would have been buried in him. But here again his quickness and the tactics of the ballfield came into play. Instead of going straight toward his antagonist, his slide had been a "fall away." Many a time when sliding to second he had thrown himself this way out of the reach of the ball, while his extended hand just clutched the bag. So now, his sinewy arm caught the Malay by the leg, while his body swung round to the right. Down went the Malay with a crash, his blood-stained knives clattering on the ground and the next instant Joe was on his back. His hands closed upon the man's throat with an iron grip. But there was no more fight left in the would-be murderer. The fall had jarred and partially stunned him. In an instant Jim had joined Joe, other men came rushing up; and the danger was over. The crazed man was secured with ropes and carried away, while Joe, perspiring, panting and covered with dust, received the enthusiastic congratulations of the rapidly gathering crowd. "Pluckiest thing I ever saw in my life!" exclaimed the colonel of the army command, who had witnessed the exploit. "That fall-away slide of yours was great, Joe!" cried Larry Barrett, who had come up. "I never saw a niftier one on the ballfield." "You made the bag all right!" grinned Denton. "He never touched you!" chuckled Burkett. "If he had it would have been some touch," declared McRae, as he picked up one murderous-looking knife and passed it round for inspection. It was a wicked weapon, nearly a foot in length, with a handle so contrived as to get all the weight behind the stroke and a wavy blade capable of inflicting a fearful wound. "Has a bowie knife skinned a mile!" ejaculated Curry, expressing the general sentiment. Joe hated to pose as a hero but it was some time before the crowd would let him get away and rejoin the girls who were waiting for him. All the plaudits of the throng were tame compared with what he read in the eyes of Mabel and his sister. The baseball teams stayed nearly a week in Manila, making short excursions in the suburbs as far as it could be done with safety. Two games were played, one between the Giants and All-Americans, which resulted in favor of the latter, and another between the Giants and a picked nine from the army post. Many of Uncle Sam's army boys had been fine amateur players and a few had come from professional teams, so that they were able to put up a gallant fight, although they were, of course, no match for the champions of the world. "But they certainly put up a fine game," was Joe's comment. "They had two pitchers who had some good stuff in 'em." "That's just what I was thinking," returned Jim. "One of those pitchers used to play ball on a professional team from Los Angeles," said McRae, who was standing near. "I understand he had quite a record." "I wonder what made him give up pitching and join the army," remarked Jim curiously. "Oh, I suppose it was the love of adventure," answered the manager. "That might be it," said Joe. "Some fellows get tired of doing the same thing, and when they have a chance to leave home and see strange places, they grab it." While warming up prior to this last game, Joe's attention was attracted by a muscular Chinaman, who was standing in the crowd that fringed the diamond, interestedly watching the players at practice. He recognized him as a famous wrestler who had taken part in a bout at a performance the night before and who had thrown his opponents with ease. "Some muscles on that fellow," Joe remarked to Jim. "Biggest Chink I ever saw," replied Jim, "and not a bit of it is fat either. He'd make a dandy highbinder. You saw what he did to the Terrible Turk in that match last night. He just played with him. And the Turk was no slouch either." "Look at those arms," joined in Larry, gazing with admiration at the swelling biceps of the wrestler. "What a slugger he'd make if he knew how to play ball. He'd break all the fences in the league." "He sure would kill the ball if he ever caught it on the end of his bat," declared Red Curry. "I've half a mind to give him a chance," laughed Joe. "Go ahead," grinned Larry. "I'd like to see him break his back reaching for one of your curves." "He might land on it at that," replied Joe. "A wrestler has to have an eye like a hawk." He beckoned to the wrestler, who came toward him at once with a smile on his keen but good-natured face. "Want to hit the ball?" asked Joe, piecing out his question by going through the motions of swinging a bat that he picked up. The wrestler "caught on" at once, and the smile on his face broadened into a grin as he nodded his head understandingly. "Me tly," he said in the "pidgin English" he had picked up in his travels, and reached out his hand for the bat. "Have a heart, Joe," laughed Larry. "Don't show the poor gink up before the crowd. At any rate let me show him how it's done." "All right," responded Joe. "You lead off and he can follow." Larry took up his position at the plate and motioned to the wrestler to watch him. The latter nodded and followed every motion. Joe put over a swift high one that Larry swung at and missed. He "bit" again at an outcurve with no better result. "Look out, Larry," chaffed Jim, "or it's you that will be shown up instead of the Chink." A little nettled, Larry caught the next one full and square and it sailed far out into right field. "There," he said complacently, as he handed the bat to the wrestler, "that's the way it's done." The latter went awkwardly to the plate and a laugh ran through the crowd at the unusual sight. Joe lobbed one over and the Chinaman swung listlessly a foot below the ball. "Easy money," laughed Denton. "Where's that good eye you said this fellow had?" sang out Willis. The second ball floated up to the plate as big as a balloon, and again the wrestler whiffed, coming nowhere near the sphere. But as Joe wound up for the third ball, the listlessness vanished from the Chinaman. A glint came into his eyes and every muscle was tense. The ball sped toward the plate. The wrestler caught it fair "on the seam" with all his powerful body behind the blow. The ball soared high and far over center field, looking as though it were never going to stop. In a regular game it would have been the easiest of home runs. The wrestler sauntered away from the plate with the same bland smile on his yellow face while the crowd cheered him. He had turned the tables, and the laugh was on Joe and his fellow players. "But why," asked Jim, after the game had resulted in a victory for the visitors by a one-sided score, and he was walking back with Joe to the hotel, "did he make such a miserable flunk at the first two balls? Was he kidding us?" "Not at all," grinned Joe. "It's because the Chinamen are the greatest imitators on earth. He saw that Larry missed the first two and so he did the same. He thought it was part of the game!" CHAPTER XXIII AN EMBARRASSED RESCUER On the long trip to Australia the tourists encountered the most severe storm of the journey. In fact, it was almost equal to the dreaded typhoon, and there were times when, despite the staunchness of the vessel, the faces of the captain and the officers were lined with anxiety. After two days and nights, however, of peril, the storm blew itself out and the rest of the journey was made over serene seas and under cloudless skies. One night after the girls had retired, Joe and Jim, together with McRae and Braxton, were sitting in the smoking room. The conversation had been of the kind that always prevails when baseball "fans" get together. After a while Jim accompanied McRae to the latter's cabin to discuss some details of Jim's contract for the coming season, leaving Joe and Braxton as the sole occupants of the room. Joe had never been able to overcome the instinctive antipathy that he had felt toward Braxton from the first, but he had kept this under restraint, and Braxton himself, though he might have suspected this feeling, was always suave and urbane. There was no denying that he was good company and always interesting. In an apparently accidental way, Braxton, who had been scribbling aimlessly upon some pieces of paper that lay on the table, led the talk toward the subject of handwriting. "It's a gift to write a good hand," he remarked. "It's got to be born in you. Some men can do it naturally, others can't. I'm one of the fellows that can't. I'll bet Horace Greeley himself never wrote a worse hand than I do." "I've heard that he was a weird writer," smiled Joe. "The worst ever," rejoined Braxton. "I've heard that he wrote to his foreman once, ordering him to discharge a printer who had set up a bad copy. The printer hated to lose his job and an idea struck him. He got hold of the letter discharging him and took it to Greeley, who didn't know him by sight, and told him it was a letter of recommendation from his last employer. Greeley tried to read it, but couldn't, so he said he guessed it was all right and told him he was engaged." Joe laughed, and Braxton tossed over to him a sheet of paper on which he had written his name. "Greeley has nothing on me," he said. "If you didn't know my name was Braxton, I'll bet you wouldn't recognize these hen tracks." "You're right," said Joe. "I'm no dabster myself at writing and I can sympathize with you." "It couldn't be as bad as this," challenged Braxton, slipping a pen over to Joe, together with a fresh piece of paper. "No," said Joe, as he took up the pen, "I guess at least you could make mine out." He scribbled his name and Braxton picked up the paper with a laugh. "I win," he said. "You're bad, but I'm worse. You see I am proud even of my defects." He dropped the subject then and talked of other things until Joe, stifling a yawn, excused himself and went to his cabin. The reception of the party in Australia went far beyond their expectations. That remote continent has always been noted for its sporting spirit and although of course the English blood made cricket their favorite game, the crowds were quick to detect and appreciate the merits of the great American pastime. As a rule they would not concede that the batting was any better than that shown by their own cricketers, but there was no question as to the superiority of the fielding. The lightning throws, the double plays, the marvelous catches in the outfield and the speed shown on the bases were freely admitted to be far and away beyond that shown by their elevens. And the crowds grew larger and larger as the visiting teams made their triumphal progress through the great cities of Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide and Melbourne. Inspired by their reception and put upon their mettle by the great outpouring of spectators, the teams themselves played like demons. One might almost have thought that they were fighting for the pennant. They were so evenly matched that first one and then the other was on top, and by the time they reached Melbourne the Giants were only one game in the lead of the total that had been played since the trip began. Melbourne itself with its romantic history and magic growth proved very attractive. But Joe was destined to remember it for very different reasons. While walking with Jim one day outside the town near the Yarra Yarra river, they were startled by hearing a cry for help, and racing toward the sound they saw a young girl struggling in the water. Trained by their vocation to act quickly, they threw off their coats, plunging into the water almost at the same instant. They swam fiercely, lashed on by that frantic wail, sounding fainter each time it was repeated. The race for a life was almost neck and neck until Joe, showing his tremendous reserve strength, shot ahead at the very end, grasping the struggling figure as it was sinking for the last time. Jim helped, and together they brought the rescued girl--the long dank black hair testified to her sex--back to shore, where a group of the native blacks, attracted by the cries, had gathered to welcome them. Dripping and exhausted, the two heroes of the occasion staggered up the bank while willing hands relieved them of their burden. "Let's beat it," whispered Jim, as the crowd of natives closed around the unconscious object of their heroism, "while the going's good. If that girl ever finds out that you rescued her she'll want to attach herself to you for life. That seems to be the fool custom of these parts." "She'd find it pretty hard work," said Joe, with a wry smile. "Besides, we don't even know that the girl's alive. It would be pretty heartless to clear out without learning." "Oh, all right," said Jim, uneasily. "But remember, if there are any consequences you've got to take 'em." At that moment the crowd opened and the boys saw a remarkably good-looking black girl standing dizzily and supported by another native who might have been her father. She looked dazedly from one to the other of the young men and Jim promptly "stepped out from under." "It's him," said Jim, neglecting grammar in his eagerness to shift the burden of credit to Joe's broad shoulders. "He did it all." The girl walked unsteadily up to Joe and said, submissively: "My life is yours! Me your slave!" Joe started, stared, and gulped, then turned to Jim to make sure he was awake, and not a victim of some bad dream. But Jim had suddenly acquired a peculiar form of hysteria, and with a choking sound turned his back upon his friend. "N-no," stuttered Joe, gently pushing the girl away, "no want." Another explosion from Jim did not serve to improve Joe's state of mind. His face was fiery red, and his voice husky. "Me slave!" persisted the girl stubbornly. Then Joe turned and fled, manfully fighting a desire to shout with laughter one moment, and groan with dismay the next. Two very much subdued baseball players crept in at the side door of the hotel, and scurried along the corridor toward their rooms, hoping ardently to meet no one on the way. It was with a sigh of relief that they slipped inside, locked the door, and repaired the ravages that the waters of the Yarra Yarra had made upon their clothing. A few moments later, with self respect considerably improved, they sauntered down to the writing room, where they found the two girls looking more distractingly pretty than ever, engaged in folding the last of their letters. "Oh, back so soon?" queried Mabel, looking up. "Goodness, how the time has flown," said Clara. "It seems as though you had just gone. Have you another stamp, Mabel dear? I have used mine all up." "Say, you're complimentary," remarked Jim, dryly. "It's great to be missed like that." "Well, we'll miss something more if we don't get a move on," said Joe, practically. "How about some lunch, girls?" After luncheon the quartette sauntered out for a walk up Elizabeth street to the post-office. The boys were just congratulating themselves that their uncomfortable, though piquant, experience of the morning was a thing definitely of the past, when it happened! Joe felt a touch on his arm, and, looking down, saw, to his horror, the black girl. "Me yours!" she cried, eagerly. Joe muttered savagely beneath his breath, and held the girl off at arm's length, his misery increasing as, with a quick side glance, he saw the growing indignation in Mabel's eyes. "Me yours!" repeated the girl, with the maddening monotony of a phonograph. But just then, when Joe was at his wit's end, help came from an unexpected quarter. A big black man, glowering threateningly, elbowed his way through the curious group that had gathered about them, grasped the girl by the arm, and dragged her away. There was no mistaking the jealousy that prompted the action. Joe drew a deep sigh of deliverance, while Jim was crimson with suppressed laughter. Mabel was the only one, except Joe himself, who could not see the joke. There were two pink spots in her cheeks, her eyes were very bright, her head was held high, and poor Joe had some explaining to do before the party left Australia, which they did soon after, and started on their journey to Ceylon. They reached Colombo in Ceylon, the island of spices, the richest gem in the Indian ocean, and disembarked late one afternoon. At the hotel in the English quarter, while the women of the party went to their rooms to refresh themselves and dress for dinner, the men, after a hasty toilet, went into the lobby of the hotel where, as always, their first thought was to get hold of the papers from home. Joe's eyes fell on a New York paper and he snatched it up eagerly and turned to the sporting page for the latest news of the diamond. He gave a startled exclamation as he saw the bold headline that stretched across the top of the page: "_Joe Matson, the Pitching King, Signs with the All-Star League!_" CHAPTER XXIV THE BLOW FALLS Baseball Joe's first sensation was one of unutterable surprise, followed a moment later by fierce indignation. "What's the matter, Joe?" asked Jim, coming up behind him. "Matter enough!" growled Joe, thrusting the offending paper under his comrade's nose. "Look at this!" Jim looked and gave a long whistle of surprise. "What does it mean?" he ejaculated, as his eyes went from the headlines to the story, which covered the greater part of the page. "Mean?" snorted Joe. "It means a stab in the back. It means that those skunks are trying to do by lying what they couldn't do by bribery. It means that while we're thousands of miles away they are trying to gull the public and get other ball players to jump their contracts by a barefaced lie like this. I wish I had hold of the fellow who's doing this--I'd make him sweat for it!" "Of course it's a lie," assented Jim, "and a lie out of whole cloth. But what beats me is why they should do it? It's bound to be a boomerang." They sat down side by side and read the paper together, and the more they read the more bewildered they became. For the story was circumstantial. It went into minute details. It embraced interviews with the backers of the new league, who confirmed it without hesitation. One of the paragraphs read as follows: "Nothing in years has created such a sensation in the world of sport as the news just made public that Matson, the star pitcher of the Giants, had jumped the fold and landed in the All-Star League. It was known that overtures were made to this great pitcher at the end of his last season, when his magnificent work created a record in the National League that will probably never be surpassed. It was understood, however, that these offers, though coupled with a tremendous bonus and salary, had been definitely rejected. For that reason the news that he has reconsidered and jumped to the All-Stars comes like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. The major leaguers are in consternation, while the new league naturally is jubilant at this acquisition to their ranks. Matson is a popular idol among his fellow players and it is believed that many stars who have been wavering in their allegiance to the old leagues will follow his example." The rest of the page was devoted to a recital of Joe's achievements in pitching the Giants to the Championship of the National League and, later, to the Championship of the World. The two friends stared at each other in amazement and rage, and just then McRae and Robbie, together with a group of other players, came hurrying up, holding other papers which, though in different words, told substantially the same story. There was a babel of excited questions and exclamations, and Joe felt a sharp pang go through him, as for the first time in his experience with the manager of the Giants, he saw in McRae's eyes a shadow of distrust. "Isn't this the limit?" asked McRae, as he crushed the paper in his hand, threw it to the floor and trampled on it in disgust and anger. "It sure is," replied Joe. "I've had lies told about me before but never one that touched me on the raw like this." "It's a burning outrage," cried Denton indignantly. "What they expect to make out of it is beyond me," declared Robbie. "They ought to know that they can't get away with it." "But in the meantime it will have done its work," Willis pointed out. "What if it is contradicted later on? By that time they'll have a dozen stars signed and they should worry. As long as it's believed that Joe has jumped, it's just as good for them as though he had." "That's the worst of it," agreed Joe bitterly. "Of course I'll send a cable contradicting it, but the lie has got a head start and a lot of damage has been done. What do you suppose my friends in America are thinking about me just now?" "Don't worry about that, Joe," comforted Jim. "Your real friends won't believe it, and for the rest it doesn't matter. Nobody that really knows you believes you would jump your contract." "Whoever got that story up was foxy, though," commented Mylert, the burly catcher of the Giants. "There are no 'ifs or ands' about it like most phony stories where the fellow's trying to hedge in case someone comes back at him. It sounds like straight goods. It's the most truthful looking lie I ever saw." "But it's a lie just the same!" cried Joe desperately. "All you fellows know I wouldn't throw the Giants down, don't you?" he asked, as his eyes swept the circle of fellow players who were gathered around him. There was a murmur of assent, but it was not as hearty as Joe could have wished. If there was not distrust, there was at least bewilderment, for the story bore all the earmarks of truth. "You know it, don't you, Mac?" repeated Joe, this time addressing directly the Giant leader. For a fraction of a second McRae hesitated. Then he threw doubt to the winds and gripped Joe's hand with a heartiness that warmed the latter's heart. "Of course, I know it, Joe!" he exclaimed emphatically. "I don't deny that for a moment the paper had me going. But in my heart I know it's a lie. So just send your cable and then let's forget it. Those fellows are just making a rope to hang themselves with. We'll make it warm for them when we get back to the States." "You ought to sue the papers for libel," growled Robbie. "There won't be any suing," said Joe heatedly. "Just let me have five minutes alone with the fellow that started this and that's all I'll ask." He hurried down with Jim to the cable office and a few minutes later this message buzzed its way across the seas: "Report that I have signed with the All-Star League absolutely false. Will give a thousand dollars to charity if anyone can produce contract. "JOSEPH MATSON." "That ought to hold them for a while," commented Jim. "It ought," said Joe gloomily. "But you know the old saying that 'a lie will go round the world while truth is getting its boots on.'" Still he felt better, and by the time he got back to the hotel and met the girls, he had so far regained his usual poise that he could tell them all about it with some measure of self-control. "Why, Joe! how could they dare do such a thing as that?" exclaimed Mabel, her eyes flashing fire. "It's about the meanest thing I ever heard of!" cried his sister. "They ought to be sued for libel, don't you know," broke in Reggie. "If you sued them, Joe, you might get quite heavy damages." "It's a pity you can't put somebody in jail for it," was Mabel's further comment. "Yes, that's what ought to happen!" cried Clara. Both of the girls were wild with indignation. Although Mabel at one time, influenced by the arguments of Braxton that Joe was not really bound by a one-sided contract, had spoken to him about it in a guarded way, Joe had shown her so clearly his moral obligation that he had convinced her absolutely. And now she was angry clear through at the blow in the dark that had been launched against him. "Who could have done such a contemptible thing?" she cried. "It must have been that horrid Westland!" exclaimed Clara. "Maybe," agreed her brother. "I rather hope it was." "Why?" asked Jim curiously. "Because," gritted Joe through his teeth, "he's a big fellow and I won't be ashamed to hit him." CHAPTER XXV THE COBRA IN THE ROOM Ceylon was a land of wonders to the tourists. Here they were in the very heart of the Orient. Rare flowers and strange plants grew in glorious profusion, the air was odorous with a thousand scents, and it was hard for them to realize that at that very moment America might be suffering from zero weather or swept by blizzards. Here life moved along serenely and dreamily, lulled by the sound of birds and drone of locusts, wrapped in the warm folds of eternal summer. "It's an earthly Eden!" murmured Clara, as she and Jim walked along one of the main streets of Colombo, followed at a little distance by Joe and Mabel. "Yes," replied Jim with a laugh, "and not even the snake is missing." He pointed to a group of natives and Europeans on the other side of the street who were gathered about a snake charmer. "Ugh, the horrid things!" exclaimed Clara with a shudder. "Let's go over and take a look," suggested Jim. Clara demurred at first and so did Mabel. They were used to seeing snakes behind a network of wire and glass, and they did not relish the idea of standing within a few feet of the crawling serpents in the open street. But curiosity, added to the urgings of the young men, finally conquered, and they joined the throng on the other side. The performer, an old man with bronzed face, was squatting on his haunches playing a weird tune on a reedy instrument resembling a flute. Before him was upreared a monstrous specimen of the deadly cobra species, swaying gently to and fro and keeping time to the music. Its malignant eyes looking out from the broad head whose markings resembled a pair of spectacles had lost something of their fiery sparkle, and a slight haze spread over them, as though the creature were under a spell. The music continued and two other snakes crawled out as if in response to a call and joined their companion in his swaying, rhythmic dance. Then the tune changed, the snakes uncoiled, and the performer took them up without the slightest fear and put them back in the basket. "Suppose they should bite him!" exclaimed Mabel. "He's had their fangs drawn already," returned Joe. "The old rascal's taking no chances." "They say that a man lasts about half an hour after one of those fellows nips him," observed Jim. "Somebody was telling me that over twenty thousand natives are bitten by them every year." A little further down the street, another fakir was giving an exhibition. He placed a small native boy in a basket that was a tight fit and put down the basket cover. Then after making mysterious signs and muttering invocations, the fakir drew a long sword and plunged it through the basket from end to end. A scream of pain came from within, and when the sword was withdrawn it was red. Again and again this was repeated until the screams died away. Then the fakir lifted up the cover and the boy sprang out safe and sound, and, showing his white teeth in a smile, went around collecting coins from the bystanders. They wandered further among the bazaars, making purchases of curios as presents for the folks at home and adding to their personal stock of mementos. Jim secured among other things a cane made of a rare Indian wood, which while light was exceedingly strong and so pliable that it could be bent almost double like a Damascus blade. But through all the chaff and fun of the day Joe was unhappy and restless. What he had read in the paper from home about himself poisoned everything for him. He had always tried to be perfectly straight and honorable in all his business relations. His word had ever been as good as his bond. Now, at one stroke, he saw his reputation damaged perhaps beyond mending. All over the United States he had been pictured as a contract-breaker. He could see the incredulity of his friends turning gradually to contempt. He fancied he could hear them saying: "So Joe has fallen for that game, has he? Well, they say that every man has his price. No doubt Joe's price was high, but they found out what it was and bought him." Of course he had denied it, but he knew how people smiled when they read denials. And months must pass before he could get back to America and try to hunt out the author or authors of the story. He tried to hide his mood under a cover of light talk and banter, but the others felt it and sympathized with him, though all refrained from mentioning what each of them was thinking. All through the day his gloom persisted, and when night came and he had retired to the room that he and Jim occupied together he felt that it would be impossible for him to sleep. "There's no use talking," said Jim with a yawn, as he set his cane so that it rested against the footboard and threw off his coat preparing to undress, "sight-seeing's the most tiring work there is. I feel more done up to-night than if I had been pitching in a hard game." "I'm tired too," agreed Joe, "but I don't feel the least bit like sleep." Jim was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. But Joe tossed about restlessly for what seemed to him to be hours. The night was very warm and all the windows were open to get what breath of air might be stirring. A broad veranda ran all around the building, not more than two feet below the windows, and from the ground to the veranda rose a luxuriant tangle of vines and flowers. The moon was at the full and its light flooded a part of the room, leaving the rest in deep shadow. Joe at last dropped off into a doze from which he woke with a start. He had heard nothing, but he had an uneasy consciousness that something was wrong. He glanced over at Jim who was peacefully sleeping. Then he raised himself on his elbow and his glance swept the room. Nothing seemed amiss in the lighted part, but in a darkened corner the shadow seemed to be heavier than usual. It was as though it were piled in a mass instead of being evenly distributed. Then to Joe's consternation _the shadow moved_, reached the edge of moonlight, rose higher and higher with a sickening swaying motion. From a hideous head two sparks of fire glowed balefully and Joe knew that he was in the presence of a giant cobra! CHAPTER XXVI IN THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMIDS Joe's blood chilled with horror and his heart seemed for a moment to stop beating. He did not dare to move and scarcely to breathe. He might have been a statue, so rigid was his attitude. He knew that the least movement would provoke an attack on the part of the deadly reptile. On the other hand, if he kept perfectly quiet, there was the chance of the snake gliding away through the window, which had evidently been its means of entering the room. Whether the serpent saw him or not, Joe could not tell. The head swayed for a minute or two, while the glowing eyes seemed to take in every corner of the room. Then the coils unwound and with a slithering sound the snake began to crawl across the floor. But instead of seeking the window it was gliding towards the bed! If he had had a revolver Joe would have had a chance, for at such close range he could scarcely have missed. Even a knife to hurl, though only a forlorn hope, might have pinned the snake to the floor. But he was utterly without a weapon of any kind. Suddenly he remembered the cane that his chum had leaned against the footboard a few hours earlier. He reached down stealthily and his hand closed upon it. He did not dare to wake Jim for fear that the latter might leap from the bed and perhaps land squarely on the gliding death that was somewhere in the room. He had lost sight of it, but he could still hear the dragging body and it seemed to be now under the bed. At any instant that awful head might rise on either side prepared to strike. Gripping the cane until his fingers seemed to dig into it, Joe had a moment of awful suspense. The gliding sound had ceased. Then from the side nearest Jim a hideous head uprose within a foot of the sleeping man's face. Like a flash the tough cane hissed through the air with all Joe's muscle back of it. It caught the reptile full in the neck and sent it half way across the room where it lay writhing. In an instant Joe had leaped to the floor, raining blows upon the head and floundering coils, until at last the reptile straightened out and lay still. "What's the matter?" cried Jim, awakened by the tumult and jumping out of bed. He turned pale as he saw the snake stretched out on the floor and Joe who, now that the awful strain was over, was leaning against the wall as limp as a rag. Jim turned on the light and they viewed the monster, standing at a respectful distance from the head. "He seems dead enough, but you can never be sure of a snake," said Joe, after in a few hurried words he had told of his experience. "Suppose, Jim, you get that Malay's knife out of my trunk and we'll make certain." Jim brought the kriss, which Joe had kept as a memento of his struggle with the maniac, and with one stroke severed the cobra's head from his body. "That knife never did a better bit of work," he commented as he washed it off. "Now let's get this thing out of the window and clear up the mess." They got through the repugnant work as soon as possible and then made a careful search of the room. "That fellow may have had a mate," remarked Joe, "and one experience of this kind is enough for a lifetime. I've always felt a little doubtful about those stories of people whose hair turned gray in a single night, but it's easy enough to believe it now." "We'll close the window too," said Jim, suiting the action to the word and letting the upper sash down only for an inch or two. "That's the way that fellow must have crawled in. It's pretty hot in here but I'd rather die of heat than snake bites." They went back to bed but not to sleep, for they were too thoroughly wrought up by their narrow escape. "You must have hit that fellow an awful crack," said Jim. "You sure batted .300 in the Ceylon League." "Broke his neck, I guess," responded Joe. "It's lucky it wasn't a missed strike for I wouldn't have had time for another one." "Don't let's say anything to the girls about it," suggested Jim. "Not until we get away from India anyway. They'd be seeing snakes all the rest of the time we're here." It was lucky that neither of them was slated to pitch the next day, for they would scarcely have been in condition after their night's experience. A game had been arranged between the visiting teams at a date three days later. By that time Joe was in his usual superb form and easily carried off the victory for his team. This put the Giants "on velvet," for they now had a clear lead of two over the All-Americans. But the satisfaction that this would have usually given Joe was lacking now. Victory had ceased to be sweet since the receipt of that newspaper from home. Perhaps it was because of his sensitive condition that he thought he detected a subtle change in the conduct of his team mates towards him. While perfectly friendly in their relations with him, they did not "let themselves go" when in his presence, as formerly. There was no boisterous clapping on the back, no jolly sparring or wrestling. There seemed to be a little holding in, a feeling of reserve, a something in the back of their minds that they did not care for him to see. This joyous freemasonry of sport had always been especially pleasant to Joe and for that reason he felt its absence the more keenly. But what exasperated him most was that if the old standbys of the club were a trifle cool, Iredell, Curry and Burkett went to the other extreme and were more cordial than ever before. It was as though they were welcoming a newcomer to their ranks. They knew that they were under suspicion of planning to jump their contracts in the spring, and the apparent evidence that so renowned a player as Joe was planning to do the same thing made them hail him as a reinforcement. Where formerly they had often ceased talking when he approached them and made him feel that he was an intruder, they now greeted him warmly, although they did not yet feel quite sure enough to broach the subject of their own accord. "All little pals together," hummed Iredell significantly on one occasion with a sidelong glance at Joe. "Just what do you mean by that?" asked Joe sharply. "Just what I say," replied Iredell innocently. "What is there wrong about that? Aren't we Giants pals to each other?" "Of course we are, as long as we stay Giants," replied Joe. "But that wasn't what you meant, Dell, and you know it." "Now, don't get red-headed, Joe," put in Curry soothingly. "You must have got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. Dell didn't mean any harm." "Tell me one thing," said Joe. "Do any of you fellows believe for one minute that story in the paper?" He looked from one to the other, but none of them looked him straight in the eye. "You know that I've denied it," went on Joe, as they kept silent, "and if after that you still believe the story it's the same as saying that I lie. And no one can call me a liar and get away with it." He stalked away leaving them dumbfounded. "Do you think he really has jumped his contract?" asked Burkett. "I don't know," replied Iredell dubiously. "He's got me guessing," muttered Curry. And the trio were still guessing when several weeks later the party reached Egyptian soil, prepared to play the most modern of games before the most ancient of monuments--baseball in the very shadow of the Pyramids! CHAPTER XXVII THE SIGNED CONTRACT "If old Pharaoh could only see us now!" chortled Jim, as the teams lined up for their first game. "He'd probably throw a fit," grinned Denton. "Not a bit of it," said Joe. "He'd probably be up in the grandstand, eating peanuts and singing out once in a while to 'kill the umpire.'" "And he'd do it too," laughed Jim. "I'll bet an umpire in those days would have had a hard job to get life insurance. It would have been good dope to get a tip before the game as to just what team Pharaoh wanted to win." "I think you men are awfully irreverent," reproved Mabel, who, with Clara, was seated in the first row in the stand right behind the players' bench and had overheard the conversation. "Not at all," laughed Jim. "It's a big compliment to Pharaoh to suggest that he would have been a baseball fan if he hadn't been born too soon. It puts him on a level with the President of the United States." The teams were playing on the cricket field used by the English residents, and not far off the Pyramids reared their stately heads toward the sky. It was a strange conjunction of the past and the present, and all were more or less impressed by it. "Well, I must confess that in my wildest dreams of seasons gone by, I never supposed that I would be pitching here in Egypt in the shadow of the pyramids," remarked Joe. "It certainly takes a fellow back to ancient days," put in Jim. "Just imagine playing before a crowd of those old Egyptians!" "Well, they had fun in their day just as well as we have," said McRae. "Just the same, they didn't know how good baseball is." "They didn't even know anything about yelling to kill the umpire when a wrong decision was given," remarked Joe, with a grin, and at this there was a general laugh. There was a big outpouring of Europeans and visiting Americans, and under the inspiration of their interest and applause both teams played brilliantly. It was a hammer-and-tongs contest from start to finish, and resulted in the first tie of the trip, neither team being able to score, although the game went to eleven innings. "Still two ahead," McRae said to Brennan, as they left the grounds after the game. "We're gunning for you," retorted Brennan good-naturedly, "and we'll get you yet. You've had all the breaks so far, but our turn has got to come." "Tell that to the King of Denmark," laughed McRae. "We've got your number, old man." The party "did" Egypt thoroughly, visiting Cairo, Thebes and Memphis, climbing the Pyramids, sailing on the Nile, viewing the temples of Karnak and Philae, the statue of Memnon, and countless other places of interest in this cradle of the world's civilization. And it was a tired but happy crowd that finally assembled at Alexandria to take ship for Naples, their first stopping place on the continent of Europe. Braxton was no longer with the party, having left it at Ceylon, and others had dropped away here and there. But in the main the members were the same as at the beginning. Their health had been excellent, and only a few things had occurred to mar the pleasure of the trip. The discomfort that Joe had felt had largely worn away with the passing of time. Every day was bringing him nearer the time when with the opening of the season he would actually appear on the diamond wearing a Giant uniform, and thus effectually dispose of the slander that had troubled him. There had just been time enough to receive some of the earliest papers from America that had been published after the receipt of his denial. That denial had evidently produced a great effect, coupled as it was with the offer to give a thousand dollars to charity if the new league could produce any contract signed by him. "Money talks," and the paper intimated that the All-Star League had the next move and that it would be "in bad" with the public if it failed to make its statements good. "They'll have a hot time doing it," grinned Joe. "I'm wondering how they'll dodge it," remarked Jim. "By getting out a new lie to bolster up the old one probably," conjectured Joe. The latest papers from America had come on board just as the steamer left Alexandria, and in the hurry of getting aboard and settling down in their new quarters it was after supper that night before Joe hurried to the smoking room to have a look at them. "Got a thousand dollars handy, Joe?" inquired Denton, as Joe came near him. "Because, if you have, the All-Star League wants it," added Larry. "What do you mean?" asked Joe, all the old discomfort and apprehension coming back to him. "Read this," replied Larry, handing him a paper opened at the sporting page. Joe read: "All-Star League Calls Matson's Bluff. Produces Signed Contract. Facsimile of Contract Shown Below." And staring right out at him was the photographic reproduction of a regulation baseball contract and at the bottom was written the name: "Joseph Matson." Joe stared at it as though he were in a dream. Here was the old blow at his reputation, this time with redoubled force. Here was what claimed to be the actual contract. But it was not the body of the contract that held his attention. The thing that made him rage, that gave him a sense of furious helplessness, that put his brain in a whirl, was this: _He knew that that was his signature!_ No matter how it came there, it was his. A man's name can seldom be so skilfully forged that it can deceive the man himself. It may get by the cashier of the bank, but when it is referred back to the man who is supposed to have written it, that man knows instinctively whether he ever wrote it. Perhaps he cannot tell why he knows it, but he knows it just the same. So Joe _knew_ that it was his signature that was photographed on that contract. But he also knew another thing just as certainly. _He had never signed that contract!_ Both things contradictory. Yet both things true. Larry and Denton were watching him closely. Joe looked up and met their eyes. They were two of his oldest and warmest friends on the Giant team and had always been ready to back him through thick and thin. Confidence still was in their gaze, but with it was mixed bewilderment almost equal to Joe's own. Before anything further could be said, McRae and Robbie joined the group. "Well, Joe, there's the contract," said McRae. "It seems to be a contract all right," replied Joe. "I haven't had time to read what it says, but that doesn't matter anyway. The only important thing is that I never signed that contract." "That seems to be a pretty good imitation of your signature at the bottom there," chimed in Robbie. "It's even better than that," said Joe, taking the bull by the horns. "It isn't even an imitation. It's my own signature." Both Robbie and McRae looked at him as if they thought he was crazy. "I don't get you, Matson," said McRae, a little sternly. "And it seems to me it's hardly a time for joking. There's the contract. You say you didn't sign it, and yet you admit that the name at the bottom is your own signature. How do you explain it?" "I don't pretend to explain it," replied Joe. "There's crooked work somewhere that I've got to ferret out. Somehow or other my name, written by me, has gotten on the bottom of that contract. But I never put it there. Some rascal has, and when I find him, as I will, may Heaven have mercy on him, for I won't!" CHAPTER XXVIII WHIRLWIND PITCHING "A fellow who would do a thing like that is taking long chances," said McRae doubtfully. "And how could he do it?" put in Robbie. "The name would have to be cut from one piece of paper and pasted on another, wouldn't it?" "Even admitting that they might get your name from a check or letter, I don't see how a thing like that could stand inspection for a minute," chimed in Willis. "Even if it were so well done that an eye couldn't detect it, a microscope would give it away." "And you can bet that the reporters who hunted up this thing haven't overlooked any bets," said Brennan. "They knew that the signature was the nub of the whole thing and if there was anything phony about the paper they'd have got next at once." "It's a horrible mixup!" cried Joe, who felt that he was being enmeshed in a net of circumstantial evidence which he might find it impossible to break. "Let me read the story first from end to end. Then, perhaps, I'll find some clue that will solve the mystery." He plunged at once into the reading, but the more he read the worse the matter looked. He found that a nation-wide interest had been excited by his denial and his challenge. The officers of the All-Star League had been besieged by reporters, who had made it clear to them that they must prove their statement that Matson had signed with them or else stand convicted before the American public, on whose favor they depended for support in the coming season, of being slanderers and liars. Mr. Beckworth Fleming, the president of the All-Star League, had shown a little hesitation in responding to these demands. This, perhaps, was natural enough, since no business organization cares to have the terms of its contracts blazoned forth to the world, perhaps to the benefit of its rivals. Still, under all the circumstances, Mr. Fleming had finally decided to permit a photographic copy to be made of the contract in order to establish the good faith of the new league. This had been done and facsimiles had been sent to all the leading newspapers of the United States. There was no question that the contract was genuine. It had been submitted to bank cashiers who were familiar with Mr. Matson's writing, and they had pronounced it his signature beyond the shadow of a doubt. The paper had been examined under powerful glasses and found to be a single piece. Everything was in proper form, and it was clearly up to Mr. Matson to explain what seemed to be explainable only in one way, namely, that he had signed the contract. There were many worthy charities that could find a good use for the thousand dollars that the great pitcher had so rashly offered. This was the gist of the story in all the papers. There were various suggested explanations. One paper hinted that men had been known to sign papers when they had dined and wined too well. Another thought that the denial was purely a "diplomatic" one. Others ventured the hypothesis that the whole thing was an advertising dodge, designed to set the country agog with excitement and stimulate big audiences for the coming season. But underneath all the suppositions one thing seemed to be unquestioned by the papers, and that was that Joe had signed a contract to play with the All-Star League and had left the Giants in the lurch. Joe felt as though the ground were slipping from beneath his feet. He was perfectly innocent, and yet he already stood convicted in the public mind of having done a thing that he loathed and abhorred. And the worst of it was that he had not the slightest clue to the scoundrel or scoundrels who had brought this thing about. "It's beyond me, Mac," he said at last in despair, as he looked up and saw the Giants' manager's eyes fixed upon him as though they would read into his soul. "They seem to have a strangle hold on me. And yet as black as things look I tell you straight, Mac, that you know every bit as much about this as I do." "That's all right, Joe," returned McRae. "I'll admit I'm flabbergasted. Who wouldn't be? There's a plot here somewhere, and the fox that planned it has been mighty cunning in covering up his tracks. But there never yet was a lie that didn't have a weak point somewhere, and soon or late we'll find it." Mabel and Clara, as well as Jim, were beside themselves with anger at the dastardly trick. They racked their brains to find the explanation, but every time they came up against a blank wall. "I certainly can't understand it, Joe," said Mabel, for at least the tenth time. "Well, I can't understand it myself, Mabel," he replied. "Are you sure you didn't sign that contract, thinking it was something else--an order for something, or something like that?" questioned Clara. "I'm not in the habit of signing anything without knowing what it is," said the crack pitcher. "If any of those fellows had brought such a thing to me to sign, I would have handed it back and given the fellow a piece of my mind. No, there is something else in all this, though what it is I haven't the faintest idea." "It's too bad we're so far away from those fellows just at present," put in Jim. "If we were close by we might interview them, and find out some of the details that are as yet missing. And then maybe somebody would get a broken head," he added vigorously. "Oh, Jim! would you break anybody's head?" burst out Clara in horror. "I sure would if he was trying to put Joe in such a hole as this!" returned the young man promptly. "Maybe you don't understand what a black eye this is calculated to give your brother." "Oh, yes, I can understand that well enough," sighed Joe's sister. "I think it's the meanest thing that ever could possibly happen!" burst out Mabel. "And I don't wonder that Jim is angry enough to break somebody's head for it," and she looked lovingly at Joe. "Oh, I suppose it will come out all right in the end," answered Joe. But he said this merely to ease Mabel's mind. Secretly he was afraid that he was in for some real trouble. It was early spring when they landed in Naples, but the winter had been prolonged more than usual and it was too cold to play. At Monte Carlo and Nice, however, they were able to get in two games, both of which were won by the All-Americans. This put the teams again on an equality as to games won and lost, and revived the hopes of the All-Americans that they might still come out ahead in the series. They made but a short stay in Paris, and the weather was so inclement that games were out of the question. But it would have taken more than bad weather to prevent the shopping and sightseeing that all had been looking forward eagerly to in the great French capital, and they enjoyed their visit to the full. In London they met with the greatest welcome of their trip. They played at Lord's Oval, the most famous grounds in the United Kingdom, and before an audience that included the most distinguished people in the realm, including the king himself. The American colony, too, was there almost to a man, and the United States ambassador lent his presence to the occasion. It was the most distinguished audience, probably, that had ever witnessed a baseball game. And here it was that Joe did the most brilliant pitching of the trip. His tireless arm mowed down his opponents inning after inning. They came to the bat only to go back to the bench. His mastery of the ball seemed almost uncanny, and as inning after inning passed without a hit being made, it began to look as though he were in for that dream of all pitchers--a no-hit game. Brennan, the Chicago manager, fidgeted restlessly on the bench and glowered as his pets were slaughtered. He tried all the tactics known to clever managers, but in vain. It was simply a day when Baseball Joe was not to be denied. His comrades, too, gave him brilliant support and nothing got away from them, so that when finally the last man up in the ninth inning in the All-American team lifted a towering skyscraper that Joe caught without stirring from his tracks, a pandemonium of cheers forced him to remove his cap and bow to the applauding crowds again and again. Not a man had scored, not a man had been passed, not a man had reached first, not a man had hit safe. Joe had won the most notable game in his whole career! CHAPTER XXIX THE RUINED CASTLE With London as their center the teams made flying trips to Edinburg, Glasgow and Dublin. In all three places they received a royal welcome, for the fame of that great game in London had spread throughout the nation and all were eager to see the hero of that occasion. Under other circumstances Joe would have been jubilant, for he was at the very height of his reputation, the girl he loved was with him, as well as his only sister and his closest friend, but ever in his thoughts like the spectre at the feast was that matter of the signed contract--the abominable thing that smirched his reputation and branded him to the world as false to his word and bond. Again and again he sought to find the key to the mystery. It seemed like some monstrous jugglery, something akin to the fakir's tricks that he had witnessed at Colombo where the impossible had seemed so clearly possible. Try as he would he could find no explanation of the puzzle and his friends were equally powerless to suggest a solution. The game at Dublin, which commenced auspiciously for the Giants, was turned into a rout by a rally of the All-Americans in the ninth. A rain of bingles came from their bats and they won easily with six runs to spare. "Got it in the neck that time, old man," said Joe to Jim, after the game. "But we can't always win. What do you say to getting a buzz wagon and taking a little spin out into the country? The girls will be getting ready for that reception at the Viceroy's castle, and they'll be too busy dolling up to care what becomes of us." "Good idea," said Jim, and the two friends made their way to a public garage, secured a good car together with a driver, and whirled away into the open country. They had made perhaps twenty miles through the beautiful Irish scenery when Joe called Jim's attention to a cloud bank forming in the west. "Better skip back, old man," he said. "We're due for a wetting if we don't." "Plenty of time yet," objected Jim. "Those look to me just like wind clouds. Let's see a little bit more of Ireland." They went on perhaps five miles further and then Jim found that his confidence was misplaced. The clouds grew blacker, an ominous muttering was heard in the sky and a jagged flash of lightning presaged the coming storm. "You see I was right," said Joe. "In this open car we'll be drenched to the skin. Turn around, Mike," he said to the driver, "and let's see how fast this old boat of yours can travel in getting back to Dublin. Throw her into high and give her all you've got." The driver obeyed and the car fairly purred as it sped back toward the city. But fast as it was, the storm was faster. Great raindrops pattered down, and they looked anxiously about for shelter. "What's that place up there, Mike?" asked Jim, pointing to a rambling stone structure on an elevation perhaps a hundred yards from the road. "'Tis the castle o' the last o' the O'Brian's, hivin rist his sowl," replied Mike. "But they do be sayin' the place is hanted, an' 'tis a brave man that would be shteppin' inside the dhure." "I'm a brave man, then," cried Jim. "For I'll face a dozen ghosts before I would this storm. Turn in, Mike, and we'll wait there till the rain is over." With a muttered protest Mike did as directed, and a moment later the young men stepped jauntily through the ruined portal, while Mike, shocked at their temerity, crossed himself and, throwing an oilskin over his head, crouched low in his seat, preferring the discomfort of the open to the unknown terrors that might lurk beyond the doorway of the ruined castle. The friends had scarcely stepped inside before the rain came down in torrents. "Lucky we got here just as we did," remarked Joe, as they leaned up against the masonry of the ruined hall and looked out at the cloudburst. "It surely was," agreed Jim. "I wish we had a little more light. It's as dark as Egypt in here." "I've got my pocket flashlight with me," said Joe, reaching toward his hip pocket. "But listen, what's that?" "I didn't hear anything," returned Jim, a little nervously, it must be admitted. The two ball players kept perfectly still for a minute and heard what seemed to be the murmur of voices a room or two away. "Can it be that the last of the O'Brians is rambling about the castle?" whispered Jim, with a feeble attempt at raillery. "More likely some travelers stormbound like ourselves," returned Joe practically. "Let's take a squint at them." They tiptoed their way through the hall to a room opening on the right. The door, half broken from its hinges, was standing open, and in the darkness they saw the tips of two lighted cigars. As this was not at all ghostly and they did not care to intrude, they were about to retire as softly as they had come, when Joe was startled by hearing his own name. Jim's hand shot out and clenched his friend's arm, and they stood there like statues. "That was a slick trick you put over on Matson," said a voice which Joe recognized instantly as belonging to Beckworth Fleming. He had heard that voice before when he had made its owner kneel in the dirt of the road and beg Mabel's pardon for his insolence. "I think myself it was rather clever," drawled another familiar voice, that of Braxton. "He fell for it like a lamb." "He's a pretty keen chap usually, too," remarked Fleming. "How is it you caught him napping?" "I picked out just the right time," said Braxton complacently. "And I don't deny that luck helped me a little. If McRae and Barclay hadn't gone away just the time they did, it might not have worked. But I got him talking about handwriting, and the first thing you know he'd scribbled his name on the blank sheet. I took good care that only the bottom of the sheet was where he could reach it. Then I slipped the paper into my pocket, sent it to you to have the contract printed above the signature, and you know the rest." "Easy meat," chuckled Fleming. "Too easy," chortled Braxton. "It makes me laugh every time I think of it." Joe stepped into the room, followed by Jim. "I do a little laughing myself sometimes," Joe said coldly. "And this is one of the times!" CHAPTER XXX BROUGHT TO BOOK--CONCLUSION There was a gasp of dismay and astonishment, as the conspirators jumped to their feet from the windowsill upon which they had been sitting. At the same instant Joe drew the flashlight from his pocket and illumined their startled faces. "Don't move!" he commanded. "Jim, you keep them covered." Jim took up his station in the doorway, and in the insufficient light the rascals could not see whether he had a weapon or not. "What do you mean by this?" blustered Fleming, in a voice that he tried to make brave, but that quavered despite himself. "It means," said Joe grimly, "that one of you men is in for the licking of his life. Don't tremble so, Fleming," he added contemptuously. "I've already thrashed you once and I don't care to soil my hands with you again. But I've been aching for months to get my fingers on the man that made me out a liar and a contract-breaker. I have him now," he added, with a steely glance at Braxton. "Here, Jim," he continued, stepping back, "take this flash. I've got some work to do." With a quick wrench he tore off his coat. "You'd better be careful," said Braxton--no longer the suave and polished trickster, but pale as chalk and trembling like a leaf. "This is assault and battery, and you'll answer to the law." "Put up your hands," said Joe curtly. "You're as big a man as I am, but you've got to prove which is the better one. And you, Jim, keep your eye on Fleming and stand by to see fair play." Even a rat will fight when cornered and Braxton, seeing no alternative, threw off his coat and made a desperate rush at Joe. Joe met him with a clip to the jaw that shook him from head to foot. Then he sailed in and gave the scoundrel what he had promised--the thrashing of his life. Braxton tried foul tactics, butted and kicked and tried to gouge and bite, but Joe's powerful arms worked like windmills, his fists ripping savagely into Braxton's face and chest. All the pent-up indignation and humiliation of the last few weeks found vent in those mighty blows, and soon, too soon to suit Joe, the man lay on the floor, whining and half-sobbing with shame and pain. "Get up, you cur!" said Joe, as he pulled on his coat. "I'm not through with you yet." "You're not going to hit him again, are you?" asked Fleming, while Braxton staggered painfully to his feet. "No," said Joe. "I guess he's had enough." "You said it!" cried Jim admiringly. "If ever a man was trimmed to the queen's taste he's that man." "But I'm going to nail, right now, the lies you fellows have been spreading," continued Joe, eyes alight with the thought of his coming vindication. "You've got to sign a written confession of the part you've played in this dirty business." "We w-will, w-when we get back to town," stammered Fleming. "No, you won't," cried Joe. "You'll do it right here and now." "B-but we haven't any writing materials," suggested Braxton, through his swollen lips. "I've got paper and a fountain pen!" exclaimed Jim eagerly. "This light is rather dim, but probably Mike has got the automobile lamps going by this time and that'll be light enough." "Come along!" cried Joe sternly, and his crest-fallen opponents knew him too well by this time to resist. They went out into the open and found that the rain had almost stopped. As Jim had prophesied, the automobile lamps were gleaming through the dusk. Like every Irishman, Mike dearly loved a scrap, and his eyes lighted with a mixture of eagerness and regret as he looked at Braxton and realized what he had been missing. "Begorra!" he cried in his rich brogue, "'tis a lovely shindy ye've been after havin'." With the paper resting on his knee and Jim's fountain pen in his hand, Joe wrote out the story of the trickery and fraud that had been practiced in getting his signature. When he had covered every important point, he held out the pen to Braxton. The latter hesitated, and Joe's fist clenched till the knuckles were white. Braxton knew what that fist was capable of and hesitated no longer. He wrote his name under the confession and Fleming followed suit. Then Jim affixed his name as a witness, and Michael O'Halloran happily added his. "Now," said Jim, as he folded the precious paper and stowed it safely in his pocket, "you fellows clear out. I suppose that's your car that we saw standing a little way down the road. I don't think either of you will care to mix in my affairs again." They moved away with an assumption of bravado they were far from feeling and were lost in the darkness. "And now, Mike," said Joe with a jubilant ring in his voice, as they leaped into the car, "let her go. Drive to Dublin as if the ghost of the last of the O'Brians were at your back!" And Mike did. The two baseball players found the girls impatiently awaiting them, and wondering rather petulantly what had become of them. Joe seized Mabel in his arms and whirled her about the room like a dancing dervish, paying no heed to her laughing protests. Jim would have liked to do the same to Joe's sister, but did not quite dare to--yet. "Are you boys crazy?" demanded Mabel, as soon as she could get her breath. "Yes," said Joe promptly. "You'll be, too, when you see this." He flourished the paper before their faces and in disjointed sentences, frequently broken by interruptions, told them of all that had happened since they had left them after the game. No need of telling how they felt when the boys had finished. There was no happier party that night in all Ireland. Then, leaving the delighted girls for a few minutes, the boys hunted up McRae. They found him glum and anxious, talking earnestly with Robbie in the lobby of the hotel. One glance at the young men's faces made the pair jump wonderingly to their feet. "For the love of Pete, let's have it, Joe!" cried McRae. "What's happened?" "Plenty!" exulted Joe. "We've put the All-Star League out of business!" "What!" cried McRae, as he snatched the paper that Joe held out to him and devoured its contents, while Robbie peered eagerly over his shoulder. Then, as they realized what it meant, they set up a wild whoop which made the other members of the team, scattered about the lobby, come running, followed a scene of mad hilarity, during which no one seemed to know what he said or did. That night the cable carried the news to New York, and from there to every city in the United States. It sounded the death knell of the All-Star League, and it went to pieces like a house of cards. The American public will stand for much, but for nothing so gross and contemptible as that had been. The trip wound up in a blaze of glory with the Giants just one game to the good in the hot series of games that had been played. They had a swift and joyous journey home, and when they separated on the dock in New York, McRae's hearty grip of Baseball Joe's hand fairly made the latter wince. "Good-bye, old man," he said. "You've stood by me like a brick. You'll be on hand when the bell rings." "Joe will hear other bells before that," grinned Jim, as he looked at Mabel, who flushed rosily. "What's that?" asked McRae with a twinkle in his eye. "Wedding bells," replied Jim. THE END THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK 12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional. 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS or The Rivals of Riverside 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE or Pitching for the Blue Banner 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE or Pitching for the College Championship 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES or Pitching for the Championship 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD or Pitching on a Grand Tour 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE or The Record that was Worth While 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER or Putting the Home Town on the Map 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue. CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOY HUNTERS SERIES By CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL 12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional. Captain Ralph Bonehill is one of the best known and most popular writers for young people. In this series he shows, as no other writer can, the joy, glory and happiness of outdoor life. FOUR BOY HUNTERS or The Outing of the Gun Club A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES or The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their hearts' content and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE or Out with Rod and Gun Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. OUT WITH GUN AND CAMERA or The Boy Hunters in the Mountains Takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. An escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JEWEL SERIES By AMES THOMPSON 12mo. 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He had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands. 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY 6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL 7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH 8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES 9. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON THE UNDERGROUND RIVER 10. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE LOST EXPLORERS 11. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN A STRANGE LAND 12. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE PYGMIES Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER Mr. WEBSTER'S style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors. 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All love, pathos, loyalty, and noble boy character are exemplified in this homeless little lad, who has made the world better for his being in it. The boy or girl who knows Remi has an ideal never to be forgotten. But it is a story for grown-ups, too. "Nobody's Boy" is one of the supreme heart-interest stories of all time, which will make you happier and better. 4 Colored Illustrations. $1.50 net. At All Booksellers CUPPLES & LEON CO. Publishers New York 
18587	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 18587-h.htm or 18587-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/5/8/18587/18587-h/18587-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/5/8/18587/18587-h.zip) THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH Or Hugh Morgan's Uphill Fight by DONALD FERGUSON [Frontispiece: "Are you through?" demanded, Hugh sternly.] The Goldsmith Publishing Co. Cleveland Made in U. S. A. Copyright, 1919 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A FENCE WITH A HISTORY II. THE BOYS OF OLD SCRANTON III. HUGH SHOULDERS A HEAVY TASK IV. IN FOR A FROLIC V. THE TRAGIC AFFAIR ON THE ROAD VI. MAKING A GOOD JOB OF IT VII. CALLED OUT FOR PRACTICE VIII. THAD MAKES A DISCOVERY IX. JUST BETWEEN CHUMS X. A VISITOR FROM BELLEVILLE HIGH XI. HUGH'S PETS IN DANGER XII. THE TRAP XIII. A COLD RECEPTION XIV. NICK AS A GAP-STOPPER XV. PRETTY POLLY UNDER SUSPICION XVI. THE RESCUE AT HOBSON'S MILL-POND XVII. LITTLE BRUTUS AND HIS "COLLECTION" XVIII. A STRAIGHT DRIVE FOR THE TRUTH XIX. HUGH REACHES HIS GOAL XX. LOOKING FORWARD--CONCLUSION THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH CHAPTER I A FENCE WITH A HISTORY "The best day so far this spring, fellows!" "It feels mighty much like baseball weather, for a fact, Otto!" "True for you, K. K., though there's still just a little tang to this April air." "What of that, Eli? The big leagues have opened shop all over the land, and the city papers are already full of baseball scores, and diamond lore. We ought to be getting busy ourselves in little old Scranton." "Allandale High is practicing. Sandy Dowd and I saw a bunch of the boys out on their field after school yesterday, didn't we, Sandy?" "That's right, we did. And I understand Belleville expects to put an extra hard-hitting nine in the game this season. They're still sore over the terrible drubbing Allandale gave them last summer." "Since Scranton has now become a member of the Three-Town League, taking the place of Lawrence when that nine dropped out, seems to me we ought to lose no time if we expect to commence practicing. That same Allandale team swept the circuit, you remember, like a hurricane." "We've plenty of good material, fellows, believe me, right here in Scranton High. And somehow I've got a hunch that we're going to make even mighty Allandale take a tumble before the season gets old." "Don't boast too soon, Eli Griffin. That's a wee Yankee trick you must have inherited from your forebears." "Easy for you to say that, Andy McGuffey. Why, you're a regular old pessimist, like all your canny Scotch ancestors were. You love to look at the world through smoked glasses. On my part, I prefer to use rose-colored ones, and expect the best sort of things to happen, even if I do get fooled lots of times." A number of well-grown lads were perched in all sorts of grotesque attitudes along the top rail of the campus fence. That same fence of Scranton High was almost as famous, in its modest way, as the one at Yale known throughout the length and breadth of the whole land. It had stood there, repaired at stated and frequent intervals, for at least two score of years. Hundreds upon hundreds of Scranton lads, long since grown to manhood, and many of them gone forth to take their appointed places in the busy marts of the world, kept a warm corner in their hearts for sacred memories of that dear old fence. Many a glorious campaign of sport or mischief had been talked over by a line of students perched along the flat rail at the summit of that same fence. More than one contemplated school mutiny had been hatched in excited whispers amidst those never-to-be-forgotten historic surroundings. Why, when a few years back the unthinking and officious School Directors voted to have that fence demolished, simply because it seemed to be out of keeping with the grand new building that had been erected, a storm of angry protest arose from students and parents; while letters arrived from a score and more of eminent men who were proud to call Scranton their birthplace. So overwhelming was the flood, that a hurry call for an extra meeting of the Board went out, at which their former ill-advised decision was rescinded. And so there that fence remained, beloved of every boy in Scranton, the younger fry only longing for the day to come when passing for the high school they, too, might have the proud privilege of "roosting" on its well-worn rails. Possibly it will still be in existence when some of their sons also reach the dignity of wearing the freshman class colors, and of battling on gridiron and diamond for the honor of Old Scranton. As to the identity of the boys in question, from whom those remarks proceeded, they might just as well be briefly introduced here as later, as all of them are destined to take part in the lively doings that will be recorded in this and in other volumes of this series. Otto was Otto Brand; Eli Griffin came of New England parentage, and had some of the traits that distinguish Yankees the world over, though a pretty fine fellow, all told; Andy McGuffey, as his name would indicate, could look back to a Scotch ancestry, and occasionally a touch of the brogue might be detected in his speech; Sandy Dowd had red hair, blue eyes and a host of very noticeable freckles; but could be good-natured in spite of any drawbacks; while the lad called "K. K." was in reality Kenneth Kinkaid; but since boys generally have little use for a name that makes a mouthful, he was known far and wide under that singularly abbreviated cognomen. The Committee on Sports connected with Scranton High was a body of seniors appointed by the students themselves, and given authority to handle all questions connected with athletics. As a rule, they carried out their duties in a broad-minded fashion, and not only merited the confidence of the entire school but also the respect of the faculty as well. There was considerable anxiety abroad just at present, because it was well known that the committee had been discussing the possible make-up of the baseball team to which would be given the proud privilege of representing the school that season in the Three-Town League. No one knew absolutely just who would be selected among the numerous candidates, though, of course, it was only natural that many entertained wild hopes, which were only doomed to disappointment. Two more boys came sauntering along, and found places on the "roost." One of these was a burly fellow with a pugnacious face and a bold eye. He seemed to be no favorite among the boys, though they treated him with a certain amount of respect. Well, there is never a town or a village but has its particular bully; and for several years now Nick Lang had ably filled that role in Scranton. He was a born "scrapper," and never so happy as when annoying others. A fight appeared to be the acme of pleasure with him, and it was seldom that he could be seen without some trace of a mix-up on his face in the shape of scratches, or a suspicious hue about one of his eyes. The other boy was Leon Disney, the "under-study" of Nick. While just as tough as the other, Leon never displayed the same amount of boldness. He would rather attain his revenge through some petty means, being a born sneak. The boys only tolerated Leon because Nick chose to stand up for him; and every one disliked to anger the Lang fellow, on account of his way of making things unpleasant for others. The general talk continued, with Nick taking part in it, for he at least was known to be a smart hand at athletics, and had often led in such things as hammer-throwing and wrestling. During the course of the conversation, which had become general, Eli chanced to mention the name of Owen Dugdale. "Why, they say that even he aspires to get a place on the substitute list, just to think of his nerve. Perhaps a few other fellows might feel they'd been slighted if the committee turned them down for Owen Dugdale." "Hold up there a bit, Eli," said K. K., reprovingly. "If I were you I'd go a little slow about running a fellow down, just because he happens to be called Owen Dugdale, and live with a queer old gentleman he calls his grandfather, but who chooses to keep aloof from Scranton folks as if he were a hermit. I happen to know that two of our most respected chums, Hugh Morgan and Thad Stevens, seem to have taken a great liking for that dark-faced chap. I've seen Owen in their company considerably of late." Eli gave a snort of disdain. He was one of those impulsive boys who often say disagreeable things on the spur of the moment, and then perhaps afterwards feel sorry for having done so. Evidently, he had taken a notion to dislike the said Owen, and did not care who knew it. "That fellow had been a mystery ever since he and his ancient granddaddy came to Scranton, and started to live in that old house called The Rookery, and which used to be thought a haunted place. I've always had a hunch they must be some relation to the notorious Luther Dugdale who has had a bad reputation as a dishonest operator down in the Wall Street district in New York. Why, lately I even asked my cousin in a letter about that man, and he wrote me the old chap had strangely disappeared some years ago, carrying off a big bunch of boodle dishonestly gained. Well, I'm not saying it's the same old rascal who's living in our midst right now, but, fellows, you can draw your own conclusions, for they came here just two years ago this summer!" "Wow! that's something new you're telling us, Eli!" "It takes _you_ to pick up clues, and you'll miss your vocation if you don't look for a job with the Government Secret Service, believe me, Eli!" "So Hugh Morgan has taken up with that gloomy looking chap Owen, has he?" remarked Nick Lang, with a suggestive wink at his crony, Leon. "Mebbe, now, I might badger him into having a friendly little bout with fists through that kid. As the rest of you happen to know I've tried about every other way to make the coward fight, and he only gives me one of his smiles, and says he's opposed to scrapping. That wise mother of his has tied little Hughy to her apron strings, seems like; but I'll get him yet, see if I don't." The other fellows exchanged significant looks and nods. Hugh Morgan had apparently always been more or less of an enigma to them. They knew he was no coward, for only the last winter he had leaped boldly into the river at the risk of his own life, and saved little Tommy Crabbe just when the unfortunate child was about to be drawn by the fierce current under the ice. Still, no one had even known Hugh to be engaged in a fight. There was some deep object back of his reluctance so to demean himself, most of the fellows believed, and as he was so well liked, they respected his motives. Just then keen-eyed Andy McGuffey was heard to cry out: "Speak of an angel and you'll hear the rustle of his wings, and there comes our Hugh right now. See, he's waving his hand to us, and is hurrying along at almost a run. Say, it may be he's fetching some news from the committee, because he told me he had an idea they'd reach an understanding this afternoon. Yes, he's looking mighty wise, so I reckon we're going to hear something drop." CHAPTER II THE BOYS OF OLD SCRANTON The boy advancing toward the comrades perched on the campus fence was bright of face, and with laughing eyes that made him hosts of friends. Few had ever seen Hugh Morgan angry, though there was a report that on a certain occasion he had stopped to give old Garry Owen the truckman a piece of his mind, and threaten to have him arrested if he was ever seen beating his poor horse when the animal was stalled with a load too heavy for his strength. Yes, and although Garry was known to have a fiery Irish tongue, he had been subdued by the arguments which Hugh hurled at him, and meekly promised to go easy with his stinging whip after that. Hugh seemed to be a trimly built lad, who evidently believed in keeping not only his mind but his body also well trained, since so much depended on good health. He lived with his mother and smaller sister. His father had been dead some years now, but apparently the widow had plenty of means to afford them a good living. They resided in a nice house and kept one servant. Most of the boys of Scranton High thought Hugh a fine fellow, and envied Thad Stevens the privilege of being his closest chum. A few, however, had no use for Hugh, and among them were such fellows as Nick Lang and Leon Disney. They pretended to dislike him because he had no "nerve," which was only another method of saying that he absolutely declined to be egged into a dispute, and had a wonderful way of cooling off all would-be fighters who dared him to a fist test. Those who knew Hugh best felt certain there must be some good and valid reason for his action in this respect. He had taken none of them into his confidence, however, and they could only surmise what it might be. The general consensus of opinion was that possibly at some time in his younger years, Hugh may have shown signs of an ungovernable temper, and his wise mother had made him solemnly promise never to allow himself to be drawn into a fight unless it was to protect some one weaker than himself who was being rudely treated by a bully. He nodded his head as he drew near the group, for by now the eager boys had left their lofty perch, and gathered in an excited bunch to learn what was in the wind. "News, fellows!" exclaimed the latest addition to the group, "great news for the Scranton lovers of baseball!" "Then the committee have finished making out their programme, and mebbe even decided on the lucky candidates who'll have a chance to show what they've got in them to put the school on the map this year?" "A pretty good guess for you, Eli, so go up head," laughed Hugh; "for I've just been told that is what has come about. Their deliberations have closed, and presently there will be a general call issued for a full meeting, at which their report is to be read. Then everybody will know whether or not they have been deemed worthy of making a try for honors in the diamond this season." "We'll all be mighty glad when it's over, and those of us who are unfortunate enough to get left high and dry can know the worst," said K. K. "Huh! you needn't lose any sleep over that, K. K.!" exclaimed Sandy Dowd. "Everybody knows you're a jim-dandy at the bat, and a clever fielder in the bargain. Wish I had as much chance as you and Hugh here of making the nine. But then we must put faith in our committee, and believe they'll select the ones they firmly believe are best fitted for the job of holding down those heavy sluggers of Allandale. The rest of us can root for the glory of old Scranton, and even that counts." "But the committee, it seems, have gone even further," continued Hugh, looking around at the eager faces of his chums, and also some who could hardly be classed under that head. "Go on and tell us the news, Hugh! Don't ye see we're just dying to know?" pleaded Andy McGuffey. "Have they been in touch with Allandale and Belleville?" asked the sagacious Eli. "It seems that last night they went over to Allandale to meet the committee of that place, as well as the one representing Belleville," continued Hugh. "Matters of every kind were taken up and discussed. The meeting ended with a programme being laid out that is to be rigidly adhered to. Two weeks from tomorrow, Saturday, we will find ourselves up against Belleville; and on the following Saturday it's to be Allandale. Those two clubs have found a way of having their meetings come off on Wednesday afternoons at three, a special favor granted by the directors of the respective schools on account of there being but three clubs in the league." "Two weeks, and as yet we don't even know who's going to be on our team!" burst out Eli. "Seems to me that's an awful short time to get settled down into our best stride. Allandale will have a terrible bulge on us, Hugh, because I hear they've kept almost the same team that carried off the honors last year." "If anything it's said to be some stronger," added Sandy Dowd, ponderously, for he had a habit of looking solemn at times, in spite of his blue eyes, red hair and mottled face. "An Allandale fellow told me they expected to wipe up the earth with both Belleville and Scranton this term." "Huh! better spell able first," grunted Eli. "I hope there's no more delay than is necessary about notifying the candidates who've been selected to appear on the athletic field after school every day, and keep hustling till supper time. We've just _got_ to make the sand fly, if we expect to catch up with those older teams." "Well," Hugh assured him, "you'll know all about it by tomorrow night, because the last knot will have been untied by then, and everybody notified to come out to the meeting. Then beginning on next Monday afternoon, hard practice for the lucky ones, to be continued every decent day during the week, with a game against a picked nine on Saturday." "Will Mr. Leonard coach the team as he promised, Hugh?" asked K. K. Mr. Leonard was the assistant of the head of the Scranton schools, a pretty fine sort of a young man, who had gained quite some fame as an athlete while at Princeton, and was well fitted for the task of athletic instructor, which post he filled in addition to other duties. "He told me he would take the greatest pleasure in trying to build up a winning team for Scranton," Hugh informed them. "Good for Mr. Leonard, he's a dandy!" exclaimed Eli; and that seemed to be the consensus of opinion; though Nick was seen to allow his upper lip to curl a bit at mention of the athletic instructor's name. There was a reason back of that, as the other boys well knew, for they remembered the time when Nick had been handled pretty briskly by Mr. Leonard, and made to apologize for some rude remark he had thrown out heedlessly in his rough way. It could hardly be expected that Nick would ever have a very good opinion of the young man who had humbled his swollen pride in the presence of the same fellows whom he had so long ridden rough-shod over. "Well, the afternoon is getting on, and supper-time will be around before long; so, for one, I'm going to head for home," observed K. K. There was a general exodus, and the famous fence was soon abandoned by the entire group of boys. They started off by twos and threes, with the general drift of conversation circling around the one great subject--the meeting to be called for Saturday night in the school, at which the report of the committee would be made, together with an announcement as to their choice as to candidates to be tried out for the various positions on the season's team. Hugh and K. K. walked along in company. Hugh always fancied the Kinkaid boy, for there was something dependable about him that won the confidence of almost all his mates. K. K. was one of the most remarkable chaps, who, while engaging in the customary rough and tumble sports of boys with red blood in their veins, still seemed able to keep himself always tidy and neat. No one ever knew how he did it, and a few were wont to call him a "sissy," but K. K. was far from that. Only one boy attending Scranton High could really come under such a name, and he was Reggie Van Alstyne, who had always been a veritable dude. "Oh! I had nearly forgotten an errand my mother commissioned me to do for her," Hugh suddenly exclaimed. "I'll have to leave you here, K. K., and turn back." The other laughed. "Too much baseball on the brain, I reckon, Hugh," he went on to say; "but then, with your fetching us that good news, it wasn't to be wondered that you let such a little thing as an errand for your mother slip out of your mind. If I can help any, tell me, Hugh." "Oh! no, I've just got to step in at Madame Pangborn's and ask her something. My mother is interested in Red Cross work, you know, and the old Madame has a connection with the French branch of that service. Most of the material the ladies of Scranton have been getting ready is sent abroad through the queer old lady, who, they say, once used to queen it at the court of Louis Napoleon. She's over eighty years of age now, but quite rich, I've been told. And if you've never been in her house you'd be interested in seeing how she lives. That wonderful green parrot of hers can rattle off a whole string of songs and sayings. It almost gives you the creeps to hear Jocko performing, for it strikes you as what Andy McGuffey would call uncanny. Well, so long, K. K. I hope you make the team, all right." "Same to you, Hugh; but nobody doubts that, for we all think you're away above all the rest of the Scranton boys as an all-round athlete, barring none. Some may be able to outdo you in their specialty, but they're weak in other stunts." So they parted, K. K. continuing on his way home, while Hugh turned into a side street, and went whistling along after the manner of a boy whose mind knew no care. Presently he came to a large house. It was rather dingy on the outside, but Hugh, who had often been indoors, knew there was some elegant old mahogany furniture, as well as other mementoes of the former life of the Madame when she filled a high niche at the French court, before the republic was inaugurated. His knock at the door--for instead of an electric bell the lady insisted on using one of those enormous old silver-plated knockers, that used to be the fashion fifty or sixty years back--was answered by a colored woman, who seemed to know the boy, for she smiled pleasantly. "Yassir, de missus is in," she told him in answer to his question. "Jes' yo' walk on back to de library, honey, an' dar you'll find her, sewin' like she always does dese amazin' times. You knows de way, I reckons, sah." "I certainly do, Sarah," he assured her as he started along the wide hall. When he knocked gently at the library door, he was told to enter, which Hugh proceeded to do. A very wrinkled and old woman sat in a big chair. The table was covered with material for all sorts of bandages, and such things as are urgently needed wherever hideous war is raging. Hugh noticed that at sight of him Madame Pangborn seemed pleased. He wondered why, but was not long in learning. "Oh! I am glad you've dropped in to see me, Hugh," she told him; "because something very strange has happened, and perhaps you might be able to advise me. In fact, Hugh, I fear I am being systematically robbed!" CHAPTER III HUGH SHOULDERS A HEAVY TASK Hugh hardly knew how to take that astonishing declaration on the part of the old lady. He remembered that she was very peculiar in some ways, and the very first thought that flashed into the boy's mind was to the effect that Madame Pangborn might be getting what some fellows would, impolitely of course, have called "daffy." Still her black eyes flashed with all their old-time vigor, and she appeared to be very much in earnest. More to humor her than anything else Hugh remarked in a sympathetic voice: "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Of course if I can do anything for you I'll be only too glad of the chance. Would you mind telling me about it?" "Thank you for your kindness, my son," she went on, eagerly. "You see, a woman of my age, who has studied human nature for a long time, comes to know the weaknesses of boys, even while believing in them to the utmost. At times the temptation may be more than their powers of resistance can stand, and they are irresistibly impelled to take something that excites their cupidity. I am prone to believe most of them find it possible to resist such an inclination. Still, alas! I have known of occasions where the temptation carried the day. This seems to be one of them. My heart is feeling very sore over it, too. I thought at first to speak to Chief Wambold, but somehow I hesitated. And then it happened precisely as before." "Do you mean to say you have missed something on two separate occasions, ma'am?" Hugh hastened to ask, beginning to realize now that "where there was smoke there must be a fire," and that after all there was something more in this affair than a mere specter brought into being through an old lady's whim. "Yes, it has occurred twice, and on each occasion that same boy chanced to be in my house. Oh! it is too bad, too bad! And he such a quiet and respectful young chap in the bargain." "Please tell me more about it, for I can't possibly be of any assistance to you, Mrs. Pangborn, unless I know the facts," Hugh continued, his curiosity beginning to rise by jumps. "The first time," the old lady went on to say, consulting what seemed to be a diary which she picked up from her overloaded table, "was just a week ago today. I had been busy as usual, for an additional number of pieces came in from those kind ladies of Scranton who are helping me sew for the brave wounded poilus of my country, valiant France. This lad brought in a package which Mrs. Ackerman had given into his charge. I remember I chatted with him quite a while, and was interested in all he said so respectfully; for it happened I had heard a number of peculiar things in the way of town gossip concerning him and his aged grandfather." She paused as if to recover her breath. Hugh, on his part, had started as though he might have received a sudden shock. Possibly his thoughts flew instantly toward one particular boy who happened to have an old grandfather, and about whom there had always been more or less mysterious comment in the town. "After he had gone away, letting himself out at my request, so as to save Sarah from coming up from the kitchen, I had occasion to pass into the other room, which also opens into the front hall. Something impelled me to idly count over some souvenir spoons that I have personally collected from various parts of the world, and each one of which has a peculiar value for me far, far beyond its pecuniary worth. "To my surprise and dismay I found that there were only eleven, when there should have been twelve. I keep them there on a table so as to show them to some of my kind lady friends, for I am particularly proud of my collection, and Sarah had only that morning brightened them all superbly until they glistened. "So I called her up and asked her if she could remember counting the spoons at the time she cleaned them. She assured me solemnly that the entire twelve were in the open case when she placed them on the table at my orders. "It remained a puzzle to me for a whole week. I believed, of course, that Sarah must have unconsciously mislaid a spoon, which would be found sooner or later. At the same time I remembered the visit of that lad, who had never been in my house before, and how he might have glanced into the drawing-room through accident, and seeing my souvenir spoons, been tempted to purloin one. But every time that terrible thought flashed into my mind I indignantly refused to harbor it, I love all boys so much. "Then again today he came with more work turned in by Mrs. Ackerman, who had for some reason of her own selected him as her messenger. I actually forgot all my ugly suspicions in the charm of his manly conversation, until some time after he had gone, again, at my suggestion, letting himself out. I hurried into the drawing-room, and with trembling fingers proceeded to count my spoons. There were but ten of them left in the open box. Another had strangely vanished!" Hugh almost gasped, he was so tremendously interested in this thrilling recital. "You are certain you did not make any mistake, Mrs. Pangborn?" he asked, for want of something better to say. "Please step into the other room and count them for yourself, Hugh," she quickly told him. "You can use the connecting door if you wish, instead of passing around by way of the hall." Hugh came back a minute later. His face was very grave. "It is just as you told me, ma'am," he remarked, softly, at the same time shaking his head, as though he could not bring himself to believe it was as bad as the old lady suspected; that there must be some other and reasonable explanation for the vanishing of the spoons; surely Owen Dugdale could not be guilty of such a base theft! "What can I believe, Hugh?" she almost wailed. "I do not walk in my sleep, and that colored girl is as honest as your own mother, I feel positive. Please tell me you will try and find out the answer to this distressing puzzle." "I can easily promise you that I will at least do my level best to learn where your property went, Mrs. Pangborn; and if possible recover it for you," he hastened to assure her. "Thank you very much, my son. As soon as I saw you I seemed to feel an inspiration that Providence had sent you to me in my distress. For it would break my heart if I were compelled to have that poor, weak boy arrested, and charged with so grievous a breach of the law. You being a boy may be able to have a certain amount of influence over him. You may even induce him to own up to his act, and send me back my precious spoons. The ones taken by some accident are the very ones I value most." "While I give you my promise willingly enough, ma'am," Hugh went on to say deliberately, "I want to add that I can't believe it possible Owen Dugdale could be so small and mean as to yield to an impulse, and take anything that belonged to another." "That is splendid of you, Hugh!" she cried, her black eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "I love a boy who has faith in his fellows, and thinks the best of them, no matter how circumstantial evidence may seem to blacken their characters. And my son, if only you can find an explanation of this puzzle that will exonerate your young companion, I shall be very happy indeed. A great load will have been removed from my poor old heart. I would rather lose the entire twelve spoons than learn that Owen Dugdale were guilty." "Then you will not say a word of this to any one," he continued, "particularly Chief Wambold, who everybody knows has a great itching to shine as a wonderful sleuth, but makes himself only ridiculous whenever he tries to unearth any uncommon happening?" "I gladly give you my promise to keep silent, Hugh," she assured him, holding out her withered hand, resplendant with lovely gems, diamonds, rubies and pearls, for like most French women, the Madame was more than commonly fond of jewelry. "And from what you say, as well as your mentioning the boy's name before I spoke it, I assume that you know Owen Dugdale?" "I have latterly become greatly interested in him, ma'am, and we have been much together," he told her simply. "Since I pride myself on being something of a reader of human nature, I feel almost certain that there must be a great mistake somewhere; and that when the truth is discovered, you and I will laugh, and say it was ridiculous for us to even think Owen could have taken the spoons!" The old lady's eyes glistened as she heard these brave words. Standing up for a friend was one of Hugh Morgan's leading traits; and yet, if the truth were known, he did not feel _quite_ so positive as his words would indicate. Things certainly looked dark for the Dugdale boy. Hugh, when he came to think over the whole matter, was bound to be smitten with a grave fear lest the worst come to pass. "Somehow I seem to have unbounded confidence in your ability to accomplish the impossible, Hugh Morgan," she told him, which words of praise thrilled him to the heart, for he was, after all, human and a boy. "Only good words have come to me about you from all those with whom I converse; for though you may think it odd in an old woman who never had a son of her own, I have all my life been interested in other people's children, particularly boys, seven of whom I have had educated at my expense. Ah! they are either fighting bravely for the life of France just now, or else filling patriots' graves in the battle country." Hugh asked a few more questions that chanced to occur to him. Then he prepared to take his leave. "I will think it all over, ma'am," he remarked, as she gave him her dainty if wrinkled hand to press, "and like as not I'll conjure up some scheme by which we can prove whether Owen is innocent or guilty. You see I could be hidden in that room and a trap set, you sending him word to call for a package you wished him to deliver. Then if he went out without even looking into the drawing-room, and yet another of your spoons disappeared, we'd know to a certainty that the trouble lay inside this house." "Hugh, you give me fresh hope!" she cried, with her eyes glistening as though the tears were trying to flow. "Oh! I would almost pray that something of the sort turned out to be the case, for somehow I have taken a great interest in Owen Dugdale. I mean later on to find an opportunity to meet that wonderful grandfather of his, for somehow I suspect he may turn out to be an exile of note who has taken this means for hiding his identity. I have known eminent Russians to do that from fear of the Czar's secret agents." Hugh could not but remember how some of the people chose to believe old Mr. Dugdale was keeping in hiding from some far less honorable cause; but of course he did not say anything about that. He went out of Madame Pangborn's big house with a sense of having undertaken a great responsibility; and realizing that an up-hill task lay upon his young shoulders which might test his utmost abilities to carry through. CHAPTER IV IN FOR A FROLIC The high-school boys and girls of Scranton, like those of most other communities, delighted in getting up occasional entertainments so dear to the hearts of young people. A straw-ride late in the summer; it might be a class-spread under difficult conditions on account of the envy of the other grades at school; and once in a while a jolly barn dance was engineered by a committee composed of both sexes. There was just such a pleasant outing arranged for this same Friday night. Some of the fellows had made up a party to go out several miles to where a big barn, as yet empty of the anticipated crop of hay, offered them excellent facilities for a merry hop. A trio of darky players had been engaged. The leader was quite famous through that section of country and had played at such affairs for years. Everybody for miles around knew Daddy Whitehead and the fiddle from which he could extract the most enticing music boys and girls had ever danced to; while his assistants, Mose Coffin and Abe Skinner were fairly good with the violoncello and oboe, making a good combination capable of playing up-to-date dances, as well as others known to the fathers and mothers of the present generation. These affairs were conducted with a due respect to the proprieties. A middle-aged lady invariably went along in the carryall to chaperone the young people, although there was a deal of fun going and coming back home, as well as on the floor of the great barn, with its many lanterns to serve in lieu of electric lights. Hugh was going, of course. He and his best chum, Thad Stevens, had a pretty fair car in which to transport the two girls whom they had invited as their partners. These same girls were co-eds with Hugh and Thad on the weekly paper which Scranton High issued, just as many other schools do. They were named Sue Barnes and Ivy Middleton. Sue was Hugh's company, while the dark-haired vivacious Ivy seemed to have a particular attraction for Thad. By the way, since Thad has thus far not been introduced to the reader, it might be a good idea to say a few words about him before going any further with the exciting events that happened on the Friday night of the barn hop. Thad was a quick-tempered lad, in which respect he seemed to differ radically from Hugh, who somehow managed to keep his under wonderful control, as though he had long practiced holding it in subjection. Strangely enough, Thad's folks came of Quaker stock, and "thee" and "thou" had been familiar words to his young ears. But Thad apparently had not inherited the peaceful ways of his ancestors, for he had been in more than a few battles with some of his more pugnacious school companions, nor did he always come out from these encounters first best. All the same, Thad was a pretty clever chap, and Hugh had always been very fond of his chum. They got on wonderfully well together, and seldom had the least "tiff." It was Thad who had secured his father's old car for the special occasion. He turned up at Hugh's house about half-past seven that evening. It was a calm night, and the moon was just rising in the east, being a little past her full period. "Say, this couldn't be improved on any, according to my notion, Thad," Hugh remarked, as, attracted by the call of the klaxon outside, he hurried forth, wearing his overcoat, for the night air was quite chilly, it being still only April. "A bang-up night for a dance," echoed the enthusiastic Thad; "just cool enough to keep us from getting overheated. The farmer's wife will make the coffee, and spread a table for us in her big kitchen, she promised; and the girls are to provide lots of good things. We're mighty lucky for once, Hugh." "How many do you think will be on hand?" asked the other, settling down alongside the driver. "Well, ten couple have solemnly promised to attend, barring some accident; and I reckon there may be several more show up, because we've done lots of talking about the jolly time we expected to have. I only hope that Nick Lang and his crowd will have the decency to stay away. If they show up there's bound to be trouble brewing." "I'm afraid so," acceded Hugh, seriously, "for Nick is never so happy as when he's making other folks miserable. But the farmer has a stout hired man, who will be on deck to keep an eye on our cars, and other conveyances; so there'll hardly be any tricks attempted with the lines, taking wheels off buggies, and all such practical jokes, such as those fellows dearly love to play." "I heard Owen Dugdale was coming," Thad went on to say, as they started off, "which is something unusual for him, because up to now we've never seen him at a hop." "Now how did you learn that?" laughed Hugh. "Oh! a little bird told me," replied the other. "Fact is, Hugh, pretty Peggy Noland told my sister Grace Owen had asked her to be his company to this hop, and she had accepted, because somehow she always liked Owen." "Whew! I wonder now how Nick Lang will feel about that?" ventured Hugh. "You know Peggy used to have him for her company a number of times. But I remember how annoyed she looked at the class spread when he acted so rudely, and made everybody present wish he had stayed at home." "Oh! Peggy says she will never, never go anywhere again with that terrible Nick Lang. She never did like him any too well, and now she detests him. I only hope Nick isn't mean enough to try to pick on Owen because Peggy's accepted his offer to take her to the barn hop." There were so many other things pressing on Hugh's mind just then that he did not give the matter much attention. Later on, perhaps he might have it brought forcibly before him, and in a manner bordering on tragedy in the bargain. Hugh meant to take Thad into his confidence at the first favorable opportunity. He knew his chum would never breathe a syllable of what he told him; and possibly two heads might prove better than one in solving what promised to be a great enigma. But the time was too short now to even mention the matter. Perhaps later on as they chanced to come together between the dances he would find the opening he sought to confide in Thad. He did excite the other's curiosity, however, by saying just before they drew up in front of the Barnes' home: "I've got something queer to tell you, Thad, when I get the chance. Perhaps it'll come while we're resting between dances. I've undertaken a pretty big proposition, and I'd like to have you share it with me." "Well, now, you _have_ got me guessing," chuckled Thad. "What a fellow you are for undertaking big things. Nothing seems to faize you, Hugh, Can't you just give me a little clue to feed on till you explain it all? It's mean to stir me up like that, you know, old fellow." "All I can tell you now," said Hugh, who had discovered some one peeping out through the lace curtains at the parlor window, and knew how anxious Sue must be for him to run up the steps and ring the door bell, "is that it concerns Owen Dugdale. So just let your curiosity-mill work on that until I can spin the whole odd yarn." "Whew! you've twisted me up worse than ever now," he heard Thad muttering, as he hastened to make for the door, where the eager Sue awaited him, having seen the car stopping at the curb. As Ivy lived only a short block away, they speedily had her installed alongside the chattering Sue in the back seat; though possibly on the way home the girls might prefer to change partners, as Ivy was heard to say she just dearly loved to be alongside the chauffeur when out in a car, because the view was so much better. On the road they passed several vehicles, all bound in the same direction. Now it was a slow car that managed to roll along "like an ice-wagon," as Thad laughingly called out on going ahead. Then again it was a buggy pulled by a horse; for there were actually a few of these almost extinct quadrupeds still to be found in some of the family stables of Scranton. "Listen! that must be the carryall ahead of us," called out Thad, not venturing to turn his head when he spoke, because the road was rather poor, with ditches on either side, while the moon gave rather a poor light, since it had not yet risen above the haze near the horizon. Some one aboard was noisily tooting the horn, for some boys seem to be up to all manner of mischief every hour of the day, and dearly love to make a noise in the world, even though it rasps on other people's ears distressingly. Once they arrived at their destination, they found it a very gay scene. The barn had been quite prettily decorated by some of the girls who had come out during the last two afternoons after school to sweep the floor, and instruct the farmer and his helper just where to hang the many lanterns they had fetched along. There was Daddy Whitehead, with his famous fiddle, which he was already tuning up, so as to be ready to commence operations; while his "band," consisting of Abe Skinner and Mose Coffin, sat there with huge grins on their faces, and also an expectant look. They had undoubtedly noted the huge hampers of eatables that came with each party, and could anticipate a delightful break in the monotony of sawing away, or blowing steadily into that oboe instrument. Chattering girls and boys were soon strewn all about the place. The farmer and his good wife seemed to be enjoying the picture, since it must have reminded them of somewhat similar episodes in their own younger years, when life seemed buoyant, and without any trouble such as time always brings in its train. Soon the first dance started, and immediately the floor was covered with happy couples whirling in the maze of a waltz. More vehicles arrived, and others joined in the festivities. This continued for two solid hours, with brief respites to allow both musicians and dancers a chance to "rest up." Then some of the girls were called upon to pass into the kitchen of the farmhouse to start work at getting supper ready; though none of the boys were allowed to accompany them, being told that they would only interfere with the work. It happened that among those who took this duty on themselves were both Ivy and Sue, so that Hugh and Thad found they were without partners. They were feeling a bit fatigued in the bargain, and following the example of several other fellows who were in the same fix, they strolled outside for a breath of cool air, taking care to pick up their overcoats, as they were flushed from exercise. Here Thad demanded that Hugh explain what his strange words meant with reference to Owen Dugdale. He listened while the other told the story in low tones; for while they believed themselves alone in the moonlight, it was always possible that some other fellow might be loitering close by, and thus overhear what was not intended for his ears. Thad of course was deeply interested by what he heard. He, too, declared that it seemed preposterous to think that Owen could demean himself so much as to deliberately steal what belonged to the queer old French madame. At the same time Thad admitted he considered the circumstantial evidence fairly strong. "My father's a lawyer, you know, Hugh," he went on to say, "and I've heard him say circumstantial evidence has hanged many an innocent man. We ought to go mighty slow about believing Owen guilty without better proof than his having been in the house on both occasions." CHAPTER V THE TRAGIC AFFAIR ON THE ROAD "Let's walk up the road a bit," suggested Hugh. "It's too cool to sit here after getting so heated up inside the barn. And Sue told me they'd be all of a quarter of an hour laying the supper out." "I'm with you, Hugh. After those cranky dances, it'll do both of us good to step out in some other way than that silly tango, and monkey climb. Have you thought up any scheme yet for learning the truth about Owen?" "Not yet," came the reply, "though I've several ideas on tap, and may settle on one soon. It's such a serious affair that I'm afraid to hurry too fast. Why, if the boy is innocent, as we both seem to believe, he'd be terribly humiliated if he learned that he had been under suspicion. I've found out he's quite proud, and that's one reason he hasn't mingled with the young folks much since coming to our town. He knows there are strange rumors about his grandfather, and that some people are even talking about Mr. Dugdale as if they suspected him of being a notorious crook in hiding." "Listen! what's all that loud talking ahead there mean?" suddenly exclaimed Thad. They both stopped short, and held their breath while listening. "Would you believe it!" cried Thad, "that was certainly Nick Lang's gruff voice I heard just then. If that chap's around this region, he's come out on purpose to kick up some sort of a shindy. It would be just like his way." Hugh felt a thrill pass over him. It was as though some innate warning told him he would sooner or later be mixed up in the mess Nick meant to start. Somehow, his thoughts instinctively flew to Owen Dugdale, and he remembered what Thad had remarked earlier in the evening about the possibility of Nick picking on Owen simply because Peggy Noland chose to accompany the other to the hop, in preference to accepting Nick for a partner. The voices were growing even more boisterous. "Let's get a move on us, and sprint up that way, Hugh," suggested Thad, unable to restrain his impatience. "Might as well," the other grimly told him. Accordingly, they started to run. All the while they could hear disputing voices raised in anger and excitement. Apparently, Nick was aroused, and looking for trouble; when he allowed himself to jump into this aggressive mood, somebody was liable to feel the weight of his heavy fist before the end of the affair came. At least such had always been the case in the past. Nick was not the only one doing the talking. Hugh thought he several times caught the sound of a voice that might belong to Owen. Then there were also others in the heated argument, some of them apparently egging the pugnacious Nick on, while yet a few more seemed to be trying to cast oil on troubled waters. At least Owen was not alone with Nick and his ugly cronies, Hugh realized, though, after all, that would not count for much. Fellows like Leon Disney and several others of the same stripe would be only too well pleased to pair off and attack any other boy who might show a disposition to interfere with the designs of their leader, the bully of the town, big blustering Nick Lang. Faster still did Hugh and Thad run along. They feared lest something happen before they could arrive on the spot. Both of them were grimly resolved that they would never stand by and see that overgrown fellow abuse a smaller boy like Owen. As they drew nearer, they discovered that Owen was trying to stand up for his action. He seemed to be declaring that any fellow had a perfect right to ask a girl to accompany him to a dance, and if she did not wish to accept she would say so. He was not trying to cut anybody out, and if Peggy Noland would rather go home with another fellow, Nick, for instance, she had only to say so. But so long as she gave him to understand that she preferred to have him for an escort, he did not mean to be driven away by anybody, no matter if they were twice his size. Somehow, when Hugh caught the drift of what Owen was saying, his heart burned within him, for he realized that the boy was made of the right kind of stuff. In build and muscular ability he was no match for Nick Lang; but evidently his courage was equal to any test; and it is that makes the man, not his physique alone. "Bully for Owen!" Thad could be heard muttering between his pants as he raced along; "if that big coward strikes him, he's going to answer to me for it, no matter what happens." Now that was just what was passing through Hugh's mind at the same moment. True, a social hop might be one of the last places in the wide world for a boy to allow himself to be drawn into a brutal fight; but if his hand were forced by Nick Lang everything else must be forgotten, Hugh decided. Somehow, he felt better after that. He could even think of his mother without any burning regret and shame, for had she not impressed it upon his mind years back that no matter how averse a boy may be to entering a fist fight, when it is in defense of a girl, or a smaller lad, he is perfectly justified in so doing, putting aside all his scruples, even his sacred promise to his mother. Matters were now getting pretty close to the breaking point. They could hear Nick ranting as to what he ought to do to a fellow who played him such a trick as to come between him and the girl he had always taken to hops and singing school. "Do you know what I got a good mind to do to you, sonny?" he roared, and doubtless added emphasis to his words by shaking that big fist of his under Owen's nose. "I haven't the least idea," replied Owen, steadily enough, considering that he must surely know sufficient concerning Nick's ways to understand the danger he was in. "All I say is that I had a perfect right to ask any girl to come to the hop with me. Since she accepted, you must look for an explanation from Peggy. I'm sure I don't feel obliged to ask you whether I can breathe the same air as you do or not. The country is big enough for both of us, Nick Lang. You go your way, and I'll go mine." "I'll go when I'm done with you, and not a minute before," snarled the other. "So get ready to take your medicine. Mebbe when Peggy sees your nose all bloody, and one eye closed up, with a black circle coming around the other, she won't think you so pretty a sight." "What's going on here?" It was Hugh who asked this as he and Thad managed to arrive on the scene, to discover a group of boys standing there on the moonlit road surrounding the two principals in the heated argument, who were facing each other so threateningly. Nick turned his head to take a look. Even in the moonlight, the sudden grin that came upon his red face was noticeable. Apparently it pleased him to know that the boy whom he had never thus far been able to coax into a row with him had arrived on the spot. He must have judged that this was a piece of double luck, in that he might take revenge upon the one who had interfered with his pleasure, and at the same time force Hugh Morgan, who had never been known to engage in any rowdy practices, to enter into a rough-and-tumble scrap with him. "Hello! so you're there, are you, Hugh Morgan?" he called out, with a ring of savage delight in his heavy voice. "Glad you've dropped in just in time to see me give a good friend of yours a little lesson in politeness. Here's Owen saying how he thinks it good taste to step in between a fellow and his best girl. I'm meaning to knock a different notion into his silly head. Sometimes you have to pound things into some people, you understand." "I'd advise you to try nothing of the sort, Nick," said Hugh, steadily. At that the other laughed aloud. "Why, you don't mean to tell me you'd stick in your little oar, Hugh, and try to teach me a few tricks, do you? I could put you on your back with one hand behind me. Fellers that are tied to their mother's apron strings ain't apt to know a heap about how to take care of themselves in a stand-up fight. Mebbe now you're meaning all of you to pick on me? Well, I've got a few nervy pals hangin' around who'd like nothing better than to have you try that game." Owen had not attempted to escape while Nick's attention was thus taken up with the newcomers, though possibly he might have been forgiven had he done so, considering all the conditions. But evidently Owen had plenty of nerve, even though he might be lacking in brawn equal to the bully's larger figure. Nick now turned again upon the other. His gestures became even more offensive, as though despite Hugh's grave warning, he meant to attack Owen, come what might, and give him the drubbing which according to his, Nick's light, was long overdue. Suddenly, without the least warning, his fist shot out. Owen apparently was not expecting such a cowardly blow, and hence must have been taken unawares. The consequence was that the blow landed on the side of his head when he tried instinctively to duck. It sounded horribly suggestive, and made Hugh's blood fairly boil as anger swept over him in a wild wave. Owen staggered and fell. Gamely, he attempted to scramble to his knees, and before Nick could prevent him had even done this, trying to strike back in return. The boy was furious because of having been dealt such a foul blow; he would have leaped at the giant just then if the necessity arose. Nick was in his element. Scenes like this were so frequent in his life that he fairly delighted in them, just as another boy less pugilistic in his nature might glory in taking snap-shot pictures, catching fish, or camping in the woods. Fighting and Nick Lang were synonymous terms, it might almost be said. Sweeping the threatening hand of Owen aside almost contemptuously, Nick suddenly sent in another swift jolt, such as he knew so well how to deliver, having taken a few lessons from some reformed prize fighter. Poor Owen went down again in a pitiful heap. He did not have the slightest chance against such a master in the art of delivering heavy blows that could not be parried. As one of the boys who looked on with staring eyes, too much afraid of the bully to interfere, was heard to say, it was "like taking candy from the baby for Nick to strike that boy, unacquainted with the art of self-defense." This time the boy was really unable to do more than struggle to his knees. There he knelt trying to recover his breath, and not yet wholly conquered, though unable to make any further threatening gestures toward his cruel oppressor. Hugh had already started to quietly remove both his overcoat and the under one. These he handed over to Thad for safe-keeping. Nick saw his actions with keen delight. Apparently, the hope he had entertained of forcing Hugh Morgan into meeting him in a clean-cut issue, to see which would prove the better man, was about to be realized. "It's just got to be done, I see," Hugh was saying, as he faced the leering victor in the unequal affair just concluded. "You big coward, I'm going to teach you that there's danger in picking on a boy smaller than yourself. In other words, you're due for a thrashing you'll never forget. Now look out for yourself!" CHAPTER VI MAKING A GOOD JOB OF IT A fight between two boys is not a very pleasant subject with which to deal. In this particular circumstance there were, however, mitigating conditions that would almost make it a pleasure to describe the battle. Hugh was standing up for the rights of the weak, and had only plunged into the scrimmage when he saw that Nick had treated Owen in a most cruel manner. Once he started in and he meant business. There could be no half-way measures in handling so crafty and unprincipled a customer as the town bully. He must be carried off his feet with the impetuosity of the attack; and while still bewildered thoroughly punished. As Hugh had well said he needed a lasting lesson. Perhaps after this Nick would think twice before attacking a weaker boy, who might have a friend capable and willing to take up cudgels in his behalf. Nick flourished those big fists of his, and commenced to dance tauntingly around as though meaning to enlist the admiration of his cronies, who had never yet seen him come out of a battle second-best, and therefore deemed him invincible. Hugh leaped at him with fury glowing in his eyes. Some powerful fever seemed to have utterly overwhelmed the boy. Thad and those others stared as though they could not believe their vision. Was this impetuous boy who struck down Nick's guard as though nothing could restrain his attack, the same Hugh Morgan who on numerous occasions had been known to arbitrate a dispute, and declare that it was not worth getting into a temper over? A miracle seemed to have happened. The sight of Nick's brutal treatment of Owen Dugdale must have transformed Hugh into a merciless avenger. In that supreme moment he had constituted himself the champion of all those lads in Scranton who, in times past, had suffered cruel wrongs at the hands of the sneering bully. There was a furious exchange of blows. Nick knew how to fight, but on this occasion something seemed to go wrong with his customary programme. Why, when he hit out his hardest, and expected to see his antagonist reeling back before the blow, to his consternation, it was cleverly warded off, and the next instant something crashed against his own face that made a myriad of luminous stars, never indexed in the galaxy of the heavens, flash before his eyes. Then Nick was seen to stagger, and fall down. That was perhaps the first time he had ever taken a dose of his own medicine. How often had he stood jeeringly over some wretched fellow whom he had sent to grass, counting him out with monotonous chant, in which the joy of brutal victory was prominent? "Get up and try it again!" said a stern voice. "That is only a taste of what is due you! I hope you have not had enough yet, you cowardly brute!" Leon Disney and those two other cronies of Nick's were holding their breath with dismay. They had never expected to see the time when any one could knock their boastful leader out in this easy fashion. What previous opinions they had entertained concerning Hugh Morgan's prowess must now be reversed. Stung by this taunt, Nick immediately scrambled to his feet. He seemed a bit what he himself would have termed "groggy," being familiar with the slang of the prize ring, but in spite of this he leaped wildly at his enemy. Thad Stevens feared for his chum when he saw the fury of this attack; but he need not have worried. Hugh was able to look out for himself. Although those boys had never known him to take part in a single encounter, Hugh had apparently made a study of the art of self-defense. There can be no harm in knowing _how_ to fight, if one is resolved never to indulge in the game save as a very last resort. And whatever reason it was by which Hugh had bound himself up to the present, apparently the time had arrived when he could break his promise with honor. There was another brief struggle, exceedingly brief, to tell the truth. Then, for the second time, Nick, the boss of all juvenile Scranton up to this amazing hour, was thrown heavily to the ground, on which he landed with a terrible crash. "That's two for you!" said Hugh, in a hissing voice, as though he might be speaking between his set teeth. "Now, if you're able get up again, and give me a chance to finish my job, of which I'm already sick." Nick was not yet defeated, though it took him longer to rise this time than before. He was wary, too, and plainly disliked the idea of coming in contact with those sturdy arms of Hugh Morgan. Seeing that Nick did not mean to attack him, but had commenced to say harsh things in the endeavor to force his rival to assume the aggressive, in hopes that the advantage would fall to his share, Hugh lost no time in obliging him. Vain were Nick's most desperate efforts to ward off the inevitable. Hugh had decided to finish the bout with this third round, and the way he pummeled staggering Nick almost dazed Leon Disney and those other fellows, staring as though in the throes of a nightmare. When for the third time clumsy Nick went down heavily before the attack of the aroused Hugh, he refused to make the least effort to get on his feet. Evidently Nick was a wise boy in one sense; he knew when he had had enough of an unpleasant thing. "Are you through?" demanded Hugh, sternly. "If you say the word I'll have some of your crowd stand you up on your pegs again, so I may knock you down. While I'm at it I want to make it a thorough job. Have you had all you want for tonight?" In deadly fear lest Hugh be tempted to put his threat into execution, Nick managed to swallow his pride, and mumble that he guessed he must be out of condition just then, a fact so evident that Thad had to laugh aloud. "All right, then," said Hugh, stepping back, for he had been standing over the fallen boy in a threatening attitude, like a Roman gladiator who had thrown his rival, and was waiting to see what signal the emperor gave so as to decide the vanquished man's fate. He took one look around at Leon and those two other fellows. They quailed before his fierce glance. "If any of the rest of you feel like having a try with me while I'm in the humor, now's your chance! Don't all speak at once, please," said Hugh, grimly. When they saw him take a step in their direction, they shrank back. Although not averse to having a little entertainment of the sort at times, none of them seemed to particularly fancy being made a scapegoat. "We're satisfied, Hugh," said Leon, hurriedly. "Nick got trimmed neat and good. It's been coming to him for a long time, I guess." There is a saying to the effect that "rats desert a sinking ship"; and when Nick's hour for defeat arrived, even these hitherto admiring cronies threatened to turn their backs on him. Aroused by this taunt, he scrambled to his feet. Nick was a sight indeed with his face bloody, and one of his eyes giving evidence of going into mourning. He snarled something at Leon with a degree of his one-time ferocity, and the other turned back to assist him off the field. Nick stopped to look back. He made no threat, but the malevolence in that stare toward Hugh told better than words would have done what bitterness was in his heart. No town bully is dethroned without his hating the object of his humiliation. Hugh had better be on his guard, for every one knew that Nick Lang would never rest until he had at least tried to even up the score. Hugh calmly put on his garments again. Thad and the others were voicing their admiration for his recent gallant deed, but somehow their praise seemed to grate on the boy's nerves. "Please don't keep on saying those things, fellows," he begged them, presently. "I know you mean it in kindness, but I'd rather try and forget this unpleasant business. I had to break a promise tonight, and it hurts ten times worse than any of the few cracks Nick got in at me. But then my mother always told me she would not for worlds have me stand by and see a bully injure one weaker than himself. I just had to do it, that's all there is to it. And, Owen, old chap, I'm mighty glad I happened to be around to give you a helping hand." Owen Dugdale had watched all this exciting happening with varied emotions. Each time his detested oppressor had gone crashing to the earth, he seemed to feel his own injuries less and less. When the fight was over, and Nick had received such a decided thrashing, Owen felt like dancing around. He was a boy, every inch of him, with all a boy's feelings; and Nick had humiliated him dreadfully, as well as taken a mean advantage over him on account of his superior strength. "I'm a thousand times obliged to you, Hugh!" cried the grateful Owen, wringing the other's hand vigorously; "of course this winds up my evening's pleasure, and I was enjoying myself more than any time in my whole life." "Why should it put a stop to your fun?" demanded Hugh. "What if you have got a bloody nose, and a lump on your forehead. See here how my knuckles are badly skinned, will you; and I fancy I've something of a scratch on my right cheek, where he got to me. We'll wash up back of the farmhouse, you and I, Owen. Of course all the folks will have to know what's happened; but then we needn't be ashamed of the part we took in the little circus." "Yes, be a sport, Owen," said Thad, encouragingly. "There isn't a single girl at the hop but who will sing out 'good!' when they hear that Nick Lang met his match tonight. And say, Owen, Peggy Noland will likely clap her hands with joy when she learns of what's happened, and then be extra nice when she sees how that brute marked you. Sympathy is akin to love you know, they say, Owen." Owen had to laugh at this good-natured "joshing," but he allowed himself to be persuaded to accompany Hugh to the rear of the farmhouse. Here Thad soon secured a basin, and some warm water, as well as soap and a towel. The boys performed their ablusions, and in the end made quite a respectable appearance. "Why, both of you are all right," said Thad, gaily, after the job had been completed. "Just think how Nick will look when he shows his face again. Chances are he'll stick to his house all day Saturday and Sunday; and when school opens on Monday prepare to listen to a tough story of how he got up in the night and in the dark ran plumb up against a half-open door, which would account for his black eye and swollen face. Oh! I know, because I've spun that yarn myself once." Supper was announced just then, and the boys trooped in to enjoy the bountiful spread that had been provided for them. A buzz ran around the room, and all eyes were fastened on Hugh and Owen in eager curiosity. Thad thought it up to him to explain what had happened, so that no one might rest under a misapprehension. And when he briefly described how Hugh had so thoroughly whipped the hitherto invincible town bully, every one applauded. It might be noticed also that pretty Peggy Noland looked at her company with unshed tears in her eyes; and she was unusually good to Owen the balance of the evening, so that he had a jolly time of it, taken in all. CHAPTER VII CALLED OUT FOR PRACTICE When Monday saw the gathering of boys and girls at school, there were two subjects that seemed to engross their conversation. One of these concerned the royally good time enjoyed by those who had been at the barn hop on Friday evening; and of course the other was connected with the meeting held in the schoolhouse Saturday night, at which almost every boy in town had been present, to hear the report of the Athletic Committee, and learn who the lucky ones were. Of course four-fifths of the aspirants entertained hopes that lightning might be so kind as to strike the little rod which each had modestly erected. There were doubtless burning regrets when the long list had been finished, many disappointed fellows trying to laugh, and appear as though they had never wanted the job anyway. The call had gone forth for every boy selected to appear on the field immediately after school that same Monday afternoon, for initial practice. There was considerable speculation as to who would finally bear off the honors, and make the first string of players. Being a substitute was as much as some of them had any desire for, for as such they might share in the glory, and have only a small measure of the actual work. When just before school took up, Nick Lang came along, he was the "cynosure of every eye," as Reggie Van Alstyne was heard to remark in his elegant way. Nick had evidently made up his mind to just "grin and stand it." He could scowl in his old fashion, and thus restrain others from being "too fresh." These fellows need not begin to imagine themselves all Hugh Morgans, and they had better leave him alone unless they were seeking trouble. Dr. Carmack thought it his duty that morning, at general exercises, to speak of the meeting which he had attended on Saturday night. "It was a thoroughly representative meeting of Scranton young people," he went on to say in his cordial way, which always endeared him to the students of all the schools under his jurisdiction. "The committee carried out their business in a commendable manner, and submitted a list of names of acceptable candidates that in my opinion could not be excelled. Let every one who is given the opportunity to contest for the prizes, do his level best; and when later on the nine has been selected we all hope and believe they will bring great honor to Old Scranton High." Of course the good doctor had been told about the little affair on the road at the time the barn hop was in progress; but he was a wise pedagogue, and made no mention of it in his address. Nick writhed in his seat every time he saw the principal look his way, his guilty conscience causing his fears to rise, with the thought that he might be further humiliated before the entire school. But the encounter had taken place far beyond the jurisdiction of the school rules; and Dr. Carmack was usually satisfied to let his boys settle these things among themselves. Besides, doubtless, he grimly concluded that Nick, whose reputation as a universal bully of course he knew full well, had been pretty well punished already, since his bruised face and dark-rimmed eye spoke eloquently. Later on that morning, when Hugh had occasion to go to the office of the Head on some errand, he met with an unusually warm reception. "Pardon me for speaking about what I know must be a sore subject with you, Hugh," remarked the principal, as the boy was about to depart after concluding his errand. "But I have had a graphic account of that miserable affair Friday night. Permit me to say that you acted quite right, and I commend you for it. The boys of Scranton are deeply indebted to you for punishing a brutal bully. I understand that it has always been much against your principles to engage in a fight; which makes your championing the cause of a weaker boy all the more justifiable." "Oh! you are giving me far too much credit, Doctor Carmack," said Hugh, reddening with confusion. "I could hardly claim I had any great scruples about not engaging in such things that are almost universal among boys. But years ago I promised my mother never to let my temper get the better of me; and under no conditions to strike a companion in anger, unless it was to save myself from a beating, or to whip a bully who was abusing some one weaker than himself." "Then you have a very wise mother, Hugh, let me tell you!" declared the gentleman, who knew boys "like a book," from long association with thousands of them. "She doubtless had her reasons for asking you to take that pledge." "I have never told even my chum, Thad Stevens, what it meant, sir," said the boy, eagerly, "but I do not mind speaking of it to you." "Please don't do it, Hugh, if it brings up any memories that you would rather forget," exclaimed the principal, "though I feel honored by what you say." "But I do not mind telling you, sir; indeed, I would rather do so, for it must seem strange to you that when I can use my fists so well, apparently, I should all this while have avoided every chance for trouble with others. The fact of the matter is, Doctor Carmack, that I am constituted very like my father was; and once upon a time his temper got the better of him, so that he attacked a man who had insulted him, and seriously injured him. That man always had a limp through the remainder of his life. He and my father became good friends, but my dad could never forgive himself for what he did. He used to say that it was a mercy he had not actually killed the man in his blind passion. And after he died, my good mother, seeing that I had just the same Morgan temper, once I was thoroughly aroused, feared that it might get me into some dreadful trouble. And so she told me about my father, and I made her that solemn promise which, until Friday night, had never been broken." There was a suspicious moisture in the eyes of the doctor. He squeezed the hand of Hugh vigorously, as though he could easily love such a manly boy. "Of course you told your good mother all about it, Hugh, when you got home?" he went on to say, with a trace of huskiness in his voice. "I could not have slept a wink, sir, if I had not gone to her room, and kneeling beside her bed poured out the whole story. She cried a little, because, I suppose, it brought back some old memories that had often saddened her; but she told me again and again I had done exactly as she would have wished me to. Oh! she is the most sensible mother any fellow ever had, I assure you, sir." "And I also believe that you are supremely blessed in that respect, Hugh," said the gentleman, solemnly. "Be very careful that you never in all your life do anything to bruise the heart of that noble mother. I thought it best not to mention anything in connection with the matter. For one thing I could see you had done your work thoroughly, and that Nick had already received sufficient punishment. That is all, Hugh, and I thank you for taking me into your confidence." When afternoon finally came around, and school was over early, there was a scramble among the boys, and a great hurrying home to get a bite to eat, after which, of course, every fellow who had any sort of baseball uniform would don the same, and show up at the grounds to take part in the practice. The air seemed surcharged with some electrical influence. All the talk was along the line of baseball slang. Even many of the girls were drawn to the spot to watch what went on, for they had become enthusiasts, and were in prime condition to "root" for Scranton High when the time came for the first contest on the diamond. The scene was a busy one, with scores of boys doing various stunts--knocking flies to those in the field, passing balls with the vigor of veterans, and chattering like a lot of magpies all the while. Out of this throng, Mr. Leonard, the athletic instructor, once a Princeton player of some note, was expecting to bring order, and get some kind of game started. Baseball is quite unlike football. In the latter instance, every boy has to receive an education before he is at all fitted to fill the position assigned to him. There must be long arduous drills in a dozen particulars, from bucking the line, and carrying the ball, to making a flying tackle, or punting. Then the intricate system of signals must be thoroughly learned, so that instinct takes the place of reason in the carrying out the play. But every kid plays baseball from the time he can toddle. By degrees they keep on improving their game, so that when they arrive at the dignity of high school freshmen honor, it is only a question of ability, rather than any necessity as to education in the art of driving home a runner, or snatching a liner hot from the bat. So Mr. Leonard anticipated having only to inoculate his bunch with the proper virus and ambition, after which he could let the drilling do the rest. Among others who were out was Nick Lang. There was nothing really strange about that fact, because Nick would almost rather play ball than eat; and any boy about whom this can be said must be pretty fond of the National sport. Nick had always shown considerable knack in playing, though he was apt to make himself disagreeable, and want to run things. Possibly this trait might not show so prominently, now that his conceit had been so heavily bumped in his encounter with Hugh. Then again, Mr. Leonard was not the only one to let a boy take advantage of him. He would make sure, if Nick were to get on the nine through his superior playing, to have a substitute handy capable of taking his place; and at the first sign of insubordination, it would be good-by to Nick and farewell to his hopes of playing on the team. Hugh was surprised not to see Thad Stevens among those present. Thad had received a summons along with thirty other boys. Hugh guessed it must be something pretty serious that could keep his chum from turning up. Perhaps, when he ran home to change his clothes, his mother had given him an errand to do. Thad was an obedient boy, and although he may have begrudged the afternoon lost, still there would be plenty of time to train for his position, if he had the luck to be selected in the end. All the time they worked, and afterwards with picked nines played a short game, Hugh kept on the lookout, but no Thad showed up. This was so queer that Hugh made up his mind he must drop in at the Stevens domicile on his way home to supper, and find out what had happened to keep his chum, who was as enthusiastic as himself over baseball matters, from coming around for the first test. More than once that afternoon Hugh received warning words from some of the other boys concerning Nick Lang. "He isn't the kind of a fellow to forget and forgive, Hugh, remember," K. K. went on to say, with a shake of his head. "I've studied the beast, and I know how he's made up. Right now he glares at you every time he happens to come near. And if looks could kill, they'd be conducting your funeral tomorrow, Hugh. He's a tough one, all right, and you knocked the conceit out of his head when you gave him that dandy black eye. Be on your guard, Hugh, and never trust Nick Lang; for he's not only a brute but a treacherous one in the bargain." But Hugh only laughed on hearing this warning. "Thank you for what you say, K. K." he told the other. "You make the fourth fellow to tell me about the same thing. But really, I don't believe there's as much danger as you seem to believe. Fellows like Nick are careful not to get struck by lightning twice. The burnt child dreads the fire, they say. Nick's bark is worse than his bite; and I think I've drawn the fangs of the wolf, K. K. Thank you again." CHAPTER VIII THAD MAKES A DISCOVERY When Hugh, on his way home, came in sight of the Stevens place, he was quite surprised to discover his chum Thad seated on one of the low gate posts, and apparently waiting for him to pass along. "Why, hello! what does this mean, I'd like to know?" burst out Hugh. "After being honored with summons to come out and start practice at baseball, you run home to get on your togs and then forget all about it. But, joking aside, what really did happen to you, Thad, tell me?" Thad was looking unusually serious, Hugh thought. Evidently something quite out of the usual line must have occurred to detain him; and Hugh, on his part, would not have been a natural boy had he not felt more or less curiosity concerning its nature. "Oh! that was only an accident," the other commenced saying. "I begrudged losing my first chance to get limbered up; but so far as that goes, there'll be plenty of occasions later on. You see, I had to go on an important errand for my mother." "It must have taken you out of town, then," remarked Hugh; "or else you'd have showed up at the athletic grounds later on." "The fact of the matter is, I had to run over to Chestnut Hill, which you know is some ten miles away," explained Thad, as he made room alongside for his chum. "It was a matter that could not be delayed, so I didn't even bother running to the field to report to Mr. Leonard. At that I hoped to breeze along fast enough to fetch me back in time to have a little turn with the boys; but I counted without considering that I was dealing with an old car; and sure enough one of the back tires had to take on a puncture." "And as you didn't carry an extra tire along, you just had to lay off and mend the same," chuckled Hugh. "I was afraid that might happen the other night when on our way to the hop; but we were lucky enough to escape it. Of course, on the road home, I wouldn't have cared much, because all the fun was over by then; and the girls would consider it something of a joke for us to bump along on a flat tire. But I see the old flivver in by the barn, so you did manage to get it home after all, eh, Thad?" "Oh! yes, though I made a beastly mess of my tire-mending, I'm afraid. I ought to take a few more lessons in that art, because I've always been weak there. And when I found how late it was after getting here I concluded not to hustle around to the grounds. I guessed you'd be cropping up to find out what had become of a certain baseball crank who had played hookey. So I've been sitting here about ten minutes, I should judge." "Is that all?" asked Hugh. "Well, no, it isn't," snapped Thad, "though I wonder how your sharp eyes noticed anything peculiar about my manner. There is a lot more to tell you, Hugh." "Suppose you get started then, and let's hear of your adventures," the other went on to say, with kindling interest. "Did any tramp try to hold you up on the road; or was it necessary for you to stop and help put out a fire in some farmhouse; like the time both of us had that pleasure, and received the biggest dinner we ever got away with as a reward?" Thad shook his head in the negative. "If you kept on guessing all day long I don't believe you'd hit the mark, Hugh. Still, in one sense you're right when you call it an adventure; though a pretty mild one. I'll tell you about it." "Wish you would, Thad," grumbled Hugh, pretending to look anxious to hurry along on his way home. "Playing ball for three hours gives a fellow a ferocious appetite, you know; and we have chicken pot pie at our house tonight, which is one of my favorite dishes. So please get a move on you." "Well, after I managed to mend my tire, being set on accomplishing the job if it took me till dark, I started along the road, and presently drew near town. That was about half an hour ago, I should imagine. I had just stopped to take another look at the tire, which seemed to be flattening more or less, when I heard some one calling weakly. When I turned to look I found that by some accident I had stopped exactly in front of that queer old place which we've always called the Rookery, because it looks as if spooks might live there." As Thad paused to catch his breath, Hugh elevated his eyebrows. Apparently his interest no longer flagged, for he instinctively guessed that something unusual must come out of Thad's mention of the strange old place, where, as he well knew, Owen Dugdale and his eccentric grandfather lived by themselves. "When I caught the sound of a voice again," continued Thad, "I was interested, because I had heard the one word 'help' uttered. Some one must be in trouble, I told myself; and then all of a sudden I remembered who lived there. So I started my machine and moved off the road, to leave it clear for other cars to pass by if any came along. After that I jumped out and hurried over to the stone wall that, as you know, surrounds the wild-looking grounds of the place. "The voice still sounded, and I could see somebody lying on the ground there. I vaulted the low stone wall, and soon found that it was old Mr. Dugdale. He seemed glad to see me, though really he didn't know me from Adam, because I had never had a word with him before. "While out taking exercise in the grounds he had been suddenly seized with an acute attack of rheumatism or sciatica in one of his legs, and had been unable to get back to the house alone. Then seeing me stop and step out to look at my mended tire, he had called as loud as he could, to attract my attention, hoping that I'd be kind and neighborly enough to help him to the house; for as he explained to me his grandson Owen was off playing ball just then." "Yes," Hugh broke in with, "Owen was on deck, and did splendidly. He may be able to make the team if he continues to improve. So you, of course, assisted the old gentleman, as he asked, and got him safely to his house?" "Yes, that's what I did," replied Thad, "and it seemed that his pains began to leave him once he got to walking. He said it was characteristic of the disease to come and go suddenly and mysteriously. When we arrived I had to help him up the steps, for he insisted on my coming in. Well, to tell you the honest truth, Hugh, I was a little curious to see what that queer old house did look like inside, and so I didn't hold back at all. Now, you've likely never been there yourself, even though you've been getting pretty intimate with Owen lately?" "Once he asked me to step in, but it happened that I was in a hurry to get home. I supposed some time or other he would renew the invitation, but I also remembered that his grandfather was said to be queer, and averse to meeting strangers; so I've thought nothing about it. Well, is there anything more coming, or does that end your adventure?" Thad drew a long breath, and looked sober. "I only wish it did, that's right, Hugh," he continued, mysteriously. "Up to then the whole thing hadn't amounted to a row of beans, so far as giving me a thrill went. But the worst was yet to come." "Go on, and don't stop so often, Thad," urged Hugh. "I believe you do it just to tantalize me. What wonderful secret did you discover there? Is that old house the rendezvous of a nest of counterfeiters, or might it be where they manufacture moonshine whiskey, like those mountaineers do down in Georgia?" "Oh! come, it's nothing like that, Hugh, so don't allow your imagination to carry you away. I did get something of a shock, though, and I guess you'll feel the same way when you learn about it. Well, the old gentleman asked me who I was, and if I knew his grandson Owen, as well as a lot of other questions. Fact is, Hugh, I rather guess he must have taken a violent liking for me right on, the spot, for when I said I must be going two different times, he begged me to stay with him just a little while longer. "I knew I would be too late for the ball practice anyhow, and besides I didn't have on my old suit, because mother had asked me not to wait to change my clothes. So I sat down again each time, and answered some more questions. The old gentleman interested me a whole lot in the bargain, and I soon made up my mind that those silly people who had been hinting that Old Mr. Dugdale might be that notorious Wall Street speculator who had such a bad name, and who'd disappeared several years ago, didn't know what they were talking about. Why, he is a polished gentleman, and a foreigner at that, I tell you, Hugh. "He started talking about his grandson. How his wrinkled face lighted up when I said my chum, Hugh Morgan, had taken a great fancy for Owen, and that I shared in the same feeling. You could see easily enough that Mr. Dugdale believes the sun rises and sets in that boy of his. Nothing would do, finally, but that he should take me to seen the den Owen had fitted up for himself, because there was plenty of room in the big house, and every fellow he knew had some kind of a den in which he could keep his boyish treasures, in the way of foreign postage stamp albums, photos taken by himself connected with outings he had been on, college flags and burgees, and well, just such traps as the average boy liked to see around him when he's out of school, and settling down to read a favorite book. "Of course, Hugh, I told him it would be too much for his aching leg, but he assured me the pain had now all left him; and he wanted to know if there was anything I could suggest that Owen might have to add to his comfort while at home studying his lessons or reading. So I went with him upstairs. Say, it's a real queer house, and must look a whole lot spooky at night time; because they only burn lamps and candles, for there's no electricity connection at all, or any gas either, I suppose. "At the end of a long hall we came to where three steps led down into a room. It was a bully place, I will say that, with plenty of light from a lot of small dinky windows that faced on three sides of the room. Owen had fixed it up in good taste in the bargain. He must have plenty of spending money, because there were lots of traps around, from a pair of expensive snow shoes hanging on the wall to a splendid toboggan tilted up in a corner. "In fact, Hugh, the place was pretty well filled with boy truck. It looked cozy to me, and I ought to know something about a boy's den; haven't I arranged mine seven separate times, until now it's back where I started? Well, of course, to please the old gentleman, I walked around, and peeked at things and told him Owen had as fine a loafing place as any boy in Scranton; which sort of talk seemed to tickle Mr. Dugdale a heap. "Then, Hugh, I got my shock, all right. It seemed to grip my heart just as if an ice-cold hand had been laid on it. You see, in nosing around I chanced to set eyes on something that lay half hidden among some papers on a side table. Hugh, you could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw that it was a souvenir tea spoon, an ornate one at that, representing some foreign city, I don't know which, for I was too flustered by my terrible discovery to look close. Now, what do you think of that?" CHAPTER IX JUST BETWEEN CHUMS "Oh! I'm sorry to hear that, Thad!" exclaimed Hugh. "Are you dead certain it was a souvenir spoon you glimpsed? Couldn't you have been mistaken?" The other boy shook his head in the negative. "I sure wish I could say so, Hugh, and that's a fact," he replied; "but I've got pretty good eyes, and I ought to know what such things look like, for hasn't my mother been collecting the same for ten years now. Of course, ours are all of this country, representative of cities and places she and dad have visited. But this one was different. I'm as certain as anything that it must have come from some foreign place, because the style and marking stamped is of no American workmanship." Evidently, what he had just heard caused Hugh considerable anxiety. It seemed as though things were getting darker for Owen Dugdale with every passing day. Even stout-hearted Hugh felt his doubts rising. He wondered if, after all, he had made a mistake in his judgment of Owen, and his belief in the boy's honesty. Hugh remembered some of the things that were being said around town concerning the old man of the dismal place called the "Rookery." His aversion to meeting people, as well as other odd traits about him, had caused no end of talk. Some even said they were not Americans, but foreigners, English possibly. Altogether Hugh felt considerably exercised. He shut his teeth hard together, however, and told himself that no matter how many suspicious circumstances seemed to surround Owen, he would still continue to have faith in the boy. "Whenever I think of Owen's clear eyes," he told Thad, "and the way they look you fair and square in the face, I feel positive that boy can't be a sneak and a thief. No one with such honest eyes could do mean things. Such fellows are patterned on a different model nearly always." "Well, I've believed a good deal as you do myself, Hugh," admitted Thad. "Just take that Leon Disney, for instance. There's a chap who never could look straight at any one he was talking to." "You're right, Thad. He keeps on shifting his eyes up and down all the while. I've often noticed it about Leon, and made up my mind it was an uneasy conscience that made him act so." "Then, after all I've told you, Hugh, you still believe in Owen?" "I'm going to hold firm until the evidence is all in," said the other. "You're a good friend, I must say," Thad hastened to observe, a gleam of honest admiration showing in his eyes. "I only hope you'll stand by me as well, in case I ever get into any trouble, that's all." "I'd stand by you to the last ditch, and then some," Hugh told him, with an affectionate smile; "for we're chums, and what's the use of having a pal unless he '11 go through thick and thin for you. But I'm a little surprised about one thing, Thad." "Do you mean about my actions in that house, Hugh?" "I should have thought you'd been quick to say something about the spoon, so as to draw the old gentleman out," continued the other. "Oh! I didn't dare do such a thing as that, Hugh. It would have been pretty bold in me, you know." "There might be ways to do it without seeming rude, Thad. For instance, what was to hinder you from picking it up and expressing your admiration for such a thing. Then by using your eyes, you could have told whether Mr. Dugdale was surprised at seeing the spoon there, or not. His actions more than anything he might say would have given you a pointer, don't you see?" "Yes, I can understand that all right, now you've mentioned it, Hugh," chuckled the other. "It's so easy to grip a thing after some one has shown you how. Remember those envious Spanish courtiers who tried to take Columbus down a peg by saying it was a simple thing to discover America, since all you had to do was to set sail, and heading into the west keep going on till you bumped up against the islands that at that time they thought were the East Indies. Then, you remember, Columbus asked them to stand an egg on end, which they tried and tried without success, until he gently cracked one end, and it stood up all right. Oh! yes, I can see now I might have done a lot of things that didn't happen to occur to me just then." "I'm sorry you let such a good chance slip by without nailing it," said Hugh. "Well, it might happen," added Thad, as though an idea had come into his brain like an electric flash, "that another opportunity will come along, and if it does, I give you my word I'll learn something worth while." "How did you like the old gentleman," continued Hugh; "and after meeting him, do you take any stock in the stories that have been floating around town about his being the clever rascal who disappeared from Wall Street two years ago?" "Why, he seemed very pleasant, so far as I could see," replied Thad, slowly. "Course I don't pretend to be a smart enough reader of human nature to say positively that old Mr. Dugdale is all to the good; but he is well read, and I seemed to see what looked like a twinkle in the corners of his eyes as though he might have a fair sense of humor in his make-up." "He liked you, too, didn't he, Thad?" continued Hugh. "Well, to be honest with you, I really believe the old gentleman did act a little that way. Perhaps, it was because he'd heard Owen mention my name as one of his few friends; and Mr. Dugdale was wanting to show how pleased he felt to know me. Yes, he acted as if he would like to see me again; in fact, he asked me to come in some time, and visit Owen in his den, for the boy often seemed lonely, he told me." "Poor Owen! let's hope this will all come out right in the end, then," Hugh finally said, as though his own mind was made up not to allow the latest discovery to influence him against the Dugdale boy. "But we've got to admit," added the other, seriously, "that it adds to the tangle a heap, and makes it look worse than before. However, I'll try and learn a thing or two. Give me a little, time to get my slow wits working, Hugh; and I may have more news for you. All the same, it wouldn't surprise me if you took a spurt and came in across the line ahead of me." "Whatever makes you say that?" demanded Hugh. "Oh! I know you so well, that's all," laughed his chum, giving him a nudge in the side with his elbow. "I wager the chances are ten to one you're beginning to turn over a little scheme in your mind right now. How about that, Hugh?" "If I am," retorted the other, "I don't intend telling you the first thing about it until there's some solid foundation for the theory to rest on." "Same here," chuckled Thad, with a wink that had a deal of significance about it, Hugh could see. "Mebbe I've got a whiff of an idea myself that might turn out worth while; but wild horses couldn't drag a hint of the same from me so early in the game. So we're quits on that score, you see, Hugh." The other jumped down off the wide-topped post, as though he thought he should be continuing on his way home. "I must be going, Thad," he remarked. "Supper-time, almost, you know; and besides I have some chores to do. When a fellow will keep pets the way I do, he's got to expect to spend some little time looking after them. I wouldn't want to let any of mine suffer for lack of attention." "And I wager they never do, Hugh!" declared the other, with his customary stanch faith in his chum. "You have it fixed so that your homing pigeons can always get feed from a trough that allows only a scant ration to come down at a time, your 'lazy boy's self-feeder,' I've heard you call it. And as for those fine Belgian hares that would take first prize at any rabbit show, they live on the fat of the land. Right now you're cultivating a bed of lettuce for them, as well as a lot of cabbages, and such truck. Oh! no fear of any dumb beast, or bird going hungry when it has Hugh Morgan for an owner." "Thank you for the neat compliment, Thad," said Hugh, the glow in his eyes telling how much he appreciated such honest praise. "I may have my faults, like every boy has, but being cruel to or neglectful of little creatures that are in my keeping isn't one of them. I'd hate to think I could let a poor rabbit go hungry. I'd get out of bed in the middle of the night, cold as it might be, and go out to my hutch, if I got an idea in my head that I'd left a window open that might allow a draught to blow in on the poor things." "Well, I don't take to pets the same as you do, Hugh, but all the same I can understand how you feel about them. It's the right way, to, and no boy with any heart in him could be mean to helpless little animals. I warrant you I know one fellow in Scranton who wouldn't get out of his warm bed for any pet that ever lived." "I suppose you're meaning Nick Lang," remarked Hugh. "Well, I don't know. To tell you the truth, that boy is a mystery to me. Sometimes I think that, bad as he seems to be, Nick isn't quite all yellow; that there's a little streak of white in his make-up." "Why, you surprise me, Hugh, when I hear you say that, and after all you've seen of his mean ways, too. Think how he started to beat poor Owen up that night; yes, and for years back he's been a big bully, trying to have things his own way, and ruling by might of his fists. Why, nearly everybody in Scranton believes him to be utterly irreclaimable. What makes you say such a queer thing?" "I may be mistaken after all," said Hugh, slowly, "but here's a singular thing I saw only yesterday. I haven't mentioned it to a living soul, but it set me to thinking, and wondering whether, after all, if a big hulking fellow like Nick were given a fair chance to make good, he mightn't change and astonish the neighborhood. "I was going along a side street when I got a thrill. There was a buggy with a frisky horse attached standing in front of a house. The man had gone inside and very imprudently left his child, a little fellow of some five years of age, to sit there in the vehicle, not even bothering to hitch the beast. "Well, the boy, like most kids would do, had started playing with the whip; and I saw him give the horse quite a blow. No doubt he was imitating his father in doing that. The spirited beast started rearing, and then acted as if about to make a dash down the street. It would have been putting the child's life in danger, you can easily see. "I started to run, but never could have made it. Then I saw some one jump for the horse's head, and have a little tussle with the animal. It was Nick Lang. He hadn't stopped to think of any danger to himself. I drew up and watched him. He conquered the beast, fastened him to a hitching post, and then started to scold the white-faced little boy for having touched the whip. The bully was showing in his nature, after all, that splendid exhibition of nerve and quick wit. "Nick noticed me then, for the first time, and acted confused, as if caught doing something he would not like folks to know. He shook his finger in the boy's face again threateningly, gave me a sneering look, and then stalked along down the street whistling like anything. And, Thad, the boy who could do a thing like that off-hand can't be quite _all_ bad, though people oughtn't to be blamed for thinking he is. So-long, Thad!" CHAPTER X A VISITOR FROM BELLEVILLE HIGH On the following afternoon, which chanced to be Tuesday, more boys than before appeared at the recreation grounds for practice. Mr. Leonard had sent out an urgent call for every one of the numerous candidates to be on hand, since they expected to organize two nines. They would have a fierce game, in order that he might have an opportunity to watch the actions of every aspirant, and get pointers as to his capacity for filling a gap. The boys appeared in all sorts of suits, some even hunting up football togs because they had no others handy, and felt that they must make some sort of a show at appearing in uniform. But the suits would be ready on time, for a local tailor had agreed to make as many as were needed of various sizes, and to have them done with a rush. Already Mr. Leonard, being furnished with ample funds, had ordered bats and balls, bases, and all manner of necessary adjuncts that go with a well-organized baseball team. Meanwhile, they must make a virtue of necessity, and do the best they could with the stock in hand. After some knocking of balls, and catching of flies, the boys were tooled off in two fairly matched nines, and a game was started. They had just got well along in this, when Thad, who was sitting on a bench alongside Hugh, it being their turn at bat, suddenly remarked: "Hello! we're going to be spied on, it seems, Hugh; for notice that chap coming along on his motorcycle, will you? Don't you know who he is, just because he's wearing a pair of big goggles, and has his cap pulled down over his forehead? Why, that's a Belleville boy named Oliver Kramer. They call him O. K. for short; and I kind of guess it stands for his character pretty well, because he's straight. I'm a little surprised to see _him_ nosing around here today, trying to find out what sort of crowd Scranton High can put in the field." "Oh! there's nothing queer about that, Thad," Hugh remonstrated, quickly. "You can easily see it stands to reason those fellows over in Belleville are anxious to get a line on what we expect to do, so as to know just how much push they ought to put in their own work. He isn't trying to spy things out, or he wouldn't come up so boldly. See, there, he's starting to speak to Mr. Leonard now, and the old Princeton athlete is shaking hands with him. Like as not O. K. has a dad who used to be a college-mate of Mr. Leonard." Hugh himself, followed by Thad, walked that way. Hugh had been told by Mr. Leonard that he was to be the field captain of the Scranton High team. In fact, that seemed to be taken for granted by all the boys, who were very well satisfied to have such a general favorite and all-round good athlete for a leader. Consequently, Mr. Leonard had caught Hugh's eye, and made a beckoning motion with his hand, evidently wishing him to meet the Belleville boy. But the two had run across one another on several previous occasions, it happened. Hugh shook hands with O. K. cordially, as did also Thad. The latter was already ashamed of having entertained such thoughts in connection with this friendly visit of the owner of the motorcycle, whom he had always known to be a fine chap. "Our fellows are practicing this afternoon, just as your crowd is, Captain Morgan," O. K. was saying. "I would have been with them, only yesterday I happened to hurt a finger a bit, for you see I'm the catcher of our nine, and it was thought best for me to lay off a few days so as to let it mend." "And you dropped over to see if we were making any headway, I suppose?" remarked Hugh, while Mr. Leonard went off to resume his duties, anxious to see every play that came along; for he would not have much time to decide on the line-up of the team, which must afterwards get all the practice possible, in order to do Scranton High justice. O. K. laughed good-naturedly. "I hope, now, you won't suspect me of being a spy, and trying to pick up pointers which might serve us later on in a hotly contested game," he went on to say. "Fact is, I'm so much of a baseball crank that I live and move and have my being in the great game. I came over hoping to find you'd made a bully good start, because we Belleville boys want your strongest team to face us a week from next Saturday. We expect to win the game, that goes without saying, but none of us will be satisfied to have a regular walkover of it." "Make your mind easy on that score, O. K.," snapped Thad, aggressively. "We expect to have a lot of hard-hitting and splendid fielding boys on the diamond, who will be out for blood. If you get the better of Scranton High, you'll deserve all the praise you receive; and we'll be the first to give you a cheer." "Well, I'm beginning to believe a little that way myself," admitted O. K. in his frank way, as Nick Lang knocked out a screamer that went far over the head of the center fielder. "That chap is a born batter. I reckon, now, he must be your best card in the pack." "Oh! we've got a few others who can meet the ball," advised Thad, proudly. "Watch that throwin', will you? Mighty few fellows could send the ball all the way from deep center to the home plate, as straight as a die. That kid's name is Sandy Dowd. You may not be so glad to see him work later on, O. K. Just warn your sluggers they needn't expect any home-runs if they put the ball out in center." They stood there and watched for some little time. Occasionally the boy from Belleville would make some remark. His eyes sought the agile figure of the athletic instructor from time to time. "One thing you Scranton fellows are lucky in, which is, having such a splendid coach as Mr. Leonard. Why, he used to go to Princeton with my dad, as I only learned a day or so ago. He's coming over to take dinner with us next Sunday. Let me tell you, he's some peach of a physical director. Dad says he was one of the most popular fellows in college, and that as a half-back on the gridiron, he made a reputation second to none." Hugh and Thad looked especially pleased to hear this outside praise of the man for whom they themselves had come to entertain the utmost respect and admiration. "Yes," said Hugh, warmly, "we expect that if Scranton has any show in the games that are to be played in the Three-town League this season, most of the credit will lie at the door of Mr. Leonard. He seems to be a wonder at getting a boy to bring out every atom of energy and vim that lies in him. Only Nick Lang acts surly under him. That's the big fellow who made that three-bagger a while ago. He's the bully of the town." "Used to be, you mean, Hugh, up to the time--" began Thad, when the other shook his head at him discouragingly. "None of that now, if you please, Thad. We want to forget bygones, and only remember that we're in the baseball world these days. There, Eli hit the ball a good hard smack, but it went straight at the short-stop, who handled it neatly for an out. Our turn out in the field now, Thad. Glad to have seen you, O. K. Carry a message back home to Belleville for me, will you? Tell your fellows Scranton High has found herself at last, in the world of sports, and is primed to give both Belleville and Allandale a hard tussle for the prize." "I'll tell them that with pleasure, Captain Morgan," replied the other, "and add a few remarks of my own about what I have seen of your hustling crowd over here. May the best nine win, and the contests leave no after bitter sting. If we can't get the prize, we'd be glad to see you fellows beat Allandale, because they'd be unbearable if they won two years running." O. K. soon afterwards mounted his motorcycle and went spinning along the road like a streak, leaving a cloud of dust behind him, also an odor of gasoline. The practice game continued with varying fortunes. In fact, it mattered very little which side won, as various pitchers were being tried out under the eagle eye of Mr. Lawrence; his principal object being to form an opinion as to the respective merits of the many players. When another afternoon they met again, doubtless Mr. Lawrence would have decided to eliminate several of the players as utterly beyond hope of ever making the regular nine. So by degrees he would decide who was best fitted for each and every position, with a number of able substitutes, who could be called on should there be any change necessary during a game, from injury, or because a certain player failed to do what was expected of him. After the game had come to an end, and the crowd commenced to separate, as usual, Hugh and Thad started to walk home together. They overtook Owen Dugdale and hastened to join him. Both boys doubtless had a little thrill just then, remembering how often the other had been in their thoughts lately. Owen seemed to be in great spirits. "I never knew that I had it in me to become so fond of baseball as I seem to be doing right now," he told them. "Of course I played a little at several kinds of games like cricket, and since coming here to Scranton I've been knocking flies for some of the boys, and playing in scrub games. But now I enjoy it ever so much, though, of course, I don't dream that I'll have the good luck to be selected for the team, when there are so many who know more about the game than I do." "You can safely leave all that to Mr. Leonard, Owen," said Hugh. "I've been keeping tabs on your play at short, and honestly, I want to say, you're doing mighty well. I heard Mr. Leonard say so, too. While you may not be picked for that position, there's a likelihood that you will be held as a substitute. Only practice your batting all you can, Owen; that's your weakest point. I'll show you a wrinkle about bunting that may help you a lot." "Thank you, Hugh, ever so much!" exclaimed the other, his fine eyes glowing with gratitude. "You've always been mighty kind to me, for a fact. Was that boy on the motorcycle one of the Belleville fellows? I thought I heard Otto Brand say so." "Yes," replied Hugh, "his name is Oliver Kramer, thought they call him just O. K., as we dubbed our comrade K. K. for short. He hurt his hand, and is laid off for a spell, because he is the catcher of the Belleville High team, you see. O. K. is a fine chap. He ran over here to see what we were doing, and to warn us we'd have to get a hustle on if we hoped to have even a look-in, because Allandale is working like anything, while Belleville means to do her best this year." "Belleville had better get a move on," suggested Thad, caustically, "unless she wants to share the fate of poor old Lawrence. Both teams beat Lawrence so badly last season that her club disbanded, for the fellows started to squabbling among themselves, which of course ruins any organization going." So, chatting as they walked along, the three boys finally parted at a corner where their several ways led in different directions. Hugh glanced back over his shoulder once in the direction of the receding figure of Owen Dugdale. What was in his mind just then it might be hard to say; but at least the expression on his face would indicate that his former confidence in the Dugdale boy had not yet been extinguished. CHAPTER XI HUGH'S PETS IN DANGER "Rotten luck, Hugh, to have that practice game called off this afternoon just because it rained a little. The ground wasn't drenched very much, and we could have done some work, anyhow. But it's too late now." Thad was on the way home from school on Wednesday afternoon when he said this. He had hastened and overtaken the other a block or so away from the campus. Already the rain had stopped. Mr. Leonard, however, had sent word around that there would be no baseball practice that day; but for every one to be on hand Thursday P. M., as no excuses would be taken for absence, when every day counted so much now. "Hold on, please, Hugh and Thad!" called some one from the rear; and looking back they discovered a lame boy called Limpy Wallace, who always carried a crutch and had to twist his body in a curious fashion when he wished to make speed. Limpy could get over ground wonderfully well, considering the difficulties under which he labored. More than once he had been held up by Doctor Carmack to the other boys at Scranton High as a rebuke for their laziness. If a fellow who had so much to contend with could always appear so satisfied, and manage to get along as well as he did, they ought to be ashamed to dawdle, and waste time when they had all their faculties intact. Limpy Wallace was a constant and consistent admirer of Hugh Morgan. In fact, he might be said to fairly worship the other boy, who had always treated him most kindly, and seemed to sympathize with his having been cheated by a cruel Fate out of the ordinary pleasures connected with the average boy's life. Limpy Wallace would have gone far out of his way to do Hugh a favor. He now came bounding along, with his crutch making rapid jumps, and apparently every muscle in his poor distorted body in action. But his thin face was lighted up with eagerness. Evidently, it was no ordinary motive that had caused the lame boy to exert himself so earnestly in order to overtake the two chums. "I've got something to tell you, Hugh," he panted, for he was almost out of breath, owing to his exertions; an ordinary boy might have run over that same stretch without showing it much, but it must have been a strenuous undertaking for the cripple. "Glad to hear it," laughed Hugh. "I'm waiting to have some one tell me that our team is going to wipe up the ground with both Allandale and Belleville when we come to grips. Is your news of that sort, Limpy?" Of course he was only joking when he said this. Every one called the other Limpy, nor did he seem to mind it a particle; indeed, only from the teachers at school and his folks at home was it likely that he ever heard his name of Osmond spoken. "Shucks! it hasn't a thing to do with baseball, or any other outdoor sport, Hugh," the cripple hastened to say. "Because I heard your name mentioned plainly I felt that you ought to know what little I managed to pick up." "All right, then, Limpy, start ahead, and spin the yarn," said Hugh. "Has some one been remarking what a poor excuse of an athlete Hugh Morgan is; and that he ought never to have been given his job as field captain of the Scranton High baseball team? It's no more than I expected, Limpy, and my feelings can't be hurt a bit; so don't try to spare me." "Listen, then, please, and you, too, Thad, seeing that you're his chum," began the other, eagerly. "It was just an accident, you understand, because I never yet was intentionally guilty of trying to overhear what other fellows were saying. I had been tired out at recess, and was lying down on that bench, you remember, that stands in the corner of the grounds. It happens to have a back to it, and I guess no one could notice me there. The other fellows were walking around in bunches, and talking to beat the band. All at once I heard your name spoken, and in an angry voice; so I just raised my head a little to take a peep. Who should I see standing near by but that big bully, Nick Lang, and his faithful shadow, Leon Disney." Thad dug his elbow into Hugh's short ribs as if to emphasize the remark just made by Limpy Wallace. When two such arch schemers as Nick and Leon got off by themselves, and were seen to have their heads together, the chances were there must be some mischief afloat. "Well, after that I just lay still and listened, because I felt sure they must be getting up some sort of a game to play even with you, Hugh, because you gave Nick such a beautiful trouncing the other night, so I was told. It was hard luck that I could only catch a word now and then, for some of the boys were calling out to each other; and that silly clown, Claude Hastings, had begun to sing one of his comic songs, while he capered around like a baboon. But I did hear Nick say the words: 'Get even,' 'show him who's who in this burgh,' and 'Belgian hares.' Do they put you wise to anything, Hugh?" "I should say they did, Limpy!" ejaculated the impetuous Thad, even before Hugh could speak the first word in reply. "Why, who's got prize Belgian hares in Scranton but Hugh Morgan? Now, that cunning old schemer, Nick Lang, knows how much Hugh thinks of his pets, and the chances are ten to one he's hatched up a scheme to steal or kill every lasting one of the rabbits. It would be just like him. Hugh, of course you'll be forewarned, and take the necessary precautions to nip his little plot in the bud." Hugh himself looked serious. A slight frown could be seen on his usually calm and reposeful face. "I could stand almost any attempted injury to myself a lot better than having my poor dumb pets made the object of revenge," he went on to say, soberly. "Limpy, this is certainly news you've brought me. I'm a thousand times obliged to you for taking the trouble." "Oh! not at all, Hugh. Why, there's nothing I wouldn't do to help pay back all your kindness to me in the past. Some people think a lame boy has no feelings, but you've never considered it so; you've always acted as if you felt mighty sorry for a boy so badly afflicted. And I can never forget how you shamed Pete Garinger into begging my pardon for something mean he threw at me. All I hope is that you catch those curs in the act, and give them what they deserve, if they really try to hurt your poor little pets." "Make your mind easy on that score, Limpy," asserted Thad, with his accustomed show of confidence, "we'll fix a trap to get the sneaks, should they call in the dead of night. They'll think they've run up against a threshing machine, all right, when Hugh and myself start in to maul them." "Suppose you come over later in the afternoon, Thad," suggested Hugh, as they arrived at their customary parting spot. "Meanwhile, I'll take a look at my rabbit hutch, and try to figure just how we can turn the tables on Nick and Leon, if they should pay me a visit tonight." "Make it as severe as you can, Hugh," begged Thad; "nothing could be too hard for a pair of miserable schemers who, to get even with a fellow they dare not face openly any longer, would creep into his rabbit house like thieves in the night, and either steal his property, or injure it so that there'd be no chance to exhibit the hares in a show." "See you later on, and we can tell better then," was all Hugh said, for if he had any idea simmering in his brain just then, he did not care to mention it until he had found a chance to "look around," as he termed it. "I'll be across inside of half an hour, you can bet on that!" called out Thad, as he hurried away. He was as good as his word. Indeed, Hugh had hardly started to make his investigation of the premises before he heard his chum come through the gate, slamming it after him. There was an outbuilding back of the barn, which had been intended for a storage house of some sort, but not used by the present occupants of the premises. This Hugh had commandeered, and fitted to his purpose. The upper part he had made into a pretty fine loft for his fancy homing pigeons. When the first of his pedigreed youngsters arrived at the flying stage, he meant to have considerable fun taking them ten or twenty miles away, and then letting them loose, in the expectation of finding them at home when he got back. After that, it would be longer flights until he could learn whether he had any record breakers in his flock. In the lower part of the building, Hugh had his long-eared Belgian hares. There was now quite a family of them, what with the old ones, and seven strapping youngsters. Hugh took great pleasure in watching his pets, and figuring out how he could improve on their quarters, so as to make them more comfortable in every way. "Well, have you struck any promising scheme yet, Hugh?" demanded Thad, as he breezed into the hutch, seeming to guess that he would find his chum there, and not in the house. "I've just been fixing things in my mind," returned Hugh, quietly, "and trying to determine how any intruder would expect to get in here. Why, up to now such a thing as having my hares stolen never once occurred to me. Really I'm surprised to find what confidence I've been placing in all Scranton; when there have been bad eggs among the boys from away back. Do you know I've never had a fastening on this window here, not even a stick to hold the lower sash down. It's about time I woke up and insured the safety of the poor things." "But you do lock the door every night," interjected Thad; "because I've seen you do that same thing." "Oh! just as a matter of form," confessed the other, "for I've never dreamed it was necessary. Any fellow could have climbed in by that window of a night, if he'd chosen to." "Do you suppose, Hugh, that Nick Lang knows about that unguarded window'?" "I was figuring that out," mused Hugh, "and, really, I believe he does. I'll tell you what I base that supposition on. Some time ago, a fellow came to see me, and tried to buy a pair of my hares; but his figures and mine didn't agree, and so we failed to make a bargain. But I showed him my place here, and he examined it all through. I even can remember that he gave the window a little upward push, speaking at the time of the necessity for all pets to have plenty of pure air, or their dens would become foul smelling. That boy was Tip Slavin, and I understand that he's pretty thick with Nick and Leon. They must have heard about his visit here, and pumped him dry. So if they do make me a night visit, depend on it this window will figure big in their calculations." Thad chuckled as though pleased. "That makes it simple, then, Hugh," he went on to say, exultantly, "for with such a thing settled, it ought to be easy for us to hatch up some scheme to play hob with their plan of campaign. It'd just about serve the sneaks right if we set a spring-gun trap that'd give them a dose of fine bird-shot; but then I don't suppose you'd want to go quite as far as that. Look here, Hugh, I believe right now, you've already settled on some sort of surprise for those fellows when they come snooping around here. If that's a fact, you're going to up and explain its workings to your best chum, ain't you?" CHAPTER XII THE TRAP Hugh heard his chum through, and then quietly went on to say: "Yes, I have got a little plan that ought to teach them a lesson, and cool off their ardor a bit. In the first place, we can easily rig up a small platform just above this window here. I've got several stanchions and a board. It wouldn't take us more than half an hour to complete it, I reckon. But we must make it extra strong, you know." "But I don't know," pleaded Thad, helplessly. "Why should this lovely little shelf up there be so strong? Are we going to perch on it, and drop down on top of the night birds after they let themselves in? Is that the game, Hugh?" "Not quite, Thad. It's the tub that must balance up there!" "Tub! Great Scott! are you figuring on giving Nick and Leon their usual Saturday night bath?" gasped the other, still groping in the dark. "Something like that," chuckled Hugh, "only it will be _such_ a surprise to those chaps, and cold, too, ugh! as cold as ice can make it." "Go ahead and explain a lot more," Thad demanded. "I'm beginning to get just an inkling of the game. Whew! I believe you've been reading of the pranks the fellows play in the boarding schools, with a tub of water suspended over a door, so that when an unlucky boy opens it he is drenched to the skin." "That's about the idea," Hugh acknowledged. "Nothing particularly brilliant or original about it, I own up, but the best we can do under the circumstances." Then he went on to explain the particulars, showing Thad how the tub could be balanced nicely, so that when a cord attached to it was jerked, it would tilt over beautifully, discharging its full contents without itself falling down. Thad listened, and grunted. Plainly he was a bit disappointed. "It sounds pretty good, Hugh," he admitted, finally, "and will of course give the rascals a great scare; but seems to me as if it's hardly vigorous enough. According to my mind, we ought to make the punishment fit the crime. When a couple of low-down scamps try to kill the dumb pets of a fellow who has never gone out of his way to harm them, and are caught with the goods on, they ought to be treated to a dozen good wipes with a cowhide whip, something that'll make 'em yell bloody murder. But just as you say, we can try this dodge, and discourage them from any more funny business around your coop." "Then the sooner we start in and get busy, the better," suggested Hugh, whose motto had always been that of "strike while the iron is hot." Thad was ready to do his share in any labor, so that presently the sound of much sawing and hammering oozed out from the rabbit hutch, where the chums continued to work for nearly an hour. At the end of that time they had completed the job so far as the platform over the window was concerned. Hugh had done more than this, for by cleverly arranged boards he constructed a regular trap; so that when the boys managed to climb through the window, they would naturally crouch down directly in range of the coming water-spout. "There," said Hugh, finally, "that is all done, and I think fills the bill. I'll go after the galvanized iron wash-tub now." "Be sure and fetch the biggest one you can," suggested the greedy Thad, with a sly grin. "You see, we ought to deal generously with our guests, even if they're uninvited ones. I believe in going the whole hog when about it." "Depend on me to do the right thing by Nick and Leon," Hugh assured him. "When I have visitors drop in on me in this off-hand way, I always want to be ready to treat them well. But I'm afraid they'll think our reception committee rather frigid, eh, Thad?" He soon came back bearing a massive tub that aroused the admiration of Thad. "That certainly is a jim-dandy wash-tub!" he declared. "I'm glad now we made the shelf big enough. I reckon you had the dimensions of this thing in your mind when doing your measurements, Hugh." Next they lifted the tub on to the platform above. It could be readily balanced on the edge so that a very slight pull from the cord would tilt it forward, when the propensity for water to seek its own level would do the rest. They tested it a number of times, and it worked splendidly. "When filled with water, it would only add to the gaiety of things," Thad said, fervently. "But where will we be all the time, Hugh?" he now asked. "I've arranged all that," he was assured. "One of the objects of these upright boards is to act as a cover for us, as well as to form a trap for our guests. You see, I happen to know that Leon Disney owns a hand electric torch like the one you showed me the other day that your uncle in the city sent out, and which I want you to fetch over when you come after supper. Just as like as not, he'll use it through the window before they try to enter, so as to make sure the coast is clear. That's why I've been so careful not to leave anything around that might excite suspicion." "Just so," laughed Thad, merrily, for as he was not going to get an icy ducking, he felt as though he could afford to be happy; "after fellows have worked so hard to jimmy their way into the premises of another, it'd be a shame to discourage their efforts in the beginning. We might paint a sign 'welcome,' and put it over the window, Hugh, just to let them know everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high." "I'll step outside, and take a peep in through the window to find out how things look," suggested Hugh, which he proceeded to do. "Nothing to excite anybody's suspicion that I can see," he announced. "The tub is completely out of sight, just as I expected it would be, and even the cord connecting it with our hiding place couldn't be noticed unless you knew all about it beforehand. I guess our work is done, all but filling the reservoir." Procuring a bucket, they set to work. One carried and the other poured, standing on the short step-ladder in order to better reach the elevated tub. "There, it's as full as I dare make it," Hugh finally announced. "And for one, I'm not half sorry," Thad added, "because toting water isn't altogether fun. That bucket is heavy enough to nearly pull your arms out of their elbow sockets. You said something about _ice_, didn't you, Hugh?" "Yes, I had that in mind. After supper, when we come out here to take up our vigil, I'll get a lot of small chunks from the ice-house and put it in the water. It'll make it lovely and cold, I warrant you, unless our guests delay their coming too long." Nothing more being necessary, the boys adjourned to the house, where in Hugh's den they talked various matters over with the customary enthusiasm of live boys. Naturally, these affairs, as a rule, concerned the athletic happenings just then on the carpet, and particularly the baseball rivalry about to break out in a series of hotly contested games between Scranton, Belleville and the formerly victorious Allandale High team. Later on, Thad went home to his supper, though Hugh had pressed him to stay and share his meal, for they were often at each other's table. "Like to," said Thad, shaking his head, "but it happens I've got a few things I ought to attend to. Then again there's that hand-torch you asked me to fetch over with me. Another time will have to do, Hugh." Hugh laughed scornfully. "Tell all that to your grandmother, Thad, will you?" he exclaimed. "Just as if I didn't know that your folks religiously have corned beef and cabbage every Thursday night, which is a favorite dish with your dad, likewise with a certain fellow of my acquaintance. Now, _we're_ only going to have chicken pot-pie at our house, and of course that doesn't appeal to you like your pet fare. Oh I well, I understand how things go, and I'll let you off this time. I don't believe you've ever taken a meal at my house on a Thursday since I've known you." Thad laughed as though not at all abashed. "I guess you're on to my weak spot, all right, partner," he hastened to say in the boldest manner possible. "But really and truly, I have got some things I want to do, though of course they could be postponed if absolutely necessary. Some time perhaps you'll be having my plebeian dish over at your house; then try asking me if you dare." He turned up about seven o'clock, just after darkness had set in, for the moon was getting very old now, and a late riser. The two boys sat in Hugh's den for considerably more than an hour, talking and planning. Both showed vague signs of nervousness, however. Thad in particular frequently walked over to a window and looked out. Doubtless he was thinking what a joke on them it would be if the marauders came much earlier than expected, when all their fine work with that tub of icy water would go for naught. "Hadn't we better be making a start, Hugh?" he finally asked. "Don't forget we have to handle that ice first, and get things ready." "All right," the other replied. "We'll make for the rabbit hutch, and here's hoping that we don't have a long watch all for nothing." The ice was soon procured. Hugh cracked it in rather small pieces. He did this for two good reasons. First it would chill the water more speedily when in this condition; then again the chances of knocking one of the interlopers on the head with a heavy lump of ice falling quite some distance would be obviated. Hugh did not intend that this prank should end in a tragedy, if he could help it. When everything had been arranged to suit Hugh, the boys retired within the rabbit hutch, and the door was fastened with the padlock, which Hugh could undo when the time came by leaning far out of the open window. They took up their positions in the place already selected, and wrapped in complete darkness awaited coming events. The time passed very slowly, but since they had dressed warmly, they did not suffer from the chilly air, for it was only April, and the warmth of summer still far distant. Nine o'clock struck. Bless that town clock, by means of which they could tell the hour; for Thad was beginning to believe it much later than it really was. He yawned, and stretched a bit, shifting his position. Then Hugh touched him on the arm, and his low whisper came in Thad's very ear. "Sh! something stirring outside!" Thad had heard it, too. Either the night wind had arisen; and was sighing through the branches of the big oak that hung partly over the rabbit hutch, or else some living object had moved; for what the boys heard as they crouched there quivering with suspense and anticipated victory was certainly in the nature of a creeping sound. Yes, now there came to the ears of Thad what must be low whispers. Nick and his fellow conspirator had undoubtedly arrived and were scanning their contemplated field of operations! CHAPTER XIII A COLD RECEPTION Then the boys in hiding saw a strange glow around them. Undoubtedly Leon was making use of his electric hand-torch, and both of the intended raiders must be pressing their noses against the glass of the small window, trying to form some sort of idea as to what awaited them. Neither Hugh nor Thad more than breathed. The latter clutched the stout cord in a firm hand, ready to give the quick jerk when he believed the proper moment had arrived. Apparently, the fellows outside must have concluded that everything was just lovely, for they could now be heard softly opening the window, and pushing the sash carefully back out of the way. While climbing in through the opening thus made, they did not wish to thrust a foot against the glass, and cause a smash that might be their undoing; oh! trust that shrewd general, Nick Lang, for looking out against any such accidents; he had been in this business a long time now, and understood all the ins and outs of it. More low whispering followed. Evidently, Nick was trying to coax Leon to climb in first, so that he could light the way with his torch; but that sly fox held back. It was Nick's special game, and consequently he should be the one to do the honors of the occasion. After a little grumbling beyond the open window, Thad and Hugh heard the soft pad of shoes scraping against the boards. Nick had started to enter. The yawning aperture, and the apparent lack of any signs of danger lured him on. Ah! if he had only dimly suspected what a wonderful reception awaited him in that same rabbit hutch, undoubtedly Nick could not have been tempted to take that important step; indeed, he would have turned and run for it with all speed. But "when ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," the old saying runs; and Nick was happy in not having a glimmer of the truth. He should not be long in making his entrance. The window was only five feet from the ground, and within easy reach. Besides, Nick was an unusually strong boy, which fact in itself had been one reason for his having been able to play the part of town bully as long as he did. The sounds changed their nature. Evidently, Nick had managed to pull himself over the window-sill. He was now inside the hutch, perhaps kneeling on the floor, and directly under the tilted tub that stood on the shelf above! Hugh gripped his cord still more firmly. It was almost time for something to happen. Perhaps before another minute had passed the avalanche would descend, and give two startled fellows the surprise of their lives. Now Nick was lending his companion a helping hand. It may not have been through generosity that Nick acted thus; perhaps he dimly suspected that the cowardly Leon might wish to draw back, and allow him to carry out the nefarious business alone and unaided; and Nick was bent on making his crony share in the act, so that he could not turn on him and betray him in the future. Yes, Leon was coming along. He made more noise than the other, for Nick could be heard growling, and telling him to be careful if he didn't want to fetch the owner of the rabbit hutch down on them with blood in his eye, and perhaps a stout baseball bat for a weapon. Thad softly chuckled on hearing this. No doubt, in his mind he was saying that something in the way of a reception far less warm was hovering over the heads of the two "innocents abroad." That made Thad think of Mark Twain, and he wondered whether the illustrious Tom Sawyer and his chum, Huckleberry Finn, had ever arranged a more fetching reception committee than this one of Hugh's. Leon seemed quite clumsy about climbing up; the fact of the matter was, he came rather unwillingly, and might have held back only that the determined Nick had taken a firm grip on his coat collar, and held on tenaciously, bent on making sure of having company in his dark deed of slaughter, or robbery, whichever he had in mind. Thad would have given almost anything for the privilege of taking a sly peep; but he had been sternly enjoined against doing this same thing by Hugh. The other, however, found it necessary to put his head beyond the corner of the upright boards, so as to make sure that both boys were there, and ready for their bath. One brief look was enough for Hugh. Leon had depressed his hand-torch so that its glow only fell on the floor; but enough light was diffused throughout the place to disclose two kneeling figures directly under the tub. Hugh waited no longer, but gave the cord a strong pull. There was a sudden surge, and down came a terrific Niagara of icy water that completely deluged Nick and Leon. They let out involuntary yells that were of a piercing intensity. Nor was this all, for Hugh must have given the cord an extra hard pull, or else the fastenings of the tub had not proved stanch enough; for down it came with an infernal jangling that must have completed the fright of the precious pair of intruders. Indeed, it even gave Thad a start, with all that racket, and the cries of the terrified boys adding to the volume of sound. "Now give us some light, Thad!" called Hugh, wishing to glimpse the drenched culprits before they could scramble through the opening again, and make their escape. Thad was so excited he could hardly remember what he had done with his new electric hand-torch. So he ran his fingers around on the floor, feeling here and there in eagerness, all the while strange sounds coming to their ears from the other end of the rabbit hutch. Then he managed by accident, or great good luck, to touch what he was searching for, and instantly Thad flooded the place with its illumination, after which both of them stepped forward. They were just in time to glimpse a pair of legs vanishing through the opening. Then came a heavy crash accompanied by dismal groans, after which they heard the sounds of footsteps as the two boys scurried around the building, wishing to keep from being seen. When Hugh and Thad looked out of the window there was no one in sight. They turned and stared at each other. Then Thad doubled up like a closed hinge, and shook with boisterous laughter. "Oh! what a circus that was, Hugh!" he cried. "Why, I don't know what I'd have given just for a chance to watch those two chaps swimming around. And, say, that big tub falling must have nearly scared Leon to death. I wonder now, did it happen to hit either of them when it came tumbling down after emptying out all the iced water? Oh! I'll laugh myself nearly sick every time I think of this dandy trap of yours." Of course, the interior of the Belgian hares' quarters was a sight to behold, after all that downpour; but anticipating this, the careful Hugh had placed his pets where they could not be injured by the flood. "See here what they left behind them," remarked Hugh, picking up what turned out to be a stout gunny-sack. "Well, I'm glad to find this, because it seems to prove that they meant to steal my hares, and not kill them." "Just about as bad in the long run!" declared Thad, scornfully. "Like as not that Nick would have thrown them into the river, with a stone tied to the bag, in order to hide all traces. Then, no matter how much you might suspect them, you couldn't prove a thing. But Hugh, they made a terrible slip if they figured on that, because, see here what I've found." He held something up. "Leon's hand-torch, for a certainty!" exclaimed Hugh. "In his sudden fright he lost it, and was in too great a hurry to think of trying to find his property again." "You've got him where you want him, all right, Hugh," snapped Thad, suddenly. "All you have to do is to leave this here and fetch Chief Wambold around to notice that it lies in your rabbit hutch. Then Leon will have to explain how he came to leave it here." "Oh! I sort of feel that those fellows have been punished enough as it is," the other went on to say, slowly. "You're too easy on the skunks, Hugh, take my word for it," said Thad, with a trace of disappointment in his voice. "A fellow like Nick Lang never can appreciate such a thing as leniency. You've got to give him what he believes in, and that's brute force. Well, then, if you won't have Leon arrested, at least you can keep this hand-torch as a trophy of the momentous occasion. It'll serve to remind you of this pleasant night's entertainment. While not so fine a torch as mine, still it seems to be O. K. You'll do that, I hope, Hugh?" But the other shook his head. "I don't want the thing, Thad, I assure you I don't," he said. "I'll send it to Leon with a little satirical note, telling him that while I thank him very much for leaving me his torch, I have always made it a rule not to accept presents from those who were not my intimate friends; and that, therefore, I'm returning it with the hope that in the future he may put it to better use than in the past." Thad laughed. "Oh! well, you must have your way, Hugh, I reckon; and really, that will set the pair guessing. They'll understand we're on to their identity, and of course will be more or less anxious to know just what you mean to do about it." "One thing I'm sure of," added Hugh, "which is, that Nick Lang can never be made to change his habits by harsh measures. Some of these fine days I may find a chance to do him a great favor; and by heaping coals of fire on his head, force him to see a light." Thad heard his chum say this with more or less astonishment. Apparently, while he had the utmost faith in Hugh's ability to do most things, at the same time he considered that this would be in the form of a miracle. He smiled, and again shook his head in the negative. "Well, you don't believe they'll come again tonight at any rate, do you, Hugh?" he asked, as they prepared to leave the rabbit hutch. "Not one chance in ten," the other told him. "I mean to fix this window so it can't be easily opened. Besides, my window is on this side of the house, and I've got a cord arranged whereby a weight will fall on the floor of my room if anybody tried to get in here, after I've fixed the little jigger. I own a shotgun, you know, Thad, and can fire up in the air out of my window if there's any alarm. Tomorrow I'll put heavy wire netting over the window, that will insure the safety of my pet Belgian hares, and my homing pigeons. Now let's be heading toward the house, and going to bed; for you promised to sleep with me, you know." CHAPTER XIV NICK AS A GAP-STOPPER On Saturday afternoon the field was the scene of another gathering. Almost every boy in town had come out to see what success the Scranton High fellows were making with their new team. Besides, there were many little knots of high-school girls present, all eager to watch some fellow in whom they felt especial interest. Then, from time to time, older folks began to show up, until quite a gathering could be seen in the grandstand and on some sections of the bleachers. Perhaps Scranton did not possess as fine buildings as Allandale, for instance, because the spirit of sport had long been rampant in the other town, while Scranton seemed to have been half asleep until latterly; but they were good enough, and commodious in the bargain. The field itself could hardly have been surpassed. It was unusually level, and stretched away to such a distance that it must needs be quite a slugger who could make a home-run hit on those grounds. Still it had been done. There was at least one member of the team who had shown an ability to send the ball out over the head of a fielder, and to such an astonishing distance that by the time it was recovered and returned to the diamond, he had raced completely around the circuit for a home run. Mr. Leonard had by now completed his choice of the team. He had watched the play of the boys, and decided on just who best seemed fitted to fill the various positions. Of course, as time passed, this schedule of players was subject to possible changes, but on the whole the physical instructor believed he had built up the strongest team Scranton could put in the field that season. Much must depend on the pitching staff. It remained to be seen how the twirlers would "pan out" under fire. At present Mr. Leonard was working strenuously, trying to put more "ginger" into their work; and also teaching them some of the wrinkles of the game, as known to semi-professionals like himself. Greatly to the surprise as well as delight of Owen Dugdale, he had been notified that he was to cover short. Indeed, others were not as much astonished as Owen himself, because they had been admiring the splendid way in which he fielded his difficult position there, accepting chances that many fellows would have allowed to let get by them for fear of making an error, and with wonderful success. Once Owen got his hands on the ball, and he could shoot it across to first like a rifle bullet. His accuracy and speed were simply grand; everybody cheered when he sent the ball "screaming" across to the man guarding the initial sack; or on occasion hurled it to Hugh on third for a double. Then again, Owen was improving in his batting. Hugh had gone to great pains to give him many pointers, and the fruit of this was seen by the clever way in which Owen could lay down a pretty bunt, the ball rolling along just inside the line in a tantalizing fashion, and headed for first or third, as the occasion might require. The player who can be depended on to bunt successfully two times out of three attempts is always a valuable accessory to a club; since he is thus able to push a runner along; and perhaps get his own base in the bargain, when the others are busily engaged in trying to catch the fellow on the bases. Short-stop must always be an agile chap, who is especially quick both at decisions and throwing. Even though he snatch up the ball, and thus make a fine stop, if his judgment is poor or his throwing arm lame, he can often bungle his work, and prove of little help to his team. There would still be another full week before the first game with Belleville. If fair weather favored them the Scranton boys hoped to put in daily practice, and speed up in their team work, as well as signals. The pitchers, too, needed considerable more practice before they could be said to be at their best; in fact, they would all be better off for two more weeks of hard work, which, however, could not be obtained. Two teams were made up for this afternoon, one of them the regulars, and the other a "scrub," though with some fair players aboard, mostly substitutes. Mr. Leonard himself meant to play at various positions for the latter team. He chanced to be one of those remarkable all-round handy men, capable of filling a job as catcher, first baseman, second, short-stop or fielder. He even astonished the boys during the afternoon play by taking his place as a slab-artist in the pitcher's box; and some of his shoots and drops puzzled the hard hitters on the regular team, so that they whiffed at thin air, and thus passed out on strikes. The pitchers had been evenly divided, and all showed considerable ability after their caliber. Some seemed to have considerable "stuff" with them, and mystified the batters with their delivery. Others were hit freely, and runs were either earned or else made with the assistance of errors more or less glaring. The weak places in the team's play were being noted by Mr. Leonard, who would take measures to stop the leaks after a fashion of his own; through advice and practical instructions, if he could; and should these means fail, then by a radical change in the line-up. As Hugh had been made field captain, he would have charge of the playing to a considerable extent. On this account, he took an especially keen interest in all that went on. When Nick Lang, who played centre field, made a difficult catch of a great fly from Mr. Leonard's bat, no one applauded more than did Hugh; while Thad behind the bat stood and scowled, for somehow he disliked the idea of the town bully having any part in the team's work. When he took occasion to speak of this during their turn at bat, as he and Hugh sat by themselves on the lower bleacher seats, watching the game, the other took him to task for his way of thinking. "You've got to get over that personal way of thinking, Thad, when you belong to a ball club like Scranton High," he said, earnestly. "Now we all know what Nick is, and few fellows like to play in a game where he has any part; but remember that he is one of the high-school students, and on that account has just as much right to aspire to a place on the representative team as you or I." "But he always makes trouble wherever he goes," expostulated Thad, still unconvinced, it seemed; "and mark my words, he'll do something to try and break up this team, if things don't go just to suit his ideas." "Please don't forget Mr. Leonard when you say that, Thad. Depend on it, he's going to keep his eye on Nick right along. If the fellow shows any insubordination, he'll get his walking papers like a flash, and perhaps be booted off the grounds in the bargain, if he gets too fresh." "Well, perhaps you're right, Hugh," grumbled Thad. "Mr. Leonard must know a heap more than a boy like me, who sees everything on the surface. And I admit that was a cracking good catch Nick made, after such a hard run. He can field, all right, and he is a gap-stopper in center field, for a fact." "There, look at him send out a screamer right now, that ought to be good for a double!" exclaimed Hugh. "You see, we need Nick on the team. He is one of our mainstays at bat and in the field. If only Mr. Leonard can control him, he's apt to be of great assistance to us in winning games. The boy who would take his place isn't really in the same class with Nick as a player. So let's try to forget all about our natural aversion while we're playing ball. If we act that way, the other fellows are apt to follow suit. And, Thad, conquering your feelings may be the means of bringing a glorious victory to Scranton High. Wouldn't you think yourself well repaid for just repressing your antipathy toward Nick Lang?" "Of course you're right, Hugh, as you nearly always are. I'm so quick-tempered I make all sorts of silly blunders. But look there, I can see a cloud of dust up the road yonder. Now I wouldn't be at all surprised if we had another friendly visit from that Belleville fellow, O. K. He's taking quite an interest in Scranton, it seems, and has run over again this Saturday to find out how we're improving. We must jolly him along, Hugh, and never let him see we're feeling a bit of anxiety over our pitchers." Sure enough, the rider of the motorcycle proved to be Oliver Kramer, the same boy who had been over before to take a look at the Scranton players. He came alongside the two chums sitting on the bleachers, and deposited his machine so that it would be safely out of the way. "Hello! fellows!" he remarked, cheerily, as he held out his hand to Hugh. "Here I am again, right side up with care, as the clown in the circus always says. Glad to meet you again, Captain Morgan, and you also, Thad Stevens. Mr. Leonard was over to dinner at our house Sunday, and he invited me to drop in any old time, and see how your crowd was making out. I hope now you don't object to my being here, Hugh?" "Not in the least, O. K.," Hugh told him, smilingly. "We're pushing along pretty fairly, and ironing out some of the wrinkles as we go. Lots still to be done before we're ready to try conclusions with your team at Belleville; but with such a capable coach as Mr. Leonard, we believe we'll get there in time." They watched the play go on. There were some really clever stunts done that called for loud cheers on the part of the small crowd present. O. K. added his strident voice to the shouts. "Great work that, old top!" he shouted at Sandy Dowd, who had made a magnificent steal to second, after getting first on a single, his slide amidst a cloud of dust being the grand climax of the feat; for though the catcher sent the ball down in a direct line to the baseman, still the red-headed Sandy had his hand on the bag at the time he was touched, and there was no disputing the "safe on second" of the umpire. For three innings did O. K. sit there and enjoy the game. He was a baseball enthusiast of the first water, and never could get quite enough of his favorite sport. Of course he preferred taking part in a game, but the next best thing was to watch others play, and comment on their mistakes; just as most people can play the critic while watching a game of billiards and always feel they could have improved on the shot that missed connections. "Well, what do you think now, O. K.?" asked Hugh later on, when the Belleville boy made preparations as though about to start homeward. "Do you notice any improvement in our work? Have we gone up or down, in your judgment?" "Yes, be honest, now, O. K., and say," asked Thad. "We can take criticism without flinching. You know what your team can do; have we any show against Belleville, or that strong aggregation at Allandale?" "Honestly, between man and man, fellows," said the other, earnestly, "I can see the greatest sort of improvement in your play. When you get your team work down a bit better and closer to scientific principles, you're going to make both the other clubs in the Three-Town League hustle some to hold their own. I'm glad to see it, too, because it means we'll have to do our level best if we hope to win. And that insures some mighty lively ball games during the short season while we're playing against each other." Hugh felt satisfied, for he believed O. K. to be quite honest in what he said. CHAPTER XV PRETTY POLLY UNDER SUSPICION "Hello! Thad, that you?" "Nobody else, Hugh. I rather thought I'd hear your voice when I stepped over to the 'phone. What's doing this fine Sunday afternoon?" "Are you in for a little walk with me, Thad?" "Just what would please me a heap, Hugh. Anything particular moving?" "There you go suspecting that I've got something on tap just because I call up and invite you to cover a few miles, when the weather is so fine. But for once you've hit the nail on the head, my boy." "That settles it, then. I'll rush right over, and join you, Hugh." "Be careful and don't break your neck in your hurry, Thad. My news can keep; and what would poor Scranton High do for a catcher in the game next Saturday if you fractured your collar-bone?" Whether Thad took the advice to heart or not, he certainly made his appearance at the home of his best chum in an incredibly brief space of time, flushed in the bargain, and with an eager light lurking in his eyes. "Nothing doing until we get safely out of town," said Hugh, firmly; "so you'll have to put the brake on your impatience." "Huh!" grumbled Thad, "that sounds as if what you had to tell me was of vast importance, so that you didn't want to run any risk of others cribbing the news. Now you have got me guessing to beat the band, Hugh. I wonder if those Belleville fellows have been up to any dodge to learn our signals, and how our pitchers are practicing certain pet balls?" "Oh! I'll relieve your mind that far by telling you it has nothing whatever to do with the game next Saturday; for that matter it's not about baseball at all. You're doing those fine chaps at Belleville a gross injustice to even hint at their thinking of spying on us." Thad grinned as though he had won a point. "Well, I take it all back, then, Hugh," he hastened to say, contritely. "And now that point's settled, there's only one more thing it could be about." "Notice that shrub bursting into bloom, will you?" remarked Hugh. "No one ever saw a prettier sight than that is right now." "Have you learned anything more about----" "We'll take a turn here, and walk along the canal toward the big mill-pond," interrupted Hugh. "That's always a favorite walk of mine; and, to tell the truth, I haven't been out to the mill-pond for a long time. The fishing there hasn't been very good this season, some of the boys told me. Besides, I've been kept so busy with my studies, baseball matters, and several other things I'm interested in, that I haven't had much time for fishing this spring. Nobody loves it more than I do, either, as you happen to know." Thad heaved a sigh, and shook his head. "No use trying to coax you, Hugh, when you've made up your mind not to let out even a little peep. A fellow might wheedle until he fell over, and you'd still be as hard as adamant. Yet it's right. Makes me think of the old saying that a single man can lead a mule to water, but a dozen can't make him drink--not comparing you to a mule, of course." They chatted as they walked, until presently the town had been left behind them. "Now I'll open up and tell you what's been worrying me," announced Hugh, suddenly. "The fact of the matter is, I was called over to Madame Pangborn's this morning after getting home from church. She told me a third spoon has disappeared!" "Great guns! is that so, Hugh? And, say, was Owen there on the day it went glimmering?" demanded Thad, frowning. "I'm sorry to have to say yes to that," returned Hugh, slowly. "It was yesterday it happened. She persisted in leaving the spoons just where I saw them. I advised her to do that, for if they were hidden away we might never discover the thief. As on the other occasions, Owen came in with a bundle for the Red Cross, sent by the same lady who had intrusted him with a package twice before." "All I can say is, it's getting a heap serious for our new friend, Owen. Hugh, do you think the poor chap might be what they call a kleptomaniac; that is a person who has an irresistible inclination to take things that don't belong to him, or her, and generally has no use for them after stealing the same? It's really a disease, I've read. Some very rich people are affected by it, particularly queer old ladies." "You're jumping ahead too fast, Thad," remonstrated Hugh, chidingly. "I haven't admitted yet that I suspect Owen more than I did before. In fact, these occurrences, such as his being in the house each time a spoon vanishes, may turn out to simply be coincidences." "That sounds just like you, Hugh. You're the best kind of a friend anybody ever could have. Perhaps now you've got a clue of some sort that you wouldn't mind telling me about?" "I've been wondering whether the culprit is a human being after all," remarked Hugh, to the utter astonishment of his comrade, who burst out with: "Whew! you're aiming high, I must say, old chap. If not a human being, what sort of a creature could the clever thief be? I've heard of monkeys stealing things and hiding the same away in a spirit of covetousness; but then the old lady doesn't happen to have a simian for a household pet, that I know of." "No, but she has got a poll-parrot, as I told you, Thad!" observed Hugh, calmly. "Oh! do you suspect that a silly bird could go and carry off not only one spoon but three of them?" gasped the other boy. "What would a parrot want of such objects, and where would she hide them?" "Remember, this is only guess work on my part, because, so far, I haven't any positive evidence that it's so. But I remembered once reading an article about some birds having a weakness that way. Generally it was a raven that did it, and hidden away in a dark corner they would find trinkets and spoons and all sorts of things that were of no possible use to any bird. In every instance they seemed to be bright and tempting, as if the bird had no eye for dingy things. Well, these spoons have recently been scoured and cleaned so that they shine splendidly!" "Oh! now that you mention it, Hugh," broke out Thad, "I remember that several years ago, before I knew you, with another boy I climbed a tall tree to peek in at the nest of a pair of crows. Well, sir, besides the young ones, what did we find but three strange things. One was a key, pretty rusty at that; another seemed to be a piece of metal that might have fallen off a motor car on the road; it was made of brass, and still shone fairly well. The third I've forgotten about, though I've still got them all at home somewhere. At the time, Dick Saunders and I laughed, and said the old mother crow had fetched her babies some playthings to keep them amused while she and her mate were off hunting grubs and corn and such crow food." "Well, all of which goes to prove that my little theory mightn't be so far fetched as you seemed to think in the beginning," said Hugh. "I mean to look around closely the next time I drop in to see the Madame. Perhaps if I picked up a tiny green feather that must have come from Pretty Poll, and on the table close to the case that holds the spoons, it might clinch matters." "Whew! I only hope you do!" declared Thad. "I'd hate to learn that Owen had any hand in taking those spoons. The sooner we find out the truth, the better for all concerned. It'll not only relieve our minds, as well as that of the old lady; but either prove or disprove the suspicions we're right now entertaining toward that poor boy." He looked very determined when saying this, just as though he had made up his own mind to hasten the dénouement; but of that he did not say anything to Hugh. "My plan at present is to find a chance to hide in the room, and have the old lady let her parrot free to fly around," continued Hugh, reflectively. "You see, as a rule, the bird is held by a fine chain, and made to stay by her perch; but the lady as much as admitted, when scolding her pet, that every now and then Polly managed to get loose by pecking at the ring about her leg; and had a great time flying squawking in and out of the rooms before anybody could catch her again." Thad clapped his hand in glee. He had changed his mind considerably after hearing all these things in the line of a convincing argument, as mentioned by Hugh. "Why, if it should turn out that way, Hugh, it'd make a story well worth writing up for the magazines, or a big New York daily paper. I hope now you'll get busy on this scheme right away, so we'll know the truth. Parrots are mighty cunning birds, for a fact. I knew one once that used to mock everybody going by. What fun we boys used to have trying to teach him to say things that mebbe his mistress wouldn't exactly approve of, though, honestly, Hugh, they weren't very tough, just boys' slang, you know. I'm glad now you asked me to take this walk with you. For all we can tell, it may have some influence in solving this puzzle that's got both of us guessing." When Thad said this, he of course could have no idea how near he was hewing to the truth. That walk was fated to have a very considerable influence on the course of events, and also upon the solving of the riddle; but we must not anticipate. The two lads continued to saunter along. They chatted on other subjects besides the mystery of the old lady's lost souvenir spoons. The matter of outdoor sports was much in their minds those days, when sleepy old Scranton was waking from her Rip Van Winkle nap of twenty years, and girding herself to accomplish a few things on the diamond and the gridiron. So they drew gradually nearer to the famous Hobson mill-pond, where for generations the boys of Scranton had been accustomed to swim and fish in the good old summer time, and skate in the winter, the canal leading close to its location. The old mill was no longer in use, but with its moss-covered wheel made a very picturesque sight that artists often painted with delight. The pond itself was of fair size, and surrounded with trees and bushes. In fact, it was quite a lake. On one side there stood a large ice-house, and when the surface of the pond was covered with a foot of clear firm ice, many of the residents of the town had their supply cut and stored in places built partly underground, in order that they might have all the ice they wanted through the dog days. Hugh and Thad had almost arrived at the mill-pond when they suddenly heard loud voices. There was screaming in shrill tones that would indicate the presence of children near by. "What does all that row mean, Hugh?" snapped Thad, looking suddenly interested. "They're playing around the pond, those kids, and like as not one of them may have fallen in! Let's get a move on us and see!" Hugh seemed to be of the same opinion, for he started on a rapid gallop. Louder rang out the shrill cries. There could be no doubt now as to some one being frightened; and considering the loneliness of the mill-pond region, it was easy to guess Thad had hit the truth when he surmised that a child must be in danger of drowning. CHAPTER XVI THE RESCUE AT HOBSON'S MILL-POND The two boys covered the short distance in an incredibly brief space of time. As they rounded the bend just beside the mill-pond and saw the whole scene spread out before them, their eyes were immediately fastened on a stirring picture close by. Two little colored girls were running up and down the shore doing most of the screaming, and acting as though half frightened to death. The reason for their alarm was not hard to see, for at some little distance out from the bank a small boy, as black as the ace of spades, was having a terrible time trying to keep his footing on a plank that had been a part of a rude raft, doubtless fashioned by his own hands. He had wished to "show-off" before his little playmates, and after rudely fastening several boards taken from the tumble-down old mill into a crude attempt at a raft, had boldly launched the same. With a pole he had stepped aboard, and then proceeded to "cut capers." Encouraged by the admiration of the other children, he must have become more and more reckless, so that he soon reached a point far enough distant from land to prevent him from touching bottom with his pole. This sudden discovery may have alarmed him, and in his endeavor to paddle, he had caused his raft to part in sections. So there he was now clinging to one plank, and in immediate danger of falling into the water, which out there was doubtless many times over his head. "Keep steady, there, boy!" shouted Thad. "Stick to your plank, and we'll get you ashore all right! Don't be scared, whatever you do! Thad, how can we reach him?" "There's an old boat pulled up on the shore a little ways above here," said the other quickly, for he had the faculty of thinking of everything when an emergency arose, an admirable trait in any boy. So they started on a run, heading for the spot, and hoping the tragedy would hold off until they could launch the old craft, which leaked more or less, but was likely to hold long enough for them to accomplish the rescue. Passing the two small girls, Thad shot out words of encouragement to them. "Stop that screaming!" he told them, with an air of authority. "You only rattle the boy, don't you know? We're going after a boat so as to get out to him. It's close by, and much safer than swimming. Tell him to keep still, and we'll get him in a jiffy!" Of course he did not slacken his pace any while jerking out these words. They at least seemed to have some effect on the two children, for they stopped shrieking. Just as the boys reached the boat, however, the cries broke out again with redoubled energy. Thad glanced back, and immediately exclaimed: "He's fallen in, Hugh! We've got to hurry, you know!" "Here's one of the paddles; do you see anything of the other?" demanded Hugh. Luckily Thad discovered it immediately. The "paddles" were crude affairs chopped out of boards by some of the boys who used the boat while swimming; but all the same they answered a purpose. With a rush the old boat was pushed down the sloping sandy shore and into the mill-pond. Hugh and Thad sprang aboard and each snatching up a paddle, they commenced to urge the unwieldy craft along as best they might. As they worked, they could see what was going on ahead of them. The little chap evidently had considerable pluck about him, for he was making a really gallant fight for his life, trying to cling to the board, which was wobbling about in the water at a great rate. Twice his frantic hold seemed lost, but on each occasion he managed to regain it. Nature urges every human being or animal to struggle to the utmost when threatened with death by drowning. Some boys have even discovered that they could swim when they had to, or go down; though it is a risky experiment which should never be resorted to. Hugh's heart seemed to be almost in his throat as he watched the struggles of the poor little chap. Black or white, it made not the least difference to him just then; that child's life was as precious in his mother's sight as if he were the pink and white darling of a wealthy family. Nearer they came to the scene. Oh! if only he might manage somehow to retain his grip just twenty seconds longer, they would be on hand, and ready to drag him over the side of the old boat to safety. Hugh, deep down in his heart prayed that it might be so. He also figured how he would plunge overboard at the last second, if necessary, and dive after the sinking child, for he must be saved. They both worked as never before in their lives. Possibly that old boat swept through the water of the mill-pond at a faster rate than it had ever indulged in, even with twice the number of paddlers aboard. A precious human life was at stake, and this fact brought out every atom of energy those two gallant lads could summon to the fore. Fortune was kind, and the plucky little colored boy continued to show wonderful tenacity of purpose; for he managed to retain his slipping grip on the turning plank until Hugh could bend over and take a grip of his kinky wool. It may not have been the most pleasant way to effect a rescue, but there was no time for being particular. While he thus held the child above water, Thad bent down and got hold of the boy's arms. That settled it, for they speedily hauled him aboard. The two little girl companions of the rescued child, whose admiration for his boldness had undoubtedly been the main cause for his taking such great risks, stopped screaming when they saw that he was safe in the boat. The boys now made for the shore, as the boat was taking in water very fast, and already their feet were soaking wet. Besides, the sooner they reached land the better, because the boy had fainted from excess of fright, and also on account of the desperate endeavor he had made to keep from sinking. A minute later and Hugh lifted him from the boat. "We've got to get a fire started right away, Thad!" he exclaimed. "The air isn't as warm as it might be, and he'll be shivering soon. Besides, it's a long walk to town. Later on perhaps we may be able to stop some car or vehicle going in on the road, and take them all home. Here's my match-safe, so speed up a blaze, please." It was fortunate that Hugh always made it a practice to have matches with him. There could be no telling when they might come in very handy, as on the present occasion; for there was no house near by at which they could seek assistance. Thad was always a good hand at making a fire, and he quickly found plenty of fine tinder which flashed up when a match was applied. Then more wood was carefully placed on the little blaze, until in a brief time he had a cheery fire roaring. Hugh laid the boy down where he could feel the comfortable heat. He understood that the child could not have swallowed any water to speak of, because he managed to keep his head above the surface, save in the very end of his struggle. It was only a swoon or faint, and likely the child would come out of it quickly. He rubbed the little hands, and waited to see signs of returning animation. Two minutes afterwards the boy's eyes opened. He looked puzzled to see Hugh bending over him, and to hear the crackling of the fire. "It's all right, my boy," said Hugh, encouragingly; "you fell into the water after your raft went to pieces, and we pulled you out. Now we mean to dry your clothes by the aid of this nice fire, and after that we'll see you get home. Here are your little playmates, you see. You can thank them for screaming, because only for that we might not have come up in time." The boy allowed his hand to run up and down his other wet sleeve. "Dem's my Sunday-best clo's, too. Mebbe mommy she won't whale me fo' gettin' dem all soaked like this," he muttered to himself disconsolately. "Don't you worry about that," chuckled Thad, who had overheard the childish complaint. "Your mother, whoever she may be, will be so thankful that she hasn't lost her boy she'll forgive you anything. And you're a brave little chap in the bargain, because you did put up a nervy fight for your life, that's certain." They succeeded in drying his clothes, and then, as a large car was seen coming along the road with only a single man in the same, Hugh ran over to hail the driver and beg him to take them all into town. Luck favored them again. The man in the big car turned out to be Major McGrew's chauffeur, whom Hugh knew to speak to, as he was a baseball enthusiast of the first water. When he heard what had happened, he told Hugh to fetch the boy along; and also the two other kids; he'd have them home in a jiffy, for it was less than a mile to town. The colored people, as so often happens, lived in a certain section of Scranton, being very clannish in their habits. Hugh did not doubt but that he could easily learn just where the boy lived. He looked at him several times trying to remember where he could have seen the little fellow before, because there seemed to be something familiar about his face; but somehow he failed to connect him with any family he knew. When presently they entered the district where the colored folks had their homes, their coming created quite a flutter. To have a fine big car fetching a trio of colored children home was an event of importance. Boys and girls, and a sprinkling of older persons as well, hurried to ascertain what it could mean. Doubtless they were quick to sense the fact that something out of the common run must have occurred to cause such a happening. Hugh recognized an old man he knew as a preacher, and addressing himself to this person he hastened to explain. "These children were up at the old mill-pond, and the boy had made a raft on which he was having the time of his life, when the thing separated, and left him clinging to one plank where the water was quite deep. We chanced to hear the girls' screams and got to the spot in time to push out in an old boat and get hold of him just as he was sinking. He's a plucky little chap, I want to tell you. Only for the way he held on to that plank, he must have drowned before we could reach him. We dried his clothes at a fire we made, and have brought him home. I wish you would send for his mother, and tell her not to punish him. He's been very close to death, and has had a lesson he'll never forget." The old man took a look at the boy. "Why, it's sure enough little Brutus!" he exclaimed, as though just discovering this fact, for the boy had kept his face partly hidden, through shame and fear; then turning to some of the wide-eyed youngsters clustering around, the parson went on to say; "Here, you Adolphus Smith, run like the wind over to Madame Pangborn's and tell Sarah her boy needs her, because he's been in the pond; but be sure to let her know Brutus is all right!" The boy shot away like a flash, while Hugh turned and looked at Brutus again; for now he knew that he had seen him over at the Pangborn mansion. CHAPTER XVII LITTLE BRUTUS AND HIS "COLLECTION" It was not long before they discovered a woman running like mad toward the spot. Of course this was no other than Sarah, whose heart had been chilled by the news fetched by Adolphus Smith, the truth being considerably garbled, it is to be feared. She arrived panting, and with her eyes full of horror, as though she fully expected to find her darling Brutus lying there all wet and cold. Upon discovering the shrinking little form, she seized him in her arms, and dropping to the ground began rocking back and forth as she hugged him tight, meanwhile covering his ebony little face with motherly kisses. "Hebben be praised, I ain't done lost my Brutus after all. Dat 'Dolphus he skeered me nigh to death wif his stuttering story as how my chile be'n in de mill-pond. What's all dis row about, anyhow? I hopes none o' you folks done play a joke on me, dat's right. It'd be de wustest thing yuh eber done, let me tells yuh." The parson thereupon proceeded to tell her the real facts. Sarah hugged the rescued boy some more, and then on hearing how his life had been saved by the actions of two white boys, she looked up at Hugh and Thad. "Why, it am de young Morgan boy, glory, if it ain't!" she ejaculated, and Hugh was a little afraid the good woman, in her gratitude, might want to transfer her embraces from Brutus to him, so he held out his hand, with one of his smiles, saying: "We were only too glad to be on the spot and give the boy a helping hand, Sarah. I didn't know at the time he was your child, though that wouldn't have made any difference. We dried his clothes at a fire we made, and he's all right." Sarah, even as she squeezed Hugh's hand, was looking at Brutus out of the tail of her eye, as though an awful thought had just then burst upon her. "An' he hab on his bestest Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes, too. I done hopes dey ain't shrunk on him, so he cain't git in 'em agin. Dat clerk he nebber guarantee dat dey wouldn't creep up if de boy he done falls in de pond. But how did it happen, I'd like to know." Hugh thereupon took it upon himself to explain just how Brutus in trying to "show-off" before his little girl companions had ventured out too far, and managed to cause his raft to go to pieces. Sarah looked threatening, so Hugh hastened to "pour oil on troubled waters." "Brutus has suffered enough for punishment, I should think, Sarah," he told her. "He's had his lesson, and will never try anything like that again. You should be thankful it's no worse. Besides, let me tell you, he's a little hero. He fought like everything to save himself, and never let out so much as a cry. The girls did all the yelling. You ought to be proud of his grit." "That's right, you had, Sarah," added Thad, thinking it his duty to "put in an oar" so as to save Brutus from the "smacking" he seemed to be dreading. This sort of talk mollified the mother. She even looked proudly around at the clustering neighbors, for by now every denizen of Darktown had apparently been drawn to the spot, all wild to hear what had happened. Her look was in the shape of a challenge. It seemed to say: "Dere now, what do yuh good-for-nothin' coons think of my Brutus, after hearin' dese white boys say as how he's a real hero? Don't any ob yuh ebber ag'in ask me why I gives him dat name. Guess I knows my history, an' didn't I see it in him when he was a little baby? Dar ain't another hero in dis whole place, dat's right!" She turned to Hugh again. Brutus took advantage of his opportunity to creep over to another woman, who also petted him, and who the boys afterwards learned was his aunt, a washerwoman of the town. "Dat boy he ain't like de rest of de kids, I wants yuh to know, Marse Morgan," she was saying, eagerly. "All de boys 'round heah dey spends dere time aplayin' in de street, or agittin' into trouble. My Brutus he's different. Jest yuh come wif me an' see how he done play all by hisself. I'd like yuh to know he ain't a wuthless little rascal, dat chile." Hugh seemed about to beg Sarah to let them off, but Thad, for some reason, perhaps just through mere curiosity, hastened to say: "Come on, let's take a peek, Hugh. I've got an engagement in a short time, but this'll only take a few minutes. We're some interested in Brutus, you know. I guess he's bound to make a name for himself some day." So they followed Sarah as she led the way to a nearby cottage. "Dat's whar we libs, me an' Brutus and my sister, Nancy, her as takes in washin' six days in de week, an' teaches de infant class in Sunday school on de seventh day. Yuh see we done got a cabin in de rear where Nancy she washes. So we fits up one end fo' Brutus' playhouse, same as de white chillun dey hab playhouses in de yard. He sets dar most ob de day a havin' de time o' his life playin' sojer with de buttons, and settin' out his Noah's Ark animals. I allers knowed dat boy was different from de rest o' de kids. Parson Brown, he say he sure enough hab de makin' o' a good preacher in him, fo' he talks by de hour to his toys." So Hugh and Thad had a look-in. They found everything in order, showing that Nancy was not slovenly about her work. The tubs were hung on the wall, and a basket of soiled clothes standing ready for the next day's washing. Over at the far end of the cabin was the special precinct devoted to Brutus and his toys. Hugh glanced at the accumulation. He saw that the boy was one of those who love to accumulate things. He had numerous little assortments of curious articles, picked up here and there, all of which had excited his love for collecting. Thad was heard to chuckle as though he found it quite amusing; but he turned this off with a cough as Sarah glanced inquiringly toward him. "Yuh see how dat boy he spend his time," the proud mother went on to say. "Right here he play and play de whole blessed day long. He ain't nebber done tired o' talkin' to his toys, and asettin' o' 'em in lines like dey was in school. I always hab an idea in my head Brutus, he either make a good parson or else he bound to be a school teacher, I ain't zactly made up my mind yet which it'll be." "It's plain to be seen, Sarah," said Hugh, as he turned away, "that your boy is different. I certainly hope he'll grow up to be a man you'll be proud of. You won't punish him for what happened today, will you? We promised him we'd ask you to go easy with him; he was dreadfully alarmed about his clothes, and seemed to think more about them than that his life had been in deadly peril." "Bless yuh, honey, I ain't meanin' to do the leastest thing to dat sweet chile. Clothes kin be boughten agin, but I never'd be able to git anudder Brutus. But if he goes out to dat drefful mill-pond agin, I'm feared I'll have to skin him, and dat's a fact." So the two chums strolled on, heading for another part of the town. Both of them had been highly edified by what they saw and heard in the colored settlement. "I'd like to ask you one thing, though, Thad; what were you chuckling at while we were in that cabin that shares the honors of a wash-house with Brutus and his wonderful collection of toys?" "Oh! something struck me as funny, that's all, Hugh. The fact is, just when Sarah was prophesying all those wonderful things that might be in store for Brutus, from being a great soldier, or an eloquent parson who could frighten people into repenting of their sins, I took stock of all that junk the boy's gone and collected, and do you know, I was thinking that the chances were he'd make a successful hustler in the 'rags, old iron, old clothes' line, when he grew up." Hugh also laughed on hearing that. "Nobody can tell," he went on to say. "The veil of the future hides such things from our mortal eyes, as Dominie Pettigrew said the other Sunday. Brutus may turn out to be a wonder; and again there's a chance of his being only an ordinary day laborer." "Well, if he keeps on taking risks just to show off before the girls," observed Thad, drily, "I rather guess he won't grow up at all, but die young. But I'll leave you here, Hugh, as I have a date with some one for half-past four this afternoon." "Oh! is that so?" chuckled the other; "well, go along, and don't bother making excuses. I wouldn't have you break an appointment with Ivy for anything." "You're away off this time, Hugh, for it happens that it isn't Ivy Middleton, or any other slip of a girl," Thad hastened to say. He did not offer to explain, and the other thought he looked somewhat mysterious; but while his curiosity may have been slightly aroused, Hugh did not feel justified in making any further inquiries. If Thad did not wish to tell him, it was all right; even between chums there may be little secrets. "I may see you later on, though," Thad added, as he was turning away; "that is, if I'm successful in my errand." Which remark further aroused the wonder of his comrade, who could not imagine what Thad had in mind. Hugh went home, and picking up a book he was reading, proceeded to renew his interest in the story. Half an hour slipped away in this fashion. Then he heard a jolly whistle down on the street, which he knew full well. Sure enough, it was Thad coming hurriedly toward the Morgan home. He discovered Hugh at the window and waved his hand. Even at that distance Hugh saw his face was flushed, just as his manner was buoyant. "Now I wonder what that boy has been up to," Hugh said to himself, as he awaited the coming of Thad; but cudgel his brain as he might, Hugh never once suspected the errand of his chum could have anything to do with the solving of the puzzle that was assuming all the characteristics of a heavy burden on his, Hugh's, shoulders. Thad presently burst in upon him, for he knew the way to Hugh's den, and thought nothing of going in and out of the Morgan house as though he belonged there. Hugh motioned to a chair. "Sit down and cool off," he told Thad. "You look all heated up, as if you'd been running fast." "Well, so I have, part of the way," gasped the other; "and it's quite some distance out to the Rookery, you must remember." "What's that?" exclaimed Hugh; "do you mean to say your appointment was with Owen Dugdale after all?" "Shucks! no, but with his old grandfather," snickered Thad. "Owen's gone off for the afternoon with Mr. Leonard in the athletic instructor's flivver, and paying a visit to Barton. I knew about that when I called Mr. Dugdale up around noon today, for he has a telephone, it happens, and told him I'd accept his invitation to drop in again to chat with him, and would be over by about four. Well, in the language of Alexander, or some other old worthy of ancient times, it was _veni, vidi, vici_ with me; I came, I saw, I conquered! What do you think of that, Hugh?" With the words he suddenly drew something from a pocket and held it in front of his companion's nose. It was a souvenir spoon, one of unique pattern, Hugh saw, and he had a thrill as he comprehended just what it might mean. CHAPTER XVIII A STRAIGHT DRIVE FOR THE TRUTH "So, you stole Owen's spoon, did you?" Hugh said, reprovingly. Thad made a gesture as though he thought his chum was putting it hard. "I simply borrowed it, that's all, Hugh," he hastened to explain. "Of course I haven't any use for souvenir spoons, or any other kind of spoons, either, for that matter. I was tired of all this beating around the bush, and made a straight drive to find out the truth. Either that boy is innocent, or else he's guilty, and now we can learn which it is." "What do you plan to do, now you have the spoon?" demanded Hugh. "Why," explained Thad, "I thought perhaps you'd agree to take me over to call on Madame Pangborn, even if it is Sunday. The better the day the better the deed; and our main object would be to solve the horrible mystery that's been hanging over poor Owen's head all this while, even if he doesn't know about it. What do you say to that, Hugh?" The other boy seemed to consider, while Thad watched his face eagerly. It was just like Thad to go directly at the heart of the matter, for his was rather an impetuous nature. After all, perhaps it might be the easiest way in which to settle the question. Hugh at least would be glad to lay his burden down, for it had been an uphill fight all the way. Besides, there was so much need of his being able to pay full attention to baseball matters, with the first game only six days off, that he would welcome any means for winding up his self-appointed task. "Well, it might be best to drop in on the old lady and have her identify that spoon as one of her set," he finally observed. "Once that fact was established, we would have some solid foundation to build on. As it is now, we're just groping in the dark." "Then you agree, do you, Hugh?" "Call it a bargain, Thad. I'll take you around to call on the old lady. She's a nice soul, and will be glad to see us. In fact, when we were talking about a number of things the last time I was in her house, and I chanced to mention your name, she asked me to fetch you around sometime. Of course she knows who you are, but I guess you've never really met her. She's a wonderful old woman, and heart and soul bent on getting all sorts of comforts for the wounded soldiers of her beloved la belle France." Thad looked greatly pleased. "Then let's be starting out right away," he suggested. "It might be, Owen would get home before he expected to, and I'd a heap sooner he wasn't around when we were on our way to the Pangborn house. Somehow, I'd hate to look the boy in the face after doing what I did; though you understand it was done in the hope of clearing up this awful puzzle." "No need of saying that, Thad, because I know what your feelings are. My plan would have been to pick up the spoon incidentally, and admire it. Then it would be easy to tell from the manner of Mr. Dugdale whether he knew where it came from. I don't suppose you thought to do anything like that, now?" "Why, no," came the reply; "for you see, I'd laid out my plan of campaign, and wanted to hew close to the line. The quickest way to settle the whole matter, according to my calculations, was to just show the old lady the spoon, and ask her if it was one of the missing ones. But please get a move on you, Hugh. I'm fairly quivering with suspense, because I somehow feel that we're on the verge of making a big discovery." "Perhaps we are," his chum told him, without any show of elation, "but if it convicts Owen Dugdale of this thing, I'll be mighty sorry." He led the way downstairs, and secured his cap from the rack. Then the two lads hurried out of the front door, heading in the direction of the big house where the old French lady lived, and which had lately been turned into a sort of general headquarters for the Red Cross workers. There some of the ladies of Scranton could be found day after day, sewing and packing such garments as had been brought in, so that they might be sent across the sea to the country where the brave poilus were in the trenches defending their native land against the aggressor, and slowly but surely pressing the Teutonic hosts back toward the border. "I'm going to ask you a favor, Hugh," remarked Thad, presently, as they drew near their intended destination. "Go ahead and ask it, then," he was told. "Let me run this little game, won't you, please--that is, I mean, allow me to introduce the subject of souvenir spoons, and then show the old lady the one I've got in my pocket right now?" "That seems only fair," Hugh assured him. "Since you've taken it on yourself to crib that spoon from Owen's den, it's up to you to do the honors. I'll only be too glad to have you do most of the talking. Yes, and about the time you flash that thing in front of her eyes I'll be shivering for fear we learn the worst." "Nothing like heroic treatment when you've got a cancer gnawing at your vitals, as surgeons all say," remarked Thad, rather pompously. "I'm aiming at the bull's-eye now, you understand. It's going to win or lose, and no more tom-foolery about it." When Hugh rang the door-bell, it was Sarah who answered, showing that she had not lingered very long at home after the boys left, but had returned to her duties with the madame, who doubtless paid extravagant wages for her services. She smiled broadly at sight of them. "I sure is glad to see yuh agin, bofe ob yous," she said. "I done tells de missus all 'bout hit, and she says as how it was on'y what she'd spect of dat young Mistah Morgan." "Thank you for telling me that, Sarah," Hugh went on to say; "it's pleasant to know some one thinks well of you. Is Mrs. Pangborn at leisure? I hope she isn't taking a nap just now?" "Deedy she ain't dat, suh; she's on'y readin' in de library. An' she be mighty glad tuh see yous bofe." So she led the way along the wide hall, to usher the boys into the commodious library. Bookcases lined the walls, and it seemed to be an ideal place, where a student might enjoy himself very much indeed. Just then, however, there were several sewing machines shoved aside, and much evidence to the effect that on weekdays this same library might be a beehive of industry, with women chattering as they sewed. The old lady looked surprised at seeing them, but the welcoming smile and the extended hand were evidence that she was not displeased. "I've taken the liberty of fetching my chum, Thad Stevens, around to see you, Mrs. Pangborn," Hugh was saying as he sat down. "You've heard me talk of him more than a few times; and even expressed the wish that I might introduce him to you. He's interested in nearly everything that concerns me, and we seem to work together like a well-ordered team, even if we do have an occasional little spat, which is to be expected." Madame Pangborn loved boys, as has been said before. She understood them wonderfully well, too, considering that she had never had one of her own. So she laughed at what Hugh said. "I'm doubly glad you have dropped in to see me today, Hugh," she told him, "for more reasons than one. In the first place, I want to hear at first hand just what did happen out there at that terrible mill-pond; and how you managed to save that little boy of my Sarah from drowning. He sometimes comes here with her to spend a part of a day, and I like to talk with him, he seems so original, so bright, and so curious about everything I possess, too." "Oh! it didn't amount to very much, so far as we were concerned, I mean," Hugh expostulated; "but since Sarah has told you about it, I suppose I might as well spin the whole story. We consider that we were lucky to be around, that's all, for I guess little Brutus would have been with the angels before now if we hadn't happened along, and heard all that shrieking from the colored children." Then he went on to tell about it, even to what had happened after Brutus arrived home in the big car, the object of attention in Darktown, with Sarah running like mad to find out what the garbled account brought by Adolphus Smith might really mean. The old lady was highly interested in the story, which really Hugh managed to tell quite cleverly, even injecting some humor in his narrative. "So that is how Sarah comes to be calling her Brutus a hero, is it?" Mrs. Pangborn went on to say, with a smile. "I had never heard her say such a word before, and considered it rather queer in a mother whose child had been close to drowning. According to my mind, you and your chum are really the ones most deserving of that title; but I'll spare your blushes, young men. Now tell me what you are doing in the line of outdoor sports; because I hear there are great goings on around this section of country; and I suppose I must give up next Saturday afternoon to journeying over to Belleville, in order to encourage our valiant Scranton High boys." Both of them started telling of the things that were being done in a baseball way; and as they were enthusiasts, they found it easy to enlarge upon such a favorite theme. Thad, however, had begun to show signs of nervousness, and Hugh suddenly remembering that they had come there with a particular motive in view, drew out of the conversation, leaving it to his chum to carry it on with the old lady. Thad only waited for a favorable opening, when he was ready to "sail in." This came when the Madame chanced to mention her travels in many lands, and the fond memories she had of all her visits. "But when I shall eventually return to my beloved France," she remarked sadly, "I anticipate many a heartache to see the terrible condition of the fair country that has been turned into a howling wilderness by the vandal German armies. Ah! I almost dread the day, much as I yearn to tread my native soil again." "My chum was telling me that you had quite a collection of queer souvenir spoons," Thad remarked just then, thinking he had found just such an opening as he wished. Madame Pangborn shot Hugh a suggestive look, as if wondering how far he had confided in his chum. "Yes, it is true, I have taken considerable pleasure collecting spoons in some of the many cities I visited, all of them wonderfully unique," she went on to say, with a sigh; "but perhaps, after all, it is a useless and pernicious habit, since it may tempt some weak one, and cause trouble." Then Thad brought out what he had in his pocket. Hugh held his breath. "Please take a look at this spoon, will you, Mrs. Pangborn," said Thad, "and tell me if you have ever seen one like it before!" She gave the speaker a quick, suspicious look, and eagerly took the little object. For a minute or so she turned it over and over, while the two boys were quivering with suspense. Then she spoke. "Ah! quite a charming specimen of Old English silver workmanship, and I must say it is exceedingly handsome; but it represents a city in which I never happened to set foot," with which she handed the spoon back to Thad, who almost dropped it to the floor, such was his sudden sensation of intense relief. CHAPTER XIX HUGH REACHES HIS GOAL Thad Stevens looked as though any one could knock him down with a feather. The astonishing fact that the old lady who made a fad of collecting souvenir spoons, had failed to recognize the one which he had purloined from Owen's den "struck him all in a heap," as he afterwards expressed it. Why, that would seem to indicate Owen must be entirely innocent, so far as proof went. Hugh, on his part, was quicker to recover. Although he felt a spasm of sincere satisfaction pass through him at the result of his chum's test, at the same time he realized that there was no necessity for making "mountains out of molehills." Madame Pangborn had instantly surmised that there was more connected with that odd little silver spoon than she had as yet grasped. Indeed, having good eyesight, she could hardly have failed to notice the strange actions of Thad. "Tell me what it all means, please, Thad," she besought him; "for I am certain you must have some deeper motive in fetching that souvenir spoon to show me than appears on the surface. Don't you think I am entitled to your full confidence?" "Indeed you are," said Hugh, quickly, "and you shall hear the whole story. Both of us are right now tingling with satisfaction and delight because our worst fears have proved ungrounded." Then he went on to explain just how Thad had by accident become a temporary guest under the roof of the Rookery, after having helped old Mr. Dugdale to the house when he was seized with a sudden attack of sciatica in one of his lower limbs. It did not take Hugh, with an occasional sentence of explanation from his eager chum, who wanted to be set right in the eyes of the good madame, long to tell how Thad chanced to discover the spoon among many other things in Owen's "den," and what a host of fears its presence there had aroused in their breasts. Then he reached the point in his narrative where Thad conceived the bold idea of appropriating the spoon during Owen's absence, and letting the old lady see the same, knowing full well that if she recognized it as one of her missing souvenir mementoes, the case would look exceedingly dark for Owen. Madame Pangborn's face took on a radiant look after she had learned all. "I have never been able to believe that boy could be guilty of such an atrocious deed," she hastened to say, emphatically. "I flatter myself that I can read boys as well as any one, and in his eyes there lies only truth, and an ardent desire to accomplish great things that have long been burning in his soul. But, nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence was so strong that it has caused me some sleepless nights. Now I know Owen is innocent, I shall be satisfied. I would sooner lose all my spoons ten times over than find that he had yielded to a sudden and irresistible temptation." "But," said Thad, in sore perplexity, "the three spoons are gone, there's no doubt about that; and if Owen didn't take them who did?" "Please let the matter drop," expostulated the old lady, hastily. "I am satisfied to know the boy is innocent. I shall immediately put the rest of my spoons away, so that they may not tempt any one again." "But it wouldn't be right to give the hunt up so easily as that, you know, lady," complained Thad. "We've started in to find the thief, and our motto is never to turn back once we've put our hands to the plough. Hugh, don't you say the same?" "I certainly do," affirmed the other boy. "And while about it, perhaps I ought to tell Mrs. Pangborn how I at one time even began to imagine the thief was a thing of green and yellow feathers, and a hooked bill, otherwise known as Pretty Polly." At that, the old lady seemed highly interested. "Oh! such a thought never occurred to me, Hugh!" she hastily exclaimed. "Could it be possible, do you think?" and she glanced apprehensively toward the corner of the library, where the handsome and intelligent parrot sat on her perch, chained by the leg, and with her yellow-crowned head turned on one side as though she might be listening to all that was being said. "It is a bare possibility," Hugh went on to say. "A whole lot would depend on whether Polly chanced to get free during those particular days when the spoons disappeared. As to whether a bird like that would carry away such things, and hide them, there's lots of accounts of such things happening. I'll tell you of a few instances I've read about, and every one was vouched for as absolutely true in the bargain." So for some little time he amused and interested the old lady with accounts of strange things various species of pet birds, from rooks and ravens, all the way to talking parrots, had been guilty, in the way of stealing bright articles of jewelry, and trinkets that seemed to have caught their fancy, hiding them away in some cranny or nook, where the whole collection was afterwards found. "I may have read something along those lines myself at some time or other, Hugh," she told him, as he concluded, "but it slipped my mind. Whether Polly is guilty of petty larceny or not, after this, I shall be more careful than ever about keeping her fast to her perch by that long chain. There is no telling what a wise old bird of her nature might not attempt, given freedom. I sometimes think she has a little devil in her, when she says something wonderful, and looks so droll. But you have given me a very happy half hour, for which I thank you both." Thad kept glancing toward Hugh as though he was puzzled as to what further action his chum meant to take in the case. For accustomed to reading the expression on Hugh's face, he seemed to realize that the other had some "card up his sleeve" which he meant to play. "Hadn't we better be going, Hugh?" he now asked. "Right away," came the reply, "for it's getting near six o'clock, and Mrs. Pangborn will be having her tea soon." "I do have it a little earlier on Sunday, because I allow Sarah to go home," admitted the old lady. "She is a great hand to attend church, you know, and I believe sings in the choir like a lark. I often hear her practicing down in the kitchen while cooking dinner. But I'd be delighted if you boys could stay and take a bite with me." "Thank you, ma'am," said Hugh, "another time we'd be only too glad to accept your invitation; but I must be home tonight. What time do you suppose Sarah would be at her house? I want to see her about her little shaver Brutus, and find out if his ducking did him any harm, and thought I'd walk around later in the evening." "You are apt to find Sarah at home up to a quarter of eight. After that she will be in her place in the colored church," he was told. Then the boys took their leave. On the way home, Thad expressed some curiosity concerning the visit Hugh proposed making to Sarah's home. "Do you really think that boy might come down with pneumonia, or something like that on account of being in the water, Hugh?" he asked, at which the other smiled mysteriously and replied: "Oh! the water is still pretty chilly, you know, Thad; and the child was so terribly frightened that he might feel the result of his immersion, even if we did make a fire, and dry his clothes well. Besides, I've dropped my pocket knife, and I've a little idea it was while we looked through that playhouse of Brutus'. But suppose you stop asking questions, and agree to accompany me when I make my little call on Sarah this evening?" "Oh! all right, Hugh, I'll go with you," complained Thad, "but I know as well as anything you've got some queer notion back of it all, which you don't mean to share with me. But remember that Madame Pangborn told you she would trust Sarah with her purse or her life, she has such confidence in the woman." "I haven't forgotten," said Hugh, quietly. "I know what I'm doing. You show up around seven or a quarter after, and we'll take a little walk. Perhaps we might pick up a few facts worth while before we come back; stranger things have happened than that, Thad." "You are the limit," laughed the other, as he swung aside and headed for his own house, doubtless to ponder over the mysterious words of Hugh many times while eating his supper on that Sunday evening. It was just dark as he started across lots toward Hugh's home; for there was a short-cut which they frequently made use of--trust boys for cutting off corners whenever it is possible, even if they have to vault fences in order to reduce distances. All the way out to the colored settlement, Hugh kept up an unusually lively flow of talk. He knew Thad was fairly itching to ask questions, and apparently Hugh did not mean to let him have a chance. So they finally entered among the humble cottages and cabins where Scranton's colored population lived. Children were running about the streets shouting in play, even as the first peal of the cracked bell in the little church near by began to sound. Sarah was at home. She seemed surprised to see the two white boys. "How's little Brutus, Sarah?" asked Hugh. "Oh! he's all hunky-dory, suh, 'deed an' he is," she replied with a smile. "I done jest gib him his supper, and chucked de chile in his bed. An' I ain't put a hand on him neither. Jes' as yuh sez he done hab a lesson; but I tells him if he ebber goes to dat ere mill-pond agin I lays fo' him, and makes him smart like fun." "I'm sorry to trouble you, Sarah, but I've dropped my knife somewhere, and remembered having taken it out of my pocket when you were showing us Brutus' playhouse. Would you mind getting a lamp, and going back there just to take a look around. I value that knife a lot, and would hate to lose it. We won't keep you from church more than a few minutes at most." "Sure I will, suh. I'd do a thousand times as much fo' de white boys as sabed my baby fo' me dis berry day." She quickly secured a lamp, and led the way back in the yard. Thad was beginning to show signs of nervousness. He realized that Hugh must be playing some sort of a game, and yet strange to say he was unable to fathom it. Arriving at the old cabin used partly as a wash-house, and with the rear devoted to Brutus' "playthings," they entered. Sarah held the lamp while Hugh started to scan the floor earnestly, moving around as he looked. All at once he stooped and picked something up. "Well, I was right in believing I dropped my knife in here, for you see, I've found it again. Why, what's this?" He bent over again, and from a receptacle in a queer old fragment of a desk that had a number of pigeon-holes in it, Hugh plucked something and held it before the eyes of the others. Then he made another movement, and _three_ shining objects lay there in his hand. Thad gasped and stared. He was looking on the missing souvenir spoons! As for the amazed Sarah, it was a blessing that she did not let the lamp fall from her nerveless hand as she burst forth with: "Fo' de lands sake, if dem ain't some oh de old missis' spoons; dat good-fo'-nothin' brack imp must a' snuck one ebbery time I takes him to visit de lady. Oh! he kotch it fo' dis, you better belieb me!" CHAPTER XX LOOKING FORWARD--CONCLUSION There could be no doubt about the genuine nature of the horror and indignation, as well as shame, that struggled for the mastery in the mind of the astonished colored woman. To learn that her little boy had abused her confidence whenever she took him visiting her good mistress was a shocking revelation. She also looked furiously angry, and it was evident that the said Brutus would receive due punishment on account of his propensity for purloining things that belonged to others, just to add to his "collection." The thing that struck Hugh as bordering on the comical was that even a small colored boy might have the same mania for gathering "trophies" of his visits that possessed Madame Pangborn. He felt that the good lady would herself be amused at the coincidence, and be ready to forgive little Brutus. He proceeded to show Sarah that it would be entirely unnecessary to let any one know what had happened. There would be no exposure, and she need not be "disgraced" in the eyes of her neighbors. Hugh would simply return the spoons to their owner, who certainly would never hold it against Sarah. But after that, should Brutus be invited to the old lady's house, his actions would be carefully watched lest his acquisitive propensities again get the better of his honesty. Thad was highly delighted with the result of their "raid" on Brutus' playhouse. On the way to Madame Pangborn's, he boldly accused his chum of having set up a little game. "Now I wouldn't be at all surprised, Hugh," he went on to say, "if you dropped your knife in that cabin on purpose when we were looking around this afternoon; own up and tell me if that isn't true." "Yes, I did," admitted the other, laughingly. "Now that the thing has turned out even better than I dared hope, I'm willing to confess that a sudden suspicion gripped me about that time. When I saw what an astonishing assortment of old junk that boy had collected, I knew he had a mania for picking up things. And the idea struck me that since he sometimes was allowed to stay for an afternoon with his mother at Madame Pangborn's house, what if the temptation came to him to take one of those pretty spoons to add to his assortment? Why, the more I thought of the idea the stronger it hit me. On the impulse of the moment I dropped my knife, so as to have a good excuse for getting out there again, and prowling around a bit. I didn't want to mention a thing even to you until I had proved whether there was any truth in my new suspicion. And it turned out splendidly." "Oh! I'm so glad, for Owen's sake particularly!" declared Thad. "Now I must manage to get this spoon back in his den without his ever suspecting I took it; but that ought to be easy. I hope he never knows he was under suspicion, because he's very proud, and it would hurt him terribly." "What makes me think a near-miracle has been performed," added Hugh, soberly, "is the way all this came about. Only for our taking that walk we wouldn't have been near Hobson's mill-pond at just the minute little Brutus was struggling in the water, and so been able to pull him out. That in turn took us to his home; and his mother had to dip in by wanting us to see how her precious pickaninny played with his toys back in the old cabin. It's wonderful, that's all I can say." "But, Hugh, you deserve all the credit," affirmed Thad. "In the first place, you took this heavy task on your shoulders, and started to find out who was guilty of robbing your good old friend, Madame Pangborn. It's been an uphill fight from the start, but here we've reached the finish in a blaze of glory. But won't the old lady be astonished when we show her the spoons, and tell her just how they were found." She certainly was, and made them go into the most particular details concerning the matter. Just as wise Hugh had believed would be the case, she did not blame Sarah in the least; nor did she declare the little chap would surely grow up to be a disgrace to his mother. Her kindly heart knew the failings of small boys better than to condemn a child for a weakness. She did say she would have a good talk with Sarah, and advise her as to how she should try to train Brutus so that this very trait might serve to his credit instead of being always a weakness. "And as for Owen," she concluded, "I am more than ever satisfied that his is a sterling character. I want to see more of that boy; and I'm determined to make the acquaintance of his grandfather. I feel absolutely certain that the old gentleman has been misunderstood by thoughtless people in Scranton; and from little hints Owen has dropped, I fully believe it will turn out that Mr. Dugdale is a man of some consequence, perhaps even renown, in his own country; though just why he left it, and has been living in retirement here these two years, is a matter that concerns only himself. But you boys have acquitted yourselves handsomely in this affair, and brought me much happiness. Come and see me often; you will always find my latch-string out to Hugh Morgan and Thad Stevens." So they went home with hearts that beat high in the exuberance of their joy. The puzzling enigma had been fully solved, and just as they would have wished it to come out. Now Hugh could put all other matters aside and devote his spare time to his work as field captain of the newly organized Scranton High Baseball Team. Only a few days remained before their first grand game would be played with the Belleville nine, and well they knew that they must acquit themselves handsomely on the diamond if they hoped to bring a victory home with them, and to cause Scranton, so long drowsing in a Rip Van Winkle sleep, to awaken and whoop for joy. Other problems would possibly present themselves to Hugh Morgan for solution from time to time, as he pursued his onward way; but it can be set down as certain that a lad of his sagacity and determination was bound to attain his goal, once he started out. And with that ambitious programme of outdoor sports ahead of them, it can be safely assumed there would be glorious doings in and around the town of Scranton, starting on the following Saturday, when, packing their kits, and donning their new uniforms, the high-school team set out to invade the lair of the tiger in neighboring Belleville. Just what they accomplished in the good old summer time will be found narrated between the covers of the next volume in this series of books, now on sale under the suggestive title of "The Chums of Scranton High in the Three-Town League; or, Out for a Baseball Pennant." 
50889	----	Half Past Alligator By DONALD COLVIN Illustrated by BARTH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It takes sportsmanship to make a ball team ... and foul play to get a backward race civilized! Bill Bradley shooed away the group of Quxas that had surged over the first-base line. With broad grins on their flat, piebald faces, they moved away--in the wrong direction, of course--and squatted in a smiling semicircle around Pat Reed, who was playing third. This was bad, because Reed was a fifty-fifty player: It was an even chance whether he got the ball or the ball got him. One of the half-domesticated thrags broke loose and cantered across the outfield with its peculiar five-legged gait. In the hubbub, Ray Bush stole second. Nobody seemed to notice. Sighing heavily, Bill returned to the mound and whiplashed in a fast one, tight across the letters. The hitter got only a small piece of it; a pop fly sauntered toward left field. Judging it to a nicety, Gust Mustas came racing in, evaded a tethered thrag, leaped a hole some Quxa had dug and forgotten, and made a shoestring catch, retiring the side. The Quxas cheered deliriously. Bill trotted off the mound. For a moment, the thrill of the game held him. This was the way things should be: The feel of smoothly flowing muscles, the thudding sound of horsehide hitting a leather glove, the weight of a bat in your hands in your first ball game after clambering over and scrabbling in an unexplored planet for fourteen months. Then he caught sight of Candace Mathews, walking among the pneuma-huts that served as the outpost camp for the expedition. Gloom enveloped him again, surrounding him like a dank fog. * * * * * For fourteen long months, Bill had feasted on the memory of Candy Mathews, on his recollection of her turquoise eyes and cascading brown hair, on the remembrance of her soft lips on his last night under the four moons of Vensor III. Today she had arrived with the seventy-odd men and women who comprised the appraisal unit, the final group of the planet's explorers. He had looked forward like a schoolboy to her coming. And, like a schoolboy, he had suffered black despair when his dreams were shattered. For the Candy Mathews who got off the shuttlebug at Camp Outpost was not the Candy Mathews who had said soft words on Vensor III. She was, instead, a self-assured young woman, somehow harder, who felt only an indifferent tolerance toward a tall young man named Bill Bradley, and an all-consuming, hero-worshipping infatuation for a newcomer, a dapper walking brain, Vance Montgomery, one of the council's smart boys, with the title of planet evaluator. "He's simply wonderful," she had said. And the joy of life had gone out of Bill Bradley. The appraisal group brought in athletic equipment and Bill's men spontaneously declared a holiday, their first on the planet. Baseball was the order of the afternoon and they shanghaied a not unwilling Bill to pitch. He should, he knew, be laying out reports for Montgomery to study. He did not particularly want to be with Montgomery. Bill sat on the xetal log that served as a bench. One Quxa was bent over, examining first base. He made a colorful sight. The first baseman slapped him jovially on the loin cloth to move him. The owner of the thrag caught up to it and was struggling manfully to lead it away. The five-legged beast defied his efforts, rearing and dragging him. A dozen Quxas stood nearby. Their sympathies were obviously with their fellow-Quxa, but they made no move to help him. Reed was on the bench next to Bill. He had come in with the appraisal group. "Your vivid friends," he said, cocking a thumb at the Quxas, "don't appear too bright." "They're smart enough," said Bill. "Almost as intelligent as we are. It's just that they've never risen above a herd culture." "Look," said Reed. "I'm a silviculturist. Give me a hunk of wood and I can tell how long it took to grow, what it's good for, where it can be raised and how much board and profit can be made out of it. But this kind of talk throws me. Try another wave-length." "Socially, they're like the seals or penguins back on Earth. They like to gather in groups. The things they can do individually, they do well. But they don't know how to help each other. That's beyond them." "Don't understand the meaning of cooperation?" "The word isn't even in their language. I've seen forty of them standing around, fretting and stewing, while the horals killed off one of their fellows." "What are horals?" "The other dominant life-form here. Nasty brutes, like big upright ants with tentacles. Stand about as high as my chest. Most malignant things I've seen. One Quxa can handle any horal, maybe even two or three. But the horals hunt in packs. Good-by Quxa." "Killing them off, are they?" "This is the last big concentration the Quxas have left. In another hundred years, there'll be no more Quxas." * * * * * They looked again at the natives. The Quxas were something to see--human in form, although somewhat shorter than Earthmen; their skins were blotched and dashed with patches of vivid colors. Antiquarians talked of their resemblance to the ancient circus clowns, a likeness furthered by their broad, flat faces and habitual grins. "Sort of hate to see them disappear," Bill said glumly. "They're happy, good-natured creatures. In their whole race, I know only one who's mean. We've done our best to help them. But if they won't cooperate even in a matter of life and death, what incentive can you offer them?" An elbow dug into him. "Up to the platter, dream boy," said Gust Mustas. "A hit means two runs." Selecting a bat, Bill made his way to the plate. In the middle distance, Vance Montgomery emerged from a hut. Candy went to him eagerly, put a hand on his arm. A deep rage engulfed Bill. The first pitch was a curve that failed to break. As it came fatly over the plate, Bill swung angrily. The ball rocketed up and away, past the infield, over the head of the desperately running left-fielder and dropped toward a sure home run. Then a curious thing happened. One of the Quxas darted away from the gabbling group along the foul line, his short legs churning over the uneven ground. As the ball sank, he dove, plucked it out of the air with one broad hand, turned a somersault and came up with it, grinning. It was an impossible catch and the Earthmen joined the Quxas in applause. Still clinging to the ball, the Quxa made little bobbing bows of acknowledgment. "Throw it in!" shouted Bill. The Quxa stood motionless. "Throw it in, Adlaa!" Bill urged. He went through a throwing motion. The Quxa nodded comprehension. He went into a violent wind-up. His left foot came up, his upper body went back, his right arm snapped in an arc. The ball flew from his hand, straight and fast. In the wrong direction, of course. The pack of Quxas pelted after it, shouting, picked it up and threw again. To his surprise, Bill found himself pounding after them, bawling fruitless pleas, aware that he looked foolish, but, in his rage, not caring. He closed in on them on the fifth throw and his fingertips touched the ball. He succeeded only in deflecting it. There was a dull _thunk_ and the game was over. The ball had struck Vance Montgomery, planet evaluator, squarely in the left eye. Three things were said then to Bill Bradley. One was by Montgomery as he handed back the ball. "I was not aware, Bradley, that the job of camp leader entailed joining the rowdyism of the native races." One was by Candy Mathews, hopping with anger. "You're a barbarian, Bill Bradley. Monty might have been badly hurt." The third was by a clot of Quxas, crowding eagerly. "Play ball! Billbrad, more play ball!" To the first two, Bill did not reply. To the Quxas, he said one word, "Nuts!" and dolefully followed Montgomery into the headquarters hut. * * * * * In spite of his natural prejudice against Montgomery, Bill was forced into a reluctant admiration for the way the man worked. Montgomery's task was to recommend whether the planet should be marked for immediate colonization, placed on a reserve list for future expansion, or be left strictly alone as unworthy of occupancy. He tore through Bill's reports like a small child through a bag of jellybeans. His questions, if pompous, were pointed. Within twenty-four hours, ready to leave for the main camp, he called a conference. He stood before the group, as dapper as a man can be with a rainbow bruise under one eye, complacently listening to the resonance of his own voice. Beside him, Candy nodded worshipful agreement. Bill grumped in a corner. For a full forty-five minutes, Montgomery outlined additional data he wanted gathered. His voice was faintly chiding, implying by its tone that anybody but a dolt would have obtained the information long ago. "And now," he said, "we come to the question of the humanoid denizens of this planet--the so-called Quxas." He fingered his black eye. "Many persons might conclude that the Quxas are not worth saving; and in themselves, they are not. However, my preliminary conclusions--based, unfortunately, on insufficient data--lead me to believe that this planet will be used for colonization in about five hundred years. It would be very convenient then to have a dominant life-form friendly to the galactic humans and capable of being integrated with the colonists. Some method of preserving the Quxas must therefore be worked out. In this, the advance group has failed lamentably." He paused, glanced around triumphantly. "How do I propose to achieve this? By a historical method. What do nations do when they are in peril? They call upon a single man, place themselves under him and let him lead them out. When the ancient western civilization was in its greatest danger after the fall of Rome, the people gathered around the strong men, made them kings and dukes and earls, and were saved from barbarism. "I shall do the same for the Quxas. The Quxas shall have a king." His eyes sought out Bill. "My acquaintance here has been short. I must rely on advice. Bradley, whom would you recommend as king of the Quxas?" "Well," said Bill slowly, "Moahlo is the most intelligent. He's good-natured and kindly. He has a lot of artistic ability. Some of his carvings are being taken back for the Galactic Folk Museum." "An artist!" said Montgomery in disgust. "Well, let's have a look at him." * * * * * Moahlo was finishing a figurine near one of the meandering paths that the Quxas had worn by habit, not design. A bemused group of natives looked on admiringly. Down the path came Ratakka, the biggest of the Quxas, his shoulders proudly back, his face set in the truculent scowl. Bill knew and disliked him, and apprehensively felt sure the peaceful scene would be destroyed. Alone of an amiable, tolerant race, Ratakka was perpetually ill-tempered, the rankling product of Lord knew what alien genetic accident or trauma. Ratakka found his path obstructed by the carving. Callously, he brought his foot down on the delicate figurine, crushing it to splinters. Moahlo sprang up in gentle protest. Ratakka gave him the back of a meaty hand that knocked him off his feet. Two spectators indicated disapproval. Ratakka smashed their heads together and strode on. "To save a culture, Bradley," said Montgomery, who had watched the brutal display with admiration, "you need strength, not delicacy or feeling. That man shall be king of the Quxas." He ran after Ratakka. The members of the outpost staff looked at Bill in dismay. He shrugged sadly and walked out of the headquarters hut. At the doorway, Adlaa was waiting for him with the same old plea. "Play ball?" he begged. "More play ball, Billbrad?" In his despondent mood, Bill did not care. "All right. I'll throw the ball to you and you throw it back to me." "Quxas not do that." "It's just as much fun to throw the ball in one direction as in any other direction," Bill explained patiently. "Unless you throw it back, forget it--no play ball." Adlaa thought seriously. "Hunky dokey. Want play ball." They were tossing it back and forth in the middle of a cheering group when a half-track passed, taking Montgomery, Candy and Ratakka to the main camp. The look that the girl gave Bill was disdainful. "There's a gaggle of natives outside in assorted shades," said Pat Reed the next day. "They want to play ball. Moahlo's at their head. He carved a bat." "Tell them to beat it. We're busy." "Let's give them some fun while we can. They won't enjoy life much after King Rat gets back here." "That's the truth," Bill agreed. "All right." * * * * * "I wish your painted idiots would get over their baseball mania," complained Rudy Peters, the mineralogist, two days later. "Look me over carefully, will you, Bill? I think my throwing arm just dropped off." "They're nutty about it, all right," Bill Bradley said. "Too bad it couldn't have been about something with some economic value." "Economic value, the man wants. Okay, I'll talk economic value to you. Bet you fifty units I can make a better ball team out of these freaks than you can." "Well, make it thirty." "You're on, sucker. I've lined up the sweetest shortstop that ever spit in a glove ..." "Here's your thirty," said Rudy Peters a week after. "How was I to know that shortstop wouldn't throw the ball to anyone except the center-fielder?" "Team play's the stuff, lad," said Bill Bradley. "Stress team play. Twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty. Exactly right. Another lesson at the same price?" He was refused, but never on an exploration had Bill Bradley had so much fun. And never, he reminded himself grimly, had he got so little work done. The Quxas were neglecting their skimpy food plots in their eagerness to play. They were getting lean. Finally, with reluctance, Bill called a temporary halt to baseball. "Billbrad say no baseball until work done," said Moahlo sadly to Adlaa. "Sometimes Billbrad talk like southpaw pitcher." Adlaa was trying to cultivate his food plot with the help of a thrag. The beast was of independent mind. It dragged Adlaa in eccentric ovals, in defiance of agricultural needs. "Adlaa want finish work, play baseball," the Quxa commented. "Thrag no play baseball, say nuts to work. Adlaa be old like Old Hoss Radbourne before work done." Moahlo contemplated. "Adlaa have trouble his thrag. Moahlo have trouble his. Moahlo help Adlaa his thrag and Adlaa help Moahlo his. Get work done more faster." Adlaa dismissed the revolutionary thought. "Quxas not do." "We play baseball run down play," argued Moahlo. "Play together. You throw ball me. I throw ball you. Yippee. Man out." "Same team. Old pals. Want sing team song?" "Want play team with thrag." Adlaa considered the matter in this new light. "Like ball game," he said at last in amazement. "Sure. You, me be us together. Make thrag look like busher." They both took hold of the thrag. Unable to resist their combined strengths, the beast submitted docilely. They began to work. * * * * * Glancing out from his labor in the headquarters pneuma-hut, Bill saw the incident in happy surprise. Perhaps, after all, his stay here might produce something to help the culture that Montgomery would introduce upon his return. He had no doubt of Montgomery's success. Neither, for that matter, had Montgomery. At the main camp, things were going swimmingly. The camp lay on the very fringe of the Quxa territory, but, by an arduous hunt, Ratakka had captured eight wandering Quxas to whom he immediately set about teaching the duties of subjects. His method was simple--the Quxa followed his orders, which he obtained from Montgomery, or the Quxa was knocked down. If he still refused, he was knocked down again. Within three weeks, Ratakka had them doing things no Quxas ever had done before. They performed them reluctantly and sullenly, but they did them. Seeing the result, but not the means, Candy was enthusiastic. "They're working together!" she cried. "Oh, Monty, what will the Quxas do to reward you?" "Oh, they'll probably make a culture god of me," said Montgomery, managing to look modest. "Like the Greeks did to that Martian, Proma Ss Thaa, who taught them the use of fire." As time went on, though, the girl began to have doubts. "But they're doing everything for Ratakka," she protested. "As far as they're concerned themselves, they're more wretched than before." "That's the way feudal cultures are built, my dear," Montgomery assured her. "The king gives them law and a fighting leader. In return, the subjects take care of his bodily comfort." "But they look so unhappy!" "In saving an inferior race, we cannot be concerned too much about the happiness of a few miserable members. Perhaps in three hundred years or so, they can afford happiness." And finally an incident happened to complete her disillusionment. One of Ratakka's morose subjects managed to slip the shackles with which he was bound at night and make a bolt for freedom. The king pursued him relentlessly, brought him back and then beat him, coldly and cruelly, slugging and gouging and kicking. Ashen-faced, Candy moved to interfere; Montgomery restrained her. "We're saving a race," he said. "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs." Candy turned and ran sobbing to her quarters, unable to dispel the memory of the writhing body on the ground. * * * * * The next day was the day to move equipment. It was a policy of the expeditions to leave their wornout machines for the most friendly of the native races, who could dismantle them and use the parts. The equipment not worth toting back to Earth was to be taken to the advance camp, where the Quxa center was. Montgomery also planned that day to take Ratakka to his kingdom. A few minutes ahead of the motorcade, Candy slipped out, got into a battered half-track and started driving the eighty miles to the advance camp. For the first twenty-five miles, she told herself that her eagerness was because it was a nice day and she wanted to get out of camp. For the next twenty-five miles, she called herself a liar. For the third twenty-five miles she gave herself up unashamedly to thinking about Bill Bradley: his smile, his gentleness, the awkward grace of his lean body. Not a man to set a planet on fire--but how pleasant and restful to have around! She wondered if he would forgive the way she had acted. Somehow she was sure he would. The narrow vehicular trail ran through a grove of fernlike trees. It's just over the rise, Candy thought, just over the rise and down into the saucer, where Bill is waiting.... The half-track struck a rock, lurched, threw a tread and went off the road, out of control. That did not matter especially, for the Quxas could use the material very well where it was. Candy went forward briskly afoot. A fallen branch brushed her ankle. Unheedingly, she kicked it away. She began to reconstruct Bill, feature by feature: the way his hair swirled on his forehead; his eyebrows, arched and regular; his eyes, wide, deep-seated, with inner pools of merriment; his nose, straight and rather ... Another branch caught her. She lifted her foot to free it. It did not come free. Another tentacle moved around her, pinioning her right arm to her side. She whirled in terror and found herself in the grip of the horals. * * * * * There were a dozen of the horrors, their antenna ears erect, mandibles open. They exuded an acid odor, a sign of hunger. Candy screamed. She fought to reach her pistol, strapped to her right hip. More tentacles stopped her. She screamed and screamed again, throwing her body to shake off the grip, trying to kick with her feet. There was a movement in the road at the top of the rise. For a moment, elation surged in Candy, almost stifling her. Perhaps some expedition member had heard her, was hurrying to her rescue. Then she saw that the newcomers were Quxas. Hope vanished, leaving her limp and hollow. To be killed by these horrors was bad enough, but to be killed in the presence of a group of piebald morons, who would stand and watch and moan, but not lift a hand ... In her agitation, she did not notice that the Quxas were nine in number and wore baseball caps. They drew short clubs, shaped like bats. "Kill the umpire!" they shouted, hatred born of diamond conflicts in their cry. "Kill the umpire!" they yelled and charged. * * * * * In military formation, they clubbed their way through their enemies, battering and smashing until Candy was free, with a dozen dying horals on the ground, their tentacles contracting and writhing. The Quxa leader made his bobbing bow to her. "How do," he said politely. "We dip them in calcimine vat, you bet. We hang them out like wash. Now we give team yell." The Quxas put their arms around each other's shoulders. In unison, they chanted: "Hoe tomata; hoe potata Half past alligata, Bum, bum, bulligata, Chickala dah! Pussycats! Pussycats! Rah! Rah! Rah!" "Pussycats," the leader explained to Candy, "are honored animal on planet where Billbrad is head cheese." "I'll bet you play baseball nicely," Candy said. Woe broke forth on nine broad faces. "Misfortunately not," confessed the captain. "Thirty-three teams in Quxa town. Pussycats in thirty-third place." He brightened. "Go ivory hunt now. Catch nine new Quxas. Teach 'em baseball. Then maybe we beat 'em and not be in cellar any more." Together, the team bobbed politely to Candy and trotted down the road. Happily, Candy went up the rise, then stopped in astonishment, looking at Quxa town. Gone was the straggling, haphazard settlement, with the flimsy huts and untended starvation patches where individual Quxas tried to raise their own food. Instead, building sites were laid out in straight, broad rows, and Quxas were working, three and four in a group, raising substantial homes of timber. Others were surrounding the settlement with a wall of brambles, impenetrable to horals. Teams of men, two to a thrag, were plowing, preparing large fields for tillage. And down the side of the settlement, affectionately tended, ran a line of baseball fields. Just off the road, a Quxa squatted, baseball cap on his head, watching a crude sun dial. "Nice day for game," he greeted Candy. * * * * * Speechless with surprise, the girl made a dazed questioning gesture toward the improvements. "Billbrad do it," the Quxa informed her. "He tell us how. Work one by one, he say, work all time to fill belly, maybe fill horal belly instead. Work all by all, do more quick. Have time in afternoon. Batter up! Sock it, boy! Wing it home, he sliding!" The sun's shadow touched a peg. "Five minute!" bawled the Quxa. The laborers quit work, put away their tools. The farmers herded their thrags into a strongly constructed corral. The natives gathered in knots at the settlement edge and looked longingly at the baseball fields. "Yestday I fool Billbrad," confided the Quxa. "I hide ball, catch him off second. Billbrad get all red face and say--" "Never mind what Bill said," Candy interjected hastily. The shadow touched another peg. "Play ball!" the Quxa yelled. "Play ball! Play ball! Play ball!" He sprang up, produced a baseball glove and spat into it reverently. "I go play now. You come see. Get scorecard, know players." He looked at Candy hopefully. "'Specially me," he added. Out of the moil of Quxas came the lank form of Bill Bradley. He spied the girl, whooped and came running to her. For a few moments they talked at once, in an incoherent and ecstatic jumble. Then Candy, catching control of herself, cited in admiration the change in the Quxa village. "And you've done all this!" she concluded. "I didn't do anything!" Bill protested. "They like to play baseball and this sort of happened. We're getting representative government into action now. Each team elects a captain and the captains are the town council. Tonight they're going to vote on naming the settlement Brooklyn." "You know," said Candy, "I'll bet they'll make you a culture god." * * * * * The tanned face of Bill Bradley took on the rose hue of a blush. "Well, Moahlo carved a statue and they've put it in front of league headquarters--that's their city hall," he admitted uncomfortably. "It doesn't look much like me. I've got six arms because they wanted me batting, pitching and catching a ball all at the same time." Candy slipped a hand into his. "Is there a place around here," she asked in a small tone, "where a culture god can take a girl and--well, talk to her?" "Is there!" said Bill. "You just come with me ..." A heavy object bumped into him. He whirled at the touch. "Oh! Hi, Ratakka," Bill said in a flat voice. Montgomery's king had returned to his subjects. He was alone--his captives having escaped off the ride over--and he was in vile temper. Glaring evilly, he motioned at the baseball players. He was recalling an advice of Montgomery: "Whatever your subjects like to do most, do it better than they can. In that way, you will get their respect and find it easier to take over." "What that fool doings-on?" snarled Ratakka. "Ratakka do, too." Bill's already sagging spirits sank again. With Ratakka's strength and reflexes, the great brute undoubtedly would become the star of stars, gathering admirers to himself and destroying all the pleasant prospects now so happily started. Still, it was Bill's duty to give him every chance ... "I'll see what team has an opening, Ratakka. Perhaps you'd better bat seventh for a few days. Then you can move to the clean-up spot." The giant stopped him. "Ratakka not ordinary Quxa; Ratakka a king. Ratakka not play like those serfs. Want special job." A wild thought struck Bill. On the playing fields were more than two hundred Quxas, most of them with a justified and carefully nurtured dislike for the surly slab of muscle before him. In the old days, they could do nothing individually against him. But the Quxas had learned to fight as a team. If he could only give them the shadow of an excuse, trap Ratakka into rousing their joint anger, take advantage of the prejudices of their new-found love for baseball, then Ratakka would get the reckoning that he deserved, the days of his supremacy would be over, the threat of his tyranny would be removed from a happy race. * * * * * Bill grinned broadly. "Sure thing, old pal," he said. He took off his own baseball cap and put it backward on Ratakka's head. He signaled for someone to bring over a mask and chest protector. "There's only one of these at each playing field," Bill explained. "In a way, he's boss of the game. Are you sure you want to do it? Sometimes the players argue with you." "Anyone argue with Ratakka," the giant said, raising a huge fist, "Ratakka knock 'em down. Ratakka a king, boss of game." "Okay, boy, you asked for it," Bill said. He thrust a whiskbroom into Ratakka's hand. "You can be umpire," said Bill Bradley. 
37493	----	* * * * * The Hickory Ridge Boy Scouts A SERIES OF BOOKS FOR BOYS Which, in addition to the interesting boy scout stem by CAPTAIN ALAN DOUGLAS, Scoutmaster, contain articles on nature lore, native animals and a fund of other information pertaining to out-of-door life, that will appeal to the boy's love of the open. I. The Campfires of the Wolf Patrol Their first camping experience affords the scouts splendid opportunities to use their recently acquired knowledge in a practical way. Elmer Chenowith, a lad from the northwest woods, astonishes everyone by his familiarity with camp life. A clean, wholesome story every boy should read. II. Woodcraft; or, How a Patrol Leader Made Good This tale presents many stirring situations in which some of the boys are called upon to exercise all their ingenuity and unselfishness. A story filled with healthful excitement. III. Pathfinder; or, The Musing Tenderfoot Some mysteries are cleared up in a most unexpected way, greatly to the credit of our young friends. A variety of incidents follow fast, one after the other. IV. Fast Nine; or, a Challenge From Fairfield They show the same team-work here as when in camp. The description of the final game with the team of a rival town, and the outcome thereof, form a stirring narrative. One of the best baseball stories of recent years. V. Great Hike; or, The Pride of The Khaki Troop After weeks of preparation the scouts start out on their greatest undertaking. Their march takes them far from home, and the good-natured rivalry of the different patrols furnishes many interesting and amusing situations. VI. Endurance Test; or, How Clear Grit Won the Day Few stories "get" us more than illustrations of pluck in the face of apparent failure. Our heroes show the stuff they are made of and surprise their most ardent admirers. One of the best stories Captain Douglas has written. Boy Scout Nature Lore to be Found in The Hickory Ridge Boy Scout Series Wild Animals of the United States--Tracking--in Number I. Trees and Wild Flowers of the United States in Number II. Reptiles of the United States in Number III. Fishes of the United States in Number IV. Insects of the United States in Number V. Birds of the United States in Number VI. _Cloth Binding_ _Cover Illustrations in Four Colors_ _40c. Post Volume_ THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE (near 14th St) NEW YORK FAST NINE OR A CHALLENGE FROM FAIRFIELD COMPLETE ROSTER, WHEN THE PATROLS WERE FILLED, OF THE HICKORY RIDGE TROOP OF BOY SCOUTS MR. RODERIC GARRABRANT, SCOUT MASTER THE WOLF PATROL ELMER CHENOWITH, Patrol Leader, and also Assistant Scout Master MARK CUMMINGS TED (THEODORE) BURGOYNE TOBY (TOBIAS) ELLSWORTH JONES "LIL ARTHA" (ARTHUR) STANSBURY CHATZ (CHARLES) MAXFIELD PHIL (PHILIP) DALE GEORGE BOBBINS THE BEAVER PATROL MATTY (MATTHEW) EGGLESTON, Patrol Leader "RED" (OSCAR) HUGGINS TY (TYRUS) COLLINS JASPER MERRIWEATHER TOM CROPSEY LARRY (LAWRENCE) BILLINGS HEN (HENRY) CONDIT LANDY (PHILANDER) SMITH THE EAGLE PATROL JACK ARMITAGE, Patrol Leader NAT (NATHAN) SCOTT (OTHERS TO BE ENLISTED UNTIL THIS PATROL HAS REACHED ITS LEGITIMATE NUMBER) [Illustration: It was now up to Matt Tubbs.] THE HICKORY RIDGE BOY SCOUTS FAST NINE OR A CHALLENGE FROM FAIRFIELD BY CAPTAIN ALAN DOUGLAS SCOUT MASTER [Illustration] THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I.--ON THE WAY HOME FROM THE FISHING HOLE 17 II.--A STARTLING ACCUSATION 25 III.--WHEN THE CHALLENGE CAME 33 IV.--THE PRACTICE GAME WITH THE SCRUB TEAM 41 V.--BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY 49 VI.--A QUESTION OF A SCOUT'S DUTY 57 VII.--MORE WORK ON THE DIAMOND 65 VIII.--THE PUNCTURED TIRE 73 IX.--FAITHFUL TO HIS FRIEND 81 X.--GIVING HIM ANOTHER CHANCE 89 XI.--READY FOR THE BATTLE OF THE BATS 97 XII.--STEALING THE SIGNALS 105 XIII.--READY FOR THE GREAT GAME 113 XIV.--HOW THE FIGHT WENT ON 121 XV.--LIL ARTHA PLANTS HIS GARDEN IN DEEP CENTER 129 XVI.--THE MYSTERY SOLVED 137 FAST NINE OR A CHALLENGE FROM FAIRFIELD _THE HICKORY RIDGE BOY SCOUTS_ FAST NINE; OR, A CHALLENGE FROM FAIRFIELD. CHAPTER I. ON THE WAY HOME FROM THE FISHING HOLE. A PARTY of five boys, ranging in age around fifteen or sixteen, trudged rather wearily along the bank of a small stream known as the Sunflower River. Some miles beyond this point it merged its clear waters with those of the broader Sweetwater, which river has figured before now in these stories of the Hickory Ridge boys. As they carried several strings of pretty good-looking fish, the chances were the straggling group must have been over at the larger stream trying their luck. And as black bass have a failing for beginning to bite just when fellows ought to be starting for home this would account for evening finding them still some distance from Hickory Ridge and a jolly supper. "Another long mile, and then we'll be there, fellows," sighed the stoutest one of the bunch, who was panting every little while, because of the warm pace set by his more agile chums. "Hey, just listen to Landy puff, will you, boys!" laughed Chatz Maxfield, whose accent betrayed his Southern birth. "He keeps getting fatter every day, I do believe," joked Mark Cummings, a clean-cut young chap with a clear eye and resolute bearing. "Now, that ain't exactly fair, Mark," complained the object of this mirth, in a reproachful tone, "and you know it. Don't I take exercise every day just to reduce my flesh? Why, I'm making a regular martyr of myself, my mom says, ever since I joined the Boy Scouts, so that I can keep my own with the rest of you. She says if I keep it up I'll soon be skin and bones, that's what!" A shout arose from the entire bunch at this. The idea of that fat boy ever reaching a point where such a term could be applied to him was simply ridiculous. "What time is it, Chatz; since you seem to be the only one in the lot who had the good sense and also the decency to fetch a watch along?" The Southern boy readily pulled out a little nickel timepiece, and consulted it, but the dusk was coming fast, so that he had to bend low in order to make sure of the right figures. "Half past seven, fellows," he announced. "Wow, won't my folks just be worried about me, though!" exclaimed a very tall boy, whose build would indicate that he was something of a sprinter; and whose name being Arthur Stansbury, his mates, after the usual perversity of boys in general, had promptly nicknamed him "Lil Artha." "I don't think they'll be alarmed, because they know a bad penny is sure to turn up," laughed Mark, immediately dodging a friendly blow from the lengthy arm of his comrade. "Hold on, I've lost my cap," declared the one who had dodged, but the others made no move toward stopping; supper was a mile away, and they felt hungry enough to eat a houseful. Three minutes later Mark came running after them, still bareheaded. "Hello!" exclaimed the lad who had asked Chatz for the time, and who seemed to bear the earmarks of a leader among them, as Elmer Chenowith really was, being at the head of the Wolf Patrol, and accredited as an assistant scout master in the Hickory Ridge Boy Scout Troop--"How about this, Mark; where's your cap?" "Couldn't find it, that's all," laughed the other, good naturedly; "perhaps it went into the river. Anyhow, it's getting that dark I couldn't see the thing, and as you fellows were in such a raging hurry I just gave it up." "Oh, say, that's too bad," declared Chatz; "I'll turn back with you, Mark, if you give the word." "Oh, shucks! it isn't worth it, Chatz, though I'm just as much obliged to you as if we went. It's an old cap, anyhow, and even if it went sailing down the Sunflower it wouldn't matter much. I've got another besides my campaign hat. And if it doesn't rain in the morning I may take a run over here on my wheel. Move along, fellows; I can just imagine I smell that bully good supper that's being kept for me at our house." "Yum, yum, that strikes me," exclaimed Landy, whose one weakness was a love for eating, despite his declaration to the effect that he was daily cutting down his rations in order to reduce his girth. "And I happen to know they're having fried eggplant to-night. If there's one thing I just like above every other dish it's fried eggplant, and plenty of it. Aw!" and he sighed to think that a whole mile still lay between himself and that beloved delicacy. "All I can say is, that it's mighty lucky we don't have a meeting to-night, that's what," remarked Chatz; "because we'd never be able to get there after this long hike. But, honest, fellows, I think it paid. I never had more fun pulling out black bass than to-day. And whew, how they do fight up here! Why, down in the warmer waters of my state, South Carolina, we have the big-mouth bass, which the natives call green trout, and he comes in as logy as an old piece of tree stump, after about one little tussle." "But I reckon there are heaps of game fighters up in that old pond at Munsey's mill," remarked Lil Artha. "There may be, if those fish pirates left any," declared Mark. "You know the game and fish warden found and destroyed a lot of nets, even if he didn't get the Italian poachers. But that's too far away from home, anyway; and I think we'll have to leave the bass that live in that pond to the ghost of the haunted mill." A general laugh followed this declaration. The scouts had recently been on a long tramp to the mill in question, an abandoned place which was shunned by all the country people for certain causes. But while they had met with sundry adventures of considerable importance while there, none of them could claim to have run across the ghost said to be in charge of the old rookery. This had been a subject of great disappointment to Chatz Maxfield in particular, for he secretly cherished more or less of a belief in ghosts, having probably been inoculated with the weakness as a very small boy, when he had for playmates ignorant and superstitious blacks, on the South Carolina rice plantation that had been his home until recently. "Hey! what did Matt Tubbs have to say to you, Elmer?" suddenly asked Lil Artha. "I saw him talking like a Dutch uncle when I was waiting for you to come along this noon." The boy in question was known as a bully. He lived in the neighboring town of Fairfield, which adjoined Cramertown, so that the two might be reckoned one continuous settlement. And strangely enough, Matt's house was said to be half in one place and half in the other. Matt Tubbs had given the boys of Hickory Ridge more or less trouble in years past. He was a natural leader, and rather a tough character as well, ruling the fellows in Fairfield and Cramertown with a rod of iron. Frequently the Hickory Ridge boys had been influenced to engage in friendly rivalry with those of the neighboring place, but it happened that as a rule these contests broke up in a row, and more than one pitched battle had resulted. For more than a year, now, Elmer and his chums had positively refused to have anything to do with the Fairfield boys. They had even turned down several invitations to bridge the chasm and start on a new deal, because they believed that so long as Matt Tubbs was in control, just so long would rough-house tactics be brought into play whenever the game went against the Fairfield players. But lately Matt Tubbs had seen a new light. The organizing of the Hickory Ridge Troop of Boy Scouts had inspired him with a desire to follow suit. But while he could find plenty of material in the two towns, the great difficulty seemed to be in subscribing to the twelve cardinal principles which every candidate has to profess before he can become even a tenderfoot scout. Matt had in secret hovered around the meeting places of the Hickory Ridge fellows. In this way he had heard things that simply amazed him, and set him to thinking deeply. Then he had chanced to have an experience with Elmer and his followers at a time when the scouts were called on to find a little boy who had been kidnapped by his step-father, an ignorant and drink-crazed rascal. Matt Tubbs had been fascinated by the many things he had seen Elmer do in the line of woodcraft, and then and there he had declared that he was going to subscribe to the entire list of regulations as set forth in the manual of the scouts. And Elmer had given him his hand at the time, promising to do all he could to assist him get his troop started. The leader of the Wolf Patrol laughed softly when Lil Artha put this question at him so directly. "I really meant to tell you all about it," he said, "but somehow it just seemed to slip my mind, we've been having such a jolly afternoon. Fact is, Matt being over in the Ridge on some business for his father, jumped off his wheel at seeing me, because he had some important news." "Has he got his troop organized, then?" asked Lil Artha. "That's just what he has; seventeen fellows have already signed the roll, with a promise of several more. That makes two complete patrols, and then some. Matt says they're wild over it in his town. The people are going to let them have a room in the old Baptist church, and everybody promises to help along. I reckon the good people of Fairfield understand that the coming of the Boy Scouts will mean a moral awakening in their place." "And they need it, all right," declared Chatz, positively. "Why, suh, I'm told that during the last seven yeahs Fairfield, that used to be a model town, has become the toughest place in this part of the state. And the way Matt Tubbs led his gang has been the main cause. It was a rule or ruin policy. If they couldn't win a baseball game squarely they'd start a little riot, and have the umpire give it to 'em, nine to nothing." "Well, I rather think that's all in the past," said Elmer. "If Matt does half he declares he means to do, it's going to be the biggest thing that ever happened for the boys of Fairfield and Cramertown. And something more, fellows. I just rather guess we'd better be brushing up all we know of the great American national game of baseball. For Matt says he and his team are going to challenge the Hickory Ridge scouts to a big game." "Hear, hear!" shouted Lil Artha, executing a regular hoedown to prove how joyful the news made him. "Why, fellows, d'ye know I'm just wild to get in the game again against a club that really counts. All we've done this summer has been to mow down the little chaps around the Ridge, and it was too easy. Matt will put a team in the field worth beating, and we all know what a player he is himself when he wants to do the right thing. So I say bully, bully all around!" "Do you think his turning over a new leaf will hold good," asked Chatz; "or is he apt to drop back into his old ways if we happen to get a good lead, and bully the umpire into giving his side all the chances?" "Well, of course I couldn't say for sure," replied Elmer, "but Matt seems dead set on cutting a straight swathe from now on, and there's the best chance of his doing it that ever happened, because he has simply got to choose between doing the square thing to others or getting out of the scout movement. No crooked work will go when a fellow has faithfully promised to be trustworthy, loyal, helpful to others, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient to his superiors, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent." "You're right, it won't, Elmer," assented Mark, positively. "And yet if Matt has changed right-about face, so that he can live up to that agreement I'm ready to believe the world is coming to an end." "Me, too!" echoed Lil Artha, who had had several personal conflicts with the bully of Fairfield, and distrusted him exceedingly. "Just wait and see," said Elmer; and the subject was dropped as they hurried on toward the lights of Hickory Ridge that began to appear near by. CHAPTER II. A STARTLING ACCUSATION. "Now, what d'ye suppose that fellow in the carriage is beckoning to us for, Elmer?" asked Mark Cummings, as he and his particular chum were walking along the main street of Hickory Ridge on the morning after the fishing trip. They had been looking up a few things in one of the stores, for Mark chanced to be the grandson of a noted artist, and had himself developed a touch of genius along the line of caricature work. Often when he and his chums were together, he would pull out pencil and paper and dash off some telling and humorous drawing. If a pencil were not handy Mark could use a crayon, a bit of chalk or charcoal, and even a piece of fresh birch bark in case paper were lacking. And so he had been picking up a few things in his line, while Elmer interested himself advising Lil Artha, who was selecting some plates for his new camera, as well as developing fluid, prepared paper, and several other necessities required by the amateur photographer devoted to his work. The two boys had started home together, and were in the midst of an animated conversation connected with the chances for that baseball game before the summer vacation ended, when Mark chanced to hear some one calling. "Why, it looks to me like Colonel Hitchins's rig," remarked Elmer, who possibly knew the vehicle in question better than his chum. "Yes, I know it is now, and the negro driver is Sam White, his coachman. He seems to be beckoning to us, as sure as anything. I wonder what he wants, and if it has anything to do with Diablo, the educated monkey we had all that fun with when we were in camp up on Jupiter Lake?" "That's so, Elmer; will I ever forget what happened there, and how glad Colonel Hitchins was to get his tricky pet back, after he had robbed us of a lot of our good grub. But Sam White has started his horses this way. Let's wait here and see what he's got to say." Colonel Hitchins was an eccentric and wealthy man who lived beyond the environments of Hickory Ridge. He had once been a great traveler, and his big house was filled with trophies from every land. It was a treat for Elmer to examine some of the almost numberless things the collector had gathered around him. And as a rule the colonel was favorably disposed toward the boys of Hickory Ridge, though there were times when some of the more malicious chaps annoyed him greatly in various ways. Presently Sam White pulled the two prancing horses in close to the sidewalk. "Whoa, dar, youse high falutin' thoroughbr'ds from Kentucky! I reckons you dun gits too much oats, dat's what; an' hit makes yuh too frisky. You am de boy belongin' tuh de Cummings fambly, ain't yuh, an' yuh name am Mark, I spect?" was the way the colored driver proclaimed his advent on the scene. "Sure, I'm Mark Cummings, and you know it as well as you do your own name, Sam. What's doing now?" remarked the boy, smiling. "Why, yuh see, de kunnel he sez tuh me, sez he: 'Sam, ef so be yuh sot yuh eyes on dat Mark Cummings, I'd like yuh tuh ask him tuh come up hyah right away, 'case I wants tuh see him!' Dat's wat de kunnel say tuh me," the driver explained. Mark glanced at his chum with raised eyebrows. "What d'ye suppose it means, Elmer?" he asked, in bewilderment. The other shook his head in the negative, as though unable to hazard a guess. "It might stand for any one of a dozen things," he observed. "You know the colonel takes a heap of interest in the boys of the Ridge. Perhaps he wants to make some offer to them that will be to their interest. Perhaps he may even intend to ask the scouts over to his house some night, and give them a great time. It would be just like him, you know." "Yes," replied Mark, smiling, "but in that case why send for me? You're the assistant scout master, and Mr. Garrabrant is in town right now, so he ought to be the one consulted. But I suppose I'd better jump in and go along. Say, what's to hinder you coming with me, Elmer?" "Nothing that I know of," replied his chum. "And I don't suppose Sam here would have any objections to my taking a ride with you. He knows I've been to see the colonel heaps of times." Sam scratched his woolly pate, as if bewildered, and looked dubious. "De kunnel he sez dat Mark Cummings boy, sah, but seein' as it's you, I reckon it'd be all right. So jes' step in kindly, as de hosses am a bit peeved dis yar mawnin', an' wants tuh run dey haids off." Accordingly the two chums entered the big open carriage, Mark laying his several packages down beside him. And in another minute they were being carried at a spanking pace toward the fine estate of Colonel Hitchins. On the way they speculated along other lines as to what the gentleman wished to see Mark about, but without being able to come to any conclusion. But never suspecting that it could be anything serious they presently allowed the subject to drop. Turning in at the entrance to the grounds they passed along a drive where one could see the fancy fruit trees of which the owner was so proud. "Looks like they were picking those splendid peaches, from the way the leaves lie on the ground," remarked Elmer, as he pointed to a couple of trees on which there still remained a few splendidly colored and wonderfully large specimens of the delicious fruit. "Um! makes a fellow's mouth water just to see 'em," declared Mark. "And there's Bruno chained up to his kennel back by the barns. What a big dog he is--a Siberian wolf hound the colonel calls him. I don't believe I'd like to meet Bruno on a dark night, and running loose." "Oh, he isn't a bad kind at all," remarked Elmer. "I've patted him on the head often, of course when the colonel was along. He gets loose once in a while, too, but was never known to attack anybody, though if a thief tried to enter, and he was free at the time, he might jump on him and hold him. That happened once, so the colonel told me, when he lived outside of New York City." "Well, here we are at the house," observed Mark. "Come along with me, Elmer." "Think I'd better, when he only wanted to see you?" asked his chum, dubiously. "Yes, come along," Mark insisted. "I don't know how it is, but I've just got a hunch that I'd like to have you with me. And the colonel is so fond of you he'll be glad you've come." Thus urged Elmer also jumped from the vehicle. "Jes' leab dem packages dar, 'case I 'spect tuh dribe yuh bofe back tuh town agin arter yuh done seein' de kunnel," said Sam. "An' sense de door am open, p'raps yuh bettah jes' go long tuh de library, whar de kunnel am asittin'." "That's the ticket; come along, Elmer." In this spirit, then, the two boys quickly reached the door of the library, a room which Elmer knew very well, as he had spent many a pleasant evening there. Mark knocked lightly on the door. "Enter!" said a voice, which they knew belonged to the master of the mansion. At seeing two lads the colonel's eyebrows went up, and he glanced sharply from one to the other in a questioning way. So Elmer thought it only right that he should explain. "We were walking home together when Sam gave your message, colonel," he said, "and so I took the liberty of coming with my chum Mark." The elderly gentleman smiled. Elmer was a favorite of his, and he had taken a great interest in many of the lad's schemes and plans that had to do with the affairs of the troop of Boy Scouts of Hickory Ridge. "Say nothing more about it, Elmer; I'm always glad to see you"; and yet Elmer noticed to his surprise that the colonel did not offer him his hand as usual. He asked them to be seated, and all the while his keen eyes seemed to be roving uneasily toward Mark; and several times Elmer saw him shake his head slightly. For a few minutes they talked of various things. Elmer asked how the monkey was getting on, and the gentleman told them that Diablo had grown so vicious that he had been compelled to send him away to the Central Park collection of animals in New York City. "I hated to part from the brute very much, too, but it seemed as though all the bad in his nature was coming to the surface, and he lost much of the charm he used to have for me." Then to the surprise of the boys the colonel leaned forward, adding: "Let me take your caps, boys." "But we can only stay a short time, sir; I promised my mother to be home at eleven, because she wants me to go somewhere with her," Mark said, although he could not very well refuse to let the persistent gentleman take his cap. Elmer stared when he saw the colonel actually examine the head gear of his chum. Nor was his astonishment at all lessened when he heard what he said. "Oh, I will not detain you more than five or ten minutes at the most, I promise you, boys. By the way, I see that both of you have the habit of fastening your initials inside your caps. I suppose most boys do that because they are apt to get their head gear mixed when they wrestle and knock around; isn't that so, Mark?" "Why, yes, sir, I guess that's the main reason they put the initials there," replied the one addressed, his eyes opening wide with surprise at the peculiar turn given to the conversation by the colonel. "I suppose, now, you've always done it, Mark?" continued the gentleman, watching the boy's face. "For several years, yes, sir. I've had as many as five sets of initials in that time. And the habit has saved me a lot of caps, too. If a fellow claims mine, all I have to do is to point at the three initials inside, and he gives up." "H'm! like this, for instance," remarked the colonel, picking something up from behind a pile of books on his table and holding it out. It was a fairly well-worn cap, and had evidently belonged to a boy. Elmer immediately sat up and began to take notice. He realized that the colonel must indeed have an object in asking Mark to drop in and see him. For unless he was very much mistaken Elmer had seen that same cap before, many times, and on the head of his chum! As for Mark, his eyes had opened very wide as they fastened on the article the gentleman was holding out before him. "Will you kindly take this cap in your hands, my boy?" said the colonel, and almost mechanically Mark did so, for as yet he could not find his voice to express his mingled feelings. "Please examine it, now, and tell me if you have ever seen it before," continued the colonel, whose heavy brows were lowered, as though under their shelter he were trying to analyze the emotions that chased each other across the face of the boy. Mark made a pretense of looking inside and out, but it was not necessary, for the fellow who cannot instantly recognize a cap he has worn for some months must be pretty dense indeed. "Well?" said the gentleman, with an interrogation point in the one word. "I know it is mine, sir, because--well, every little mark about it is familiar, even to this little triangular tear. Besides, here are my initials inside--just as they are in this other cap I own--M. A. C., which stand for Mark Anthony Cummings." The gentleman moved uneasily. It seemed as though he might be both surprised and annoyed because of this frank acceptance of the ownership of the cap. "You're quite positive there can be no mistake--that some other boy may not have the same initials?" he asked. "I don't know of a single one, do you, Elmer?" replied Mark, steadily. "Not that I can recall just now; and besides, Mark, I ought to know that cap as well as you, and I'm ready to declare it's your property. I'm only wondering how it happens to be in the possession of Colonel Hitchins after you lost it," Elmer remarked, watching the face of the gentleman and wondering why he looked so downcast over such a little thing. "I'm sorry to hear you say it belongs to you, Mark, because you are one of the last boys I'd dream of accusing of such a thing as robbery." "Robbery!" gasped Mark, his face turning a trifle white with the shock. "It is just that, for my premises were invaded last night by some bold thieves, who raided my choice peach trees, and almost cleaned them of the prize fruit that I would not have taken its weight in silver for. And I regret to say that this morning I found this self-same cap under those trees, where it would appear it had been accidentally dropped by one of the fruit thieves." CHAPTER III. WHEN THE CHALLENGE CAME. A SILENCE so dense that, as Elmer afterward said, it could almost be felt gripped that library when the colonel made his astonishing declaration. The two boys stared at each other in dismay. Then Mark once more looked down at the cap he held in his hand, as though he expected it to be given speech in order to indignantly deny the accusation. Twice he opened his mouth to say something, but no sound followed. "Please remember, Mark, that I am not accusing you of having done this miserable thing," continued the gentleman in a softer tone; "I cannot find it in my heart to believe that you would be guilty of doing an old friend such an unkindness. But I found the cap just where I stated; it bore those initials, and I sent for you to see if you claimed it. And now, could you tell me how it chanced to come there under my prize peach trees that were robbed last night?" Mark shook his head slowly. "I'm sure I can't do that, sir, because I don't know," he said. Elmer opened his mouth to explain under what circumstances the cap had been lost at twilight on the preceding evening, then he thought better of it and held his tongue. It might be as well for the gentleman to conduct the examination after his own fashion. The truth was bound to come out shortly, at any rate. "Since you admit that the cap is yours, Mark, will you please tell me when you saw it last, for if I am right in judging what Elmer just said, you claim to have lost it?" Colonel Hitchins continued. "Why, yes, sir, I wore it yesterday afternoon when a party of us went fishing away over to the old hole where the Sunflower runs into the Sweetwater," Mark began. "Don't I know it as well as any lad," remarked the old gentleman, with a faint smile. "I was brought up here, and came back home after many years' wandering, partly on account of those recollections of my boyhood days. Well, you did your fishing in the afternoon, you say. And if those bass act just the same now as they used to many years ago, they began biting just when you thought of starting back home--how about that, Mark?" "Just what they did, sir; and we caught nearly all we had, a good string apiece, from that time up to after six. Then we couldn't stay any longer and started home. On the road, when we were about a mile or so away, and just going to leave the little Sunflower stream, Lil Artha got to cutting up with me, and I lost my cap." "Just so, as I have done many a time in the long ago. That Sunflower River has memories for me I can never forget," declared the colonel, sighing. "I stopped to hunt for it, sir," Mark continued, "but the evening was on, and there were more or less bushes around. Besides, the fellows were drawing farther away all the time, and I didn't care much for the cap after all. So I began to think it might have just fallen into the river, and I gave it up, chasing after the rest of the bunch." "Was that the last you thought of the cap?" "Why, no, sir," Mark went on. "This morning I ran over there on my wheel and gave another hunt, but it was no use. That made me all the more sure it must have gone sailing down the river. And you can imagine my surprise when you hauled it out just now." "Strange how it came to be under my peach tree, isn't it?" asked Colonel Hitchins. "Perhaps some fellow found it, sir, and wore it last night," suggested Elmer. "Ah, I had quite forgotten about you, Elmer," remarked the other. "I suppose, now, you were along with your friend last evening, and knew about him losing his cap?" "I was, sir, and besides there were three others--Landy Smith, Arthur Stansbury, and Chatz Maxfield. And more than that, colonel, I went over to Mark's house after supper, and we sat up till nearly eleven o'clock, arranging things about our scouts' baseball club; for you see we expect a challenge from Fairfield troop any day now." The look of distress left the bearded face of the colonel. He thrust out a hand in his customary hearty manner. "I want you each to shake hands with me," he said; "and Mark, I hope you will not feel badly because with suspicion pointing so strongly toward you, I wanted to ask you a few questions about this cap. As Elmer said, no doubt some boy picked it up and left it under the tree, either accidentally or in the hope of turning suspicion toward you." "Oh, I hope not that!" said Mark, who could not believe in his heart that any boy in all Hickory Ridge could be so mean and tricky as to want to get one of his schoolmates in trouble. "No matter, I am now absolutely sure it could not have been you, and I shall not give the matter another thought. I would advise you to forget it also, if you can, my boy," and he laid a hand caressingly on Mark's shoulder. "I'll certainly try to, sir," returned the boy, looking up with a smile and meeting the eyes of the gentleman squarely, as was always his wont, "but sometimes it's hard to forget things like this. I suppose I'll just bother my head about how my cap got under your tree when I lost it a mile away, up to the end of the chapter. And I reckon it will never be cleared up." "As your ten minutes are about up, Mark, I won't detain you any longer," said the old traveler, "but promise me that you will come over with Elmer next Saturday night, and look over some of my curios. I like to have boys around me, and there's an interesting story connected with some of the strange things I've rounded up in various unfrequented quarters of this old world. You'll come, won't you, Mark?" "I sure will, colonel, and be mighty glad of the chance. Shall I take my old cap away with me, or do you want to place it among your curios as an unsolved mystery?" and Mark laughed as he said this. "I think you had better carry it off, Mark," replied the gentleman. "But unless I am lucky enough to catch the rascals who robbed me of my prize peaches last night, I'm afraid the truth will never be known. What puzzles me most of all is the fact that Bruno was loose last night and never gave the alarm. He must have been off roaming, as he does whenever he manages to slip his collar and chain." He shook hands with both of them again, and when Mark felt the pressure of the old gentleman's fingers, as well as saw the kindly look on his face, he felt positive that Colonel Hitchins had eradicated all suspicion of his guilt from his mind. Sam was waiting for them, scolding his restless horses the while. And no sooner did the two boys jump into the carriage before the driver gave the word, and they were being carried out of the grounds in great style. On the way they met Lil Artha returning home. The tall fellow stared at seeing his two chums seated so delightfully in the elegant carriage which he, of course, recognized as belonging to Colonel Hitchins. He shouted something after them, but Elmer only waved his hand out of the vehicle as they went on. "How about it, Mark?" he asked; "Lil Artha will never rest until he tries to pump it all out of you. Will you tell him about the cap, and how it was found?" "Why not?" demanded Mark, instantly. "I haven't anything I want to hide that I know of. And perhaps, if all the fellows learn about it some one may be able to give me a pointer about who could have taken this cap that I lost on the bank of the Sunflower last night, and left it where the colonel found it this morning." "I see by the way you talk that there's small danger of you not bothering your brain about that mystery," laughed Elmer. "Well, who wouldn't, just tell me that? I'll never feel easy till I'm able to patch up some sort of an explanation, Elmer. If some fellow picked my cap up, did he leave it there on purpose to get me in trouble, or was it only an accident? That's the point, you see." "Oh, well, I hope you find out sooner or later," remarked Elmer, who knew from previous experience how such little things worried his chum, and would have liked very well to have influenced Mark to cross it off entirely. "Now, let's talk about other things--that coming great game with Fairfield, for instance, and what chances we have with our poor pitching staff." "Rats!" cried Mark. "When everyone believes that you're stronger than ever this year, and that break of yours works like a charm. I tell you Fairfield will have her hands full trying to hit some of those Christy Matthewson slow floaters you can waft up to the rubber. They'll nearly break their necks trying, and it's going to be the greatest fun watching 'em." Talking in this vein they were soon dropped in front of Elmer's home. As Mark lived close by he chose to leave the vehicle at the same time. "Why, whatever do you suppose my folks would think?" he declared, "if they saw the Cummings hope and heir driving up with a carriage and pair? Not that I don't expect to tell all about this cap racket, for I've always been in the habit of letting my mother know all I do, and many the time she's advised me as no other person could." Elmer sighed. He had no mother himself, and always envied this chum who was lucky enough to be possessed of such an adviser. And fortunate indeed is the boy who can go to his mother, or father, either, for that matter, to seek advice in some of the puzzling little problems that are apt to arise in the life of a lad. So the two chums separated for the time being. "See you this afternoon, then, Mark?" called Elmer, as the other started to hurry away, for it was very near the time he had promised to be home; and one of Mark's strong points was a scrupulous regard for his word, no matter to whom given. "That's right, Elmer; call for me, and we'll go down for a practice game. Most of the fellows are going to come out, and perhaps we can get a scrub team to bat against us," and waving his hand once more Mark hurried off. Elmer looked after him. There was the light of a sincere affection in his eyes, as he shook his head while muttering to himself: "No wonder Colonel Hitchins knew that cap was no indication of guilt, once he looked in the face of my chum. There isn't the faintest streak of double dealing about Mark Cummings, and his face shows it. Even if things looked ten times blacker than they do, and he said he didn't do it, everybody would just have to believe his simple word. I'd sooner take it than lots of people's bond, that's what"; and with this eloquent tribute to the honesty and fair-play qualities of his friend, Elmer turned into his own place. About two o'clock Elmer dropped in at Mark's home. He always liked being there, for Mrs. Cummings was very fond of the motherless boy and made much of him. Indeed, she never ceased being thankful that Mark had found a chum with such high principles; for while Elmer was a boy all over, full of fun and ready to take a joke with the rest, he had drawn a line for himself, beyond which nothing could ever tempt him to pass. "Ready?" he asked, upon bursting into Mark's den, where he found the other engaged in some sort of sketching. He immediately threw everything aside. With the call of the diamond in the air what boy, who loved baseball, could resist or allow any other pursuit to hold him in check? So together they presently went out, Mark having hastily donned his baseball suit. It was the regulation Hickory Ridge uniform, and had been carried by the players of the town for years past, long before such a thing as Boy Scouts had ever been thought of. Possibly the only real mark that distinguished the members of the troop when on the diamond was, first their badge with the significant words: "Be prepared," such as all scouts in good standing are entitled to wear; and second the little totem telling that they were members of the Wolf, the Eagle, or the Beaver Patrol. Once they reached the field where the games were held they found fully fifty of the town fellows on hand, some tossing the ball, others batting flies for a host of catchers. It was soon arranged. Among the fellows who did not, for various reasons, belong to the scouts there happened to be some pretty good timber for the several positions on the field. And Johnny Kline was the one to act as captain. Johnny was a good player, but addicted so much to strong slang that he despaired of ever being able to make good in the troop, and kept putting off the day when his application for membership would go in. "Now we're all ready, Elmer," said Mark, who caught for the regular team. "Yes, let's get down to business," remarked Lil Artha, who, besides being a cracking good first baseman, was also a field captain. "Just wait a minute, please," said little Jasper Merriweather, "for here comes Mr. Garrabrant, and he looks like he might be bringing us some great news." "Hey! bet you that old challenge has arrived!" shouted Red Huggins. "And you win, hands down, Red," declared the fine-looking young man who gave more or less of his time to the affairs of the troop, on account of the deep interest he had in boys in general, "because you see that is just what I am holding in my hand. So close in and listen while I read it to you!" "Hurrah! now will you be good, Fairfield?" shouted Lil Artha, waving his cap. CHAPTER IV. THE PRACTICE GAME WITH THE SCRUB TEAM. "I RECEIVED this by special messenger not more than half an hour ago," remarked the scout master of the Hickory Ridge Troop. "Was it Felix Wagner, the second baseman of Fairfield, who brought it?" asked Lil Artha; "because I saw him on his wheel pass our house just before I came out." "I believe he did say that was his name," replied Mr. Garrabrant, "though I didn't bother asking him, and might not even have remembered it only for your mentioning the same. Hurry along, Landy, if you want to hear the challenge read." "Well, I do now, the worst kind, even if I ain't on the regular team," replied the fat boy. "Something might happen to one of our fellows, and then perhaps they'd give me a show. I know I'm a little clumsy, but I'm improving all the time and can run half a mile now without breathing _very_ hard." "Hold your horses, Landy, and give Mr. Garrabrant a show!" called one. "Yes, we want to hear about the challenge; we can listen to your talk any old time, Landy. You'll be with us some time yet," added another. The scout master held up his finger, and instantly every sound ceased. Even the boys present who did not belong to the regular scouts understood that Mr. Garrabrant enforced obedience, and were ready to yield it with the rest. Besides, even if they did not play on the team, they belonged in good old Hickory Ridge, and the interests of the town were dear to their boyish hearts. "MR. RODERIC GARRABRANT, SCOUT MASTER, "Boy Scouts Troop of Hickory Ridge. "We, the newly organized Boy Scouts of Fairfield and Cramertown, having made up a team composed wholly of the members of our organization, do hereby challenge you to a game of ball on the afternoon of Monday the twentieth of August, to settle the question of championship on the diamond between our different organizations. No one not a scout in good standing to participate in this match game. Please settle this matter at your earliest convenience, and send us a reply, so that the game may be advertised. It will be played at three o'clock upon the neutral field of Basking Ridge, the home nine there having disbanded. "Signed by the Committee, "FELIX WAGNER, "ADRIAN COOK, "JOHN BASTIAN, "MATTHEW TUBBS, _Chairman_." No sooner had Mr. Garrabrant finished reading this communication than a great uproar broke out. Two dozen tongues wagged at the same time. Everybody seemed to have something to say on the subject, and while most of them applauded the tone of the challenge, there were numerous suggestions in the air. Again did the scout master hold up his hand. "Silence!" hissed Lil Artha, with both hands motioning at the same time. "Mr. Garrabrant says be still, fellows!" called another. When it was so quiet they could almost have heard a pin drop, the scout master once more addressed the fifty-odd boys around him. "Please remember," he said, pointedly, "this is a matter that concerns only the Boy Scouts. I expect every other fellow to keep the utmost silence while we talk it over. You are being handsomely treated in being allowed the privilege of staying here and listening to what we have to say. Now, scouts, what is your pleasure about this courteous challenge?" "I move that it be immediately accepted, and the time be set as Monday next at three in the afternoon, and the game to come off on the Basking Ridge diamond," suggested Mark. "Second the motion!" followed Lil Artha, quickly. "Any remarks before the motion is put?" asked Mr. Garrabrant, smiling as he looked at the eager faces by which he was surrounded. "Are we to take it for granted that the Basking Ridge people would allow us to come over and use their diamond, sir?" asked Elmer. "That is a point well taken," replied Mr. Garrabrant, "and I will say for the general information that I asked the messenger about that very thing. He assured me that the Fairfield people have the written consent of the owner of the ground at Basking Ridge. And the people of the town are just wild for the game to come off there. They are starved for good baseball, since their club broke up early in the season. So that point is disposed of. Any other question, boys?" "There is only to be this one game, I understand it, suh?" queried Chatz. "Only this one game," replied the gentleman. "And the club that wins will be known as the champion team of the Boy Scouts league in this part of the state--is that it, suh?" the Southern boy went on. "I so understand it," Mr. Garrabrant answered. "There isn't anything said about umpires, suh; and we've found in the past that if we want to have a square deal the umpire should never come from either of the towns playing in the game," Chatz declared, positively. "I took the pains to ask the messenger about that," said Mr. Garrabrant, smiling, "for I realized that half of our trouble in the past has come from having a partisan umpire. But the messenger who carried the challenge said that Home-run Joe Mallon, who belongs to the Tri-State League, is home in Basking Ridge, waiting for a broken arm to heal, and that he'd gladly do the umpiring. You know he used to be an umpire long before he got to playing ball. So that question is fixed, too. Any more?" "Question! Question!" shouted a number of the scouts, eagerly. When the motion, to the effect that the challenge of the Fairfield nine be unanimously accepted, was put, it met with not a single dissenting vote, and Mr. Garrabrant called it settled. "The committee will go with me immediately following the game to-day, and after we have drafted our answer we'll get it over to Fairfield to-night, if I have to borrow somebody's car to do it," declared the scout master. Then the cheers broke out in earnest. Every boy in all Hickory Ridge would be circulating the great news before night. Little need there would be to go to any expense in getting out posters when there was such a splendid circulating medium close at hand. "Now let's start play!" called Chatz, impatient to see whether Elmer would put in that tantalizing slow ball such as always proved such a tempting bait to the ordinary batter, causing him to swipe the air fiercely, besides losing confidence in himself meanwhile. In a short time the scrub game began. Johnny Kline was on the firing line for the scrub, and he certainly had some speed along with him that day, for he sent them in "scorching hot," as Lil Artha declared. However, it seemed as though Elmer and his chums just lived on speed, for they nearly every one fattened their average of batted balls that eluded the vigilant fielders. Of course, with everything favoring the regular team, they soon began to pile up runs, while sensational fielding on their part cut the hard-working scrub team out of several tallies. After the game had run through seven innings it was called because the hour was getting on toward six. "And we have a meeting to-night at which the committee will report," said Mr. Garrabrant. "How does the score stand now?" asked an outsider who had been away most of the time after the fourth inning, and only just returned when they came in off the field. "Seven to one, in favor of the scouts," some one replied. "It would have been a shut out only for Ty Collins out in center letting that swift fly pass him, that Johnny Kline made his home run on," replied another. "All the same it was a hard-fought game, fellows," remarked the genial scout master, who knew the outsiders felt very sore over their inability to hit Elmer, and whose nature it was to soften hard blows for the under dog. "If it had been any other pitcher we'd have knocked the stuffing out of him, and that's no lie," asserted the captain of the scrub nine, defiantly. "My team had their batting eyes along, but that balloon ball fooled us every time. It's sure the finest ever, and I see poor old Fairfield's finish if ever she gets up against Elmer this year." "I see you found your old mouse-colored cap again, Mark," remarked Lil Artha. "Glad you went back after it this morning. Was beginning to be afraid you might put in a claim against me for a new lid, because I was the cause of your losing that one." Several others heard what was said, and, of course, boy-like demanded to know what Lil Artha meant; so he simply said Mark lost his cap while scuffling near the bank of the Sunflower River, while they were on their way home from fishing on the preceding evening at dusk. Both Mark and Elmer had arranged it between them to keep on the watch and see if anyone appeared to be any ways surprised at Mark wearing the familiar gray cap. But so far as they were able to notice the matter caused only a slight passing ripple, and was then apparently forgotten. If the party who had found the cap, and later on deliberately left it under the prize peach trees of Colonel Hitchins, in order to get Mark in bad odor with that gentleman, were present, he had the shrewdness to avoid showing any feeling of astonishment that would naturally come to him on seeing the owner of the cap wearing it again, with the utmost indifference. "Nothing doing, Elmer," whispered Mark to his chum, in rather a disgusted tone, when they found themselves apart from the rest of the homeward-bound players and spectators. "If you mean with regard to finding out who had your cap, I guess you hit the nail on the head," chuckled the other. "Either the fellow wasn't there, or else he was smart enough to keep a straight face, and take no interest in your old cap." "Then I don't wear it again, I tell you," remarked the other. "It's pretty punk anyhow, and whoever had it, started to tear the lining out. Just see how it's torn, would you?" Elmer took the cap and glanced at the badly used interior. "It is, for a fact," he remarked, as a look of intelligence flashed across his face, only to vanish again. "Looks like it had been through the war. Are you sure the lining wasn't torn that way when you lost it, Mark?" "Not one bit, I give you my word. But enough of that. The thing haunts me if I happen to wake up in the night. D'ye know I just see before me that one question: 'Who found Mark Cummings's cap?' But never an answer comes, and I keep groping in the dark. Perhaps some day I may happen on the answer, Elmer, or you may, for you're always so smart at solving riddles." "Perhaps I may, Mark, and if I do you can just bank on it I'll be telling you the first thing," laughed the other. "Well, I should guess you would," declared Mark. Then others joined them, and the conversation became general; of course, pretty much all of the talk being in connection with the coming battle with the strong Fairfield team that had given them so hard a tussle two years ago. "But we're twice as strong now as then, boys," said Mark. "We didn't have our prize pitcher then, and some of us have improved a heap in that time." "So has Matt Tubbs and several of his nine," declared Ty Collins, who played center. "They beat the Rochesters early in the season, when the regulars were practicing. Don't you believe for one minute we're going to have a walkover. The Fairfield team's a hustling lot, they tell me, and always working for runs. They're bigger than our men every way." "They can be as tall as the housetops," chuckled Lil Artha, "and that won't help one bit to meet up against Elmer's benders, or engage that balloon ball he has learned to throw just as good as Christy Matthewson ever did." "Oh, what rotten stuff!" mocked Elmer, though of course he could not help feeling satisfied with the confidence which his teammates seemed to repose in him. A short time later they reached the borders of the town, where they divided up in smaller groups, according to where their homes chanced to lie. "Remember the meeting to-night, boys!" had been the last words of Mr. Garrabrant, and a number who did not belong to the scouts wished they had the nerve to put in an application right away, for they did seem to have such glorious times. When Elmer parted from his chum, and walked on to his own home, he was nodding and muttering to himself somewhat in this style: "Yes, perhaps I _may_ have some news for Mark about that blessed old cap before a great while goes by, because I've got my suspicions. But now it's mum as an oyster for me." CHAPTER V. BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY. ON the following morning about ten o'clock Elmer was passing along the road a short distance from his house, carrying quite a good-sized package, when he heard his name called from the rear. Turning around, he discovered the tall, angular form of Lil Artha hurrying after him and making motions as though he wanted to overtake him. "Hello! were you looking for anyone?" laughed Elmer, as the long-legged chap covered the intervening ground at a great rate and joined him. "Well, I was just on my way to your house to ask you something when I glimpsed you turning the bend. So I put on a little steam, and here I am," replied the one who was considered by all odds the best walker among the scouts, barring none. "Why, yes, I'm on my way over to Mr. Bailey's with something he wants, and which my father has just run across. Thought I'd take the short cut through his patch of woods, as it cuts down the distance a third. If you haven't anything else on hand just now, what's to hinder you going along, Lil Artha?" "Nothing that I can see," replied the party who received the invitation, falling into step at Elmer's side. "And if you feel tired carrying that big package just heave it over to me; I'll spell you." "Oh, it looks heavier than it really is, but I'll take you at your word if I feel that way. Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?" It proved that the long-legged first baseman had been doing considerable thinking in connection with the coming game of baseball. He believed he had discovered a way where a few little changes in the batting order and such things would add materially to the strength of the team. This was a subject very close to Elmer's own heart, and he was ready and willing to talk about it in and out of season. So the two boys walked along the road debating the matter seriously. Lil Artha had prepared himself to back up his claims with all the shrewdness of a lawyer advancing his ease before a jury, and knowing how enthusiastic the other was when he had a subject in his mind Elmer was very careful not to allow himself to be carried off his feet by such eloquence. Such a little thing as the arrangement of the batting order has won and lost innumerable games of baseball. Some fellows, once they manage to reach first base, are almost certain to get around, if one or two sure pinch hitters follow. And since Lil Artha knew the peculiarities of the Hickory Ridge fellows much better than Elmer did, because the latter was a comparative newcomer, he was in a position to give advice. Of course, as field captain, Lil Artha had the right to make changes himself, but he wanted advice from the pitcher, with whom he worked in common for the good of the team. When they came to the spot where the short cut through the woods began Elmer turned into the path. Lil Artha had insisted on taking over the package that was going to Mr. Bailey, and as the trail was exceedingly narrow in places Elmer was compelled to step ahead. He kept turning his head as he listened to the arguments advanced by his comrade, and occasionally made a reply. They were now in the midst of the Bailey woods, known all over the region as the finest and most extensive grove within some miles of town. On this warm August morning it was cool under those big trees, and one of Elmer's reasons for taking the short cut now became apparent, since the dusty road promised a hot walk as well as a much longer one. Squirrels barked as they played among the branches above; birds whistled, crows flapped their wings and cawed solemnly at being disturbed in their caucus; a timid rabbit darted out of a patch of brush, stopped to observe the intruders, and then bounded away as though not very much frightened; for this being close season the report of a gun was as yet an unheard thing in Bailey's woods. All at once Elmer came to a sudden stop, so that Lil Artha, intent on the point he happened to be arguing at the time, almost ran into his comrade. "What's the matter--stub your toe, or get a bug in your eye?" he asked, as he clutched the package tighter to prevent its dropping to the ground. "Not a bit of it," replied Elmer; "but what in the world do you suppose that queer sound can be?" Now that his attention was called to it, Lil Artha also detected the noise which had attracted his chum's notice. "What d'ye think it could be, now?" he asked, turning a look of wonder on Elmer. The other shook his head as though puzzled. "I thought I knew every animal you could find in these woods, and the sound of his grunt or squeal, but that's a new one on me," he remarked. "I tell you," said Lil Artha, after listening again intently; "it must be a pig, that's what. There, didn't that sound just like a big grunt, and wasn't it followed by a squeal? One of Bailey's hogs had sneaked out of its pen and is rooting around. Perhaps it's got into trouble. We'd better investigate this thing a little, don't you think, Elmer?" "I think so a heap," replied the young scout leader; "because that last grunt didn't have a piggy sound at all to me, and I give it to you straight." "Then what do you reckon it was?" demanded Lil Artha, with added interest. "More like a groan," remarked Elmer, starting on again. "A groan--you mean a real human groan?" exclaimed the tall boy. "Say, now, that would mean somebody might be hurt over there." "Then the sooner we find out the better." Elmer answered over his shoulder. They had little difficulty in tracing the course of the sounds. And the further they advanced to the left of the path the louder the singular combination of sighs, groans, and grunts became. "I know this place, all right," whispered Lil Artha, presently. "I've been here more'n a few times, Elmer. There's the queerest hill just beyond you ever saw. It's got one face shaved off just like it had been split, and half of it carried away. Us boys call it Echo Cliff. I've been up on it lots of times. Gee, it's sure a jump down to the tree tops below!" "Yes," Elmer remarked, "I remember hearing about it now, though I've never been up on it, Perhaps some poor fellow has tumbled over the edge, and is lying with broken bones among the trees." "Ugh, you give me a cold shiver!" Lil Artha said. "But p'raps he didn't fall all the way down, Elmer, because, seems to me those awful sounds come right out of the air up yonder." "That's just what they do," muttered the other boy, in a puzzled tone; "but come on, and we'll soon find out the worst." Resolutely he led the way and Lil Artha followed. No matter what dreadful thing might suddenly meet their sight, Elmer would not be deterred now. "Listen!" whispered Lil Artha, as he gripped the shoulder of his comrade; "he's talking to himself, Elmer. Where under the sun d'ye suppose he can be? It don't stand to reason that he's up on the top of Echo Cliff, because that's farther off." Elmer gave a chuckle, and when he turned his face around his companion saw that he seemed to be shaking with laughter. "I think I've got on to it, all right!" said Elmer. "Well, let me in, won't you?" pleaded Lil Artha. "You look like you wanted to burst out laughing, and just didn't dare. If a human life is in danger I don't see what there is funny about it." "Tell me first, is there an open place just below this Echo Cliff you talk about?" asked the other, in the same low, cautious voice. "That's just what there is," Lil Artha replied, readily enough. "Many a time I've dropped chunks of rock down, just to see 'em smash on the ground below." "That settles it, then; he was trying it out," remarked Elmer, nodding. "Hey, what d'ye mean?" demanded Lil Artha. "Trying what out? And who d'ye think it is? tell me that, Elmer." "Come here with me; I believe I see him, all right," remarked the other. "Follow my finger now; notice that thing moving up yonder in that little old tree? Now it kicks like all get out. You'd think a fellow had gone up there to take lessons in swimming. Well, that's _him_!" "Who?" demanded the other, imperatively. "A fellow by the name of Tobias Ellsworth Jones, known among the boys by the more familiar name of just plain Toby," chuckled Elmer. "Wow, now I'm beginning to get on, Elmer!" exclaimed the tall boy, excitedly. "You remember Toby is just crazy to fly like the Wrights and all the other bird men who sail through the air in their aeroplanes?" "Sure he is," commented Lil Artha; "haven't I heard him tell about what wonderful things he was goin' to do some day, to make the name of Jones famous? Say, honest, now, I believe you've hit her right, Elmer. Toby _has_ been trying it out! And that big flapping thing up yonder in the tree top must be his wonderful parachute he's been talking about this long while. Say, I believe the silly must have dropped off Echo Cliff!" "That's what he did," remarked Elmer, "and instead of lighting in that nice little open place, as he meant to, the wind just carried him into the top of a tree!" "And he's caught up there right now--caught by his trousers seat mebbe, and kicking to beat the band. I don't wonder he grunts and groans and talks to himself. Now what d'ye think of that for a loon? Why, he might have broken his leg if he had fallen on those stones! What're we going to do about it, Elmer?" As usual Lil Artha was only too willing to have his companion take the lead in suggesting action. Some boys seem to be just fitted to occupy the position of guide, and their mates soon come to rely on them exclusively. Elmer occupied that position, and so Lil Artha looked to him in this emergency. "Why, we've got to get him down out of there, that's flat," returned Elmer. "He's our comrade; and scouts must always help their fellows, or anybody else, for that matter, when in distress. Let's move on a little farther and give him the high sign." All this talking had been carried on in such low tones that the sound of their voices could hardly have reached the ears of the ambitious aviator, who was caught in the tree, fully thirty feet from the ground, unable to break away, and confronted by a nasty drop if he did succeed in separating his garments from the branch that had gripped him. They could now see that what Elmer had suggested was indeed the truth. A boy was flapping at a great rate, his arms and legs going at the same time, as he tried his best to squirm around so as to get at the seat of the trouble, but apparently without success. After each tiresome struggle he would give vent to a new series of those queer grunts and sighs, and then do some more talking to himself. Above him, and just barely caught on the tree top, was a strange affair that had somewhat the appearance of a big umbrella, made out of canvas or muslin. A number of holes had been punched through the parachute by its descent through the branches, so that taken altogether, the brave would-be aviator and his apparatus seemed just then to be in a state of collapse. Elmer waited until the squirming had ceased, with one last groan as of despair. Then he gave the signal of the Wolf Patrol, as only one who had actually heard the long-drawn howl of the timber wolf in the darkness of a Canadian Northwest night could imitate it. Evidently the sound stirred Toby to new life, for his movements began again. He tried to make an answering signal, but the sound was more like the bleat of a lost calf than anything else. However, it answered its purpose, which was to let the comrade below, who had come to the rescue, understand that his presence was known. "Hello! up there, what are you doing to that tree?" called Lil Artha, who could not keep from trying to extract some fun out of the situation for all its gravity. "Better ask the tree what it's adoin' to me!" wailed Toby, who had managed to whip himself around so that he could now catch a glimpse of the boys below. "Hey, Elmer, and you, Lil Artha, get me down out of this first and have your fun afterward! I'm as dizzy as an owl in daytime, and if my pants give way I'm going to squash flat! Come up here and grab me, can't you? Tell you all about it later on. What I want now is sympathy and brotherly kindness, don't you see?" CHAPTER VI. A QUESTION OF A SCOUT'S DUTY. "HE'S right," said Elmer, energetically, as he prepared to climb the particular tree that bore such strange fruit. "Toby's hung there so long that all the blood's just going to his head. Come along, Lil Artha; drop that pack and follow me up there. We can rescue him, all right, if we're smart." They went up among the branches like a couple of monkeys, both being good climbers. And presently they were close to where poor Toby was dangling, watching their movements feverishly. His face was very red, and he did not look very comfortable as he swung there, without any hold above or below. Lil Artha was immediately reminded of the stirring piece which he had himself recited in school more than once--about the captain's little boy on board a ship in a harbor, who daringly climbed to the very top of the mainmast and stood up on the main truck--"no hold had he above, below; no aid could reach him there!" In that case the captain had shouted to the boy to jump far out, so that he might strike the water, and they would pick him up, which in the end the little fellow did, and was saved; but the same advice would not apply with regard to poor Toby, for he could not jump no matter how much he wished to, and it was hard ground below and not soft water. But Elmer sized the situation up as soon as he arrived. He saw that by good luck the branch that held Toby up was a solid one, and would bear considerable weight, so that it was safe to crawl out on it. "I'll go and get within reach of him," he said, quickly. "You brace yourself, and be ready to pull him in when he drops. And Toby, make a grab for that branch just below when you feel yourself going, understand?" "Yes," groaned the other, "I guess I can make it all right, Elmer. But say, what you goin' to do now?" as he saw the other taking out his pocket knife, opening the largest blade, and then gripping the tool between his teeth so that he might have the free use of both hands. "I've got to cut you loose, you know; don't worry, Toby," replied the other, with such assurance in his steady voice that he unconsciously gave the dangling boy new courage. "We're going to bring you down; only try to help yourself by getting hold of that branch, see?" "I will, Elmer, you just bet I will!" Toby answered. A minute later and Elmer was bending down above Toby. He had to brace himself against a sudden shock, for he knew what the result must be, once Toby's weight was cast loose so that the limb could spring back. "Ready everybody?" Elmer sang out. "Sure!" answered Lil Artha, taking a new clutch on the garments of Toby, with one of his legs twined about the tree trunk so as to better hold his own when the shock came. "Ready, Elmer; let her go!" said Toby, weakly but gamely. Fortunately that knife blade was as keen as a razor. Elmer always made it a point to keep his knife in the best condition possible at all times, and this was one of the occasions where he felt amply repaid for his foresight. One circular sweep, and the thing was done. Toby dropped like a plummet. His hands were outstretched and, as he had planned, he gripped the branch just below; but had it depended wholly on Toby's ability to maintain his hold, he must have gone plunging down, banging against the various projections until he finally brought up on the ground, lucky if he escaped broken ribs or collar bone. But Lil Artha was there like a young Gibraltar. He could not be moved, since his left leg was twined around the tree trunk. So he swung Toby inward and gave him a chance to get his breath, while Elmer was hurrying down to assist. Between them they managed to right Toby, who was soon panting as he squatted in a friendly fork of the tree. "Now let's get down to the ground," said Elmer, who did not seem to think that he had done anything very much out of the common in rescuing the ambitious would-be aviator. "Oh, Elmer, just wait a minute!" exclaimed Toby, entreatingly. "What ails you now?" demanded Lil Artha. "Can't you get your nerve back yet? Say, we'll give you a hand down, Toby, all right. Just depend on your fellow scouts." "It ain't that, Lil Artha," declared Toby; "but while you're about it, why won't you make a clean sweep of the thing, a double rescue so to speak?" "Well, now, did you ever hear the beat of that?" laughed the tall boy. "He wants us to risk our precious lives cutting his old umbrella machine loose above there, so he can just take chances again. That's nervy, all right." "But Lil Artha," continued the other, persuasively, laying a hand on the sleeve of the tall scout, "don't you see that it's only held slightly? If you could cut that rope, and break that small branch off, I believe the whole outfit would have to fall to the ground. Elmer, ain't that so?" Of course Elmer was compelled to admit the fact, for the parachute was only lightly held, after its adventurous passage through the tree tops. So Lil Artha, grumbling somewhat, though obliging, proceeded forthwith to climb farther aloft until he could use his knife on the cord that seemed to be helping to retard the downward progress of the parachute. "Now break that branch, and she's just bound to drop, Lil Artha!" cried Toby, who was keenly alive to the fate of his beloved airship. "There she goes, fellows! What did I tell you? Whoop! Sailed down as soft as a thistle ball! That's the ticket. Bully boy, Lil Artha! I will never forget this of both of you. Some day mebbe I'll have a chance to take you up with me in my balloon!" "Nixy, never, not me!" declared the tall boy, as he came scrambling down from his elevated perch. "The ground's good enough for this chicken. If I ever dropped from this height, whatever would happen to my bones, tell me that? Now, let's see if you can climb down, Toby." Toby proved to be all right again, now that he had regained an upright position, and the blood ceased to gather in his head. He made a decent job of it, dropping down the tree. Lil Artha kept close beside him, to guard against any accident, for, as he said, he "didn't want to have his work all for nothing, and let Toby get a broken leg after he had once been safely rescued." They all arrived on the ground under the tree about the same time. Toby's first thought seemed to be in connection with his beloved parachute, and, of course, he started for the spot where the broken umbrella-like apparatus lay, upside down; as Lil Artha declared, "for all the world like a duck that, being shot in the air, had fallen on its back." Hardly had the unfortunate Toby taken half a dozen steps away than Lil Artha suddenly burst out into shrieks of laughter that caused the other to whirl around in his tracks and look at him in astonishment. "What ails you, now, I'd just like to know, Lil Artha?" he demanded. "You sure act like you'd gone bug-house. Say, Elmer, is he crazy, or can it be the reaction set in after his daring feat in grabbing me?" "Turn around!" yelled Lil Artha. "Let Elmer see the air hole he made. Oh, my! Oh, me! but don't you feel cold? Ain't you afraid of a draught, Toby?" Toby apparently suddenly began to understand, and as his hand went back of him a grin broke over his face. "Oh, murder!" he ejaculated, "he cut out the whole seat, and these are my newest trousers, too! Won't I get it, though, when mom sees what's happened? And I don't dare tell her how it was done, because she wouldn't let me keep on studying about aeroplanes and such. Whatever am I going to do now!" "I'd advise you to get an awning before you show yourself in town," jeered Lil Artha. "If any of the scouts see you, Toby, they'll sure think you're flying a flag of truce. But don't you blame Elmer for your troubles, hear? He did the only thing there was open to him. And if he hadn't happened to have that sharp knife along, you might be hanging up there yet and for some time to come; get that?" "Sure, and I'm making no kick," replied Toby, with a grimace. "Reckon I pulled out of a bad scrape lucky enough. Wow! Thought at one time my goose was cooked! But it's all right now, it's all right, boys!" "Yes," sang Lil Artha, "everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high, or he did up to the time his chums happened along and yanked him down. But it was a good thing for you, Toby, Elmer here happened to be sent over to Mr. Bailey's house, and concluded to take the short cut through the woods." "Well," remarked Toby, philosophically, and boy fashion, "I always heard it was better to be born lucky than rich, and now I believe it." "Come along, Lil Artha," said Elmer; "we've got business on hand, you remember, and can't waste any more time here. But I hope Toby won't think of trying to drop down from the top of Echo Cliff again." "Not if he knows it," returned the other, whose face was scratched in several places from contact with twigs during his crash into the tree. "Next time I try out any of my inventions I'll make sure to pick a place where there ain't any plagued trees. Perhaps I might try a jump from the old church tower some fine day. That would make the people of sleepy old Hickory Ridge stare some, hey?" "I sure think it would," returned Lil Artha, as he stepped off after Elmer; "and your folks in particular. I see you're in for a heap of trouble, Toby, with these fool notions of yours. It'll be a good thing if you get cured before you're killed." "That's a fact," called out Toby, with one of his grins; "because it wouldn't be much use after that same thing happened, hey?" Elmer was chuckling as he walked along. "Never will forget how Toby looked as he kicked, and pawed, and tried to get hold of something," he remarked to his companion. "Same here, Elmer," replied the other, shaking with merriment. "But all the same it was a ticklish thing for Toby, and what you might call a close shave," declared Elmer, thoughtfully. "Whew, I wouldn't like to take the chances of a thirty-foot drop like that, if the branch broke or his trousers tore!" Lil Artha remarked. "And after all Toby ought to be thankful that they were new goods and not rotten stuff." "Think of his nerve in jumping off that high cliff," said Elmer, shaking his head, as though the idea appalled him. "That fellow is getting too daring. I wouldn't be much surprised if he did try to drop down from the church tower some fine day if this thing isn't nipped in the bud." "Then perhaps we ought to tell, Elmer?" suggested Lil Artha. "You mean, let his folks know about the narrow call he had here to-day?" "Yep. Seems to me it's kind of our duty to inform his dad. Another time, perhaps, Toby won't be just so lucky. And Elmer, if he got smashed or had his legs broken, you and me would feel like we was guilty, ain't that so?" "I'll think it over, Lil Artha," replied the other. "I hate to tell on a chum, but this is something out of the ordinary. It may mean Toby's life, for all we can tell. And on the whole I think his folks ought to know." "He won't blab on himself, that's dead sure," remarked the tall scout. "Sounded like he didn't mean to, for a fact," Elmer continued. "Tell you what, I'd have given a heap to have been around just then, Elmer." "You mean when he took the jump? It must have been a bit thrilling for a fellow to deliberately drop off such a high place. But Toby's got the nerve, only sometimes it seems to me he's reckless. And that's a bad thing in anyone who wants to sail around through the air regions." They went on exchanging opinions, and in due time arrived at the Bailey house, where Elmer delivered his charge to the owner of the big woods. On the way back they neither saw nor heard anything of Toby, though they could easily imagine him hard at work trying to get his broken parachute in shape, so that it might be transported back to town, and fixed up for another exploit. It would not be in boy nature to keep such a remarkable story secret, and before night it had likely traveled from one end of Hickory Ridge to the other in about a dozen different shapes. Some even had it that Toby had flown a mile before being caught in a tree, while others had him a wreck, with all the doctors in town trying to patch him up. But Elmer went straight to Mr. Jones, and gave him the true version, so that he might not be alarmed at anything he heard. CHAPTER VII. MORE WORK ON THE DIAMOND. WHEN Lil Artha showed up on the field that afternoon, clad in his old baseball suit that showed the wear and tear of many a battle, he had his camera slung over his shoulder with a strap. "Want to take the nine in action?" asked Elmer, as he noted this fact, and paused in his delivery of the ball to the catcher, Mark Cummings. "Oh, I might, if the signs were right, and they showed that they deserved all that sort of attention," replied the tall scout, "but I've made up my mind about one thing, Elmer." "What might that be?" asked the other, smiling at his friend's seriousness. "I'm going to carry this little box around with me day and night, that's what. Just the time you want it most you haven't got it along," declared Lil Artha, with a look of sheer disgust. "Well, I always heard that a fellow could see all sorts of game when he didn't happen to have a gun," laughed Elmer; "and I suppose the same thing goes with a camera. But I can guess what's ailing you now, my boy." "Of course you can," grinned the other. "Say, just think what it would mean to you and me if we only had a picture of Toby Jones kicking the air up in that old tree, and learning to swim! Wow, no chance of us ever getting the blues while we had that to look at! It would have been the funniest ever. And to think it's all lost to us, just because I was silly enough to leave my box at home. Shucks!" "Don't suppose Toby would pose it over again, do you?" suggested Larry Billings, who was passing a ball with Matty Eggleston, the leader of the Beaver Patrol, and one of the reliables in the nine. "Well, hardly," Lil Artha replied. "I reckon Toby got enough of hanging that time to last him right along. Is he here this afternoon?" "Sure he is, and as chipper as ever. Only grins when anybody tries to josh him about flying. Nothing ever feases that feller. He comes up again after every knockdown, as fresh as a daisy. Says he's going to give the old town a sensation some day before long. And he means it, too," remarked one of the other boys near by. Elmer and Lil Artha exchanged meaning glances, and presently the latter managed to whisper to his companion of the morning: "Did you do it, Elmer?" "I asked my father what I ought to do, and he sent me over to tell Mr. Jones the whole story, because all sorts of yarns were going around, and he said Toby's mother might hear something awful had happened, and be frightened." "And what did Mr. Jones say?" continued Lil Artha. "He laughed a little," replied Elmer, then looked serious like. "I rather expect he'll put a crimp in Toby's flying business after this, though up to now he's rather encouraged the boy, thinking it was smart in him. Now he sees the danger. But get out in the field, and throw in a few from first, old fellow." The scene was an animated one, with boys in uniform and without, banging out high flies, passing balls, and exercising generally. It really seemed as though every one in the town who could get off must be there that afternoon to see how the Hickory Ridge team gave promise of playing when up against the strong Fairfield nine. Girls had come down in flocks, and not a few men were present, among whom Elmer noticed his old friend, Colonel Hitchins. This fact caused him to remember something, and the sight of his catcher, Mark Cummings, fitted right in with his thoughts. Apparently Mark had also noticed the presence of the Colonel, for after throwing up his hand as a signal that he had had enough of practice for the time being, he advanced toward Elmer, and was presently speaking in a low tone to him. "See who's here, Elmer?" he asked. "Well, I notice a lot of mighty pretty girls for one thing," smiled the other. "You know I don't mean them, or any particular girl," replied the catcher, who was a singularly modest lad as well as a handsome one. "Over yonder in that bunch--the old colonel!" "Oh, yes, I noticed him a bit ago," remarked Elmer. "But that isn't surprising. He's always taken a heap of interest in boys' sports, and used to play baseball many years ago, he says, when it was a new game. He told me he was in a nine that played the old Cincinnati Reds the first year they ever had a league. And that was a long time ago, Mark." "You're right, it was, Elmer; but when I saw the colonel it reminded me that so far I haven't done anything about finding out how that lost cap of mine happened to be picked up under his peach trees, when I dropped it a mile away, over on the bank of the Sunflower." "I heard that two men had been arrested, charged with stealing those peaches," Elmer remarked. "Yes, that's so, for they were silly enough to sell the fruit to Phil Dongari, the man who keeps the biggest fruit store in town. Colonel Hitchins could tell his prize peaches anywhere, so he went and bought them back again; and getting a line on the men, had them put in the town cooler, where they are yet." "Just so, Mark; that's ancient history," smiled Elmer; "but as you say it doesn't do the first thing along the line of explaining how your cap got under those same trees, does it?" "But, Elmer, I'm relying on you to get a move on and find out something before the trail gets cold," argued Mark. "That sounds pretty fine, my boy," observed Elmer; "but what makes you believe I can do anything to help out? You've got all the advantages I have." "That's so," admitted Mark; "only I'm a greenhorn about following a trail, and you know heaps. Besides, something in your manner seems to tell me you've already got a hunch on about this thing." "Oh, that's the way you look at it, eh?" mocked Elmer. "Yes, I haven't been going with you all this time not to know how to read your face and actions," replied Mark, boldly. "And it's my honest opinion right now that if you chose you could put your finger on the culprit." "Thank you for your confidence, my boy; but I'm not quite so dead sure as you make out," returned Elmer. "But you _think_ you know?" protested Mark. "I believe I've got a good clew; I admit that, Mark." "Were you over there again?" demanded the other. "Now you're referring to where you lost your old cap, I take it?" Elmer said in a noncommittal way. "That's just what I mean--over on the bank of the Sunflower, where Lil Artha began kidding me, and in consequence my cap fell off. You rode over on your wheel, didn't you, Elmer?" "Well, yes, I did," the other admitted; "but not like you, to look for the cap, because at the time I went I happened to know it had been found, and you had it at home." "Then why should you bother going all that way over a rough path? Hold on, let me change that question, because I see why you wanted to look over the ground. Did you find anything there to tell you who picked that cap up?" and Mark looked directly in the face of his chum. "If I did you needn't expect that I'm going to tell you about it till I'm good and ready," laughed Elmer. "And that will be inside of twenty-four hours, perhaps. This is Saturday, and by Monday night I hope I'll be in a position to show you something interesting. Just bottle up till then, my boy. And now there's the scrub team going out, so we have lost the toss and must take our first turn at bat." Mark knew that it would be useless trying to urge his chum to relent. Elmer no doubt had some good reason for holding off longer. So, although he was very anxious to learn the solution of the mystery connected with his cap, Mark put the matter out of his mind for the time being and prepared to play ball. The game was, as before, hotly contested. Johnny Kline, as captain of the scrub, bent every energy to beating the regulars, and pitched as he had never done before. But Elmer was also in fine fettle on this bright Saturday afternoon. His speed was better than ever; and when in pinches he floated the ball up in one of those tantalizing drops, he had the heaviest slugger guessing and beating the air in a vain attempt to connect. The crowd numbered several hundreds, and they were as ready to applaud any clever work on the part of the scrub players as Lil Artha's team. And with such a host of pretty high-school girls present every fellow strove to do his best in order to merit the hand clapping that followed every bit of fine play. For five innings the score stood at nothing to nothing. Elmer was equal to each and every crisis, and somehow the boys back of him did not seem able to solve the puzzling delivery of Johnny Kline any better than the scrub team did that of the scout pitcher. In the sixth there came a break. Lil Artha led off with a rousing two bagger, and the next man up, who happened to be Chatz Maxfield, sent him to third with a clever sacrifice, for which he was noted. Then along came Red, who was equal to the emergency, and whipped out a tremendous fly which the fielder caught handsomely, but tumbled all over himself in so doing; and of course the long-legged first baseman had no difficulty in getting home before the ball could be returned to the diamond. Indeed, Lil Artha was such a remarkable runner that once he got his base his club counted on a tally three times out of four. That broke the ice, and in the innings that followed the boys took sweet revenge on Johnny's benders, smashing them to all parts of the field until the spectators were roaring with laughter and a halt had to be called to let the overworked fellow in center come in to get a reviving drink of water. The result of the game was a score of eleven to two, and neither of these runs for the scrub were earned, but presented to them on errors in the field. "It looks good to me," remarked Red Huggins, as he and several others of the scouts plodded homeward after the conclusion of the game. "If we can do as clever work on Monday as we did this afternoon, those Fairfield giants won't have a show for their money." "And that's what we're going to do, just you make your mind up to it," declared Lil Artha. "And to think what a great catch our Toby made when he had to run and jump into the air for that liner. Shows he's all to the good, no matter if he did get such a bounce this morning. We'd miss him if he took a notion to fly away between now and Monday P.M.," and the speaker cast a side glance toward the right fielder, who was limping along, talking over the game with Ty Collins. "Oh, there are several good fellows just waiting for a chance to break in!" declared Red; "Larry Billings, for instance, who can hit 'em some; Jack Armitage, who is nearly as swift as Lil Artha on the bases; and George Robbins, who knows how to rattle a pitcher to beat the band. I guess we don't need to worry, since we've got plenty of good material handy in case of accidents." "But Toby isn't going to fail us," asserted Elmer. "He's too good a scout not to know his duty in this crisis. For we've just got to beat that Fairfield crowd this time, or we'll never hear the end of it." "Don't worry, fellows; if we play like we did to-day we'll have their number, all right. Wait till you see how Elmer teases their heavy batters with that drop of his! There'll be need of a lot of dope after the game, for the arms that swing nearly out of joint swiping the air. Wow, don't I wish to-morrow was Monday, though!" and Lil Artha gave further emphasis to his wrought-up feelings by a certain gesture that was one of his peculiarities. "I've heard lots of people say Hickory Ridge never had so fast a nine before," remarked Matty. "Thspare our blushes, pleath!" laughed Ted Burgoyne, who could never conquer that hissing habit that caused him to lisp, though no one ever heard him admit the fact, which he always vigorously denied. It was a jolly and well-satisfied party of athletes that journeyed back to town from the field where the game was played. Even the members of the badly beaten scrub could not but feel a certain pride in the work of the regulars, and declared that if the boys could only do as well in the game with Fairfield there need be no fear of the result. And luckily Sunday would come as a day of rest before the match game at Basking Ridge was to take place. CHAPTER VIII. THE PUNCTURED TIRE. IT was Saturday night. Elmer Chenowith had put in rather a strenuous day, all told, what with that morning walk, the rescue of poor Toby from the tree top, and then nine full innings of warm work pitching during the afternoon hours. But he fancied he did not feel half so used up as Toby, for instance, after his fall into the branches and vain struggles for release. It was about eight o'clock when the telephone bell rang, and as he was alone in the library at the time, Elmer answered the call. To his surprise he recognized the voice at the other end of the wire as belonging to Colonel Hitchins, for once heard those smooth, even tones could never be mistaken. "Is Elmer at home?" asked the gentleman. "Yes, sir, this is Elmer talking with you," replied the boy, wondering immediately what could be wanted. "Oh, is that so? How do you feel, Elmer, after your hard afternoon's work? I was much pleased with your pitching, and meant to tell you so, only I found myself called to town by a message from the head of the police; for it seems that by some bad management they let those two rascals slip through their fingers--the fellows who took my fruit, I mean. Are you dead tired, my boy?" "Oh, not at all, sir. I took a bath as soon as I got home, and feel first-rate right now. Did you want me for anything in particular, colonel?" "Well, I'm afraid you'll think me as impatient as any boy," laughed the gentleman, "but the fact is, that box I mentioned to you as coming from India has just arrived this evening, and I'm going to unpack it. I had an idea that if you weren't too tired, possibly you might like to jump on your wheel and come over to give me a little help." "Of course I will, sir, and only too glad!" declared Elmer, for he knew about what that marvelous box was supposed to hold, and fairly itched to be on hand when its contents were exposed. "But are you sure you are not worn out after that hard game?" persisted the old gentleman. "Well, I could ride twenty miles without much trouble if I had an object back of it; and I certainly do want to see what you told me was in that box of curios, colonel. My father will be in at any minute now. I'll tell him where I'm going, and I'm sure he won't object, for he likes me to be with you. Then I'll jump on my wheel and run across. I've got a good lantern, you know, and there's a fairly decent road most all the way." "Good! I shall expect to see you soon, then, Elmer," said the gentleman, who had taken a deep interest in the boy. "I ought to be there inside of twenty minutes, I expect, sir"; and Elmer cut off communication, because he heard his father's step in the hall. When he communicated the message of Colonel Hitchins to Mr. Chenowith there was not the slightest objection raised to his going. Well did that father know he could trust his boy anywhere, and at any hour, without feeling anxiety as to what sort of company he was in. And the father who has this confidence in his son is to be envied indeed. So Elmer got his wheel from the back hall where he usually kept it and, passing out, was quickly on the way. His lantern lighted the road in front of him fairly well, and since he was not apt to meet with many vehicles at this hour he could make pretty good time. Just as he arrived close to the gate leading into the large property belonging to Colonel Hitchins, he heard the well-known hiss of escaping air that told of a puncture. "Well, now, wouldn't that just jar you!" he exclaimed in disgust, never dreaming at the time what a tremendous influence that very same incident was destined to have upon his fortunes. "Now I've either got to ask the colonel to give me a lift home, which I certainly won't do, or else trudge all the way back on foot, trundling my old wheel, for of course I couldn't expect to put a plug in without daylight to work by. Oh, well, it's all in the game. Let it go at that." In this manner, then, free from care and ready to take the hard with the easy, Elmer pushed his useless machine ahead of him as he walked along the drive leading to the house, far removed from the country road. As he passed the peach trees that had been shorn of their prize contents Elmer was, of course, reminded of the lost cap; but whatever he thought, he said nothing aloud to indicate that he had solved the mystery. "There's old Bruno giving tongue," he presently remarked. "What a deep bark he has! Wonder what he would do if he broke loose right now? But he ought to know me well enough. Still, I hope the chain holds him. And here I am at the house." Once again did he enter and pass along to the library where the colonel spent most of his time when at home. Elmer remembered that the last occasion of his entering that room was when he accompanied Mark there, as the other was responding to the request of the colonel that he would call and see him. "Glad to see you, Elmer; and this is nice of you, humoring a cranky old fellow like me when you deserved your rest to-night," was the way the gentleman met him as he entered. "I rather guess, sir, that I'm the one to feel grateful, because of your letting me be with you when you open that big box"; and he eyed the case with the foreign markings, knowing that it held many almost priceless objects, which the other had secured when last in India and left there until he chose to send for them. A servant came in with a pitcher of iced grape juice and some cake. "Before we get to work, suppose we sample this, my son," remarked the gentleman, smilingly; for Colonel Hitchins knew boys from the ground up, even though he had never had any of his own. A little later the lid of the case, which had been loosened previously by one of the servants probably, was lifted off, and the colonel began to take out the costly little articles that were so snugly packed in nests of paper and cloth. These he placed upon the table as he brought them forth. They were of ebony, copper, brass, and ivory. Elmer had never before looked upon such a queer assortment of curios. And the best of it was that nearly every one represented some sort of adventure in which the present owner had taken part. He related the story of each as he placed it there on the table and fingered it, while allowing memory to once more recall the lively incidents. Elmer never passed a more enjoyable evening in all his life. Why, it seemed to him that Colonel Hitchins must be one of those wonderful story-tellers he had read about in the _Arabian Nights Entertainment_. And yet, strange though many of these narratives might be, he knew they were absolutely true, which made them seem all the more remarkable. So deeply interested had the boy become that he hardly noted the flight of time. When a clock struck eleven he drew a long breath. "I'm afraid I must be going, sir," he said, rising regretfully. "I promised my father not to stay longer than eleven, but I was surprised when I counted the cuckoo notes, for I thought it was only ten o'clock!" "Thank you, Elmer," said the other, as though greatly pleased. "That was as delicate and yet positive a compliment for my powers of entertainment as I have ever received. I will not try to detain you, because I appreciate the confidence your father puts in you. Give him my best regards. I expect to have him over next week with a couple of other friends, for a hand of whist, and they will then see what you have helped me unpack to-night." True to his resolve, Elmer had not mentioned the fact that his tire being flat, he would either have to push his wheel all the way home or leave it there and come on Monday, when in daylight he could render it serviceable again. For he knew the genial colonel would insist on getting the colored driver out, have him hitch up the horses, and take his guest home; something Elmer did not care to have happen. Having shaken hands with the old gentleman again, Elmer made his way to the front door and passed out. By this time he knew more or less about the arrangements of both house and grounds, and when the idea came to stow his wheel away until he chose to return for it, he remembered that there was an outhouse where some garden tools were kept, just around the main building. "I guess I'll see if it's unfastened, and if so I'll leave my old wheel there. It'll be safe in case of rain, too. Wonder if Bruno will act half crazy when he hears me moving around." While thinking after this strain, Elmer was softly trundling his wheel around to that side of the mansion where he remembered seeing the tool house he spoke of. Not wishing to make any noise that might excite the chained hound, or be heard in the house, he kept to the turf as he walked. "Now that's queer," he said to himself, as he stopped to listen. "Just when I expected to hear Bruno carry on wild, he's as still as a clam. And yet a while ago he was barking fiercely, too. Must have tired himself out and gone to sleep; or else he's broken loose again, and is taking a run over the country, as the colonel says he always does when he slips his collar." However, he was not at all sorry for this silence. Had the hound, hearing his suspicious and stealthy movements, started to baying and yelping, he might have drawn the attention of some servant, who would be apt to give him trouble. And so Elmer presently discovered some dark object looming up alongside him; which on closer inspection proved to be the very tool house of which he was in search. And better still, the door turned out to be unfastened by any lock, a staple and a wooden pin doing the holding act. Groping around until he found a way to open the door, Elmer carefully pushed his useless wheel inside. Then he as quietly closed the door again. "I suppose somebody will be surprised to find a bicycle inside of a tool house," he chuckled, as he began to fasten the door again just as he had found it; "but if the fact is brought to the colonel's attention, trust him for understanding how it got there, and why." Turning once more, he started to retrace his steps, intending to pass around the house and out at the gate that lay some distance away. A mile was not so very far to go, even for a tired boy. And as he had said, that cold bath had worked wonders for his muscles. Elmer had gone possibly one half of the distance to the gate, when he believed he detected something moving ahead of him. The first thought that flashed across his mind was that it must be Bruno, who was in the act of returning home after a little run about the country. He hoped the big dog would recognize him as a friend before attempting to jump at him; for Elmer knew that Siberian wolf hounds are not the easiest animals in the world to handle when met in the dark. So the boy prepared to speak, in the hope that Bruno would recognize his voice. Better after all to arouse the house, than have the dog attack him under the impression that he was a thief. Again he detected that movement as he stood perfectly still alongside the bush. This time, however, it struck him that it did not seem so much like a dog; and while he was trying to figure this out, another sound came faintly to his ears. Whispers! That meant human beings, and at least two, or they would not be exchanging remarks! Could it be any of the servants belonging to the house? Their actions would not warrant such an idea, for Elmer could now see that the two dusky figures were creeping along, bending low, and behaving in the most suspicious manner possible. A sudden thought struck him so forcibly that it sent a shiver through his whole body. What was that the colonel had said over the wire about the two men whom he had had arrested on a charge of stealing his prize fruit, getting away from the poorly guarded lock up in town? Could it be possible that these shadowy figures were those same rascals; and had they come to the home of Colonel Hitchins, determined after their lawless way, to get even with him for having caused them to suffer a short time in the jail? Elmer could feel his heart beating like mad as he watched them drawing nearer and nearer. CHAPTER IX. FAITHFUL TO HIS FRIEND. NOW they had stopped again, and seemed to be conferring in whispers. If Elmer had had the least doubt before concerning their evil intentions, it was no longer in evidence. Honest men do not creep around the house of a rich man at such an hour of the night, and put their heads close together. He flattened himself out on the ground, having dropped like a stone, though without the least noise. "How lucky that I happened to come along this way!" was the thought that seemed uppermost in the mind of the scout as he crouched there, waiting. "If my wheel had stayed all right I would have been far away right now, and never known a thing about this. And it was that tool house that made me go around to the back." He even grew bolder, and began to speculate as to how he might creep closer to the pair. If he could only overhear what they were saying, it might help more than a little. And, somehow, his desire to be of some assistance to his good friend the colonel, urged him to make the attempt. To an ordinary lad it might have seemed an impossible task, for in his clumsiness he must certainly have made some sort of sounds calculated to arouse the suspicions of the men. Elmer's experiences in the Canadian Northwest had proven of great value to him ever since he joined the Boy Scouts. And when he started to creep forward, it was with some of the stealth of the cat gliding toward a coveted dinner in the shape of a feeding sparrow. As he covered several yards of territory, Elmer noticed that he quickly began to catch the sound of conversation. The men were talking low, but one of them had a harsh voice, and while this had come to Elmer at first as an indistinct murmur, presently he began to catch distinct words. Having attained a place behind another bush, where he could have tossed a pebble and touched the two fellows, had he been of a mind, he strained his ears to catch the tenor of their earnest talk. The man with the husky voice seemed to be scolding his companion, and accusing him of being either timid or over-particular. "But ye was jest as dead set on doin' it as I was, Con Stebbins; an' now that we got the chanct ye show signs o' the white feather. Brace up, an' lets git busy!" he was growling. "Aw! what's eatin' ye, Phil?" the other remarked, with a whine. "I'd like tuh do the job jest as much as yerself; but what if we got ketched? It'd mean a long time in the pen, Phil." "I tell you we ain't agoin' to be caught," declared the heavier of the two, in an angry tone. "Ain't I aknowin' the ropes here; didn't I uster work for the kunnel as a gardener? That's what made me so crazy mad when he had me locked up, jest because we went and took some o' his ole peaches, an' sold 'em so's to get the hard stuff." "But how d'ye know the dorg ain't goin' tuh git back an' tackle us while we're adoin' the job?" demanded the whining Con. "Didn't I tell ye that Bruno knows me, an' that when I kim hyar an hour back I let him loose?" declared the heavy-set man, warmly. "But he might come back any ole time," protested the other. "He ain't goin' tuh," declared Phil. "I orter know his ways right well. Every time he breaks loose he stays away the hull blessed night. It's a picnic fur the dorg. Reckon he's got some friends he visits, an' has a few scraps. Jest ye forgit there is sech a thing as a dorg, and leave it tuh me to fix the game like we wants it." "Huh! ye sed as how ye knowed jest how the game cud be worked, didn't ye, Phil?" went on the taller man, nervously. "Sure I did. All ye got tuh do is to foller me. I'm willin' tuh take the lead. Yuh sed as how yuh had matches along, didn't yuh, Con?" "Plenty of 'em, Phil," mumbled the other. "That's good. All yuh has tuh do is to strike a match, _and then drop it_! I wants tuh make sure both of us has a hand in it, that's all. Now, are yuh ready to move along, Con?" asked the shorter scoundrel. The other seemed to want to take one more nervous look around before consenting. Undoubtedly his nerve had failed him in the critical test, and he was now being actually dragged into the thing by his more determined and vindictive partner. Elmer had been thrilled by what he heard. When he caught the significant word "matches" the terrible truth flashed upon him, and he realized that these rascals, bent on revenge on the colonel because of their recent arrest, meant to set fire to either the stables or the mansion itself. In either event it was a dreadful thing. No wonder the boy grew cold, and then hot alternately. But he did not flinch. Elmer was made of good stuff, and such an emergency as this called it out. He shut his teeth so hard together that he could hear the gritting sound, and so excited was he at the moment, that he wondered whether either of the men could have sharp enough hearing to have detected the noise which to his aroused fancy appeared like the creaking of a seldom-used door. But they gave no sign of any suspicion. Con seemed to have recovered a little of his lost grit, and was allowing the ex-employee of Colonel Hitchins to draw him along again. They made progress slowly, stealthily keeping in the densest shadows, and at times almost creeping on their knees. "What shall I do?" That was the thought that flashed through the mind of the boy as he watched the pair of intended incendiaries moving off. He could shout, and thus arouse the house; or after they had gone it was within his power to hasten back to the door, and demand admittance. Doubtless the colonel would still be in his library, for he seldom retired before midnight, Elmer knew. And once he found a chance to communicate the terrible news to the owner of the place, prompt means could easily be taken for preventing the incendiary fire. Then, while he was trying to decide which of these courses might prove best, a sudden inspiration assailed the boy. It was, of course, born of his former experiences among the "men who do things" on the broad plains. Another lad would never had dreamed of such a bold course; or even had it appealed to him, he must have quickly decided against undertaking so hazardous an attempt to balk the wicked designs of these rascals. But to Elmer it appealed irresistibly. He believed he could do it, given half a chance. And, unable to resist the temptation, he began to creep after the two shadowy figures, now almost beyond range of his vision. He noticed that they were passing around the house. This would indicate that they expected making their attack from the rear. Phil had worked on these grounds, and apparently knew every foot of the estate. Possibly he may, as he said, have been a gardener to Colonel Hitchins; Elmer faintly remembered some man of about his squatty figure, whom he had seen trimming hedges, and working among the flowers early in the spring. All at once the boy had a new thrill. They were certainly headed straight for the very tool house where he had left his wheel! Doubtless there must be some particular object in this action on the part of Phil. Did he wish to secure some sort of tool to be used in furthering his evil designs? "Oh!" This exclamation was forced from Elmer's lips when he suddenly remembered something; but fortunately it was hushed to a whisper. "That was kerosene I smelled when I was putting my wheel away," he said to himself. "Perhaps there is a barrel of it kept in that place for use about the house, or making an emulsion to kill insects on the trees and rose bushes! And Phil knows all about it if he used to be the gardener here. He also knows that the door of the tool house is never locked, but just fastened by a staple, a hasp, and that big nail held by a cord." If, as seemed probable, the two men were bent on starting a fire that would, according to their evil way of thinking, pay the colonel back for their recent arrest, one of the first agencies for making a fierce blaze that Phil would be apt to think of must be that kerosene. It seems to appeal to every rogue who means to become an incendiary. Elmer did not halt his footsteps. The terrible truth had thrilled, but not dismayed him. He was, in fact, more determined than ever to balk these villains in their intended work; though just why he kept on after them, when by rights he should have made direct for the front door of the house, Elmer was never able to explain to his own satisfaction. Some subtle power seemed to just pull him along as though he were being drawn by a powerful magnet which he could not successfully resist. Yes, there could not be the slightest doubt now but that his guess was the true one; for just ahead he could see looming up the dark outlines of a building which he knew full well must be the tool house. Again the men were whispering together, and the harsher tones of Phil seemed to breathe threatenings of some sort. Evidently the more timid Con was weakening once more, and had to be pulled on. His desire for revenge was doubtless quite as strong as that of his companion; but he lacked the bull-dog courage to put his evil designs into execution. "Oh! if they would only _both_ go inside that tool house!" Elmer was saying to himself exultantly, as a wonderful possibility flashed before his mind. Phil evidently wanted to fully incriminate his companion. It was his desire to make the weaker rascal appear equally guilty with himself. His expressed intention of having the taller fellow strike the match that was to start things going, was ample proof of this. Would he himself enter the tool house to secure the kerosene? That would leave the timid one outside; and possibly he might seize upon such a golden opportunity to flee. If Phil suspected him of harboring such an intention, then it was hardly likely that he would allow the other a chance to remain alone. On the contrary, his plan would be to insist upon Con accompanying him in. And that was just what Elmer was hoping would occur; for he had a little plan of his own, which had come into his active mind almost like an inspiration, and which he would then be able to put into practice. Now they were at the door of the tool house. Elmer was trying to remember just what it looked like. It had a small window, to be sure, but, unless he was mistaken, this had been protected by several stout iron bars, apparently with a view of preventing thieves from entering at some time in the past, when valuable things may have been kept there by the gentleman owning the estate before its purchase by the present occupant. Yes, Elmer decided in his mind, it was worth a trial. At the worst a failure might only mean the escape of the rascals; and their vicious plot would have been frustrated at least. He crept closer, still snaking his way along the ground in a fashion that some of his former cowboy friends on the ranch farm three thousand miles away might have recognized as familiar, since they had taught him how to do it. Con was trying to beg off about entering the tool house, but Phil had overruled his scruples, meeting every objection that was raised. "Yuh jest _got_ tuh do it, I tell yuh, Con," he finished, angrily. "The thing's in our hands right now, an' yuh promised tuh stick by me. So quit yer hangin' back, an' come along in. I know jest where tuh lay hands on the five-gallon can, an' we kin be out agin in a jiffy. Yuh ain't skeered, be yuh, Con?" "Aw! course I ain't," whimpered the other, trying to steady his quivering voice, and probably bracing himself up under this accusation which stirred his last drop of courage into life. "Lead off, Phil, an' I'm with ye." "I'm agoin' tuh make dead sure o' that, Con; that's why I got this grip on your arm. Come right along, the door's open, and nawthin' tuh hinder, see!" The two shadows passed from Elmer's range of vision. Instantly the boy arose, and darted silently forward. A dozen, yes hardly more than half as many steps, carried him to the tool house. Then, quick as a flash, he prepared to close the heavy door, and fasten it with what means were at hand! CHAPTER X. GIVING HIM ANOTHER CHANCE. "HEY! what was that, Con!" Elmer heard the shorter man say, inside the place. "Oh, we're found out! It's all over, Phil!" gasped the other fellow, in a sudden panic. "Shut up, yuh fool! Reckon as how 'twar only the night wind. Here's the can; take hold and we'll kerry her out! I jest gotter do it, now!" That was enough for the boy outside. He understood that they must be at the farther end of the little house, and evidently bending over the object of their solicitude. His chance had come! Elmer had already taken hold of the door, and laid out his plan of campaign. He expected every act to dovetail with the others, so as to form a complete whole. And not more than two seconds must elapse after he once started to move, before he finished his work. Slam went the door shut. A low cry from within told how the nervous Con had given expression to his alarm. Utterly regardless of consequences, now that he had made a start, Elmer slapped the hasp over the stout staple, and then feeling for the hanging nail proceeded to drop it into its place. Things worked like a charm. The nail was shot into place in even less time than Elmer had anticipated. He only hoped that the staples at either end of the hasp were clinched. Then, if the imprisoned men threw their weight against the door, it was not so apt to give. Elmer did not wait to hear what happened after he had shot his bolt. He expected a great commotion would begin immediately, and the determined Phil start to using any tool upon which his groping hands might alight in the endeavor to batter his way to freedom. "Now for the house and the colonel!" was what Elmer thought, as, turning, he made a bee line for the front door, out of which he had passed not more than fifteen minutes before. The first thing he knew he was pounding at the panel, after having pressed the electric button. On either side of the door were long panes of stained glass; and while the boy could not have recognized anyone coming in answer to his summons, he did discover that there was a light within the broad hall. This would tend to prove that the colonel could not have gone up to his room. Yes, now he could see some one issue from the library, and advance toward the door. Oh, if he would only hurry! From the direction of the tool house came sounds of heavy pounding. Doubtless the imprisoned rascals, fearing that they had been caught in a trap, were trying to smash their way out. What if they should strike a light, and that oil catch on fire! Perhaps there was gasoline stored in the place as well as kerosene! Now the colonel was unlocking the door. It was something unusual to have such a loud summons beaten upon the panels of his front door; but while some men might have shown signs of timidity, this old traveler, seasoned to adventure, was opening up without the first symptom of alarm. As the door flew open he looked keenly at the figure before him. "What, you, Elmer, my boy!" he exclaimed. "Why, what has happened? I hope you did not take a nasty header off your wheel?" "No, no, sir, it wasn't that!" cried the scout, hardly knowing what to say first, so as to impress the gentleman with the seriousness of the occasion. "Some men--they mean to burn your house--the two who escaped from the lock-up, Phil Lally and Con!" "What's that?" exclaimed the colonel, stiffening up instantly and showing all the signs that mark the conduct of an old war horse at scenting battle smoke. "How do you know this, my boy?" "I heard them talking--my wheel was punctured, and I put it in the tool house. Then I followed them. They were going to get kerosene to use. They stepped into the tool house, and I slammed the door shut on them, and fastened it! Listen, sir, that pounding you hear is them trying to get out!" "Well, well, did I ever!" ejaculated the astonished gentleman. "Wait here just a minute till I can get something." He turned and ran into his library as though he were nearer thirty years of age than seventy. In the excitement of the moment he had forgotten that time had silvered his head and given him twitches of rheumatism. The colonel was young again, and ready to respond to the call of duty. Elmer listened. He could hear that terrible pounding keeping up from the back of the house, and understood what it meant. Oh, how he hoped that in the darkness Phil could not see to wield his ax effectively, and might thus fail to cut a way out! For it seemed as though part of the victory would be lost if those two rascals secured their freedom. Perhaps the colonel was gone a full minute. It seemed ten to the waiting boy, who was wrongly figuring time by the rapid pulsations of his heart. Then he became aware of the fact that once more the gentleman had joined him, and that he was busily engaged pushing some cartridges into a shotgun he carried. "Here, Elmer, take this!" he exclaimed, thrusting the weapon into the hands of the scout. "I know you are used to handling firearms, or I wouldn't ask you to do it. Now, come with me, please, and we'll see if we can't influence those two fire-makers to be good!" Down the steps he ran, so that Elmer was even put to it to keep at his heels. At least the prisoners of the tool house could not have as yet managed to effect their escape, for the battering sounds still continued, accompanied by loud excited cries. Quickly the two hurried along, until they arrived on the scene of action. "Look, sir, there's another of them coming!" cried Elmer, pointing to a skulking figure among the bushes, indistinctly seen. "Here, you, come out of that; we've got you covered, and you can't escape!" exclaimed the colonel, who was gripping something that shone like steel in his right hand, and which Elmer guessed must be a pistol of some sort. "Don't shoot, kunnel!" cried a quivering voice; "'deed, an' I surrenders, suh! I reckon I's pow'ful glad yuh kim. I's Sam, suh, yuh man Sam! Please don' pull de triggah ob dat gun, Mars Kunnel!" It was the coachman who had driven Elmer and Mark on the occasion of the latter's being summoned to an interview with the old traveler. "Here, go and get a lantern at once, Sam, and run for all you're worth!" called the old gentleman. "Meanwhile, the rest of us will surround the tool house, and be ready to give them a volley if they succeed in breaking out!" Sam had already turned and hurried away toward the stables, where he must have been sitting in his room at the time the row broke out, that drew him toward the scene of the disturbance. Of course, the last remark of the colonel's had been made with the intention of its being overheard by the men who were fastened inside the outhouse. The sounds of pounding had suddenly ceased as the colored man started to answer the command of the colonel, and those within could easily hear every word uttered. A silence followed that was only broken by low groans within. Doubtless the more timid rascal was repenting of having been led into this dangerous game of seeking revenge. The dreadful penalty meted out to house burners loomed up before his horrified eyes. The only pity was that he had not allowed himself to see this earlier, and resisted temptation. "Hello!" That was Phil calling. His heavy voice seemed to express all the signs of acknowledged defeat. Elmer waited to see what the colonel would do, nor was he kept long in suspense. "This time you're caught in a trap like a rat, Phil Lally," remarked the old gentleman. "I'm sorry for you, more than sorry for your poor old mother; but since you took to drink this was bound to be your end. It came quicker than I thought, I admit, but you've got nobody to blame save yourself." An intense silence followed, broken only by occasional low whines from the weaker rascal. Then Phil called out again. "Well, I reckon yuh speaks only the truth, kunnel. I allers had a job up tuh the time I took tuh drinkin'. Sense then hard luck has follered clost tuh my heels. An' now I sure knows it's got me. I'd like one more chanct tuh try an' do better; but I reckon it's too late, an' I'll have tuh grin an' bear it." Elmer heard him give a big sigh. Somehow the sound affected the boy more than he would have believed possible. He had supposed that Phil must be just naturally a bad man, wicked all the way through. Now he realized that it all came through his one weakness, a love for strong drink. The colonel moved up a step closer to the door. Elmer wondered whether he meant to throw open the barrier and hold the two scoundrels up as they came forth. But he mistook the action of the old gentleman. "Phil!" he said, quietly. "Yes, sir," answered the gruff tones from within, but no longer filled with a savage brutality, for Elmer could detect a quaver as of strong emotion. Perhaps it may have been the mention of that old mother whose heart would be broken when her boy was sent to prison for a long term. And somehow Elmer found himself hanging on the next words of the gentleman with an eagerness which he could hardly understand--for it seemed to him that a human soul was trembling in the balance. "Listen to me, Phil," continued the colonel. "What if I gave you one more chance to make good; do you think you could keep your pledge, if you gave it to me, never to take a single drop again as long as you live? Are you strong enough to do this for the sake of that old mother of yours?" There was an inarticulate sound from within. It might have been Phil talking to himself; but Elmer was more inclined to believe something else--that the strong man was almost overwhelmed by the magnanimity of the gentleman whom he had once served, and whose kindness of the past he had returned so meanly. "How about it, Phil?" continued the colonel. "Shall I 'phone in to town and have the police come out here to take you into custody, or are you ready to put your signature to a pledge for me to hold?" "I'll do it, kunnel, I'll do it, and thank yuh a thousand times for the chanct!" broke out the man. "Oh, what a crazy fool I was to go agin the best friend I ever had! I'll sign anything yuh arsks me tuh, an' I'll keep it, too, or die atryin'!" "I'm glad to hear you say that, Phil," went on the colonel, with a low laugh. "You were a good gardener up to the time you began to booze and neglect your work My new man proved a failure, and I've let him go. The job's open, Phil!" "For me?" cried the man, as though utterly unable to believe his ears. "D'ye mean, kunnel, yu'd dar take me back agin, arter the way I been actin'?" "Oh, we'll try and forget all that, Phil. It wasn't you, but the devil you took inside, that made you act that way. And since you're never going to give way to the tempter again I guess I'll risk the chances." He raised his hand and removed the big nail, just as Sam came running up, bearing a lighted lantern in his ebony grip. As the door opened a figure issued forth. It was the short man, and his head was bowed on his chest, which seemed to be heaving convulsively, either because of his recent exertions with the ax, or through some emotion. "Is that straight, kunnel, an' do yuh mean to fergive me?" he asked, humbly, as he stood there before the old gentleman. "For the sake of your old mother, yes, I'm going to give you another chance, Phil. And let's hope you can make good. I'm not one bit afraid, if only you stick to your word. And to prove it, here's my hand!" The man seized it eagerly. He was shaking with emotion now, and somehow Elmer felt his own eyes grow moist; for he realized that he was looking on one of the tragedies of life right then and there; and the thought that he had had a hand in bringing this finish about, and making the repentance of Phil possible, thrilled the Boy Scout strangely. No one paid any attention to the skulking figure that slipped out from the open door of the tool house, and ran hastily off. Of course it was Phil's confederate, the timid Con Stebbins, who, seeing an opening for escape, had hastened to avail himself of it. CHAPTER XI. READY FOR THE BATTLE OF THE BATS. "GOOD NIGHT again, colonel," said Elmer, thinking to start for home once more. "Ah, are you there, my boy?" said the old gentleman, turning around. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting over a little, and acting as witness at a little business ceremony that Phil and myself want to carry through?" "Certainly not, sir," replied the boy; "only I was thinking that, since my wheel is out of the running, I will be very late in getting home, and I promised father to leave at eleven, you know." "Oh, that's easily fixed, Elmer! I'll just call him on the phone, if you think he's up still, and explain matters. And Sam here, will hitch up the team, and take you home presently. Now, please don't object, for you know I like to have my way. Both of you come with me into the house." Once in the library, Elmer saw that the man Phil was not such a desperate looking scoundrel as he had imagined from hearing him mutter and threaten. Indeed, he had a very decent face, which was now red with the confusion and shame that overwhelmed him because of his recent miserable action. Readily he put his signature to a paper the gentleman wrote out, and Elmer signed his name as a witness. He knew that it all depended upon the ability of the repentant man to make good. If he could show himself worthy of trust, his future was safe in the hands of that fine old gentleman. "I'll never forget this, kunnel," he said, brokenly, as he stood there and looked his employer in the face firmly. "You're goin' tuh make a man uh me. I don't deserve it a bit, either; for if I got what I deserved----" "There, that will do, Phil," interrupted the colonel. "If we all got what we deserved there'd be few of us walking down the street to-morrow, I'm afraid. But, see here, don't you think you owe some thanks to this bright young chap for what happened? If he hadn't just happened to overhear you talking to your friend, and crept after you, to shut you in the tool house, possibly you might have found a chance to carry out your harebrained scheme, and then there could be no turning back. In my mind you owe a great deal to Elmer Chenowith here." "I jest reckons I do, sir. It was mighty plucky for him tuh foller us, and tuh do that clever trick. I'd like to shake hands with the boy, and thank him, if so be he's your friend, kunnel," said the former gardener. The old gentleman had before this succeeded in catching Mr. Chenowith over the wire, and assured him that circumstances had arisen to keep Elmer beyond the time he had promised; but that he would send him home presently in his vehicle. "And you've reason to be proud of that lad of yours, Chenowith," he had added. "To-morrow I hope to see you, and tell you something that's happened here, in which he bore a part manfully. Good night, now!" He chuckled as he turned away from the phone, knowing that Elmer's father would now be eager to ask questions when the boy reached home. As the carriage lights could be seen just below on the drive showing that Sam had hitched up as he was ordered, and there was really no cause for further delay, Elmer shook hands with the colonel again and went out. "I'll be after my wheel on Monday morning, sir," he said at parting; "when I can see to put a plug in that tire. I hope Phil didn't smash the whole thing when he got working with that ax." "If he did I'll see that you have a new wheel, my boy; and, indeed, I think that I'm deeply in your debt as it is," replied the gentleman, smiling. "Just think what a big difference it would have made, to myself and Phil Lally here, if you hadn't had that puncture. I'm not the man to forget, Elmer. Good night, and God bless you!" As Elmer lay back in the comfortable carriage, and was drawn homeward by the spirited bays, he chuckled more than once at the idea of a healthy lad like himself being thus treated, as though he were an invalid. "Only that the colonel seemed determined, and he does not like anyone to oppose him, I sure would have declined this lift," he said to himself. But on the whole, he could not say that he would have had anything different from the way events had come to pass, even though he had the making of the chart. And he was inclined to agree with the colonel in declaring that if any misfortune could ever be looked upon in the light of a lucky accident, that puncture which he had given his tire just as he reached the place he was heading for was such. When he arrived home he found his father waiting for him. And since the gentleman's curiosity had been stirred by those words of the colonel, he was bent on asking questions until he learned the whole facts. Elmer was not a boaster, and he made no attempt to show himself up in the light of a hero. But reading between the lines of his story, his father saw that there might be still more to hear when he met the colonel in the morning, as he was now fully determined to do. Perhaps, after such an exciting experience, the boy did not sleep as soundly as he might have done under ordinary conditions. But the event had made a powerful impression on his mind, and the generous conduct of his old friend toward his erring servant had served to teach Elmer one more lesson that might at some future day bring forth good fruit. He did not mention the matter save to his best chum, Mark; and even he was placed under bonds never to reveal it. The colonel had asked this as a favor, for he did not want the story to get to the ears of Phil Lally's old mother. Of course, it would soon be known that he had taken Phil back again as his head gardener, and that all matters against the young man had been quashed; but that was nobody's business save the two involved. Monday came, and about every boy in and around Hickory Ridge, upon getting out of bed that morning, made a bee line for the window and consulted the signs of the weather. For it was certainly going to be a famous day for those who were fond of the great national game, since the Boy Scouts of the neighboring town of Fairfield were due to meet their nine in a struggle for victory. And not only Hickory Ridge and Fairfield, but Basking Ridge, where the game was to be played on neutral territory, seemed baseball mad. Elmer himself had hardly gotten downstairs before he heard the phone bell ring, and, as no one else was around, he answered it. Just as he surmised, it proved to be one of his chums, Red Huggins, after him for information. "How about this weather business, Elmer?" demanded the other, as soon as he learned that he was in touch with the patrol leader. "Well, what about it?" returned Elmer, chuckling. "I hope none of you think to hold me responsible for whatever comes." "Oh, shucks! you know better than that," retorted Red, eagerly; "but we've heard you explain just how they know what sort of a day it's going to be, away up there in the Canadian wilderness, and we want your opinion right now. Ted and Toby are over at my house and I'm commissioned to hold you up and get an answer, so's to know what to expect. See?" "But see here, why d'ye want to know how the weather away up in the Northwest is going to be to-day? Have you got any wheat planted; or do you mean to put the steam plow into that quarter section, if the signs are favorable?" demanded Elmer. "Aw, let up on a feller, Elmer, can't you?" went on the other, in what was meant to be a wheedling tone. "We want you to make use of the knowledge you picked up away off yonder, to tell us what sort of afternoon it's going to be. Get that, now? Is there any rain storm in sight? Will it be as hot as the dickens; or are we in for a cold wave? We want to know, and we depend on you to tell us. Open up now, won't you, and be good?" "Oh, is that all you want?" laughed Elmer. "Why, if I could tell you what's sure going to happen eight hours ahead I'd hire out to the government as Old Probs." "But you can hit it pretty fair, Elmer," persisted Red. "Come on, now, and tell us. We've seen you do it lots of times, and nearly every shot came true. Now, some of us think we're due for a rain, because the sky was a little red this morning. And you know that old saying, 'Red in the morning is the sailor's warning.' What do you think? Give us a drive now. Elmer." "Well, I took a squint around from my window, and so far as I could see----" "Yes, sir; but go on, Elmer," broke in the impatient Red, nervously. "It was a beautiful morning." "Oh, rats! We all know that much, Elmer; but the signs, what do they say? If it pours down rain the game's all off, and that means bad luck to our fellows," Red went on, being addicted to a belief in all sorts of signs and tokens; just as the boy from South Carolina, Chatz Maxfield, was a believer in ghosts, and charms, and the hind foot of a rabbit killed in a graveyard at midnight by the light of the full moon. "Don't worry, Red," Elmer went on, purposely holding back the desired information, since he owed this comrade more than one long-standing debt because of tricks practiced by the prank-loving Red. "Then the signs _are_ favorable; do you mean that, Elmer?" begged the other. "The sky looks good to me. The little color you saw was only the rosy flush of a summer dawn. And the breeze seems to be coming from the right quarter, Red. I don't think it's going to be a roasting day for August." "That sounds all right to me, Elmer. On the whole, then, you predict that we'll have a decent afternoon; just the kind to spur every fellow on to doing his best licks?" continued the boy at the other end of the wire, with joy permeating his tones. "I never predict, and you know it," laughed Elmer. "All I can say is that just now things look good. If the clouds don't come up, and it stays as clear as it is right now, the chances are we'll not get wet." "Oh, rats! but you've said enough to tell me what you think, and that's the main thing. Do we practice any this morning, Elmer?" asked Red. "The last thing I heard from Captain Lil Artha, he said he didn't want a stale team on his hands this afternoon, so there'll be no regular practice this A.M. I expect to toss a few over with Mark, just to make sure I've got control; but as the game promises to be a pretty warm affair, it's best everybody keeps rested up until we get in practice half an hour before the umpire calls on us to play. Anything more, Red?" "No, nothing; only the boys here want me to ask you how your arm feels." "Fine and dandy," laughed Elmer. "Couldn't be in better shape. If those swatters from Fairfield straighten out my curves this afternoon, it'll only be my own fault. You won't hear me complaining I wasn't in condition, for I am." "Bully boy! We all know what that means when you're feeling right. I'm sorry for Matt Tubbs and his crowd, that's all," Red said over the wire; whereupon Elmer, unable to stand for any more of this palaver, cut him short by hooking up the receiver. When later on he went out with Mark to do a little preliminary pitching, every boy they met seemed to fall in behind, until there was quite an imposing procession heading for the field where Hickory Ridge athletic contests were always pulled off. They understood that everything depended on the ability of the pitcher of the Hickory Ridge Boy Scout nine to baffle these heavy hitters from Fairfield; and hence, everyone wanted to see for himself just what Elmer could do on the eve of the great and important battle with the bats. Elmer would much rather have found a chance to do his practicing in secret; but at the same time he sympathized with these kids who were baseball mad. So for half an hour he and Mark worked their many little games, and exchanged signals that were supposed to be known only to themselves, while groups of fellows lounged under the neighboring trees and kept tabs on their actions, commenting favorably on every play that struck them as cleverly done. Later on Elmer, having donned his sweater because of his heated condition, was waiting for Mark to join him, the latter having gone off to speak to a girl who was passing in a little pony cart, when he was suddenly startled to have a hand laid on his arm and hear little Jasper Merriweather say in a thrilling tone: "It's all off, Elmer; they've got you marked for the slaughter. If you pitch this afternoon, those sluggers from Fairfield are going to just knock you out of the box. It's a mean shame, that's what it is, now!" CHAPTER XII. STEALING THE SIGNALS. "WHAT'S that you're talking about, Jasper?" demanded the pitcher, whirling on the smallest of the scouts, whose father kept a tailoring establishment in town and made the khaki suits worn by the Hickory Ridge troop. Jasper was a very timid fellow as a rule. His chums were often joking him about the truth of the old saying, to the effect that it took nine tailors to make a man, and that in consequence he had a heap to pick up. But Jasper took these things in good part, because he knew his failings even though trying the best he could to overcome them. He was looking very much worried when Elmer turned on him. The hand that had been gripping the sleeve of the pitcher's sweater fell to his side again. Elmer noticed that the boy shot a quick glance toward a group of fellows who, seeing practice was over for the day, seemed to be getting their wheels out, as if intending to ride away. "Why, I'm afraid it's all over but the shouting for Fairfield, Elmer!" replied the small scout, in answer to the question Elmer fired straight at him. "You don't say?" retorted the other, laughing. "Well, my work must be pretty bad, if even Jasper Merriweather calls it rotten. Whew! the boys had better be trotting out their other pitcher, if I'm going to be sent to the stable so easy." "Oh, it ain't that, Elmer, sure it ain't, because don't I believe you're the best pitcher in the whole world?" pleaded Jasper, looking pained that his fidelity was being doubted in the least. "Then whatever ails you, Jasper?" continued the other, realizing all of a sudden that perhaps there _might_ be something worth noticing in this strange conduct of the scout belonging to the Beaver Patrol. "It's the signals, Elmer; the signals you and Mark have been practicing, don't you see?" Jasper cried. "Hello! so that's what troubles you, is it?" remarked Elmer, seriously. "What's wrong with my signals, tell me, Jasper? I don't suppose you could understand what we were doing most of the time; and even if you did, a Hickory Ridge Scout would never think of betraying a secret belonging to his troop. What about my signals?" "Didn't you see him?" asked Jasper, eagerly. "Well, now, I have seen a few dozen fellows this same morning, so I don't know which one you mean," replied Elmer, shaking his head in the negative. "Lon Braddock!" almost whispered Jasper, looking after the group of fellows just starting away on their wheels. Elmer shook his head and smiled. "You've got me this time, Jasper," he remarked; "because, you see, I don't know that I ever heard that name before. Is he a new boy in Hickory Ridge; and does he say my work is off color?" "But--he don't live in Hickory Ridge at all, Elmer," expostulated the other; "that's the trouble, you see." "Oh, is it? Well, I don't see, and you'll sure have to explain what you mean. If he doesn't live in our town, perhaps he's visiting here"; and Elmer waited to see how Jasper took this. "I think he came over to see Bob Harris, because they were together pretty much all the time," Jasper went on, nodding his head with almost every word in his eagerness to be emphatic. "You see, he is a Fairfield fellow, Elmer!" "What?" exclaimed the other, suddenly stiffening up, as a consciousness of what tremendous possibilities there might be in this morning visit of a Fairfield boy dawned upon his mind. "And when I was over there a few days ago I heard Felix Wagner, the second baseman of the Fairfield team, say that they had made a good find in Lon Braddock, who promised to be an even better pitcher than Matt himself." Elmer was showing considerable eagerness now. "Hold on there, Jasper," he said, in his quiet, but impressive, way; "go slow, boy, and let me understand just what you mean. This fellow is named Lon Braddock, you tell me; and he's a newcomer at Fairfield. That accounts for the fact that none of our fellows recognized him as he sat there watching me. And now, more than that, you say he's an extra pitcher of the Fairfield Scout team. Have I got that all O. K., Jasper?" "Yes, that's all to the good, Elmer," declared the smaller lad, earnestly. "And honest, now, I believe that fellow came over here this morning just on purpose to get some points about your pitching. He knows what signal work does in a game, and he wants to knock you out. Why, Elmer, I tell you, before three hours every fellow on the Fairfield team will know that code of signals you and Mark have been practicing." "Now you're not just guessing, are you, Jasper? Because I'm the last one in the wide world to want to condemn a fellow on general principles. He might have had a genuine errand over here, and just dropped around to take my size." "Perhaps he did, Elmer, perhaps he did; but was there any need for him to put it all down in a little notebook he carried, and waiting till he thought nobody was watching him?" demanded Jasper. "Say, did you see him do that?" asked the other, sternly. "At least three times, Elmer," came the quick reply. "And every time after he had made some note he'd nod his head and grin like he was just tickled to death over something." Elmer whistled, and Mark, turning, saw him wave a hand. Apparently the catcher must have said a hasty good-by to the pretty little miss in the pony cart, for she whipped up her steed and Mark started toward his chum. "Oh, what can you do, Elmer?" exclaimed Jasper. "He's gone off now with Bob Harris, and pretty soon it'll be too late." "Too late for what, Jasper?" asked the pitcher. "Why, I thought, you see, that perhaps a lot of us might get hold of him and make him give up that notebook," explained Jasper. "You don't say!" laughed Elmer. "What particular good would that do us, tell me, when he's sure got everything down pat in his mind, just the same? And we can't lock a Fairfield fellow up, even for stealing signs." "Then he'll get away with it!" burst forth Jasper, with almost a wail. "I reckon he will, my boy; but that isn't saying the knowledge he's stolen will do him, or any of his mates, any good," chuckled Elmer. "But how can you help it?" demanded the smaller boy, dubiously observing the face of his comrade and wondering why he did not seem to detect any uneasiness there. "How? Oh, by switching the signals, I suppose. I'll put it up to Mark, here. We can mix things around so that every sign stands for something different than it did just now. And if the Fairfield fellows expect to gain anything from thinking they're onto our signals, they're going to be badly surprised. You'll see some bally old batting until they understand that fact." "What's all this row about?" asked Mark, coming up just then in time to overhear Elmer's last few words, which, of course, mystified him considerably. "Why, we've just learned that all the time you and I were practicing our signals a spy from Fairfield was watching us," said Elmer. "Is that straight, or are you just kidding me?" demanded the catcher of the nine. "Which his name is Lon Braddock; and he's a newcomer, who can pitch as well as Matt Tubbs himself. Of course, he must be a scout, or else he couldn't play in this match game; but how a fellow can be a scout and do such a ratty thing as that, beats me all hollow," Elmer went on. "Tell me the whole story, that's a good fellow," remarked the other. "Where did you get it--from Jasper, here?" "Yes, I've been watching him," replied the smallest scout, nodding. "I heard of him over in Fairfield, and he was pointed out to me as the man Matt depended on to fool the Hickory Ridge nine in case he got knocked out of the box himself. Besides, I saw him write something down in a notebook as many as three or four times, and always chuckling to himself to beat the band." "Well, that's a nice surprise to have thrown at your head just after we were saying we had those signs all down pat. This means another turn at it"; and Mark threw his coat on the grass with an expression of disgust. "Hold on till that bunch of fellows gets out of sight, Mark, which will be in a few minutes," remarked Elmer, who failed to look at the thing with the same shade of annoyance that marked the countenance of his friend; "but in the end this may turn out to be in our favor, you know." "Perhaps it may," replied the catcher; "but it's a nuisance, all the same. Now we've just got to go and unlearn all we fixed up." "Easy job, Mark; just push 'em ahead one point and everything's altered. Makes me laugh to think how those fellows will tumble into the trap. Why, I can see one or two strike-outs every inning till they get wise. And say, perhaps our new pitcher, Lon Braddock, will feel like kicking himself because he was such a fool as to believe all he saw." "Now they're around the bend of the road, Elmer, with that strange boy alongside Bob Harris, plying him with questions by the dozen, I reckon. Luckily, Bob doesn't know very much about our nine, for his application to be a scout was turned down, you remember, Elmer." "So it was," mused the pitcher; "which makes me suspect that perhaps Bob knew why the man from Fairfield was over here. It's pretty hard to find that there are traitors in your own camp. But let them keep it up; we're going to take their number to-day, as sure as you're born, Mark. I just feel it in my bones. I only hope Matt Tubbs didn't know about this trick. I'd hate to think he had a hand in it; and after seeing what a change has come over the former bully of Fairfield and Cramertown I won't believe it, either." So they once more started in, passing the ball. A few of the small boys had remained to continue their scrub ball game. They wondered what the battery of the regular nine could be doing and stopped playing to watch; but as Jasper had been particularly cautioned not to breathe a word of the valuable discovery he had made, they were none the wiser for their survey and soon went back to their happy-go-lucky game. It did not take the two boys long to get familiar with the new version of the sign code. Even Mark allowed that he had it down just as pat as the older style. "And just as you said, Elmer," he admitted, "if those fellows over at Fairfield believe they're onto our signs, they're going to make a heap of trouble for themselves, believe me. I can see a fellow whacking away at a wide bender that he expects is going to be a swift one over the rubber. The only trouble will be for me to keep a straight face through the circus." "Oh, it won't last long," replied the other. "When a few of them have made a show of themselves they'll talk it over and conclude the spy got the signals mixed. But by that time the mischief may have been done. Remember, Mark, we owe a lot to little wide-awake Jasper, here. He's always on the watch for chances to build up the credit of Hickory Ridge troop." Each of them gravely shook hands with Jasper, who turned very rosy in the face at hearing himself spoken of in terms of praise, for there had been times when the boy had begun to despair of ever accomplishing anything worth while in the organization, his size seeming to be so much of a handicap against him. But now hope was taking on new life within him, for he had found that size really counts for little in many of the things a scout may do to bring credit on himself and honor to his troop. It was nearly noon when Elmer and Mark turned their faces homeward. Earlier in the day the former had walked over to Colonel Hitchins's to get his wheel and ride it home, after putting a plug in the puncture. He was considerably surprised, and pleased as well, to see Phil Lally working in the garden as he passed. The man looked up and waved a hand cheerily, and it gave Elmer a queer little sensation, altogether pleasant, in the region of his boyish heart to realize that that young fellow was laboring honorably there that bright morning, instead of languishing in jail with a forlorn outlook before him, thanks to the kind heart and generous impulse of the man who owned the estate. And it also pleased Elmer to feel that he, too, had had something of a share in what seemed like the reformation of Phil Lally. And when noon came around the skies still smiled, guiltless of clouds; while a delightful breeze gave promise of a grand afternoon for the great game. CHAPTER XIII. READY FOR THE GREAT GAME. "WHAT'S the matter with this for a corker?" Lil Artha, the long-legged first baseman of the Hickory Ridge nine, put this question to his mates as the big carry-all containing the team, with several substitutes, came in view of the fine field at Basking Ridge on the afternoon when the great game was to be decided. No one tried to answer. The reason was plain, for they were utterly overwhelmed by the magnitude of the immense crowd that had assembled to see the anticipated spirited contest between the rival teams of Boy Scouts. In every direction were great masses of people, all decked out in their holiday attire. Girls in white and every color of the rainbow waved parasols, gay handkerchiefs, and little flags on which the name of their favorite team had been emblazoned. "Why," gasped Ted, when he could catch his breath, which had been actually snatched away from him by his amazement, "there must be a thousand of them here!" "Better say millions and be done with it," laughed Red, eager for the fray. "The whole county has turned out to do us honor, it seems," remarked Matty. "And because of that, fellows," put in Elmer, "every Hickory Ridge scout ought to shut his teeth hard and make up his mind to win out; never to give up; and if he makes an error, do something right afterward to atone for it." "Right you are, my boy," remarked Mr. Garrabrant, the efficient scout master, who fortunately was enabled to accompany the boys on this trip. "I was just going to say something along those same lines myself when you took the words out of my mouth. Hickory Ridge is watching you to-day, fellows; and Hickory Ridge expects every one of her sons to do his duty. Nobody can do more." "Well, here we are, safe and sound," remarked Ty, as the vehicles came to a stop in the midst of the tremendous throng. "Wow! listen to that, would you?" said Toby, as cheers started that seemed to rock the very earth. The team from Fairfield had arrived some time before. They were busily engaged in building up their batting abilities by sending out hot ones that a number of local baseball enthusiasts caught in the field. "Say, they're a lot of hustlers, now, let me tell you," declared Red, as he stood for a minute watching the actions of the others. "Oh, they're big enough," remarked Lil Artha, indifferently; "but since when did size count for everything in baseball? You'll see the smallest fellow step up and knock out a homer, where a big stiff like me swings at three wide ones and sits down on the mourners' bench." "Like anything you will," said Red, disdainfully. "The pitcher who strikes you out has got to get up early in the morning, that's what"; since the gaunt first baseman was noted for his keen batting eye and could pick out a "good one" as well as any in the business. "Come on, fellows, let's get busy," called Elmer, as he passed a ball to one of the others, and in almost a twinkling the whole bunch was tossing back and forth, gradually widening out. Then a few of them fraternized with their opponents, as they happened to know most of the Fairfield fellows, and in this way a number of Elmer's team found a chance to take a turn at bat. It was a sight that would not soon be forgotten in Basking Ridge. They certainly did have a splendid field for the sport; and the grand stand was a little gem in its way, but on such an occasion it did not begin to hold one fifth of the spectators who would have been glad of a chance to use it. "Ground rules to-day, that's sure, Elmer," remarked the field captain of the Hickory Ridge team, as he stood alongside the pitcher, receiving the ball at intervals and returning it. "That goes, without a doubt," replied Elmer, as he surveyed the mass of people packed around the diamond and the field. "And if I were you, I'd look up Matt Tubbs right away, so as to have that matter settled." "Sure," said Lil Artha. "And I reckon that a hit into the crowd will stand for two bases and no more." "As near as I can see, there's only _one place_ anybody can hit to-day for a homer," declared Elmer, again surveying the field. "Tell me where that is," remarked Lil Artha, "because I want to know. As field captain, it's my business to know; and as an humble batter, I might want to look that way before the game grows cold." "You'll notice that none of the crowd seem to want to pack upon the right of the center field," Elmer went on in a low tone. "If a batter could send one out there like hot shot, that managed to escape the fielder, it would never stop on that little down grade till he'd made the rounds." "Aw, thanks!" replied Lil Artha, dryly. "I'm sorry that my specialty happens to lie off there in left; but I'm going to twist around a little and keep that down grade in mind. Perhaps, who knows?" and he winked at Elmer in his comical way as he hurried off to confer with Matt Tubbs. Home Run Joe Mallon, the professional ball player who was home at Basking Ridge nursing a broken arm, was on the spot, ready to serve as umpire. He had been well known in this capacity before he broke into the big league, and people used to say that he seldom erred in his decisions. They called him "Honest Joe" at the time he umpired, and few ever disputed his decisions. He might make a slight slip, but everyone knew he decided plays just as he saw them and the rabble of the bleachers never had any weight with him. Elmer and Mark found a chance to get together and confer where they could speak their minds without others hearing. Later on they expected to warm up for business, but it was too soon, as yet. After the rest of the team had started in on their fifteen minutes of practice it would be time enough for Elmer to try out a few of his curves and drops. "I had Jasper Merriweather show me the fellow," Elmer remarked. "Meaning our slick friend, Lon Braddock?" questioned the catcher. "Yes. That's Lon talking to Henry Cobb, who plays third base for the Fairfield nine. And Mark, between you and me, I don't just like his face or manner." "Same here, Elmer," declared the other quickly. "He's got a tricky way about him, and I warrant you that fellow is going to give Matt Tubbs more trouble than all the rest of his team combined. Look at him chuckling now. Ten to one he's telling Cobb how he's got the Injun sign on our signals, and what great stunts the Fairfield batters are going to do with your curves and slants." "Well, you know the old saying to the effect that the fellow laughs hardest who laughs last; and Mark, believe me, we're going to have that privilege. But I hope you won't give it away by jeering the unlucky batter when he nearly kills the air swiping at one that is away beyond the end of his stick." "I'll try and keep a straight face, Elmer," chuckled Mark. "Got a piece of alum in my pocket right now, and before the game begins I mean to rub it over the side of my mouth, so as not to be able to crack a smile. There go our boys out in the field for practice." "Well, perhaps we'd better get a move on, then, and pass a few, though after our morning work I don't feel much in need of it, Mark." As Fairfield had already taken the field, and there was now only fifteen minutes left before game would be called, the battery of the rival team was also hard at work when Elmer and Mark started in. Of course, neither pitcher tried his best in that preliminary bout. Well did they know that eager eyes were watching them for points connected with their delivery, and that these would be quickly seized upon for an advantage. Hence they contented themselves, as a rule, in sending in swift, straight balls simply to warm up. Hickory Ridge had batted against Matt Tubbs for several seasons, and yet never had a game been actually finished. Up to the present they had always broken up in a beautiful row, in which both sides claimed victory. Elmer had pitched part of a game the preceding summer. At the time he had proven so much of a mystery to his opponents that, seeing prospective defeat staring his team in the face, Matt Tubbs had found some pretext for disputing a decision of the umpire to end the battle. But since that time the Fairfield team had been greatly strengthened, and in all their games thus far this season they had beaten their opponents easily. On a neutral field, with a firm umpire directing matters and with all the participants members of the Boy Scouts, it was believed that for once a game between these old rivals might be threshed out to a conclusion. Many shook their heads, remembering the Matt Tubbs of old and prophesying all manner of evil things that might spring from this bitterly contested game. Others, who knew something of the principles governing true scouts, tried to take heart of hope and believe that there must have been a great awakening in the former bully. But even they admitted that "the proof of the pudding lay in the eating of it," and that they would be better satisfied when the end came without a riotous demonstration on the part of Fairfield and Cramertown. The Hickory Ridge boys seemed to acquit themselves very well in practice. Numerous dazzling pick-ups were made by the infield that brought out roars of applause from the big crowd; while those tending the outer gardens had to make rapid speed and do some air-jumping in order to drag down the flies that were sent out in their direction. Having seen both teams at work, the crowd hardly knew which looked the better. And, as in most cases, it ended in a strictly partisan division, each town standing loyally by its athletes, with Basking Ridge about equally divided. Finally the Hickory Ridge fellows were called in from the field. The time for practice had expired, and presently, when a few little details were gone through with, real business would begin. The two teams lined up for the fray in this order: HICKORY RIDGE SCOUTS. Ted Burgoyne Third Base Toby Jones Right Lil Artha First Base Chatz Maxfield Left Red Huggins Short Stop Ty Collins Center Matty Eggleston Second Base Elmer Chenowith Pitcher Mark Cummings Catcher FAIRFIELD SCOUTS. Felix Wagner Second Base Adrian Cook Left John Bastian Right Henry Cobb Third Base Christy Poole First Base Angus McDowd Center John Mulligan Short Stop Tom Ballinger Catcher Matt Tubbs Pitcher There was a wave of talk passing over the throng as the two captains conferred. It was understood that they were deciding finally on the ground rules that must prevail, on account of the mass of spectators pushing in on the lines. All Basking Ridge's local police force was on the spot, but half a dozen good-natured officers are next to useless when up against thousands; in contests of this sort dependence must be placed on the spirit of fair play that is generally a part of baseball crowds, especially in smaller towns, where the players are known. "The game is called; now for it!" yelled the nearest spectators, as they saw the umpire pick up his mask and step forward to announce the batteries, while the Hickory Ridge players started for their positions. "And we have the last look-in, as we take the field first!" howled an enthusiastic follower of the team that looked to Elmer as the keystone of their arch. CHAPTER XIV. HOW THE FIGHT WENT ON. "THE batteries for to-day's game will be: Chenowith and Cummings for Hickory' Ridge; Tubbs and Ballinger for Fairfield!" The last word of the umpire was drowned in a roar, and the air seemed filled with waving hats, parasols of gaudy hues, handkerchiefs, and anything else that could be utilized for the occasion. Then came a dead silence. Every eye, doubtless, was at that moment riveted on the young pitcher of the nine in the field as he sent in a few straight ones to his catcher, just to find the plate. "They say he's got speed to burn," remarked one Basking Ridge spectator who had never before seen Elmer pitch. "But the best thing he's got is a nasty little slow drop that's running Christy Matthewson a close race," commented a second one. "Oh, shucks!" laughed a Fairfield boy close by; "wait till you see how our fellows fatten their averages on those nice little drop balloons. We've heard a heap about 'em, and have been practicing at hitting all such. Why, mark my words, before the end of the fifth inning this wonderful Elmer will be so tame he'll be eating out of the Fairfield players' hands." "Wait and see. The game is young," called another fellow. "I should say it was, when the first ball hasn't been sent over the rubber yet," declared still a fourth spectator. "Play ball!" shouted the umpire, as he settled himself back of the pitcher. Again came silence as Elmer, receiving the ball from first base, rubbed it on the leg of his trousers preparatory to shooting the first one over. A shout went up. Wagner, the stout second baseman, had failed to judge correctly and "one strike" was recorded against him. "But did you hear the swish of his bat?" demanded the Fairfield enthusiast. "Say, if ever he leans up against one of those curves, good-by to the ball, that's all." "Sure! Only let him lean; that's what we say. He just can't do it on Elmer," answered a devoted Hickory Ridge lad near by. Then came a second strike, followed by a foul. Wagner looked puzzled. Evidently he was watching the pitcher closely and going by his signals to the catcher, but as these had been turned almost completely about, he mistook every one of them and was letting himself out at what would easily have been called balls. When for the third time he had a strike called on him the batter retired amid a storm of mingled cheers and catcalls. He had allowed a good ball to pass by him without making an effort to strike, believing from the gestures of Elmer that it was meant to be a wide one. Wagner went off, shaking his head. He was evidently mystified, and the Fairfield crowd began to sit up and take notice. "That's a funny thing for Felix to do," they commented. "He's the most reliable batter in our bunch, and yet he acts as though he didn't know a good one from a wide curve a foot from the plate. Say, that pitcher must have him locoed." Next came Adrian Cook. He, too, was known as a hitter, and when he stepped to the batter's line the fielders were accustomed to backing off, ready for a terrific drive. But it began to look as though Adrian must have forgotten to bring his batting clothes along with him, judging by the way he swiped at the empty air twice, and then managed to pop up a measly little foul that Mark easily smothered in his big catcher's mitt. "What are we up against?" the Fairfield crowd began to say. "Oh, that's nothing," others put in, more confident. "The boys will wake up after a little. You wait and see them take his number. Once they begin, the air will be full of balls and those fielders' tongues will hang out of their mouths from chasing them!" So they talked, as all partisan crowds do, while Bastian toed the mark. He looked particularly dangerous as he half crouched there watching Elmer like a cat might a mouse he expected to devour. But Bastian was no better than the others who had preceded him. He had two strikes called on him by the umpire without having even made a motion. "Hey, wake up! Get out of that trance. Jack! He's feeding you good ones and you don't know it! Now, altogether, and send one out in center for a homer!" Jack did his best, just as Elmer knew he was bound to. He believed he saw the pitcher signal that he meant to cut the middle of the plate with the next; when in reality it was intended to be a wide one. And so he too perished, amid the cheers of Hickory Ridge, and the groans of Fairfield. By the time another chance at bat came for Matt Tubbs's band, there would be excited conferences going on. These heavy batters would soon awaken to the fact that the signals given to them by Lon Braddock were all wrong; and that by trying to take a mean advantage of Elmer they were only digging their own graves. Matt Tubbs was certainly at his best that day; and he had always been known as a clever pitcher. Ted followed the fate of the three Fairfield batters, and along the same road, for he struck out. Toby lifted a great fly that soared away up in the air. He was making for second under full steam, believing that McDowd out in center field could never get under the ball, when the cheers that broke forth announced a clever catch. And Toby was compelled to walk back to the bench, resolving that another time he would try to put it far over McDowd's head. Lil Artha succeeded in placing a corking one that landed him on first, to the accompaniment of riotous cheers; but he died there; for Chatz was able only to connect with the ball after he had had two strikes called on him, and put up one of those miserable pop fouls that make a batter rave. So the second inning began. When Cobb had also fanned at most unreasonable balls, that could never have been hit, his comrades stared at each other. There was a hasty conference. Then Matt Tubbs was observed to say something to the next batter, Poole. Elmer smiled broadly at Mark, and nodded. It was just as though he had remarked the words: "It's all off, Mark, they've finally caught on to the fact that we've switched our signals. And now to play a different brand of ball!" That was exactly what the Fairfield players had decided. When such batters made guys of themselves trying to meet balls that never came where they expected to find them, the truth could not long remain hidden. And now Tubbs had told his players to forget entirely everything they had learned from Lon Braddock. They must depend on their own judgment of balls, and nothing else. Poole struck a vicious one, but it fell foul clearly enough, so that there was no chance for any disputing the umpire's decision. "See that!" exclaimed a spectator; "they're getting his size already. If that had only landed fair it would have been a two-bagger." Elmer realized that the time had already come to play the game. The next one he sent in was with exactly the same movement that he used to shoot a cannon-ball express over the rubber; yet it hung there in the air in the most exasperating manner, passing over the plate long after Poole had struck. Then arose a tremendous shout as the crowd became aware of the fact that Elmer had disclosed his long suit--that tantalizing floating drop by which Matthewson long ago won his fame on the diamond. "Get that, did you, partner!" laughed the Hickory Ridge backer, turning to the adherent of the rival nine. "Now you'll see who's going to do the eating out of hand business. Before the ninth inning comes he'll have your fellows breaking their poor old backs trying to connect with that dead one. Just wait, and see the fun!" Poole did not get on base, but perished on a feeble little infield hit that Lil Artha gobbled close to the bag, prancing back with ease. "Gee, look at that daddy-long-legs, will you!" shouted an amazed Fairfield rooter, as he stared at the way Lil Artha got over the ground. "Hey, if he ever gets his base he c'n just _step_ down to second! No cutting him off by a throw." McDowd, the center fielder, generally a reliable batter, did succeed in making a hit, the ball just eluding the fingers of Red at short, as he jumped up in the air, hoping to make a dazzling stop. But it did him no good. Elmer just toyed with Mulligan, and after feeding him two swift curves with which he could not connect, he gave him one of those lovely slow balls. Now Mulligan was a crafty chap, and he saw what was coming. Thinking to have the laugh on Elmer, he declined to strike; and was already grinning with joy over his smartness, when the ball seemed to receive a new impetus somehow, and went jumping by. "Batter's out!" declared the umpire; at which Mulligan dashed his bat down, and walked away, also shaking his head. The crowd yelled like mad. This was work well worth coming miles to see. "He's got them all guessing," shouted Larry Billings, who was also in uniform as a substitute. "If they strike at it, they fan the air; and if they hold off the umpire says 'get out!' It's a cold, cruel world, Fairfield!" Red was first to face Tubbs in their half of the second. He waited until he had two strikes and three balls called; and then, knowing that the pitcher in nine cases out of ten tries to put one straight over, Red lined it out for a single. Ty stepped up with a firm manner, and gripped his bat as though he meant business. He spoiled several good ones by knocking long fouls, and finally walked. As two were now on bases with nobody out, the chances for a tally looked good to the Hickory Ridge fellows. Amid a chorus of shouts Matty stepped up and, hitting the first ball a tremendous swipe, sent it speeding through the air. Everybody jumped up to see where it went. They saw the agile Felix Wagner near second make a leap upward. As he came down he whirled, and sent the ball into second; and Mulligan, who had darted thither was just like lightning in getting it down to first. Red and Ty were thus caught between bases and a most brilliant triple play had been accomplished. "Why, he caught it!" gasped the Hickory Ridge enthusiast, as though unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. "You just bet he did," mocked the other fellow. "And the whole side's out in two shakes of the lamb's tail. Zip, bang, splash; and it's all over! That's the way we do it." The crowd went fairly wild, even the people from Hickory Ridge joining in the applause that greeted this clever play. And so the game went on, both sides struggling like giants for an opening; yet the third, fourth and fifth innings passed with no one getting past that fatal second. The first half of the sixth opened with Fairfield looking dangerous. Elmer had passed Wagner, it being the first time he had given anyone transportation on four balls. Cook went out on three strikes, being led to bite at a slow one in the critical moment. Bastian hit for a single, and by clever running Wagner managed to reach third. The crowd sat up and began to figure on a run, as there was only one man out, and almost any kind of a fly would allow Wagner to come in. But they counted without their host. Cobb failed to do anything, also going out on the three-strike route. And Poole shot one straight for Red at short, who gathered it up in fine shape, getting the ball to first ahead of the runner. A sigh went up from the great crowd. With the Fairfield rooters it signified despair; while those who were backing the other team expressed their relief that Elmer had managed to get out of a hole successfully. "Now, fellows, it's time we did something," remarked Lil Artha, as the boys settled down on the ground, and Toby was selecting his bat, it being his turn to toe the rubber. "Right you are, old hoss," remarked that worthy, grimly. "We've tried Matt Tubbs out, and got his wrinkles down pat. Just keep your eyes on me, and see if I don't flatten out one of his benders for keeps!" "More power to your elbow, Toby," said Lil Artha. "Just get your base somehow, and depend on me to chase you in." "And he can do it, Toby," declared Chatz, as the batter passed him. "Yes, I've just got to, boys," chuckled the tall captain, as his eye roved out toward that particular place where Elmer had told him to aim; just as though he might be picking a good spot to land his ball. CHAPTER XV. LIL ARTHA PLANTS HIS GARDEN IN DEEP CENTER. "CRACK!" "He did it!" yelled the Hickory Ridge fellows, as Toby started on a run for the first sack, while Bastian was chasing the ball in short right. "Bully boy, Toby! You're IT!" shrieked an excited rooter, jumping up and down as he swung his hat, and ending by dancing a hornpipe, to the amusement of some of the crowd, though a disgusted Cramertown fellow loudly advised him to "hire a hall." "Now Lil Artha, you know what to do!" called a fellow near by. "Does he!" echoed Larry Billings, waving his hand at the speaker. "Well, just keep your eye on him, that's all. Oh, it's good-by to that ball. It's going over into the next county!" The tall captain of the Hickory Ridge nine stood at the plate in what some people considered a careless attitude. "Why, he doesn't seem to care whether he hits the ball or not," they declared. "I think Matt Tubbs ought to have a snap with that bean pole!" But every batter has his favorite way of waiting for the ball. Some swing their bats nervously, and often fail to recover in time; others stand there like statues, with every nerve contracted, and their eyes fixed on the pitcher. Lil Artha did neither. He chopped at the tuft of short grass near the rubber, nodded at Tubbs, and then slouched there in his ungainly attitude. But Matt Tubbs was not deceived in the least. He knew that in Lil Artha he had the most dangerous batter in the entire nine to contend with. His movements were like lightning, once he started. One, two, three balls followed in rapid succession. "Hey, he's afraid of Lil Artha! he's goin' to give him his base!" arose the shout. It looked very much that way, and Lil Artha himself feared that he was about to be cheated out of his chance for that little garden beyond right center. Those agile Fairfield fellows must be thinking that triple plays grow on bushes; and the pitcher was hoping to have another pulled off. "Smash!" "Oh, what a hit!" "He leaned way out, and took a wide curve right on the nose!" "Look at her go, would you!" "A home run hit, fellows; bully for Lil Artha! He's all to the good!" "What would he do if he was twice as tall, hey, tell me that?" demanded a disgusted Fairfield backer, as he watched the two figures careering around the circuit. "Watch him run, boys! Why, he could get home ahead of Toby. There they come in, neck and neck!" "But where's the ball?" demanded one fellow. "McDowd is chasing it yet. He'll get it after a while. There never was such a long hit made on these grounds, that's dead sure. It was a peach!" Two runs looked pretty big in such a bitterly contested game. "Even if we don't get another, that ought to win, if Elmer can keep up his fine work," Mr. Garrabrant declared, as he sat in the midst of his boys, and shook hands with the tall panting first baseman as he dropped down. "Then we've just got to work to hold them, see?" said Red, who was picking out a hat, as Chatz had stepped cut to the rubber. "Oh, don't got that notion in your heads, boys," laughed Elmer. "Perhaps we can add a few more for good measure. Matt may be rattled after those two screamers. Try and hit her out, Red." But Matt Tubbs instead of being upset by his misfortunes seemed better than ever. He easily disposed of Chatz; and while Red did get on first through an error of the shortstop, who threw wide, he died there. Ty shot up a zigzag foul that Ballinger managed to just grasp, after staggering back and forth like a drunken man in the effort to judge its eccentric motions; and Matty's offering was taken by Cook in left field. So the seventh began. The Fairfield rooters, faithful to their team, began to call out encouraging words, such as the "lucky seventh." McDowd started out well. He drew a pass by refusing to try to take the slow one that just failed to cross over the rubber. Then he stole second, though Mark got the ball down to Red in good style; but a great slide saved the runner, according to the umpire, who was on the spot. There was no protest against the decision, even though most of the Hickory Ridge players thought the man was fairly out. They were much too game to show that they could not take their medicine when the decision went against their side. Elmer put on a little more speed. "Hey!" called out Mulligan as he stood there and heard a strike called: "what're ye thryin' to do wid me, Elmer? Sure that wan had whiskers on it: I heard 'em brush past me leg. Thry it again, me honey, and see what I do." He tried to bunt the next one, but made a failure of the job; for Elmer had readily guessed that such must be his orders, with that man on second. So Mulligan passed away, being fed one of the teasers that he tried to meet by stepping forward, but without the slightest success. Next came Ballinger, the catcher. Like most men behind the bat, accustomed to seeing all manner of balls coming toward men throughout the whole game, Ballinger was a fairly good man with the stick. He believed he could pick out a good one, and do something worth while. His best was a high fly that Ty gathered in away out in deep center; but after the ball settled in his hands McDowd managed to make third, again by a slide, at which he seemed particularly clever. It was now up to Matt Tubbs. Adopting the tactics of his rival when Lil Artha was at bat, Elmer sought to pass the hard-hitting pitcher of the Fairfields. He had given two balls when Matt reached out, and took one that was intended as a wide curve. It shot past Matty near second, and went buzzing out into the field. Even then it was tagged with so much speed that before it could be sent in home McDowd had scored, and Tubbs was nestled on the second bag. Then arose a fearful roar. If only Wagner had found his batting eye he would surely send his captain home with the tying run. "Lucky seven, Felix! You know what we want! Everybody holler!" Such a terrible racket as ensued. Of course part of this came from excitement; but there was also a desire to put heart in the Fairfield players, as well as to rattle Elmer. He showed no sign of going to pieces. His manner would indicate that he was as cool as a cucumber. Wagner was dancing around the home plate, trying to tantalize the opposing pitcher. "Strike one!" called the umpire, as a good one whizzed past. "Get up against it, Felix. Quit your kiddin', and do business. It only takes one to bring Matt in!" shouted a player. Wagner now toed the mark, and prepared to strike. The shouts died away as quickly as they had sprung into existence. All eyes were on the pitcher, and the lad who stood there, lazily swinging his bat forward and back in regular rhythm, as he endeavored to gauge the coming delivery of the ball. Judgment at such a critical time has to come with the rapidity of lightning. In the flash of an eye the batter has to decide whether it is a drop, an out curve, an inward shoot, a straight, swift one over the rubber, or a teaser that will apparently start out well, only to hold up in mid-air, and leave him to strike long before the ball gets within reaching distance. Wagner waited and struck at a slow drop. What was more, he hit it, too, a vicious tap that electrified the entire crowd. Again those who were sitting down jumped up to see what had happened. They evidently expected to see one of the fielders running like mad after the ball. Nothing of the sort. Red simply threw out, and touched Matt Tubbs as he tried to get back to second in great haste, after realizing that the ball had been shot straight into the hands of short. It was, of course, a double play, unassisted. And tumultuous cheers followed as the Hickory Ridge boys came trotting in from the field. Nothing would do but that Red must take off his cap, and thus acknowledge the fact that the fickle populace wished to do him honor. In their half of the seventh the Hickory Ridge fellows made another hard bid for a run. Elmer, the first man up, drove the first ball pitched out in right for a single. Mark duplicated the performance, only he seemed rather to fancy the left garden for his planting. Two on bases, and none out! Catcalls and groans marked the disgust of the rooters who wanted to see Fairfield win, while loud cheers told the club at bat that their friends expected them to add to the score this inning. But that wizard Tubbs was at it again. He mowed Ted down without mercy. The batter afterward declared that the ball went past him with wings on it; and that he couldn't make sure whether it passed over the rubber or two feet outside. Toby had been fairly lucky in meeting the offerings of Matt; but he, too, fell a victim. Meanwhile the fellows on bases, much as they wanted to engineer a double steal, found not the slightest chance to do so, with this clockwork going on between the pitcher and catcher. Lil Artha was up again. Would he duplicate his previous performance, and send out a homer? McDowd evidently feared as much, to judge from the way he went back. But Lil Artha fooled them all, for he dropped a little one between first and second, and while nobody got home on the hit, he managed to gain first through the fumble. Chatz had a glorious opportunity presented to him. A hit would mean two more tallies. Chatz tried his best, and connected with a good one. With the crack of the bat the crowd uttered a thrilling shout. Then they saw Poole, playing just off first, gather the ball in with astonishing cleverness, and leap for his bag. In the eighth it was just one, two, three for Fairfield. Elmer bad them guessing all the time with his curves, his change to a swift one, and then that terrible teaser that only one fellow had as yet managed to connect with, and that to his side's undoing. Nor were the Hickory Ridge boys able to add more runs in their half, four batters only facing Tubbs. The ninth opened. Unless Fairfield could score one run to tie, the game would end then and there, the Hickory Ridge fellows having no need to go in again. It was a tense situation when, with one man on second, and but a single fellow out, Elmer stood up to his work, smiling, cool and satisfied that he could do it, with the fine assistance he was receiving from his backing. In vain did the next batter try to connect. One little foul was the best he was able to do. That brought it to the last one, who chanced to be the hard-hitting catcher, Ballinger. A dead silence fell upon the crowd as Elmer began to feed him slow ones. Once Ballinger struck, and was greeted by a whoop from the excited Hickory Ridge rooters, anxiously watching every move. The next one he declined to touch; and lo, it went over the plate for a second strike. Rendered desperate finally, and seeing still a third floater coming sailing wabblingly along, Ballinger stepped forward and made a vicious swing for it, only to have his bat pass through thin air. Then arose a tumultuous whoop. The game was over, and the score stood two to one in favor of Hickory Ridge. While the shouts of the multitude were still ringing out, Elmer made straight for the rival pitcher, and thrust out his hand. "Bully for you, Matt," he said. "It was so even that one little thing settled it--that home run hit. And if you haven't won this game, Matt, it's plain to be seen you've won another that counts for much more. I say good luck to the scouts of Fairfield. They're going to make things hum around here, I guess." "That's nice of you, Elmer," returned Matt, quietly, yet with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. "Somebody's got to lose, and next time it may be you fellers. But I reckon as how Fairfield people knows by now that things has changed some since these here games used to break up in a row. Never again. We're in this scout business for keeps now, and you got to look out, Elmer, if you don't want us to beat you when the two troops get together for tests." CHAPTER XVI. THE MYSTERY SOLVED. "I WANT you to go over with me to Colonel Hitchins, Mark," said Elmer, on the morning after the great victory over the Fairfield scout nine. "Oh, see here, has it anything to do with that mystery connected with my cap being found under those peach trees that were robbed?" demanded Mark, jumping up; for his chum had found him in his den, busily engaged. "Perhaps," smiled the other. "And oh, by the way, Mark, perhaps you'd better be sure and wear the very cap that was found. I might want to show it to the colonel again for a purpose." He declined to say anything more, even though Mark teased him as he got his own wheel out, and the two started forth. "Just you hold your horses," he said, shaking his head stubbornly. "Sometimes it seems like a long night, but daylight always comes in the end." "I take that to mean you've made some sort of discovery, then," declared Mark; "and honest, now, Elmer, I'll be mighty glad to know the truth. That thing has puzzled me a heap, I admit. Perhaps Phil Lally has confessed that he found my cap, and left it there when he robbed the trees, meaning to have me looked on as the thief." "Shucks, Phil Lally never saw your cap; and even if he did he wouldn't know it from mine or some other fellow's. "Wait, and don't get so impatient. Unless I miss my guess, it'll soon be old history," and Elmer led the way along the road at a hot pace. They soon arrived at the place of Colonel Hitchins. "There's Phil Lally working in the garden, and he looks satisfied with the way things have come out," remarked Elmer, as they passed toward the mansion. "Why shouldn't he be?" argued Mark. "If Phil had his deserts, he'd be on the way to a ten-year sentence at the penitentiary right now. But the old gentleman knew what he was doing when he gave him this last chance; and I really believe the fellow will make good now." "I'm dead sure of it," Elmer added. "He's had his eyes opened, and the thought of his old and fond mother is going to keep him on the narrow path. But say, turn aside here, and let's take a peep at the tool house, where I had that little rumpus Saturday night." "I'd like to see it," remarked the other, eagerly; for by this time he knew all the particulars of his chum's exciting adventure, and was deeply interested in everything that pertained to it. So they walked around the tool house, and even stepped inside, while Elmer proceeded to once more relate how he had managed to fasten the two men in, after they had entered in search of kerosene. "Hello!" remarked Elmer, finally, "there's Bruno wagging his tail at us; he knows me by now, and we are pretty good friends; but, all the same, I don't mean to get too close to him when his master isn't around." "He's a fine looking dog, as sure as anything," observed Mark. "He sure is," Elmer went on, and then added: "see him shake that old shoe he has in his mouth! Just imagine it to be some other dog that Bruno is fighting with. I'd hate to have those teeth set in my leg, wouldn't you, Mark?" "Well, rather," came the ready reply. "But look there, do they give him old shoes and such things to play with; I can count three close by his kennel right now? Perhaps it's the right thing for a dog's teeth, to chew on old leather." Elmer laughed out loud at the suggestion. "That's a new one on me," he declared; "but here comes Phil Lally from the garden. Let's put it up to him. He's been with the Colonel some time, and ought to be on to some of the tricks of Bruno." Phil Lally smiled at seeing Elmer. He had taken a great liking to the boy; and no doubt had heard some things in connection with him from his employer at the time they talked matters over. "Glad to see yuh here this fine morning, Elmer," he remarked. "And they tell me yuh knocked the Fairfield team out yesterday, good and hard. The kunnel says it was the best game he ever saw, barring none, and he's an old hand, yuh know." "We all thought it a dandy," laughed Elmer; "and every fellow deserved a share of the glory. I pitched my best; but where would we have been if it hadn't happened that Lil Artha drove out that homer, fetching a run in ahead of him? But Mark here was wondering if you fed Bruno on old shoes; or gave them to him to keep his teeth in good condition, because there are just three around here. We don't happen to be from Missouri, Phil, but we want to know." The man laughed loudly. "Well, after all, it looks that ways, Elmer," he said. "But the fact is, nobody wants to make Bruno mad by takin' away his playthings. I tried it once, and would yuh believe it, the critter made a jump for me, and growled so ugly that after that I jest vowed he could keep piling 'em up, for all of me." "Oh, I see; then you don't toss them to him?" said Mark, while his chum smiled, as though fairly well satisfied with the way the conversation had turned. "Who, me, give Bruno them old shoes?" ejaculated Phil Lally. "Well, I guess not. He gets 'em all hisself. It's an old trick of Bruno's. There have been times when he's had as much as seven old shoes layin' around here at one time. When I gets a chanct I sneaks 'em away an' buries the same. Got a regular cemetery fur old shoes back o' the stable." "But where does he get them, if he's chained up here all the time?" asked Mark. "What, him?" echoed the gardener. "Oh, nobody don't seem able to keep that slick customer chained up no great time at a stretch. Sometimes I've knowed him to slip his collar as many as four nights a week." "You mean he gets away?" asked Elmer, helping things along; for he began to see Mark casting eyes at him suspiciously. "Always that. Bruno, he's a wanderer. He's got the habit bad; and as soon as he gets loose it's hike for him. But I will say he always knows when to come home, and in the morning we find him in his kennel, tuckered out mebbe, but happy." "But do you mean he brings one of those old shoes home with him every time?" demanded Mark. "He jest wont come home without _something_ like that in his mouth," continued the gardener. "I've seen him adoin' of the same, and had to laugh at the critter. Once it was a lady's hat. We reckoned that it must a' blew off when she was goin' past in a car at a fast clip, and they couldn't find it. But Bruno lighted on it, easy like." "A lady's hat!" muttered Mark, and then he faced his chum, adding: "Look here now, Elmer, you didn't come back to see Bruno just by accident. You had a reason for doing it? Own up now!" Elmer nodded his head and snickered. "Let me take that cap of yours, Mark," he said, and the article in question was eagerly handed over to him. "Look here, Phil, this cap was found under those peach trees you've heard about, and on the morning the colonel discovered they had been raided. Luckily my chum was able to prove that he couldn't have been here; and a lot of us knew that he had lost this cap a mile away on the bank of the Sunflower, just as evening set in. But it's been a dark mystery how it got here." Phil had turned red at mention of the peach trees. Then his glance went past Elmer to the big Siberian wolf hound. "I reckon it must be up to Bruno, then," he remarked. "Let's see--yes, he was off that night, else I'd never dared do what I did." "And if you examine the inside of the cap," Elmer went on, steadily, "you'll find the lining all torn, as if he had been shaking it like he did that old shoe just now. The marks look to me like teeth had torn the lining. And when the colonel handed it to me, I could feel that it seemed to be more or less wet inside." "Proven beyond the least doubt!" cried Mark, smiling broadly. "Bruno came on my cap while he was scouring the country. He fetched it home, as he does other things that have belonged to people. And when he was going past those peach trees he got scent of the fact that some one had been there during his absence. So perhaps he laid the cap down, to nose all around, and forgot to pick it up again!" "That's just my theory to a dot," laughed Elmer; "so on the whole, I guess, Mark, you'd better call it solved, and let the matter drop." "I'm only too willing," replied the other, nodding. "But don't you think we owe it to the colonel to take him into the secret?" "I sure do," replied Elmer; "because he was puzzled as much as we were. Still, you remember he was ready to own up that he couldn't believe you guilty; no matter if a dozen caps bearing your initials were found under his trees." "That shows what it means tuh have a good reputation," remarked Phil Lally between his set teeth. "But, boys, never again for me. I've seen what a fool road I was trampin' with that habit of mine, and I've changed my course. I'm goin' tuh make good this time, or bust a b'iler tryin'." "You'll make it, never fear, Phil, with such a good friend to help you as the gentleman you work for. I believe in you," said Elmer, thrusting out his hand; for something told him that the young fellow needed all the encouragement possible at this critical stage in his uplifting. So they did go in to see the colonel, who was deeply interested in the theory. Elmer had to explain how his chum's cap chanced to be found that morning under the raided trees, when it was lost the evening previous away over on the bank of the little Sunflower River. "No doubt of it, Elmer," he declared immediately. "You've proved it beyond the shadow of a doubt. If Bruno had put his visiting card inside the lining he couldn't have done more when he made these tears with his sharp teeth. Seems to me as if I can see where every tooth went in. But let's forget all about that matter now, and talk about your magnificent victory of yesterday." "We may have beaten the Fairfield team by the narrow margin of one run, sir," remarked Elmer, "but there was one fellow against us who did a heap more than that, I give it to you straight." "Who was that, Elmer, and what did he do that was so great? I'm sure, after seeing the game I fail to catch your meaning," remarked the gentleman. "It was Matt Tubbs, sir; and he won a victory over himself which I take it counts for more than just a single little tally in a baseball game. If that had been the same old Matt Tubbs of old, we'd never have finished that game, for he'd have ended it in a row. As it was, he shook hands with every Hickory Ridge player, and complimented them on the fierce fight they put up. It was just fine! And they used to say Matt Tubbs was a rowdy who could never be made to see how he was wronging his family, all Fairfield, and himself worst of all, by his ugly ways. Don't tell me, anybody, that this Boy Scout movement isn't working wonders in lots of cases." "I believe you, Elmer," replied the colonel, softly. "I have been pretty much a gruff old soldier myself, and often scorned such an idea as gaining anything worth while without a fight for it; but I'm beginning to look at things in another light, boys, another light. Peace has its victories as well as war; and they count most in the long run, I reckon. I'm going to take more interest in these boys than ever I did before, because I'm learning something in my old age." But the great victory over Fairfield was not the only event that marked the closing days of that summer vacation, and in another volume we shall have something to say about an occurrence which the Hickory Ridge Boy Scouts were inclined to set down in their troop log-book as a matter of history never to be forgotten. THE END. ADDENDA BOY SCOUT NATURE LORE BOY SCOUT NATURE LORE TO BE FOUND IN THE HICKORY RIDGE BOY SCOUT SERIES. Wild Animals of the United States } Tracking } in Number I. THE CAMPFIRES OF THE WOLF PATROL. Trees and Wild Flowers of the United States in Number II. WOODCRAFT, OR HOW A PATROL LEADER MADE GOOD. Reptiles of the United States in Number III. PATHFINDER, OR THE MISSING TENDERFOOT. Fishes of the United States in Number IV. FAST NINE, OR A CHALLENGE FROM FAIRFIELD. Insects of the United States in Number V. GREAT HIKE, OR THE PRIDE OF THE KHAKI TROOP. Birds of the United States in Number VI. ENDURANCE TEST, OR HOW CLEAR GRIT WON THE DAY. FISHES OF THE UNITED STATES Fish are vertebrate animals living in water and having, instead of legs, fins which are adapted to rapid movement in the water. They breathe through gills instead of lungs. The principal order of fish is known as the Teleostei or bony fishes. Other orders are the Elasmobranchii or fishes without a bony skeleton, Ganoidei, and a small order called the Holocephali. Fishing since the earliest recorded times has always been an industry as well as a sport with mankind. Great commercial seaports have developed from beginnings as small fishing towns, and fishing privileges are often incorporated in international treaties. The most important of the American fisheries are the cod, herring, mackerel, menhaden, halibut, salmon and whitefish fisheries. THE ELASMOBRANCHII. These are fishes which have no bony skeleton. In place of bone they have an elastic tissue or gristle. There are two sub-orders--those having round bodies, like the sharks and dog-fish, and those having flat bodies, like the rays and skates. SHARKS. Shark is a general name applied to all the larger round-bodied elasmobranchii. They are powerful and rapid swimmers and many of the larger forms are found in mid-ocean. The smaller ones keep closer to the shore. Although a few are found in Arctic regions, they do not attain the great size there that they do in warmer waters. They are carnivorous, that is, they feed on animal matter, and most of them have strong teeth. The Chinese consider shark fins a great delicacy and many are exported from California to the East. The fins are also a source of gelatine. The Tope is a small shark found in tropical and temperate seas. It averages about six feet in length. Its habit of making away with bait and scaring off other fish makes it unpopular with fishermen. The color of the tope is gray above and whitish gray beneath. It swims along the bottom of the water, feeding upon fish, crustaceans, etc. This fish is not common in American waters. The Hammer-head Shark. The characteristic peculiarity of this shark is its broad, flat head, which accounts for its name. Its eyes are set on projections from the side of the head. They have been known to reach a length of fifteen feet. Sometimes they are seen in the North Atlantic. They are formidable and greedy. The topes and hammerheads belong to the same shark family. The Porbeagle is a shark that is found in the North Atlantic and is known to fishermen as the Mackerel Shark. It feeds principally upon fish. A length of ten feet is attained. It bolts its food, the teeth being adapted to hold its slippery prey. [Illustration: HAMMER-HEAD SHARK.] The Thresher, Thrasher or Fox Shark is a cousin of the porbeagle. Its peculiar characteristic is its long tail. Both the Atlantic and Pacific contain these fish. A length of fifteen feet is often reached. It will not attack man, but preys on small fishes. Swimming suddenly into schools of these, it flaps its tail rapidly, killing and devouring them in large numbers. These sharks are often found in companies attacking large whales. The Basking Shark derives its name from its habit of lying at the top of the water with its upper back above the water line. This is the largest shark found in the Atlantic. It reaches a length of over thirty feet. The oil which its liver yields is valued and it is hunted on this account. It will not attack man. Dog-fish is the general name for sharks of the families Scyllidæ and Spinacidæ. Dog-fish are the smaller types of sharks. They are sometimes eaten by fishermen on the Orkney Islands, a group of islands off the northern coast of Scotland, where they are dried for winter use. Their rough skins are used for polishing wood and is called shagreen. The dog-fishes reach a length of three or four feet. They frequently carry off the fishermen's captures from the lines. SKATES AND RAYS. These are flat-bodied elasmobranchii. Skate is the common name applied to any one of the numerous species of flat elasmobranchii whose large, broad fins give it a somewhat diamond-shaped form. The commonest and smallest skate of the Eastern coast of the United States is the "Tobacco Box." The "Barn Door" Skate sometimes reaches a length of four feet, and the great Pacific Coast Skate is sometimes six feet long. The Sting Ray bears on its tail a toothed spine some eight inches long and capable of inflicting a painful wound. Its tail is long and slim. As a rule they are confined to warm seas, but at least one species extends throughout the Atlantic and Pacific. The Devil-fish or Eagle Ray is a member of the family of Millstone Rays, so called because of their peculiar teeth, which are adapted to crush the shells of the mollusks on which they prey. The tail is long and slim. Some devil-fish occasionally measure from fifteen to eighteen feet across. Pearl and sponge divers greatly fear these ugly creatures. The name devil-fish is also given to the Octopus and to the Goosefish or Angler. The Torpedo or Electric Ray is a name given to any one of the numerous rays having the power of giving electrical shocks. They thus stun the fish upon which they feed. They also use this power in self-defense. The large torpedoes can stun a man. [Illustration: SAWFISH--FROM BELOW.] The Sawfish is a ray in which the snout is elongated and edged with strong teeth. These sawlike edges have given the fish its name. It strikes with this weapon and slashes open the bodies of its prey. THE HOLOCEPHALI. This is not a large order. The name is made up of two Greek words, meaning "all head." A few peculiar forms belong here, principally the Chimera, popularly known as the Sea Cat. These fish resemble sharks. They are found in the colder sea water. Their tail is long and thread like. The head is large and the fish's remarkable appearance has given it the name Chimera, after the legendary animal that Homer describes as shaped like a lion in the fore part, a dragon in the hind part and a goat in the middle. THE GANOIDS. There are seven living kinds of ganoid fish and all are found in fresh water. Only six of these are found in waters of the United States. All of them have skin with bony scales which shine as though enameled. The Sturgeon inhabit waters of the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere. They reach a length of over ten feet and feed upon worms and shell fish, which they pry out of the sandy or muddy bottoms with their sharp snout. They have five rows of bony scales. Their eggs form an article of commerce, caviar being prepared from them. The material known as isinglass is made from the air bladders of the sturgeon. They are found in the Great Lakes and the larger rivers. The type most commonly found in the Mississippi is called the Shovel-nose Sturgeon. The Columbian Sturgeon of the Pacific coast states is a large species. The Bow-fin or Mud-fish is a fish found in the still waters of the United States. It is known by many names. The flesh, while eatable, is not good. In length it does not exceed a couple of feet. The Gar-pike, Bony-pike, or Bill-fish. The body of this fish is covered with bony scales. It has a peculiar snout containing sharp teeth. In the lower Mississippi occurs a large type known as the Alligator Gar or Manjuari. [Illustration: STURGEON.] The Paddle-fish is peculiarly characterized by its broad, thin, oarlike snout. Many popular names have been given to it, such as Spadebill, Spoonbill, Duckbill. It is found in the rivers of the Mississippi Valley and reaches a length of about five feet. The Shovel-nose Sturgeon, or White Sturgeon, is confined to the Mississippi and its tributaries, and is quite common in certain localities. It has a slender body, especially so behind the fins, and its peculiarly shaped snout has given it the name it bears. THE BONY FISHES OR TELEOSTEANS. By far the largest and the most important order of fishes, containing the large majority of living types. They differ from the ganoid fishes by having soft scales and a complete bony skeleton. THE YELLOW PERCH. The Yellow Perch is found in all the waters of the Atlantic slope. It does not occur in the lower Mississippi valley. It frequents quiet pools of meadow brooks, creeks, etc., preferring the stream's sides or the sandy, pebbly bottom. The larger specimens come from rivers and creeks. Perch seldom weigh more than one or two pounds. They feed on grubs, worms, insects, and small fishes. They are graceful in movement and the coloration is beautiful. The sides are streaked with dusky bands and the fins are ruddy. One way to catch perch is with a pole, stout line, large float, and heavy sinker, using a worm or minnow for bait. This will do when the water is muddied and the fish are hungry. In clear water, use a finer line and reel, a small float and a sinker only heavy enough to keep the float steady. The bait should be suspended about a foot from the bottom. THE STRIPED BASS. [Illustration: STRIPED BASS.] The Striped Bass in the South is known as the Rock Fish, or the Rock. This fish is particularly common in the open stretches of large rivers. It is a popular food fish and it is estimated that over 200,000 pounds of Striped Bass are eaten each year in the United States. They are voracious feeders and when in the rivers they prey upon small fishes. They frequent the surf of ocean beaches and rocky shores. The fisherman holds this fish in deservedly high esteem. They are caught in creeks, using shrimps or clams for bait. When fishing for these in the swift tideways, menhaden bait is used. Scott, in his "Fishing in American Waters," says: "Casting menhaden bait for striped bass from the rocky shores of the bays, estuaries, and islands along the Atlantic coasts constitutes the highest branch of American angling. It is, indeed, questionable--when considering all the elements which contribute to the sum-total of sport in angling--whether this method of striped bass fishing is not superior to fly-fishing for salmon, and if so, it outranks any angling in the world." The rod to use in this style of fishing should not be longer than nine feet and should be very light, the lines about two or three hundred yards long. The bass are attracted by casting chopped menhaden upon the water. An oil gathers upon the surface of the water and the fish swim toward the fishermen. THE WHITE BASS. The White Bass, or Striped Lake Bass, is often mistaken for the Striped Bass. It is common in the Great Lakes region and especially the Ohio. It is found chiefly in lakes, ponds, and deeper parts of rivers. It feeds upon small fish. As food it is highly prized. THE YELLOW BASS. The Yellow Bass is sometimes called the Bar-fish. It frequents the lower Mississippi, where the water is deep and sluggish. The color is yellow and the black stripes are prominent. THE WHITE PERCH. The White Perch is found in the waters at the mouths of rivers. Its average length is eight or nine inches. Fish for them off a deep-sunk pier or a bridge, baiting with a live minnow. THE SEA BASS. The Sea Bass exists in a great many varieties and has been given many names, such as Black-fish, Rock Bass, Black Will, Black Bass, etc. The favorite haunts of Sea Bass are the rocky bays and sounds of the Atlantic coasts. It feeds at the bottom and rarely comes to the surface, being fond of lying under loose stones and in rock cavities. Its food is made up of crabs, squids, small fish, etc. On account of the toughness of its mouth this fish, when once hooked, is not easily lost. The best time to catch them is between tides. In New England they average about a pound and a half. The flesh of the Sea Bass is firm and sweet. The fishing banks off Sandy Hook and Long Branch yield thousands of these fish annually. The bait most often used is clams. THE GROUPERS. The Red Grouper, or Groper, is a large fish, reaching an occasional weight of forty or fifty pounds, but is not common on our coasts, except in the far South. It is voracious in feeding. In the Gulf of Mexico it is abundant. It feeds on crustaceans and small fish, and even large crabs. As a food fish it is considered excellent. The Black Grouper is called the "Jew-fish." It is a common fish along the Gulf coast. The Jew-fish attains a large size and will swallow a hooked fish, hooks, lead, line and all. The Pacific Jew-fish is sometimes called the Black Sea Bass and is the largest food fish of this coast, reaching a weight of five hundred pounds. BLACK BASS. Black Bass are found widely distributed over the Atlantic slope. They are not particular in their diet, eating many kinds of food--fish, crawfish, moths, flies, frogs, and even rats and snakes. They can leap powerfully. It is said that the best time to take them is at night, or when rivers are high and muddy. There are two types, the large-mouth and the small-mouth. Bass may be caught by using artificial flies or minnows, or live minnows, small frogs, grasshoppers, or by the use of trolling spoon. THE SUN-FISH. The Sun-fish is the "Sunny" or "Pumpkin-seed" of New York and New England brooks. It is common, too, in the Great Lakes region and the coast streams as far south as Georgia. It prefers clear, still water. The Red Breast is a Sun-fish which is known also by such names as the "Brim," "Pearch," "Red-headed Bream," "Sun Perch," "Red-bellied Bream," and "Red-bellied Pearch." The Blue Sun-fish is the most widely distributed of the Sun-fishes. It is also called "The Blue Bream," "Copper-nosed Bream," and "Dollardee." THE STRAWBERRY BASS. The Strawberry Bass is another fish abounding in names. It is called "The Strawberry Perch," "Grass Bass," "Bitter Head Perch," "Lamplighter," "Razor Back," "Chinquapin Perch," "Silver Bass," "Big Fin Bass," "Calico Bass," "Goggle Eye." It resorts to deep, sluggish waters. As a pan fish it is surpassed by few other fresh-water fishes. The Crappie or Croppie is closely related to the Strawberry Bass. THE SNAPPERS AND GRUNTS. The Snappers and Grunts are the brightly colored fishes of the coral reefs. The Red Snapper is bright crimson and is abundant in the Gulf of Mexico and about the Florida reefs, living in holes and gullies. It feeds upon small fish, crabs, and prawns. Snappers are always boiled or cooked in a chowder. They are caught with a bottom bait of fish. The Gray Snapper lacks the brilliant color of the Red Snapper. It is also known as the Black Snapper and Sea Lawyer. The Red Mouths or Grunts are small fish found in the inshore waters of the Gulf and South Atlantic states. They resemble the Snappers and are characterized by the red color of the inside of mouth and throat. On account of this peculiarity they are sometimes called Flannel-mouths. When taken they utter a peculiar sound, hence the name "grunts," "pig-fish," and "squirrel-fish." The Black Grunt is brownish in color. It is found as far north as Charleston. The Norfolk Hog-fish is brown, spotted with orange and yellow. The Sheepheads have large heads, strong jaws and teeth. They are sluggish in movement, feeding among the rocks close to the bottom. They derive their name from their resemblance in profile to the sheep. They are known by this name wherever found. In New York Harbor, Jersey, and Long Island coasts they are common. Barnacles and crustaceans form an important part of their diet and frequent old wrecks to which their food adhered. Their teeth are fitted to crush their food. They are shy and will take the bait more confidently if it is allowed to lie at the bottom. When they bite, give a short, quick, but not too violent jerk. The average weight of this fish is about six pounds. They are one of the finest food fish. THE PORGY. The Scuppaug, or Mishcuppauog, is a name of Indian origin. In some parts it is abbreviated into the "scup," and in others the second syllable is used, paugy or porgy, notwithstanding that the true porgy is an English fish of an entirely different kind. The Southern Scup is called the "Fair Maid." The food of these fishes consists of worms, mollusks, etc. It is largely used as a pan fish. THE WEAK-FISH. The Weak-fish about the Cape Cod section are called "Drummers." Further south they are known as "Yellow Fins" and "Sea Trout." Along the shore from Norfolk to Nantucket they are abundant, arriving in late May and departing early in the autumn. August is the best month for Weak-fish. They feed on small fish. Catching the Weak-fish is considered great sport because so many can be taken in a short time. They swim near the surface and require a line little leaded. Clams, soft crabs, or pieces of fish may be used as bait, which they snap at. On account of the tenderness of their mouths, care must be taken in hauling them in. At flood tide they will be found in the channel, but at ebb they seek some deep hole. The Indian name for this fish was the Squeteague. THE HAKE. The Hake, known also as the King-fish, Barb, Tom Cod, Black Mullet, Sea Mink, and Whiting. Mr. A. N. Cheney tells us that in fishing for this fish, "A light rod and multiplying reel, a strong and very light line, a swivel sinker, and two rather small hooks are what is required in the way of tackle, much the same rig as is used in weak-fishing. The bait is either shredded crab or sand-worm. The King-fish is thoroughly game; he seizes the bait eagerly and then goes to the bottom, following up this movement with long runs from right to left; it is really remarkable what a determined resistance the little King-fish will make. In size he varies from one to six pounds, the average being two or three pounds. The time to fish for them is when the tide is running in. King-fish can be caught along the south side of Long Island, off the Jersey coast at Atlantic City, Long Branch, and Barnegat Inlet, and further south they are very common." THE WHITINGS. The Whitings are food fishes of the southern coast. They are abundant in the spring and summer near Charleston, taking the bait readily. The bait which seems best is pieces of drum. Deep running water is their favorite haunt. THE DRUM. The Drum is another large food fish. It is found most abundantly in the Gulf of Mexico and southern Atlantic states. The name is derived from the noise it is capable of making, which is similar to drumming. It swims slowly along the bottom, where it feeds on shell-fish. The fresh-water Drum is called "Sheepshead" in the Great Lakes. In other places the "White Perch," "Gray Perch," "Crocus," "Thunder-pumper." THE COBIA. The Cobia prefers clear, deep water. One writer says of this fish that "he looks as if harnessed with a pair of traces and his behavior on a fly-rod is that of a wild horse." This appearance is due to the straight stripes of brown and gray on its sides which has given it the name "Sergeant-fish" in certain districts. THE BLUE-FISH. The Blue-fish is known in different localities as the "Horse-Mackerel," "Skipjack," "Green-fish." It is a widely distributed fish, but its favorite haunts in the summer are the waters of the middle Atlantic states. It feeds entirely upon other fish. Professor Baird says: "There is no parallel in point of destructiveness to the Blue-fish among the marine species on our coast, whatever may be the case among some of the carnivorous fish of the South American waters. The Blue-fish has been well likened to an animated chopping machine, the business of which is to cut to pieces and otherwise destroy as many fish as possible in a given space of time. Going in large schools in pursuit of fish not much inferior to themselves in size, they move along like a pack of hungry wolves, destroying everything before them. Their trail is marked by fragments of fish and by the stain of blood in the sea." THE MACKEREL. The Common Mackerel is found in the north Atlantic. They swim near the surface and often at a great distance from land. Their movements can be easily followed. They are great wanderers and are abundant sometimes in one section, sometimes in another. The food of these fishes consists largely of small crustaceans. The different kinds of invertebrates upon which the mackerel feed are known as "Cayenne" and "red-seed." When full-grown they average about eighteen inches in length. Sea birds will gather over a school of mackerel and indicate its presence. Porpoises, sharks, blue-fish, and cod also prey upon them. The Spanish Mackerel is a midsummer fish, disappearing in the autumn. In habit they are very much like the blue-fish, and fond of leaping from the water, living mostly at the surface. THE POMPANO. The Pompano is highly esteemed as a food fish. It is widely distributed through the warmer Atlantic. It feeds upon mollusks, crustaceans, and young fish. It is caught in nets; quantities are caught in the Gulf of Mexico. THE BONITO. The Bonito is in habits similar to the blue-fish. It preys, as do the latter, upon menhaden and mackerel. The tail is crescent-shaped and is a great aid to it in swimming. It is capable of very swift motion, hunting in schools, which are accompanied by flocks of sea gulls and other sea birds. THE SWORD-FISH. The Sword-fish derives its name from its long, sword-like snout. They are most abundant on shoals and banks near the shore. They are very pugnacious in their habits, using their sword as a weapon of offense and defense, and do not hesitate to attack sharks and whales. THE ROSE-FISH. This fish on the Pacific coast is known as the Rock-Cod or Rock-fish. They are found in great abundance on the southern coast of California. THE TREE-FISH. The Tree-fish is also found on the coast of California and is beautifully colored and marked. THE PIKE AND MUSKELLUNGE. The Pike is a fish of the North; it is abundant, however, as far south as Ohio. The Muskellunge is found in the Great Lakes region and St. Lawrence River. It is similar to the Pike. THE PICKEREL. The Pickerels, another group of this family, are much smaller fishes. The Chain Pickerel, so called on account of the peculiar chain-like markings on its sides, is found in streams along the Atlantic coast. The Brook Pickerel is of a similar variety. This variety of fish are not particular as to their diet; they will eat nearly all other kinds of fish, frogs, rats, mice, and even young ducks. They lay in wait for their prey and take it with a spring. [Illustration: MUSKELLUNGE.] THE SEA ROBINS. The Sea Robins are a nuisance to fishermen, stealing their bait. They are also known as sculpins, grub, bullhead, seatoad, pig-fish. They feed upon the animal life at the bottom of the water. Owing to their ugly appearance their spines are rumored to give a poisonous wound. They are capable of inflicting a painful injury, but not a poisonous one. THE HALIBUT. The Halibut is a cold-water fish. These fish at times reach an enormous size and there are traditions of fish having been caught that weigh over 600 pounds. They lie upon the bottom, and because of their flat body, which is similar in color to that of the sand, they are able to ambush their prey. THE FLOUNDER. The Plaise, Summer Flounder, or Turbot Flounder. This is a fish abundant upon the eastern coast of the United States. They feed upon small fish, crabs, squids, sand-eels, etc. Large quantities of these fish are sold in the markets of New York. [Illustration: FLOUNDER.] THE COD-FISH. The Cod-fish; the waters off the coast of New England formerly abounded in this fish, but now only stragglers are to be caught. From the stomachs of Cod-fish shells of all kinds have been taken, as well as many miscellaneous objects, such as rings, scissors, corn-cobs, oil cans, and other incongruous things of this kind. The Tom-Cod is a small cod-fish seldom a foot in length. [Illustration: COD-FISH.] THE HADDOCK. The Haddock also has a habit of feeding on shells. Both the Haddock and the cod will take stale clams as food, these seeming to be more attractive than fresh ones. As food fish the Scotch smoke Haddock, and they are then known as "Finnan Haddies." THE MULLETS. The Mullets are widely distributed; it is a very popular fish in the southern sea-coast states. It prefers still, shoal water with sandy and grassy bottom. It does not take the hook well, but is sometimes caught with bait manufactured from cotton and flour or banana. THE CAT-FISH. The Cat-fish is very popular with the colored people in the South. "Don't talk to me o' bacon and fat, O' taters, 'coon or 'possum, Fo' when I'se hooked a yellar cat I'se got a meal to boss 'em." Its spines are capable of inflicting painful wounds. Salt mackerel, worms, or live minnows are good bait. Another thing it is well to remember is that the cat-fish never bite when an east wind is blowing. Professor Jordan, of Indianapolis University, says: "Cat-fishes are vivacious and indiscriminate feeders, any of the animal substances, living or dead, being greedily swallowed by them. They are also extremely tenacious of life, living for a long time out of water and being able to resist impurities in the water better than any other of our food fishes." THE HERRINGS. The Herring is an important food fish. Hundreds of millions of pounds of these fish are taken yearly, and yet their numbers do not seem to be in any wise lessened. Herrings are smoked, dried, and salted. THE MENHADEN. The Menhaden make their appearance in the spring with the arrival of the shad, alewife, blue-fish, and weak-fish. They swim in schools close to the surface and crowd together, but if alarmed sink to the bottom. They are phosphorescent at night, fond of inlets and bays and shoal waters protected from wind. Their food seems to consist of organic matter and vegetation contained in stagnant water. They have many enemies; whales, sharks, sword-fish, bass, cod, weak-fish, blue-fish, bonito, dolphins destroy them in vast quantities. They are largely used as fertilizers by the coast farmers. They are also a source of fish oil. THE ALEWIFE. The Alewife is an abundant river fish throughout the South. They are also found where shad run. THE SHAD. Shad is found along the Atlantic coast of the United States. The larger part of the shad's life is spent in salt water, coming into the rivers in the spring. THE TARPON. Tarpon, Tarpum, Silverfish, or Grande Ecaille, is common on the Gulf coast. It will take a baited hook, but is difficult to handle, and is seldom landed. Persons have been known to be killed or injured severely by its leaping against them from the net in which it had been caught. Its scales are prized and are sold in the Florida shops. [Illustration: SALMON.] THE SALMON. The Salmon--one remarkable characteristic is its marvelous leaping ability. One writer, describing from observation this feat, says: "I watched the fish with a race-glass for some ten minutes before disturbing them. There is a very deep pool at the point where the waterfall joins the lower level of the water. The fish come out of this pool with the velocity of an arrow. They give no warning of their intentions, but up they come and dart out of the surface of the water with a sudden rush, like rockets let loose from the darkness of the night into the space above. When they first appeared their tails were going with the velocity of a watch spring just broken, and the whole body sparkling as though they had been enameled, quivering so with the exertion." THE TROUT. The Rainbow Trout, also known as Brook Trout, Mountain Trout, Speckled Trout, Golden Trout, is found in the streams west of the Sierra Nevada; it feeds on worms, grubs, etc. The Black Spotted Trout is found throughout the Rocky Mountain region. The above are Salmon Trout and are considered inferior as game fishes to the Red Spotted Trout. The Lake Trout reaches a large size. The Lake Superior Trout are caught usually in the fall months in nets. The Brook Trouts belong to the Salmon family. They show marked variations in color. The Speckled Trout is found in the lakes and streams of the eastern part of the United States. In midsummer they haunt the bottoms of lakes, deep pools, among rocks and roots. As the cold weather comes on in the autumn they frequent the clear water of streams. They seldom exceed two or three pounds in weight. They feed daintily, taking their prey from the surface--flies, water bugs, and little fishes. They are favorites with the fishermen; the most successful angler is the one who baits his hook with the prey, or imitation thereof, which at that time particularly hits their fancy. [Illustration: BROOK TROUT.] The Malma Trout is known as the Lake Trout, Bull Trout, Red Spotted Trout, and in some places the Dolly Varden. SMELTS. The Smelts are remarkable for an odor which they emit and which accounts for their name. They are a small fish and are sold in large quantities in all fish markets. EELS. Eels: there is a much larger demand for the eel as a food in Europe than in America, many in this country being prejudiced against it because of its snake-like form. [Illustration: EELS.] The Moray. Two species of these eels are found along the coast of the United States, the Spotted Moray in Florida and the Reticulated Moray off the coast of South Carolina. INDEX. PAGE Alewife, 170 Angler-fish, 151 Barb, 161 Barn Door, 150 Basking Shark, 150 Bass, Big-fin, 158 Black, 157, 158 Black Sea, 157 Calico, 158 Grass, 158 Lake, 156 Lake Striped, 156 Rock, 157 Sea, 157 Silver, 158 Strawberry, 158 Striped, 155 Striped Lake, 156 White, 156 Yellow, 156 Big-fin Bass, 158 Bill-fish, 152 Black Bass, 157, 158 Grouper, 157 Grunt, 159 Mullet, 161 Sea Bass, 157 Snapper, 159 Will, 157 Black-fish, 157 Blue Bream, 158 Sun-fish, 158 Blue-fish, 162 Bonito, 163 Bony Pike, 152 Bow-fin, 152 Bream, 158 Blue, 158 Copper Nose, 158 Red-bellied, 158 Red-headed, 158 Brook Pickerel, 164 Trout, 172, 173 Bull Trout, 174 Calico Bass, 158 Cat-fish, 169 Chain Pickerel, 164 Chimera, 151 Chinquapin Perch, 158 Cobia, 162 Cod-fish, 166, 168 Cod, Rock, 164 Tom, 161, 168 Columbian Sturgeon, 152 Common Mackerel, 163 Copper-nose Bream, 158 Crappie, 159 Crocus, 162 Croppie, 159 Devil-fish, 151 Dog-fish, 150 Dollardee, 158 Dolly Varden, 174 Drum, 161 Duckbill, 154 Eagle Ray, 151 Eels, 174 Moray, 174 Spotted Moray, 174 Elasmobranchii, 147 Electric Ray, 151 Fair Maid, 160 Finnan Haddie, 168 Flannel Mouth, 159 Flounder, 166, 167 Summer, 166 Turbot, 166 Fox Shark, 148 Ganoidei, 147, 152 Gar Pike, 152 Goggle-eye, 158 Golden Trout, 172 Goosefish, 151 Grande Ecaille, 170 Grass Bass, 158 Gray Perch, 162 Gray Snapper, 159 Green-fish, 162 Groper (see Grouper), 157 Grouper, 157 Black, 157 Red, 157 Grunt, 159 Black, 159 Haddock, 168 Hake, 161 Halibut, 166 Hammer-head Shark, 148, 149 Herring, 169 Hog-fish, Norfolk, 159 Holocephali, 147, 151 Horse Mackerel, 162 Jew-fish, 157 Pacific, 157 King-fish, 161 Lake Bass, 156 Superior Trout, 172 Trout, 172 Lamplighter, 158 Mackerel, 163 Common, 163 Horse, 162 Spanish, 163 Mackerel Shark, 148 Malma Trout, 172 Manjuari, 152 Menhaden, 169 Millstone Ray, 151 Mishcuppauog, 160 Moray Eels, 174 Reticulated, 174 Spotted, 174 Mountain Trout, 172 Mud-fish, 152 Mullets, 161, 168 Muskellunge, 164, 165 Norfolk Hog-fish, 159 Octopus, 151 Pacific Jew-fish, 157 Paddle-fish, 152 Paugy, 160 Perch, 154 Bitterhead, 158 Chinquapin, 158 Gray, 162 Strawberry, 158 White, 156, 162 Yellow, 154 Pickerel, 164 Brook, 164 Chain, 164 Pig-fish, 159, 166 Pike, 152, 164 Bony, 152 Gar, 152 Plaise, 166 Pompano, 163 Porbeagle, 148 Porgy, 160 Rainbow Trout, 172 Rays, 150 Eagle, 151 Electric, 151 Millstone, 151 Sting, 150 Torpedo, 151 Red-bellied Bream, 158 Breast, 158 Grouper, 157 Headed Bream, 158 Mouths, 159 Snapper, 159 Spotted Trout, 172 Reticulated Moray, 174 Rock Bass, 157 Rock Cod, 164 Fish, 155 Rose-fish, 164 Salmon, 170, 171 Trout, 172 Sawfish, 151 Sculpin, 166 Scup, 160 Scuppaug, 160 Scyllidæ, 150 Sea Bass, 157 Cat, 151 Lawyer, 159 Mink, 161 Robin, 166 Toad, 166 Trout, 160 Sergeant-fish, 162 Shad, 170 Shark, 147 Basking, 150 Fox, 148 Hammer-head, 148, 149 Mackerel, 148 Thrasher, 148 Thresher, 148 Sheepshead, 159, 162 Shovel-nose Sturgeon, 152, 154 Silver Bass, 158 Fish, 170 Skates, 150 Skipjack, 162 Smelts, 174 Snapper, 159 Black, 159 Gray, 159 Red, 159 Spadebill, 154 Spanish Mackerel, 163 Speckled Trout, 172 Spinacidæ, 150 Spoonbill, 154 Squeteague, 160 Squirrel-fish, 159 Sting Ray, 150 Strawberry Bass, 158 Perch, 158 Striped Bass, 155 Lake Bass, 156 Sturgeon, 152, 153 Columbian, 152 Shovel-nose, 152, 154 White, 154 Summer Flounder, 166 Sun-fish, 158 Blue, 158 Sun Perch, 158 Sunny, 158 Sword-fish, 164 Tarpon, 170 Teleostei, 147, 154 Thrasher Shark, 148 Thresher Shark, 148 Thunder-pumper, 162 Tobacco Box, 150 Tom Cod, 161, 168 Tope, 148 Torpedo, 151 Tree-fish, 164 Trout, 172 Black-spotted, 172 Brook, 172, 173 Golden, 172 Lake, 172 Lake Superior, 172 Malma, 172 Mountain, 172 Rainbow, 172 Red-spotted, 172 Salmon, 172 Sea, 160 Speckled, 172 Turbot Flounder, 166 Weak-fish, 160 White Bass, 156 Perch, 156, 162 Sturgeon, 154 Whiting, 161 Yellow Bass, 156 Fins, 160 Perch, 154 THE Campfire and Trail Series 1. In Camp on the Big Sunflower. 2. The Rivals of the Trail. 3. The Strange Cabin on Catamount Island. 4. Lost in the Great Dismal Swamp. 5. With Trapper Jim in the North Woods. 6. Caught in a Forest Fire. By LAWRENCE J. LESLIE A series of wholesome stories for boys told in an interesting way and appealing to their love of the open. _Each, 12mo._ _Cloth._ _40 cents per volume_ THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE NEW YORK THE "HOW-TO-DO-IT" BOOKS CARPENTRY FOR BOYS A book which treats, in a most practical and fascinating manner all subjects pertaining to the "King of Trades"; showing the care and use of tools; drawing; designing, and the laying out of work; the principles involved in the building of various kinds of structures, and the rudiments of architecture. It contains over two hundred and fifty illustrations made especially for this work, and includes also a complete glossary of the technical terms used in the art. The most comprehensive volume on this subject ever published for boys. ELECTRICITY FOR BOYS The author has adopted the unique plan of setting forth the fundamental principles in each phase of the science, and practically applying the work in the successive stages. It shows how the knowledge has been developed, and the reasons for the various phenomena, without using technical words so as to bring it within the compass of every boy. It has a complete glossary of terms, and is illustrated with two hundred original drawings. PRACTICAL MECHANICS FOR BOYS This book takes the beginner through a comprehensive series of practical shop work, in which the uses of tools, and the structure and handling of shop machinery are set forth; how they are utilized to perform the work, and the manner in which all dimensional work is carried out. Every subject is illustrated, and model building explained. It contains a glossary which comprises a new system of cross references, a feature that will prove a welcome departure in explaining subjects. Fully illustrated. _Price 60 cents per volume_ THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE NEW YORK THE WONDER ISLAND BOYS BY ROGER T. FINLAY Thrilling adventures by sea and land of two boys and an aged Professor who are cast away on an island with absolutely nothing but their clothing. By gradual and natural stages they succeed in constructing all forms of devices used in the mechanical arts and learn the scientific theories involved in every walk of life. These subjects are all treated in an incidental and natural way in the progress of events, from the most fundamental standpoint without technicalities, and include every department of knowledge. Numerous illustrations accompany the text. Two Thousand things every boy ought to know. Every page a romance. Every line a fact. _Six titles--60 cents per volume_ THE WONDER ISLAND BOYS The Castaways THE WONDER ISLAND BOYS Exploring the Island THE WONDER ISLAND BOYS The Mysteries of the Caverns THE WONDER ISLAND BOYS The Tribesmen THE WONDER ISLAND BOYS The Capture and Pursuit THE WONDER ISLAND BOYS The Conquest of the Savages PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE NEW YORK Christy Mathewson's Book [Illustration] _A Ripping Good Baseball Story by One Who Knows the Game_ This book has attained a larger sale than any baseball story ever published. The narrative deals with the students of a large university and their baseball team, the members of which have names which enable the reader to recognize them as some of the foremost baseball stars of the day before their entrance into the major leagues. One gains a very clear idea of "inside baseball" stripped of wearisome technicalities. The book is profusely illustrated throughout and contains also a number of plates showing the manner in which Mathewson throws his deceptive curves, together with brief description of each. _Cloth bound 5-1/2 � 7-5/8_ _Price 60c. per volume_ THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE NEW YORK Mrs. Meade's Books for Girls Primrose Edition Printed on fine quality book paper. Separate cover designs in colors. Daddy's Girl. A Girl from America. Sue, a Little Heroine. The School Queens. Wild Kitty. A Sweet Girl Graduate. A World of Girls. Polly--A New-Fashioned Girl. _Each, 12 mo._ _Cloth._ _40 cents per volume_ Mrs. Meade's girls' books never lose their popularity. THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE NEW YORK _ECONOMICAL COOKING_ _Primrose Edition_ _Planned for Two or More Persons_ By MISS WINIFRED S. GIBBS Dietitian and Teacher of Cooking of the New York Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor _Printed on Fine Quality Book Paper. Cover Design in Colors._ Many Cook Books have been published, from time to time, to meet various requirements, or to elucidate certain theories, but very few have been written to meet the needs of the large proportion of our population who are acutely affected by the constantly increasing cost of food products. Notwithstanding that by its valuable suggestions this book helps to reduce the expense of supplying the table, the recipes are so planned that the economies effected thereby are not offset by any lessening in the attractiveness, variety or palatability of the dishes. Of equal importance are the sections of this work which deal with food values, the treatment of infants and invalids and the proper service of various dishes. The recipes are planned for two persons, but may readily be adapted for a larger number. The book is replete with illustrations and tables of food compositions--the latter taken from the latest Government statistics. _Cloth Binding_ _Illustrated_ _40c. per volume, postpaid_ THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE (near 14th St.) NEW YORK CUT-OUT AND PAINT BOOKS [Illustration] An original line of art studies printed in full rich colors on high grade paper. This series introduces many novel features of interest, and as the subject matters have been selected with unusual care, the books make a strong appeal not only to the little ones but even to those of riper years. Post Cards _Painting Book_ Dolls of all Nations _Scissors Book_ Our Army _Scissors Book_ Children's Pets _Puzzle Book_ _Size 8-1/4 � 10-1/4 inches_ Price 15c. per copy Send for sample and trade discount THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY 147 FOURTH AVENUE NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. First advertising page, "Chenoweth" changed to "Chenowith" to match actual book usage (Elmer Chenowith, a lad from) Page 21, "kidnaped" changed to "kidnapped" (who had been kidnapped) Page 28, "remarkd" changed to "remarked" (on the ground," remarked) Page 49, "us" changed to "is" (than it really is) Page 52, "shouler" changed to "shoulder" (over his shoulder) Page 64, "he" changed to "be" (it might be transported) Page 127, "whole" changed to "hole" (out of a hole) 
55896	----	WITH MASK AND MITT BOOKS BY ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY Phillips Exeter Series Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. FOLLOWING THE BALL. MAKING THE NINE. IN THE LINE. WITH MASK AND MITT. THE GREAT YEAR. THE YALE CUP. A FULL-BACK AFLOAT. THE PECKS IN CAMP. THE HALF-MILER. Stories of the Triangular League Illustrated by Charles Copeland. 12mo. Cloth. THE SCHOOL FOUR. AT THE HOME-PLATE. THE UNOFFICIAL PREFECT. THE KING'S POWDER. LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON. [Illustration: Coy was nailed as he scrambled back to the base--and the game was won.--_Page_ 293.] _PHILLIPS EXETER SERIES_ WITH MASK AND MITT BY ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY AUTHOR OF "FOLLOWING THE BALL," "MAKING THE NINE," AND "IN THE LINE" _ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES COPELAND_ [Illustration] BOSTON LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. Copyright, 1906, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. Published, August, 1906. _All Rights Reserved._ With Mask and Mitt. Norwood Press J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. TO MY FRIEND HENRY W. ANDERSON TO WHOSE INITIAL SUGGESTION THIS SERIES OF BOOKS IS DUE PREFACE The author has but a word to say in offering "With Mask and Mitt" to his boy readers. The book follows "In the Line" and precedes "The Great Year" in the sequence of the series. While it repeats no incidents of previous books and covers wholly new ground in athletics, it will be found not dissimilar to its predecessors in its general spirit and character. A good juvenile must be one approved by the parent, enjoyed by the boy, and read with profit by both. It should, of course, interest and amuse; it should also help the parent to understand the impulses and the mental attitude of the boy, and the boy to accept the ideals of the parent. If "With Mask and Mitt" does not meet these requirements, it has at least been written with a full knowledge of their importance. Thanks must again be expressed to Dr. E.H. Nichols of Boston for cordially rendered assistance in the technicalities and theory of the game of which he is an unquestioned master. ALBERTUS T. DUDLEY. Boston, July, 1906. CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE Two Apprentices 1 CHAPTER II Hail to the Pitcher 11 CHAPTER III Neighborly Attentions 23 CHAPTER IV Payner the Marplot 35 CHAPTER V The Favors of Fortune 43 CHAPTER VI The Third String 55 CHAPTER VII Facilis Descensus 66 CHAPTER VIII The First Plague 74 CHAPTER IX A New Interest 86 CHAPTER X Mr. Carle wants to Know 100 CHAPTER XI The Relay Race 112 CHAPTER XII An Interrupted Evening 122 CHAPTER XIII A Waning Star 136 CHAPTER XIV A Captain's Troubles 146 CHAPTER XV Outdoors at Last 155 CHAPTER XVI Theories and Plans 165 CHAPTER XVII A Set-back for O'Connell 175 CHAPTER XVIII Disappointments 188 CHAPTER XIX A Misfit Battery 200 CHAPTER XX A Sub-Seatonian 212 CHAPTER XXI Playing Indians 224 CHAPTER XXII A Fair Chance 237 CHAPTER XXIII A Tie Game 252 CHAPTER XXIV Making Ready 268 CHAPTER XXV As Wally saw It 276 CHAPTER XXVI Recognition 295 ILLUSTRATIONS Coy was nailed as he scrambled back to the base--and the game was won (p. 293) _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE School Dormitories 22 A Corner of the Yard 54 "There's the rat, sir," said Duncan 126 The Chapel Stairs 140 The Principal's House 150 He felt the bonds that held him to the tree loosen 230 He leaped, and clutched the ball hardly a foot from the ground 250 WITH MASK AND MITT CHAPTER I TWO APPRENTICES If, for the beginning of this story, the reader finds himself carried back to the middle of "In the Line," let him not suspect a twice-told tale. The current of school life runs swiftly through its short channel. The present soon becomes the past, the past is soon forgotten. While the hero of to-day enjoys the sunshine of popularity, fondly imagining himself the flower and perfection of schoolboy development, the hero of the future, as yet unrecognized, is acquiring strength and determination for new records and greater triumphs. The scene shifts rapidly; new stories are ever beginning while the old ones are still unfinished. In those early days of June, while all Seaton was either gloomily anticipating or dolefully bewailing the disastrous Hillbury baseball game; while Wolcott Lindsay, fired by Laughlin's example and spirit, was throwing himself enthusiastically into the captain's projects for the football season, two lads in a town in western Pennsylvania were eagerly discussing plans for the next school year. They had sent to various institutions for catalogues; with the catalogues had arrived circulars, pictures, and letters. But catalogues and pictures are at best but lifeless things; they suggest many questions and answer few. A far better persuader is an enthusiastic alumnus, who puts personality into dull pages of names, and pours a rosy poetic haze over the groups of sombre brick barracks called the school. Such an enthusiastic alumnus had the entrée of the Owen household, with the natural result that Mr. Owen soon became a convert, and a room was engaged for Robert in a Seaton dormitory. Ned Carle was longer in uncertainty. His father was not as well able as Mr. Owen to bear the expense of boarding-school life, which, like many other luxuries of these modern days, often seems to cost more than it is worth. Ned himself had not long manifested an intense ambition to go beyond the bounds of the Terryville High School for his education. He was a light-hearted, quick-witted, intelligent fellow, easy-going and friendly, generally liked in town and liking to be liked. He would naturally have been popular if he had never had a baseball under his two fingers; but the fact that he was a pitcher,--and a good pitcher,--not merely established his popularity on a definite basis, but made him in a way a public character. When Ned Carle pitched on the High School nine and Robert Owen caught, the nine could generally be counted on to win. The battery was well-known outside the limits of the town, which was, in its way, a miniature baseball centre. The standard of play in Terryville was high. Mike McLennan, the famous professional, had once pitched on a Terryville nine; and Mike, when he was at home, took an interest in the "kids" of his native place and gave them the benefit of his instruction. Both Carle and Owen were started in their careers with professional advice of unquestioned competency. That Owen received a smaller share of the professional's favor than Carle does not signify that he was an unpromising pupil. For easily imagined reasons Mr. Owen did not regard McLennan as a wholly desirable patron for his son. While he did not object to the boy's learning what the expert had to teach, he distinctly discouraged an intimacy which would expose him to questionable associations and false ideals. Robert, too, was reserved and quiet. The great player valued himself too highly to waste much of his attention on one who showed but small enthusiasm for his teacher. With Ned Carle, however, the case was different. His father cherished no such inconvenient views as to his son's associations; if he had done so, it would have made no difference, for it usually happened in the Carle family that what Ned wanted the rest of the family ultimately wanted too. Ned took to McLennan and McLennan to Ned as naturally as if they had been born neighbors with only a low fence and a few years' difference in age between them. The boy hailed the ball player as Mike, chatted with him on the street corners, and listened, credulous and admiring, to all the tales of great deeds on the diamond--McLennan bragged like a Homeric hero--without being shocked by the language or dazed by the improbabilities of the narrative. In return, McLennan laid himself out to make the boy a pitcher, taught him to use his arm properly and to care for it, helped him to acquire effective curves, and coached him in many of the devices by which pitchers outwit their batsmen. With this tuition and a natural aptitude, Ned Carle made rapid progress as a pitcher. The arts which he had not mastered, he knew something about, and he could talk baseball with the best. As citizens of Terryville will recall, while the "spit-ball" was still in harmless infancy, and only a few master pitchers were experimenting with it secretly, before the newspapers had seized upon the mystery as a means of filling daily paragraphs, Ned Carle was already making sage prophecies as to the tricky new curve, and the havoc it would wreak on batting averages and catchers' fingers. Indirectly Owen profited by this coaching. When McLennan, as occasionally happened, stopped over a day at his home and gave Carle a few points behind Fosdick's stable, Owen was, of course, called on to do the catching. When McLennan was one summer laid off a whole fortnight for assaulting the umpire, and wished, during this period of idleness, to keep his own arm in condition as well as assist his protégé, Owen was given another and more serious privilege. On eight afternoons the lad faced the professional's fire, guessed at the sweep of his curves, and bravely struggled to grip the ball. There were times when the man pitched at his amateur catcher as if he held the latter responsible for his enforced vacation. The balls came hissing hot, now a high jump that he had to reach for, now a vicious sweep toward his feet, now a wide out that threw him off his balance, now a straight, swift shot that sped like an arrow, looked like a marble in the air and struck his mitt like a blow from a club. Owen worked hard that fortnight, and his hands suffered; but he stood up to his task without a murmur, and had the satisfaction of feeling that he gained from day to day. He really could not hold McLennan and he knew it, but he had lost his fear of the man; and he never again faced a pitcher with the slightest semblance of timidity. From much of the baseball wisdom that the professional lavished upon Carle, Owen apparently got little benefit, though the time was to come when he should try hard to recall details of the coaching. One thing, however, he had received directly. It was McLennan who showed him how to snap the ball down to second. The theory only he owed to the veteran; his mastery of the trick was due to his own long and diligent practice. It was not a very swift throw, at least in these early years, but he got rid of the ball with such extreme quickness and placed his throw so accurately that few base runners whom the Terryville battery had to watch found it possible to steal second. One more circumstance as to this Terryville battery, and we are ready for our story. As a pitcher, Carle, like many another good man, had one serious weakness. At critical times his judgment was prone to be at fault. Three balls and one strike, especially if there were men on bases and not more than one out, worried him badly. He could usually put the ball where it was wanted even when a failure to do so meant passing a man; but he possessed a strange faculty for trying the wrong ball. It was here that Owen's good sense and cool head served the pair. Owen knew by instinct what kind of a ball promised most in the particular case; Carle could pitch the ball that Owen wanted, and, strange enough, was willing to do so. The combination worked so smoothly, and the pitching was so very effective, that Carle, and even Owen himself, failed to appreciate how much of the strategy of the battery originated behind the bat. When Rob Owen quietly announced one morning in May that his father was thinking of sending him to Seaton the next year, Carle was immediately seized with a desire to accompany him. The circulars and letters arrived with their tempting invitations. Enthusiastic Alumnus performed his task, cleverly brightening his description of the opportunities of the school with seductive pictures of school life and sport and joyous fellowship. To the general ambition of the young American to make the most of his life was added the particular ambition of the natural ball player for a wider field for his genius. When Mr. Carle hesitated at the expense which he could not afford, Enthusiastic Alumnus pointed to the long list of scholarships offered and to the many opportunities for self-help open to the earnest student. Ned, grown eager and determined, vowed to content himself with what his father could supply and earn whatever more he needed by his own efforts. There was reason in the boy's hope. In the high school Ned Carle was counted a good scholar. The teachers were agreed that with equally faithful work the pitcher of the school nine could have ranked far above the catcher. In a certain quickness of perception and facility of expression combined with a memory at least temporarily retentive, he possessed what boys usually consider the most important elements of scholarship. Of industry, the great and fundamental essential, he had as yet shown little development; but as this is the quality least admired among boys and often the last acquired, neither Ned himself nor his teachers as a whole considered the fault a serious one. Ned's persistence, seconded by the fluent superlatives of Enthusiastic Alumnus, was more than a match for Mr. Carle's doubts. By midsummer the question was settled. Among the one hundred and twenty-three trunks distributed by Laughlin and his express wagons on the first day of the fall term were two marked "Terryville, Pa." CHAPTER II HAIL TO THE PITCHER The two Terryville lads roomed apart. Owen had already engaged his room in Hale before Carle decided to accompany him to Seaton; the latter found cheaper quarters in Carter. The difference in character between the two boys appeared in the experiences of their first days in school. Before the first Sunday Ned seemed to be on friendly terms with every fellow in the entry. Rob, on the other hand, hardly knew the names of the occupants of his own floor. The most interesting of Owen's neighbors were Donald and Duncan Peck, two lively specimens belonging to his own class and section, as indistinguishable and mischievous a brace of twins as ever looked upon the world as a happy hunting-ground, and on the inhabitants thereof as fair game. The tales concerning the Pecks passed on by his room-mate Simmons, Rob considered barefaced attempts to impose on his simplicity. Later he found that many of them were true. Between the room which he occupied and that of the twins lay, according to one informant, a natural feud. At least such had prevailed the year before in the days of Tompkins, Rob's predecessor. He was advised by Lindsay, the football man who roomed opposite, to ignore this fact and avoid a continuance of the custom; and the stories in circulation concerning the amenities of Tompkins and the Pecks seemed to prove that the advice was both kindly and sound. Beyond Lindsay came Payner, a little, saturnine, black-haired, dark-visaged lower middler from the extreme Southwest; and opposite Payner the two Moons. The other room on the floor was tenanted by a dull-witted toiler named Smith. With Smith an unfeeling Faculty had yoked Crossett, a volatile senior, who spent as little time as possible in the society of his room-mate. Durand shared Lindsay's quarters. Payner was no ordinary individual. In recitation, Rob was informed, he halted and stumbled, pretending to know what he evidently did not know, and receiving corrections with an ungracious if not defiant air. Outside he cultivated a morose and forbidding manner, and went his solitary way as if he scorned society. Whether this unsociability was due to homesickness or sensitiveness or a naturally ugly disposition, Rob was for a considerable time in doubt. He was at first inclined to charge it up against homesickness, feeling himself for a time the forlornness of his exile from the home circle, and the burden of his independence. At the end of a fortnight, however, when all trace of discontent had vanished from Owen's mind, Payner remained as sour and taciturn as ever. Rob next ascribed the fellow's conduct to shyness, and put himself to some inconvenience to show himself friendly. All to no purpose; Payner's only salutation was still a niggardly nod of the head and a scowl. He then tried to make a call on pretence of borrowing a book; Payner merely projected his head through the partly opened door and remarked that he had no books to lend. Thus repeatedly discouraged, Rob gave up his benevolent attempts in disgust; the fellow was too disagreeable to waste a thought upon! With Lindsay he got on much better, though as the football season advanced the senior became more and more absorbed in the work of the eleven, and had less time for incidental acquaintances. Lindsay's visitors especially interested the newcomer; they were such important characters in the school that he soon came to know them by sight, though they, of course, had no interest in him. Among them were Ware, the manager of the eleven, Hendry, a football player, and big, serious Laughlin, the captain of the team, who appeared but occasionally in the dormitory until near the end of the season, when the conferences in Lindsay's room became frequent. Of the non-football players no one seemed to Owen more wholly desirable as a friend than Poole, the captain of the nine. He was a straight, dark, wiry fellow of average height and weight, with an open face and an air of quiet confidence and simple honesty and unaffected common sense combined visibly with energy and principle. According to Lindsay, Poole possessed all the admirable qualities except brilliancy. Being but a fair scholar and compelled to work hard for whatever he learned, his classroom performances were not extraordinary and he was not distinguished either as a speaker or as a writer. At the first school meeting, however, Owen learned that Poole's utterances, though lacking in finish, were listened to with greater respect than those of almost any one else; and in all the sub-surface carping and criticism, which is as prevalent in the school world as elsewhere, Poole was more often spared than other conspicuous characters. "I hear you are a catcher," said the captain one morning, about a fortnight after the opening of school. "Yes, I've caught a little," replied Owen, modestly. "How did you find that out?" "Why, your friend Carle told me. He says he has pitched a good deal. Is he good?" "He's all right!" Owen made haste to say in the hopelessly vague, yet emphatic phrase of the day. "He's the best pitcher of his age I've ever seen! He's got speed, curves, and fine control. He's had a lot of experience, too." Poole's expressive face beamed with delight. A man who could really pitch and had had good experience was just what he was on the lookout for. In a moment, however, the radiance had passed away and a dubious shade settled into its place. Terryville High School and the famous Seaton Academy were two very different places. Poole had known other much-vaunted performers on high school teams who had not "made good" on the Seaton field. It was a question of standard of play. "What kind of teams has he faced?" he asked, with doubt showing in both countenance and voice. Owen understood very well the suspicion that lay behind the question. "Good ones, some of them, and some poor," he answered dryly, smothering the sharp retort that sprang to his lips. "We played other nines besides the high schools. Carle had as good coaching as any young fellow can get. Mike McLennan of the ----'s has had him in hand for several years." Poole caught his breath, and his eyes danced with joy. A pitcher coached by the famous professional whose name appeared as often in the newspapers, if not as honorably, as that of President Eliot or a member of the cabinet! Here was a find indeed! But suddenly a horrible suspicion laid hold of him. He seized Owen by the arm and swung him round so as to bring his face close to his own. "Tell me straight now," he demanded with an earnestness that was almost stern, and looking squarely into Owen's eyes. "I want the truth right now and all the truth. Is his record clear? Has he ever been paid for pitching, directly or indirectly, or been hired by hotels to play summer ball, or been given expense money in a lump so that he could clear a margin--or done anything of the sort? If he's got anything in his record against him, or if he's the least bit crooked or shady, I want to know it before I tackle him. We can't have any questionable men on our teams." Rob's first impulse was to be angry, his second to laugh aloud; but Poole's earnestness was contagious, and his own second thoughts assured him that the captain's suspicion was natural and his object wholly praiseworthy. Rob had seen something of the malodorous borderland that lies between amateur and professional. McLennan's vulgarity he could put up with, because of McLennan's marvellous skill in his business. But the third-rater and the semi-professional, who represents a fair laborer or mechanic eternally spoiled to make a poor ball player, and in whom is the essence of all that is lowest and most evil in athletic associations, he viewed with unwavering contempt. So it was with cordiality and inward approval that he looked directly back into Poole's dark, fiercely shining eyes and answered confidently: "His record's as clear as yours. He's had chances to play for money and refused them. McLennan advised him to keep clear of it until he was through school." Poole dropped his arm. "I'm mighty glad to hear that. Of course we shall have to look him up, but what you say reassures me. You used to catch him, didn't you?" "Yes, usually," replied Owen. "We've got a good catcher now," said the captain, "but we want good men for other positions. Did you ever play in the infield?" "Not much," answered Owen. "Well, you must come out and try for the nine anyway," concluded the captain, turning away. "There'll be chance enough for any one who knows the game and can hit the ball." Owen had an attack of homesickness after that interview which he found some difficulty in shaking off. The Terryville battery had always been Carle and Owen. The Seaton battery was to be Carle and somebody else! It was only a pitcher that Poole wanted; it evidently had not even occurred to him to raise the question whether the new man could possibly be better than the Seaton catcher. And Carle,--well, Carle was friendly, of course, and wished him well, but Carle could hardly be depended on to glorify his old catcher at his own expense. Carle would surely be on the popular side, whatever that was, and would think pretty much as those in authority thought. "Try for the infield!" thought Owen to himself, angrily. "What experience have I ever had in the infield? Here I've been playing behind the bat ever since I was old enough to hold a ball, and they tell me to try the infield! I'm willing to try for anything, of course, or play anywhere they want me, or not play at all; and if they've got a better catcher than I am, I'm glad of it, but they might at least say they'd give me a show in the position I'm used to! Well, it's months to the season anyway. I suppose I came here to study and not to play ball, so what's the use of worrying? Father would probably rather have me out of it altogether." With these inconsequent and not altogether comforting reflections Rob Owen took down his books. Poole and Borland, the catcher, soon had Carle out for a trial. The pitcher took ten minutes to warm up, but by the end of that time he was throwing all kinds of fast and slow balls as Borland demanded, and putting them over according to the catcher's suggestions. Poole could hardly moderate the expression of his joy into reasonably temperate approval. "I'm not used to Borland," said Carle, as if to excuse his performance, as he pulled on his sweater and the trio started down toward the gymnasium. "Owen has always caught me." "How is Owen--good?" asked the captain. "Pretty fair," said Carle, yielding to the temptation to enhance his own glory by depreciating his mate. "We always worked well together. I presume I shall do as well with Borland." "I hope so," said Borland. And Poole said nothing, but he told Lindsay and Laughlin that night in secret that he had found the pitcher who was going to win for them the Hillbury game. Whereat Lindsay and Laughlin congratulated him heartily and turned again to the problem of guard defensive play on an end run which they had been eagerly discussing. Seaton brooks but one great athletic interest at a time. The football season drew toward its end. As the eagerness of the school warmed to fever heat, Rob had new lessons as to school enthusiasm, and old ambitions sprang into new life. As he stood on the benches at the Hillbury game,--for he stood far more than he sat,--and cheered himself hoarse over the deeds of his heroes, these ambitions grew stronger and more definite. He laid his tired head on the pillow after the evening's celebration with all the separate impressions of the day focussed in one deep, absorbing longing. What Laughlin and Lindsay and Durand and Hendry and the rest had done that day for their schoolmates on the football field, that he would like to share in accomplishing on the diamond. "Any place, anywhere," he muttered, as his eyes closed, "just a fair chance to show what I can do!" And he dropped off to sleep with the words still on his lips. [Illustration: School Dormitories] CHAPTER III NEIGHBORLY ATTENTIONS There was trouble on the second floor in the east entry of Hale. This being the Pecks' entry, and the Pecks habitually furnishing the nucleus for small storm-centres, the mere existence of trouble here would hardly seem worth noting. As this particular trouble, however, led to another which in turn produced a general condition affecting all the occupants of the floor directly, and all the curious of all locations indirectly,--it seems desirable to make a brief statement of the facts in the case. The Pecks, for reasons of their own, had decided that it was essential to the proper development of the Moons that the latters' room be "stacked." Stacking a room, or "ripping it up," as will be acknowledged even by those who disapprove of the process, is, when compared with its predecessor, hazing, a mild and gentle method of inculcating humility and modesty. It consists simply in piling together in as big and promiscuous a heap as possible whatever movable objects the room contains,--furniture, utensils, clothing, ornaments,--and leaving this monument as an interesting surprise for the occupants on their return. It involves, of course, a wanton interference with the property rights of others. It often results in permanent injury to valuable possessions, as when books and clothing are soaked with water, or china is smashed, or some memento dear to the owner's heart is so damaged as to be rendered wholly incapable of ever again suggesting the slightest humanizing sentiment. But the wisdom of boys is not the wisdom of the wise, and the Pecks are not represented in this narrative as models of considerateness. The Moons were "preps." Their father was a manufacturer who dominated the little town in Connecticut in which he lived. Reginald, the younger, timid and childish, was a "kid"; his brother Clarence, sleek in figure and dress, and ignorantly pretentious by training, foolishly sought to make up for the position of insignificance in which he found himself at school by dwelling upon his importance at home. The Pecks, sons of a congressman and nephews of a distinguished judge, holding this method of self-glorification quite out of place in the school republic, determined to make clear to the Moons, by a plain object lesson, the value of humility. While the juniors were safely enclosed for a full hour in the Latin room, the law-breaking twins invaded the Moon rooms and spent three-quarters of an hour in rearing a heap which, from its foundations of bed frames to the dome of crockery on top, showed great promise of architectural ability. Then they displayed themselves at the gymnasium and fell in with the Moons on the way homeward, as the swarm of Latinists poured forth from recitation. They entered the dormitory in pairs, Duncan and Reginald in front, Clarence delayed by Donald's loitering. At the head of the stairs Duncan parted from his companion, and, with the air of one who had important work to do, entered his room and shut the door hard behind him. Once inside, however, this important work proved to be nothing more than to glue his ear to the crack of the door and wait. He heard Reggie walk down the entry to his room, he heard the voices of the lagging pair rising from the stairs, then quick steps hurrying to meet them, sudden ejaculations, and the dash of all three toward the preps' room. There was nothing left for him then but to bottle his impatience and depend on Donald to give him a fair show. And Donald proved a safe reliance. The Moons' door opened; voices and steps approached. Duncan had barely time to dart to his desk and seize a book when Donald burst in with Clarence at his elbow. In clumsily feigned surprise, the student looked up at the invaders, his glance resting but for an instant on the countenance of his brother, whose look of malicious joy, poorly cloaked by an unnatural trait of solemnity, would have aroused immediate suspicion in an acute observer. On Clarence's pink-and-white face anger and fright struggled together for expression. Both twins found relief in Donald's exclamation:-- "Some one has ripped up the Moons' room. Come in and see it!" The trio hastened back to the dishevelled room. "Gee whiz, what a pile!" exclaimed Duncan in a veritable shock of admiration as he came suddenly in sight of the desolation. He had looked upon his finished work but a few minutes before and found it sufficient; but now, as the scene suddenly flashed its fresh impression upon him, his surprise was almost real. As a monument of havoc the heap was a work of art. "They didn't do a thing to you, did they! Who was it, anyway?" "Some fresh guy!" came in answer from Clarence's trembling lips. "He ought to be fired!" "That's right," declared Donald. "The only trouble is to find out who it is." "About everything you own seems to be in the thing, doesn't it?" observed Duncan, throwing a glance about the denuded room. "Did they wet it down?" Wet it down! Poor Clarence gasped with horror, but, recovering himself, sprang forward and felt anxiously about amongst the muddle of bedstead legs, bureau drawers, books, and blankets. There was no sign of water there. He dropped upon his knees and examined the floor. It was dry. Meantime Donald had screwed his face into a grimace and leered across at Duncan; his double had grinned back and chuckled. This chuckle and the tail-end of the grin Clarence caught as he picked himself up from the floor, and lost in consequence any comfort which he might have derived from his inspection. "Funny, ain't it!" he cried fiercely. "I guess you wouldn't laugh if it was your room!" "No, I shouldn't," returned Duncan, sobering instantly. "It's mighty mean of me, I know, but I just couldn't help it. The whole mix-up struck me so hard that the laugh slipped out before I knew it. I won't do it again." "When was it done?" asked Donald, making haste to get away from dangerous ground. "While we were in Latin," returned Clarence, somewhat mollified. "Were you fellows at the Gym the whole hour?" "We were here awhile," confessed Donald, looking hard at the leg of a chair that pointed reprovingly at him from the depths of the pile. "Did you hear any one come in here?" In the classroom Donald answered all questions addressed to the Pecks which were not indubitably intended for his brother, but under circumstances like the present, when mother-wit rather than book learning was required, he had the habit of falling back upon Duncan. "Did we, Dun?" he asked, apparently trying to recollect. Duncan hesitated. "I guess we were too much interested in what we were doing to listen to outside things," he said at length; and, turning hastily away to avoid his brother's eye, he sauntered around the pile. Donald likewise sought diversion on his side. "What's this?" he called, pulling out a wad of striped cloth from under the edge of a blanket. "Seems to be wet." "My pajamas!" groaned Clarence. Now of course Donald knew what the wad was quite as well as Clarence; but the garments had been so folded and twisted and knotted inside and out that at first sight they offered a very decent impromptu imitation of Alexander's famous Gordian puzzle about which the juniors had been reading that very day in their histories. So it wasn't really so difficult for the evil-minded Peck to counterfeit surprise and curiosity as he turned the bundle in his hands and made ineffectual attempts to snap it out. The other tormentor was ready with advice. "You'd better get those knots out right off. If you let 'em dry, you can't blow 'em apart with dynamite." Clarence ground his teeth and set to work in silence. Donald was pretending to assist him. Duncan, with hands in his pockets, strolled over to the bedroom door, where it was safe to grin and gloat. This was rare fun! Other fellows had had their rooms stacked,--in fact, the Pecks' own room had been treated in much the same way the first year they were in school,--but no one yet had stacked a room and been present as sympathizer at the moment of discovery. And that fool Clarence needed the humiliation if ever a fellow did. "Prince of Bentonville" they called him at home, did they? (This delectable fact Reggie had imprudently confided to some faithless gossip, who joyously published it abroad.) There was no place for princes here, or babies either. At the threshold of the bedroom the vandal paused and let his exultant gaze sweep the havoc-stricken room, from the glaring unshaded windows on the right, over the rectangles of dust on the floor where the beds had been, along the festoon of knotted neckties strung between light-fixture and radiator, to the heap of rugs crushed into the corner. On this corner his look hung, and the smirk of satisfaction on his pudgy countenance faded abruptly away. Here, on the only resting-place the dismantled room afforded, lay Reginald, face downward, sobbing his grief into the dusty folds. Now Duncan, malefactor that he was, had his heart in the right spot. The sight of the little chap plunged in woe through his agency stirred him most unpleasantly. He knew at once that it was not vexation that produced the spasm of tears, but genuine homesickness, made poignant by this wanton act of an unknown enemy; and homesickness appealed to Duncan when weakness and babyishness received no tolerance. He had been homesick himself once, when Donald with scarlet fever monopolized the house and Duncan spent dreary weeks of banishment with a boy-hating aunt in the country. The misery of that exile was still a painful memory. Poor Reggie! They hadn't meant to discipline that little chap! He put his hand on Reginald's shoulder. "Come, cheer up, Reggie! It isn't so bad as it looks. We'll soon make it all right again." But Reggie, ashamed of his tears, buried his nose still deeper in the rugs. "Oh, cheer up!" repeated the comforter. "Lots of fellows have had just as big a stack in their rooms and simply laughed at it. Pluck up, and put your traps back and say nothing about it. That's the way to manage a thing like this. You're man enough for that, I know!" Reggie sat up, struggling to choke back the sobs. The storm was going by. "That's the way! Got a handkerchief? Here, take mine. Now let's go out and tackle the mess. I'll take the things down and you put 'em away, see?" Clarence and Donald were still at work on the pajamas when Duncan appeared in the study, pushing before him the flushed, reluctant Reginald. Duncan yanked a chair from the side of the pile, and standing on it began to strip off the top layer and pass the articles down to Reginald. "What're you doing, Dun?" demanded Donald. "Helping these fellows clear up," replied Duncan coolly. "Pitch in, can't you? Here's a pillow, Reggie, catch! and a blanket, too. Get a move on you there, Clarence, and pull out that waste-basket of shirts! We aren't going to do all the work while you stand around with your hands in your pockets. Here! take this towel rack into the bedroom." Clarence obeyed, though with reluctance. Reginald was hurrying to and fro on his errands with cheerfulness suddenly restored. "You big fool!" ejaculated Donald, planting himself before his brother's chair. "Thank you!" returned Duncan, unruffled, with a warning squint in the direction of Clarence. "Why this compliment?" Donald turned and perceived Clarence staring at the pair with all his eyes. "Because you ought to be doing your Latin," he answered. "You haven't looked at it; you'll flunk it dead." Duncan grunted. "_A bas_ the Latin. You'll read it to me!" "Hanged if I will!" retorted Donald, and went out, slamming the door behind him. Sad to relate, when Duncan returned to his room an hour later, having borne the burden of the restoration of the Moons to order and happiness, Donald read to him not the Latin but a vigorously phrased lecture, bristling with slang and exclamation points, which naturally provoked recrimination, and a long and heated argument. And sadder yet, poetic justice failed to tip the scales in the right direction; the Latin instructor did flunk poor Duncan dead. CHAPTER IV PAYNER THE MARPLOT Owen might have known nothing of all this had Payner not taken a hand in the affair. Two months of Seaton had improved Payner. His mental attitudes were just as twisted and morbid as ever, and his motto seemed still to be "the world against Payner and Payner against the world," but his truculence had modified sufficiently to allow him to reply when addressed, and occasionally to volunteer a civil remark. He disliked the Pecks heartily and with much reason, for the pair showed him little respect, and would sometimes amuse themselves by shouting across the entry to each other a series of questions and answers on the subject of New Mexico which were not entirely flattering to the inhabitants of the territory. Still nothing had as yet occurred which could be counted an overt act of hostility. Payner happened along that morning just as Duncan was leaving the rehabilitated room, receiving as he went, in a curious confusion of shame and complacency, the blessings of the Moons. Payner fumbled long at his lock, screwing his head around over his shoulder so as to take in the whole unusual character of the scene,--unusual because boys are not likely to be profuse in their expressions of gratitude, but especially remarkable in that a Peck seemed to have been engaged in a labor of love. "Has _he_ been doing something good?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door behind which Duncan had just disappeared. "Well, I guess!" replied Reggie. "He's just straightened us all out. He's a brick! You ought to have seen the pile when we came in. It almost--" The abrupt ending of Reggie's speech was prompted by a side swing of his elder brother's foot. It must not be inferred that this was Clarence's usual method of guiding Reginald's conversation. He had begun with an unheeded nudge. The kick was effectual, but late. Reggie turned in wonder, and perceived from Clarence's black looks that he had said something amiss. While he stood gaping in a startled and uncomprehending manner at his brother, Payner left the door which he had succeeded in opening, crossed the entry, and peered into the Moons' room. "Where's the pile?" he demanded in the rapid, explosive way which the boys liked to mimic. Payner's phrases were jerked out in diminishing puffs, like the irregular snorts of a laboring gasolene engine. Clarence said nothing, and Payner, turning his back upon him, addressed himself once more to Reggie. "There isn't any," replied Reggie. "We've taken it all down. It was right there where the table is." "Been rough-housed, have you?" asked the visitor, wheeling now upon Clarence, and breaking into a most unsympathetic snicker. "Who did it?" Clarence scowled. "How do you suppose I know? We found it here when we came from Latin, and Duncan Peck has been helping us clear up." "Wasn't the other one with him?" "No, he had to study," explained Reginald; "but Duncan stayed till the last thing was put away. It was awfully nice of him, wasn't it?" "How'd they happen to be here?" "Oh, they came up the same time we did, and we called 'em in." "They'd been at recitation?" persisted Payner. "No, at the Gym," growled Clarence, who did not see why he should be questioned in this peremptory fashion. "They'd been here awhile, too," added Reggie, "but they didn't hear any one come to this room." "I reckon they could if they'd wanted to," Payner observed dryly. Reggie did not understand Payner's meaning at all, and Clarence only in part. So they stood for a moment in silence; then Reggie spied Clarence's knotted pajamas in the corner of the sofa and was just opening his mouth to exclaim over them, when Clarence spoke. "Do you mean to say that they knew when it was done?" "They knew when it was done, and how it was done, and who did it," asserted Payner, boldly. "It's my belief they did it themselves. They're just the fellows to do the thing and then look on and laugh while you grind your teeth. Who else could have done it anyway? I wouldn't, and I couldn't either, as I can prove to you. Owen wouldn't and Smith wouldn't and neither would Lindsay nor any of the other fellows round here. There's only the Pecks left. It's dollars to doughnuts they would and did." "I won't believe it!" cried Reginald, indignantly. Payner sniffed. "Then don't. I'll bet all the same you can't find out what they were at all the morning." Clarence explained the case at length, and Reginald protested, but Payner asserted with undiminished confidence, and departed, leaving behind the memory of various pungent sentiments, such as "they're playing you for suckers," "you'll find out sometime," "you're dead easy for those guys," to work in his absence. All that afternoon the ferment went on in Clarence's mind. He was too indolent to seek facts to inculpate or clear the Pecks, too sensitive to put the experience wholly from his mind as a mishap of the day which he had fortunately survived. Much more distressed by the suspicion that the Pecks were deriding him than by the mere fact of the "rough-housing," he at last decided to lay the matter before an impartial third person. Late in the evening, when Owen was busy with the last lines of the Virgil for the next morning's eight-o'clock, Clarence offered himself as a caller, bashfully unfolded his tale, and craved an opinion. The justice heard the case and gave judgment. He liked the Pecks and did not care for Payner. Like Payner, he judged according to previous prejudice. The Pecks were, to his mind, innocent objects of another's malice, and Payner's suspicions wholly groundless. These were not the judge's words, but they represent fairly well his thought. What he said was that Payner was crazy, which in a general way may or may not have been true. Clarence departed with pride soothed and composure restored. Rob, in the firmness of his conviction, hurried over to the Pecks to share with them his laugh over Payner's ridiculous charge. He had hardly broached the subject when he began to question the correctness of his recently delivered opinion. The Pecks looked very indignant and protested very loudly, but the manner of their indignation was so clearly forced and their underlying glee so obvious, that the unguarded wink which Donald threw at his brother and which Rob surprised was hardly necessary to confirm the visitor's growing belief that Payner had been right after all. And how the gentle-mannered twins did malign the insolent Payner for his interference! It was none of his business; he was butting in where he didn't belong; he was a fresh gazabo, an uncivilized cub, an outlaw in disguise, who would wreck a train for a pipe of tobacco or shoot a benefactor from behind a fence; he had probably saved himself from being hanged for horse-stealing by taking refuge in Seaton; he certainly belonged behind the bars. Rob returned to his room with the feeling unpleasantly vivid in his mind that in the matter of the Moons' stacked room he had been guilty of more than one error of judgment. CHAPTER V THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE When Donald Peck greeted the elder Moon next morning, there was considerable coolness in the reply; Clarence's suspicions had revived over night. Later in the day Duncan got hold of Reggie, and succeeded in extracting from him the confidence that Clarence still nourished the absurd idea that the Pecks might have stacked the room themselves. "It's all rot, of course," said the lad, looking trustingly up into Duncan's face. "I know you wouldn't do a thing like that, and so does he, but he's so wild about it he can't think straight. I told him that if you were the ones you wouldn't have come around as you did, and helped us out." Duncan glanced away and felt uncomfortable. "I hate to have him act so," went on the boy; "it seems so much worse since you were so good about it. He'll get over it in a day or two. I hope you won't mind." Duncan answered cordially that he shouldn't, and, putting an abrupt end to the conversation, went home to upbraid his brother for getting both into the scrape. Donald jeered at his scruples, averred that it was all for the Moons' real good, and charged him with entering into the scheme without raising objections, and then crawling. Duncan flung back this charge with indignation, and a high-pitched, virulent, and illogical argument followed, wherein all the disastrous enterprises in which the pair had ever engaged were reconsidered and the blame properly apportioned. This scene of mutual recrimination ended only when the inhabitants of the room above fell to thumping on the floor and emitting catcalls and dog yelps; and Payner, who happened to be passing, actually had the effrontery to knock at the door to inquire if any one was hurt. The instant effect of this last interruption was to divert the angry feelings of the brothers from their former course and combine them against Payner. He was the cause of all the trouble; without him and his outrageous interference, the Moons would never have had a suspicion. He should be punished; his room should be ripped up, and ripped up thoroughly. The discussion of a plan reinfused in the twins the old spirit of unity and harmony. But Payner was not so easily caught as the heedless Moons. The twins obtained a schedule of his recitations and laboratory hours, which they agreed afforded the only safe occasions to work. At some of these hours they were themselves employed; at others, when they tried his door, it proved to be securely locked. Once, indeed, during a laboratory period, they found the door ajar, and pushing it open went boldly in to make the most of their opportunity. Donald was in the van, his eyes eagerly sweeping the walls of the room in search of material suited to his purpose. Duncan, close behind him, glanced over the table, and perceived a bristly head of hair just appearing above the table edge. Before they could draw back, the bristling scalp rose higher, and two savage little eyes looked straight into Donald's face. It was Payner himself, who had been sent back from the laboratory for the note-book which he had neglected to bring with him. Donald sprang back speechless. Duncan came forward pulling out his watch. "Well?" said Payner. He was not given to long speeches, but he could put much vigor into short ones. "Have you the right time about you?" Duncan asked with a certain degree of composure. "We saw your door open and thought we'd come in." "So I see," remarked Payner. "He"--jerking his head toward Donald--"seemed rather surprised to find me in." "It's enough to surprise any one to have a fellow pop up like a jack-in-the-box from behind a table!" "Jack-in-the-box!" repeated Payner, angrily. "Well, anything you like," said Duncan, smiling. "Did you say you had the right time?" "No, I haven't; my time is always wrong." "Thanks," returned Duncan; "then we won't trouble you any longer. Come on, Don, let's try Owen." The brothers turned to go. "The next time you come you'd better knock first," shouted Payner. "It'll save your nerves!" "We'll try to remember," said Donald, who had regained his composure. It was his only part in the interview. The brothers crept back to their room and there chuckled mightily over their escape. Payner listened to see whether they really did visit Owen, and then locking his door carefully, walked over to the laboratory, far more disturbed by the problem of the Pecks' presence in his room than by any difficulty which an experiment in physics might offer. And Payner did not shine in physics. After this Payner's door was always locked, and, mischievous as the twins were, they had no heart for breaking and entering. Weeks flew by; Christmas came, bringing the long recess. Owen and Carle both returned to Terryville for the holidays, the latter especially elated. He had got his scholarship. His work in the classroom had flagged a little toward the end of the term, as the seductive influence of popularity made itself felt, but his honest efforts in the first two months had given him a good margin, as well as impressed his teachers. He knew a lot of fellows, was already patronized by a certain conspicuous set, and enjoyed, as far as it was possible to anticipate the credit of great deeds as yet unperformed, the glory of being the master pitcher who was to win the Hillbury game. It was possible, of course, that these anticipations might prove unwarranted; that Carle's glory, like the great Kuropatkin's military reputation before the battles of Laioyang and Mukden, might not survive the actual test. But at least he had every prospect of being the school pitcher, and this was in itself a definite honor. Owen had not fared as well. He had worked faithfully, had won fair rank, had made a few good friends; his teachers spoke of him as steady but slow. He had developed no striking qualities to impress his boy acquaintances; he was not witty like Rogers, nor literary like Ware, nor a wonderful scholar like Salter, nor a football hero like Laughlin or Lindsay, nor a track athlete with a record like Strong, nor a musician like Truslow, nor clever with a pencil like Fox, nor a ladies' man like Richmond, nor even a jolly idiot like Kleinschmidt. To be a candidate for the nine, with the possibility of becoming substitute catcher if luck served, was not in itself and at this early day a sufficient ground for distinction. So Rob had few successes to report to his family on his return. Mr. Owen was satisfied that the boy had honestly endeavored to do his duty in school, and follow the principles laid down in the parental code. In the father's eyes the discouraging outlook for baseball was rather a cause for congratulation. Mrs. Owen was wholly pleased to have her son at home again, and to find him a little bigger and a little stronger and a little more manly than before, but just as fond of his home as ever, and just as interested in all that concerned it. Except for two things, Rob himself was completely happy. One was the disappointment about baseball, which he could not forget; the other, the constant reminder of his inferiority to Carle. When Carle confessed on the train, with a certain imposing air of one whose honors were burdensome, that he had been asked to join the Omega-Omicron fraternity, Rob was smitten hard with jealousy, but he threw off this feeling in an instant and spoke eagerly. "That's an honor, isn't it! Are you going to join?" "I haven't decided yet," replied Carle, negligently. "Aren't they rather a rich set?" asked Rob, as he ran over the list of several who were reputed to be members. He had picked up a good deal of information during his first term about many things which did not immediately concern him. "Most of 'em have money, but they don't insist that every one else should." "I should think that it would be hard all the same," returned Rob, thoughtfully. "You see, there'll be a lot of things these fellows do that you can't afford. You won't want to refuse if you're with them, and you can't stand the pace they set. That makes it awkward for you." "Oh, they make a way for a fellow who hasn't much," Carle replied. "You see they like to get in fellows that are well known, specially the athletic men. It's to their interest to sacrifice something, if they want the important fellows." "I'm thinking of you, not of the fraternity," said Owen, resisting another attack of jealousy. It grated on him to hear Carle speak so confidently of his assured athletic position. "It'll be harder for you to study and keep your place in the class, if you're going with those fellows all the time; and then there'll be a temptation to spend more than you can afford." At this argument, which was certainly worthy of consideration, Carle's face clouded and he burst out savagely: "It's mighty mean to be always kept tied down to figuring on pennies, and have to slave to get a scholarship, when other fellows who haven't anything to make them popular can throw money around and loaf, and float along on the top wave. It isn't right!" Rob looked at him in surprise. "You don't have to spend money to be popular. There's Laughlin; he hasn't a cent that he doesn't earn, and fellows like Poole and Lindsay and Cutting don't make any show of money if they have it. And who thinks anything of Bowers with all his dough?" "They have all they need, at least," returned Carle, "and I haven't. Laughlin's different, but there aren't many like him. All I say is that it's mighty tough to send a fellow to school, and not give him money enough to keep him there decently." Rob listened without knowing what reply to make. He recalled the eagerness with which Ned had forced his plan upon his parents, his declaration that he would not let himself be a burden to them, and his promise to be content with what they could afford to give him, and rely upon himself for all other needs. Why should he speak as if he had been sent to school against his will and there neglected, when he had besought his parents to let him go at his own risk? And why should he complain at all when he had apparently had complete success, earned a scholarship, and had such prospects of an important place in school life? Ned's successes were soon known in Terryville. Mr. Carle repeated often and proudly the tale of his son's high rank in his school, and of the great popularity which he enjoyed among his school-fellows. Ned added the information that he should probably do the bulk of the pitching on the school nine; he was to begin pitching practice with the regular school catcher after the holidays. When people questioned Rob concerning these statements, as many did, he readily confirmed them; when they asked him further, as some did, why he had not succeeded as well, and why he wasn't "good enough to catch Carle," he laughingly declared his inferiority. When he was safe from observation, however, and the questions returned to him, he had no heart to laugh. The fact that he was "outclassed," as Ned calmly explained it, or better that he had been quietly put aside on the assumption that he wasn't the equal of Borland, while Carle was taken at his own highest valuation and given in advance the honors of achievement--this was indeed an unpleasant subject for reflection. But Rob, though lacking the worldly experience which might have taught him that in the general sifting and settling of life, undeserved elevation usually leads to deserved humiliation, still was fortunate in possessing a modest self-esteem and reasonably good sense. That he envied Carle's rapid rise cannot be denied; but that he in any way wished his friend ill on account of it, or would have liked to pull Carle down that the difference between them should be less manifest,--this feeling, I am pleased to say, was wholly absent from his mind. Rob Owen was no cad. [Illustration: A Corner of the Yard.] CHAPTER VI THE THIRD STRING When the school gathered again after the holidays, Poole called his candidates for baseball together, and after a vehement harangue in which he sought to impress upon each man the importance of doing his utmost to develop a good nine, whether by making it himself or by spurring on some better man to outdo him, arranged the periods and combinations for winter practice. As the general routine, or as much of it as concerns the fielding and batting, has been described in a former book, the subject must be dismissed here with this passing mention. In the work of the batteries we are more directly interested. Carle and Borland were put at the head of the battery combinations, apparently with as little hesitancy as if they had been veterans carried over from a triumphant season. The first choice of hours was theirs, their opinions were listened to with respect; their position as fixtures seemed almost as well recognized as that of Poole himself. In spite of all self-preparation, Rob was almost startled to find what a gap existed between himself and his old battery mate; and as he remembered how often in past games when bases were full and things were going wrong with the pitching, he had guided the bewildered Carle out of his difficulties, he could not help a feeling of pique, nor avoid wondering whether Borland would succeed as well. After Carle, O'Connell, one of the class pitchers of the year before, held the next position of favor, and Poole quietly put down the combination, Owen and O'Connell, for cage hours together. There were also Patterson, a new man about whom nothing was known, and Peters, right fielder on the nine the year before, who was learning to pitch. For these, also, practice catchers were arranged. From the outset, Owen found his practice with O'Connell unpleasant. It could not have been from any prejudice against the pitcher, for Rob, who was eager for any opportunity which seemed to offer him a "show," was at first greatly pleased at the prospect of being mated with the man who, before the advent of Carle, had been regarded as the most promising of the school pitchers. Whatever secret hopes he may have cherished of building up a rival battery were in a fortnight wholly dispelled. O'Connell couldn't pitch, and wouldn't learn. He couldn't pitch because his whole idea seemed to be to throw a ball with as big a curve as possible, without much care as to where it was going, or how near the plate it was destined to come; the only ball which he could surely put over was a straight waist ball which any child could hit. He wouldn't learn, because he thought it a pitcher's business to pitch, and a catcher's not to give instruction but to catch. To Rob's suggestions that any kind of a waist-high ball was dangerous, that the best pitcher he ever saw did not cover a width of more than three feet in a whole game, keeping the ball constantly at the plate--O'Connell paid not the slightest attention. He was quite unwilling to suppose that a man who had enjoyed the privilege of Seaton coaching for a year could learn anything from a country boy from western Pennsylvania. The result was that Rob soon ceased to try to help the pitcher, and contented himself with taking the balls within reach in silence and letting the rest strike the net. The loungers about the cage could not have been impressed with the skill of the catching. One day toward the end of the discouraging fortnight, when Rob was feeling particularly blue over the situation and wondering whether it would not be better after all to let the catching go altogether and take his chances on his hitting for a fielding position, he fell in with Patterson on the way down street, and asked him casually how he was getting on with pitching. "Not very well," answered Patterson, ruefully. "I can't seem to learn anything." "Who catches you?" asked Rob. "Foxcroft," replied Patterson, gloomily. "He's a good backstop, I suppose, but he never tells me anything, and you can't learn by yourself. Poole ought to fix it so that we can get some instruction, I think." Rob did not answer. He was marvelling at the contrariness of circumstances. Here was O'Connell who might have instruction but wouldn't take it, and Patterson who wanted it but couldn't get it! "A man who ought to know told me once that I had the makings of a pitcher in me,--the arm swing, snappy wrist, and all that, you know,--but I've had mighty little chance for coaching and no such experience as these fellows here get, so I don't know whether he was fooling me or not. I don't seem to be getting ahead at all now." "Oh, you mustn't be discouraged," said Rob, unfairly assuming in his own discouragement the right to blame the other's faint-heartedness. "It takes time to learn to pitch." "It takes something more than time," Patterson declared with emphasis. "A year of the kind of thing I'm getting won't be much better than a month. You don't have to eat a bushel of apples to find out whether they're rotten or not. One is enough." Rob hesitated. An idea had suddenly occurred to him, an idea that might be good. Why shouldn't he catch Patterson, and let O'Connell take Foxcroft? He knew nothing of Patterson, it was true, but he did know about O'Connell, and under the circumstances the unknown seemed attractive. "How would you like to take me for a change, and let O'Connell have Foxcroft?" Patterson's face spoke instantly a joyful acceptance of the proposal. His words, which came later, evidently represented second thoughts. "Wouldn't I! But O'Connell would kick, though. He isn't going to swap you for Foxcroft." "I don't believe he'd mind," returned Owen, with a smile of amusement tinged with sadness. "He can't learn anything from me, so Foxcroft would do just as well. I'd like to catch some one I could work with, and feel an interest in and try to push along. A net would be about as good for O'Connell as I am; all the advantage I have over the net is that I throw the balls back." "Let's change, then," said Patterson, eagerly. "If O'Connell doesn't want your help, I do. You'll find me ready to learn all right. You see Poole,--no, I'll see him and tell him we'd like to bunk in together. I don't believe it'll make any difference to him." Poole was seen, and gave his consent without suggesting any obstacle except a possible difficulty in arranging new hours. O'Connell growled a little, not at losing Owen, whom he considered too officious, but at the notion that he should be given a third-string catcher instead of a second. But the change was made, and the new pair settled quietly down into obscurity, an obscurity which was the deeper in contrast with the glare of publicity in which the first battery displayed itself. Carle and Borland were the unquestioned athletic heroes of that winter term. Borland showed himself an excellent backstop. His manner was that of one whom no ball thrown by human arm could disconcert. He could take in-curves with his mitt unsupported, tip them jauntily into his right hand, and toss them back with the best air of a professional in a great city team showing his tricks to a big audience before a game. The lads who in a perennial group peered admiring through the netting would nudge each other and exclaim and wonder; the knowing ones would talk with wise patronage; the ignorant ask foolish questions in awe-struck tones. Then the company would exchange places with a similar squad at the pitcher's end, and, big-eyed with amazement, watch the unintelligible signals, and try to detect the jump or the break, the out or the in, the lift or the drop, which the conductor of the party assured them was to be seen. Those were great days for battery one at Seaton school. No disillusionizing games to shatter the sweet ideal with brutal facts, no heartbreaking succession of base hits, no feverish gift of bases on balls, no missed pop fouls, no overthrown bases, but just fancy pitching, with opportunity for flourishes unlimited, and spectators unanimous in admiration. Poole himself, with all his steady-mindedness and fear of fostering vain hopes, yielded to the general exultation and looked forward with full complacency to the contest of batteries in the spring. Meantime the humble third string was pursuing its unnoticed way. To his surprise, Owen found Patterson possessed of a very good mastery of one or two curves, and pitching with apparent ease and considerable speed. He was very eager to learn, and so modest as to be entirely distrustful of himself. This fault of timidity Rob sought to overcome by encouragement and by plain lessons from the successes of pitchers whom he had known. When once Patterson understood that by good pitching was meant, not "doing things" with a ball, but merely success in fooling batsmen; and that to accomplish this object, control and speed and cleverness in alternating balls, rather than ability to juggle curves, were of prime importance, the pupil took courage and began to learn. It was now that Rob regretted that he had not paid more attention to McLennan's words of counsel to Carle when the latter had had his lessons. Much that the professional had said he recalled under the stimulus of the need. Some things about which he felt uncertain he found out from Carle, who, as a rule, however, remembered less of the technical teaching than Owen. But in the main it was the fundamental principles which Patterson needed, and as to these his catcher was well informed. They were left much to themselves. The general public had no interest in the third battery. Poole occasionally looked in on them for a few minutes, but on these occasions Rob, with a perversity perhaps excusable, deliberately kept his charge from showing his best work. With O'Connell and Carle, and others who might be expected to look with critical eyes, he followed the same course, as if he courted obscurity. The result was that the two worked on alone during the long winter practice unmolested by critics, and free from distracting suggestions of would-be helpers. With Patterson, Rob soon felt himself on terms of hearty intimacy, though at times their relation suggested that of patron and client. So frankly modest was the pitcher, so naturally distrustful of himself and ready to follow another's lead, that outside the cage he fell naturally into the position of follower. He studied with Owen, skated with him, loafed in his room, sided with him in the discussions, profitable and unprofitable, to which boys' conversation usually runs, and confided to him the facts as to his home life which one usually reserves for his most intimate companion. Yet with all his friendliness and willingness to follow the steps of another better fitted to lead, Patterson was by no means weak. There was a substantial basis of character and principle underlying his naturally trustful disposition. He followed only a presumably wiser guide; he yielded only up to a certain point and in certain directions. While possessing the unusual faculty of recognizing his faults before his virtues, when once assured of his power he would push on undaunted by obstacles. It was this peculiar combination of traits that so endeared him as a friend and rendered him so apt as a pupil. Most young athletes need the experience of the contest to dissipate their conceit, and open the way for development. With Patterson experience was necessary before a reasonable self-confidence was possible. CHAPTER VII FACILIS DESCENSUS Carle joined the Omega Omicron. This was evident, even before the acquisition of the distinctive hatband, from the furious and absorbing intimacy which he developed with a certain coterie of fellows belonging to the fraternity. A dispassionate observer--Mr. Graham, for instance--would have perceived two distinct strains in the membership of the Omicron: an extravagant set of sports, courting a reputation for fastness; and a steadier, wiser, more manly group of well-to-do fellows who fell in naturally with others possessing similar monthly allowances, without adopting their views or their principles. It was this latter element which procured for the fraternity the countenance of the faculty. If any member of the Omicron had been asked--by his father, let us say, for no student would have ventured upon such dangerous ground--what kind of fellows belonged to the society, he would have answered emphatically "mighty nice fellows." And the answer would have been in the main true, for the tendency toward conformity is strong in boys, often holding in temporary check the individual instinct which is destined to make the character of the man; and boy loyalty is notorious. But between Durand and Hendry, who represented the best of the Omicron, and Jones and Nicholson, who led the fast set, there was as much real difference as between blades of wheat and blades of grass. Poole and Lindsay belonged to another fraternity. "You'd better look after your pitcher," said Durand one morning to Poole. "He's getting in debt." Poole stopped short in his walk and stared in amazement into his companion's face. "What do you mean?" "Just what I say," returned Durand, soberly. "He's borrowing and running bills." "Where?" "Where does he borrow? Well, Jones and Stratton are two he's borrowed from. There may be more. He's running bills at one drug store anyway, and I think with two of those out-of-town agents that show things down at Perkins's." "Why don't you look after him?" demanded Poole, angrily. "He belongs to your bunch." Durand shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not his guardian. I don't run the Omicron, either, as I've told you before." "You ought to!" retorted Poole. "What did you get him in there for anyway?" "I didn't get him in. In fact, and between ourselves, I voted against him." "I should think you might have helped him along anyway, or at least not let your gang lead him off. You knew he was a scholarship man and hadn't money to throw away. Why didn't you stop him?" "I did try to, Phil; honestly, I did," returned Durand, at last becoming warm; "but what could I do against all you fellows flattering him and praising him and kowtowing to him as if he were a little tin god? You don't suppose he cares anything for my opinion, do you? You don't suppose that Jones and Stratton and Nicholson are going to throw around less money because he's with 'em, do you? Not on your life!" Poole thought a few moments in silence. Then he looked up with a smile and dropped his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I don't believe it's as bad as you make out," he said. "You always were prejudiced against the fellow, you and Lindsay too; and I think I know why. Owen's soured because he can't catch Carle here as he did at home. That made him throw over O'Connell in a sulky fit; and now, I suppose, he runs down Carle, and you fellows in Hale take his opinion." Durand was listening with lips parted and eyes set in a stare of astonishment. "Well, of all the crazy ideas that is the limit! Owen has never, so far as I've known, said one word against Carle to any one. He did say why he changed O'Connell for Patterson. Patterson wanted to learn, and O'Connell couldn't be taught because he knew it all without telling. You're entirely off about the whole business." "I hope I am," said Poole. "By the way, have you seen Owen catch?" "Of course. I look in on him every now and then." "What do you think of him?" "A good, fair man. I was counting on him and O'Connell as second-string battery, but he doesn't seem to want the job." "Have you heard him coaching Patterson?" "Why, yes, I suppose so. There was nothing remarkable about it." Durand laughed a provoking, mysterious, sententious laugh, waved his hand, and disappeared into his dormitory entry, leaving Poole to meditate on the conversation. The meditation concerned but one subject, the possible difficulties of the popular pitcher. Of Owen, he did not think again. The captain's first active step was to make inquiries among the upper middlers concerning Carle's standing. The answers were various, depending largely upon the standard of the boy questioned. A few whose own records were high, or who remembered some especially striking failures on the part of Carle, were of the opinion that he was falling in rank. The great majority of middle weights considered him, in general, good. After this investigation Poole had an interview with Carle himself, who protested that he was "all right," declared that his debts didn't amount to anything, and avowed the most superior principles. Poole returned home reassured. When he met Durand in the afternoon he reported the results of his investigations, and jeered at his little third baseman as a croaker. And Carle, after sitting silent at his desk for an unpleasant half hour, and later having performed a little problem in addition and subtraction which apparently gave him no relief, accepted unhesitatingly the invitation of Jones to join him and two others in a drive with a span of horses, though he knew that the livery charge to be divided would be at least five dollars. You can't be mean, if you want fellows to like you! As a matter of fact Carle's classroom work was falling off. He was not perhaps conscious of the change, and some of his teachers had likewise failed to perceive the trend. When a boy trots his translations, he may, if he is quick and observant in the recitation room, deceive his instructors for a very considerable time. A good teacher necessarily repeats questions and reemphasizes principles, and Carle was bright enough to take full advantage of opportunities afforded by the recitations. But all the time, as his outside interests increased, and the circle of intimates with whom he idled grew, his study became more superficial. The translation book was no longer reserved for special emergency; it lay open on his desk from the first line of the lesson to the last. His newly developed method in mathematics was to gather all possible solutions from his acquaintances before trying any problems himself. He was growing distinctly clever in the art of cribbing. Still he seemed to be doing fair work, for such a process is one of gradual and secret undermining rather than of open destruction. One does not perceive the extent to which the foundations are injured until the crash comes. "What is the matter with Carle?" asked Mr. Rice, the young teacher of history, at a faculty meeting in February. "Isn't he falling off in his work?" Mr. Moore turned on him an indulgent smile. "I haven't noticed it," he said, "and I have him five times a week." As the young instructor had Carle's section but two hours weekly, this answer appeared to the questioner equivalent to a rebuke; so, taking Kipling's advice to the cub, he thought, and was still. The result of his thinking was first that Mr. Moore, being faculty member of the Omicron, must know Carle's habits of work much better than he himself did; and, secondly, that he was but a tyro at the business, with much to learn, both as to boys and the ways of the school. He did not see that the Principal made a note of his question, or that Lovering, one of the Latin men, and Pope, a middle-aged confrère who had sections in mathematics, exchanged a few words in low tones. Otherwise, he might have felt less chagrin over his apparent error. CHAPTER VIII THE FIRST PLAGUE The inhabitants of the east entry of Hale were enjoying a season of unusual quiet. Duncan Peck, because of unacceptable work, lay under the ban of study hours,--a fact which damped the ardor of both the brothers. Clarence Moon had apparently learned wisdom from experience, for he had much less to say about the exalted state in which he lived at home, and in general bore himself with more becoming modesty. Lindsay and Owen and their room-mates had other ambitions than to be disturbers of the peace, and Payner lived solitary and secure in his fortress. There remained but the conscientious Smith and Crossett the absentee, neither of whom was likely to spend time in fomenting discord in the dormitory. Smith studied continuously. His lamp was lighted at five every morning, he was always in bed at ten at night; but between these two periods, except for the time inevitably wasted on meals and devoted to school exercises, he plodded unweariedly at his books. And did he accomplish great things? I wish I could answer yes. I would not willingly detract one jot from the value of habits of industry. They are rough diamonds which Young America is too prone to throw aside for the flashing brilliants of smartness and wit. But the truth must be spoken. Smith's industry earned no apparent dividends. With the gift of great perseverance, nature had also bestowed on him a very thick head, through which ideas soaked but slowly. He rarely got a conception right without having first tried all the possibilities of error. His influence was ambiguous: some jeered at him as an example of the ineffectualness of grinding; others, among whom was Owen, felt a kind of reproof in the patient, untiring, undiscourageable zeal of this oft-discomfited drudge. To most who knew him he was merely "Grinder Smith." Owen came in one day from cage practice with Patterson, who had fallen into the habit of doing his afternoon study in Rob's room. At the head of the stairs they met a tall, light-haired boy coming out of Payner's room. Owen nodded. "Who was that?" asked Patterson, as soon as they were out of hearing. "I didn't suppose Payner had callers." "His name's Eddy," Rob replied. "No, Payner doesn't have many callers. Eddy and I are about the only ones, I guess." "Who's Eddy, anyway?" "He's a senior. I met him once over at Poole's room." "I wonder what he can find in a freak like Payner," pursued Patterson. "Payner isn't such a freak as you think," returned Owen. "I couldn't make anything of him for a long time; but when once you've broken through his shell you'll find there's something in him." "I never shall. No fun in a sour apple like him. Give me the Pecks every time. Payner's just a snapping turtle." A door slammed in the entry; quick, elastic footsteps, accompanied by a whistle, passed. "Lindsay," observed Owen. "Wasn't it great the way he blocked that kick in the Hillbury game!" exclaimed Patterson. "If I could play football as he does, I'd be willing to work a hundred years." "I'd rather play on a winning nine, myself," observed Rob. "Would you? I wouldn't. You see, in football you catch the spirit of the thing, and you're swept right along with the gang. There's a swing that carries you. You just rush in and give a big drive for all that's in you. But in baseball it's different. Everybody has to stand around waiting and watching and quivering while one man does the work. When you pitch a hard baseball game, every ball's got to go just so. If it's two inches too high, or two inches wide, or an out when it ought to be an in, it's all wrong. And then there are about a thousand things that can happen whenever a man hits the ball." Rob nodded in agreement. "And you've got to be ready for any one of those thousand things. That's where the fun comes in, and the skill. When you know you can handle any ball that's likely to come your way and handle it right, there's fun just in waiting." "I suppose that's true. I wish I knew as much baseball as you do. Honestly, now, do you think I'm ever going to learn to pitch?" This was one of the times when Patterson needed encouragement. "Yes, I do," Owen replied earnestly. "You're gaining all the time. If you're willing to count by the weeks instead of the days, you'll see a gain yourself. You may never be able to do the things with a ball that Carle can do,--he's got a wonderful wrist, that fellow!--but you may be just as good a pitcher." "As good as Carle!" cried Patterson, with a grin of incredulity. "You're jollying me!" "Not a bit!" Owen retorted. "You never will see that it isn't what you do to the ball, but what the batsman doesn't do to it, that shows that you are a pitcher. Suppose Carle has ten chances and throws five of them away, and you have eight and throw away only two, who is the better man?" Patterson shook his head doubtfully. "It's one thing to stand in the cage and put 'em where you say; it's a different thing to face a batter in a game and feel that he may drive the next one over the fence." "You can put 'em where I say just the same, can't you?" retorted Owen, sharply, as he opened his books. There was good promise in Patterson, but these attacks of despondency were of distinctly bad omen. "You didn't tell me how Payner got hold of Eddy," said Patterson, returning again to the topic from which he had been diverted by the ever recurrent baseball. "Didn't I? Well, Payner is a great fellow for bugs,--in fact, for every kind of animal, big or little, that has more than two legs; and Eddy is cracked on trees and birds. Payner spent all his half-holidays last fall, when he ought to have been at the football games, up the river looking for bugs and slugs. He found Eddy up there watching birds. So they got acquainted." Patterson emitted a little sniff, midway between a sneer and a chuckle. "Oh, you needn't laugh! He doesn't loaf away his Saturday afternoons like the rest of us. Why, he's got one of the best collections of _coleoptera_ in existence!" "Oh, has he!" exclaimed the bewildered Patterson. Owen swung round as if to end the conversation, and raising his book to the level of his eyes, sniggered covertly into its pages. Opposite him sat Patterson, awed into silence by the ponderous polysyllable, of whose meaning he was loth to confess his ignorance. So the study began. That evening Eddy came in after dinner to see some new specimens that Payner had just received from Florida. It was lecture night, and the bell sounded just as Payner opened the case. "Look here, Eddy, I want to go to that lecture to night. It's on the Grand Canyon, you know. Are you going?" "I don't believe I shall," said Eddy, absent-mindedly, as he picked up a card to which was pinned a beetle with a rainbow stripe down his back. "That's a beauty, isn't it?" "Yes, they're all fine. I think I'll hurry over and get a seat. You won't mind, will you? Look at them as long as you want." "Thank you!" said Eddy. "And be sure you latch the door, do you hear?" "All right," said Eddy, passing on to the next card. Payner hesitated as if not entirely satisfied with Eddy's answer; then turned to the door. "Just let down the catch, see?" he called once more, pausing with his hand on the fastening. "Yes, yes, I'll do it," returned Eddy, with a little petulance. It seemed hardly necessary that the injunction should be so often repeated. Payner went out, shutting the door behind him. Duncan Peck stood in the entry hallooing to some one below. He waited until the steps of the collector of coleoptera died away at the entrance of the building, then crept softly up to the door just closed, and gently tried it as he had done many times before. To his surprise it yielded to the pressure of his hand. Made cautious by a former experience, Duncan pushed the door very slowly until, through the widening crack, he perceived Eddy, standing before the table intent on the specimens. At this sight the evil-doer closed the door as softly as he had opened it, slipped back to his room, found his brother, and sent him over to the lecture to make sure of Payner's presence there. With great foresight, the Pecks had invented a device suited to just such an emergency as the present. They had prepared a little wooden plug which would almost fill the socket into which the door-latch springs, leaving but a thin edge to catch the latch. This slight hold of the latch would be sufficient to keep the door shut, but quite incapable of resisting pressure. As the locks of all the rooms were uniform, the plug which had been made to fit the Pecks' door could be counted on to produce the same effect on any door in the dormitory. Armed with this burglar's contrivance, Duncan crept back across the hall, pushed Payner's door ajar once more, and inserted his plug; then closed the door again and sneaked back to safety. In a few minutes the twins, secretly watching from their room, saw Eddy come out, slam the door, and go whistling downstairs. His whistle was still audible in the distance when Duncan stole down the entry and gave a hard push at Payner's knob. The door swung on its hinges. The long-desired opportunity had come at last! The ripping up of Payner's room was not as thorough a job as that by which the unhappy Moons had suffered. The twins were too much excited, and their eagerness to finish was too great to permit much elaboration. They dragged the chief articles of furniture around the desk; piled the bedding on the heap, and wet it down with a dash of water; smashed the lamp-shade in trying to make it sit securely on top, and filled the fireplace with pictures from the wall. To give distinction to the effect, the precious beetles were taken from their case, and pinned up over the fireplace in a hasty attempt to form the letters of the Latin _Salve_. When Payner returned from the lecture, half an hour later, he ran into the outworks of the heap, and sent the ruins of his shade crashing to the floor. The twins listened through the crack of their door, and trembled with excitement and eagerness, lashed by guilty consciences and yet defiant. But this one crash was all they heard. The door did not reopen, and no other sound came from within to indicate the feelings of their victim. Next morning when they went out to breakfast, they noticed that the card in the indicator at the entrance to the dormitory on which had been written opposite No. 7, _D. and D. Peck_, now bore the legend _The D--D Pecks_. It was Payner's defiance, his challenging gauntlet! But the Pecks, in their vainglory, laughed loudly and feared nothing. Two nights later when Donald, who was the first undressed, jumped into bed and thrust his feet down into the depths, he uttered a shriek and sprang headlong out. "What is it?" cried Duncan, turning around in amazement. "Some awful, clammy thing in the bed!" gasped Donald, shivering convulsively. Duncan instantly swept down the covers, and displayed a long, serpent-like, dark thing stretched across the bed. "What is it?" shrieked Donald, dancing on one foot. "An eel!" replied Duncan, calmly. "It's the season for eels. I wonder if I drew one, too." He threw open his own bed. At its foot lay a similar reptile. To the neck of each was attached a ribbon of paper bearing in neatly printed letters the legend: "The First Plague." CHAPTER IX A NEW INTEREST The midweek Seatonian printed a frantic editorial demanding that more fellows come out to try for the relay team. From the tenor of the article one would suppose that some calamity threatened which could only be averted by the timely arrival of a regiment of candidates. The spirit of the exhortation was worthy of Demosthenes. Ignorant that the new member of the staff who was trying his hand at editorials was substituting vehemence for skill after the manner of tyros, Rob was greatly mystified. He understood neither what a relay team was, nor how it could be so shockingly unpatriotic not to come out and try for it. So he asked Strong, the captain of the track team, for information; and Strong, who treated every inquirer as an over-modest candidate, promptly added his name to the list. Rob fell in obediently with the squad, and presently learned what it was all about. There was to be a team race of one mile with Hillbury six weeks later, at the great invitation winter meet of the Boston Athletic Association. Some other events besides this race were open to Seaton, and a considerable interest in the meeting had been worked up by Strong and Collins the trainer. Salter, a fat, good-natured senior, the butt of many a joke, but at the same time a favorite with the jokers, acted as captain's assistant. It was Salter who undertook to time Owen on his trial run on the wooden outside track that lies in a big, uneven oval in the hollow behind the gymnasium. When Owen, aglow with warmth despite uncovered ankles and the icy air of February, slowed down a dozen yards beyond the finish line and turned about to learn his time, the fat boy in the big ulster and tweed cap was not to be seen. He had hurried off to find Collins, leaving the runner to take care of himself. This circumstance, taken with the physical reaction which promptly set in, and the frigidity of the wind which whistled past his bare legs and bellied out his thin running trousers with a cold storage blast, did not encourage Rob in his experiment. He trotted back into the gymnasium, in ill humor with himself and the authorities, convinced that running was not his proper athletic forte, and stoutly resolved to have no more of it. He was still engaged in piling up fresh arguments to this effect, while he hurried his dressing so as to get back to the tricky geometry original which had caught him in its time-consuming labyrinth. As he buttoned his collar, the tweed cap and voluminous ulster hove in sight. "I stopped to see Collins," said Salter, "and tell him what good time you made. It's the best any new fellow's done this year!" Owen stared. "I thought it wasn't any good. I was making up my mind to cut the whole business; I'm not made for a runner." Salter looked shocked. "Oh, come now, you don't mean that! Why, I told Collins that you were just the man he was looking for to make out the team with Strong, Benton, and Rohrer. You'd be a fool to give up a chance like that to win against Hillbury." "Or maybe to lose the race for Seaton," Rob replied with some bitterness. "No, I thank you. On a short dash I might do something,--I used to be pretty good at beating out bunts,--but this quarter-mile business is beyond me." "Didn't I say your time was better than any other new man has made?" demanded Salter. "But what about the old ones?" Owen retorted. "Strong and Rohrer can beat it, and Benton probably, but that was your first attempt. You can improve on that." "So can a lot of other fellows. Here, let me through! I've got to get home and finish an original." But Salter still blocked the way. "What is it? Tell me and I'll start you on it." Owen gaped incredulous. "You couldn't do it offhand!" "I'll have a try at it," said Salter. "Look here, will you drop this quitter's talk about not running if I do the trick?" Rob hesitated. He knew little of Salter personally, but on general principles he felt himself safe. No fellow could know the whole four hundred and fifty originals in the plane geometry, and if Salter was like the average sport he couldn't know a dozen. Besides, Salter's geometry dated from the preceding year. To accept would be the easiest way to get rid of him. "All right," he rejoined, smiling, "but it's like getting money for nothing." He stated the theorem slowly and distinctly, so as to take no unfair advantage. "Want it repeated?" he asked, leering triumphantly into the serious face of his companion, whose knitted brow and abstracted expression showed that he was thinking hard. "No, I don't," replied the senior, suddenly breaking into a satisfied grin. "It's too dead easy. Look here!" He drew forth a block of paper from one pocket, a fountain pen from another, with a single flourish of the pen made an almost perfect circle on the paper, and rapidly threw in chords and tangents and added letters. "That's what you want to prove, isn't it? Well, this is the way it's done." At the end of a minute Rob stood with the slip of paper in his hand blushing to think that he had made so much of a simple matter, while Salter was calmly replacing his block and pen in his pockets. "You're in for it, all right. Of course, you know, I don't mean that you're sure of the team, but you've got a mighty good show, unless something unusual happens. There's Strong now." Strong stopped just long enough to congratulate Owen on his trial, and to tell him he had a good show for a position. The captain was followed by the trainer. When Rob emerged from the gymnasium a few minutes later he carried in his hand Salter's notes, and in his mind certain regular practice appointments with Collins. Startlingly sudden as had been his precipitation into the ranks of the relay men, he felt less elation on this account than amazement at the quickness with which the senior had opened a rift in the obscurity of the geometry. How could a fellow like Salter, who didn't look remarkably clever and certainly hadn't studied geometry for at least six months, give an impromptu demonstration like that! Was that the way in which originals were to be solved? If so, Rob Owen might as well get accustomed to a back seat; such feats were hopelessly beyond his slow powers! Unreconciled to the notion that an hour of his time was not equivalent to a minute of another's, he stopped at Lindsay's room to ask for information. "Salter? Of course I know him,--a good fellow he is, a perfect shark at lessons. You couldn't expect a man of his build to be athletic. What do you want to know about him?" Rob told his tale, adding rather shamefacedly that he suspected there was some trick about it. Lindsay laughed. "Not a bit of it. That's just the thing he can do. He's got a kind of X-ray mind for mathematics; he can see in a flash through all sorts of obstacles that we have to take a lot of time to work around. You can imagine what an awfully discouraging fellow he is to be in a class with. Why, he'll short-circuit a solution that a teacher's got out of a key, and find an easier way to do it." Owen felt relieved. He evidently wasn't such a fool after all. "Salter's best in mathematics, but he's good in everything. Last year he made a complete card catalogue of all the places and definitions in ancient history, with abstracts and dates and all that sort of thing written out on about three hundred separate cards in the neatest kind of a hand. He might have made a small fortune renting it out the fortnight before the examination, but he just let it go round, and of course some fellow was mean enough to take it off with him." Owen had his hand on the door-knob. "They've roped me in for that relay business. Strong says I've a show to make the team. Do you think it's worth while? I can play ball a little, and I'd like to make the nine, but I don't care for running." "If Collins wants you, I'd run," advised the senior. "He knows what he's about. It won't hurt your chances for baseball, and it's worth a lot to beat Hillbury at anything. They have mighty pretty prizes for that meet, too. Oh, have you seen what the school gave the football men?" It was a little engraved football of gold, bearing Lindsay's name. Rob handled it with reverence and yearning. How he would like to earn a thing like that! "It's pretty," said Lindsay, "but as I don't wear a watch charm, it's hardly useful. If it were a medal, now, I could put it up somewhere." Rob's eyes were resting on the mantel. Two silver cups were there which he had never seen before. Lindsay's gaze followed Rob's while his words anticipated the visitor's question. "I brought those two back with me when I went home last week. Got them both last summer. The two-handled one was for a yacht race, the small one I got in a swimming match." "What a beauty!" exclaimed Owen, taking up the heavy, ornate cup by one of its handles. "All the same I prefer the other," returned Lindsay, "for I won that all by myself. Anybody with a fast yacht can win a sailing prize. I had to beat seven men to win that little swimming cup. Two cups don't amount to much anyway. It's the running fellows that make the collections." "Strong must have a lot," sighed Owen, in the tone a poor man might use in speaking of a neighbor's millions. "It takes a college crack to pile them up," Lindsay observed. "Poole has been in Dickinson's room at Harvard, and he says Dickinson has a velvet shield two feet square, just thatched with medals, to say nothing of the cups all around. Just imagine what it must be to go to a great meet like the intercollegiate, and know in advance you're going to beat every one of the hundred men in your event! That's what Dickinson's been doing for the last two years." Rob tried his imagination, but it would not serve. It was like seeking to conceive stellar distances! "I must be getting back to work," he said. "I suppose I may as well go in for the relay, even if I don't accomplish anything." He said good-by, and returned to his desk for another attack on the original. Salter's notes proved an Ariadne's thread for the labyrinth; in ten minutes he was writing Q.E.D. at the foot of his sheet of paper with a satisfaction dimmed only by the fact that the demonstration was not wholly of his own making. A rattle at the door now announced that he in turn was to be visited. He knew the rattle, for it always heralded the coming of a Peck; but to-day he fancied it lacking in assurance, and he looked up at the door in a momentary thrill of curiosity. There were two Pecks this time, both unusually grave in aspect. One carried in his hand a covered pasteboard box. "More eels?" asked Owen, giving way frankly to the snicker which would come. The bearer of the box, whom Rob had provisionally fixed upon as Duncan, grinned sheepishly and answered: "No; guinea pigs this time." "Guinea pigs! Where?" "In the desk drawer, two of 'em," went on Duncan, trying hard to be jocose. "They are really quite--quite sweet. Want to see 'em?" Duncan raised the lid of the box a finger's width and Rob peeped in. "Pretty, aren't they!" observed the grinning Owen. "What are you going to do with them? I thought animals weren't allowed in the dormitories." "That's just where the chump's meanness comes in!" burst out Donald. "We couldn't throw the things out alive, of course, and we couldn't kill 'em. Lady Jane" (the matron) "came in on us while we had 'em on the table,--caught us with the goods on us, she thought,--and jawed us like a stepmother for defying the school rules. When we said some one put 'em in the desk drawer, she thought we were lying and threatened to have us fired for breaking the rules and not showing her proper respect. I call it a low-down trick!" "Here's what we found with them," interrupted Duncan. "What does it mean?" Rob took the slip of paper on which was written in print: "The Second Plague." "I suppose it means what it says," he remarked. "And there are more plagues to follow?" "Yes." "How many?" "How many do you suppose!" exclaimed Rob, derisively. "How many plagues of Egypt were there?" "That's the question," replied Duncan. "I say there were three, and Don says there were seven. Which is it now?" Owen sniffed. "You fellows had better join Dr. Norton's Bible class, and learn something." He took down a Bible from his bookcase and fluttered the leaves to the chapters in Exodus in which the plagues are described. "The first was turning the river into blood, so that the fish died, the second frogs, the third lice, the fourth flies, the fifth--" "Oh, ring off!" shouted the impatient Donald. "Don't harrow our feelings with all that. How many were there, can't you tell us? or don't you know yourself?" "Ten," answered Rob, curtly, replacing the book. The brothers stared at each other blankly, each seeking comfort and finding none. "You don't really think Payner'd be mean enough to put all those on us, do you?" Duncan asked after an impressive period of silence. "There's a whole menagerie to draw from, if he's cussed enough," growled Donald. "Who was cussed enough to rip up his room?" Rob's visitors sought information, not judicial criticism; but the opportunity was one that he could not resist. "How does he know that we stacked his room?" For the moment Donald was like an unfortunate victim of circumstances pleading "not guilty" to a false charge. "How do you know that he is sending the plagues?" Owen replied quietly. "He's got you there, Don," said Duncan. "We're up against it all right. There's no use trying to squirm." "Who's trying to squirm?" retorted Donald. "Let him bring on his plagues--a bunch of mummies if he wants to. He won't feaze me." With this the pair departed to continue their analysis of the situation in their own quarters, and later to endeavor to sell the guinea pigs to a drug-store man to display in his window. CHAPTER X MR. CARLE WANTS TO KNOW The winter was wearing away. The third battery was plodding steadily along at its task in the cage, with few critical spectators and almost no interference from superiors. A more eager, trusting pupil than Patterson no teacher ever had. So ready was the pitcher to take the suggestion of his catcher as a maxim, that Rob had to set a watch upon himself, that he might not overload the docile learner with useless or questionable directions. He kept to a simple system of coaching, told Patterson nothing of which he was not himself sure, trusted him to throw his curves in his own way, but held him inexorably to accuracy. Owen never would allow practice to begin unless with plate in position and pitcher's distance well marked; he made his pitcher warm up thoroughly before he began with curves; he would not permit a pitch without a distinct understanding as to what the ball was to be. At the beginning Patterson had but a single ball of which he was sure,--which he could deliver as he wanted it, and when it was wanted. On two or three others he was uncertain, sometimes successful, more often wild. Owen's task was to construct out of these possibilities the "three bread and butter balls" which form the chief stock in trade of the good pitcher. Stated thus simply the task would seem simple; in fact, it was most difficult, although Patterson's implicit confidence in his catcher and absolute eagerness to take his advice smoothed many obstacles from the path. Few boys are willing to believe that the great pitchers achieve their greatest success through the clever manipulation and variation of a very small number of curves. When Owen repeated McLennan's assertion that three or four good balls, with brains, were enough for any pitcher to use, Patterson believed him and strove for the three good balls; when Owen explained that the most deceptive ball for a good batsman is not a new one with an unexpected curve, but a familiar one with speed disguised, Patterson set to work to acquire a change of pace with the same apparent method of delivery. In the beginning Owen would hold his hands where the ball was to come, and hold them there again and again until the right ball did come. When a certain accuracy with the three bread and butters was attained, the catcher would place his hands over the plate shoulder high, and require a certain ball to be thrown at them, repeating the exercise a foot to the right and to the left at the same height, and in the three corresponding positions just above the level of the knee. Sometimes he got in a batter to add distraction to the problem. Having early discovered that Patterson could throw a very good jump ball, he made him practise on the "initial cutter," a ball which just skims the breast of the batsman, and which even an expert is frequently tempted to strike at, though he knows he cannot hit it safely. The mere fact of Patterson's implicit dependence would have been enough to impress Rob with a sense of responsibility. As the weeks went by, however, another fact which gradually forced itself into recognition added seriously to this feeling. Patterson was splendid raw material, which the catcher was either developing or spoiling in the course of his lessons. To become a superior pitcher, one must be physically capable of applying great power suddenly and convulsively. This ability may be expected only in an intensely nervous temperament, in which muscles are doubly powerful under excitement, or in one of absolutely cold blood, which grows colder and more tense and more silently fierce as the strain of the contest increases. Patterson was of the former class, quick and snappy in movement, with concentrated impulse and muscles answering instantly to stimulus. In addition to the right temperament he was blessed with the ability to "get up," that is, to start the ball with a full arm swing which makes it possible to bring the body into the movement and increase greatly the radius of the throwing arc. His curves, moreover, came easily, and his arm did not readily lame. Over against these excellences were to be set lack of experience in the field, and an inclination to nervousness and faint-heartedness which only a series of unquestioned successes or the quiet support of a trusted battery mate would be likely to dispel. While the third string battery was thus busy with its serious but unregarded work, Carle was riding hard along the road of popularity. He was rarely by himself these days, except when he slept. He loafed away many study hours in other fellows' rooms, spoke contemptuously of serious work, trotted his lessons whenever possible, loved to show himself in the company of supposed swells, was frequently seen lounging in druggists' windows or standing in a group of noisy fellows at the crossings with hands bulging the pockets of his wide trousers, talking loudly and swaggering. Though Carle as a scholarship man was expressly debarred from smoking, Poole neither by admonition nor exhortation could succeed in keeping the cigarette wholly from the pitcher's lips--and why indeed? Did not most of the great professionals smoke even in their playing season! "He's a dead sport, that Carle!" remarked Duncan Peck one day during an interval between plagues. "I don't see how he can pitch." "But he can," replied Owen, to whom the remark was made, "or at least he could last year." "Oh, I know he can," Duncan made haste to reply. "Haven't I seen him do stunts in the cage. It's great, but he doesn't seem quite the kind of fellow that makes a fine athlete, like Laughlin, for example, or Lindsay, or Strong, or any of those fellows." Owen did not reply. He held no brief for his townsman. Carle had long since ceased to manifest any desire for Owen's society, and Owen, in natural pique, would make no advances on the basis of their old friendship. Their ways seemed destined to lie apart. One day early in March a letter was delivered at Rob's room, addressed in an unfamiliar hand, yet bearing the well-known postmark "Terryville, Pa." He had just come in from the gymnasium, where Strong had announced to him the final decision as to the make-up of the relay team which was to compete in Boston on the following Saturday. Owen was the choice for fourth man over Jacobson, who, though perhaps no slower, had been adjudged less capable of holding up under strain. With thoughts fluttering excitedly under a variety of emotions, among which half-hearted regret and a sort of dread had place with elation, Rob gazed at the address on the envelope, and vaguely wondered who could be the sender. He felt for the moment actual resentment at being compelled to exchange the temporarily glorified Seaton atmosphere for the uninteresting common air of Terryville. The letter, however, had much more to do with Seaton than with Terryville. It ran as follows:-- "Dear Robert,-- "Is anything the matter with Ned? We are worried about him. I have just had a letter from the secretary of Seaton saying he has been put on study hours, whatever that is, for unexcused absences and for neglecting his work. The dining hall also sent me another notice that the last bill had not been paid. I sent Ned the money for it more than two weeks ago. He keeps writing for money, but don't say much about himself, and can't seem to answer any questions at all. We've lived awful close this winter to keep Ned away to school, and the last money I had to take from the bank, which I really hadn't ought to do. What makes the school cost so much more than they said it was going to? Are they sticking us, or ain't Ned doing right? I've talked with your father, but he don't seem to know. I wish you'd talk with Ned and put him straight if there's anything the matter. He thinks a lot of you. When he was home Christmas everything was fine; but there's been a change somewhere. I'm a poor man, and can't do for him like your father does for you, so I wish you'd be careful not to put him up to being extravagant. He's free-handed and easy led, and likes to do the same as his friends. Now, Robert, just remember his ma and me kind of hold you responsible for the boy, and try to help him and us. "Yours truly," John H. Carle. Throwing the letter with a violent snap into the corner of the room, Rob rested his elbows on the table, dropped his chin into his two hands, and contemplated the rows of books in the case with eyes that saw nothing and a mind upheaved in indignant protest. Relay team and baseball were forgotten, and along with them the French verbs which he had failed on at the last exercise, and the appointment for an English conference which it was hazardous to miss. Vehement thoughts like his insist on sole possession. He tempt Carle to extravagance, have influence with him, be responsible for him! What an utterly false and unfair assumption! What right had Mr. Carle to send him that kind of a letter, or suppose any such thing, when for two months Ned had done no more than nod to him when they chanced to meet in the street? It was outrageous! It would be better to write the father plainly the facts in the case, incredible as they might appear, rather than suffer longer under the unjust imputation. To this the feeling of loyalty, strongest and most unreasoning of all healthy student instincts, interposed its veto. He could not write the father of the shortcomings of the son, any more than he could declare them to the school authorities. Indeed, it was not necessary to do so. He had given Mr. Owen in his yesterday's letter a tolerably full account of conditions, and his father might tell Mr. Carle as much as he chose. It was tough business for Mr. Carle. Rob rose and went to the window, his thoughts now diverted from his own side of the matter to the sacrifice and disappointment of the Carles. It was certainly hard on the parents; he felt sincerely sorry for them. How could Ned play them so false! Rob turned from the window, picked up the crumpled letter, took his hat, and went out. Mr. Carle had asked him to have a talk with Ned. He hated above all things to do it, but sooner or later his conscience would drive him to it, and it was better to have the disagreeable task over at once than to worry for days and then do it.--Besides, there was very little probability that Carle would be at home. Haynes White was just coming out of Carter 13 as Rob approached. White was a clever senior who did tutoring in upper middle subjects. The query flashed into Rob's mind, as he knocked at the door, whether White was there to help Carle get ready for the history examination which was due on the following day. There was nothing wrong in this, to be sure, though it was hardly to be expected that scholarship men would have money to spend in tutoring. Carle greeted him with politeness and visible surprise; then waited to learn the reason of his visit. Rob also, suddenly confronted by the necessity of putting his plea into fitting words, stood for some seconds speechless, unable to think of any diplomatic way of broaching an unpleasant subject. The constraint at last grew too painful to be endured. Abandoning all hope of devising a proper opening, he held out Mr. Carle's letter and said: "Read it!" In silence, but with flushed face and a defiant hardening at the corners of his mouth, as if he expected reproof, Ned took the letter and read it through. When he had finished, the flush was deeper, and anger as well as defiance displayed itself in his face. "What does he want to write you all that stuff for! I don't see what business it is of yours." "He seems to hold me responsible." "The old man is all off; I should think you'd know enough to let the thing alone." "But, Ned, he isn't all off," answered Rob, sailing blindly in. "He's wrong if he thinks you're following my lead, but he's right about the main thing. You're living the wrong kind of a life here. A fellow in your place can't run with the fast gang you're going with. You simply can't do it; you'll ruin yourself trying to." "That's easy enough for you to say," retorted Carle, hotly, "when you can have whatever money you want, and aren't in with anybody. If you're in the swim you've got to spend something. My old man ought to have kept me at home if he didn't mean to give me what's necessary. I'm no long-haired grind." "But he can't give you more; he says so in the letter. He hasn't it to give." This was an unfortunate fact against which argument was as powerless as acid against oil. "Is that all you've got to say?" asked Carle, sullenly, after a brief period of silence. "Because if it is, I've got something I'd like to do." Yes, that was all. Owen could think of nothing else to say, and took his dismissal willingly. It had been an unpleasant scene, but brief; he had tried to do his duty in the matter, and even if he hadn't been wholly skilful, he felt relieved that it was all behind him. Poor Mr. Carle! CHAPTER XI THE RELAY RACE Only the actual competitors were allowed to leave town for the Boston meet, so unless he could contrive to receive mandatory invitations from friends to spend Sunday in Boston, or devise especial business to call him peremptorily to the city, the average student must abandon all hope of seeing the contest. Wolcott Lindsay, who lived in Boston, went home for the Sunday, and got an invitation for Durand. One boy had to visit his dentist, another his guardian, a third a doctor, a fourth to buy absolutely necessary clothes which could not be procured at Seaton. The twins, who took an extraordinary interest in the event from the moment they learned that their neighbor was on the team, canvassed at great length the prospects of getting away. Duncan was on study hours and could hope for no favors, but he persuaded his brother that the only fair way was that Donald, whose scholarship usually secured him the favor of teachers, should ask permission on certain plausible grounds, and the two then draw lots for the privilege of going, the one left behind in any case to represent Duncan. Unfortunately for the scheme, when Donald applied for his permission he was obliged to confess that he had received no specific invitation to visit his aunt in Brookline, and that in the whole course of his stay in Seaton he had never, until this particular Saturday, felt the serious nature of his family obligation. So the scheme came to naught, and the Pecks stayed at home. The huge space of the Mechanics Building on Huntington Avenue was circled by deep fringes of spectators packed in double galleries and crowded close to the outer edge of the thirteen-lap track. Here were phalanxes of boys from Boston schools, straining their throats in crying up the courage of their schoolmates; college youths in rival camps, their emulous cheers varying through a wide range, from the staccato spelling of some college name to the "three long Harvards" of the Cambridge men; women and girls who brought to the contest tense interest and strong sympathy, if not expert knowledge; men who loved athletics for their own sake, who, if they did not "delight in the strength of a horse," certainly "took pleasure in the legs of a man." It was like a dozen tournaments and a dozen audiences crowded into one. Saturated with the feeling that the Seaton-Hillbury struggle was the event of the day, and new to the whole medley of many institutions contesting in ceaseless uproar, Owen was at first both bewildered and discouraged. In the terrific din the crack of the starter's pistol and the bellowing of announcers were well-nigh drowned by the blare of band music, the cheers of untiring supporters, and the recurring waves of general applause. He watched the Harvard-Pennsylvania relay match, in which veterans ran like blooded race horses amid tremendous excitement, and felt still more disheartened. The place seemed so vast, the interests of contestants so diverse, the big college teams so all-important, that the Seaton-Hillbury race could hardly prove more than one of the minor details of the meet,--in fact, might be carelessly managed or neglected. And yet, as he knew well, to the impatient waiters for a telegram at Seaton, there was but one contest in the day's programme; and no explanation that it was but a small part of a great performance would be accepted in palliation of defeat. There seemed no end of contests and no beginning, but just one long series of overlapping performances. In the area belted by the big wooden track a cloud of contestants had been engaged in running off interminable heats in the forty-five yards dash. Jeffrey, the Seaton representative, did not reach the semi-finals. Meantime, giants of many medals and astonishing records, gathered by invitation from all points of the compass, were tossing the sixteen-pound shot in the space reserved for that amusement. The six hundred yards handicap men were strung out, according to the privileges they had received from the handicapper, a third of the way round the track; but near the starting-line they were herded like cattle and sent off in a drove. Rob's courage was at its lowest ebb as he witnessed the wild scramble at the first corner, where one unfortunate fell against the legs of another, and put three men out of position. It was hard to obtain a fair chance under these conditions. But Rhines of Seaton got a place at the finish, and the waiting relay man felt better. Immediately afterward, he was pursuing with breathless attention a fiercely fought contest between two rival Boston schools, in which the leadership shifted with every lap, and the victor passed his competitor within ten feet of the finish line. The announcer shouted out the time, which proved to be but a trifle slower than the college men had made, the crowd roared, the camp of supporters of the victorious team just opposite yelled and threw their blue banners in the air,--oh, no, the big teams weren't the whole thing by any means! "Good, wasn't it!" said a fat man, beaming at his friend in the corner of a seat near where Rob was standing. "But if you want to see two teams fight for their lives, you just wait for the Seaton-Hillbury race. They're terribly scrappy fellows." It may not have been a compliment, but Rob took it as such, and held up his head; yet how he longed to have the whole thing successfully over, or at least for the return of the old sense of individual security which he had always felt on the ball field, even under the most untoward circumstances. The Seaton-Hillbury men were called. Away over in the distant corner, a little knot of spectators became suddenly excited; a tall, broad-shouldered fellow stood forth and swung his arms. Before him were the boys who had had to visit their tailors, their dentists, their doctors, their guardians, their dear relatives in city or suburbs. The familiar Seaton cheers rang out, feeble and far away, yet filled with a message of confidence and support. Rob felt the thrill of gratitude as he recognized Wolcott Lindsay leading the cheering, and saw the little group swelled by recruits from Seatonians in college, who pressed in about the nucleus. The team was not friendless in the great hall. The pistol cracked and the first pair were off, Rohrer of Seaton and Leyland of Hillbury. Neck and neck they ran to the first turn, where the Hillbury man got the inside and kept it for a whole lap, with Rohrer close at his heels and just outside. As they flashed by, Rob counted excitedly _one_, and followed them with his eyes as they swung round on the second circle. On the back stretch Rohrer tried to pass, but was crowded out at the turn and for the second time the pair swept by. This time Rohrer reached the curve even with his man, clung to him as he rounded the end, and once more on the back stretch drove himself to gain the inside at the turn. In his intense interest in the contest Rob had forgotten that his own labor was just about to begin; but Collins, faithful, watchful Collins, put him on his guard; and as the exhausted pair came straining in, like horses lashed across the finish line, Rob stood ready with yearning muscles and quivering nerves to touch hands with Rohrer and speed away. Rohrer gave him a lead of three good yards. Could he keep this lead? For the first hundred yards, yes, or for a long stretch in which endurance was of equal value with speed; but for the intermediate distance, for the three hundred ninety yards which was the length of course he had to run with Kurtz, he had no confidence in his powers. One thing, however, he was determined on. Whether Kurtz was ahead or behind, whether he was gaining or losing, he would run his stretch to the limit of his powers. Around the first curve he was safe. On the back stretch Kurtz was gaining,--he knew it from the roars of the crowd,--but he still kept the pole at the second curve and crossed the starting line still ahead. Then Kurtz appeared at his elbow, passed by, swung into the curve just before him, gained on the back stretch, and passed the starting line at the end of the second lap ten yards ahead. Strong panted and quivered as he saw the distance grow, and Collins set his lips together and clenched his hands; but neither had a word of blame for the runner as he passed them on his last lap. "After him!" cried Collins. "Run it out!" screamed Strong. And Rob, hopeless but game to the end, dug his spikes into the track and drove himself steadily forward. Yes, Kurtz was faster, but--not stronger. At the turn they were still ten yards apart, on the straightaway beyond but seven separated the contestants. Around the last curve Rob steadily plodding gained three more on his weakening antagonist. When some seconds later, Strong, trembling with eagerness, touched his hand and darted away like a wild animal after its prey, Hillbury was but three yards ahead. "I lost it!" gasped Rob, on Collins' shoulder. "Not a bit of it!" retorted Collins. "You've done all I meant you to do. Kurtz was their best man. Look at Strong beat the stuffing out of that Hapgood!" It was even so. Strong was trying Kurtz's trick of rushing by his antagonist with a burst of high speed, and trusting then to discouragement to keep the Hillbury man behind. When he crossed the starting line for the first time he had a lead of five yards; at the end of the second lap his margin was twelve. When Benton took up the race for the final heat, he was indebted to his captain for a ten yards' start. And here, to the joy of the crowd and the fright of the Seatonians, came an unexpected development. Royce of Hillbury went at his task with startling vigor. On the first round he gained four yards, on the second three, on the back stretch of the third he was close at Benton's elbow, but Benton still held the inside as they rounded the curve; and the yard lost on the outside run the plucky Hillburyite could not make up. He was still a yard in the rear when Benton breasted the tape at the finish line. It was Rob's first and last race. Delighted yet regretful, trembling in every limb, and suddenly deprived of his strength like Samson under Delilah's shears, he dragged himself into the dressing rooms for his bath and rub down. Here he was congratulated and thanked by Lindsay and Durand and others of the thin cheering line. Here they brought him his prize, which he received with joy tempered with humility. If Strong and Rohrer had not done better than himself and Benton, the prizes would now be in other hands. CHAPTER XII AN INTERRUPTED EVENING The lustre of the victory over Hillbury rested on the quartette about forty-eight hours. Had Royce got beyond Benton on that last curve, as he had almost succeeded in doing, and Seaton's portion been defeat instead of victory, there would have been a cloud over the school for a much longer period. Owen, having never felt the change in atmosphere which defeat brings, did not appreciate his escape. The victory seemed an unimportant matter, taken lightly, soon forgotten. The school looked up, smiled, and went about its daily routine. Rob put his prize in his desk drawer, and followed the school's example. One of his unconfessed ambitions had been to win a prize for composition. Wolcott Lindsay had put the idea into his head, not by any direct suggestion, but by the respect with which he spoke of some of the fellows who had succeeded. Lindsay himself was on the _Seatonian_, but Owen felt no ambition to enter into competition before his schoolmates for a position on that paper. The composition was comparatively secret. If he tried and failed, nobody need know the fact but the judges who read the compositions. Owen's production on--let us not say what--was nearly ready to hand in. He had built no elaborate hopes upon it, but he would have liked sincerely to surprise his father with some achievement which Mr. Owen would value. Prowess in athletics was to Mr. Owen but superiority in play, often shared with the idle and the vicious. In scholarship Rob could never hope to rank above a low B; he had no gift for public speaking; no one ever urged him for office. In the composition, perhaps, he might win some place; it was at least worth trying. He was busy with this effort one evening after the rest of his work was done, when his attention was suddenly distracted by a hubbub which arose at that end of the corridor where lay the abiding-place of the Pecks. He knew they were both on study hours, Donald having just been put on along with French and Jacobson, as the result of a series of petty and apparently accidental annoyances in poor Mr. Payne's recitation room. It was hardly conceivable, therefore, that the twins would have attempted any noisy demonstration on their own initiative. Owen remembered the plagues, and hastened forth to have a part in the spectacle. Others were also curious. He noticed, as he hurried past, that Payner's door was just ajar; and through the six-inch crack to which Smith cautiously limited the opening of his door, his lank, narrow-shouldered form was silhouetted against the light of the study lamp in the background, while curious eyes, doubly protected by glasses and a study shield, peered wonderingly forth. Owen knocked at the Pecks' door, but received no response. Instead came the sound of blows struck with some hard object, of running, jumping feet, and of heated exclamations, some inarticulate, some distinct but mysterious, mingled in rapid exchange. "There he goes!" "Look out!" "I hit him then!" "Never touched him!" "Where is he?" Then more whacks, more jumps, and more exclamations. Rob pushed the door open a few inches, and perceived a Peck armed with a golf club sweeping it beneath the sofa. The wielder of the club seemed to be successful in his search, for he jumped suddenly back, smote the floor savagely with the brassey, and catching sight of a face peering in through the crack, shouted to his twin: "Shut the door, can't you? Lock it!" A command which was obeyed so promptly that had Owen's nose been longer, or his disposition more pushing, he must inevitably have suffered personal injury. While he stood irresolute, uncertain whether to accept the indignity as deserved, or threaten reprisal, he heard steps ascending the stairs with labored celerity, and the face of Dr. Mann, swollen with indignation, appeared at the corner. "Owen, what is the meaning of this disturbance?" the teacher demanded. "I don't know, sir," replied Rob. "They seem to be hunting something in there." Dr. Mann knocked, but as one of the inmates was at that moment thrashing wildly at an object in a corner, and the other was vociferating advice and encouragement, naturally no heed was given to the summons. "Open the door!" commanded Dr. Mann. Still no answer. The noise of blows ceased. Favored by the lull, the teacher again lifted up a voice of sternness. "It is I, Dr. Mann. I demand that you open the door instantly!" At last he had made himself heard. "Coming, sir!" shouted one within, and the door was thrown open. Dr. Mann strode in, followed by Owen. Duncan was mopping up ink on the floor with a towel. "Will you be good enough to explain this outrageous disturbance!" began the teacher. "Why is it that I am compelled to come up here to secure for my guests below the privilege of ordinary peace and quiet? And you are both on study hours!" Rob turned abruptly away and grinned discreetly at the Indian's head over the fireplace. Those guests made the case doubly hard for the rioters. Dr. Mann could not allow his colleagues to suppose that he was accustomed to put up with such disorder. The ill-starred Pecks were evidently up against it! [Illustration: "There's the rat, sir," said Duncan.--_Page 127._] "We're very sorry, sir, that you were disturbed," Donald was saying, "but it really wasn't our fault. Some one threw a live rat in at the door and we've been hunting it. We didn't mean to make any disturbance." "Incredible!" exclaimed Dr. Mann. "There's the rat, sir," said Duncan, holding up by the tail the unfortunate cause of all the trouble. "You can see it yourself." Dr. Mann could see it. There was unquestionably a dead rat; and the ink spilled on the floor, the jar knocked from the mantel, the disordered furniture, scattered books, and the excited faces of the boys attested the fact that the poor animal had not been an expected guest. "Who could have played such a contemptible trick!" exclaimed the teacher, in disgust. "Did you see who threw it in?" "No, we were studying at the desk, and some one opened the door so quietly we didn't notice it, and chucked the thing right at us." "Strange!" mused Dr. Mann. Strange, indeed! Yet after all not so strange to one who possessed the key. Rob held rolled in his hand a slip of paper which he had taken from the floor during the discussion. He glanced at it furtively as he stood listening, and smiled an involuntary and promptly extinguished smile as he read the expected legend, "The Third Plague." Even Dr. Mann might have formed a fairly accurate suspicion if he had considered the manner of the twins. Here was no wondering indignation, no loud invective against an unknown perpetrator, but the sullen bitterness of those who nourish a personal spite. But Dr. Mann, learned in ancient lore, had but slight knowledge of boys. "I can't understand it," he said at length. "The matter must be looked into. It shows a sad misunderstanding of the Seaton spirit. One of you will please carry the animal to some proper place, and then perhaps we may have quiet again." Duncan volunteered for this duty, and Dr. Mann and Owen retired. The latter reappeared, however, as soon as he heard Duncan's step on the stairs, in order to deliver the paper which he had secured. "Oh, you had it!" exclaimed Duncan, as he read the label. "I thought it must be somewhere. Seven more! Gee whiz! I don't believe I can stand it." "You'd better come to terms with him," said Owen. "I wish we could," sighed Duncan, "but Don's got his back up and he will never give in. This living in perpetual fear of your life is wearing. I always pull my bed to pieces every night to make sure there isn't anything there, and I never can get it together tight again. Go and see him, won't you, and see what he says." Owen grinned. The prospect of acting as intermediary pleased him. "All right," he said cheerfully. "What terms do you offer?" "None," replied Duncan. "Just sound him and get his terms. And don't say we sent you." Duncan returned to his room and Owen knocked at Payner's door. "Who's there?" demanded the cautious inmate. "Owen." "Any one with you?" "No." The door was unlocked to admit Rob, the catch being immediately snapped behind him. "'Fraid of burglars?" asked Rob, facetiously. "'Fraid of something, sure enough," replied Payner, quietly. "You can't be any too careful in this place." "Payner, how long are you going to keep this thing up?" asked Rob, coming with most undiplomatic directness straight to his point. "What up?" "Oh, all this plague business,--eels and guinea pigs and rats." Payner snickered. "Did they send you?" "No, they didn't. That is, not really and officially. I'm just making inquiries in the general interest of peace." Payner sniffed. "What business is it of yours?" Owen hesitated. "Oh, I'd like to help both sides. I don't want to see either suffer." "I'm not suffering, I can tell you that. I didn't begin this thing, and I'm not going to cry baby. Those fellows attacked me without any kind of provocation, sneaked into my room, ripped it up, and damaged a lot of valuable specimens. If they've had enough, the least they can do is to come here and apologize and promise to behave." "And you'll agree to apologize, too?" asked the mediator. "Apologize nothing! I'll tell 'em what I'll do, when they come." Feeling somewhat humble over the failure of his mission, and at the same time more or less persuaded of the justice of Payner's cause, Owen returned to Number 7 and called the Pecks to the door. "Apologize!" cried Donald, when Owen finished his report; "apologize for having eels put in your bed and rats thrown at you? Never!" "We did begin it," observed Duncan, in a less violent tone. "We didn't; he began it," returned Donald. "Didn't he butt in about the Moons' room?" Owen turned away in annoyance. "Do as you please," he said, "but you're fools not to patch up with him some way." Rob sat down at his desk, less disposed to find excuse for the Pecks than ever before. "It's that pig-headed Donald that causes the trouble," he was thinking. "Duncan would settle the thing right off, but he's scared of his brother;" and while his mind was rebelliously following the affairs of the Pecks, and refusing to apply itself on the composition, a knock was heard at the door, and the unfinished work was again shoved into a drawer out of sight. "Hello, Ned!" cried Owen, looking up in surprise as Carle appeared. "Glad to see you," he added cordially; "sit down." His first impression at sight of Carle's serious face was that the pitcher had reconsidered the interview of last week and come to make amends. Otherwise I am afraid his greeting would have been less cordial. "Is your room-mate in?" Carle asked, looking toward the bedroom door. "He's getting his Greek with a fellow downstairs. Do you want him?" "No, I want you. Can you lend me twenty dollars?" Rob knew that he had not twenty dollars on hand, or half that sum, but instead of saying so, he answered by a question:-- "What for?" "I've got to have twenty to settle with a man before to-morrow morning. If I don't ante up he's going to see Graham, and I'll be fired sure." "I'm short," said Owen, wondering what this trouble was about. "I might let you have five." "That isn't enough," replied Carle, evidently disappointed, turning toward the door. "I've got to have twenty anyway. I'll try some one else. Good night." And before Owen had time for further questions, the door closed behind his visitor, and Rob was left alone. And now more time was wasted in considering Carle's case, and guessing at the cause of his urgent need. The composition at last came out, but not until Simmons had returned with his Greek books under his arm, and the lessons for the morning packed away in complete order in his little brain. Presently another knock was heard, and the literary work was definitely abandoned. "Hello, Owen," said Poole, rushing in. "Can I see you a minute?" Simmons obligingly retired to his bedroom, and Poole began:-- "I've just been talking with Mr. Lovering about Carle. He says the faculty are very much dissatisfied with him and he's very likely to lose his scholarship. I heard yesterday that he owed a lot of different fellows. What are we going to do about it?" Owen shook his head. "I don't know. I can't do anything with him. His father wrote me last week, asking me to talk with Ned. I tried it, but it didn't amount to anything." "But we must do something," persisted Poole. "A good pitcher is half the nine, and we haven't any one else within sight of him. I don't believe O'Connell will come to anything." "But Patterson will," was on Owen's lips. He checked the words, however, before they were uttered, and said instead: "Carle was here just before you came in, trying to borrow some money. He said he must have twenty dollars before tomorrow morning. I couldn't lend him anything." "Where did he go?" "After some one who could get him the money." "And he's on study hours. What a fool!" cried Poole, as he clapped on his hat and started for the door. "He acts as if he'd set his heart on getting fired. Good night!" Owen echoed the salutation with emphasis, and got himself ready for bed. It was depressing to spend so much time on other people's affairs, and yet be of no apparent use. Then he bethought himself of Patterson, and felt better. There was one fellow who took his advice! CHAPTER XIII A WANING STAR The next morning, when Rob saw Carle swinging merrily off after chapel with a pair of irresponsible cronies, he judged that the twenty dollars had been found and the crisis averted. This was true. Unfortunately, however, the first successful effort, under spur of special necessity, to override the school decree as to study hours encouraged him to repeat the act of contempt a few days later. This time he made the most of the glamour of heroism attached by some boys to the reckless defier of authority. His triumph was short-lived. It is a peculiarity of this unsubstantial tribute of admiration that it is given, not for breaking the rules, but for daring to break them and for escaping unscathed. The maladroit who tries the heroic and is detected meets only contempt and derision. Carle was detected and put on special probation--the last stage on the outward way. It is not impossible for a boy, even at this dangerous point, to take a new grip and by steady pulling draw himself gradually back to a position of safety. This thought was Poole's only comfort, who now, desperately anxious for his pitcher, was ready to undergo any sacrifice if it would but avail to save his man. All forces possible were brought to bear on Carle himself and his surroundings. His friends were urged to try to stiffen him up. Mr. Graham's counsel and assistance were sought. The Principal gladly gave the encouragement to Poole that he would have given to any boy interested in steadying another in the right way; but at the same time he suggested that fellows whose moral energy needs to be bolstered up by extraneous means almost always prove a poor reliance on the athletic field. He did not say, as he might have done, that no amount of skill can make up for lack of grit and determination and honest effort; and that the sooner a trifler is disposed of, the less the ultimate disappointment will be. Poole, though himself above reproach, was not ready for such a doctrine. He saw only that the nine must have a pitcher, and that Carle was a star who must be kept in school by all fair means. To all other considerations the captain was blind. Owen, among the rest, was pressed into this crusade, though as Carle took very little notice of him, it was hard to see of what use he could be to the cause. In spite of his pity for Mr. Carle, he could not arouse himself to the desired pitch either of personal interest or of patriotic feeling. He knew Ned too well to cherish any delusion about his character; after four months of drifting in self-indulgence with the current, it was quite unlikely that Carle would have the strength to reverse his course and force his way inflexibly against it. And as for the school's need of a pitcher, Rob had, as we know, his own reason for regarding Carle as not indispensable. So the last fortnight of the winter term crept by, with Carle under watch and ward to prevent critical offence. He was coached in his lessons, guarded from undesirable visitors, showered abundantly with moral advice, earnestly admonished of his loyal obligations to the school. Flattering as this distinction was, it had its unpleasant side. In the first place Carle had to work--and work had become for him the least attractive way of spending his time. Secondly, a dreary prospect stretched before him: he must continue to work like a man pumping for his life; for if he slackened pace or relapsed into his old habits, special probation became immediately "severed connection." Thirdly, there was no fun in it, and no likelihood of fun. His disgust with the position grew more intense as the days dragged painfully along. The events of these days which especially concern this narrative may be briefly enumerated. Another plague visited the Pecks. Number four was chemical, not zoölogical in its character, and while its effect lasted it seemed more severe than any of its predecessors. If you wish to know what it was like,--I advise strongly against the experiment,--pour two ounces of sulphuretted hydrogen into an open dish in a closed room. As Duncan reported sadly to Owen the next day, "It smelt like the concentrated essence of rotten eggs, as if a whole car-load of 'em had been stewed down into a spoonful." After this Duncan openly declared for peace, but Donald hardened his heart. Owen, once more appealed to, approached Payner again, but the avenger was obdurate. He would not take the apology of one for both, and he would not undertake to distinguish between two indistinguishables; they were both bad until both were good. * * * * * The names of the prize winners in composition were read aloud in chapel. Two were awarded prizes and one received honorable mention. When Mr. Graham announced that he was about to read the names, Rob felt a thrill of sudden emotion, and, dropping his eyes like a timid girl abashed at public praise, listened expectant, half convinced that the next moment the glances of his neighbors would be aimed at him. And when the names of the fortunate were read, with no Robert Owen among them, and the applause burst forth about him, he kept his gaze still fixed upon the floor, penetrated through and through with shame at his presumption. In a moment, however, he held up his head and joined in the clapping with a vehemence that added a second or two to its length. Why should he care? He had as much right to try for the prize as any one. Nobody knew he had tried anyway, except Simmons, and Simmons would keep quiet. [Illustration: The Chapel Stairs.] So Rob jostled his way downstairs with the crowd, and strove to think no more of his disappointment. It kept recurring, however, in heavy moments during the Greek recitation, and once he was almost caught napping by a stray question as he dwelt longingly on the satisfaction he might have had in making the announcement to his father. A prize for an essay would have been an antidote for a whole season of parental objections to baseball! That morning was blue all through. Simmons's well-meant commiseration buried him still deeper in the dumps. He brooded in unreasonable discouragement over the fancied failures of the year. The relay prize, his only success, had come to him in defeat through the efforts of another. In baseball he was to be numbered among the substitutes; his scholarship was mediocre; he possessed none of the qualities which bring popularity. Then he bethought himself of Carle, and the dangers of popularity and success as exemplified in the career of that youth, and felt some comfort. Mediocrity was at least safe. Meanwhile Carle was losing interest in the cause. He was often sullen, and gave small and sometimes ungracious coöperation to those who were trying to help him. The glories of school life were no less attractive to him; he was as ambitious as ever to be the shining light of the baseball season, but the seriousness of the obstacles was growing clearer. To turn square about, work hard, shun extravagant friends, husband the pennies, do without every luxury,--this was his prospective life if he held on at Seaton. Was it worth while, even for the sake of the baseball? Carle, who was possessed of nothing resembling Spartan fortitude, had his doubts. During the last week a further change set in. He became secretive where he had been confidential, and shy where he had formerly courted attention. He received important letters from his father without giving a hint of their contents; he had two interviews with the Principal, as to which the baseball people could get no information. A dealer in second-hand furniture called on him by appointment when his room-mate was absent. He cashed a check and paid certain bills. The school broke up for the short spring recess on Tuesday morning early enough to permit those fortunate ones who lived at accessible points to catch the eleven o'clock train out of town. The candidates for the nine remained behind to take advantage of the recess for practice. Comans, Carle's room-mate, who lived in Massachusetts, got off on the first train. In the afternoon Carle had his usual practice with Borland. On Wednesday the first mail brought to Robert Owen a letter from one of his correspondents in Terryville, which contained one short passage more interesting than all the rest: "They say Ned Carle is coming home to stay. His father says he's disappointed in the school; it's too expensive and they don't make the boys work as they ought to." Could it be true? Was Carle really going to leave? The baseball crowd surely knew nothing of any such plan. Rob jammed his hat on his head and hurried over to Carter 13. The door was locked; his knocks roused only hollow echoes. He ran downstairs and stampeded across the yard. At the gate he met Poole. "I was coming to see you," Rob began eagerly. "I've just had a letter from a friend of mine at home. There's something in it that'll interest you." He read the passage aloud. "What do you think of that?" he asked, lifting his eyes in serious question to the captain's face. "Rot!" exclaimed Poole, contemptuously. "I don't believe a word of it. Why, he was pitching to Borland yesterday afternoon!" "But I couldn't raise him this morning," said Rob, his eagerness somewhat chilled. "Oh, he wouldn't sneak off like that without a peep. Let's hunt him up and see what he says about it." They crossed the yard in silence and ascended the stairs in Carter; Rob ashamed of his credulity, Poole clinging to his assurance, yet secretly agitated at the frightful possibility. As they neared Room 13, Poole, who was ahead, perceived that the door was ajar, and turned about with a triumphant smile. "It's all right; he's here," he called, giving a whack at the door that opened it wide. But inside stood revealed, not Carle, but Jenks, the second-hand furniture man. The visitors gaped at him for a moment in speechless astonishment. "Where's Carle?" demanded Poole, recovering himself. "On his way home, I expect. He was going by the early train this morning." Rob threw at his companion a significant glance, but Poole was gazing at the speaker with staring eyes and open mouth. "Has he sold his things to you?" asked Rob. "All he didn't take with him. He arranged with me to call for 'em this morning. He ain't coming back, you know." CHAPTER XIV A CAPTAIN'S TROUBLES Poole stood in the middle of the room, his lips still parted, his eyes staring. His expression, as Owen saw it, and as it would have appeared if reproduced by instantaneous photography, was almost idiotic, so stunned was he by the incredible news. In a moment, however, intelligence returned. "Do you mean to say that Carle has sneaked off home for good, and sold his things to you?" he demanded fiercely, taking a threatening step forward upon poor Jenks, as if the dealer were to be held responsible for Carle's disappearance. Mr. Jenks edged away. "I dunno about sneakin'," he replied resentfully; "I said he'd gone home for good and sold his things to me. I s'pose he's got a right to go if he wants to." "Did he tell you he wasn't coming back?" "Yes, he did, three days ago, right in this very room. He didn't want me to come for the stuff till to-day, because he said the boys would bother him with questions. I'm going to send him the money as soon as I get the things down to the store." Poole stood silent, but his eyes, angrily snapping, remained fixed upon the furniture dealer, and his lips, tightly shut, twitched at the corners. Mr. Jenks looked puzzled; suddenly a ray of intelligence flashed over his face. "None of the furniture was yours, was it?" he asked eagerly, thinking to have found the reason for Poole's emotion. "He said it was all his except what belonged to his room-mate." "None of it's mine," returned Poole, turning abruptly on his heel. "Come on, Owen!" He went plunging down the stairs, with Owen following closely. At the outside door he turned on his companion. "What do you think of that?" he demanded hotly. "That's a fine trick to play us, isn't it!" "If his father sent for him I suppose he had to go," remarked Owen, thinking for the moment rather of Mr. Carle's plight than of that of the school. "Why did he have to go?" shouted Poole, whose wrath, already at the boiling-point, bubbled furiously over at the suggestion of excuse for Carle's defection. "Why did he have to go? Why couldn't he stay here and earn his way as well as Laughlin and Jeffrey and White and Barrington, and lots of other fellows that are better than he is? Why did he have to join that Standard Oil crowd and play the sport, when he knew, and everybody knew, that he had no money to spend? Why couldn't he live within his means, like any decent fellow? Think of his knowing for a week that he was going to clear out, and letting us tend him and tutor him and guard him like a confounded little prince! Why, he was in the cage with Borland yesterday afternoon!" These were obviously rhetorical questions, to which answers were not expected. But Rob, though he felt no temptation to undertake the defence of Carle, could not refrain from remarking: "You fellows were partly responsible. You've done nothing but flatter him and pet him since he came." There was some truth in this charge, and Poole was honest enough to recognize it. He passed abruptly from vituperation to lament:-- "But he could pitch--you know he could. I never saw a fellow in the cage like him--and he's let us waste all the winter on him, the beggar, and now crawls off just when we rely on him most. What's O'Connell or that green Patterson compared with him? Borland's simply thrown his winter away." The references to Patterson and Borland were not pleasing to Owen; the first, because he knew that the contemptuous opinion was not deserved, the second, because it emphasized once more the contrast between his own position and that of Borland. It had apparently not occurred to Poole that Patterson might have developed under Owen's tuition. "I call Patterson a very promising man," he blurted out, stung by the captain's slur, and regardless of his secret. Poole shot a quick glance at his companion. "Better than Carle, perhaps," he said with a mocking smile. "Better than Carle two years from now, if not better to-day," Owen retorted hotly. "I've caught them both and I ought to know something about it." Poole sniffed,--in pity rather than contempt. That a fellow who evidently had seen good ball, and who usually showed common sense, should group Carle and Patterson together as equals, or likely to be equals, seemed unaccountable. "He'll do me a heap of good two years from now, won't he? I want some one for now." And then, after a few moments of silence, during which he kicked away at the marble entrance step, while his thoughts dwelt gloomily on the desperate situation, he added in discouraged tones: "I suppose the first thing to do is to ask Grim whether the chap has really gone for good, though I haven't any doubt about it myself." [Illustration: The Principal's House.] So they parted, Poole to visit the Principal and receive confirmation of Jenks's story, Owen to return to his room and upbraid himself for boasting about Patterson. He felt all the confidence in his protégé that his words implied, but he had no desire to see his pitcher taken from his hands and turned over to Borland as Carle had been. When Patterson was tried out he wanted to be on hand to support him and keep him up to his best; likewise to receive a just share of the glory of the achievement, should the achievement prove glorious--but of this he tried not to think. Borland's task during the short spring recess was not what he had imagined it when he had said good-by to his admiring friends, sharing sincerely in their belief that he was to constitute at least one-half of the best battery that the school had ever possessed. Instead, he found himself doomed to partake of the disgrace of O'Connell's failures. And alas! it was the same old O'Connell, conceited, obstinate, uncertain as a primitive blunderbuss! He did indeed take seriously the new responsibility devolving upon him through the departure of Carle; he really meant to do everything within his power to "make good." He laid aside the airs of superiority and self-satisfaction which had been so offensive to Owen; he was not unwilling to consider Borland's advice; he endeavored to keep his inflammable temper well shielded from stray sparks. Unfortunately, however, he was not by nature teachable, nor was Borland a wise instructor. When two drops in succession landed on the plate, Borland would protest and O'Connell promise to do better. When, a little later, O'Connell would persist in shooting his high ones at the batsman's head, or throwing ridiculous outs that showed themselves clearly wide long before they came within reach of the bat, Borland would reprove sharply, O'Connell retort with asperity, Borland sputter and growl, O'Connell drop all fire protection and let his temper blaze away! Whether peace was patched up immediately or not, that day's practice was ruined. To say that the captain was discouraged would be an understatement of poor Poole's condition. He was desperate. Laughlin cheered him somewhat by assuring him on general principles that the opportunity usually produces the man, and so some one would probably be found to fill Carle's place, if not better than the renegade, at least as good. But Laughlin knew nothing of baseball, and Poole had little faith in general principles. He took the first chance that offered to watch Patterson and Owen at their practice, hoping to find substantial reason for Owen's assurance. But Owen, obstinately true to his purpose never to show off his man, kept Patterson working away on the morning's task,--a slow ball which was to be thrown with the exact motions used in throwing a swift one, but about ten feet slower,--and disregarded the spectator. The captain had at last to ask for something different, and was of course obeyed. Though what he saw would hardly represent Patterson's possibilities as a pitcher, Poole left the cage with the feeling that Patterson was, after all, not so bad. "Ten feet slower!" he said to himself as he strolled back to his room. "That's drawing things pretty fine! If it's too slow it's bad, of course, for a man gets ready to hit, stops himself, makes a fresh start, and very likely catches it squarely and drives it out. It's got to be slower than a swift one, and not too slow; but how does Owen know that the difference is just ten feet? The chap understands handling a pitched ball all right, and Patterson minds him as a Japanese soldier minds his officer, but I don't believe that he's so mighty wise that he knows the difference to a foot between a swift ball and a slow one." Poole resolved to see the whole of the next pitching practice. But, unhappily, Patterson was called home the next day because his family were unwilling to forego the pleasure of his society during the few days of liberty that the school offered,--so there was no practice to watch except that of O'Connell and Borland, who quarrelled daily, and daily made up under the pressure of their joint responsibility, each blaming the other for lack of progress. It was not pure joy to be captain of the Seaton nine! CHAPTER XV OUTDOORS AT LAST The boys came rushing back for the final lap of the school year. Already on the train most of them had heard the startling news: "Carle isn't going to pitch! Carle has left school!" These brief statements of undeniable truth were not all they heard; there were additions through wild rumors and bold surmises transformed to positive facts in the repeating: Carle left because he wasn't allowed to play ball; Carle was proved a professional and had to go; Carle was fired because he left town without permission, because he cut chapel too often, because he didn't do any work, because he had a row with a teacher, because he was a scholarship man and smoked, because he had been drinking, because he played poker. For two whole days Owen was kept busy denying these rumors. Then the tongues gradually ceased to wag; and Carle faded ingloriously away into the limbo of the suddenly departed, whose names when mentioned in the _Seatonian_ always bear the significant "ex" before the numeral of the class which once claimed them. With the returning boys, to Poole's great relief, came the baseball coach, Mr. Lyford. The ground on the upper campus was already hard enough for practice; the regular diamond was drying. Cutting though the winds and raw and chill the atmosphere, Rob yet found it an immense relief to escape from the confining walls of the little cage into the open, where there was room to throw, and honest, abundant daylight. He had never taken kindly to the practice in the cage. When he tried to bat there, he had always been awkwardly conscious of those close lines of netted wall pressing upon him, of the low ceiling, of the treacherous shadows, of the impossibility of driving the ball anywhere, of the whole sham of the situation compared with the open field, where the sunlight pours down through fifty miles of atmosphere, and the wide horizon challenges the batsman to his hardest drive. Perhaps this feeling was responsible for his lack of success as a cage batsman; perhaps he hated the cage because he couldn't hit there. At any rate, the facts were connected, and he welcomed his release with the heartiness of the landlubber when, after his first voyage, he exchanges the narrow, malodorous, unsteady forecastle for solid, familiar earth. Not so poor Patterson. He felt as a timid pupil would if snatched suddenly from a gentle tutor's care and thrust into a lively school, where independence must be fought for and honors won unaided. His courage failed him; he dreaded to go forth into public view and face the test, with eager batters trying for real base hits, and every error of judgment or delivery counting in the score. The cage was familiar ground to Patterson. Here he had acquired whatever skill he possessed. With Owen behind the plate to explain just what to throw and how to throw it, with no one else at hand to molest or make afraid, he could handle the ball as well as another. His wrist had the master snap that yields sharp curves; his shoulder the sweeping swing that makes speed. But outside--alas! outside was a strange land in which he feared to trust himself. "Foolishness!" laughed Owen, when Patterson frankly confided to him these misgivings. "You'll do better outside. There's all the inspiration of the game to spur you on, and the fun of working your man,--putting your wits against his, you know, and making him do things he doesn't want to do." "But I don't feel as if I had any wits," said Patterson, "or shouldn't have any if I got into a close, hard game." Owen stopped short in his walk and fixed his eyes disapprovingly on his companion's face. "Look here, Pat," he said sternly, "you've got to cut that kind of talk and that kind of thinking too. We're going out to play ball, not to help fight a battle or swim for our lives or anything like that, but just play ball. There's absolutely nothing to worry about; we aren't the captain or the coach. We'll do as well as we can, and if our best is good enough, we'll make the nine. If we don't make it, it'll be because there are others better, and we shan't have any responsibility. So there's nothing to worry about in either case. But if you're all the time scared that you'll do something wrong, you'll never do anything right. That's as sure as the multiplication table." Patterson did not answer. "Isn't that good sense?" demanded Owen. Patterson drew a long breath. "It's good sense all right, but I don't know whether I can do it." Owen snorted. "You can if you've a mind to. Just settle it that you'll do your best and be satisfied with whatever turns up. Why can't you let Poole and Lyford do the worrying?" "I suppose I can," said Patterson, humbly. "I should hope you could! I tell you, man, you've got the goods! You have speed and good control and all the curves you need. If you give yourself half a chance they'll recognize it. If they don't, what do you care? There are other teams in the country, and this isn't the only year you're going to play. Just stop thinking, and play your game, and be satisfied if you make the second!" "That's all I expect to do," answered Patterson, nettled. He felt for the moment angry with himself and vexed with Owen, but the talk did him good. He faced the first practice with an outward show of composure that did very good duty for confidence. The coach made no significant comment on the batteries. He had kept in touch with the work of the winter through Poole's letters, and doubtless shared the captain's view that with Carle eliminated from the list, O'Connell must be the chief reliance of the season. At all events, on the first rally of forces in the open, he spent most of his time on Borland and his mate. O'Connell did better than usual, having got at least this measure of good from Borland's browbeating, that he was more cautious in his delivery, and made better aim for the plate. Owen exerted himself on the occasion to put his pitcher through his paces, and give the coach some inkling of what he fondly believed to be Patterson's great promise. But unfortunately, either from the novelty of the new conditions or from nervousness, the pitcher was slow in steadying down; and by the time he was delivering the balls as the catcher expected, Poole called Owen away to join the outfielders, who were catching flies, and put Foxcroft in his place. And Foxcroft blighted the pitcher's inspiration as a hoar-frost blights a hothouse plant. "How did it go?" asked Owen, coming in some time later for a brief batting practice before the net. Patterson gave a doleful shake of the head. "To pieces," he answered laconically. "I never could pitch to that fellow!" "What did Lyford say?" "Nothing. He didn't need to say anything." "Owen!" called Poole, and Rob, picking up his bat, took the place before the net which Peacock had just vacated. He felt disappointed and irritated; disappointed because, having made Patterson's cause his own, he was himself hurt by the failure; irritated because he was sure that if Poole had only left him alone another ten minutes he could have pulled his friend safely through. He stood at the plate with his jaw set, and his eyes shining bright, ready to hit and hit hard. O'Connell was pitching for the batsmen, and O'Connell asked nothing better than the privilege of striking out this arrogant freshie, who had presumed to offer instruction to him in the cage, and had dropped him so contemptuously for not receiving it. So he tried a deceiver in the shape of a hot outcurve--O'Connell's strongest card--which starts wide and swings over the plate. Owen felt savage, but not savage enough to lose his wits. He had learned long since from McLennan that the great batsmen study the pitcher's motive and try to guess in advance the ball that he will pitch. Knowing O'Connell's strong and weak points, he had no difficulty in recognizing the ball that came spinning threateningly toward him. So he waited unmoved, and swung at it as it broke over the plate as if the ball itself were the animate cause of his disappointment. Bat and ball met squarely with a crash; the ball sped away, not in a high parabola that gives the lazy outfielder an easy put out, nor in the regular sharp bounds which a clever baseman may handle, but well above the reach of any infielder, and striking the ground too soon and with too hot a pace to be held by the outfield. A hard hit like this, if it passes between the outfielders on a deep, smooth field, rolls forever. "A bully hit!" exclaimed Durand, as Owen, his frown transformed into a smirk of satisfaction, took his place with the rest. "That's good for three bases sure." "I don't know about that," Owen replied modestly, mentally resolving, however, that if he ever made such a hit in a real game he wouldn't stop to look round till he had passed third. "Too hard," was the comment of the coach to Poole, "but good form." "I'm hoping to get a good hitting outfielder out of him," replied Poole. "Carle told me Owen's batting average was always high. I suppose Borland will do all our catching." Patterson came up for his trial. O'Connell, angry with himself for having let Owen get a long drive out of him, set himself to fool the pitcher at least. "Don't try for big hits!" warned the coach. "Just watch the ball and make sure you hit it. Wait for the good ones!" And Patterson watched the ball and waited, letting the good ones go by and striking at the poor ones. He finally succeeded in poking a feeble bounder over to the pitcher's position, and thus obtained the privilege of retiring. Altogether Patterson's first day out gave little promise that his ambitions would ever be realized. CHAPTER XVI THEORIES AND PLANS "Going to get into the game to-day?" asked Wolcott Lindsay, on the Saturday morning following the first outdoor practice, as he met Owen coming out of the Pecks' room. "I understand they've got about twenty men on the batting list." Rob laughed constrainedly. "Yes, Sudbury and Tom Riley and I are all going to play centre field." "I thought you were down for second base." Rob shook his head. "They tried me there yesterday, but I didn't make good, so I've gone further out." "Well, I hope you'll make good there. Durand says you're a slugger." "I'm not!" answered Rob, sharply. He had his own opinions as to men who are always trying for home runs. "I'm no great fielder either," he added more moderately, "as you'll see if you come up. Who are these Seaton Clippers anyway?" "Oh, just a team made up of townies. We always play the opening game with the Clippers to try out the men." They parted, Rob going into his room, where Simmons sat in the corner of the window-seat, doubled up over a book. "Poole's been here to see you," said Simmons, looking up. "He says the Clippers have gone back on him--they couldn't get their pitcher--so he's going to have a five-inning game between two nines. He wants you and Patterson as battery for the second. Game starts at three. You're to be up there as soon after two as possible for preliminary practice. I told him I'd tell you." Simmons recited his message as he would a well-studied theorem in geometry, and, having recited it, buried himself again in his book. He was a most accurate little person,--tiresomely accurate, Rob sometimes thought. On this occasion, however, Rob's face lighted up at his roommate's words; and though he opened his mouth to ask a question, he closed it immediately with the question unasked. The message was complete. It was also welcome; if he had planned an arrangement that would give Pat the best chance to show his powers it couldn't have been better. And now the opportunity had come unsought! If they did well, the credit was wholly theirs; if they failed, no hopes would be disappointed but their own. "I'm going over to see Pat," he said, clapping on his hat again. There were some uncertainties about signals which must be cleared up before the afternoon. Then a new thought came to him, and he dropped into a chair by his desk to jot down several memoranda on a blank sheet. When he looked up, he found Simmons's eyes fixed upon him with the discouraged expression which sometimes haunted them, particularly after a visit home. Simmons was a most conscientious student, an excellent scholar in languages, and personally quite unassuming and inoffensive. But he was not strong physically, and in occasional times of weakness or weariness was likely to dwell morbidly on the contrast between his own situation and that of his more robust, lively, and popular associates. Rob understood at a glance that this was one of Simmons's homesick days, so he tucked his notes away in his pocket and turned to his apathetic little chum. "Going to the game?" he asked in a hearty tone. "No," replied Simmons, dropping his eyes again to the page before him. "I don't care anything about baseball." "Why don't you go up the river, then? You ought to be outdoors somewhere on a day like this." "I'd rather stay here. Payner asked me to go up with him, but I don't think I should enjoy his society." "Payner!" exclaimed Owen, staring at his companion with an interest no longer forced. Then he threw back his head and laughed aloud. Simmons put down his book. "I don't see anything so funny in that. Why shouldn't he invite me if he wants to?" "He should, and if I were invited I'd go, if I had to cut ball practice to do it." Simmons looked his astonishment, but said nothing. "You might find out where he gets the things that he bestows on the Pecks," continued Owen. "Have they had another?" cried Simmons, eagerly, jumping to his feet and planting himself in front of Owen. "Tell me, have they had another? What was it?" Owen grinned and nodded. "Some queer little olive-green lizards, about three inches long, with small red spots all over them. I didn't know the things." "How did it come? They've kept their door locked for a long time, and they hardly dare open a window." "In the laundry bag," chuckled Owen. "It was left outside their door, and the lizards just went to sleep in it. There was the usual ticket tied to one of their tails, 'The Fifth Plague.'" "I don't think that's so awfully bad," said Simmons, after some reflection. "A lizard wouldn't scare me much." "That's what Don said," replied Rob, smiling as he recalled the scene. "He thought it showed Payner was about at the end of his resources. But Duncan said the season was just opening, and half the plagues were yet to come, always supposing that Payner would be content with the biblical number. When I left them they were still arguing--well, I've got to get over to see Patterson." Owen took up his hat again. Simmons was standing by the window. The boy turned around as Owen approached the door, and said apologetically: "I think I'll go in and tell Payner I've changed my mind. I may as well go with him after all." "That's right!" called Owen, from the door. "And be sure you tell me all about it." And he ran downstairs with a light heart, eager to see Patterson and plan the signal service for the afternoon. Half an hour afterward he was still sitting at one side of Patterson's table, with the pitcher on the other and the notes between them. The conversation, however, was no longer concerned with signals. "I tell you it's so," Owen was declaring. "One of the first two balls pitched has got to be put over. If not, you're in a hole." "I don't see that," said Patterson. "Well, I can prove it to you," said Owen, confidently. "Look here, now. When you start in with a batter, the chances are four to three in favor of the pitcher, aren't they? He has four balls to give away, and the batter has three chances to strike. Really the odds in favor of the pitcher are much greater, because even if you give the batter a ball that he can hit, there are eight men lying in wait for it, and one of 'em is likely to get it." Patterson nodded. "Now, as long as you can keep the batter uncertain whether the ball that's coming is good or bad, you have him at a disadvantage, haven't you? But when you're so fixed that you must put 'em over, he's got you at a disadvantage." "I can see that," said Patterson. "Well, if you give two balls right off, you've changed the chances from four to three in your favor, to three to two in his; and he feels pretty certain that the next one will be over, because you've got to begin to get strikes. After that, if you get a single ball, you must put every one over, and the batter knows it. So to get two balls at the start is to put yourself in a hole." "Then the first ball to pitch to a man is either one that he'll strike at, thinking it's a good one, or a really good one that he can't hit, or doesn't think of offering at." "That's the theory," said Owen. "As a matter of fact, most of these fellows couldn't hit a straight ball more than half the time, if you told them where it was coming. McLennan says you can fool most amateurs with speed alone. He's coached college teams and ought to know." "And if you can get two strikes on him early, you have him worrying," mused Patterson. "Yes, but it won't do to let 'em think that's your only method. The idea is, never get into a position where you've _got_ to give a strike. Always keep them guessing." Rob batted to the infield of the Second nine before the game, and came to the conclusion that Patterson would receive little help from the men behind him. At second base was a short, round, red-headed lad rejoicing in the name of McGuffy, who fumbled every other grounder, as if alternation were a rule of the game. At short played another fatty, most inaptly named Smart, who always threw either over the first baseman's head or at one side of his feet, and seemed quite ignorant of the very elementary rule that shortstop covers second on hits to the pitcher's left. Peacock at third combined the faults of his two neighbors. The one redeeming feature in the near landscape was Ames, the tall, raw-boned, awkward junior who crouched on his long legs like a grasshopper at first base, and flung out his big hands to incredible distances for the poor throws served up to him by the trio of incompetents around the diamond. Rob grinned with amusement as he watched the fellow gathering in the balls, hopelessly clumsy and inelegant from finger ends to tips of toes. The spectators on the benches laughed and jeered, until Poole shut them up by a peremptory message. Long Ames paid no attention to them; he was too busy scooping Peacock's short bounds out of the dust, and pulling down high sailers that Smart had started on their way to the bleachers. Allis at left field was made captain of the Second. It was he who arranged the batting order, at the head of which Owen was placed, evidently on account of his success at the net during the two days of outdoor practice. Allis himself came next, then Rorbach, then Reddy McGuffy and his antipode Ames. Poole took his team into the field, and Rob faced O'Connell for the first test of strength. Were he and Patterson to prove in a class with McGuffy and Peacock? A few innings would show. CHAPTER XVII A SET-BACK FOR O'CONNELL Absorbed as he was in one phase of the game,--the success of the second battery,--Rob felt no anxiety at all as to his own personal record with the bat. He wanted to hit O'Connell, of course, but the chief thing after all was that Patterson should not be hit. So he stood coolly at the plate, ready for anything that O'Connell might send in, but unworried and more than half expecting to get his base on balls. The first one was high, the second he had to dodge, the third was a called strike, the fourth a drop that dropped too far, the fifth an unmanageable in, that hit him in the small of the back as he squirmed away from it, and gave him the desirable gift of first base and the undesirable one of a painful bruise. Allis strode up, pounded the plate with his bat, and squared himself, with legs apart, for a mighty deed. While Rob knew nothing of Allis's powers, he did not like this form; and not wishing to be cut off at second by an infield hit, he determined to make a dash at the first pitch, when a steal would hardly be expected. So off he scampered at the first movement of O'Connell's arm, and covered his distance so well in spite of his bruise that when he slid safely to the bag, McPherson was in the air taking Borland's high throw. In other respects also the venture proved a lucky one, for Allis hit two fouls and then struck out, and Rorbach made a scratch hit to short that would certainly have cut Owen off at second if he had clung to first base. As it was, Rorbach was safe at first, and Rob reached third before the ball got back across the diamond. Then Reddy McGuffy sent up a little pop fly to the first baseman, and long Ames appeared beside the plate, swinging his bat like an axe. The lads on the seats made merry as Ames smote terribly and in vain at the first one over. The next he let go by; it was a ball. At the third he smote again, this time with effect. The ball shot out over first baseman's head, bounced hard on the running track, and made full speed for the corner of the field. Then for some seconds the onlookers saw lively running. Peters in right field sprinted for the ball, the second baseman ran out to support him, Rob trotted home, Rorbach fled along two bags behind him, and still farther behind came Ames, galloping like a cart horse and constantly twisting his head backward to make sure that the ball was not close at hand. The fellows who had been jeering were now stamping and yelling, the players of the Second were running up and down the lines, brandishing their arms and shouting contradictory directions. Ames rounded third base at full speed, saw the ball bounce into Borland's hands, stopped, turned,--and was touched ignominiously out by Durand two feet from third. And then the spectators hooted and jeered more violently than ever. "If it keeps up like this, there'll be more fun than practice," thought Rob, as he buckled on his protector. And to Patterson, as the latter started for the box, he said: "Don't worry about the bases; I'll throw to them when it's necessary. Just try your hardest to put 'em where I want 'em, and don't worry. If a batter's slow or timid, give him full speed. And don't think because one happens to hit you they all will." McPherson led off for the First nine. Patterson fixed the ball in his two fingers and drove it hard and straight over the inner corner of the plate just below the shoulder line. It struck with a resounding clap in Owen's big mitt, and as it struck, McPherson realized that he had lost a chance. As the next one looked exactly like the first, McPherson whacked valiantly at it, but just before it reached the plate the ball broke and lifted, while the bat swept the air beneath it. Two strikes! "It's all his way now," thought McPherson. "This'll be a ball,"--and it would have been if it had kept its first course. Unfortunately for the batsman, however, it slanted down and in instead of down and out, and the umpire called it a strike. "Astonishing how a man loses his batting eye during the winter!" thought Poole, as he took McPherson's place at the plate. "If I can't hit that fellow I must be blind." Now the captain was considered the best batter in school, and deservedly so. In the fatal Hillbury game of the year before he had proved almost the only Seaton man whom the Hillbury pitcher could not deceive, and he and McPherson were responsible for all the hits the defeated team had made. He had an excellent eye, watched the ball closely, and was a patient waiter. All this Owen knew. He also knew that a waist ball was the kind Poole always longed for, that he was wary on high ones, and often hit a low one in a long fly. Patterson's first attempt was clearly wide of the plate; his second was low. Poole offered at neither, and both were called balls. By the next ball, the same full-speed straight one which had fooled McPherson, Poole was caught napping, and the sharp "Strike one!" of the umpire gave comfort to both members of the battery. Rob now signalled for the slow ball, at which Poole struck too soon. With two balls and two strikes, Patterson put a low one over the outside of the plate, hoping to finish with the captain immediately; but Poole caught it on the end of his bat and sent it in a long arch to centre field, where Rorbach gathered it in. Sudbury, who came next, struck at the first pitched ball and raised a pop fly, which the second baseman, to Owen's surprise and McGuffy's own immense satisfaction, managed to hold. Reddy tossed the ball over to the pitcher's box with the best air of a professional, and strutted complacently in. The first inning had ended with the score two to nothing in favor of the scrub. O'Connell pitched six times to strike out Smart. Meanwhile, Owen and Patterson discussed the situation. "Great luck, wasn't it!" began the pitcher, eagerly. "The greatest luck was that McGuffy held that fly," Rob answered with more coolness. With all his interest in the trying-out process, habit and experience kept him philosophical. "I didn't believe he'd do it." "He may be better than he looks," said Patterson. Rob had no answer for this. "How's your arm?" he said. "All right. I can give you a little more speed if you want it." "We shall have to be careful about Durand. The rest ought to be easy." Smart returned to the bench, having surrendered his place at the bat to Peacock. Owen took a seat beside McGuffy. "You understand that you are to cover second if a man on first tries to steal, don't you?" "Of course!" answered McGuffy, indignantly. "I simply want to avoid a misunderstanding," retorted Owen. "I don't care to throw to centre field." Peacock hit to Hayes, the shortstop, and was thrown out. Fletcher reached first base on balls, but was left there when Patterson sent a fly to Durand. The First team came in to bat once more. Patterson put the first one over, and Durand met it, driving a grounder to Smart. The shortstop fumbled, and then, when it was too late to catch the fleet runner, threw wide and low to first. How Ames managed to get his mitt on the ball was hard to understand, but the mitt was there and the ball stopped. A new batsman came up, Peters, the right fielder; and Rob, glancing at the pair at first base, made up his mind that Durand was going to steal. So he signalled for a high out, and Peters whacked at it, though it was beyond his reach. Even as the ball struck in the pocket of his mitt, Rob's fingers clutched it; his right leg went out and his arm came back simultaneously; like a flash the arm returned, the wrist snapped forward, and the ball shot straight and swift in a line for second. But alas! there was no one on second to receive it! McGuffy was on the way there, but although he arrived before Durand, the ball was already spinning toward centre field. Fletcher let it slip between his ankles, and Durand jogged easily home. This was poor work. Rob pounded his fist into the hole of his mitt, disgusted and indignant. But Patterson was waiting for the signal, and there was no chance to give to McGuffy the few forcible suggestions which Rob felt that he ought to be privileged to make. Patterson settled Peters with two high ones in succession; the first a poor one which he struck at, the second a good one which he did not recognize. Then Hayes hit to Patterson and was thrown out; and Borland, after two fouls, was caught on a swift jump ball and retired, muttering hard things at the umpire. And now Rob had another opportunity at the bat. He still felt the sore spot on his back where O'Connell had potted him on his first appearance, but he stood up to the plate just as courageously as before, confident that O'Connell would not repeat the offence. The pitcher gave two balls, then put one squarely over, which Rob was fortunate enough to hit "on the nose." It sped away in a line over the third baseman's head out into the debatable ground, bounced just inside the foul line, then out, and rolled away into the far corner of the field. Rob raced past first and second, and reached third in safety just before the ball bounded into Durand's hands. Here he stayed while Allis went out on a hit to the second baseman, and Rorbach, waiting patiently, heard two strikes and three balls called. O'Connell dreaded a record of many bases on balls more than an additional run; so he tried to satisfy the umpire by putting one directly over, and Rorbach cracked it whizzing by O'Connell's head out over second base. Rob came home at his leisure. Then stubby McGuffy turned his freckled face toward the pitcher, and by hitting to O'Connell unintentionally sacrificed Rorbach to second; and big Ames, with his woodchopper's swing, drove another long hit into right field and brought Rorbach in. Smart, with the resignation of a fatalist, struck out. The tail end of the school batting list now appeared at the plate, Weaver, first baseman, and O'Connell. Neither proved a hard problem for the Second battery to solve. Weaver hit a pop foul which Ames caught, and O'Connell struck three times ingloriously. McPherson, sending a long fly to Allis, made the last out. So the third inning ended with the score four to one against the school. Peacock, Fletcher, and Patterson all went out in the fourth on feeble infield hits, and Poole came to bat a second time, manifestly disturbed by the course of events. It was not merely the fact that the Second hit O'Connell that worried him, but the failure of the First to hit Patterson. It seemed hardly possible that a man who had so little experience in actual play should prove so clever in the balls he used, and so effective in holding off old batsmen. Poole could not or would not understand it. He came up fiercely eager, determined to turn Patterson's luck. The first pitch he let go by, and had the satisfaction of hearing it called a ball. The second--a straight one--he struck under and fouled. "One strike!" The third came hot, just at the level of his breast, but lifted with a sudden break as his bat swung beneath it. The fourth was obviously a ball, the fifth just as obviously ditto, but it slanted in over the corner, and from the umpire's sharp "Strike three!" there was no appeal, even for Captain Poole. Sudbury followed, and after balls and strikes, tipped a kindergarten bounder to McGuffy, who, with the air of Little Jack Horner, stopped it and threw it within Ames's long reach. Durand profited by a fumble of Smart's to reach first, but he was caught here a minute later by Owen's quick snap to Ames--and the fourth inning was over. In the fifth, by an error, a base on balls, and a hit, another run was added to the Second's score. The First too gained a run on a hit by Hayes and errors. But the end came when Borland drove the ball right into Ames's hands; and Weaver, after slashing twice in vain, dropped a fair ball in front of the plate, and found Ames holding it when he reached first. The game was over. The spectators drifted moodily down toward the school buildings, exchanging sarcastic and pessimistic comments on the work of the school nine and its prospects: "A lot of duffers;" "Couldn't hit a balloon;" "The only players on the field were the Second;" "The Clippers wouldn't have done a thing to 'em;" "Worst exhibition of baseball ever seen." Some, especially Patterson's surprised classmates, looked at the matter from a different point of view and vowed that all the trouble was due to Patterson, who was too good a pitcher for the school batters. Poole had a short talk with Lyford, and then called Patterson aside and thanked him for his good work; he must take good care of himself, for he would certainly be used frequently in the box. Lyford followed with similar compliments, and a troop of others followed Lyford. Even O'Connell came heroically with his meed of praise; and while offering congratulations on his rival's success contrived to explain that he himself had not felt at his best that day, and that it always took time for him to get his arm into shape in the spring. Unquestionably Patterson was the hero of the day. And what of Owen? He, too, had his share of attention. Lyford assured him that he had played a good game, Poole informed him that he had hit well, some one else spoke of his throwing. But this was all. No one held him in any sense responsible for the pitching, not even those to whom Patterson protested that the credit belonged to Owen. Such statements were to be expected from a modest, reticent fellow like Patterson, who had kept his light hidden under a bushel all the year. CHAPTER XVIII DISAPPOINTMENTS It was "Patterson, Patterson," all over the locker rooms while the ball men were dressing, with frequent mention of Ames, who had especially pleased the crowd, and an occasional word for Owen. The disappointment caused by the poor work of the First glorified by contrast the success of the Second. Rob had many questions to answer or evade. Wasn't he surprised at the way Patterson showed up? Was the pitcher really as good as he seemed? Could he hold his own against a strong nine? How was it that nobody knew anything about him before to-day? Before he escaped from the gymnasium Rob had replied to the same question a dozen times. Patterson was a good man--he told the questioners--who might always be trusted to give a good account of himself if he had a fair show. Rob did not explain that a fair show involved a suggestive and resourceful catcher, one who could guide and cheer the pitcher, as well as hold the ball and throw to bases. That would have been tantamount to asserting that Patterson's success had been due to his catcher, and Rob would never have taken this attitude even in his secret thoughts. Patterson certainly had the skill and the power; the difficulty was that he didn't understand how to use them. Outside the gymnasium Owen was hailed by Poole and Lyford. "You fellows gave us a shock to-day," said Poole. "I didn't enjoy it myself, but it's going to do us a lot of good. Lyford and I have talked things over and have agreed that we've got to make a place for you on the nine." Rob's heart was fluttering with a delightful anticipation which was reflected in his face. Were they really going to recognize the merit of his work? "Did you ever play in the outfield?" continued Poole. From joyful expectation to hopelessness, Rob's plunge was sudden and cruel. Only by a strong effort of will and by turning his head quickly away could he prevent his face from betraying him. "No, never. I've always caught or played first." "Well, you see, we've got a good catcher in Borland, who's had lots of experience and is a mighty steady man in a game; and with Weaver, who played first last year, and big Ames, who showed up so well in the game to-day, we're pretty well fixed for first basemen. So the only way seems to be to work you in somewhere in the outfield--say at right--as a regular thing; and then use you when necessary for substitute catcher." "You'd better take Rorbach," said Owen, almost sullenly. "He hits well and is used to the job." "We will, if he turns out to be better," returned Poole, with a smile, "but we'll try you first anyway. We shall have to ask you to turn Patterson over to Borland. If he gets on well with Patterson, we may want you to see what you can do with O'Connell." "If you could help him along as you did Patterson," said the coach, "you might make a good deal of him." Rob pressed his lips tight together, with a firmness that pursed them out and left wrinkles in the corners. It was a habit of his when angered, as some boys grow red, and others white, and still others gape and glare. On this occasion his set lips served him well, for they kept back the retort which in cooler moments he must have regretted. What he did not say but wanted to was that it would be many moons before any one would find him wasting himself on a mule like O'Connell, and that he didn't propose to train pitchers for Borland to use. So he said nothing, but merely nodded a rather ungracious adieu as the coach and captain left him and went on down to the basement floor of the gymnasium. On the way in, Poole remarked that Owen had a queer streak in him, but was a good fellow all right; and the coach, that the boy seemed rather sullen. It was too bad, for he was evidently a ball player. Rob stamped up to his room and flung himself down into his Morris chair. There, stretched out, with his hands in his pockets and his cap slipping down over his nose, he gave himself a prey to most disagreeable reflections. So they were bound to make him play in the outfield! He could do it, he supposed, as well as the next man, but it was like taking a fellow who had always played quarter-back and setting him to play end. He must learn an entirely new game, crowd out a better man--Rorbach could field the position twice as well as he could--and in the end probably do the poorest work of the lot. And to take away Patterson, who had practised with him all winter and really owed to his catcher his whole improvement as a pitcher, to take away Patterson and give him to Borland, who had never done a thing for anybody, was outrageous. Why couldn't Poole give him as fair a show as he did Borland? Hadn't he caught just as good a game that afternoon? The details of the record were still vivid in his memory: against Borland one passed ball, two missed third strikes, one high throw to second; for himself not an error, and two as good snaps to bases as he had ever made in his life, even if that chump, McGuffy, didn't cover! Good work evidently went for nothing in this place. And then he fell to thinking of Patterson and his point of view. Would Pat throw him over without a protest, as Carle had done, when the chance came to pose as first string pitcher with last year's catcher to back him? Not if he knew Patterson! Patterson knew where his strength lay. Pat would be loyal to his catcher to the end. But this, after all, wasn't the worst feature in the prospect. Supposing they should make him pitch to Borland against his will, and Borland shouldn't know how to manage him, and just at the time when encouragement and guidance and right method were especially important, Pat should slump, would he be able to recover his courage and speed and skill again? Rob had his doubts. Pat needed careful nursing. A knock at the door broke in on these dismal thoughts. "Come in!" sang out the dejected one from the chair, without troubling himself to remove his hands from his pockets or lift the cap from his nose. It was Laughlin's big body that filled the doorway. "Hello! Seen anything of Lindsay?" Rob straightened up and brushed off his cap. "No, not since he left the campus. He spoke to me after the game. Come in, won't you?" "I guess not," replied the football man. And then, having verbally declined, he contradicted himself by entering and planting his back against the door. "I wanted to see him about that debate between the Laurel Leaf and the Soule Society. You know we're on a committee to arrange it. Tell him I tried to find him, won't you, when he comes in?" "Yes, I usually see him after dinner." "I went up to see your game for a little while this afternoon," went on Laughlin, settling down into a stout arm-chair opposite Rob. "I couldn't stay long, for I had a job; but I saw some good back-stop work the little while I was there." Rob waited expectant, his eyes on the floor. His pulse was beating a trifle faster, while under the pleasing warmth that stole into his heart the morbid depression had fled. Laughlin was not a baseball authority, but he was a man looked up to and respected and followed not more for his achievement as captain of a winning eleven than for the strength of his personal character. His good opinion was in itself a compliment, all the more desirable as he was known to be a close friend of Poole. "I thought both you and Borland caught well," continued Laughlin; "but while I was there it seemed to me that you were having the best of it. That throw of yours that Reddy was too slow for just took me. Why, the ball looked as if it was shooting along a wire! And how quickly you got it off, too! I don't see how you manage it." "Oh, I don't always do as well as that," protested Owen, beaming with delight, "though I'm usually fairly good at getting a man at second. There's a knack in it, you know, and I've had considerable practice." "Patterson is a kind of dark horse, isn't he? I hadn't heard anything about him until lately." "He's been working with me in the cage all winter," replied Rob, with some complacency. "I knew he was good, but no one else seemed to get on to him. He's improved a lot." "Well, I hope he'll go right on improving. Perhaps it's you two who are going to win the Hillbury game for us!" Alas for the catcher's self-complacency! This grouping of Owen and Patterson and the Hillbury game brought Rob suddenly back from the delightful vision of what might have been to the reality of the present. It wasn't to be Patterson and Owen now, but Patterson and Borland. Owen was relegated to right field, and to catching O'Connell! The sunlight suddenly disappeared from Rob's ingenuous face, and black discouragement replaced it. Laughlin observed him with curiosity. "Only it'll be Patterson and Borland in the Hillbury game," Rob said, regaining his smile by main force. "Poole's going to have Patterson pitch to Borland after this." "How's that?" demanded Laughlin. And Rob explained with an explanation which suggested a question, and the question in turn produced an answer involving another question, and so there developed a chain of questions and answers linked together like the mathematical series Laughlin had been studying that week in his advanced algebra, but unlike them in having a definite limit and result. This result was that Rob threw aside his reserve and told the whole story of his ambition and disappointment, from the first weeks of the fall when Carle forgot him, through the months of independent cage work with Patterson, to the disheartening issue of that afternoon's game. "It isn't that I'm such a wonder," he concluded, "or that I want to play whether I'm better than Borland or not; but I don't think it's right for 'em to assume that I'm no good, and pay no attention to what I do. And then to take Patterson away from me just when I've got him into shape, when he wouldn't be worth a cent if I hadn't coached him all winter--I call that dirty mean!" Laughlin rose and went to the window, where he stood for a brief time gazing across the way at the village urchins noisily romping before their schoolhouse. Then he turned: "It does seem hard luck, but I've found out that things usually turn out right if you're right yourself. I, for one, was glad to hear that Carle had gone. He isn't the stuff good men are made of. If he had stayed, he'd have played us some worse trick. Poole doesn't think so, but Poole doesn't know such fellows as well as I do. Another thing Poole doesn't know is that you're really a better catcher than Borland. It's up to you to go straight ahead and play your game as well as you can, and he'll see what you are before the season's over. When he does see, he'll chuck Borland in a minute. Poole is as straight a fellow as ever breathed, but he makes mistakes like the rest of us. I know from my own experience as captain that it's hard always to pick out the best man. There was Wolcott Lindsay last fall playing on the second eleven up to two weeks of the Hillbury game; and in the game, light as he was, he turned out the best guard on the field. Take my advice: just hold on, play your best game all the time, and keep your courage up." They stood confronting each other--Laughlin, a square, powerful figure with sincerity and earnestness apparent in every tone of his voice and every line of his rugged face; Owen, with eyes aflame and cheeks flushed, eagerly drinking in his visitor's words. It was appreciation like this that he had been pining for; it gladdened him and at the same time thrilled him through and through. "There's another thing you can learn from Lindsay's experience," the football man went on. "It pays to work up. The best athletes in the school have almost always been those who had to make a place for themselves. The fellows who come with reputations and condescend to play usually slump early." He held out his hand. "I must be going; well, good luck to you!" "Thank you a lot," rejoined Owen, eagerly grasping the big, thick fist. "You won't say anything to Poole about this, will you?" "Of course not; you've got to work your own way out." Laughlin was just reaching for the door-knob, when a scurry of feet was heard from across the hall, and the door burst open to admit Simmons, who rushed into the room in a flurry of excitement most unusual in the quiet little student. CHAPTER XIX A MISFIT BATTERY The moment his foot touched the threshold Simmons began to exclaim: "It was perfectly great! I'm awfully glad I went! He's got a peach of a canoe, and what he doesn't know about animals and reptiles and birds--" He stopped suddenly as he caught sight of the massive form of the venerated Laughlin looming behind the door. "Oh, excuse me, I didn't know any one was here." "No one but me," said the visitor, "and though I'm big, I'm not dangerous. Who's got the peach of a canoe?" "Payner," answered Simmons, throwing a questioning look at Owen. "That's the fellow that's been working the plagues on the Pecks, isn't it?" "Yes," replied Simmons, eagerly. "How did you know about it?" "Oh, everybody knows something about it," returned Laughlin, with a grin. "I suppose he was after material. What number has he reached now?" "I think he's getting ready for Number Six," said Simmons, gravely. "He didn't say what it was to be, but he told me all sorts of things he might do. If he does everything he talks about he'll have to put them three at a time to keep within ten. He showed me where he got the newts he put in the clothes-bag, and where he used to catch turtles and water-snakes, and the old stumps where he dug out salamanders. He says that below the falls, on Salt River, you can catch all sorts of things when the tide's out--dip up young eels by the pailful. They'd do to put in the water pitchers." "I shouldn't care for them in mine," observed Laughlin. "When it gets warmer there are going to be more things," Simmons continued, growing more confidential and serious as he proceeded. "All sorts of bugs, for example, and hornets' nests that you can take off in the night and throw in through the windows. It's easy to get half a pint of ants from any big ant hill if you only know how, and the brown-tail moth caterpillars they talk so much about--the hairs fly and are poisonous, you know--it wouldn't be at all hard to find a nest with the caterpillars just in the right stage outside the town somewhere. Then he took me into his room and showed me an enormous spider he had in a bottle--he got it from home--and asked me how I thought the Pecks would like it to find such a thing in their pajamas some night. Isn't it awful!" Simmons stopped for breath, and looked horror-struck from face to face. "What's it all for, anyway?" asked Laughlin. "Why, the Pecks ripped up his room, and spoiled some of his specimens," explained Rob. "He wants them to apologize and agree to let him alone. They won't do it." "Oh, I remember now," Laughlin said. "One of them came to me about a month ago, and asked me what to do. I gave him a raking down for playing such fool tricks, and told him to go and apologize and try to patch it up with Payner. I don't know which it was. I never could tell 'em apart." "It was Duncan," said Owen. "I gave him the same advice. He's willing to do the right thing, but the other one keeps him back." "Well, let them suffer then, that's all I've got to say," remarked Laughlin. "I've no sympathy to waste on fools or fellows who won't own up when they're in the wrong." The senior departed, leaving Owen comforted and reassured. He could afford to wait, he told himself after his caller had gone. Let them give Patterson to Borland if they wished. Borland couldn't manage him, Rob was convinced, and when the new combination failed, Patterson would come back to him, and the pair could start again and work up together. Then it would be clear which was the better catcher, and which battery was the more useful to the school. Yes, Laughlin was right; it was better to work one's way up than to claim a high place at the outset and afterward have to change to the lowest, like the man in the parable who was bidden to a feast. But it was hard on Pat! In the meantime Simmons had disappeared. He came in again soon, and rather shamefacedly confessed that he had been laboring with the Pecks. "What luck?" asked Rob; "did they bluff you?" "That's just what they did. Duncan laughed at me and Donald said he wasn't afraid of anything Payner could produce, either fresh or canned. I told them I merely wanted to warn them of what was before them, and Donald said the chief thing before them was to wipe up the ground with Payner. Then I said they'd better look out, for Payner had a gun, and Donald said he'd need it. I didn't seem to be getting on, so I cleared out." Owen laughed. "You may as well let them alone. They're looking for trouble, and if they find it it's their own fault." That evening Duncan stopped Simmons on the way out to Front Street and thanked him for coming to warn them. "I didn't say anything while you were there," he added, "because I knew Don and I'd have a big row about it, and I thought our rows ought to be private. And we did have it after you went, red hot. I'll tell you on the fair, I'm dead sick of the whole thing; it's got on to my nerves and spoils all my fun. We have to keep the door locked all the time, we don't dare open the windows, some one has to be here when the chambermaid comes in, and we're always scared that something's going to happen,--that there'll be some crawly thing in the bed, or under it, or hidden in our pajamas, or tucked into our shoes, or coming down the chimney. I never open a bureau drawer without standing back as far as I can, for fear of something jumping in my face. It's terrible. The sword of Damocles was nothing to it. If Payner'd be satisfied with my apology, I'd go in a minute!" "He wouldn't be," answered Simmons, with a sad shake of his head. The burden of anxiety for peace in the dormitory lay heavy on poor Simmons's shoulders! Does some one ask why the teachers are not called in to adjudicate such differences, or how a feud like this could go on undetected by Dr. Mann on the floor below, and Mrs. Gray, the matron, making her daily rounds among the rooms? To such be it explained that except in story books and school circulars, or where small children are concerned, teachers and pupils live in two distinct worlds, between which there is lawful communication only by regular channels. No self-respecting boy above the primary age seeks faculty help against his fellows. He may consult a trusted teacher about his own affairs, his studies, his health, his morals, his religion; about his relations with other boys he may sometimes ask advice, but assistance never. In the school life he must fight fair, and the first rule of fair fighting is: No intervention, no tale-bearing, keep it among ourselves! Rob's thoughts did not linger on the affairs of the Pecks. The first real game was coming on Wednesday with the N----University nine. Rob's whole attention in the two practice days before was concentrated on learning about the play of his new position from Poole and Lyford--in fact from any one who could give him information. He knew, of course, that in theory a fielder while running for a batted ball is supposed to keep in mind the positions of the base runners and anticipate their movements so that when the ball is at last in his hands he need waste no time in sending it to the right place. In putting this obvious theory into practice, though suffering from lack of experience, Rob had the advantage of his catcher's training in watching bases. In throwing in from the field, however, this catcher's training was distinctly a handicap, for the short-line throws across the diamond are very different from the long returns from the outfield. Rob could catch flies as well as any one, but he despaired of ever feeling at home in right field. Patterson took the change of catchers still more to heart. When Poole informed him of the new arrangement, he stood aghast, too much astonished to protest. But he immediately made full speed for Rob's room, and there he vowed that he should not, could not, would not pitch to Borland or any one else but Owen; they might drop him if they chose. Here Rob's newly acquired courage served him in good stead. He explained that Poole was promoting Patterson to a better catcher, that he had no reason to think that Borland would not do for him quite as much as Owen could, and that in any case they must both obey orders and work for the success of the nine. Patterson listened, was half convinced, and yielded. So it happened that when the game with N----University opened, there were two players on the Seaton nine, the pitcher and the right-fielder, who felt ill at ease in their positions. The Seatonians were in the field. Big Ames was at first, in place of Weaver. Patterson, seeking to make up for lack of confidence by enforced deliberateness, slowly raised his arm and shot in the first ball. The batsman let it go and the umpire called a strike. Then came a ball and a strike in succession; and then, following Borland's signal, Patterson threw a drop, the batsman hit the ball on the upper side, sending a slow grounder toward third. Durand ran up to meet it and flung it hastily and wide to first, where Ames, stretching to his full awkward length, held it and saved an error. The next man went out on strikes, the third on an easy fly to Owen. The Seatonians came in to bat, and went out as easily as their predecessors. Then in the second inning came trouble. The first man up sent a fly to Poole, and of course was out. The second was given a straight, swift ball which was called a strike; Borland signalled to repeat, but the batsman was ready this time and drove the ball out into centre field so far that he had no difficulty in taking second. The next man bunted and beat Borland's throw to first. Worried by this, Patterson sent the third man to first, on balls, and the bases were full. The batter following fouled out to Durand, and the spectators felt better. Two men out and the bases full! The new batsman came up, recognizing his opportunity clearly. The first ball looked poor, and he let it pass--a strike! The second he struck at but did not hit. Patterson held the ball and watched his catcher's signal--_Straight over_. It was risky, he saw plainly, and contrary to the principles laid down by Owen; but Borland was supposed to know, and it would really be a feather in his cap to strike out the third man with the bases full. And he put it straight over. Crack! sounded the bat. With a start Patterson wheeled about and watched the ball soar over Sudbury's head and bound far away in the tennis nets. The batsman raced around the bases, touching the plate just as the ball reached Patterson once more. Four men had scored on the hit! The next man went easily out, but Patterson was not to be comforted. He blamed himself; but of this he was sure, if Owen had been behind the plate the thing would never have happened. "Never take chances with the bases full," Owen had always preached, and Patterson, as he sat scowling on the bench, thought of his four spare balls and groaned in bitterness of spirit. Durand got a hit, Owen went to first on balls, and Ames brought one of them in, but Patterson was not encouraged. In the next inning he let his opponents make three hits that yielded two runs, and at the beginning of the fourth O'Connell appeared in his place in the pitcher's box. How it happened that Seaton won that game in spite of the handicap of five runs at the fourth inning was explained in various ways. Some said O'Connell's pitching had held the enemy down; others that luck and good fielding by Seaton and bad errors on the part of the visitors were the chief causes. All agreed that the nine had shown an encouraging ability to hit the ball and play an uphill game. Such consolation as Owen was able to give during their intermittent presence together on the bench, Patterson received with stolidity and monosyllables. He was meditating a radical move. After the game was over he sought out Poole. "Borland told me to pitch that ball," he said abruptly to the captain. "I could have struck that man out." "I'm sorry you didn't, then," replied the captain, good-naturedly. "I don't count it against you. You'll have better luck next time. Besides, when you've had more practice with Borland you'll understand each other better." "I'm not going to have any more practice with Borland," replied Patterson, quietly. "If you ever want me to pitch again, you must give me Owen to catch me. I'll pitch to no one else." CHAPTER XX A SUB-SEATONIAN Let it not be supposed that the pleasures and pains of the Pecks, or Owen's ambition to become recognized as a catcher, or the affairs of the middle entry of Hale, represent the chief happenings of the season at Seaton. From the opening of the spring term baseball is indeed the most absorbing subject of student conversation, and the nearer the Hillbury game approaches, the more widely discussed are the prospects of the nine and the more general is the interest in it. But on the morning of every week-day throughout the school year the seven-forty-five chapel bell calls together four hundred boys. From eight to six, with intermission for luncheon, changing squads are crowding hourly in and out of the recitation rooms, where strenuous teachers crack their pedagogical whips in mock fury over the heads of their victims. Each of these four hundred has his own ambitions and interests; each serves and enjoys the school in his own way. They group themselves in scores of combinations. There are state clubs, debating clubs, musical clubs, modern language clubs, college clubs, fraternities. Boys are laboring for scholarships, for prizes of all kinds, for positions on school papers and athletic teams, for honors at graduation, for offices, for entrance to college, for the plain privilege of staying at school. While Payner is catching bugs, Woodford is shooting clay pigeons, Thornton playing a mandolin, Ford running the Assembly Club, Allen preparing to beat the Harvard Freshmen at debate, and Smith plugging away at Cicero and Homer and history with the resignation of a holy man of Tibet walled up in a cave. And many there are who go to and fro in obscurity, mere names on class lists or voices on the cheering benches. Yet who would venture to assert that among these insignificants some distinguished man of the future may not be hidden? Among the episodes of the year entirely unconnected with baseball was that of the delayed senior dinner and the presence thereat of the little thirteen-year-old townie who sat in state at the right of the toastmaster and consumed ice cream and cake in quantities quite out of proportion to his size. Robert Owen had nothing to do with the affair, except to hear of it at first hand from Wolcott Lindsay and Durand, when the pair came exulting home late at night, eager to find an upper middler to inform and gloat over. So Rob was routed out and sat in pajamas blinking at the lamp while the seniors narrated. When at last it became clear that they had ceased to narrate, and were merely jeering, Rob rallied his forces, vowed that they were interfering with his baseball training, and drove them out. Their tale, with the necessary introductions, is as follows:-- Class rivalry at Seaton is a matter of years and circumstances. At the time of the class football games in the fall, when the lower middlers combined with the seniors to rush the field after the senior-upper middle game, and stole away the ball which the upper middlers had won, Rob's classmates had indulged in violent talk of retribution. On the week after, however, had occurred the Hillbury game in which several members of the offending class had won new laurels for the school. The feeling of complacency and brotherhood engendered by the victory was fatal to the spirit of civil strife. The plots for vengeance apparently died a natural death with no likelihood of revival. So at least it seemed to the school at large. A few rash spirits, whose pretended resentment was but an excuse for a lark, thought otherwise. Acting on the principle that it is easiest to strike when the foe is least expectant, they prepared for war in the midst of peace. Poole, who was president of the class, was expected to preside at the senior dinner. This, of course, the conspirators knew; they likewise knew his habits and companions. He usually went from his room outside the yard to the post-office for the evening mail, and thence either to the school recreation room at Merrill Hall or to some friend's or to his fraternity house, to spend the hour before evening study began. On the night of the dinner he would be likely to make his visit to the post-office somewhat earlier. If he could be caught alone on the way thither, or while answering some fictitious summons, he might be seized, crammed into a hack, and driven to a place of security. If he should mysteriously disappear before the dinner took place, and stay disappeared a reasonable length of time, the dinner would be spoiled. For even if the seniors ultimately proceeded without their president, the feast must have lost much of its savor through delay, and how could the encomiums on the class be anything but flat with the proof of its inferiority so crushingly evident? As Payner and Simmons came paddling down the river again that afternoon, they overhauled young Wally Sedgwick in his canoe voyaging homeward. Payner knew Wally, having run across him more than once on these expeditions, and found him possessed of much local information of a varied character. "Hello!" shouted Payner, "been swimming?" "Nope," answered Wally, poising his paddle. "My mother made me promise not to till it gets warmer. Have you?" "Yes," lied Payner; "the water is great." But Wally either didn't believe him or didn't care. "Say, did you see those fellows back there on the bank? What were they doing?" "Oh, I don't know!" replied Payner, ungraciously. He had seen among them the Pecks and Milliken and Barclay, and that was enough. "Up to mischief, probably. Come on, we'll race you down." "Thank you," returned the boy; "I guess I'm in no hurry." Sloper Stevens, who lay outstretched in the bow, dragging his hands in the water, was in no hurry either, so, as the students passed out of sight around the next bend in the river, Wally turned the nose of his canoe up stream again. The suggestion that the knot of students he had lately passed were up to something wrong whetted his curiosity. What crime could they commit here? They weren't stealing wood or cutting trees. The students appeared on the river bank beneath some tall pines, and looked up and down the wood road and pointed at the river and at some place behind them in the woods. Wally watched them in half concealment in the shelter of an old stump which projected into the river. They disappeared now and presently came out into view again farther up, where they again pointed and surveyed. Such conduct was incomprehensible, and therefore interesting to Wally, who had seen students up the river before and knew their ways. They usually came by twos and threes in boats or canoes, sometimes seriously with books, more often sprawling on the seats, laughing, singing, innocently engaged in killing time. If they went ashore they stretched themselves on their backs under the trees, or stripped and went swimming. These fellows were different; they seemed to be in search of something. "Going to stay here all night?" demanded Sloper. "'Cause if you are I'm going to get out and walk." "I'm going," answered Wally, swinging the bow again down-stream. He also had recognized Milliken and Barclay and the two Pecks, the first because he was the great back in the school eleven, known to every boy in town, the second as the captain of the upper middle eleven, and the Pecks--well, just because they were "the two Pecks." Wally's sympathies were not with the upper middle class. Next fall he was to be a junior himself, and as a junior would side with upper middlers against lower middlers and seniors. The present upper middlers would be the seniors of next year--hence his natural foes. Wally knew where his allegiance lay. That night at supper Wally was subdued and meditative. Mr. Sedgwick asked him first if he were tired, and then if he had been swimming, both of which questions Wally answered with an indignant negative. The maternal suggestions were that it was too hard for him in the High School and that he didn't go to bed early enough. These explanations also displeased Master Wally, for he did not wish his work in the High School to be too closely investigated, and no boy likes to be sent early to bed. So he cut his dessert short--he didn't care much for that dessert anyway--and got excused to go to the post-office. On the way he still wrestled with the problem of the students under the pines. At the supper table he had decided that they must be preparing for an initiation. On further reflection, however, this theory appeared untenable. The members of the fraternities wear flat gray hats with bands of special stripes. Wally had seen two different fraternity hatbands among the crowd. Besides, the fraternity fellows belong to different classes, and these were all upper middlers. He took the letters from the box at the office, pushed them into his coat pocket, and sauntered up the lane and through the Academy yard. If he could only run across Eddy, now, or John Somes or French, all students of his acquaintance, he would ask them. It was just growing dusk. As he passed through the gate at the upper end he saw a hack drawn up beside the road. The driver, with his back to the street, seemed to be very busy with the harness. In the vehicle a man with gray hair and spectacles sat crowded into a corner. Ahead Wally caught sight of the familiar figure of the baseball captain hurrying down the street toward him. He knew Poole, of course, as did every urchin in town; but he had the advantage of the other urchins in the fact that Poole knew him. Poole had made Wally's acquaintance at the birthday party of Wally's older sister. Since that time the baseball captain had never failed to recognize the boy. To-night, however, either from preoccupation or because he was hastening to meet an appointment, Poole passed him by without a word. The disappointed boy turned and gazed after the retreating senior. The latter had gone but a few steps when he was apparently summoned by the occupant of the hack. Wally saw him turn to the carriage door and lean in as if to hear the words of the old man inside. Then two figures crept out from the yard of the house near by, stole up behind the unsuspicious Poole, seized him, threw him into the carriage, tumbled in themselves, and pulled the door to and the curtain down. Wally stood with bulging eyes, hearing the throttled yell and the sound of struggle within the hack, and seeing the driver whip his horses into a sudden gallop. "Barclay and Milliken as sure as guns!" thought Master Wally. "They're running off with Poole!" and forthwith Wally began to run, after the hack and homeward where the letters must be delivered and where his bicycle still stood leaning against the fence, as he had left it when he came from school at one o'clock. As he plied his legs, his thoughts also were nimble, and he marked well the direction the hack was taking. That morning on the way to school Jack Sanders had told him that the seniors were to have a dinner to-night, and asked him if he remembered the time two years before when the middlers tried to bribe Shorty McDougal to sneak into the hotel kitchen and pinch the ice cream. Milliken and Barclay! It wasn't hard to guess now what those fellows were doing up river! Wally threw his letters on the hall table--fortunately without meeting any inconvenient member of the family--and dashed out again. The entrance to the river road was through the Gilman farm across the bridge. The hack had gone down Elm Street, evidently taking a circuitous route to avoid passing through the centre of the town. If he sprinted, he could beat it to the Gilmans' yet! Panting from his efforts, trembling with eagerness, Wally leaned his bicycle against a tree, scrambled behind a stone wall, and crouched on the ground. He was none too soon. Almost immediately came the sound of wheels on the highway, and a hack turned into the lane and swept by him down the incline to the river. At the gate by the lower barn it stopped, and the sound of voices came back, as of greetings and exclamations. Then the gate was opened and shut again; and the tread of horses' hoofs and the rumble of wheels died away in the river mists. CHAPTER XXI PLAYING INDIANS Wally's first impulse had been to get to the scene of excitement at the earliest possible moment, in order to lose nothing of the spectacle. Like most boys, he regarded himself as unfairly treated if fun was going on in which he had no share. But here he had met an obstacle. He was alone--and, as everybody knows, a boy can have no fun alone. Moreover, when he came to think of it, he had really done nothing and seen nothing. He had no tale to tell the boys the next morning that would not be met with "Then what did you do?" Close on the heels of these impressions followed the reflection that it was a dirty trick to play on the captain of the nine in the baseball season, that Poole was a friend of his, and that the kidnappers belonged to a class to which by all rules of tradition and custom his own class was to be antagonistic. Poole's predicament appealed to his sympathy. When he imagined the insolent delight of the captors at the success of their raid, they seemed in some way his own enemies, striking at him. Would the seniors find their president and bring him back? He sincerely hoped they might. Wally mounted his bicycle and rode homeward. As he went a great purpose gradually swelled his heart and put force into his pedal strokes. He left the bicycle at the usual place, but avoided the front door as too perilous and crept in through the kitchen and up the backstairs to his room. There he pulled on a dark jersey, slipped into his pocket the flash lamp which Uncle Joe had given him at Christmas, and crept out by the kitchen door again to his faithful wheel. Ten minutes later Wally sat in his canoe, paddling vigorously up the river. Dusk had faded into darkness, but the stars gave appreciable light, and the river was familiar to him. He knew every turn and shallow in the stream, every clump of bushes on the banks, every group of trees, every leaning stump. He passed the wide mouth of Little River, lying silent at the foot of the new Playing Field, and entered the straight stretch beside the Park, where the tall, overhanging trees on either side and the sluggish, murky water beneath formed a gloomy tunnel through which the wind blew, chill and dispiriting. But Wally was not one to be frightened by the bugaboo of darkness; the mysterious depths had no terrors for him. His work kept him warm, despite the wind, while the strip of stars above his head cheered with their friendly presence. He could see, too, on the water, not clearly but well enough to make his course; and his thoughts, set eagerly on his destination, were unaffected by the perils of the way. So the little craft pushed its nose steadily upward against wind and current, while the gurgle of water from the paddle was hardly audible above the sighing of the wind through the naked branches. And now he was abreast of the entrance to the cove, a broad inlet stretching deep into the woods, and crossed midway by a causeway and bridge. Over the bridge led the forest road along which the kidnappers had taken their victim. It came out close to the river again beyond the next point, and Wally, fearful that hostile eyes might peer at him from the darkness, put into practice the trick of silent paddling he had learned the summer before,--dipping the blade vertically into the water and lifting it cautiously at the end of the stroke. Another bend would bring him in sight of his goal! The sound of voices and of laughter reached his ears and set his heart beating hard. Some one was thrashing about in the undergrowth, sticks were being broken; as he advanced the glint of fire flashed occasionally past the tree trunks. They were there! As he rounded the last point, the scene was partially revealed. He worked his way still farther along the bank to a tree which sagged over the river, affording a protecting shadow. From here he had a satisfactory view. They had built a fire near the bank. Some one--it looked like Barclay--was piling fuel on. Around were standing or moving a dozen fellows, while against a big oak in the background, standing as if his hands were tied behind him, was Poole. The flames, flaring up through a fresh armful of brush, threw a bright light on the faces of those beyond, behind whose moving figures Poole's form was alternately eclipsed and revealed. The whole scene reminded Wally of an incident in one of his favorite Indian tales, in which young braves dance around their camp-fire and jeer at their captive bound to a tree. When Wally played Indians with his boy friends he always chose the part of the white man taken captive rather than of the Indian captors. He chose the same part now. Over behind Poole's tree was a clump of spruces in which he and another boy had once hidden for an hour, while the Indians vainly searched the woods all about them. A big rock was there, with side sloping outward in an overhang and a group of young spruces growing close against the edge. If Poole could escape like the white captive in the story, what an elegant hiding-place lay ready at hand! Wally slipped his moorings and let his canoe drift back around the point. Then he made fast the painter to a root, and went cautiously ashore. Poole had obeyed the false summons to the telephone office without a suspicion. Even when the elderly stranger in the hack had beckoned to him, he had hesitated only from reluctance to waste time already pledged to other uses, not from any fear of treachery. When, therefore, he felt himself precipitated into the carriage, he was for the moment too much surprised by the sudden attack to reason about the situation. Instinctively he turned to strike back at the fellows who were amusing themselves in this cheap way by shoving him into a carriage. As he fell, he brought down the old man's beard, and the old man's very muscular arms folded about him, while Milliken and Barclay came diving in upon them both. Then when it was too late the true explanation flashed upon him. They held him securely pinioned, with Milliken's big hand covering his mouth, and all three urging continuously their great regret at being compelled to use such rough measures, the folly of any attempt to escape or make outcry, and the wisdom of submitting calmly to the inevitable, during the rapid but somewhat roundabout drive to the Gilman barn. Once out of hearing of the street they stopped the hack, got out with their burden, and took the remainder of the way on foot, the exulting company surrounding the captive in a mock bodyguard and paying sarcastic homage. Puzzle his brains as he would, Poole could see no chance of escape. His only hope was that his classmates would not wait long for his appearance. Among the pines, while some prepared material for the fire, others argued with the prisoner. If he would give his word not to escape, they would leave him unbound. But Poole was not to be persuaded. He was there by force, and force alone should keep him. He would make no promises; they must take full responsibility for their action. So they tied his hands behind him and fastened him to the oak tree by a stout rope. After this they danced about the fire, and made sarcastic comments on the course which the dinner was probably taking, and facetiously invited him to partake of certain dishes which were presumably being served. Soon, however, chilled by Poole's silence and show of dignity, the kidnappers abandoned this form of baiting also, and devoted themselves to keeping up the fire, to smoking and lively chatter. [Illustration: He felt the bonds that held him to the tree loosen. _Page 231._] A half-hour may have passed when Poole heard a low, softly repeated hiss behind the tree, which evidently was not made by the wind. He turned his head slightly and hissed in return. Then a low, boyish voice which Poole did not recognize whispered: "I'm going to cut the rope; sneak round the tree and come with me. Don't say anything." Poole's heart leaped with joy at this sudden offer of aid, unknown though the source; but he tried hard to make no movement and show no change of expression. He felt the bonds that held him to the tree loosen. He did not start, because Barclay's eyes were resting on him from across the fire, and he wanted the advantage of the second or two which he should gain by slipping away when the attention was elsewhere. Presently Duncan Peck offered an impersonation of Reddy McGuffy speaking from the floor in a debate at the Laurel Leaf. This drew all eyes, and was accompanied by such running fire of laughter and comment that no one noticed the slight rustle made by their prisoner as he detached himself from the tree and crept around it. A small boy rose before him and led the way straight through the shadow of the tree into the deeper darkness of the woods. Poole followed blindly, hampered by his tied hands, fearing to run lest he fall and flounder, expecting at every step to hear behind the shout and plunge of swift pursuers. "We're almost there!" whispered the guide. "Hurry!" Where _there_ was Poole had no idea, but he found out a dozen steps farther on, for just as a frightful yell rose from the camp, his guide suddenly whispered, "Wait a second!" and disappeared, apparently swallowed by the earth. But before Poole could move, a momentary flash of the pocket light behind a rock showed him a hole toward which he threw himself and wriggled in. "Turn over and I'll cut the rope," the boy breathed in his ear. Poole obeyed. "Gee, here they come!" whispered the unknown with a giggle of joyful excitement. The pursuers had at first flocked to the oak, hoping to find their victim close at hand. Then for a moment they stood dazed. "Perhaps he's up the tree," suggested Robins. "Why, his hands are tied, you fool," retorted Milliken. "He can't climb and he can't run; he's lying somewhere on the ground. Spread out and find him!" So they spread out, yelling, scolding, groping, stumbling. The fugitives heard them brushing by. One fellow tripped over the edge of their sheltering rock and picked himself up, muttering imprecations. Wally strove to suppress a giggle, but Poole nerved himself for a dash in case he was discovered. His hands were free now and he felt ready to take any chance. "Let's sneak for the cove bridge," whispered Poole. "We can get by them in the woods." "Not on your life! They've got two guys watching down there. Wait a little longer. I've got a canoe here on the river." "Come back! Come back!" shouted in unison a trio of wiser heads who perceived that their search in the darkness was both useless and dangerous. The rest came scrambling back, each demanding eagerly as he came: "Have you got him?" "Where is he?" "Who found him?" "Nobody's found him," said Milliken, "but we don't want to lose the rest of you. Let him stay in the woods all night if he wants to. As long as he don't get to the dinner, what do we care? What we've got to do is to watch the bridge and the road from here to High Street, and see that he doesn't sneak round us and get out." "Why, he couldn't do it if he tried all night," said Brown. "It's a mile round the cove, through the worst kind of woods and swamp, and high-water too. He never could do it." "That's what I say," replied Milliken. "If we guard the cove bridge and the two bridges in town we've got him anyway." The squad took the one lantern they had brought with them and marched off to guard duty, making their first halt at the cove bridge. The fire had died down; silence reigned under the pines. Wally crept out to reconnoitre, and returned with the news that the coast was clear. He thought with some uneasiness of the anxiety his absence might be producing at home. He devoutly hoped they wouldn't worry; perhaps they supposed he was at the library. At any rate, he was eager to get away. Poole, of course, was no less eager. They reached the canoe without mishap. Each took a paddle and, with the spring current to help them, pushed rapidly down. As they slid past the entrance to the cove they looked across and chuckled to see the gleam of the lantern at the cove bridge. "Let 'em stay there all night," said Poole. "I shan't trouble 'em." A few minutes later Wally swung the bow in toward his landing and together they carried the canoe up, turned it over, and left it for the night. Wally took his bicycle and started for home, divided in his mind between delight at the adventure and fear of the parental reception which he was to face. Poole ran beside him until they reached the Squamscott, and, when they parted, showered upon his head such expressions of gratitude as no little townie had ever received from a baseball captain since ever baseball captains existed. Wally's account of his adventures was the only excuse he had to offer for his absence to his reproachful parents. He had been over the whole narrative once, and was explaining more in detail about his hiding-place beside the rock, when a committee from the dining seniors appeared and craved the pleasure of Master Wally's company at the banquet. Mamma, of course, demurred, but Mr. Sedgwick opined that he might as well make a night of it, and the seniors bore him away in triumph. They planted him beside the recovered president, fed him royally on ice cream and cake, mentioned him in their speeches, and sent him home with a cheer at ten o'clock. On the morrow Wally had no great appetite for breakfast, and he found his legs somewhat heavy as he trotted down to school--but he had great things to tell the boys! CHAPTER XXII A FAIR CHANCE Patterson's resolution to pitch no more except to Owen was speedily known in school and variously judged. Poole himself said little about it, thinking that the pitcher's rebellious attitude was caused by a temporary fit of discouragement which would soon pass away. Others were less charitable, particularly Borland's friends, who declared that Patterson was trying to shift upon Borland's shoulders the responsibility for his own poor work. Rob, likewise disapproving, upbraided him most frankly for disloyalty and insubordination; it was rank treason to refuse to do what one could for the cause just because the authorities did not select the team to suit him. Wasn't Rob himself playing in an entirely strange position because they wanted him there? But Pat remained politely obdurate. "I suppose I'm all wrong," he concluded stubbornly after Rob had instructed him in his duty with great emphasis and detail; "but if I am, it can't be helped, for I'm going to do what I said I would and nothing else. Either you catch me or I don't pitch. I don't see what treason there is in that. You know you're a better catcher than Borland, now, don't you?" "No, I don't," retorted Owen, hotly. "If I were, they'd take me without your forcing them into it. You're just making a fool of me." At this Patterson merely smiled and said nothing, and acted as if the judges had given a unanimous verdict in his favor. What can you do with a fellow who listens and grins like an idiot and won't argue, and yet refuses to be convinced? Rob gave him up. But neither Poole nor Lyford could forget that first game in which the second team had so easily and so completely trounced the first. Explain it as they might,--as a freak of chance, as due to lucky hitting by two or three of the second, to temporary blindness of the batting eye on the part of the first, to O'Connell's wildness,--the fact still remained that Patterson had pitched an excellent game and might do so again. Lyford therefore was inclined to yield a point; let Patterson practise with Owen, if he cherished the fancy that Owen was necessary to him. After a time they would try the pair in a game, and then, when it was shown that Owen did no better for him than Borland had done, he would drop the notion that he must depend on his catchers, and learn to depend on himself. So Owen continued to catch Patterson in practice, while Borland caught O'Connell and threw to bases; and after his catching practice Rob would go out and try his new position at right field. The Dartmouth nine stopped at Seaton on its way to Boston and gave the schoolboys a game. It was early in the season for both teams, and neither was satisfied with the score. O'Connell was not hit hard by the collegians, but he gave several bases on balls; and when a Dartmouth runner got to first he had little difficulty in reaching second and third. The college players seemed to hit at necessary times, and when the base-runner tried to steal a base, either Borland received the ball in bad position to throw, or the throw went high and wide; the runner was usually safe. The Seatonians, on the other hand, though they made nearly as many hits, were far behind in runs. Rob played at right field and accepted one easy chance; he also satisfied the authorities by making two hits. They were not so well satisfied with the six at the foot of the Seaton error column, and Lyford, at least, was not blind to the mistakes in judgment shown by the battery. But the school, which expected defeat from the college team, criticised leniently. They felt somewhat different two mornings later, when the papers reported the Dartmouth-Hillbury game, which the Hillburyites all but won. Another week of training passed. Rob occasionally relieved Borland in throwing to bases now, and a new party had arisen on the bleachers, a party which asked persistently, "Why doesn't Owen catch?" The party was small, but its strength was considerably augmented by the cautious support of the four or five players of the infield whose duty it was to receive the catcher's throws. When Borland threw to second, he stepped back with one foot, at the same time pulling back his arm, and with a violent swing of arm and body drove the ball down, as if it were thrown by a catapult. If it struck fair it struck hard, and fortunate was the baseman if he was braced to receive it. Rob's throw was different. He stepped forward instead of back, and his throw was with the arm alone, a quick, hard snap which ended with the wrist forward. The ball thus got an upward twist which lifted it just enough to counteract the force of gravity and to keep it parallel with the ground. A throw like this carries well and lands in the hands like a feather. Hayes the shortstop and McPherson, who played at second, discovered immediately this difference between the balls thrown by the two catchers. After experience with Owen's easily taken snaps it was hard to go back to Borland's cannon balls. "They are twice as easy to handle as Borland's," said Hayes, as he walked down with McPherson after the practice; "and you don't lose your balance trying to hold 'em, either." "And as far as I can see they travel just as fast," replied the second baseman, "or else he gets them off a lot quicker." Lyford and Poole also noticed Owen's throwing and recognized his skill. "He may beat Borland out after all," said the coach. "There's a good deal more to catching than throwing to bases," Poole returned thoughtfully. "Borland has a lot of good points. He's a good backstop, is sure on fouls, and doesn't rattle; and he's used to our game. He was good last year and ought to be better this. I won't throw him over until I find some one surely better." "I shouldn't, either," said the coach; "though, to tell the truth, I never thought him remarkable in inside work.[1] With green pitchers this year, a good deal will depend on what the catcher gets out of them." [Footnote 1: The term applied to the catcher's strategy in directing the pitching.] The truth of this last remark was so obvious that no reply could be made to it except to assent, or perhaps to add as a corollary that, other things being equal, the best catcher was the one who could get the most out of the pitcher. Poole was an excellent ball player and a just captain. To put an inferior man on the nine because he was a friend or a fraternity mate would have been impossible for him. But Poole had a way of planning things in advance, and then trying hard to make his plans succeed. In this he was almost obstinate. Carle and Borland as the school battery had been an important part of his plan. When this scheme miscarried, he had fixed on O'Connell and Borland, or Patterson and Borland--always Borland. Owen, he had decided, should go to right field to make a part of the heavy-hitting outfield which he had dreamed of producing. The suggestion that Borland's strategy was faulty did not please him, because it interfered with his plans. At the same time, if there was some one better he wanted to know it. "Well, let us try the other battery," said the coach, at last. And the captain agreed. The opportunity came soon. After the Dartmouth game O'Connell complained of a lame arm and asked for a rest. Borland was laid off with him. Patterson and Owen were slated for the next game. The Fryeburg school was on the schedule for Saturday, and Poole was eager to win the game. The year before the manager had induced this team to come to Seaton to substitute for a nine which had been obliged to cancel its game. In the spirit of superiority which the boys of Seaton and Hillbury often assume toward the athletic teams of other schools, the Seaton manager had seen fit to urge upon the Fryeburg captain that he bring up his best team and give the Academy nine a good game. The Fryeburger had responded by bringing up so excellent a team, and giving the Seatonians so stiff a game, that the latter were supremely thankful for the base on balls, the three-base hit, and the muffed fly which yielded them their two runs to match against the seven which the visitors achieved. Seaton doesn't easily forget that kind of a surprise. Next to the great Hillbury contest, the climax of the athletic year, there was no game in the schedule which captain and school desired so ardently to win. This year these fellows must be soundly thrashed! To his men Poole appeared most confident as he ordered them to their places for the opening of the game. He tried to persuade himself that he really felt all the hopefulness he showed, but it was harder to deceive himself than to encourage other people. If there was another whose manner and words helped to stay the captain's courage, it was the new catcher. Owen had long ago learned that as the catcher's every movement is watched by the eight men before him in the field, so his whole bearing and his work are both in a marked degree either encouraging or discouraging to the rest of the nine. He must never show faint-heartedness or uncertainty. He must do hard things as if they were easy, must keep the whole play always before his eyes, direct the pitcher, watch the base-runner, throw instantly when necessary, take hard knocks with indifference, sprint for sudden fouls,--this and more is involved in the work of his position; but above all and everywhere he must have courage and inspire it. Rob could do this because he had done it many times before, and because he trusted his infield. He had arranged with Ames at first for the throwing signal, with Hayes, the shortstop, and McPherson, second, as to covering second base; they were trusty men. Patterson was in good condition, asking nothing better than to follow the catcher's directions. Poole had given him from his last year's note-book certain facts about the Fryeburg hitters. It was just such an opportunity as this that Rob had longed for. Why shouldn't he feel confidence? The three Fryeburg batters were soon disposed of, one striking out, one putting up a pop foul, which Durand found easy to handle, and the third catching a wide out on the end of his bat and rolling a grounder to Ames. When Seaton came to the bat, McPherson, perceiving that Simms, the Fryeburg pitcher, was nervous, waited patiently and went to first on balls; and Poole, a little later, put a clean hit over the shortstop's head. With two men on bases things seemed promising, but Sudbury struck out, Durand forced McPherson by a hit to third base, and Owen, to his great disappointment, sent a long fly into the centre fielder's hands. In the second inning nothing was accomplished by either side. In the third a Fryeburger got first, only to be caught napping there on the first pitch by a sharp throw from the catcher, which called out from the well-filled benches the clear staccato "individual" cheer, "Owen, rah! Owen, rah! rah, rah, rah, Owen!" Rob might have appreciated the compliment if he had not been so intent on his work. A ball close in by a timid batsman drove him away from the plate; the next starting in apparently the same course, curved over; the third was the swift jump which Patterson threw as naturally as a left-hander throws an inshoot; the fourth, a teasing slow ball which made the third strike. Then with an easy fly to Rorbach, who was taking Owen's place in right field, the side was out. McPherson came to the bat again and sent a liner over second base. Poole, who was an experienced bunter, tapped a weak bounder along the line to third, and, being a left-hander and quick, beat the ball to first. Sudbury struck out again. Durand drove a ball toward the second baseman which that fielder found too hot to manage, and the bases were full. Owen waited patiently until three balls were called, and then cracked another out into the field between right and centre, and two men came home. Ames hit a long fly to centre field, on which Durand scored. Then Hayes and Patterson went meekly out. In the first half of the fourth Fryeburg got a run on a hit and errors by Durand and Patterson. From then until the eighth no more runs were made. Fryeburg reached first base thrice and second but once, and Seaton fared little better. After Larkin, the Fryeburg shortstop, essaying to steal second, ran into the ball in McPherson's hands a good three yards from the base, the Fryeburg base-runner clung to first if once he reached there, and waited for some one else to help him along. Patterson was following his catcher's signals like clockwork. Pitchers have days when the ball works with them, and this was Patterson's day. His jump balls really jumped; his inside ones cut the corners of the plate; into the straight, swift balls he put a powerful body swing. The fellows on the benches, the anxious captain, the critical coach, all felt the spirit that prevailed, perceived that the men were playing a game worth while, and were elated. Then in the eighth came the events that caused the sympathetic spectators first to grieve, then to revile their foolish optimism, and finally in one big howl, that carried fully half a mile, to pour forth their new emotions. It happened in this wise. Lufkin, the first Fryeburg batsman, hit a long fly to Sudbury, who dropped it, thus presenting the runner with a two-base hit. Morris, who followed him, hit the ball in a low arch over third baseman's head, and reached first. The next Fryeburger hit to Hayes, who, in overhaste, threw home, while Lufkin stayed at third. No one out and the bases full! Poole stamped his spikes into the ground, rubbed his bare hand nervously into his glove, and asked himself with sinking heart whether Patterson wasn't going up in the air. "One ball!" cried the umpire on the next pitch. Owen walked toward the pitcher's box and said a few words to Patterson as he tossed him the ball at short range. Patterson nodded and went back. Owen stooped on the plate and tied his shoe, readjusted his glove, and took his position once more. The batsman struck, lifting the ball in a low pop foul hardly a dozen feet above the catcher's head. "Over your head!" shouted Patterson. In an instant Rob had turned, flipped the mask from his head, looked up and caught sight of the ball. It was already falling, two yards ahead of him! He leaped, as a football player makes a flying tackle, and clutched the falling object hardly a foot from the ground. One out! but the three bases were still full. Patterson had calmed down. Ross, the Fryeburg catcher, usually struck over the ball; Patterson sent him a low one. The bat clipped the top of the ball and drove it into Patterson's hands. "Here!" cried Rob, standing on the plate. Patterson threw, Rob received the ball, turned and cut it to Ames at first, where it beat the runner by ten feet. Not till they saw Rob toss aside his mitt and Ames and Patterson start in, did the crowd realize that Lufkin had been forced at the plate and Ross thrown out at first. After that the game was no longer in danger--nor the battery's reputation. In the ninth the Seatonians made a rally and batted in four runs. So that the final score of seven to one represented a very fair vengeance for the defeat of the preceding year. [Illustration: He leaped and clutched the ball hardly a foot from the ground.--_Page 250._] CHAPTER XXIII A TIE GAME Robert Owen received many attentions from enthusiastic schoolmates that afternoon. They hovered around him while he was dressing; they dropped in on him after he reached his room. But it was Patterson who got the credit for the pitching performance; and Rob, you may be sure, let fall no hint that would lessen the pitcher's glory. It was encouragement that Pat needed to bring out the best that was in him; he was getting it now in full measure. But after all, the voluble flatteries of the ignorant were of little value to Rob compared with the opinions of captain and coach. They accosted him on his way up from the gymnasium, just where he had met them three weeks earlier, after the game between the First and Second. "Well, Owen," began the coach, "it was a great game you caught to-day." Rob's modest smile and quiet "Thank you" represented but poorly the delight he felt. "I really was surprised at Patterson's work," went on Lyford. "I didn't imagine he could do so well. It looked as though he was going up in the eighth, but you pulled him down handily. You played in luck there, too, for it isn't often that a man is forced at the plate." "How much of that pitching did Patterson really do?" demanded Poole, abruptly. Rob glanced keenly at the captain. "All of it," he answered quickly. "It was good pitching, too. The ball came right where it was wanted." "But you ran the thing, didn't you?" "Why, yes, in a way. When I called for a ball he put it over as I wanted it unless he had something better. He usually took my suggestions." Lyford nodded agreement. "There should be but one head in a battery," he said, "and it's my opinion that if you've got a good, wideawake catcher, it's better to let him do the head-work." "We've decided to keep Rorbach at right," said Poole. "You're too valuable a man to waste in the outfield. And you may as well go on catching Patterson." Rob scampered ecstatically up to his room. There is nothing like a victory which you have worked and waited and longed for through months of discouragement, and, finally, in spite of every obstacle, actually won. This day's work had brought the authorities over to his side. After this there could be no more taking for granted that the old catcher must be the best catcher, and that experience elsewhere must be inferior to that acquired at Seaton. Borland was on the defensive now; if he would hold his place, he must prove his claim to it. And to do that he must accomplish something more than make a steady backstop and occasionally catch a man at second. Rob chuckled aloud as he recalled Poole's question about running the pitcher. Twice only in the game had Patterson ventured to pitch a ball different from what his catcher had called for. One of these had been fouled close to the line; and the other--a straight over after two strikes and a ball, which Pat had tried in hopes of a quick strike-out--the batter had smashed to centre field for two bases. As a strategist, Patterson could be improved upon, but it certainly was not the catcher's business to say so, especially as Pat had vowed that afternoon after the two-bagger that he'd never interfere again. Then the congratulating friends began to drop in--Lindsay, Laughlin, Duncan Peck, Strong, Ware, Hendry, Salter. Simmons appeared in the midst of the bustle and retired shyly into a corner, whence he looked on at the demonstration with smiling but silent approval. He evidently had something on his mind. Duncan Peck also showed himself unusually subdued; and though he had that day been permitted to remove from his door the hateful inscription "Duncan Peck, Study Hours, 8-1, 4-6, 8 P.M.--" which had adorned it these four months, he yet manifested no exuberance of joy at his freedom. The visitors went their ways before dinner-time, leaving to Simmons his opportunity. "I didn't go to the game--" he began, as if about to excuse himself for disloyalty. "Up the river again with Payner?" asked Rob, smiling. Simmons nodded. "Have a good time?" "Fine! Up the river, Payner's very different from what he is here. He's as jolly as can be, and tells you lots of things." "Well, what's the matter, then? What makes you look glum?" "I'll tell you. When we got home he took me into his room to show me a new specimen. Then he asked me what the Pecks were going to do about the plagues, and I told him that there wasn't any change so far as I'd heard. At that he looked fierce, and said they'd get the full number then; they'd better look out, for he'd put them to the bad before he got through with them. Then he asked me if I didn't want to see what the next one was going to be. I said Yes, and he unlocked the closet door and let me look in. What do you think I saw?" Simmons paused and gazed at Owen with big, horrified eyes. "Well, what was it?" demanded the ball player. "I'm not going to guess through the whole zoölogy. Spit it out, can't you?" "In the back of the closet was a kind of wire-levered box like a big rat trap, and in the box was an awfully big, shiny, black snake, all coiled up!" "Dead?" asked Owen. "Alive!" "How did you know?" "I saw it move its head, and the eyes shone, and there was food for it sticking through the wires." "That's about the limit!" exclaimed Rob. "What then?" "He pulled me out and locked the door, and said, as quietly as if he were talking about a common _bug_, that he was going to wait a day or two and see if they were coming round. If they didn't, he'd give 'em the snake; he didn't know how yet, but they'd surely get it. Then he wanted me to promise not to let on about it to any one." "Did you promise?" Simmons straightened up. "No, I didn't," he declared proudly. "I just let him know what I thought of him and cleared out!" "You told Duncan about it, didn't you?" asked Rob. "Yes; how did you know?" "I could see it in his face when he was here a few minutes ago. You'd better not worry over it. Payner wouldn't put a snake like that into their room." "Oh, yes, he would," answered Simmons, wisely, with a doleful shake of his head. "You don't know that fellow. He's all right if you let him alone; but when he's mad, he's terrible. Why, he doesn't care any more for a snake like that than I do for an angleworm!" It was nearly time for dinner, and as both preferred to be on hand at Alumni when the doors were opened, the conversation came to an end. Rob half resolved to have a serious talk with the Pecks that evening and see if he could not induce them to put an end to the unseemly feud. But after dinner he was unexpectedly called to a baseball meeting, and after that there were two lessons to prepare; so it happened that with his work and his natural weariness from the game, and the excitement of his new prospects, he forgot completely the Pecks and Payner and the snake. But Duncan did not forget. He was thoroughly sick of the whole affair. Of what use was it to be off study hours, if one must forever be watching and dodging and locking up, never free from fear and never able to placate the enemy? Why must he suffer because Don was a mule? And the big snake! He shuddered at the thought of the coiling, crawling thing. He began to see it in the dark corners, to hear it in the rustle of papers on the floor. It was like a waking nightmare. By evening he was ready for a decisive step. He went resolutely to Payner's room and made a complete apology. Payner listened and nodded approval. "I thought it was about time you fellows came down off your perch," he said. "Next time perhaps you won't be in such a hurry to roughhouse a new fellow. It's all right now as far as you've gone; but where's the other one of you?" "My apology will do for both, won't it?" "No, sir!" returned Payner, with decision. "You've both got to toe the scratch and say your little pieces, or it's no go. Two or nothing. Send along your brother with the same story, and then mebbe I'll call off the dogs." "I will if I can," replied Duncan, dismally. It was a badly discouraged lad who sneaked back to the Peck quarters and threw himself on his couch. It was no use. Don would never yield. He might fight, or get up a counter demonstration, but apologize--never. Duncan lay for some time on his back, throwing his knife into the air and catching it again. This process always had a soothing effect. It also served to clarify his thoughts and stir his imagination. After half an hour's practice with mind and hand, a new idea dawned upon him. Pocketing his knife with a slap, Duncan pulled open the closet door and fumbled among the garments hung thick upon the crowded hooks. Yes, there was Donald's variegated waistcoat which he had been sporting of late, and which, in the excitement of the morning's scramble for breakfast and chapel, he had mourned his inability to find. Duncan stowed it away in a corner under a box, where only a thorough overhauling of the contents of the closet could bring it to light; then much easier in mind he took up the work of the evening. On the next morning there was another burst of sputtering on the part of Donald, for this time his flat-topped gray hat, adorned with the hatband of the fraternity which he had recently joined, had likewise disappeared. He could find it nowhere, although he stole four minutes for the search from the short allowance for breakfast, and notwithstanding Duncan's remarkably unselfish assistance. A cap was near at hand, however, and taking this, Donald at length hurried over to the dining hall, vowing to complain to Dr. Mann downstairs that Lady Jane was swiping his things. For two hours at least he could not execute his threat, for at eight came Greek, and at nine Rushers' Math. Duncan, who was in the Flunkers' section, recited an hour later, and thus was free between nine and ten. Once the "nine o'clocks" were well under way, Duncan arrayed himself in his brother's favorite necktie, donned the resplendent waistcoat, fished out the flat-topped hat with its striking hatband from beneath his bureau, and giving to the brim the rakish tilt which Donald affected, put it carefully upon his head. Thus panoplied he rapped confidently on Payner's door. "I've come to see you about that room business," began Duncan, looking down at the hat which he held in front of him, and yet in such a way that the waistcoat was largely visible. Payner had risen from his chair. "So you're the other one, are you? Well, what do you want?" "Didn't you send for me?" asked the visitor. "No, I didn't," retorted Payner, sharply. "I said I wouldn't receive any apology until you both came." "Well, I'm ready to apologize," announced the Peck. "I'm very sorry we did it." This was a true word if Duncan had ever spoken such! His tones were likewise sincere. Payner, who at present sought victory rather than vengeance, and was not at heart bloodthirsty, felt immediately mollified. "How did you happen to do it?" he asked. "I'd never done anything to you fellows." "Well, you see, you put the Moons wise about their room, and we thought you'd no business to butt in. We didn't hurt the Moons any. It did them lots of good." "It didn't do me any good," replied Payner, significantly. "Nor us," said Duncan, with his eyes on the floor. There was a brief silence which the visitor found most irksome. "Is that enough?" he asked. "I guess so," responded Payner. "I don't believe you'll be troubled by any more plagues." "Thank you," said Duncan, humbly; "and I hope you won't say much about the affair. It would be pretty tough to have all the fellows guying us." Payner grinned. "That's a good deal to ask, but I shan't talk about it if you don't." Five seconds later, with the door of his own room safely closed behind him, Duncan was laughing and capering and tossing his brother's show hat into the air, and rolling on the couch in the gorgeous waistcoat. Presently, however, he bethought himself that time was passing, threw the hat under the sofa, hung the waistcoat in the closet under Donald's light overcoat, and returned the borrowed necktie to the drawer. Then, after resuming his regular costume, he stole forth to waylay Donald after the latter's recitation and inform him that a hat which looked like his was lying under the sofa, and that if he would take the trouble to remove the top layer of garments in the closet he might find his vest. It was with real regret that he refrained from rehearsing certain events of the morning, but the usually appreciative twin was the last person of whom in this case he could make a confidant. Toward noon Duncan, who was bursting with his secret, espied Owen coming up the stairs, and forthwith haled him into his room. "I say, Bobby, what do you think has happened?" he demanded eagerly. Rob glanced around the room. "Another plague, I suppose," he said, "though I don't see any signs of it. You look pretty happy for a fellow who's been seeing snakes." "No snakes and no more plagues!" cried Duncan, gleefully. "How's that?" demanded Owen. "We've come to terms. From now on Mr. Payner and we are friends. He's a great fellow for bugs, but when you really want help in time of need, just call on old Odysseus!" Whereupon he slapped himself on the chest and his visitor on the back and danced around the table. Later, after trying to exact a pledge of secrecy, he told his story with much detail and scroll-work; and finally he stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and strutted up and down before his visitor, declaring that if he was not as great as Cicero who saved a state, he was at least the equal of the infant Hercules who killed a snake, and certainly greater than Laocoön, who let the snakes do him up. The sudden arrival of Donald threw the actor into some confusion. An hour later Rob sat at his table staring vacantly at an open book, and musing on the adventures of the Peck family. A knock at the door was followed by the appearance of Payner on the threshold. "Simmons out?" asked the caller, laconically. "Yes," Rob replied. "What's up?" "Oh, nothing. I just wanted to tell him he needn't worry any more about that snake. I suppose he told you about it?" he added with a shrewd grin. "Yes, he did." "I knew he would. And he told the Pecks too?" Rob laughed but said nothing. "Oh, he told them all right. You needn't pretend he didn't. I knew he would, or I shouldn't have shown him the thing. I meant him to tell them." "You really wouldn't have put that snake in their room!" said Rob, severely. "Why not? It wasn't alive." "A dead snake wouldn't be much better than a live one." "It wasn't dead either," chuckled Payner. "It was made of an old black necktie stuffed, with glass eyes, and its head worked with a string. I got it up to scare the Pecks through Simmons. I knew he'd go and tell them just as soon as he saw it, and I thought that would bring 'em round. You see, the plague business was playing out, anyway. The last time I tried it the housekeeper came pretty near getting on to it, and I didn't dare take any more risks. And yet if I stopped without getting the apology, they'd have me beaten! So I tried this scheme, and won out. They've both apologized." "I see," said Rob. As a matter of fact, he did not see, for he was trying to determine for himself who had outwitted the other. "Just tell Simmons I've given up my plan of the snake, won't you?" said Payner, turning to go with the air of a victor. "And don't let on about the rest of it. I shouldn't want it to get back to the Pecks." For some seconds Rob sat looking blankly at the door through which the self-satisfied face of Payner had just disappeared. Then he threw back his head and laughed loud and long. CHAPTER XXIV MAKING READY In the next Wednesday's game, O'Connell and Borland composed the school battery, and on the following Saturday, Patterson and Owen. O'Connell won his game; Patterson lost his. And none the less, after the second game, Poole let it be definitely known that Patterson and Owen were now considered the regular battery. This decision was not based on the scores. O'Connell won his game because he played against an inferior team, whose pitcher the Seaton men could hit. Patterson lost an uphill game against a clever pitcher whom his men could do little with, while the Seaton players behind him failed to support him at critical moments. O'Connell's friends maintained that the results of the two games showed the comparative merits of the pitchers. Lyford and Poole took the opposite view. Patterson at two several points had saved his game when there were men on third and second with but one out. It was lost in the seventh, after a two-base hit and an error had put men on first and third, and another error permitted one of them to reach the home plate; but the very play through which the game was lost enhanced Owen's reputation. It happened thus:-- With members of the visiting team on first and third, and one man out, Rob, who had analyzed a similar situation more than once before, made up his mind that the man on first base would try to steal at the earliest opportunity; first, because against a school team like Seaton there was more than an even chance that a double steal would rattle the catcher and bring in a run; secondly, because a single with men on second and third would yield two runs, while if the man remained at first it would score but one. So Rob signalled to his infield, and called on Patterson for a wide, unreachable out. The ball came true, while the runner on first started hard down, and Rob snapped in a straight line for second, which Hayes ran to cover; but McPherson, who had his eye on the runner at third, seeing him start for home, ran in behind Patterson, cut off Owen's throw to second, and shot the ball back home. So far the play had been perfectly carried out. Unhappily, however, its very perfection interfered with its success. Rob and McPherson had done their work so rapidly that the base-runner was only about halfway between third and home when Rob received the ball at the plate. The runner stopped and turned back. Rob ran down toward him and threw to Durand. The man doubled again, and Durand--trusty, capable, but over-eager Durand--returned the ball about a foot above Owen's reach, while Patterson, who should have been backing up the catcher in the line behind, stood halfway over from his box gazing fascinated at the play. So at the same time the game was lost and the catcher glorified--at least in the eyes of those who knew what it meant to have a man behind the bat who could keep the game in hand, recognize opportunities when they came, and perform his part in the plays. Poole and Lyford belonged to this number, and most of the members of the nine. Poole was inclined to be obstinate, and he disliked to be proved wrong; but when once satisfied that he was wrong, he turned promptly and finally about. From this time forth there was no more uncertainty about the catcher in Poole's mind. He was for Owen through and through, without wavering or question. Borland must give way to a better man. But there were many who could not follow the captain in his change of view; who, in fact, could see no sufficient reason why the old catcher who had proved himself competent should be laid aside for a new man. The "inside work" of a catcher is not apparent to the occupants of the bleachers; they cannot measure accurately the comparative merits of two men playing in different games; they do not count assists. When Borland made his three-base hit in a game in which his battery played, his friends made sarcastic comment: "That's the man who couldn't hit well enough for the First!" When in the next game Patterson pitched an in instead of the out that was called for, and Owen, after losing time in getting the ball still tried to catch the runner at second, and sent a short bound at McPherson's toes, the same critics added: "--and that's the star thrower who put poor Jack out of play. The old man could do better than that with his eyes shut!" These, let it be understood, were Borland's friends. Borland himself never said a word. The Hillbury game drew on apace, and the nine settled to its work. The play was improving; the infield was coming, quick and true, the men trusting each other and working well together under the catcher's direction. Patterson had learned to value himself aright. Throughout the school the doubters had grown fewer as the days went by. Poole paid no attention at all to them, but Rob knew of their existence and understood full well how their number would be suddenly multiplied by ten if he should disappoint the hopes of the school in the great game. To lose a Hillbury game is a calamity; the single man who loses it by a single error is unforgivable. And yet to win under the circumstances seemed more than the school had a right to expect. There had never been a poor nine in Hillbury since school nines began to be. This year the blue team was largely veteran, with the identical pitcher who had last year mown down the Seaton hitters as a well-aimed bowling ball clears away the pins from their triangle. The scores of the nines which had played with the two school teams compared unfavorably for Poole's team. Patterson, a mere green apprentice, was a wholly uncertain quantity. Such considerations fairly weighed gave little promise to the Seatonians; but in the Seaton breast hope springs eternal, and a game may always be won until it is actually lost. A week before the game, the whole school journeyed to Hillbury for the track meet. Before the contests both sides had counted probabilities. According to Seaton reckoning, if Rohrer beat Royce in the high hurdles, and Benton won the half mile, and Laughlin and Lindsay took seven out of eight points in the shot-put, Seaton would have twelve points to spare. By Hillbury count, only accidents could keep the blue from beating the red by at least twenty. Each side regarded the results as ominous for the more important contest of the following Saturday. And that was why Seaton took the defeat so to heart. Rohrer did beat Royce in the hurdles, and Laughlin and Lindsay won their seven points; but there were unexpected offsets, and Benton did not even get a place in the half-mile. Six points is not a bad defeat, but any defeat is bad when you expect victory. If omens counted, the ball game was as good as lost. But Owen's hopes never wavered. He had seen hard games before, games which he had won and games which he had lost; and never had he felt such a spirit of keenness and unity as animated this raw Seaton nine. If Hillbury beat them, Hillbury must play good ball, far better ball than any team which had come that season to Seaton. If only Patterson kept up! On the Friday before the great day, as the decorations were blossoming out on the houses, and in recitations the game was crowding the lesson matter hard for possession of the minds of the pupils, Poole and Owen were hailed from across the street by Wally. "Hello, Wally," called Poole, "come over here!" The boy hastened across. "Could you get us the seats?" asked Wally. "Only two," said Poole, "and you'll have to let your father and sister have those." Wally's countenance fell. "But as you helped me out of a scrape once, I'm going to pay you back. I'm going to let you have a seat on the players' bench." "On the players' bench!" cried the delighted lad. "Great Scott! do you mean it?" Poole laughed and nodded. "You've got to bring us luck," said Owen. "Oh, I will," returned the boy, "but you don't need it. You're going to win anyway. I've got my red fire all ready." "I wish I felt as he does," said Poole, as the boy scampered across the street to inform his friends of his good fortune. "I do," replied Owen, promptly. CHAPTER XXV AS WALLY SAW IT Proud as a king, and happy as a king rarely is, Wally sat on the players' bench and stared at the throngs pouring in through the entrances and flooding the seats. On the fence over by the woods, like sparrows crowded close on a telegraph wire, was strung a line of twittering and jostling youngsters, let in by a wise manager who preferred to have them safely quiet inside rather than uproariously disorderly without. And every one of the shrill flock sooner or later fastened his eyes on Wally and demanded the reason for their comrade's elevation to the company of the gods. Such a question must, of course, be answered. Whether the answer is correct or not is of minor consequence. Some said Wally was a mascot; others that Poole was sweet on his sister; while still others were able to give melodramatic accounts of Wally's rescue of the captain from the desperate gang of upper middlers who had "pinched" him. While the argument on these points was going forward, the advance scouts of the fence brigade discovered signs of the arrival of the nines, and Skinny Flick, waving his tattered cap, led a high-pitched imitation of the long Seaton cheer, weirdly shrill and yet true and even and united. "How can those little boys do it so well?" asked Margaret Sedgwick, amused at the unexpected prelude. "Practised it, I suppose," replied Mr. Sedgwick, indifferently. And Wally not being on hand to set forth the true relations of things, Miss Margaret accepted her father's explanation, and gave the soprano cheerers full credit for patriotic forethought. As a matter of fact their facility had been as unconsciously acquired as the street ragtime which a dignified adult is shocked to find himself whistling. The Seaton urchin begins to hear the school cheers as soon as his legs are strong enough to take him where students gather or heroes battle. Classes pass before him as the generations of men before the aged Nestor. There were boys on that fence who could already have repeated the Seaton battle cries when fellows who were now leaders of elevens and nines in Yale and Harvard and Princeton and Dartmouth had just set foot in the Seaton streets. The gamin's term of instruction is long; so the cheer from the fence had the true ring. It was likewise well timed. A minute later the four cheer-leaders on the Seaton side were swinging their arms and swaying their bodies in a convulsion of energy, as they led in the first great welcome to their team; while at the heels of the Seaton players came the Hillbury nine, waking into enthusiasm the whole solid phalanx of blue. And here unquestionably was the first evil omen for Seaton hopes. Every Hillbury student produced a megaphone and turned it toward the Seaton side; the volume of Hillbury's cheer was multiplied by three. What a handicap! What a depressing evidence of Hillbury superiority! But something more than noise was necessary to depress Wally; his optimism was not to be extinguished by megaphones. The Seaton players went out for their preliminary practice. Lyford batted to the outfield, Borland to the in-; Rob stood at the plate, caught the returns, and joined in the cross-diamond throwing. Lyford was directing the practice, but even Wally could see how the infield followed the catcher's leading and instinctively looked for his suggestion. Nor was this remarkable. The players were feeling the strain of the situation. Sudbury had just missed an easy fly that he ought to have held; Hayes had made a bad mess of a grounder; Durand had sent a ball to first that had defied Ames's long reach. Nervousness was in the air, but Owen stood smiling and steady, taking the balls with an easy grace that had in it no sign of ostentation, throwing straight and swift, cheering into confidence by his very presence and attitude. "We've got an awfully good catcher, anyway," thought Wally, proudly, as he squirmed on the seat and tried at the same time to watch all the Seaton fielders, and the Hillbury players tossing the ball to and fro near their bench, and the two captains talking with the umpire. Presently Hillbury took the field and Wally now had a harder task, for there were the Hillbury men to be observed and compared with their predecessors, while Patterson was warming up with Owen over by the backstop, and must have sympathetic attention. Rob had borrowed Ames's mitt to use as a plate, and over this Patterson was pitching, unsteady at first with the tension of the strange conditions, but soon settling down under Owen's soothing guidance. When Rob found that his pitcher had himself sufficiently in hand to be able to place the ball pretty accurately over one side of the mitt or the other, he called to him to stop. "You're all right, Pat!" he declared, dropping his arm on his companion's shoulder as they walked back to join their mates on the bench. "It's all there; you'll pitch your best game to-day. Don't hurry now, and don't worry; and don't forget to back up first whenever you can get over there." Patterson nodded; there was nothing for him to say. He was content to leave the results in Owen's hands. "We go out!" announced Poole, coming up with a smile on his face. "All ready, Pat?" Patterson gave a sign of assent. "Yes, he's ready," said Owen. "Here's your mitt, Ames. This is one of the days when we can cut it every time." The Hillbury players came in, the Seatonians scattered to their positions. The supporters cheered for their school and their captain; then for the captain of the other team. 'Tis a fine custom of the Seaton-Hillbury rivalry which the colleges might well imitate. The Hillbury megaphones bellowed a response. The umpire threw down a new white ball which Patterson coolly scrubbed in the dirt outside the box, while Michael, the head of the Hillbury batting list, took his place by the plate. The game was on! Owen crouched and signalled with his fingers between his knees. Patterson answered with an out that threatened to strike Michael on the shoulder, but swung in over the inside of the plate. The batsman stepped back and the umpire called a strike. The next one was high and wide and out of reach; Michael did not bite. One ball! For the third effort Patterson stepped to the left and threw a swift one that cut the inside corner of the plate at an angle--or would have cut it, if it had been allowed to take its course. Michael struck at it and knocked it into Patterson's hands. Long Ames had the ball before Michael was halfway down the line. Hood, the Hillbury shortstop, who had been standing by, swinging two bats like a professional, now strode up, thumped the ground with his chosen stick, and looked valiantly at the pitcher. The first ball, a drop, he struck at and fouled. The second he misjudged and let go by. "Strike Two!" The third and fourth were tempters which he resisted. Then came one which he fancied. With sudden impulse he struck hard at it, but even as he struck, the ball slammed in Owen's trusty mitt. A strike out! Two men gone! The Seaton cheer-leaders were busy again, and with contorted faces and fierce arm swings goaded on their company of howlers. Hillbury answered with a blast of megaphones, as Coy, their centre fielder, appeared at the plate. The first ball pitched appealed to him; he struck at it and sent a low bounder toward third. For just an instant Durand juggled it and then threw straight to Ames, but Coy was fast and the umpire called him safe. Kleindienst, the Hillbury captain, came up, eager to make a hit that would help the runner round the bases. Thanks to Poole's note-book, and information gathered from many sources, Owen knew what to call for. The first pitch was a swift breast-high ball off the inner corner of the plate; Kleindienst smote and smote in vain. "Now Coy will steal," thought Rob, and signalled for an out. Coy did steal and Kleindienst tried to hit at the same time, but all he succeeded in accomplishing was to catch the ball on the end of his bat and drive it in easy bounds to Ames, making the third out. "You've got to get a hit, Mac," said Poole, as McPherson picked up his bat. "Don't bite at the teasers. Make 'em put 'em over!" Now McPherson meant to do that very thing, but the first one was so plausible that even though it wasn't just what he wanted, McPherson could not resist the temptation to try it. The result was a pop foul that Kleindienst gathered in off third base. Poole was second on the list, and Poole waited; one ball! two balls! a foul! three balls! two strikes! At the next Poole dropped his bat and started for first, and the umpire did not say him nay. And now it was Owen's turn to face O'Brien, and he tried to sacrifice, but the bunt rolled over the line, and his attempt came to naught. O'Brien was careful now, and gave him high balls that he could not bunt, and kept them well out of his reach. Two had been called balls and one a strike, when Rob's chance came. The ball was a trifle too far in, but he drew back a little as he struck, and drove a liner over second baseman's head out into the ground between centre and right. Poole went to third, and Rob was safe at second. It was Rorbach's turn. He knew what he was expected to do without the spur implied in the sudden roar of greeting from the benches, followed by tense, expectant silence. O'Brien sought to work him with seductive outs, but Rorbach waited. Three balls and one strike brought the pitcher to reason; he couldn't afford to pass a man with two on bases. So Rorbach got one where he could hit it, and lifted the ball in a splendid long arch far out into right field. The cheer-leaders caught their breath and, forgetful of their duties, silently watched it fly. Was it a home run? It would have been if some one else than Furness had guarded the Hillbury right field. Furness started almost as soon as the ball, and racing backward toward the fence, turned as the ball was just going over his head and pulled it down. Rorbach was out, but Poole came home easily on the throw-in, and Owen wisely paused at third. Long Ames now appeared at the plate, brandishing his bat in the clumsy fashion which had aroused so much merriment along the benches in that first game of the season. No one made merry over it to-day. The anxious Hillburyites thought only of the possibility of another hit, while the Seatonians' hopes now hung on the derided man's bat. And Ames, who cared nothing whether they derided or not, fixed his eyes on the pitcher and waited. One he let go by without offering at it; the second he fouled; the next proved a second ball, the fourth another strike. Still he waited, clutching his bat a hand's-breadth from the end, with his lank figure bent awkwardly forward toward the plate. The fifth pitch was to his liking; with a short, quick stroke he chopped the ball in a safe little liner over third baseman's head, and galloped away to first, while Owen gleefully trotted home. Then Durand went out on an infield hit, and the first inning was over. Such luck, of course, could not last, but the exhilaration engendered by these two runs carried the Seaton players safely through several innings. The second, with the tail-end of the list at bat on either side, was quickly over. In the third Poole led off with a hit, reaching second on an error, but got no farther. In the fourth sprinter Coy got to first on balls, but was thrown out by two yards when he tried to steal second; and the Hillbury captain, after making a clean hit, was forced at second by Webster's unlucky drive to Hayes, which resulted in a double play. By this time O'Brien had settled down into his best gait, and his best Poole's company found far too good. On the other hand, Hillbury seemed to be finding Patterson less puzzling. The Seaton fielders had work a-plenty. In the sixth Poole ran far back for a long fly from Michael's bat, cutting off what to the uproarious rooters on the Hillbury side seemed surely a three-base hit; and Hood's hard liner, that promised almost as much, was gloriously taken just inside third by Durand. The third Hillburyite hit over Ames's head, and reached second only to be left there when his successor was retired on a foul fly. The Seatonians in their turn went tamely out in order; not a single one reached first. A thrill of apprehension passed through the ranks of red and gray as Webster opened the seventh with a slow grounder to Hayes, which the Seaton shortstop fumbled. Two runs are not great margin when a heavy-hitting team opens up on a pitcher, especially if that pitcher be, like Patterson, comparatively inexperienced. A couple of good hits, with an error or two and a base on balls, would quickly wipe out the slight advantage. Only steady playing and the steadiest kind of pitching could save the game, if the Hillbury sluggers showed themselves at all equal to their reputation. So thought many a timid Seaton sympathizer, whose hopes of victory had been excited by the success of the first inning. Wally was not of these doubters. He knew full well that a man who reaches first does not necessarily reach second or third. Webster was at first; the only question was how and where he was to be stopped. Now Wally did not see Owen signal to Ames, nor recognize the object of the swift, wide ball which Patterson next threw; but he did see Owen's arm come back like a spring and snap instantly forward; he likewise saw Ames gather in the ball and swing with it suddenly on Webster, who was leaping back to first; and he understood well the gesture by which the umpire called Webster in. The Seaton crowd shouted with unexpected joy, but Wally's surprise was only partial; he had expected to see the runner thrown out at second. Then Ribot struck under one of Patterson's jumps and sent the ball far up in the air. Rob snatched off his mask and watched the returning sphere, relieved to see it descending on McPherson's side of second. Ribot was out, and O'Brien brought the inning to a close by giving Durand a chance at another pop fly. The Seaton hitters had no better luck. Hayes got his base on balls, but Patterson forced him at second, and was himself put out on the play, while McPherson flied out. Here was little encouragement for those who looked for more Seaton runs! Furness started the eighth with a drive past second, which by bounding over Sudbury's shoulder enabled the runner to make two bases. Rounds, the last man of the Hillbury list, was counted an easy victim, but instead of striking out as he was expected to do, he hit the ball over Durand's head. Poole got it back in season to cut off any attempt at crossing the plate, but the awful fact remained that with only two runs needed to tie the score, Hillbury had men on first and third, with no one out and the heavy hitters coming on. A double now would bring in two men. Even Wally acknowledged to himself that he did not see how they were going to get out of that hole, while the dubious on the Seaton benches were sadly thinking that the game was lost. The fatal eighth was here! A ball! two balls! Then Michael's bat cracked and the ball shot toward Hayes, struck well, and bounded into his hands. He gave but a glance at third--where Furness was lingering, hoping to draw a hasty throw to the plate, and so get Michael safely to first--then threw to McPherson, who had covered second. Rounds was thus forced out. Meantime Furness had made a late start for home, trusting to McPherson's slowness and probable confusion. But McPherson, who was neither slow nor confused, sent the ball directly to the plate, where Owen received it safely. Furness, while still ten feet away, stopped and wheeled about; but Owen ran him down, then turned sharply, steadied himself, and drove the ball with all his strength to McPherson. Michael had passed first on the plays and was sliding into second; the ball in McPherson's hands touched him before he reached the base. In a fraction of a minute it was all over. The umpire was signalling to Michael that he was out; Poole and Rorbach had started in from their positions; Owen was unbuckling his protector. Still Patterson stood and stared, unable to believe that his rescue was complete. And then, like the explosion set off by an electric spark, the audience waked to the situation. The whole Seaton company rose _en masse_, waving arms and hats and banners, and sent forth a formless, exultant roar; while the recreant cheer-leaders turned their backs on their chorus and danced frantic jigs before the benches. So ended the first half of the eighth, with the score two to nothing. The Seatonians were soon disposed of. Poole, over-eager, struck out. Owen hit to O'Brien and was thrown out at first. Rorbach made a pretty single into centre field, but came to grief when he tried to stretch it into a two-bagger. Hillbury came in for the last trial! "Only three outs!" thought Wally, complacently. "Only three outs now!" ran the whisper along the Seaton benches, but expressed in timid hope rather than in confidence. Runs might precede those outs; these Hillbury men could not forever be checked on the bases. The courage rose when Hood sent Durand an easy chance, and was out at first. Then Coy bunted safely, and took second when Patterson threw wide to Ames. Kleindienst hit to Patterson, and was put out at first, while Coy was held on second. Two out, but a man on second! The spectators drew labored breaths; the cheer-leaders on either side, fearing to add to the strain upon their champions, hung silent on the scene before them. Webster, after two balls and two strikes, caught one on the end of his bat and sent it just out of Hayes's reach. On this scratch hit Coy was advanced to third. Again men on first and third, this time with two out! Ribot was at bat, nerved and resolute; and Rob felt a dread--almost a conviction--that a ball within his reach would be hit safely. On the other hand, in the desperate situation in which Hillbury stood, Webster was bound to steal, so as to make two runs possible in case of a hit. Patterson waited for his catcher's signal. The game hinged on Owen's decision. An error in judgment, a fault in execution, and the peril which had been warded off for nine long innings would be upon them. A tie at this stage, Rob knew, would mean defeat. He called for a swift, wide ball. Webster feinted a start, hoping to draw a useless throw to second that would let Coy in. Rob hesitated, took a step forward, and pretended to throw; then wheeled and sent the ball to Durand. Coy was nailed as he scrambled back to the base--and the game was won. The score:-- Seaton ab r bh po a e McPherson, 2 b 4 0 1 4 3 0 Poole, lf 3 1 2 2 0 0 Owen, c 4 1 1 4 4 0 Rorbach, rf 4 0 1 1 0 0 Ames, 1 b 3 0 1 10 0 0 Durand, 3 b 3 0 1 4 1 1 Sudbury, cf 3 0 0 1 0 0 Hayes, ss 2 0 0 1 3 1 Patterson, p 3 0 0 0 3 1 -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 29 2 7 27 14 3 Hillbury ab r bh po a e Michael, lf 4 0 0 1 0 0 Hood, ss 4 0 0 2 3 0 Coy, cf 3 0 2 1 1 0 Kleindienst, 3 b 4 0 0 1 2 1 Webster, 1 b 4 0 3 11 0 0 Ribot, c 3 0 0 4 0 0 O'Brien, p 3 0 0 1 3 0 Furness, rf 3 0 1 1 0 0 Rounds, 2 b 3 0 1 2 2 1 -- -- -- -- -- -- Totals 31 0 7 24 11 2 Seaton 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 --2 Hillbury 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0--0 CHAPTER XXVI RECOGNITION Was there a celebration? Ask Wally Sedgwick, who ought to be able to furnish a detailed account of it, for he followed the procession from its formation, and having stayed out an hour longer than the time set in the parental permission was in consequence compelled to go to bed at seven every day during the following week. He didn't complain; it was inconvenient, of course; but, after all, the celebration was worth it. Rob saw three of the newspaper accounts of the game. The first paper, which had previously predicted an easy victory for Hillbury, declared that Seaton played in great luck, "bunching hits for tallies and being helped out of several deep holes by stupid Hillbury base-running." The second asserted that the victory was due to "Patterson's steadiness and the fine all-round work of the Seaton infield, in which McPherson was the bright and particular star." The third, after commenting on the fact that Hillbury men were frequently on bases but seemed unable to get round to the home plate, added: "Patterson showed himself, if not a great pitcher, at least one who can use his head as well as his arm. Men on bases never fazed him; the more there were, the better he pitched. Coach Lyford deserves great credit for the excellent team work. Owen threw well to bases." Owen threw well to bases! And only one paper had discovered that! Rob laughed scornfully as he tossed the papers down. So this trifling mention was all the glory his achievement was to yield him. For a moment he felt hurt--but only for a moment. Soon his good sense and natural modesty reasserted themselves. He had not sought glory; he had not striven to display himself. His ambition had been first to help win the game for Seaton and then to vindicate himself as against Borland. Both these objects had been attained; what more could he fairly ask? Poole and Patterson and Lyford evidently appreciated his work; his friends and acquaintances, from Lindsay and Laughlin down through a whole range to the Pecks and the Moons and even Payner, had all, in one form or another, expressed to him their admiration. That ought to satisfy him. "Who's going to be captain next year, Rob?" asked Simmons, a few days afterward. "I don't know yet--probably McPherson. He's been two years on the nine, and after that bully game he put up on Saturday, he deserves it." "The fellows were saying it would be McPherson," said Simmons, looking up into Rob's face with an expression of keen regret. "I was hoping you'd get it. You know so much about the game, and have helped them all so." Rob flushed. The suggestion touched him in a sensitive spot. "Nonsense!" he retorted sharply. "What put that idea into your head? I'm no better than any one else. For heaven's sake don't suggest that to any one outside; they'd think it came from me." On his way over to the baseball meeting that afternoon Rob was waylaid by Laughlin and Ware who insisted that they had something important to say to him. "Well, what is it?" demanded Rob. "You're coming back next year, aren't you?" asked Ware. "Of course, if they'll let me," Owen replied in a tone of surprise. "Why?" "We were just talking about the prospects of the teams for next year," said Ware, smiling shrewdly. "When our class goes, there'll be a pretty big hole to fill." "Oh, a few poor sticks will be left," Owen observed sarcastically. "In baseball McPherson and Ames and Patterson and I form quite a bunch. Then there's Hendry and Milliken and Buist as a foundation for the eleven. They're about as good as you find 'em. Rohrer and Wolfe are pretty respectable left-overs for the track. If any one can get new material out, Rohrer can. We might be worse off." "That's a fact," nodded Laughlin. "You've got two good captains in Hendry and Rohrer anyway." "And McPherson will be just as good," added Rob, promptly. "That makes three." "Yes, that makes three," repeated Laughlin, with a look of amusement stealing over his broad face. "Only I'm not so sure about McPherson." "Well, the baseball men are, and we ought to know," retorted Rob. "What's this important thing you wanted to tell me?" he added, turning on Ware. Ware grinned across at Laughlin. "What was it, Dave? I can't think, can you?" "I'm sure I don't know," replied the football man. "Here! let me through!" commanded Rob, who now perceived that the pair were holding him up for their own amusement. "I'm ten minutes late for the meeting already." And he charged past the two triflers toward the room at the end of the corridor. "You're late!" declared Poole, as Rob opened the door of Number 7. "The election's over." "I'm sorry. Dave and Ware tackled me outside and wouldn't let me by." "Your vote wouldn't have been any use, anyway," remarked Durand. "It was a unanimous vote." "All right, then," said Rob, looking round at the row of smiling faces. He didn't see why they should all grin so and stare at him. "I'm with the rest." "Glad to hear it," said Poole, with a wink at his neighbor. "Here's the result." Rob took the slip of paper and read with a thrill of astonishment and joy that for a few seconds deprived him of the power of speech:-- "Unanimous choice for Captain of the Nine--Robert Owen." And here we leave our embarrassed catcher vainly struggling for fitting words in which to express his gratitude. His experiences as a Seaton senior, with the vicissitudes of the captains three, are recorded in the chronicles of "The Great Year." 
33291	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) PITCHING IN A PINCH [Illustration: Christy Mathewson Copyright by L. Van Oeyen, Cleveland, Ohio] PITCHING IN A PINCH OR BASEBALL FROM THE INSIDE BY CHRISTY MATHEWSON WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JOHN N. WHEELER ILLUSTRATED GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Made in the United States of America COPYRIGHT, 1912 BY CHRISTOPHER MATHEWSON This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press, New York INTRODUCTION Introducing a reader to Christy Mathewson seems like a superfluous piece of writing and a waste of white paper. Schoolboys of the last ten years have been acquainted with the exact figures which have made up Matty's pitching record before they had ever heard of George Washington, because George didn't play in the same League. Perfectly good rational and normal citizens once deserted a reception to the Governor of the State because Christy Mathewson was going to pitch against the Chicago club. If the committee on arrangements wanted to make the hour of the reception earlier, all right, but no one could be expected to miss seeing Matty in the box against Chance and his Cubs for the sake of greeting the Governor. Besides being a national hero, Matty is one of the closest students of baseball that ever came into the Big League. By players, he has long been recognized as the greatest pitcher the game has produced. He has been pitching in the Big Leagues for eleven years and winning games right along. His great pitching practically won the world's championship for the Giants from the Philadelphia Athletics in 1905, and, six years later, he was responsible for one of the two victories turned in by New York pitchers in a world's series again with the Athletics. At certain periods in his baseball career, he has pitched almost every day after the rest of the staff had fallen down. When the Giants were making their determined fight for the championship in 1908, the season that the race was finally decided by a single game with the Cubs, he worked in nine out of the last fifteen games in an effort to save his club from defeat. And he won most of them. That has always been the beauty of his pitching--his ability to win. Matty was born in Factoryville, Pa., thirty-one years ago, and, after going to Bucknell College, he began to play ball with the Norfolk club of the Virginia League, but was soon bought by the New York Giants, where he has remained ever since and is likely to stay for some time to come, if he can continue to make himself as welcome as he has been so far. He was only nineteen when he joined the club and was a headliner from the start. Always he has been a student and something of a writer, having done newspaper work from time to time during the big series. He has made a careful study of the Big League batters. He has kept a sort of baseball diary of his career, and, frequently, I have heard him relate unwritten chapters of baseball history filled with the thrilling incidents of his personal experience. "Why don't you write a real book of the Big Leaguers?" I asked him one day. And he has done it. In this book he is telling the reader of the game as it is played in the Big Leagues. As a college man, he is able to put his impressions of the Big Leagues on paper graphically. It's as good as his pitching and some exciting things have happened in the Big Leagues, stories that never found their way into the newspapers. Matty has told them. This is a true tale of Big Leaguers, their habits and their methods of playing the game, written by one of them. JOHN N. WHEELER. NEW YORK, March, 1912. CONTENTS PAGE I--THE MOST DANGEROUS BATTERS I HAVE MET 1 II--"TAKE HIM OUT!" 21 III--PITCHING IN A PINCH 54 IV--BIG LEAGUE PITCHERS AND THEIR PECULIARITIES 74 V--PLAYING THE GAME FROM THE BENCH 93 VI--COACHING--GOOD AND BAD 117 VII--HONEST AND DISHONEST SIGN STEALING 140 VIII--UMPIRES AND CLOSE DECISIONS 161 IX--THE GAME THAT COST A PENNANT 183 X--WHEN THE TEAMS ARE IN SPRING TRAINING 206 XI--JINXES AND WHAT THEY MEAN TO A BALL-PLAYER 230 XII--BASE RUNNERS AND HOW THEY HELP A PITCHER TO WIN 255 XIII--NOTABLE INSTANCES WHERE THE "INSIDE" GAME HAS FAILED 381 Pitching in a Pinch Pitching in a Pinch I The Most Dangerous Batters I Have Met _How "Joe" Tinker Changed Overnight from a Weakling at the Plate to the Worst Batter I Had to Face--"Fred" Clarke of Pittsburg cannot be Fooled by a Change of Pace, and "Hans" Wagner's Only "Groove" Is a Base on Balls--"Inside" Information on All the Great Batters._ I have often been asked to which batters I have found it hardest to pitch. It is the general impression among baseball fans that Joseph Faversham Tinker, the short-stop of the Chicago Cubs, is the worst man that I have to face in the National League. Few realize that during his first two years in the big show Joe Tinker looked like a cripple at the plate when I was pitching. His "groove" was a slow curve over the outside corner, and I fed him slow curves over that very outside corner with great regularity. Then suddenly, overnight, he became from my point of view the most dangerous batter in the League. Tinker is a clever ball-player, and one day I struck him out three times in succession with low curves over the outside corner. Instead of getting disgusted with himself, he began to think and reason. He knew that I was feeding him that low curve over the outside corner, and he started to look for an antidote. He had always taken a short, choppy swing at the ball. When he went to the clubhouse after the game in which he struck out three times, he was very quiet, so I have been told. He was just putting on his last sock when he clapped his hand to his leg and exclaimed: "I've got it." "Got what?" asked Johnny Evers, who happened to be sitting next to Tinker. "Got the way to hit Matty, who had me looking as if I came from the home for the blind out there to-day," answered Joe. "I should say he did," replied Evers. "But if you've found a way to hit him, why, I'm from away out in Missouri near the Ozark Mountains." "Wait till he pitches again," said Tinker by way of conclusion, as he took his diamond ring from the trainer and left the clubhouse. It was a four-game series in Chicago, and I had struck Tinker out three times in the first contest. McGraw decided that I should pitch the last game as well. Two men were on the bases and two were out when Tinker came to the bat for the first time in this battle, and the outfielders moved in closer for him, as he had always been what is known as a "chop" hitter. I immediately noticed something different about his style as he set himself at the plate, and then it struck me that he was standing back in the box and had a long bat. Before this he had always choked his bat short and stood up close. Now I observed that he had his stick way down by the handle. Bresnahan was catching, and he signalled for the regular prescription for Tinker. With a lot of confidence I handed him that old low curve. He evidently expected it, for he stepped almost across the plate, and, with that long bat, drove the ball to right field for two bases over the head of George Browne, who was playing close up to the infield, scoring both runs and eventually winning the game. "I've got your number now, Matty!" he shouted at me as he drew up at second base. I admit that he has had it quite frequently since he switched his batting style. Now the outfielders move back when Tinker comes to the plate, for, if he connects, he hits "'em far" with that long bat. Ever since the day he adopted the "pole" he has been a thorn in my side and has broken up many a game. That old low curve is his favorite now, and he reaches for it with the same cordiality as is displayed by an actor in reaching for his pay envelope. The only thing to do is to keep them close and try to outguess him, but Tinker is a hard man to beat at the game of wits. Many a heady hitter in the Big League could give the signs to the opposing pitcher, for he realizes what his weakness is and knows that a twirler is going to pitch at it. But, try as hard as he will, he cannot often cover up his "groove," as Tinker did, and so he continues to be easy for the twirler who can put the ball where he wants it. Fred Clarke, of Pittsburg, has always been a hard man for me to fool on account of his batting form. A hitter of his type cannot be deceived by a change of pace, because he stands up close to the plate, chokes his bat short, and swings left-handed. When a pitcher cannot deceive a man with a change of pace, he has to depend on curves. Let me digress briefly to explain why a change of pace will not make the ball miss Clarke's bat. He is naturally a left-field hitter, and likes the ball on the outside corner of the plate. That means he swings at the ball late and makes most of his drives to left field. How is a batter fooled by a change of pace? A pitcher gives him a speedy one and then piles a slow one right on top of it with the same motion. The batter naturally thinks it is another fast ball and swings too soon--that is, before the ball gets to him. But when a man like Clarke is at the bat and a pitcher tries to work a change of pace, what is the result? He naturally swings late and so hits a fast ball to left field. Then as the slow one comes up to the plate, he strikes at it, granted he is deceived by it, timing his swing as he would at a fast ball. If it had been a fast ball, as he thought, he would have hit it to left field, being naturally a late swinger. But on a slow one he swings clear around and pulls it to right field twice as hard as he would have hit it to left field because he has obtained that much more drive in the longer swing. Therefore, it is a rule in the profession that no left-handed batter who hits late can be deceived by a change of pace. "Rube" Ellis, a left-handed hitter of the St. Louis Club, entered the League and heard complimentary stories about my pitching. Ellis came up to bat the first day that I pitched against him wondering if he would get even a foul. He was new to me and I was looking for his "groove." I gave him one over the outside corner, and he jabbed it to left field. The next time, I thought to work the change of pace, and, swinging late, he hauled the ball around to right field, and it nearly tore Fred Tenny's head off en route over first base. Five hits out of five times at bat he made off me that day, and, when he went to the clubhouse, he remarked to his team mates in this wise: "So that is the guy who has been burning up this League, huh? We've got better 'n him in the coast circuit. He's just got the Indian sign on you. That's all." I did a little thinking about Ellis's hitting. He used a long bat and held it down near the end and "poled 'em." He was naturally a left-field hitter and, therefore, swung late at the ball. I concluded that fast ones inside would do for Mr. Ellis, and the next time we met he got just those. He has been getting them ever since and now, when he makes a hit off me, he holds a celebration. "Hans" Wagner, of Pittsburg, has always been a hard man for me, but in that I have had nothing on a lot of other pitchers. He takes a long bat, stands well back from the plate, and steps into the ball, poling it. He is what is known in baseball as a free swinger, and there are not many free swingers these days. This is what ailed the Giants' batting during the world's series in 1911. They all attempted to become free swingers overnight and were trying to knock the ball out of the lot, instead of chopping it. In the history of baseball there have not been more than fifteen or twenty free swingers altogether, and they are the real natural hitters of the game, the men with eyes nice enough and accurate enough to take a long wallop at the ball. "Dan" Brouthers was one, and so was "Cap" Anson. Sherwood Magee and "Hans" Wagner are contemporary free swingers. Men of this type wield a heavy bat as if it were a toothpick and step back and forth in the box, hitting the ball on any end of the plate. Sometimes it is almost impossible to pass a man of this sort purposely, for a little carelessness in getting the ball too close to the plate may result in his stepping up and hitting it a mile. Pitchers have been searching for Wagner's "groove" for years, and, if any one of them has located it, he has his discovery copyrighted, for I never heard of it. Only one pitcher, that I can recall, always had it on Wagner, and that man was Arthur Raymond, sometimes called "Bugs." He seemed to upset the German by his careless manner in the box and by his "kidding" tactics. I have seen him make Wagner go after bad balls, a thing that "Hans" seldom can be induced to do by other twirlers. I remember well the first time I pitched against Wagner. Jack Warner was catching, and I, young and new in the League, had spent a lot of time with him, learning the weaknesses of the batters and being coached as to how to treat them. Wagner loomed up at the bat in a pinch, and I could not remember what Warner had said about his flaw. I walked out of the box to confer with the catcher. "What's his 'groove,' Jack?" I asked him. "A base on balls," replied Warner, without cracking a smile. That's always been Wagner's "groove." There used to be a player on the Boston team named Claude Ritchey who "had it on me" for some reason or other. He was a left-handed hitter and naturally drove the ball to left field, so that I could not fool him with a change of pace. He was always able to outguess me in a pinch and seemed to know by intuition what was coming. There has been for a long time an ardent follower of the Giants named Mrs. Wilson, who raves wildly at a game, and is broken-hearted when the team loses. The Giants were playing in Boston one day, and needed the game very badly. It was back in 1905, at the time the club could cinch the pennant by winning one contest, and the flag-assuring game is the hardest one to win. Two men got on the bases in the ninth inning with the score tied and no one out. The crowd was stamping its feet and hooting madly, trying to rattle me. I heard Mrs. Wilson shrill loudly above the noise: "Stick with them, Matty!" Ritchey came up to the bat, and I passed him purposely, trying to get him to strike at a bad ball. I wouldn't take a chance on letting him hit at a good one. Mrs. Wilson thought I was losing my control, and unable to stand it any longer she got up and walked out of the grounds. Then I fanned the next two batters, and the last man hit a roller to Devlin and was thrown out at first base. I was told afterwards that Mrs. Wilson stood outside the ground, waiting to hear the crowd cheer, which would have told her it was all over. She lingered at the gate until the fourteenth inning, fearing to return because she expected to see us routed. At last she heard a groan from the home crowd when we won in the fourteenth. Still she would not believe that I had weathered the storm and won the game that gave the Giants a pennant, but waited to be assured by some of the spectators leaving the grounds before she came around to congratulate us. All batters who are good waiters, and will not hit at bad balls, are hard to deceive, because it means a twirler has to lay the ball over, and then the hitter always has the better chance. A pitcher will try to get a man to hit at a bad ball before he will put it near the plate. Many persons have asked me why I do not use my "fade-away" oftener when it is so effective, and the only answer is that every time I throw the "fade-away" it takes so much out of my arm. It is a very hard ball to deliver. Pitching it ten or twelve times in a game kills my arm, so I save it for the pinches. Many fans do not know what this ball really is. It is a slow curve pitched with the motion of a fast ball. But most curve balls break away from a right-handed batter a little. The fade-away breaks toward him. Baker, of the Athletics, is one of the most dangerous hitters I have ever faced, and we were not warned to look out for him before the 1911 world's series, either. Certain friends of the Giants gave us some "inside" information on the Athletics' hitters. Among others, the Cubs supplied us with good tips, but no one spread the Baker alarm. I was told to watch out for Collins as a dangerous man, one who was likely to break up a game any time with a long drive. I consider Baker one of the hardest, cleanest hitters I have ever faced, and he drives the ball on a line to any field. The fielders cannot play for him. He did not show up well in the first game of the world's series because the Athletics thought they were getting our signs, and we crossed Baker with two men on the bases in the third inning. He lost a chance to be a hero right there. The roughest deal that I got from Baker in the 1911 series was in the third game, which was the second in New York. We had made one run and the ninth inning rolled around with the Giants still leading, 1 to 0. The first man at the bat grounded out and then Baker came up. I realized by this time that he was a hard proposition, but figured that he could not hit a low curve over the outside corner, as he is naturally a right-field hitter. I got one ball and one strike on him and then delivered a ball that was aimed to be a low curve over the outside corner. Baker refused to swing at it, and Brennan, the umpire, called it a ball. I thought that it caught the outside corner of the plate, and that Brennan missed the strike. It put me in the hole with the count two balls and one strike, and I had to lay the next one over very near the middle to keep the count from being three and one. I pitched a curve ball that was meant for the outside corner, but cut the plate better than I intended. Baker stepped up into it and smashed it into the grand-stand in right field for a home run, and there is the history of that famous wallop. This tied the score. A pitcher has two types of batters to face. One is the man who is always thinking and guessing and waiting, trying to get the pitcher in the hole. Evers, of the Cubs, is that sort. They tell me that "Ty" Cobb of Detroit is the most highly developed of this type of hitter. I have never seen him play. Then the other kind is the natural slugger, who does not wait for anything, and who could not outguess a pitcher if he did. The brainy man is the harder for a pitcher to face because he is a constant source of worry. There are two ways of fooling a batter. One is literally to "mix 'em up," and the other is to keep feeding him the same sort of a ball, but to induce him to think that something else is coming. When a brainy man is at the bat, he is always trying to figure out what to expect. If he knows, then his chances of getting a hit are greatly increased. For instance, if a batter has two balls and two strikes on him, he naturally concludes that the pitcher will throw him a curve ball, and prepares for it. Big League ball-players recognize only two kinds of pitched balls--the curve and the straight one. When a catcher in the Big League signals for a curved ball, he means a drop, and, after handling a certain pitcher for a time, he gets to know just how much the ball is going to curve. That is why the one catcher receives for the same pitcher so regularly, because they get to work together harmoniously. "Chief" Meyers, the big Indian catcher on the Giants, understands my style so well that in some games he hardly has to give a sign. But, oddly enough, he could never catch Raymond because he did not like to handle the spit ball, a hard delivery to receive, and Raymond and he could not get along together as a battery. They would cross each other. But Arthur Wilson caught Raymond almost perfectly. This explains the loss of effectiveness of many pitchers when a certain catcher is laid up or out of the game. "Cy" Seymour, formerly the outfielder of the Giants, was one of the hardest batters I ever had to pitch against when he was with the Cincinnati club and going at the top of his stride. He liked a curved ball, and could hit it hard and far, and was always waiting for it. He was very clever at out-guessing a pitcher and being able to conclude what was coming. For a long time whenever I pitched against him I had "mixed 'em up" literally, handing him first a fast ball and then a slow curve and so on, trying to fool him in this way. But one day we were playing in Cincinnati, and I decided to keep delivering the same kind of a ball, that old fast one around his neck, and to try to induce him to believe that a curve was coming. I pitched him nothing but fast ones that day, and he was always waiting for a curve. The result was that I had him in the hole all the time, and I struck him out three times. He has never gotten over it. Only recently I saw Seymour, and he said: "Matty, you are the only man that ever struck me out three times in the same game." He soon guessed, however, that I was not really mixing them up, and then I had to switch my style again for him. Some pitchers talk to batters a great deal, hoping to get their minds off the game in this way, and thus be able to sneak strikes over. But I find that talking to a batter disconcerts me almost as much as it does him, and I seldom do it. Repartee is not my line anyway. Bender talked to the Giant players all through that first game in the 1911 world's series, the one in which he wore the smile, probably because he was a pitcher old in the game and several of the younger men on the New York team acted as if they were nervous. Snodgrass and the Indian kept up a running fire of small talk every time that the Giants' centre-fielder came to the plate. Snodgrass got hit by pitched balls twice, and this seemed to worry Bender. When the New York centre-fielder came to the bat in the eighth inning, the Indian showed his even teeth in the chronic grin and greeted Snodgrass in this way: "Look out, Freddie, you don't get hit this time." Then Bender wound up and with all his speed drove the ball straight at Snodgrass's head, and Bender had more speed in that first game than I ever saw him use before. Snodgrass dodged, and the ball drove into Thomas's glove. This pitching the first ball at the head of a batter is an old trick of pitchers when they think a player intends to get hit purposely or that he is crowding the plate. "If you can't push 'em over better than that," retorted Snodgrass, "I won't need to get hit. Let's see your fast one now." "Try this one," suggested Bender, as he pitched another fast one that cut the heart of the plate. Snodgrass swung and hit nothing but the air. The old atmosphere was very much mauled by bats in that game anyway. "You missed that one a mile, Freddie," chuckled the Indian, with his grin. Snodgrass eventually struck out and then Bender broke into a laugh. "You ain't a batter, Freddie," exclaimed the Indian, as he walked to the bench. "You're a backstop. You can never get anywhere without being hit." If a pitcher is going to talk to a batter, he must size up his man. An irritable, nervous young player often will fall for the conversation, but most seasoned hitters will not answer back. The Athletics, other than Bender, will not talk in a game. We tried to get after them in the first contest in 1911, and we could not get a rise out of one of them, except when Snodgrass spiked Baker, and I want to say right here that this much discussed incident was accidental. Baker was blocking Snodgrass out, and the New York player had a perfect right to the base line. Sherwood Magee of the Philadelphia National League team is one of the hardest batters that I ever have had to face, because he has a great eye, and is of the type of free swingers who take a mad wallop at the ball, and are always liable to break up a game with a long drive. Just once I talked to him when he was at the bat, more because we were both worked up than for any other reason, and he came out second best. It was while the Giants were playing at American League Park in 1911 after the old Polo Grounds had burned. Welchonce, who was the centre-fielder for the Phillies at the time, hit a slow one down the first base line, and I ran over to field the ball. I picked it up as the runner arrived and had no time to straighten up to dodge him. So I struck out my shoulder and he ran into it. There was no other way to make the play, but I guess it looked bad from the stand, because Welchonce fell down. Magee came up to bat next, threw his hat on the ground, and started to call me names. He is bad when irritated--and tolerably easy to irritate, as shown by the way in which he knocked down Finnegan, the umpire, last season because their ideas on a strike differed slightly. I replied on that occasion, but remembered to keep the ball away from the centre of the plate. That is about all I did do, but he was more wrought up than I and hit only a slow grounder to the infield. He was out by several feet. He took a wild slide at the bag, however, feet first, in what looked like an attempt to spike Merkle. We talked some more after that, but it has all been forgotten now. To be a successful pitcher in the Big League, a man must have the head and the arm. When I first joined the Giants, I had what is known as the "old round-house curve," which is no more than a big, slow outdrop. I had been fooling them in the minor leagues with it, and I was somewhat chagrined when George Davis, then the manager of the club, came to me and told me to forget the curve, as it would be of no use. It was then that I began to develop my drop ball. A pitcher must watch all the time for any little unconscious motion before he delivers the ball. If a base runner can guess just when he is going to pitch, he can get a much better start. Drucke used to have a little motion with his foot just before he pitched, of which he himself was entirely unconscious, but the other clubs got on to it and stole bases on him wildly. McGraw has since broken him of it. The Athletics say that I make a motion peculiar to the fade-away. Some spit-ball pitchers announce when they are going to throw a moist one by looking at the ball as they dampen it. At other times, when they "stall," they do not look at the ball. The Big League batter is watching for all these little things and, if a pitcher is not careful, he will find a lot of men who are hard to pitch to. There are plenty anyway, and, as a man grows older, this number increases season by season. II "Take Him Out" _Many a Pitcher's Heart has been Broken by the Cry from the Stands, "Take Him Out"--Russell Ford of the New York Yankees was Once Beaten by a Few Foolish Words Whispered into the Batter's Ear at a Critical Moment--Why "Rube" Marquard Failed for Two Years to be a Big Leaguer--The Art of Breaking a Pitcher into Fast Company._ A pitcher is in a tight game, and the batter makes a hit. Another follows and some fan back in the stand cries in stentorian tones: "Take him out!" It is the dirge of baseball which has broken the hearts of pitchers ever since the game began and will continue to do so as long as it lives. Another fan takes up the shout, and another, and another, until it is a chorus. "Take him out! Take him out! Take him out!" The pitcher has to grin, but that constant cry is wearing on nerves strung to the breaking point. The crowd is against him, and the next batter hits, and a run scores. The manager stops the game, beckons to the pitcher from the bench, and he has to walk away from the box, facing the crowd--not the team--which has beaten him. It is the psychology of baseball. Some foolish words once whispered into the ear of a batter by a clever manager in the crisis of one of the closest games ever played in baseball turned the tide and unbalanced a pitcher who had been working like a perfectly adjusted machine through seven terrific innings. That is also the "psychology of pitching." The man wasn't beaten because he weakened, because he lost his grip, because of any physical deficiency, but because some foolish words--words that meant nothing, had nothing to do with the game--had upset his mental attitude. The game was the first one played between the Giants and the Yankees in the post-season series of 1910, the batter was Bridwell, the manager was John McGraw, and the pitcher, Russell Ford of the Yankees. The cast of characters having been named, the story may now enter the block. Spectators who recall the game will remember that the two clubs had been battling through the early innings with neither team able to gain an advantage, and the Giants came to bat for the eighth inning with the score a tie. Ford was pitching perfectly with all the art of a master craftsman. Each team had made one run. I was the first man up and started the eighth inning with a single because Ford slackened up a little against me, thinking that I was not dangerous. Devore beat out an infield hit, and Doyle bunted and was safe, filling the bases. Then Ford went to work. He struck out Snodgrass, and Hemphill caught Murray's fly far too near the infield to permit me to try to score. It looked as if Ford were going to get out of the hole when "Al" Bridwell, the former Giant shortstop, came to the bat. Ford threw him two bad balls, and then McGraw ran out from the bench, and, with an autocratic finger, held up the game while he whispered into Bridwell's ear. "Al" nodded knowingly, and the whole thing was a pantomime, a wordless play, that made _Sumurun_ look like a bush-league production. Bridwell stepped back into the batter's box, and McGraw returned to the bench. On the next pitch, "Al" was hit in the leg and went to first base, forcing the run that broke the tie across the plate. That run also broke Ford's heart. And here is what McGraw whispered into the attentive ear of Bridwell: "How many quail did you say you shot when you were hunting last fall, Al?" John McGraw, the psychologist, baseball general and manager, had heard opportunity knock. With his fingers on the pulse of the game, he had felt the tenseness of the situation, and realized, all in the flash of an eye, that Ford was wabbling and that anything would push him over. He stopped the game and whispered into Bridwell's ear while Ford was feeling more and more the intensity of the crisis. He had an opportunity to observe the three men on the bases. He wondered what McGraw was whispering, what trick was to be expected. Was he telling the batter to get hit? Yes, he must be. Then he did just that--hit the batter, and lost the game. Why can certain pitchers always beat certain clubs and why do they look like bush leaguers against others? To be concrete, why can Brooklyn fight Chicago so hard and look foolish playing against the Giants? Why can the Yankees take game after game from Detroit and be easy picking for the Cleveland club in most of their games? Why does Boston beat Marquard when he can make the hard Philadelphia hitters look like blind men with bats in their hands? Why could I beat Cincinnati game after game for two years when the club was filled with hard hitters? It is the psychology of baseball, the mental attitudes of the players, some intangible thing that works on the mind. Managers are learning to use this subtle, indescribable element which is such a factor. The great question which confronts every Big League manager is how to break a valuable young pitcher into the game. "Rube" Marquard came to the Giants in the fall of 1908 out of the American Association heralded as a world-beater, with a reputation that shimmered and shone. The newspapers were crowded with stories of the man for whom McGraw had paid $11,000, who had been standing them on their heads in the West, who had curves that couldn't be touched, and was a bargain at the unheard-of price paid for him. "Rube" Marquard came to the Giants in a burst of glory and publicity when the club was fighting for the pennant. McGraw was up against it for pitchers at that time, and one win, turned in by a young pitcher, might have resulted in the Giants winning the pennant as the season ended. "Don't you think Marquard would win? Can't you put him in?" Mr. Brush, the owner of the club, asked McGraw one day when he was discussing the pitching situation with the manager. "I don't know," answered McGraw. "If he wins his first time out in the Big Leagues, he will be a world-beater, and, if he loses, it may cost us a good pitcher." But Mr. Brush was insistent. Here a big price had been paid for a pitcher with a record, and pitchers were what the club needed. The newspapers declared that the fans should get a look at this "$11,000 beauty" in action. A double header was scheduled to be played with the Cincinnati club in the month of September, in 1908, and the pitching staff was gone. McGraw glanced over his collection of crippled and worked-out twirlers. Then he saw "Rube" Marquard, big and fresh. "Go in and pitch," he ordered after Marquard had warmed up. McGraw always does things that way, makes up his mind about the most important matters in a minute and then stands by his judgment. Marquard went into the box, but he didn't pitch much. He has told me about it since. "When I saw that crowd, Matty," he said, "I didn't know where I was. It looked so big to me, and they were all wondering what I was going to do, and all thinking that McGraw had paid $11,000 for me, and now they were to find out whether he had gotten stuck, whether he had picked up a gold brick with the plating on it very thin. I was wondering, myself, whether I would make good." What Marquard did that day is a matter of record, public property, like marriage and death notices. Kane, the little rightfielder on the Cincinnati club, was the first man up, and, although he was one of the smallest targets in the league, Marquard hit him. He promptly stole second, which worried "Rube" some more. Up came Lobert, the man who broke Marquard's heart. "Now we'll see," said Lobert to "Rube," as he advanced to the plate, "whether you're a busher." Then Lobert, the tantalizing Teuton with the bow-legs, whacked out a triple to the far outfield and stopped at third with a mocking smile on his face which would have gotten the late Job's goat. "You're identified," said "Hans"; "you're a busher." Some fan shouted the fatal "Take him out." Marquard was gone. Bescher followed with another triple, and, after that, the official scorer got writer's cramp trying to keep track of the hits and runs. The number of hits, I don't think, ever was computed with any great amount of exactitude. Marquard was taken out of the box in the fifth inning, and he was two years recovering from the shock of that beating. McGraw had put him into the game against his better judgment, and he paid for it dearly. Marquard had to be nursed along on the bench finishing games, starting only against easy clubs, and learning the ropes of the Big Leagues before he was able to be a winning pitcher. McGraw was a long time realizing on his investment. All Marquard needed was a victory, a decisive win, over a strong club. [Illustration: Photo by L. Van Oeyen, Cleveland, Ohio Ty Cobb and Hans Wagner "An American and National League star of the first magnitude. Fans of the rival leagues never tire of discussing the relative merits of these two great players. Both are always willing to take a chance, and seem to do their best work when pressed hardest."] The Giants played a disastrous series with the Philadelphia club early in July, 1911, and lost four games straight. All the pitchers were shot to pieces, and the Quakers seemed to be unbeatable. McGraw was at a loss for a man to use in the fifth game. The weather was steaming hot, and the players were dragged out, while the pitching staff had lost all its starch. As McGraw's eye scanned his bedraggled talent, Marquard, reading his thoughts, walked up to him. "Give me a chance," he asked. "Go in," answered McGraw, again making up his mind on the spur of the moment. Marquard went into the game and made the Philadelphia batters, whose averages had been growing corpulent on the pitching of the rest of the staff, look foolish. There on that sweltering July afternoon, when everything steamed in the blistering heat, a pitcher was being born again. Marquard had found himself, and, for the rest of the season, he was strongest against the Philadelphia team, for it had been that club which restored his confidence. There is a sequel to that old Lobert incident, too. In one of the last series in Philadelphia, toward the end of the season, Marquard and Lobert faced each other again. Said Marquard: "Remember the time, you bow-legged Dutchman, when you asked me whether I was a busher? Here is where I pay you back. This is the place where you get a bad showing up." And he fanned Lobert--whiff! whiff! whiff!--like that. He became the greatest lefthander in the country, and would have been sooner, except for the enormous price paid for him and the widespread publicity he received, which caused him to be over-anxious to make good. It's the psychology of the game. "You can't hit what you don't see," says "Joe" Tinker of Marquard's pitching. "When he throws his fast one, the only way you know it's past you is because you hear the ball hit the catcher's glove." Fred Clarke, of the Pittsburg club, was up against the same proposition when he purchased "Marty" O'Toole for $22,500 in 1911. The newspapers of the country were filled with figures and pictures of the real estate and automobiles that could be bought with the same amount of money, lined up alongside of pictures of O'Toole, as when the comparative strengths of the navies of the world are shown by placing different sizes of battleships in a row, or when the length of the _Lusitania_ is emphasized by printing a picture of it balancing gracefully on its stern alongside the Singer Building. Clarke realized that he had all this publicity with which to contend, and that it would do his expensive new piece of pitching bric-à-brac no good. O'Toole, jerked out of a minor league where he had been pitching quietly, along with his name in ten or a dozen papers, was suddenly a national figure, measuring up in newspaper space with Roosevelt and Taft and J. Johnson. When O'Toole joined the Pirates near the end of the season, Clarke knew down in his heart the club had no chance of winning the pennant with Wagner hurt, although he still publicly declared he was in the race. He did not risk jumping O'Toole right into the game as soon as he reported and taking the chance of breaking his heart. Opposing players, if they are up in the pennant hunt, are hard on a pitcher of this sort and would lose no opportunity to mention the price paid for him and connect it pointedly with his showing, if that showing was a little wobbly. Charity begins at home, and stays there, in the Big Leagues. At least, I never saw any of it on the ball fields, especially if the club is in the race, and the only thing that stands between it and a victory is the ruining of a $22,500 pitcher of a rival. Clarke nursed O'Toole along on the bench for a couple of weeks until he got to be thoroughly acclimated, and then he started him in a game against Boston, the weakest club in the league, after he had sent for Kelly, O'Toole's regular catcher, to inspire more confidence. O'Toole had an easy time of it at his Big League début, for the Boston players did not pick on him any to speak of, as they were not a very hard bunch of pickers. The Pittsburg team gave him a nice comfortable, cosy lead, and he was pitching along ahead of the game all the way. In the fifth or sixth inning Clarke slipped Gibson, the regular Pittsburg catcher, behind the bat, and O'Toole had won his first game in the Big League before he knew it. He then reasoned I have won here. I belong here. I can get along here. It isn't much different from the crowd I came from, except for the name, and that's nothing to get timid about if I can clean up as easily as I did to-day. Fred Clarke, also a psychologist and baseball manager, had worked a valuable pitcher into the League, and he had won his first game. If he had started him against some club like the Giants, for instance, where he would have had to face a big crowd and the conversation and spirit of players who were after a pennant and hot after it, he might have lost and his heart would have been broken. Successfully breaking into the game an expensive pitcher, who has cost a club a large price, is one of the hardest problems which confronts a manager. Now O'Toole is all right if he has the pitching goods. He has taken his initial plunge, and all he has to do is to make good next year. The psychology element is eliminated from now on. I have been told that Clarke was the most relieved man in seven counties when O'Toole came through with that victory in Boston. "I had in mind all the time," said Fred, "what happened to McGraw when he was trying to introduce Marquard into the smart set, and I was afraid the same thing would happen to me. I had a lot of confidence in the nerve of that young fellow though, because he stood up well under fire the first day he got into Pittsburg. One of those lady reporters was down to the club offices to meet him the morning he got into town, and they always kind of have me, an old campaigner, stepping away from the plate. She pulled her pad and pencil on Marty first thing, before he had had a chance to knock the dirt out of his cleats, and said: "'Now tell me about yourself.' "He stepped right into that one, instead of backing away. "'What do you want me to tell?' he asks her. "Then I knew he was all right. He was there with the 'come-back.'" But the ideal way to break a star into the Big League is that which marked the entrance of Grover Cleveland Alexander, of the Philadelphia club. The Cincinnati club had had its eye on Alexander for some time, but "Tacks" Ashenbach, the scout, now dead, had advised against him, declaring that he would be no good against "regular batters." Philadelphia got him at the waiver price and he was among the lot in the newspapers marked "Those who also joined." He started out in 1911 and won two or three games before anyone paid any attention to him. Then he kept on winning until one manager was saying to another: "That guy, Alexander, is a hard one to beat." He had won ten or a dozen games before it was fully realized that he was a star. Then he was so accustomed to the Big League he acted as if he had been living in it all his life, and there was no getting on his nerves. When he started, he had everything to gain and nothing to lose. If he didn't last, the newspapers wouldn't laugh at him, and the people wouldn't say: "$11,000, or $22,500, for a lemon." That's the dread of all ball players. Such is the psychology of introducing promising pitchers into the Big Leagues. The Alexander route is the ideal one, but it's hard to get stars now without paying enormous prices for them. Philadelphia was lucky. There is another element which enters into all forms of athletics. Tennis players call it nervousness, and ball players, in the frankness of the game, call it a "yellow streak." It is the inability to stand the gaff, the weakening in the pinches. It is something ingrained in a man that can't be cured. It is the desire to quit when the situation is serious. It is different from stage fright, because a man may get over that, but a "yellow streak" is always with him. When a new player breaks into the League, he is put to the most severe test by the other men to see if he is "yellow." If he is found wanting, he is hopeless in the Big League, for the news will spread, and he will receive no quarter. It is the cardinal sin in a ball player. For some time after "Hans" Wagner's poor showing in the world's series of 1903, when the Pittsburg club was defeated for the World's Championship by the Boston American League club, it was reported that he was "yellow." This grieved the Dutchman deeply, for I don't know a ball player in either league who would assay less quit to the ton than Wagner. He is always there and always fighting. Wagner felt the inference which his team mates drew very keenly. This was the real tragedy in Wagner's career. Notwithstanding his stolid appearance, he is a sensitive player, and this hurt him more than anything else in his life ever has. When the Pittsburg club played Detroit in 1909 for the championship of the world, many, even of Wagner's admirers, said, "The Dutchman will quit." It was in this series he vindicated himself. His batting scored the majority of the Pittsburg runs, and his fielding was little short of wonderful. He was demonstrating his gameness. Many men would have quit under the reflection. They would have been unable to withstand the criticism, but not Wagner. Many persons implied that John Murray, the rightfielder on the Giants, was "yellow" at the conclusion of the 1911 world's series because, after batting almost three hundred in the season, he did not get a hit in the six games. But there isn't a man on the team gamer. He hasn't any nerves. He's one of the sort of ball players who says: "Well, now I've got my chew of tobacco in my mouth. Let her go." There is an interesting bit of psychology connected with Wagner and the spit-ball. It comes as near being Wagner's "groove" as any curve that has found its way into the Big Leagues. This is explained by the fact that the first time Wagner ever faced "Bugs" Raymond he didn't get a hit with Arthur using the spitter. Consequently the report went around the circuit that Wagner couldn't hit the spit-ball. He disproved this theory against two or three spit-ball pitchers, but as long as Raymond remained in the League he had it on the hard-hitting Dutchman. "Here comes a 'spitter,' Hans. Look out for it," Raymond would warn Wagner, with a wide grin, and then he would pop up a wet one. "Guess I'll repeat on that dose, Hans; you didn't like that one." And Wagner would get so worked up that he frequently struck out against "Bugs" when the rest of his club was hitting the eccentric pitcher hard. It was because he achieved the idea on the first day he couldn't hit the spit-ball, and he wasn't able to rid his mind of the impression. Many fans often wondered why Raymond had it on Wagner, the man whose only "groove" is a base on balls. "Bugs" had the edge after that first day when Wagner lost confidence in his ability to hit the spit-ball as served by Raymond. In direct contrast to this loss of confidence on Wagner's part was the incident attendant upon Arthur Devlin's début into the Big League. He had joined the club a youngster, in the season of 1904, and McGraw had not counted upon him to play third base, having planned to plant Bresnahan at that corner. But Bresnahan developed sciatic rheumatism early in the season, and Devlin was put on the bag in the emergency with a great deal of misgiving. The first day he was in the game he came up to the bat with the bases full. The Giants were playing Brooklyn at the Polo Grounds, and two men had already struck out, with the team two runs behind. Devlin came out from the bench. "Who is this youthful-looking party?" one fan asked another, as they scanned their score cards. "Devlin, some busher, taking Bresnahan's place," another answered. "Well, it's all off now," was the general verdict. The crowd settled back, and one could feel the lassitude in the atmosphere. But Devlin had his first chance to make good in a pinch. There was no weariness in his manner. Poole, the Brooklyn pitcher, showing less respect than he should have for the newcomer in baseball society, spilled one over too near the middle, and Arthur drove out a home run, winning the game. Those who had refused to place any confidence in him only a moment before, were on their feet cheering wildly now. And Devlin played third base for almost eight years after that, and none thought of Bresnahan and his rheumatism until he began catching again. Devlin, after that home run, was oozing confidence from every pore and burned up the League with his batting for three years. He got the old confidence from his start. The fans had expected nothing from him, and he had delivered. He had gained everything. He had made the most dramatic play in baseball on his first day, a home run with the bases full. When Fred Snodgrass first started playing as a regular with the Giants about the middle of the season of 1910, he hit any ball pitched him hard and had all the fans marvelling at his stick work. He believed that he could hit anything and, as long as he retained that belief, he could. But the Chalmers Automobile Company had offered a prize of one nice, mild-mannered motor car to the batter in either league who finished the season with the biggest average. Snodgrass was batting over four hundred at one time and was ahead of them all when suddenly the New York evening papers began to publish the daily averages of the leaders for the automobile, boosting Snodgrass. It suddenly struck Fred that he was a great batter and that to keep his place in that daily standing he would have to make a hit every time he went to the plate. These printed figures worried him. His batting fell off miserably until, in the post season series with the Yankees, he gave one of the worst exhibitions of any man on the team. The newspapers did it. "They got me worrying about myself," he told me once. "I began to think how close I was to the car and had a moving picture of myself driving it. That settled it." Many promising young players are broken in their first game in the Big League by the ragging which they are forced to undergo at the hands of veteran catchers. John Kling is a very bad man with youngsters, and sometimes he can get on the nerves of older players in close games when the nerves are strung tight. The purpose of a catcher in talking to a man in this way is to distract his attention from batting, and once this is accomplished he is gone. A favorite trick of a catcher is to say to a new batter: "Look out for this fellow. He's got a mean 'bean' ball, and he hasn't any influence over it. There's a poor 'boob' in the hospital now that stopped one with his head." Then the catcher signs for the pitcher to throw the next one at the young batter's head. If he pulls away, an unpardonable sin in baseball, the dose is repeated. "Yer almost had your foot in the water-pail over by the bench that time," says the catcher. Bing! Up comes another "beaner." Then, after the catcher has sized the new man up, he makes his report. "He won't do. He's yellow." And the players keep mercilessly after this shortcoming, this ingrained fault which, unlike a mechanical error, cannot be corrected until the new player is driven out of the League. Perhaps the catcher says: "He's game, that guy. No scare to him." After that he is let alone. It's the psychology of batting. Once, when I first broke into the League, Jack Chesbro, then with Pittsburg, threw a fast one up, and it went behind my head, although I tried to dodge back. He had lots of speed in those days, too. It set me wondering what would have happened if the ball had hit me. The more I thought, the more it struck me that it would have greatly altered my face had it gotten into the course of the ball. Ever afterwards, he had it on me, and, for months, a fast one at the head had me backing away from the plate. In contrast to this experience of mine was the curing of "Josh" Devore, the leftfielder of the Giants, of being bat shy against left-handers. Devore has always been very weak at the bat with a southpaw in the box, dragging his right foot away from the plate. This was particularly the case against "Slim" Sallee, the tenuous southpaw of the St. Louis Nationals. Finally McGraw, exasperated after "Josh" had struck out twice in one day, said: "That fellow hasn't got speed enough to bend a pane of glass at the home plate throwing from the box, and you're pullin' away as if he was shooting them out of a gun. It's a crime to let him beat you. Go up there the next time and get hit, and see if he can hurt you. If you don't get hit, you're fined $10." Devore, who is as fond of $10 as the next one, went to the bat and took one of Sallee's slants in a place where it would do the least damage. He trotted to first base smiling. "What'd I tell you?" asked McGraw, coaching. "Could he hurt you?" "Say," replied "Josh," "I'd hire out to let them pitch baseballs at me if none could throw harder than that guy." Devore was cured of being bat shy when Sallee was pitching, right then and there, and he has improved greatly against all left-handers ever since, so much so that McGraw leaves him in the game now when a southpaw pitches, instead of placing Beals Becker in left field as he used to. All Devore needed was the confidence to stand up to the plate against them, to rid his mind of the idea that, if once he got hit, he would leave the field feet first. That slam in the slats which Sallee handed him supplied the confidence. When Devore was going to Philadelphia for the second game of the world's series in the fall of 1911, the first one in the other town, he was introduced to "Ty" Cobb, the Detroit out-fielder, by some newspaper man on the train, and, as it was the first time Devore had ever met Cobb, he sat down with him and they talked all the way over. "Gee," said "Josh" to me, as we were getting off the train, "that fellow Cobb knows a lot about batting. He told me some things about the American League pitchers just now, and he didn't know he was doing it. I never let on. But I just hope that fellow Plank works to-day, if they think that I am weak against left-handers. Say, Matty, I could write a book about that guy and his 'grooves' now, after buzzing Cobb, and the funny thing is he didn't know he was telling me." Plank pitched that day and fanned Devore four times out of a possible four. "Josh" didn't even get a foul off him. "Thought you knew all about that fellow," I said to Devore after the game. "I've learned since that Cobb and he are pretty thick," replied "Josh," "and I guess 'Ty' was giving me a bad steer." It was evident that Cobb had been filling "Josh" up with misinformation that was working around in Devore's mind when he went to the plate to face Plank, and, instead of being open to impressions, these wrong opinions had already been planted and he was constantly trying to confirm them. Plank was crossing him all the time, and, being naturally weak against left-handers, this additional handicap made Devore look foolish. In the well-worn words of Mr. Dooley, it has been my experience "to trust your friends, but cut the cards." By that, I mean one ball player will often come to another with a tip that he really thinks worth while, but that avails nothing in the end. A man has to be a pretty smart ball player to dispense accurate information about others, because the Big Leaguers know their own "grooves" and are naturally trying to cover them up. Then a batter may be weak against one pitcher on a certain kind of a ball, and may whale the same sort of delivery, with a different twist to it, out of the lot against another. That was the experience I had with "Ed" Delehanty, the famous slugger of the old Philadelphia National League team, who is now dead. During my first year in the League several well-meaning advisers came to me and said: "Don't give 'Del' any high fast ones because, if you do, you will just wear your fielders out worse than a George M. Cohan show does the chorus. They will think they are in a Marathon race instead of a ball game." Being young, I took this advice, and the first time I pitched against Delehanty, I fed him curved balls. He hit these so far the first two times he came to bat that one of the balls was never found, and everybody felt like shaking hands with Van Haltren, the old Giant outfielder, when he returned with the other, as if he had been away on a vacation some place. In fact, I had been warned against giving any of this Philadelphia team of sluggers high fast ones, and I had been delivering a diet of curves to all of them which they were sending to the limits of the park and further, with great regularity. At last, when Delehanty came to the bat for the third time in the game, Van Haltren walked into the box from the outfield and handed the ball to me, after he had just gone to the fence to get it. Elmer Flick had hit it there. "Matty," he pleaded, "for the love of Mike, slip this fellow a base on balls and let me get my wind." Instead I decided to switch my style, and I fed Delehanty high fast ones, the dangerous dose, and he struck out then and later. He wasn't expecting them and was so surprised that he couldn't hit the ball. Only two of the six balls at which he struck were good ones. I found out afterwards that the tradition about not delivering any high fast balls to the Philadelphia hitters was the outgrowth of the old buzzer tipping service, established in 1899, by which the batters were informed what to expect by Morgan Murphy, located in the clubhouse with a pair of field-glasses and his finger on a button which worked a buzzer under the third-base coaching box. The coacher tipped the batter off what was coming and the signal-stealing device had worked perfectly. The hitters had all waited for the high fast ones in those days, as they can be hit easier if a man knows that they are coming, and can also be hit farther. But, after the buzzer had been discovered and the delivery of pitchers could not be accurately forecast, this ability to hit high fast ones vanished, but not the tradition. The result was that this Philadelphia club was getting a steady diet of curves and hitting them hard, not expecting anything else. When I first pitched against Delehanty, his reputation as a hitter gave him a big edge on me. Therefore I was willing to take any kind of advice calculated to help me, but eventually I had to find out for myself. If I had taken a chance on mixing them up the first time he faced me, I still doubt if he would have made those two long hits, but it was his reputation working in my mind and the idea that he ate up high fast balls that prevented me from taking the risk. Each pitcher has to find out for himself what a man is going to hit. It's all right to take advice at first, but, if this does not prove to be the proper prescription, it's up to him to experiment and not continue to feed him the sort of balls that he is hitting. Reputations count for a great deal in the Big Leagues. Cobb has a record as being a great base runner, and I believe that he steals ten bases a season on this reputation. The catcher knows he is on the bag, realizes that he is going to steal, fears him, hurries his throw, and, in his anxiety, it goes bad. Cobb is safe, whereas, if he had been an ordinary runner with no reputation, he would probably have been thrown out. Pitchers who have made names for themselves in the Big Leagues, have a much easier time winning as a consequence. "All he's got to do is to throw his glove into the box to beat that club," is an old expression in baseball, which means that the opposing batters fear the pitcher and that his reputation will carry him through if he has nothing whatever on the ball. Newspapers work on the mental attitude of Big League players. This has been most marked in Cincinnati, and I believe that the local newspapers have done as much as anything to keep a pennant away from that town. When the team went south for the spring practice, the newspapers printed glowing reports of the possibilities of the club winning the pennant, but, when the club started to fall down in the race, they would knock the men, and it would take the heart out of the players. Almost enough good players have been let go by the Cincinnati team to make a world's championship club. There are Donlin, Seymour, Steinfeldt, Lobert and many more. Ball players inhale the accounts printed in the newspapers, and a correspondent with a grouch has ruined the prospects of many a good player and club. The New York newspapers, first by the great amount of publicity given to his old record, and then by criticising him for not making a better showing, had a great deal to do with Marquard failing to make good the first two years he was in New York, as I have shown. A smart manager in the Big League is always working to keep his valuable stars in the right frame of mind. On the last western trip the Giants made in the season of 1911, when they won the pennant by taking eighteen games out of twenty-two games, McGraw refused to permit any of the men to play cards. He realized that often the stakes ran high and that the losers brooded over the money which they lost and were thinking of this rather than the game when on the ball field. It hurt their playing, so there were no cards. He also carried "Charley" Faust, the Kansas Jinx killer, along to keep the players amused and because it was thought that he was good luck. It helped their mental attitude. The treatment of a new player when he first arrives is different now from what it was in the old days. Once there was a time when the veteran looked upon the recruit with suspicion and the feeling that he had come to take his job and his bread and butter from him. If a young pitcher was put into the box, the old catcher would do all that he could to irritate him, and many times he would inform the batters of the other side what he was going to throw. "He's tryin' to horn my friend Bill out of a job," I have heard catchers charge against a youngster. This attitude drove many a star ball player back to the minors because he couldn't make good under the adverse circumstances, but nothing of the sort exists now. Each veteran does all that he can to help the youngster, realizing that on the younger generation depends the success of the club, and that no one makes any money by being on a loser. Travelling with a tail-end ball club is the poorest pastime in the world. I would rather ride in the first coach of a funeral procession. The youngster is treated more courteously now when he first arrives. In the old days, the veterans of the club sized up the recruit and treated him like a stranger for days, which made him feel as if he were among enemies instead of friends, and, as a result, it was much harder for him to make good. Now all hands make him a companion from the start, unless he shows signs of being unusually fresh. There is a lot to baseball in the Big Leagues besides playing the game. No man can have a "yellow streak" and last. He must not pay much attention to his nerves or temperament. He must hide every flaw. It's all part of the psychology of baseball. But the saddest words of all to a pitcher are three--"Take Him Out." III Pitching in a Pinch _Many Pitchers Are Effective in a Big League Ball Game until that Heart-Breaking Moment Arrives Known as the "Pinch"--It Is then that the Man in the Box is Put to the Severest Test by the Coachers and the Players on the Bench--Victory or Defeat Hangs on his Work in that Inning--Famous "Pinches."_ In most Big League ball games, there comes an inning on which hangs victory or defeat. Certain intellectual fans call it the crisis; college professors, interested in the sport, have named it the psychological moment; Big League managers mention it as the "break," and pitchers speak of the "pinch." This is the time when each team is straining every nerve either to win or to prevent defeat. The players and spectators realize that the outcome of the inning is of vital importance. And in most of these pinches, the real burden falls on the pitcher. It is at this moment that he is "putting all he has" on the ball, and simultaneously his opponents are doing everything they can to disconcert him. Managers wait for this break, and the shrewd league leader can often time it. Frequently a certain style of play is adopted to lead up to the pinch, then suddenly a slovenly mode of attack is changed, and the team comes on with a rush in an effort to break up the game. That is the real test of a pitcher. He must be able to live through these squalls. Two evenly matched clubs have been playing through six innings with neither team gaining any advantage. Let us say that they are the Giants and the Chicago Cubs. Suddenly the Chicago pitcher begins to weaken in the seventh. Spectators cannot perceive this, but McGraw, the Giants' manager, has detected some crack. All has been quiet on the bench up to this moment. Now the men begin to fling about sweaters and move around, one going to the water cooler to get a drink, another picking up a bat or two and flinging them in the air, while four or five prospective hitters are lined up, swinging several sticks apiece, as if absolutely confident that each will get his turn at the plate. The two coachers on the side lines have become dancing dervishes, waving sweaters and arms wildly, and shouting various words of discouragement to the pitcher which are calculated to make his job as soft as a bed of concrete. He has pitched three balls to the batter, and McGraw vehemently protests to the umpire that the twirler is not keeping his foot on the slab. The game is delayed while this is discussed at the pitcher's box and the umpire brushes off the rubber strip with a whisk broom. There is a kick against these tactics from the other bench, but the damage has been done. The pitcher passes the batter, forgets what he ought to throw to the next man, and cannot get the ball where he wants it. A base hit follows. Then he is gone. The following batter triples, and, before another pitcher can be warmed up, three or four runs are across the plate, and the game is won. That explains why so many wise managers keep a pitcher warming up when the man in the box is going strong. It is in the pinch that the pitcher shows whether or not he is a Big Leaguer. He must have something besides curves then. He needs a head, and he has to use it. It is the acid test. That is the reason so many men, who shine in the minor leagues, fail to make good in the majors. They cannot stand the fire. A young pitcher came to the Giants a few years ago. I won't mention his name because he has been pitching good minor-league ball since. He was a wonder with the bases empty, but let a man or two get on the sacks, and he wouldn't know whether he was in a pitcher's box or learning aviation in the Wright school, and he acted a lot more like an aviator in the crisis. McGraw looked him over twice. "He's got a spine like a charlotte russe," declared "Mac," after his second peek, and he passed him back to the bushes. Several other Big League managers, tempted by this man's brilliant record in the minors, have tried him out since, but he has always gone back. McGraw's judgment of the man was correct. On the other hand, Otis Crandall came to the New York club a few years ago a raw country boy from Indiana. I shall never forget how he looked the first spring I saw him in Texas. The club had a large number of recruits and was short of uniforms. He was among the last of the hopefuls to arrive and there was no suit for him, so, in a pair of regular trousers with his coat off, he began chasing flies in the outfield. His head hung down on his chest, and, when not playing, a cigarette drooped out of the corner of his mouth. But he turned out to be a very good fly chaser, and McGraw admired his persistency. "What are you?" McGraw asked him one day. "A pitcher," replied Crandall. Two words constitute an oration for him. "Let's see what you've got," said McGraw. Crandall warmed up, and he didn't have much of anything besides a sweeping outcurve and a good deal of speed. He looked less like a pitcher than any of the spring crop, but McGraw saw something in him and kept him. The result is he has turned out to be one of the most valuable men on the club, because he is there in a pinch. He couldn't be disturbed if the McNamaras tied a bomb to him, with a time fuse on it set for "at once." He is the sort of pitcher who is best when things look darkest. I've heard the crowd yelling, when he has been pitching on the enemy's ground, so that a sixteen-inch gun couldn't have been heard if it had gone off in the lot. "That crowd was making some noise," I've said to Crandall after the inning. "Was it?" asked Otie. "I didn't notice it." One day in 1911, he started a game in Philadelphia and three men got on the bases with no one out, along about the fourth or fifth inning. He shut them out without a run. It was the first game he had started for a long while, his specialty having been to enter a contest, after some other pitcher had gotten into trouble, with two or three men on the bases and scarcely any one out. After he came to the bench with the threatening inning behind him, he said to me: "Matty, I didn't feel at home out there to-day until a lot of people got on the bases. I'll be all right now." And he was. I believe that Crandall is the best pitcher in a pinch in the National League and one of the most valuable men to a team, for he can play any position and bats hard. Besides being a great pinch pitcher, he can also hit in a crush, and won many games for the Giants in 1911 that way. Very often spectators think that a pitcher has lost his grip in a pinch, when really he is playing inside baseball. A game with Chicago in Chicago back in 1908 (not the famous contest that cost the Giants a championship; I did not have any grip at all that day; but one earlier in the season) best illustrates the point I want to bring out. Mordecai Brown and I were having a pitchers' duel, and the Giants were in the lead by the score of 1 to 0 when the team took the field for the ninth inning. It was one of those fragile games in which one run makes a lot of difference, the sort that has a fringe of nervous prostration for the spectators. Chance was up first in the ninth and he pushed a base hit to right field. Steinfeldt followed with a triple that brought Chance home and left the run which would win the game for the Cubs on third base. The crowd was shouting like mad, thinking I was done. I looked at the hitters, waiting to come up, and saw Hofman and Tinker swinging their bats in anticipation. Both are dangerous men, but the silver lining was my second look, which revealed to me Kling and Brown following Hofman and Tinker. Without a second's hesitation, I decided to pass both Hofman and Tinker, because the run on third base would win the game anyway if it scored, and with three men on the bags instead of one, there would be a remote chance for a triple play, besides making a force out at the plate possible. Remember that no one was out at this time. Kling and Brown had always been easy for me. When I got two balls on Hofman, trying to make him hit at a bad one, the throng stood up in the stand and tore splinters out of the floor with its feet. And then I passed Hofman. The spectators misunderstood my motive. "He's done. He's all in," shouted one man in a voice which was one of the carrying, persistent, penetrating sort. The crowd took the cry up and stamped its feet and cheered wildly. Then I passed Tinker, a man, as I have said before, who has had a habit of making trouble for me. The crowd quieted down somewhat, perhaps because it was not possible for it to cheer any louder, but probably because the spectators thought that now it would be only a matter of how many the Cubs would win by. The bases were full, and no one was out. But that wildly cheering crowd had worked me up to greater effort, and I struck Kling out and then Brown followed him back to the bench for the same reason. Just one batter stood between me and a tied score now. He was John Evers, and the crowd having lost its chortle of victory, was begging him to make the hit which would bring just one run over the plate. They were surprised by my recuperation after having passed two men. Evers lifted a gentle fly to left field and the three men were left on the bases. The Giants eventually won that game in the eleventh inning by the score of 4 to 1. But that system doesn't always work. Often I have passed a man to get a supposedly poor batter up and then had him bang out a base hit. My first successful year in the National League was 1901, although I joined the Giants in the middle of the season of 1900. The Boston club at that time had a pitcher named "Kid" Nichols who was a great twirler. The first two games I pitched against the Boston club were against this man, and I won the first in Boston and the second in New York, the latter by the score of 2 to 1. Both teams then went west for a three weeks' trip, and when the Giants returned a series was scheduled with Boston at the Polo Grounds. There was a good deal of speculation as to whether I would again beat the veteran "Kid" Nichols, and the newspapers, discussing the promised pitching duel, stirred up considerable enthusiasm over it. Of course, I, the youngster, was eager to make it three straight over the veteran. Neither team had scored at the beginning of the eighth inning. Boston runners got on second and third bases with two out, and Fred Tenney, then playing first base on the Boston club, was up at the bat. He had been hitting me hard that day, and I decided to pass him and take a chance on "Dick" Cooley, the next man, and a weak batter. So Tenney got his base on balls, and the sacks were full. Two strikes were gathered on Cooley, one at which he swung and the other called, and I was beginning to congratulate myself on my excellent judgment, which was really counting my chickens while they were still in the incubator. I attempted to slip a fast one over on Cooley and got the ball a little too high. The result was that he stepped into it and made a three base hit which eventually won the game by the score of 3 to 0. That was once when passing a man to get a weak batter did not work. I have always been against a twirler pitching himself out, when there is no necessity for it, as so many youngsters do. They burn them through for eight innings and then, when the pinch comes, something is lacking. A pitcher must remember that there are eight other men in the game, drawing more or less salary to stop balls hit at them, and he must have confidence in them. Some pitchers will put all that they have on each ball. This is foolish for two reasons. In the first place, it exhausts the man physically and, when the pinch comes, he has not the strength to last it out. But second and more important, it shows the batters everything that he has, which is senseless. A man should always hold something in reserve, a surprise to spring when things get tight. If a pitcher has displayed his whole assortment to the batters in the early part of the game and has used all his speed and his fastest breaking curve, then, when the crisis comes, he "hasn't anything" to fall back on. Like all youngsters, I was eager to make a record during my first year in the Big League, and in one of the first games I pitched against Cincinnati I made the mistake of putting all that I had on every ball. We were playing at the Polo Grounds, and the Giants had the visitors beaten 2 to 0, going into the last inning. I had been popping them through, trying to strike out every hitter and had not held anything in reserve. The first man to the bat in the ninth got a single, the next a two bagger, and by the time they had stopped hitting me, the scorer had credited the Cincinnati club with four runs, and we lost the game, 4 to 2. I was very much down in the mouth over the defeat, after I had the game apparently won, and George Davis, then the manager of the Giants, noticed it in the clubhouse. "Never mind, Matty," he said, "it was worth it. The game ought to teach you not to pitch your head off when you don't need to." It did. I have never forgotten that lesson. Many spectators wonder why a pitcher does not work as hard as he can all through the game, instead of just in the pinches. If he did, they argue, there would be no pinches. But there would be, and, if the pitcher did not conserve his energy, the pinches would usually go against him. Sometimes bawling at a man in a pinch has the opposite effect from that desired. Clarke Griffith, recently of Cincinnati, has a reputation in the Big Leagues for being a bad man to upset a pitcher from the coacher's box. Off the field he is one of the decentest fellows in the game, but, when talking to a pitcher, he is very irritating. I was working in a game against the Reds in Cincinnati one day, just after he had been made manager of the club, and Griffith spent the afternoon and a lot of breath trying to get me going. The Giants were ahead, 5 to 1, at the beginning of the seventh. In the Cincinnati half of that inning, "Mike" Mitchell tripled with the bases full and later tallied on an outfield fly which tied the score. The effect this had on Griffith was much the same as that of a lighted match on gasolene. "Now, you big blond," he shouted at me, "we've got you at last." I expected McGraw to take me out, as it looked in that inning as if I was not right, but he did not, and I pitched along up to the ninth with the score still tied and with Griffith, the carping critic, on the side lines. We failed to count in our half, but the first Cincinnati batter got on the bases, stole second, and went to third on a sacrifice. He was there with one out. "Here's where we get you," chortled Griffith. "This is the point at which you receive a terrible showing up." I tried to get the next batter to hit at bad balls, and he refused, so that I lost him. I was afraid to lay the ball over the plate in this crisis, as a hit or an outfield fly meant the game. Hoblitzell and Mitchell, two of Griffith's heaviest batters, were scheduled to arrive at the plate next. "You ought to be up, Mike," yelled the Cincinnati manager at Mitchell, who was swinging a couple of sticks preparatory to his turn at the bat. "Too bad you won't get a lick, old man, because Hobby's going to break it up right here." Something he said irritated me, but, instead of worrying me, it made me feel more like pitching. I seldom talk to a coacher, but I turned to Griffith and said: "I'll bring Mike up, and we'll see what he can do." I deliberately passed Hoblitzell without even giving him a chance to hit at a single ball. It wasn't to make a grand stand play I did this, but because it was baseball. One run would win the game anyway, and, with more men on the bases, there were more plays possible. Besides Hoblitzell is a nasty hitter, and I thought that I had a better chance of making Mitchell hit the ball on the ground, a desirable thing under the conditions. "Now, Mike," urged Griffith, as Mitchell stepped up to the plate, "go as far as you like. Blot up the bases, old boy. This blond is gone." That sort of talk never bothers me. I had better luck with Mitchell than I had hoped. He struck out. The next batter was easy, and the Giants won the game in the tenth inning. According to the newspaper reports, I won twenty-one or twenty-two games before Cincinnati beat me again, so it can be seen that joshing in pinches is not effective against all pitchers. A manager must judge the temperament of his victim. But Griffith has never stopped trying to rag me. In 1911, when the Giants were west on their final trip, I was warming up in Cincinnati before a game, and he was batting out flies near me. He would talk to me between each ball he hit to the outfield. "Got anything to-day, Matty?" he asked. "Guess there ain't many games left in you. You're getting old." When I broke into the National League, the Brooklyn club had as bad a bunch of men to bother a pitcher as I ever faced. The team had won the championship in 1900, and naturally they were all pretty chesty. When I first began to play in 1901, this crowd--Kelly, Jennings, Keeler and Hanlon--got after me pretty strong. But I seemed to get pitching nourishment out of their line of conversation and won a lot of games. At last, so I have been told, Hanlon, who was the manager, said to his conversational ball players: "Lay off that Mathewson kid. Leave him alone. He likes the chatter you fellows spill out there." They did not bother me after that, but this bunch spoiled many a promising young pitcher. Speaking of sizing up the temperament of batters and pitchers in a pinch, few persons realize that it was a little bit of carelessly placed conversation belonging to "Chief" Bender, the Indian pitcher on the Athletics, that did as much as anything to give the Giants the first game in the 1911 world's series. "Josh" Devore, the left-fielder on the New York team, is an in-and-out batter, but he is a bulldog in a pinch and is more apt to make a hit in a tight place than when the bases are empty. And he is quite as likely to strike out. He is the type of ball player who cannot be rattled. With "Chief" Myers on second base, the score tied, and two out, Devore came to the bat in the seventh inning of the first game. "Look at little 'Josh,'" said Bender, who had been talking to batters all through the game. Devore promptly got himself into the hole with two strikes and two balls on him, but a little drawback like that never worries "Josh." "I'm going to pitch you a curved ball over the outside corner," shouted Bender as he wound up. "I know it, Chief," replied "Josh," and he set himself to receive just that sort of delivery. Up came the predicted curve over the outside corner. "Josh" hit it to left field for two bases, and brought home the winning run. Bender evidently thought that, by telling Devore what he was actually going to pitch, he would make him think he was going to cross him. "I knew it would be a curve ball," Devore told me after the game. "With two and two, he would be crazy to hand me anything else. When he made that crack, I guessed that he was trying to cross me by telling the truth. Before he spoke, I wasn't sure which corner he was going to put it over, but he tipped me." Some batters might have been fooled by those tactics. It was taking a chance in a pinch, and Bender lost. Very few of the fans who saw this first game of the 1911 world's series realize that the "break" in that contest came in the fifth inning. The score was tied, with runners on second and third bases with two out, when "Eddie" Collins, the fast second baseman of the Athletics, and a dangerous hitter, came to the bat. I realized that I was skating on thin ice and was putting everything I had on the ball. Collins hit a slow one down the first base line, about six feet inside the bag. With the hit, I ran over to cover the base, and Merkle made for the ball, but he had to get directly in my line of approach to field it. Collins, steaming down the base line, realized that, if he could get the decision at first on this hit, his team would probably win the game, as the two other runners could score easily. In a flash, I was aware of this, too. "I'll take it," yelled Merkle, as he stopped to pick up the ball. Seeing Merkle and me in front of him, both heavy men, Collins knew that he could not get past us standing up. When still ten or twelve feet from the bag, he slid, hoping to take us unawares and thus avoid being touched. He could then scramble to the bag. As soon as he jumped, I realized what he hoped to do, and, fearing that Merkle would miss him, I grabbed the first baseman and hurled him at Collins. It was an old-fashioned, football shove, Merkle landing on Collins and touching him out. A great many of the spectators believed that I had interfered with Merkle on the play. As a matter of fact, I thought that it was the crisis of the game and knew that, if Collins was not put out, we would probably lose. That football shove was a brand new play to me in baseball, invented on the spur of the second, but it worked. In minor leagues, there are fewer games in which a "break" comes. It does not develop in all Big League contests by any means. Sometimes one team starts to win in the first inning and simply runs away from the other club all the way. But in all close games the pinch shows up. It happens in many contests in the major leagues because of the almost perfect baseball played. Depending on his fielders, a manager can play for this "break." And when the pinch comes, it is a case of the batter's nerve against the pitcher's. IV Big League Pitchers and Their Peculiarities. _Nearly Every Pitcher in the Big Leagues Has Some Temperamental or Mechanical Flaw which he is Constantly Trying to Hide, and which Opposing Batters are always Endeavoring to Uncover--The Giants Drove Coveleski, the Man who Beat them out of a Pennant, Back to the Minor Leagues by Taunting him on One Sore Point--Weaknesses of Other Stars._ Like great artists in other fields of endeavor, many Big League pitchers are temperamental. "Bugs" Raymond, "Rube" Waddell, "Slim" Sallee, and "Wild Bill" Donovan are ready examples of the temperamental type. The first three are the sort of men of whom the manager is never sure. He does not know, when they come into the ball park, whether or not they are in condition to work. They always carry with them a delightful atmosphere of uncertainty. In contrast to this eccentric group, there are those with certain mechanical defects in their pitching of which opposing clubs take advantage. Last comes the irritable, nervous box artist who must have things just so, even down to the temperature, before he can work satisfactorily. "As delicate as prima donnas," says John McGraw of this variety. He speaks of the man who loses his love for his art when his shirt is too tight or a toe is sore. This style, perhaps, is the most difficult for a manager to handle, unless it is the uncertain, eccentric sort. As soon as a new pitcher breaks into the Big Leagues, seven clubs are studying him with microscopic care to discover some flaw in his physical style or a temperamental weakness on which his opponents can play. Naturally, if the man has such a "groove," his team mates are endeavoring to hide it, but it soon leaks out and becomes general gossip around the circuit. Then the seven clubs start aiming at this flaw, and oftentimes the result is that a promising young pitcher, because he has some one definite weakness, goes back to the minors. A crack in the temperament is the worst. Mechanical defects can usually be remedied when discovered. Few baseball fans know that the Giants drove a man back to the minor leagues who once pitched them out of a pennant. The club was tipped off to a certain, unfortunate circumstance in the twirler's early life which left a lasting impression on his mind. The players never let him forget this when he was in a game, and it was like constantly hitting him on a boil. Coveleski won three games for the Philadelphia National League club from the Giants back in 1908, when one of these contests would have meant a pennant to the New York club and possibly a world's championship. That was the season the fight was decided in a single game with the Chicago Cubs after the regular schedule had been played out. Coveleski was hailed as a wonder for his performance. Just after the season closed, "Tacks" Ashenbach, the scout for the Cincinnati club, now dead, and formerly a manager in the league where Coveleski got his start, came to McGraw and laughed behind his hand. "Mac," he said, "I'm surprised you let that big Pole beat you out of a championship. I can give you the prescription to use every time that he starts working. All you have to do is to imitate a snare drum." "What are you trying to do--kid me?" asked McGraw, for he was still tolerably irritable over the outcome of the season. "Try it," was Ashenbach's laconic reply. The result was that the first game Coveleski started against the Giants the next season, there was a chorus of "rat-a-tat-tats" from the bench, with each of the coachers doing a "rat-a-tat-tat" solo, for we decided, after due consideration, this was the way to imitate a snare drum. We would have tried to imitate a calliope if we had thought that it would have done any good against this pitcher. "I'll hire a fife and drum corps if the tip is worth anything," declared McGraw. "Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!" came the chorus as Coveleski wound up to pitch the first ball. It went wide of the plate. "Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!" it was repeated all through the inning. When Coveleski walked to the Philadelphia bench at the end of the first round, after the Giants had made three runs off him, he looked over at us and shouted: "You think you're smart, don't you?" "Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!" was the only reply. But now we knew we had him. When a pitcher starts to talk back, it is a cinch that he is irritated. So the deadly chorus was kept up in volleys, until the umpire stopped us, and then it had to be in a broken fire, but always there was the "Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!" When Coveleski looked at McGraw coaching on third base, the manager made as if to beat a snare drum, and as he glanced at Latham stationed at first, "Arlie" would reply with the "rat-a-tat-tat." The team on the bench sounded like a fife and drum corps without the fifes, and Coveleski got no peace. In the fourth inning, after the game had been hopelessly lost by the Philadelphia club, Coveleski was taken out. We did not understand the reason for it, but we all knew that we had found Coveleski's "groove" with that "rat-a-tat-tat" chorus. The man who had beaten the New York club out of a pennant never won another game against the Giants. "Say," said McGraw to "Tacks" Ashenbach the next time the club was in Cincinnati, "there are two things I want to ask you. First, why does that 'rat-a-tat-tat' thing get under Coveleski's skin so badly, and, second, why didn't you mention it to us when he was beating the club out of a championship last fall?" "Never thought of it," asserted Ashenbach. "Just chanced to be telling stories one day last winter about the old times in the Tri-State, when that weakness of Coveleski's happened to pop into my mind. Thought maybe he was cured." "Cured!" echoed McGraw. "Only way he could be cured of that is to poison him. But tip me. Why is it?" "Well, this is the way I heard it," answered Ashenbach. "When he was a coal miner back in Shamokin, Pennsylvania, he got stuck on some Jane who was very fond of music. Everybody who was any one played in the Silver Cornet Band down in Melodeon Hall on Thursday nights. The girl told Coveleski that she couldn't see him with an X-ray unless he broke into the band. "'But I can't play any instrument,' said the Pole. "'Well, get busy and learn, and don't show around here until you have,' answered the girl. "Now Coveleski had no talent for music, so he picked out the snare drum as his victim and started practising regularly, getting some instruction from the local bandmaster. After he had driven all the neighbors pretty nearly crazy, the bandmaster said he would give him a show at the big annual concert, when he tried to get all the pieces in his outfit that he could. Things went all right until it was time for Coveleski to come along with a little bit on the snare drum, and then he was nowhere in the neighborhood. He didn't even swing at it. But later, when the leader waved for a solo from the fiddle, Coveleski mistook it for his hit-and-run sign and came in so strong on the snare drum that no one could identify the fiddle in the mixup. "The result was that the leader asked for waivers on old Coveleski very promptly, and the girl was not long in following suit. That snare drum incident has been the sore point in his makeup ever since." "I wish I'd known it last fall about the first of September," declared McGraw. But the real snapper came later when the Cincinnati club was whipsawed on the information. In a trade with Philadelphia, Griffith got Coveleski for Cincinnati along with several other players. Each game he started against us he got the old "rat-a-tat-tat." Griffith protested to the umpires, but it is impossible to stop a thing of that sort even though the judges of play did try. The Pole did not finish another game against the Giants until his last in the Big League. One day we were hitting him near and far, and the "rat-a-tat-tat" chorus was only interrupted by the rattle of the bats against the ball, when he looked in at the bench to see if Griffith wanted to take him out, for it was about his usual leaving time. "Stay in there and get it," shouted back Griff. Coveleski did. He absorbed nineteen hits and seventeen runs at the hands of the Giants, this man who had taken a championship of the National League away from us. That night Griffith asked for waivers on him, and he left the Big Leagues for good. He was a good twirler, except for that one flaw, which cost him his place in the big show. There is little mercy among professional ball players when a game is at stake, especially if the man has taken a championship away from a team by insisting upon working out of his turn, so he can win games that will benefit his club not a scintilla. Mordecai Brown, the great pitcher of the Chicago Cubs and the man who did more than any other one player to bring four National League pennants and two world's championships to that club, has a physical deformity which has turned out to be an advantage. Many years ago, Brown lost most of the first finger of his right hand in an argument with a feed cutter, said finger being amputated at the second joint; while his third finger is shorter than it should be, because a hot grounder carried part of it away one day. In some strange way, Brown has achieved wonders with this crippled hand. It is on account of the missing finger that he is called "Three Fingered" Brown, and he is better known by that appellation than by his real name. Brown beat the Giants a hard game one day in 1911, pitching against me. He had a big curve, lots of speed, and absolute control. The Giants could not touch him. Next day McGraw was out warming up with Arthur Wilson, the young catcher on the club. "Wonder if he gets any new curve with that short first finger?" said McGraw, and thereupon crooked his own initial digit and began trying to throw the ball in different ways off it to see what the result would be. Finally he decided: "No, I guess he doesn't get anything extra with the abbreviated finger, but that's lucky for you fellows, because, if I thought he did, I'd have a surgeon out here to-morrow operating on the first fingers of each of you pitchers." Brown is my idea of the almost perfect pitcher He is always ready to work. It is customary for most managers in the Big Leagues to say to a man on the day he is slated to pitch: "Well, how do you feel to-day? Want to work?" Then if the twirler is not right, he has a chance to say so. But Brown always replies: "Yes, I'm ready." He likes to pitch and is in chronic condition. It will usually be found at the end of a season that he has taken part in more games than any other pitcher in the country. He held the Chicago pitching staff together in 1911. "Three Fingered" Brown is a finished pitcher in all departments of the game. Besides being a great worker, he is a wonderful fielder and sure death on bunts. He spends weeks in the spring preparing himself to field short hits in the infield, and it is fatal to try to bunt against him. He has perfected and used successfully for three years a play invented by "Joe" McGinnity, the former Giant pitcher. This play is with men on first and second bases and no one out or one out. The batter tries to sacrifice, but instead of fielding the ball to first base, which would advance the two base runners as intended, Brown makes the play to third and thus forces out the man nearest the plate. This is usually successful unless the bunt is laid down perfectly along the first base line, so that the ball cannot be thrown to third base. The Cubs have always claimed it was this play which broke the Detroit club's heart in the world's series in 1908, and turned the tide so that the Cubs took the championship. The American League team was leading in the first game, and runners were on first and second bases, "Ty" Cobb being on the middle sack. It was evident that the batter would try to sacrifice. Brown walked over to Steinfeldt, playing third base, pulling out a chew of tobacco as he went. "No matter what this guy does or where he hits it, stick to your bag," ordered Brown. Then he put the chew of tobacco in his mouth, a sign which augurs ill for his opponents, and pitched a low one to the batter, a perfect ball to bunt. He followed the pitch through and was on top of the plate as the batter laid it down. The ball rolled slowly down the third base line until Brown pounced on it. He whirled and drove the ball at Steinfeldt, getting Cobb by a foot. That play carried Detroit off its feet, as a sudden reversal often will a ball club, when things are apparently breaking for it. Cobb, the Tigers' speed flash, had been caught at third base on an attempted sacrifice, an unheard of play, and, from that point on, the American Leaguers wilted, according to the stories of Chance and his men. It is Brown's perfect control that has permitted catchers like Kling and Archer to make such great records as throwers. This pitcher can afford to waste a ball--that is, pitch out so the batter cannot hit it, but putting the catcher in a perfect position to throw--and then he knows he can get the next one over. A catcher's efficiency as a thrower depends largely on the pitcher's ability to have good enough control of the ball to be able to pitch out when it is necessary. Brown helps a catcher by the way in which he watches the bases, not permitting the runners to take any lead on him. All around, I think that he is one of the most finished pitchers of the game. Russell Ford, of the New York American League club, has a hard pitching motion because he seems to throw a spit ball with a jerk. He cannot pitch more than one good game in four or five days. McGraw had detected this weakness from watching the Highlanders play before the post-season series in 1910, and took advantage of it. "If Ford pitches to-day," said McGraw to his team in the clubhouse before the first game, "wait everything out to the last minute. Make him pitch every ball you can." McGraw knew that the strain on Ford's arm would get him along toward the end of the game. In the eighth inning the score was tied when Devore came to the bat. No crack in Ford was perceptible to the rest of us, but McGraw must have detected some slight sign of weakening. He stopped "Josh" on the way to the plate and ordered: "Now go ahead and get him." By the time the inning was over, the Giants had made four runs, and eventually won the game by the score of 5 to 1. McGraw just played for this flaw in Ford's pitching, and hung his whole plan of battle on the chance of it showing. "Old Cy" Young has the absolutely perfect pitching motion. When he jumped from the National League to the Boston American League club some years ago, during the war times, many National League players thought that he was through. "What," said Fred Clarke, the manager of the Pittsburg club, "you American Leaguers letting that old boy make good in your set? Why, he was done when he jumped the National. He'd lost his speed." "But you ought to see his curve ball," answered "Bill" Dineen, then pitching for the Boston Americans. "Curve ball," echoed Clarke. "He never had any curve that it didn't take a microscope to find. He depended on his speed." "Well, he's got one now," replied Dineen. Clarke had a chance to look at the curve ball later, for, with Dineen, Young did a lot toward winning the world's championship for Boston from Pittsburg in 1903. The old pitcher was wise enough to realize, when he began to lose his speed, that he would have to develop a curve ball or go back to the minors, and he set to work and produced a peach. He is still pitching--for the National League now--and he will win a lot of games yet. When he came back in 1911, the American Leaguers said: "What, going to let that old man in your show again? He's done." Maybe he will yet figure in another world's championship. One never can tell. Anyway, he has taken a couple of falls out of Pittsburg just for good luck since he came back to the National League. Some pitchers depend largely on their motions to fool batters. "Motion pitchers" they might be called. Such an elaborate wind-up is developed that it is hard for a hitter to tell when and from where the ball is coming. "Slim" Sallee of the St. Louis Nationals hasn't any curve to mention and he lacks speed, but he wins a lot of ball games on his motion. "It's a crime," says McGraw, "to let a fellow like that beat you. Why, he has so little on the ball that it looks like one of those Salome dancers when it comes up to the plate, and actually makes me blush." But Sallee will take a long wind-up and shoot one off his shoe tops and another from his shoulder while he is facing second base. He has good control, has catalogued the weaknesses of the batters, and can work the corners. With this capital, he was winning ball games for the Cardinals in 1911 until he fell off the water wagon. He is different from Raymond in that respect. When he is on the vehicle, he is on it, and, when he is off, he is distinctly a pedestrian. The way the Giants try to beat Sallee is to get men on the bases, because then he has to cut down his motion or they will run wild on him. As soon as a runner gets on the bag with Sallee pitching, he tries to steal to make "Slim" reduce that long winding motion which is his greatest asset. But Sallee won several games from the Giants last season because we could not get enough men on the bases to beat him. He only gave us four or five hits per contest. For a long time, "Josh" Devore, the Giants' left-fielder, was "plate shy" with left-handers--that is, he stepped away--and all the pitchers in the League soon learned of this and started shooting the first ball, a fast one, at his head to increase his natural timidity. Sallee, in particular, had him scared. "Stand up there," said McGraw to "Josh" one day when Sallee was pitching, "and let him hit you. He hasn't speed enough to hurt you." "Josh" did, got hit, and found out that what McGraw said was true. It cured him of being afraid of Sallee. As getting men on the bases decreases Sallee's effectiveness, even if he is a left-hander, so it increases the efficiency of "Lefty" Leifield of Pittsburg. The Giants never regard Sallee as a left-hander with men on the bases. Most southpaws can keep a runner close to the bag because they are facing first base when in a position to pitch, but Sallee cannot. On the other hand, Leifield uses almost exactly the same motion to throw to first base as to pitch to the batter. These two are so nearly alike that he can change his mind after he starts and throw to the other place. He keeps men hugging the bag, and it is next to impossible to steal bases on him. If he gets his arm so far forward in pitching to the batter that he cannot throw to the base, he can see a man start and pitch out so the catcher has a fine chance to get the runner at second. If the signal is for a curved ball, he can make it a high curve, and the catcher is in position to throw. Leifield has been working this combination pitch either to first base or the plate for years, and the motion for each is so similar that even the umpires cannot detect it and never call a balk on him. A busher broke into the League with the Giants one fall and was batting against Pittsburg. There was a man on first base and Leifield started to pitch to the plate, saw by a quick glance that the runner was taking too large a lead, and threw to first. The youngster swung at the ball and started to run it out. Every one laughed. "What were you trying to do?" asked McGraw. "I hit the ball," protested the bush leaguer. That is how perfect Leifield's motion is with men on the bases. But most of his effectiveness resides in that crafty motion. Many New York fans will remember "Dummy" Taylor, the deaf and dumb pitcher of the Giants. He won ball games for the last two years he was with the club on his peculiar, whirling motion, but as soon as men got on the bases and he had to cut it down, McGraw would take him out. That swing and his irresistible good nature are still winning games in the International League, which used to be the Eastern. So if a pitcher expects to be a successful Big Leaguer, he must guard against eccentricities of temperament and mechanical motion. As I have said, Drucke of the Giants for a long time had a little movement with his foot which indicated to the runner when he was going to pitch, and they stole bases wildly on him. But McGraw soon discovered that something was wrong and corrected it. The armor of a Big Leaguer must be impenetrable, for there are seven clubs always looking for flaws in the manufacture, and "every little movement has a meaning of its own." V Playing the Game from the Bench _Behind Every Big League Ball Game there Is a Master Mind which Directs the Moves of the Players--How McGraw Won Two Pennants for the Giants from the "Bench" and Lost One by Giving the Players Too Much Liberty--The Methods of "Connie" Mack and Other Great Leaders_ The bench! To many fans who see a hundred Big League ball games each season, this is a long, hooded structure from which the next batter emerges and where the players sit while their club is at bat. It is also the resort of the substitutes, manager, mascot and water cooler. But to the ball player it is the headquarters. It is the place from which the orders come, and it is here that the battle is planned and from here the moves are executed. The manager sits here and pulls the wires, and his players obey him as if they were manikins. "The batteries for to-day's game," says the umpire, "will be Sallee and Bresnahan for St. Louis; Wiltse and Meyers for New York." "Bunt," says McGraw as his players scatter to take their positions on the field. He repeats the order when they come to the bat for the first inning, because he knows that Sallee has two weaknesses, one being that he cannot field bunts and the other that a great deal of activity in the box tires him out so that he weakens. A bunting game hits at both these flaws. As soon as Bresnahan observes the plan of battle, he arranges his players to meet the attack; draws in his third baseman, shifts the shortstop more down the line toward third base, and is on the alert himself to gather in slow rollers just in front of the plate. The idea is to give Sallee the minimum opportunity to get at the ball and reduce his fielding responsibilities to nothing or less. There is one thing about Sallee's style known to every Big League manager. He is not half as effective with men on the bases, for he depends largely on his deceptive motion to fool the batters, and when he has to cut this down because runners are on the bases, his pitching ability evaporates. After the old Polo Grounds had been burned down in the spring of 1911, we were playing St. Louis at American League Park one Saturday afternoon, and the final returns of the game were about 19 to 5 in our favor, as near as I can remember. We made thirteen runs in the first inning. Many spectators went away from the park talking about a slaughter and a runaway score and so on. That game was won in the very first inning when Sallee went into the box to pitch, and McGraw had murmured that mystic word "Bunt!" The first batters bunted, bunted, bunted in monotonous succession. Sallee not yet in very good physical condition because it was early in the season, was stood upon his head by this form of attack. Bresnahan redraped his infield to try to stop this onslaught, and then McGraw switched. "Hit it," he directed the next batter. A line drive whistled past Mowrey's ears, the man who plays third base on the Cardinals. He was coming in to get a bunt. Another followed. The break had come. Bresnahan removed Sallee and put another pitcher into the box, but once a ball club starts to hit the ball, it is like a skidding automobile. It can't be stopped. The Giants kept on and piled up a ridiculous and laughable score, which McGraw had made possible in the first inning by directing his men to bunt. The Giants won the championship of the National League in 1904 and the New York fans gave the team credit for the victory. It was a club of young players, and McGraw realized this fact when he started his campaign. Every play that season was made from the bench, made by John McGraw through his agents, his manikins, who moved according to the wires which he pulled. And by the end of the summer his hands were badly calloused from pulling wires, but the Giants had the pennant. When the batter was at the plate in a critical stage, he would stall and look to the "bench" for orders to discover whether to hit the ball out or lay it down, whether to try the hit and run, or wait for the base runner to attempt to steal. By stalling, I mean that he would tie his shoe or fix his belt, or find any little excuse to delay the game so that he could get a flash at the "bench" for orders. A shoe lace has played an important role in many a Big League battle, as I will try to show later on in this story. If it ever became the custom to wear button shoes, the game would have to be revised. As the batter looked toward the bench, McGraw might reach for his handkerchief to blow his nose, and the batter knew it was up to him to hit the ball out. Some days in that season of 1904 I saw McGraw blow his nose during a game until it was red and sore on the end, and then another day, when he had a cold in his head, he had to do without his handkerchief because he wanted to play a bunting game. Until his cold got better, he had to switch to another system of signs. During that season, each coacher would keep his eye on the bench for orders. Around McGraw revolved the game of the Giants. He was the game. And most of that summer he spent upon the bench, because from there he could get the best look at the diamond, and his observations were not confined to one place or to one base runner. He was able to discover whether an out-fielder was playing too close for a batter, or too far out, and rearrange the men. He could perhaps catch a sign from the opposing catcher and pass it along to the batter. And he won the pennant from the bench. He was seldom seen on the coaching lines that year. Many fans wonder why, when the Giants get behind in a game, McGraw takes to the bench, after having been out on the coaching lines inning after inning while the club was holding its own or winning. Time and again I have heard him criticised for this by spectators and even by players on other clubs. "McGraw is 'yellow,'" players have said to me. "Just as soon as his club gets behind, he runs for cover." The crime of being "yellow" is the worst in the Big Leagues. It means that a man is afraid, that he lacks the nerve to face the music. But McGraw and "yellow" are as far apart as the poles, or Alpha and Omega, or Fifth Avenue and the Bowery, or any two widely separated and distant things. I have seen McGraw go on to ball fields where he is as welcome as a man with the black smallpox and face the crowd alone that, in the heat of its excitement, would like to tear him apart. I have seen him take all sorts of personal chances. He doesn't know what fear is, and in his bright lexicon of baseball there is no such word as "fear." His success is partly due to his indomitable courage. There is a real reason for his going to the bench when the team gets behind. It is because this increases the club's chances of winning. From the bench he can see the whole field, can note where his fielders are playing, can get a peek at the other bench, and perhaps pick up a tip as to what to expect. He can watch his own pitcher, or observe whether the opposing twirler drops his throwing arm as if weary. He is at the helm when "on the bench," and, noting any flaw in the opposition, he is in a position to take advantage of it at a moment's notice, or, catching some sign of faltering among his own men, he is immediately there to strengthen the weakness. Many a game he has pulled out of the fire by going back to the bench and watching. So the idea obtained by many spectators that he is quitting is the wrong one. He is only fighting harder. The Giants were playing Pittsburg one day in the season of 1909, and Clarke and McGraw had been having a great guessing match. It was one of those give-and-take games with plenty of batting, with one club forging ahead and then the other. Clarke had saved the game for Pittsburg in the sixth inning by a shoe-string. Leifield had been pitching up to this point, and he wasn't there or even in the neighborhood. But still the Pirates were leading by two runs, having previously knocked Ames out of the box. Doyle and McCormick made hits with no one out in our half of the sixth. It looked like the "break," and McGraw was urging his players on to even up the score, when Clarke suddenly took off his sun glasses in left field and stooped down to tie his shoe. When he removes his sun-glasses that is a sign for a pitcher to warm up in a hurry, and "Babe" Adams sprinted to the outfield with a catcher and began to heat up. Clarke took all of five minutes to tie that shoe, McGraw violently protesting against the delay in the meantime. Fred Clarke has been known to wear out a pair of shoe laces in one game tying and untying them. After the shoe was fixed up, he jogged slowly to the bench and took Leifield out of the box. In the interim, Adams had had an opportunity to warm up, and Clarke raised his arm and ordered him into the box. He fanned the next two men, and the last batter hit an easy roller to Wagner. We were still two runs to the bad after that promising start in the sixth, and Clarke, for the time being, had saved the game by a shoe string. McGraw, who had been on the coaching lines up to this point, retired to the bench after that, and I heard one of those wise spectators, sitting just behind our coop, who could tell Mr. Rockefeller how to run his business but who spends his life working as a clerk at $18 a week, remark to a friend: "It's all off now. McGraw has laid down." Watching the game through eyes half shut and drawn to a focus, McGraw waited. In the seventh inning Clarke came to bat with two men on the bases. A hit would have won the game beyond any doubt. In a flash McGraw was on his feet and ran out to Meyers, catching. He stopped the game, and, with a wave of his arm, drew Harry McCormick, playing left field, in close to third base. The game went on, and Wiltse twisted a slow curve over the outside corner of the plate to Clarke, a left-handed hitter. He timed his swing and sent a low hit singing over third base. McCormick dashed in and caught the ball off his shoe tops. That made three outs. McGraw had saved our chances of victory right there, for had McCormick been playing where he originally intended before McGraw stopped the contest, the ball would have landed in unguarded territory and two runs would have been scored. But McGraw had yet the game to win. As his team came to the bat for the seventh, he said: "This fellow Adams is a youngster and liable to be nervous and wild. Wait." The batters waited with the patience of Job. Each man let the first two balls pass him and made Adams pitch himself to the limit to every batter. It got on Adams's nerves. In the ninth he passed a couple of men, and a hit tied the score. Clarke left him in the box, for he was short of pitchers. On the game went to ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, innings. The score was still tied and Wiltse was pitching like a machine. McGraw was on the bench, leaving the coaching to his lieutenants. The club was still waiting for the youngster to weaken. At last, in the thirteenth, after one man had been put out, the eye of McGraw saw Adams drop his pitching arm to his side as if tired. It was only a minute motion. None of the spectators saw it, none of the players. "Now hit it, boys," came the order from the "bench." The style was switched, and the game won when three hits were rattled out. McGraw alone observed that sign of weakening and took advantage of it at the opportune time. He won the game from the bench. That is what makes him a great manager, observing the little things. Anyone can see the big ones. If he had been on the coaching lines, he would not have had as good an opportunity to study the young pitcher, for he would have had to devote his attention to the base runners. He might have missed this sign of wilting. McGraw is always studying a pitcher, particularly a new one in the League. The St. Louis club had a young pitcher last fall, named Laudermilk, who was being tried out. He had a brother on the team. In his first game against the Giants, played in St. Louis, he held us to a few scattered hits and gave us a terrific battle, only losing the game because one of his fielders made a costly error behind him. The papers of St. Louis boosted him as another "Rube" Waddell. He was left-handed. McGraw laughed. "All I want," he said, "is another crack at that Buttermilk after what I learned about him this afternoon. He can't control his curve, and all you fellows have got to do is wait for his fast one. He gave you that fight to-day because he had you all swinging at bad curve balls." Laudermilk made another appearance against the Giants later, and he made his disappearance in that game in the fourth inning, when only one was out to be exact, after we had scored five runs off him by waiting for his fast one, according to McGraw's orders. After winning the pennant in 1904 by sitting on the bench, keeping away from the coaching lines, and making every play himself, McGraw decided that his men were older and knew the game and that he would give them more rein in 1905. He appeared oftener on the coaching lines and attended more to the base runners than to the game as a whole. But in the crises he was the man who decided what was to be done. The club won the pennant that year and the world's championship. The players got very chesty immediately thereafter, and the buttons on their vests had to be shifted back to make room for the new measure. They knew the game and had won two pennants, besides a championship of the world. So in the season of 1906 McGraw started with a team of veterans, and it was predicted that he would repeat. But these men, who knew the game, were making decisions for themselves because McGraw was giving them more liberty. The runners went wild on the bases and tried things at the wrong stages. They lost game after game. At last, after a particularly disastrous defeat one day, McGraw called his men together in the clubhouse and addressed them in this wise: "Because you fellows have won two championships and beaten the Athletics is no reason for you all to believe that you are fit to write a book on how to play baseball. You are just running wild on the bases. You might as well not have a manager. Now don't any one try to pull anything without orders. We will begin all over again." But it is hard to teach old ball-players new tricks, and several fines had to be imposed before the orders were obeyed. The club did not win the championship that year. When McGraw won the pennant in 1911, he did it with a club of youngsters, many of them playing through their first whole season as regulars in the company. There were Snodgrass and Devore and Fletcher and Marquard. Every time a batter went to the plate, he had definite orders from the "bench" as to what he was to attempt--whether to take two, or lay the ball down, or swing, or work the hit and run. Each time that a man shot out from first base like a catapulted figure and slid into second, he had been ordered by McGraw to try to steal. If players protested against his judgment, his invariable answer was: "Do what I tell you, and I'll take the blame for mistakes." One of McGraw's laments is, "I wish I could be in three places at once." I never heard him say it with such a ring to the words as after Snodgrass was touched out in the third game of the 1911 world's series, in the tenth inning, when his life might have meant victory in that game anyway. I have frequently referred to the incident in these stories, so most of my readers are familiar with the situation. Snodgrass was put out trying to get to third base on a short passed ball, after he had started back for second to recover some of the ground he had taken in too long a lead before the ball got to Lapp. McGraw's face took on an expression of agony as if he were watching his dearest friend die. "If I could only have been there!" he said. "I wish I could be in three places at once." He meant the bench, the first base coaching line, and the third base line. At this particular time he was giving the batters orders from the bench. It was one of those incidents which come up in a ball game and have to be decided in the drawing of a breath, so that a manager cannot give orders unless he is right on the spot. It is my opinion that it is a big advantage to a team to have the manager on the bench rather than in the game. Frank Chance of the Chicago Cubs is a great leader, but I think he would be a greater one if he could find one of his mechanical ability to play first base, and he could sit on the bench as the director general. He is occupied with the duties of his position and often little things get by him. I believe that we beat the Cubs in two games in 1909 because Chance was playing first base instead of directing the game from the bench. In the first contest Ames was pitching and Schlei catching. Now, Schlei was no three hundred hitter, but he was a good man in a pinch and looked like Wagner when compared to Ames as a swatter. Schlei came up to the bat with men on second and third bases, two out, and a chance to win or put us ahead if he could make a hit. The first time it happened, McGraw unfolded his arms and relaxed, which is a sign that he is conceding something for the time being. "No use," he said. "All those runners are going to waste. We'll have to make another try in the next inning. They will surely pass Schlei to take a chance on Ames." Then Overall, who was pitching, whistled a strike over the plate and McGraw's body tightened and the old lines around the mouth appeared. Here was a chance yet. "They're going to let him hit," he cried joyfully. Schlei made a base hit on the next pitch and scored both men. Almost the same thing happened later on in the season with men on second and third bases, and Raymond, another featherweight hitter, pitching. It struck me as being an oversight on the part of Chance on both occasions, probably because he was so busy with his own position and watching the players on the field that he didn't notice the pitcher was the next batter. He let Schlei hit each time, which probably cost him two games. The Giants were playing St. Louis at the Polo Grounds in 1910, and I was pitching against Harmon. I held the Cardinals to one hit up to the ninth inning, and we had the game won by the score of 1 to 0, when their first batter in the ninth walked. Then, after two had been put out, another scratched a hit. It looked as if we still had the game won, since only one man was left to be put out and the runners were on first and second bases. Mowrey, the red-headed third baseman, came to the bat. "Murray's playing too near centre field for this fellow," remarked McGraw to some of the players on the bench. Hardly had he said it when Mowrey shoved a long fly to right field, which soared away toward the stand. Murray started to run with the ball. For a minute it looked as if he were going to get there, and then it just tipped his outstretched hands as it fell to the ground. It amounted to a three-base hit and won the game for the Cardinals by the score of 2 to 1. "I knew it," said McGraw, one of whose many rôles is as a prophet of evil. "Didn't I call the turn? I ought to have gone out there and stopped the game and moved Murray over. I blame myself for that hit." That was a game in which the St. Louis batters made three hits and won it. It isn't the number of hits, so much as when they come, that wins ball games. Frequently, McGraw will stop a game--bring it to a dead standstill--by walking out from the bench as the pitcher is about to wind up. "Stop it a minute, Meyers," he will shout. "Pull Snodgrass in a little bit for this fellow." The man interested in statistics would be surprised at how many times little moves of this sort have saved games. But for the McGraw system to be effective, he must have working for him a set of players who are taking the old look around for orders all the time. He has a way of inducing the men to keep their heads up which has worked very well. If a player has been slow or has not taken all the distance McGraw believes is possible on a hit, he often finds $10 less in his pay envelope at the end of the month. And the conversation on the bench at times, when men have made errors of omission, would not fit into any Sunday-school room. During a game for the most part, McGraw is silent, concentrating his attention on the game, and the players talk in low tones, as if in church, discussing the progress of the contest. But let a player make a bad break, and McGraw delivers a talk to him that would have to be written on asbestos paper. Arthur Wilson was coaching at third base in one of the games in a series played in Philadelphia the first part of September, 1911. There were barely enough pitchers to go around at the time, and McGraw was very careful to take advantage of every little point, so that nothing would be wasted. He feels that if a game is lost because the other side is better, there is some excuse, but if it goes because some one's head should be used for furniture instead of thinking baseball, it is like losing money that might have been spent. Fletcher was on second base when Meyers came to bat. The Indian pushed the ball to right field along the line. Fletcher came steaming around third base and could have rolled home safely, but Wilson, misjudging the hit, rushed out, tackled him, and threw him back on the bag. Even the plodding Meyers reached second on the hit and McGraw was boiling. He promptly sent a coacher out to relieve Wilson, and his oratory to the young catcher would have made a Billingsgate fishwife sore. We eventually won the game, but at this time there was only a difference of something like one, and it would have been a big relief to have seen that run which Wilson interrupted across the plate. McGraw is always on Devore's hip because he often feels that this brilliant young player does not get as much out of his natural ability as he might. He is frequently listless, and, often, after a good hit, he will feel satisfied with himself and fan out a couple of times. So McGraw does all that he can to discourage this self-satisfaction. "Josh" is a great man in a pinch, for he hangs on like a bulldog, and instead of getting nervous, works the harder. If the reader will consult past history, he will note that it was a pinch hit by Devore which won the first world-series game, and one of his wallops, combined with a timely bingle by Crandall, was largely instrumental in bringing the second victory to the Giants. McGraw has made Devore the ball-player that he is by skilful handling. The Giants were having a nip and tuck game with the Cubs in the early part of last summer, when Devore came to the bat in one of those pinches and shot a three bagger over third base which won the game. As he slid into third and picked himself up, feeling like more or less of a hero because the crowd was announcing this fact to him by prolonged cheers, McGraw said: "Gee, you're a lucky guy. I wish I had your luck. You were shot full of horseshoes to get that one. When I saw you shut your eyes, I never thought you would hit it." This was like pricking a bubble, and "Josh's" chest returned to its normal measure. Marquard is another man whom McGraw constantly subjects to a conversational massage. Devore and Marquard room together on the road, and they got to talking about their suite at the hotel during a close game in Philadelphia one day. It annoys McGraw to hear his men discussing off-stage subjects during a critical contest, because it not only distracts their attention, but his and that of the other players. "Ain't that room of ours a dandy, Rube?" asked Devore. "Best in the lot," replied Marquard. "It's got five windows and swell furniture," said Devore. "Solid mahogany," said McGraw, who apparently had been paying no attention to the conversation. "That is, judging by some of the plays I have seen you two pull. Now can the conversation." Devore went down into Cuba with the Giants, carrying quite a bank roll from the world's series, and the idea that he was on a picnic. He started a personally conducted tour of Havana on his first night there and we lost the game the next day, "Josh" overlooking several swell opportunities to make hits in pinches. In fact he didn't even get a foul. "You are fined $25," said McGraw to him after the game. "You can't fine me," said Devore. "I'm not under contract." "Then you take the next boat home," replied the manager. "I didn't come down here to let a lot of coffee-colored Cubans show me up. You've got to either play ball or go home." Devore made four hits the next day. In giving his signs from the bench to the players, McGraw depends on a gesture or catch word. When "Dummy" Taylor, the deaf and dumb twirler, was with the club, all the players learned the deaf and dumb language. This medium was used for signing for a time, until smart ball players, like Evers and Leach, took up the study of it and became so proficient they could converse fluently on their fingers. But they were also great "listeners," and we didn't discover for some time that this was how they were getting our signs. Thereafter we only used the language for social purposes. Evers and McGraw got into a conversation one day in the deaf and dumb language at long range and "Johnny" Evers threw a finger out of joint replying to McGraw in a brilliant flash of repartee. Every successful manager is a distinct type. Each plays the game from the bench. "Connie" Mack gives his men more liberty than most. Chance rules for the most part with an iron hand. Bresnahan is ever spurring his men on. Chance changes his seat on the bench, and there is a double steal. "Connie" Mack uncrosses his legs, and the hit and run is tried. Most managers transmit their signs by movements or words. Jennings is supposed to have hidden in his jumble of jibes some catch words. The manager on the bench must know just when to change pitchers. He has to decide the exact time to send in a substitute hitter, when to install another base runner. All these decisions must be made in the "batting" of an eye. It takes quick and accurate judgment, and the successful manager must be right usually. That's playing the game from the bench. VI Coaching Good and Bad _Coaching is Divided into Three Parts: Offensive, Defensive, and the Use of Crowds to Rattle Players--Why McGraw Developed Scientific Coaching--The Important Rôle a Coacher Plays in the Crisis of a Big League Ball Game when, on his Orders, Hangs Victory or Defeat._ Critical moments occur in every close ball game, when coaching may win or lose it. "That wasn't the stage for you to try to score," yelled John McGraw, the manager of the Giants, at "Josh" Devore, as the New York left-fielder attempted to count from second base on a short hit to left field, with no one out and the team one run behind in a game with the Pirates one day in 1911, when every contest might mean the winning or losing of the pennant. "First time in my life I was ever thrown out trying to score from second on a base hit to the outfield," answered Devore, "and besides the coacher sent me in." "I don't care," replied McGraw, "that was a two out play." As a matter of fact, one of the younger players on the team was coaching at third base at the time and made an error of judgment in sending Devore home, of which an older head would not have been guilty. And the Pirates beat us by just that one run the coacher sacrificed. The next batter came through with an outfield fly which would have scored Devore from third base easily. Probably no more wily general ever crouched on the coaching line at third base than John McGraw. His judgment in holding runners or urging them on to score is almost uncanny. Governed by no set rules himself, he has formulated a list of regulations for his players which might be called the "McGraw Coaching Curriculum." He has favorite expressions, such as "there are stages" and "that was a two out play," which mean certain chances are to be taken by a coacher at one point in a contest, while to attempt such a play under other circumstances would be nothing short of foolhardy. With the development of baseball, coaching has advanced until it is now an exact science. For many years the two men who stood at first and third bases were stationed there merely to bullyrag and abuse the pitchers, often using language that was a disgrace to a ball field. When they were not busy with this part of their art, they handed helpful hints to the runners as to where the ball was and whether the second baseman was concealing it under his shirt (a favorite trick of the old days), while the pitcher pretended to prepare to deliver it. But as rules were made which strictly forbade the use of indecent language to a pitcher, and as the old school of clowns passed, coaching developed into a science, and the sentries stationed at first and third bases found themselves occupying important jobs. For some time McGraw frowned down upon scientific coaching, until its value was forcibly brought home to him one day by an incident that occurred at the Polo Grounds, and since then he has developed it until his knowledge of advising base runners is the pinnacle of scientific coaching. A few years ago, the Giants were having a nip and tuck struggle one day, when Harry McCormick, then the left-fielder, came to the plate and knocked the ball to the old centre-field ropes. He sped around the bases, and when he reached third, it looked as if he could roll home ahead of the ball. "Cy" Seymour was coaching and surprised everybody by rushing out and tackling McCormick, throwing him down and trying to force him back to third base. But big McCormick got the best of the struggle, scrambled to his feet, and finally scored after overcoming the obstacle that Seymour made. That run won the game. "What was the matter with you, Cy?" asked McGraw as Seymour came to the bench after he had almost lost the game by his poor coaching. "The sun got in my eyes, and I couldn't see the ball," replied Seymour. "You'd better wear smoked glasses the next time you go out to coach," replied the manager. The batter was hitting the ball due east, and the game was being played in the afternoon, so Seymour had no alibi. From the moment "Cy" made that mistake, McGraw realized the value of scientific coaching, which means making the most of every hit in a game. I have always held that a good actor with a knowledge of baseball would make a good coacher, because it is the acting that impresses a base runner, not the talking. More often than not, the conversation of a coacher, be it ever so brilliant, is not audible above the screeching of the crowd at critical moments. And I believe that McGraw is a great actor, at least of the baseball school. The cheering of the immense crowds which attend ball games, if it can be organized, is a potent factor in winning or losing them. McGraw gets the most out of a throng by his clever acting. Did any patron of the Polo Grounds ever see him turn to the stands or make any pretence that he was paying attention to the spectators? Does he ever play to the gallery? Yet it is admitted that he can do more with a crowd, make it more malleable, than any other man in baseball to-day. The attitude of the spectators makes a lot of difference to a ball club. A lackadaisical, half-interested crowd often results in the team playing slovenly ball, while a lively throng can inject ginger into the men and put the whole club on its toes. McGraw is skilled in getting the most out of the spectators without letting them know that he is doing it. Did you ever watch the little manager crouching, immovable, at third base with a mitt on his hand, when the New York club goes to bat in the seventh inning two runs behind? The first hitter gets a base on balls. McGraw leaps into the air, kicks his heels together, claps his mitt, shouts at the umpire, runs in and pats the next batter on the back, and says something to the pitcher. The crowd gets it cue, wakes up and leaps into the air, kicking its heels together. The whole atmosphere inside the park is changed in a minute, and the air is bristling with enthusiasm. The other coacher, at first base, is waving his hands and running up and down the line, while the men on the bench have apparently gained new hope. They are moving about restlessly, and the next two hitters are swinging their bats in anticipation with a vigor which augurs ill for the pitcher. The game has found Ponce de Leon's fountain of youth, and the little, silent actor on the third base coaching line is the cause of the change. "Nick" Altrock, the old pitcher on the Chicago White Sox, was one of the most skilful men at handling a crowd that the game has ever developed. As a pitcher, Altrock was largely instrumental in bringing a world's championship to the American League team in 1906, and, as a coacher, after his Big League pitching days were nearly done, he won many a game by his work on the lines in pinches. Baseball has produced several comedians, some with questionable ratings as humorists. There is "Germany" Schaefer of the Washington team, and there were "Rube" Waddell, "Bugs" Raymond and others, but "Nick" Altrock could give the best that the game has brought out in the way of comic-supplement players a terrible battle for the honors. At the old south side park in Chicago, I have seen him go to the lines with a catcher's mitt and a first-baseman's glove on his hands and lead the untrained mob as skilfully as one of those pompadoured young men with a megaphone does the undergraduates at a college football game. My experience as a pitcher has been that it is not the steady, unbroken flood of howling and yelling, with the incessant pounding of feet, that gets on the nerves of a ball-player, but the broken, rhythmical waves of sound or the constant reiteration of one expression. A man gets accustomed to the steady cheering. It becomes a part of the game and his surroundings, as much as the stands and the crowd itself are, and he does not know that it is there. Let the coacher be clever enough to induce a crowd to repeat over and over just one sentence such as "Get a hit," "Get a hit," and it wears on the steadiest nerves. Nick Altrock had his baseball chorus trained so that, by a certain motion of the arm, he could get the crowd to do this at the right moment. But the science of latter-day coaching means much more than using the crowd. All coaching, like all Gaul and four or five other things, is divided into three parts, defensive coaching, offensive coaching and the use of the crowd. Offensive coaching means the handling of base runners, and requires quick and accurate judgment. The defensive sort is the advice that one player on the field gives another as to where to throw the ball, who shall take a hit, and how the base runner is coming into the bag. There is a sub-division of defensive coaching which might be called the illegitimate brand. It is giving "phoney" advice to a base runner by the fielders of the other side that may lead him, in the excitement of the moment, to make a foolish play. This style has developed largely in the Big Leagues in the last three or four years. Offensive coaching, in my opinion, is the most important. For a man to be a good coacher he must be trained for the work. The best coachers are the seasoned players, the veterans of the game. A man must know the throwing ability of each outfielder on the opposing club, he must be familiar with the speed of the base runner whom he is handling, and he must be so closely acquainted with the game as a whole that he knows the stages at which to try a certain play and the circumstances under which the same attempt would be foolish. Above all things, he must be a quick thinker. Watch McGraw on the coaching lines some day. As he crouches, he picks up a pebble and throws it out of his way, and two base runners start a double steal. "Hughie" Jennings emits his famous "Ee-Yaah!" and the third baseman creeps in, expecting Cobb to bunt with a man on first base and no one out. The hitter pushes the ball on a line past the third baseman. The next time Jennings shrieks his famous war-cry, it has a different intonation, and the batter bunts. "Bill" Dahlen of the Brooklyn club shouts, "Watch his foot," and the base runner starts while the batter smashes the ball on a hit and run play. Again the pitcher hears that "Watch his foot." He "wastes one," so that the batter will not get a chance at the ball and turns to first base. He is surprised to find the runner anchored there. Nothing has happened. So it will be seen that the offensive coacher controls the situation and directs the plays, usually taking his orders from the manager, if the boss himself is not on the lines. In 1911 the Giants led the National League by a good margin in stealing bases, and to this speed many critics attributed the fact that the championship was won by the club. I can safely say that every base which was pilfered by a New York runner was stolen by the direct order of McGraw, except in the few games from which he was absent. Then his lieutenants followed his system as closely as any one can pursue the involved and intricate style that he alone understands. If it was the base running of the Giants that won the pennant for the club, then it was the coaching of McGraw, employing the speed of his men and his opportunities, which brought the championship to New York. The first thing that every manager teaches his players now is to obey absolutely the orders of the coacher, and then he selects able men to give the advice. The brain of McGraw is behind each game the Giants play, and he plans every move, most of the hitters going to the plate with definite instructions from him as to what to try to do. In order to make this system efficient, absolute discipline must be assured. If a player has other ideas than McGraw as to what should be done, "Mac's" invariable answer to him is: "You do what I tell you, and I'll take the responsibility if we lose." For two months at the end of 1911, McGraw would not let either "Josh" Devore or John Murray swing at a first ball pitched to them. Murray did this one day, after he had been ordered not to, and he was promptly fined $10 and sat down on the bench, while Becker played right field. Many fans doubtless recall the substitution of Becker, but could not understand the move. Murray and Devore are what are known in baseball as "first-ball hitters." That is, they invariably hit at the first one delivered. They watch a pitcher wind up and swing their bats involuntarily, as a man blinks his eyes when he sees a blow started. It is probably due to slight nervousness. The result was that the news of this weakness spread rapidly around the circuit by the underground routes of baseball, and every pitcher in the League was handing Devore and Murray a bad ball on the first one. Of course, each would miss it or else make a dinky little hit. They were always "in the hole," which means that the pitcher had the advantage in the count. McGraw became exasperated after Devore had fanned out three times one day by getting bad starts, hitting at the first ball. "After this," said McGraw to both Murray and Devore in the clubhouse, "if either of you moves his bat off his shoulder at a first ball, even if it cuts the plate, you will be fined $10 and sat down." Murray forgot the next day, saw the pitcher wind up, and swung his bat at the first one. He spent the rest of the month on the bench. But Devore's hitting improved at once because all the pitchers, expecting him to swing at the first one, were surprised to find him "taking it" and, as it was usually bad, he had the pitcher constantly "in the hole," instead of being at a disadvantage himself. For this reason he was able to guess more accurately what the pitcher was going to throw, and his hitting consequently improved. So did Murray's after he had served his term on the bench. The right-fielder hit well up to the world's series and then he just struck a slump that any player is liable to encounter. But so dependent is McGraw's system on absolute discipline for its success that he dispensed with the services of a good player for a month to preserve his style. In contrast, "Connie" Mack, the manager of the Athletics, and by many declared to be the greatest leader in the country (although each private, of course, is true to his own general), lets his players use their own judgment largely. He seldom gives a batter a direct order unless the pinch is very stringent. The most difficult position to fill as a coacher is at third base, the critical corner. There a man's judgment must be lightning fast and always accurate. He encourages runners with his voice, but his orders are given primarily with his hands, because often the noise made by the crowd drowns out the shouted instructions. Last, he must be prepared to handle all sorts of base running. On nearly every ball club, there are some players who are known in the frank parlance of the profession as "hog wild runners." The expression means that these players are bitten by a sort of "bug" which causes them to lose their heads when once they get on the bases. They cannot be stopped, oftentimes fighting with a coacher to go on to the next base, when it is easy to see that if the attempt is made, the runner is doomed. New York fans have often seen McGraw dash out into the line at third base, tackle Murray, and throw him back on the bag. He is a "hog wild" runner, and with him on the bases, the duties of a coacher become more arduous. He will insist on scoring if he is not stopped or does not drop dead. Some youngster was coaching on third base in a game with Boston in the summer of 1911 and the Giants had a comfortable lead of several runs. Murray was on second when the batter hit clearly and sharply to left field. Murray started, and, with his usual intensity of purpose, rounded third base at top speed, bound to score. The ball was already on the way home when Murray, about ten feet from the bag, tripped and fell. He scrambled safely back to the cushion on all fours. There was nothing else to do. "This is his third year with me," laughed McGraw on the bench, "and that's the first time he has ever failed to try to score from second base on a hit unless he was tackled." All ball clubs have certain "must" motions which are as strictly observed as danger signals on a railroad. A coacher's hand upraised will stop a base runner as abruptly as the uplifted white glove of a traffic policeman halts a row of automobiles. A wave of the arm will start a runner going at top speed again. Many times a quick-witted ball-player wins a game for his club by his snap judgment. Again McGraw is the master of that. He took a game from the Cubs in 1911, because, always alert for flaws in the opposition, he noticed the centre-fielder drop his arm after getting set to throw the ball home. Devore was on second base, and one run was needed to win the game. Doyle hit sharply to centre field, and Devore, coming from second, started to slow up as he rounded third. Hofman, the Chicago centre-fielder, perceiving this slackening of pace, dropped his arm. McGraw noticed this, and, with a wave of his arm, notified Devore to go home. With two strides he was at top speed again, and Hofman, taken by surprise, threw badly. The run scored which won the game. The pastime of bullyragging the pitcher by the coachers has lost its popularity recently. The wily coacher must first judge the temperament of a pitcher before he dares to undertake to get on his nerves. Clarke Griffith, formerly the manager of Cincinnati, has a reputation for being able to ruin young pitchers just attempting to establish themselves in the Big League. Time and again he has forced youngsters back to the minors by his constant cry of "Watch his foot" or "He's going to waste this one." [Illustration: Photo by L. Van Oeyen, Cleveland, Ohio Baker out at the plate trying to stretch a triple into a home run. This picture shows Catcher Easterly of Cleveland waiting with the ball to touch Baker. The home-run hero of the Athletics is shown in the picture starting the fall-away slide in an effort to get away from Easterly. Harry Davis is approaching the plate, and Jack Sheridan is awaiting the outcome at the plate.] The rules are very strict now about talking to pitchers, but, if a complaint is made, Griffith declares that he was warning the batter that it was to be a pitchout, which is perfectly legitimate. The rules permit the coacher to talk to the batter and the base runners. Griffith caught a Tartar in Grover Cleveland Alexander, the sensational pitcher of the Philadelphia club. It was at his first appearance in Cincinnati that the young fellow got into the hole with several men on the bases, and "Mike" Mitchell coming up to the bat. "Now here is where we get a look at the 'yellow,'" yelled Griffith at Alexander. The young pitcher walked over toward third base. "I'm going to make that big boob up at the bat there show such a 'yellow streak' that you won't be able to see any white," declared Alexander, and then he struck Mitchell out. Griffith had tried the wrong tactics. A story is told of Fred Clarke and "Rube" Waddell, the eccentric twirler. Waddell was once one of the best pitchers in the business when he could concentrate his attention on his work, but his mind wandered easily. "Now pay no attention to Clarke," warned his manager before the game. Clarke tried everything from cajolery to abuse on Waddell with no effect, because the eccentric "Rube" had been tipped to fight shy of the Pittsburg manager. Suddenly Clarke became friendly and walked with Waddell between innings, chatting on trivial matters. At last he said: "Why don't you come out on my ranch in Kansas and hunt after the season, George? I've got a dog out there you might train." "What kind of a dog?" asked Waddell at once interested. "Just a pup," replied Clarke, "and you can have him if he takes a fancy to you." "They all do," replied Waddell. "He's as good as mine." The next inning the big left-hander was still thinking of that dog, and the Pirates made five runs. In many instances defensive coaching is as important as the offensive brand, which simply indorses the old axiom that any chain is only as strong as its weakest link or any ball club is only as efficient as its most deficient department. When Roger Bresnahan was on the Giants, he was one of those aggressive players who are always coaching the other fielders and holding a team together, a type so much desired by a manager. If a slow roller was hit between the pitcher's box and third base, I could always hear "Rog" yelling, "You take it, Matty," or, "Artie, Artie," meaning Devlin, the third baseman. He was in a position to see which man would be better able to make the play, and he gave this helpful advice. His coaching saved many a game for the Giants in the old days. "Al" Bridwell, the former shortstop, was of the same type, and, if you have ever attended a ball game at the Polo Grounds, you have doubtless heard him in his shrill, piercing voice, shouting: "I've got it! I've got it!" or, "You take it!" This style of coaching saves ball-players from accidents, and accidents have lost many a pennant. I have always held that it was a lack of the proper coaching that sent "Cy" Seymour, formerly the Giant centre-fielder, out of the Big Leagues and back to the minors. Both Murray and he attempted to catch the same fly in the season of 1909 and came into collision. Seymour went down on the field, but later got up and played the game out. However, he hurt his leg so badly that it never regained its strength. Then there is that other style of defensive coaching which is the shouting of misleading advice by the fielders to the base runners. Collins and Barry, the second baseman and shortstop on the Athletics, worked a clever trick in one of the games of the 1911 world's series which illustrates my point. The play is as old as the one in which the second baseman hides the ball under his shirt so as to catch a man asleep off first base, but often the old ones are the more effective. Doyle was on first base in one of the contests played in Philadelphia, and the batter lifted a short foul fly to Baker, playing third base. The crowd roared and the coacher's voice was drowned by the volume of sound. "Eddie" Collins ran to cover second base, and Barry scrabbled his hand along the dirt as if preparing to field a ground ball. "Throw it here! Throw it here!" yelled Collins, and Doyle, thinking that they were trying for a force play, increased his efforts to reach second. Baker caught the fly, and Larry was doubled up at first base so far that he looked foolish. Yet it really was not his fault. The safest thing for a base runner to do under those circumstances is to get one glimpse of the coacher's motions and then he can tell whether to go back or to go on. "Johnnie" Kling, the old catcher of the Chicago Cubs, used to work a clever piece of defensive coaching with John Evers, the second baseman. This was tried on young players and usually was successful. The victim was picked out before the game, and the play depended upon him arriving at second base. Once there the schemers worked it as follows: When the "busher" was found taking a large lead, Evers would dash to the bag and Kling would make a bluff to throw the ball, but hold it. The runner naturally scampered for the base. Then, seeing that Kling had not thrown, he would start to walk away from it again. "If the Jew had thrown that time, he would have had you," Evers would carelessly hurl over his shoulder at the intended victim. The man usually turned for a fatal second to reply. Tinker, who was playing shortstop, rushed in from behind, Kling whipped the ball to the bag, and the man, caught off his guard, was tagged out. The play was really made before the game, when the victim was selected. It was this same Evers-Kling combination that turned the tide in the first inning of the most famous game ever played in baseball, the extra one between the Giants and the Cubs in the season of 1908. The Chicago club was nervous in the first inning. Tenney was hit by a pitched ball, and Herzog walked. It looked as if Pfeister, the Chicago pitcher, was losing his grip. Bresnahan struck out, and Kling, always alert, dropped the third strike, but conveniently at his feet. Thinking that here was an opportunity the crowd roared. Evers, playing deep, almost behind Herzog, shouted, "Go on!" Herzog took the bait in the excitement of the moment and ran--and was nipped many yards from first base. There are many tricks to the coacher's trade, both offensive and defensive, and it is the quickest-witted man who is the best coacher. The sentry at first yells as the pitcher winds up, "There he goes!" imitating the first baseman as nearly as possible, in the hope that the twirler will waste one by pitching out and thus give the batter an advantage. The coacher on third base will shout at the runner on a short hit to the outfield, "Take your turn!" in the dim hope that the fielder, seeing the man rounding third, will throw the ball home, and the hitter can thus make an extra base. And the job of coaching is no sinecure. McGraw has told me after directing a hard game that he is as tired as if he had played. VII Honest and Dishonest Sign Stealing _Everything Fair in Baseball except the Dishonest Stealing of Signals--The National Game More a Contest of the Wits than Most Onlookers Imagine._ When the Philadelphia Athletics unexpectedly defeated the Chicago Cubs in the world's series of 1910, the National League players cried that their signals had been stolen by the American League team, and that, because Connie Mack's batters knew what to expect, they had won the championship. But were the owners or any member of the Philadelphia club arrested charged with grand larceny in stealing the baseball championship of the world? No. Was there any murmur against the methods of Connie Mack's men? No, again. By a strange kink in the ethics of baseball John Kling, the Chicago catcher, was blamed by the other players on the defeated team for the signs being stolen. They charged that he had been careless in covering his signals and that the enemy's coachers, particularly Topsy Hartsell, a clever man at it, had seen them from the lines. This was really the cause of Kling leaving the Cubs and going to Boston in 1911. After the games were over and the series was lost, many of the players, and especially the pitchers, would hardly speak to Kling, the man who had as much as any one else to do with the Cubs winning four championships, and the man who by his great throwing had made the reputations of a lot of their pitchers. But the players were sore because they had lost the series and lost the extra money which many of them had counted as their own before the games started, and they looked around for some one to blame and found Kling. One of the pitchers complained after he had lost a game: "Can't expect a guy to win with his catcher giving the signs so the coachers can read 'em and tip the batters." "And you can't expect a catcher to win a game for you if you haven't got anything on the ball," replied Kling, for he is quick tempered and cannot stand reflections on his ability. But the pitcher's chance remark had given the other players an excuse for fixing the blame, and it was put on Kling. I honestly do not believe that Kling was in any way responsible for the rout of the proud Cubs. The Chicago pitchers were away off form in the series and could not control the ball, thus getting themselves "into the hole" all the time. Shrewd Connie Mack soon realized this and ordered his batters to wait everything out, to make the twirlers throw every ball possible. The result was that, with the pitcher continually in the hole, the batters were guessing what was coming and frequently guessing right, as any smart hitter could under the circumstances. This made it look as if the Athletics were getting the Cubs' signals. "Why, I changed signs every three innings, Matty," Kling told me afterwards in discussing the charge. "Some of the boys said that I gave the old bended-knee sign for a curve ball. Well, did you ever find anything to improve on the old ones? That's why they are old." But the Cubs still point the finger of scorn at Kling, for it hurts to lose. I know it, I have lost myself. Even though the Athletics are charged with stealing the signs whether they did or not, it is no smirch on the character of the club, for they stole honestly--which sounds like a paradox. "You have such jolly funny morals in this bally country," declared an Englishman I once met. "You steal and rob in baseball and yet you call it fair. Now in cricket we give our opponents every advantage, don't cher know, and after the game we are all jolly good fellows at tea together." This brings us down to the ethics of signal stealing. Each game has its own recognized standards of fairness. For instance, no tricks are tolerated in tennis, yet the baseball manager who can devise some scheme by which he disconcerts his opponents is considered a great leader. I was about to say that all is fair in love, war, and baseball, but will modify that too comprehensive statement by saying all is fair in love, war, and baseball except stealing signals dishonestly, which listens like another paradox. Therefore, I shall divide the subject of signal stealing into half portions, the honest and the dishonest halves, and, since we are dealing in paradoxes, take up the latter first. Dishonest signal stealing might be defined as obtaining information by artificial aids. The honest methods are those requiring cleverness of eye, mind, and hand without outside assistance. One of the most flagrant and for a time successful pieces of signal stealing occurred in Philadelphia several years ago. Opposing players can usually tell when the batsman is getting the signs, because he steps up and sets himself for a curve with so much confidence. During the season of 1899 the report went around the circuit that the Philadelphia club was stealing signals, because the batters were popping them all on the nose, but no one was able to discover the transmitter. The coachers were closely watched and it was evident that these sentinels were not getting the signs. It was while the Washington club, then in the National League, was playing Philadelphia that there came a rainy morning which made the field very wet, and for a long time it was doubtful whether a game could be played in the afternoon, but the Washington club insisted on it and overruled the protests of the Phillies. Arlie Latham, now the coacher on the Giants', was playing third base for the Senators at the time. He has told me often since how he discovered the device by which the signs were being stolen. He repeated the story to me recently when I asked him for the facts to use in this book. "There was a big puddle in the third base coaching box that day," said Latham. "And it was in the third inning that I noticed Cupid Childs, the Philadelphia second baseman, coaching. He stood with one foot in the puddle and never budged it, although the water came up to his shoe-laces. He usually jumped around when on the lines, and this stillness surprised me. "'Better go get your rubbers if you are goin' to keep that trilby there,' I said to him. 'Charley horse and the rheumatism have no terrors for you.' "But he kept his foot planted in the puddle just the same, and first thing the batter cracked out a base hit. "'So that's where you're gettin' the signs?' I said to him, not guessing that it really was. Then he started to jump around and we got the next two batters out right quick, there being a big slump in the Philadelphia hitting as soon as he took his foot out of that puddle. "When the Washington club went to bat I hiked out to the third base line and started to coach, putting my foot into the puddle as near the place where Childs had had his as I could. "'Here's where we get a few signs,' I yelled, 'and I ain't afraid of Charley horse, either.' "I looked over at the Philadelphia bench, and there were all the extra players sitting with their caps pulled down over their eyes, so that I couldn't see their faces. The fielders all looked the other way. Then I knew I was on a warm scent. "When the Washington players started back for the field I told Tommy Corcoran that I thought they must be getting the signs from the third base coaching box, although I hadn't been able to feel anything there. He went over and started pawing around in the dirt and water with his spikes and fingers. Pretty soon he dug up a square chunk of wood with a buzzer on the under side of it. "'That ought to help their hitting a little,' he remarked as he kept on pulling. Up came a wire, and when he started to pull on it he found that it was buried about an inch under the soil and ran across the outfield. He kept right on coiling it up and following it, like a hound on a scent, the Philadelphia players being very busy all this time and nervous like a busher at his début into Big League society. One of the substitutes started to run for the clubhouse, but I stopped him. "Tommy was galloping by this time across the outfield and all the time pulling up this wire. It led straight to the clubhouse, and there sitting where he could get a good view of the catcher's signs with a pair of field-glasses was Morgan Murphy. The wire led right to him. "'What cher doin'?' asked Tommy. "'Watchin' the game,' replied Murphy. "'Couldn't you see it easier from the bench than lookin' through those peepers from here? And why are you connected up with this machine?' inquired Tommy, showin' him the chunk of wood with the buzzer attached. "'I guess you've got the goods,' Murphy answered with a laugh, and all the newspapers laughed at it then, too. But the batting averages of the Philadelphia players took an awful slump after that. "'Why didn't they tip me?' asked Murphy as he put aside his field-glasses and went to the bench and watched the rest of the game from there. And we later won that contest, our first victory of the series, which was no discredit to us, since it was like gamblin' against loaded dice," concluded "Arlie." The newspapers may have laughed at the incident in those days, but since that time the National Commission has intimated that if there was ever a recurrence of such tactics, the club caught using them would be subjected to a heavy fine and possibly expulsion from the League. So much have baseball standards improved. The incident is a great illustration of the unfair method of obtaining signs. Since then, there have come from time to time reports of teams taking signals by mechanical devices. The Athletics once declared that the American League team in New York had a man stationed behind the fence in centre field with a pair of glasses and that he shifted a line in the score board slightly, so as to tip off the batters, but this charge was never confirmed. It was said a short time ago that the Athletics themselves had a spy located in a house outside their grounds and that he tipped the batters by raising and lowering an awning a trifle. When the Giants went to Philadelphia in 1911 for the first game of the world's series in the enemy's camp, I kept watching the windows of the houses just outside of the park for suspicious movements, but could discover none. Once in Pittsburg I thought that the Pirates were getting the Giants' signals and I kept my eyes glued to the score board in centre field, throughout one whole series, to see if any of the figures moved or changed positions, as that seemed to be the only place from which a batter could be tipped. But I never discovered anything wrong. There are many fair ways to steal the signs of the enemy, so many that the smart ball-player is always kept on the alert by them. Baseball geniuses, some almost magicians, are constantly looking for new schemes to find out what the catcher is telling the pitcher, what the batter is tipping the base runner to, or what the coacher's instructions are. The Athletics have a great reputation as being a club able to get the other team's signs if they are obtainable. This is their record all around the American League circuit. Personally I do not believe that Connie Mack's players steal as much information as they get the credit for, but the reputation itself, if they never get a sign, is valuable. If a prizefighter is supposed to have a haymaking punch in his left hand, the other fellow is going to be constantly looking out for that left. If the players on a club have great reputations as signal stealers, their opponents are going to be on their guard all the time, which gives the team with the reputation just that much advantage. If a pitcher has a reputation, he has the percentage on the batter. Therefore, this gossip about the signal-stealing ability of the Athletics has added to their natural strength. "Bill," I said to Dahlen, the Brooklyn manager, one day toward the end of the season of 1911, when the Giants were playing their schedule out after the pennant was sure, "see if you can get the Chief's signs." Dahlen coached on first base and then went to third, always looking for Meyers's signals. Pretty soon he came to me. "I can see them a little bit, Matty," he reported. "Chief," I said to Meyers that night as I buttonholed him in the clubhouse, "you've got to be careful to cover up your signs in the Big Series. The Athletics have a reputation of being pretty slick at getting them. And to make sure we will arrange a set of signs that I can give if we think they are 'hep' to yours." So right there Meyers and I fixed up a code of signals that I could give to him, the Chief always to use some himself which would be "phoney" of course, and might have the desirable effect of "crossing them." In the first championship game at the Polo Grounds, Topsy Hartsell was out on the coaching lines looking for signals, and the Chief started giving the real ones until Davis stepped into a curve ball and cracked it to left field for a single, scoring the only run made by the Athletics. Right here Meyers stopped, and I began transmitting the private information, although the Chief continued to pass out signals that meant nothing. The Athletics were getting the Indian's and could not understand why the answers seemed invariably to be wrong, for a couple of them struck out swinging at bad balls, and one batter narrowly avoided being hit by a fast one when apparently he had been tipped off to a curve and was set ready to swing at it. They did not discover that I was behind the signals, although to make this method successful the catcher must be a clever man. If he makes it too obvious that his signals are "phoney" and are meant to be seen, then the other club will look around for the source of the real ones. Meyers carefully concealed his misleading wig-wags beneath his chest protector, under his glove and behind his knee, as any good catcher does his real signs, so they would not look at my head. Many persons argue: if a man sees the signs, what good does it do him if he does not know what they mean? It is easy for a smart ball-player to deduce the answers, because there are only three real signs passed between a pitcher and catcher, the sign for the fast one, for the curve ball and for the pitchout. If a coacher sees a catcher open his hand behind his glove and then watches the pitcher throw a fast one, he is likely to guess that the open palm says "Fast one." After a coacher has stolen the desired information, he must be clever to pass it along to the batter without the other club being aware that he is doing it. He may straighten up to tell the batter a curve ball is coming, and bend over to forecast a fast one, and turn his back as a neutral signal, meaning that he does not know what is coming. If a coacher is smart enough to pass the meanings to the batter without the other team getting on, he may go through the entire season as a transmitter of information. To steal signs fairly requires quickness of mind, eye and action. Few players can do it successfully. Perhaps that is why it is considered fair. If a team is going to make a success of signal stealing it must get every sign that is given, for an occasional crumb of information picked up at random is worse than none at all. First, it is dangerous. A batter, tipped off that a curved ball is coming, steps up to the plate and is surprised to meet a fast one, which often he has not time to dodge. Many a good ball-player has been injured in this way, and an accident to a star has cost more than one pennant. "Joe" Kelley, formerly manager of the Reds, was coaching in Cincinnati one day several years ago, and "Eagle Eye Jake" Beckley, the old first baseman and a chronic three hundred hitter, was at the bat. I had been feeding him low drops and Kelley, on the third base line, thought he was getting the signals that Jack Warner, the Giant catcher in a former cast of characters, was giving. I saw Kelley apparently pass some information to Beckley, and the latter stepped almost across the plate ready for a curve. He encountered a high, fast one, close in, and he encountered it with that part of him between his neck and hat band. "Eagle Eye" was unconscious for two days after that and in the hospital several weeks. When he got back into the game he said to me one day: "Why didn't you throw me that curve, Matty, that 'Joe' tipped me to?" "Were you tipped off?" I asked. "Then it was 'Joe's' error, not mine." "Say," he answered, "if I ever take another sign from a coacher I hope the ball kills me." "It probably will," I replied. "That one nearly did." It is one of the risks of signal stealing. Beckley had received the wrong information and I felt no qualms at hitting him, for it was not a wild pitch but a misinterpreted signal which had put him out of the game. His manager, not I, was to blame. For this reason many nervous players refuse to accept any information from a coacher, even if the coacher thinks he knows what is going to be pitched, because they do not dare take the risk of getting hit by a fast one, against which they have little protection if set for a curve. On this account few National League clubs attempt to steal signs as a part of the regular team work, but many individuals make a practice of it for their own benefit and for the benefit of the batter, if he is not of the timid type. As soon as a runner gets on second base he is in an excellent position to see the hands of the catcher, and it is then that the man behind the bat is doing all that he can cover up. Jack Warner, the old Giant, used sometimes to give his signals with his mouth in this emergency, because they were visible from the pitcher's box, but not from second base. The thieves were looking at his hands for them. In the National League, Leach, Clarke, Wagner, Bresnahan, Evers, Tinker and a few more of the sort are dangerous to have on second. Wagner will get on the middle sack and watch the catcher until he thinks that he has discovered the pitchout sign, which means a ball is to be wasted in the hope that a base runner can be caught. Wagner takes a big lead, and the catcher, tempted, gives the "office" to waste one, thinking to nail "Hans" off second. The Dutchman sees it, and instead of running back to second dashes for third. He starts as the catcher lets go of the ball to throw to second and can usually make the extra base. Many coachers, who do not attempt to get the signs for fast and curved balls, study the catcher to get his pitchout sign, because once this is recognized it gives the team at the bat a great advantage. If a coacher sees the catcher give the pitchout signal he can stop the runner from trying to steal and the pitcher has wasted a ball and is "in the hole." Then if his control is uncertain the result is likely to be disastrous. Several players in the National League are always trying to get the batter's signs. Bresnahan, the manager and catcher of the St. Louis club, devotes half his time and energy to looking for the wireless code employed by batter and base runner. If he can discover the hit and run sign, then he is able to order a pitchout and catch the man who has started to run in response to it several feet at second base. He is a genius at getting this information. Once late in 1911, when the New York club was in St. Louis on the last trip West, I came up to the bat with Fletcher on first base. I rubbed the end of my stick with my hand and Roger exclaimed: "Why, that's your old hit and run, Matty! What are you trying to do, kid me?" "I forgot you knew it, Rog," I answered, "but it goes." He thought I was attempting to cross him and did not order a pitchout. The sign had been given intentionally. I hit the ball and had the laugh on him. If a catcher can get a pitchout on a hit and run sign he upsets the other team greatly. Take a fast man on first base and the batter signs him that he is going to hit the next ball. The runner gets his start and the ball comes up so wide that the batter could not half reach it with a ten-foot bat. The runner is caught easily at second base and it makes him look foolish. That is why so many catchers devote time to looking for this signal. It is a great fruit bearer. Many of the extra players on the bench are always on the alert for the hit and run sign. This is a typical situation: The Giants were playing the Pittsburg club one day in 1911. Byrne was on first base. Fred Clarke was at bat and Byrne started for second while Clarke hit the ball to right field, Byrne reaching third base on the play. "What did he do?" asked Ames. "Did you get it, Matty?" inquired Wiltse. "No," I answered. "Did you?" "I think he tapped his bat on the plate," replied Wiltse. The next time Clarke came up we were all looking to see if he tapped his bat on the plate. Byrne was again on first base. The Pirates' manager fixed his cap, he stepped back out of the box and knocked the dirt out of his cleats, and he did two or three other natural things before the pitch, but nothing happened. Then he tapped his bat on the plate. "Make him put them over, Chief," yelled Wiltse which, translated, meant, "Order a pitch-out, Chief. He just gave Byrne the hit and run sign." Meyers signed for a pitchout, and Byrne was caught ten feet from second. Wiltse on the bench had really nailed the base runner. As soon as a sign is discovered it is communicated to the other players, and they are always watching for it, but try to conceal the fact that they recognize it, because, as soon as a batter discovers that his messages are being read, he changes his code. From these few facts about signals and sign stealing some idea of the battle of wits that is going on between two ball clubs in a game may be obtained. That is why so few men without brains last in the Big Leagues nowadays. A young fellow broke in with the Giants a few years ago and was very anxious to make good. He was playing shortstop. "Watch for the catcher's signs and then shift," McGraw told him one day. It is well known in baseball that a right-handed hitter will naturally push a curve over the outside corner of the plate toward right field and over the inside he will pull it around toward third base. But this youngster was overanxious and would shift before the pitcher started to deliver the ball. Some smart player on another club noticed this and tipped the batters off to watch the youngster for the signs. When he shifted toward second base the batter set himself for a ball over the outside corner. For a long time McGraw could not understand how the other teams were getting the Giants' signs, especially as it was on our home grounds. At last he saw the new infielder shift one day and the batter prepare for an inside ball. "Say," he said to the player, rushing on the field after he had stopped the pitcher, "do you know you are telegraphing the signs to the batters by moving around before the pitcher throws the ball?" Bill Dahlen, formerly a shortstop on the Giants, used to shift, but he was clever enough to wait until the pitcher had started his motion, when it was too late for the batter to look at him. Ball-players are always looking to steal some sign so that they may "cross" the enemy. In the language of the Big Leagues it is "signs," never "signals." And in conclusion I reiterate my former sentiments that all is fair in love, war and baseball except stealing signs dishonestly. VIII Umpires and Close Decisions _Ball-players and Umpires are Regarded by the Fans as Natural Enemies, and the Fans Are about Right--Types of Arbiters and how the Players Treat them--"Silk" O'Loughlin, "Hank" O'Day, "Tim" Hurst, "Bob" Emslie, and Others, and Close Ones they have Called--Also Some Narrow Escapes which have Followed._ When the Giants were swinging through the West in 1911 on the final trip, the club played three games in Pittsburg, with the pennant at that time only a possibility more or less remote. The Pirates still had a chance, and they were fighting hard for every game, especially as they were playing on their home grounds. The first contest of the series was on Saturday afternoon before a crowd that packed the gigantic stands which surrounded Forbes Field. The throng wanted to see the Pirates win because they were the Pirates, and the Giants beaten because they were the Giants, and were sticking their heads up above the other clubs in the race. I always think of the horse show when I play in Pittsburg, for they have the diamond horse-shoe of boxes there, you know. No; I'm wrong--it's at the Metropolitan Opera House they have the diamond horse-shoe. Any way, the diamond horse-shoe of boxes was doing business at Forbes Field that Saturday afternoon. This story is going to be about umpires, but the reader who has never seen the Forbes Field folks must get the atmosphere before I let the yarn into the block. Once, on a bright, sunny day there, I muffed fly after fly because the glint of Sol's rays on the diamonds blinded me. Always now I wear smoked glasses. "Josh" Devore is so afraid that he will lose social caste when he goes to Pittsburg that he gets his finger-nails manicured before he will appear on the field. And the lady who treated him one day polished them to such an ultimate glossiness that the sun flashed on them, and he dropped two flies in left field. "Look here, Josh," warned McGraw after the game, "I hire you to play ball and not to lead cotillions. Get some pumice stone and rub it on your finger-nails and cut out those John Drew manicures after this." This crowd is worse after umpires than the residents of the bleachers. The game on that Saturday worked out into a pitchers' battle between Marty O'Toole, the expensive exponent of the spit ball, and "Rube" Marquard, the great left-hander. Half of "Who's Who in Pittsburg" had already split white gloves applauding when, along about the fourth or fifth inning, Fred Clarke got as far as third base with one out. The score was nothing for either side as yet, and of such a delicate nature was the contest that one run was likely to decide it. "Hans" Wagner, the peerless, and the pride of Pittsburg, was at the bat. He pushed a long fly to Murray in right field, and John caught it and threw the ball home. Clarke and the ball arrived almost simultaneously. There was a slide, a jumble of players, and a small cloud of dust blew away from the home plate. "Ye're out!" bawled Mr. Brennan, the umpire, jerking his thumb over his shoulder with a conclusiveness that forbade argument. Clarke jumped up and stretched his hands four feet apart, for he recognizes no conclusiveness when "one is called against him." "Safe! that much!" he shouted in Brennan's ear, showing him the four-foot margin with his hands. There was a roar from the diamond horse-shoe that, if it could have been canned and put on a phonograph, would have made any one his fortune because it could have been turned on to accompany moving pictures of lions and other wild beasts to make them realistic. "Say," said Clarke to Brennan, "I know a pickpocket who looks honest compared to you, and I'd rather trust my watch to a second-story worker." Brennan was dusting off the plate and paid no attention to him. But Clarke continued to snap and bark at the umpire as he brushed himself off, referring with feeling to Mr. Brennan's immediate family, and weaving into his talk a sketch of the umpire's ancestors, for Clarke is a great master of the English language as fed to umpires. "Mr. Clarke," said Brennan, turning at last, "you were out. Now beat it to the bench before you beat it to the clubhouse." Clarke went grumbling and all the afternoon was after Brennan for the decision, his wrath increasing because the Pirates lost the game finally, although they would not have won it had they been given that decision. And the crowd was roaring at Brennan, too, throughout the remainder of the contest, asking him pointed questions about his habits and what his regular business was. It takes a man with nerve to make a decision like that--one that could be called either way because it was so close--and to make it as he sees it, which happened in this particular case to be against the home team. Many times have I, in the excitement of the moment, protested against the decision of an umpire, but fundamentally I know that the umpires are honest and are doing their best, as all ball-players are. The umpires make mistakes and the players make errors. Many arbiters have told me that when they are working they seldom know what inning it is or how many are out, and sometimes, in their efforts to concentrate their minds on their decisions, they say they even forget what clubs are playing and which is the home team. The future of the game depends on the umpire, for his honesty must not be questioned. If there is a breath of suspicion against a man, he is immediately let go, because constant repetition of such a charge would result in baseball going the way of horse racing and some other sports. No scandal can creep in where the umpire is concerned, for the very popularity of baseball depends on its honesty. "The only good umpire is a dead umpire," McGraw has declared many times when he has been disgruntled over some decision. "I think they're all dead ones in this League," replied Devore one day, "considering the decisions that they are handing me down there at second base. Why, I had that bag by three feet and he called me out." Many baseball fans look upon an umpire as a sort of necessary evil to the luxury of baseball, like the odor that follows an automobile. "Kill him! He hasn't got any friends!" is an expression shouted from the stands time and again during a game. But I know differently. I have seen umpires with friends. It is true that most ball-players regard umpires as their natural enemies, as a boy does a school teacher. But "Bill" Klem has friends because I have seen him with them, and besides he has a constant companion, which is a calabash pipe. And "Billy" Evans of the American League has lots of friends. And most all of the umpires have some one who will speak to them when they are off the field. These men in blue travel by themselves, live at obscure hotels apart from those at which the teams stop, and slip into the ball parks unobtrusively just before game time. They never make friends with ball-players off the field for fear that there might be a hint of scandal. Seldom do they take the same train with a club unless it cannot be avoided. "Hank" O'Day, the veteran of the National League staff, and Brennan took the same train out of Chicago with the Giants in the fall of 1911 because we stopped in Pittsburg for one game, and they had to be there to umpire. It was the only available means of transportation. But they stayed by themselves in another Pullman until some one told them "Charley" Faust, the official jinx-killer of the Giants, was doing his stunt. Then they both came back into the Giants' car and for the first time in my life I saw "Hank" O'Day laugh. His face acted as if it wasn't accustomed to the exercise and broke all in funny new wrinkles, like a glove when you put it on for the first time. There are several types of umpires, and ball-players are always studying the species to find out the best way to treat each man to get the most out of him. There are autocrats and stubborn ones and good fellows and weak-kneed ones, almost as many kinds as there are human beings. The autocrat of the umpire world is "Silk" O'Loughlin, now appearing with a rival show. "There are no close plays," says "Silk." "A man is always out or safe, or it is a ball or a strike, and the umpire, if he is a good man and knows his business, is always right. For instance, I am always right." He refuses to let the players discuss a decision with him, maintaining that there is never any room for argument. If a man makes any talk with him, it is quick to the shower bath. "Silk" has a voice of which he is proud and declares that he shares the honors with Caruso and that it is only his profession as an umpire that keeps him off the grand-opera circuit. I have heard a lot of American League ball-players say at various times that they wished he was on the grand-opera circuit or some more calorific circuit, but they were mostly prejudiced at those moments by some sentiments which "Silk" had just voiced in an official capacity. As is well known in baseball, "Silk" is the inventor of "Strike Tuh!" and the creased trousers for umpires. I have heard American League players declare that they are afraid to slide when "Silk" is close down over a play for fear they will bump up against his trousers and cut themselves. He is one of the kind of umpires who can go through a game on the hottest summer day, running about the bases, and still keep his collar unwilted. At the end he will look as if he were dressed for an afternoon tea. Always he wears on his right hand, which is his salary or decision wing, a large diamond that sparkles in the sunlight every time he calls a man out. Many American League players assert that he would rather call a man out than safe, so that he can shimmer his "cracked ice," but again they are usually influenced by circumstances. Such is "Silk," well named. Corresponding to him in the National League is "Billy" Klem. He always wears a Norfolk jacket because he thinks it more stylish, and perhaps it is, and he refuses to don a wind pad. Ever notice him working behind the bat? But I am going to let you in on a secret. That chest is not all his own. Beneath his jacket he carries his armor, a protector, and under his trousers' legs are shin guards. He insists that all players call him "Mr." He says that he thinks maybe soon his name will be in the social register. "Larry" Doyle thought that he had received the raw end of a decision at second base one day. He ran down to first, where Klem had retreated after he passed his judgment. "Say, 'Bill,'" exploded "Larry," "that man didn't touch the bag--didn't come within six feet of it." "Say, Doyle," replied Klem, "when you talk to me call me 'Mr. Klem.'" "But, Mr. Klem--" amended "Larry." Klem hurriedly drew a line with his foot as Doyle approached him menacingly. "But if you come over that line, you're out of the game, Mr. Doyle," he threatened. "All right," answered "Larry," letting his pugilistic attitude evaporate before the abruptness of Klem as the mist does before the classic noonday sun, "but, Mr. Klem, I only wanted to ask you if that clock in centre field is right by your watch, because I know everything about you is right." "Larry" went back, grinning and considering that he had put one over on Klem--Mr. Klem. For a long time "Johnny" Evers of the Chicago club declared that Klem owed him $5 on a bet he had lost to the second baseman and had neglected to pay. Now John, when he was right, could make almost any umpirical goat leap from crag to crag and do somersaults en route. He kept pestering Klem about that measly $5 bet, not in an obtrusive way, you understand, but by such delicate methods as holding up five fingers when Klem glanced down on the coaching lines where he was stationed, or by writing a large "5" in the dirt at the home plate with the butt of his bat as he came up when Klem was umpiring on balls and strikes, or by counting slowly and casually up to five and stopping with an abruptness that could not be misconstrued. One day John let his temper get away from him and bawled Klem out in his most approved fashion. "Here's your five, Mr. Evers," said Klem, handing him a five dollar bill, "and now you are fined $25." "And it was worth it," answered Evers, "to bawl you out." Next comes the O'Day type, and there is only one of them, "Hank." He is the stubborn kind--or perhaps _was_ the stubborn kind, would be better, as he is now a manager. He is bull-headed. If a manager gets after him for a decision, he is likely to go up in the air and, not meaning to do it, call close ones against the club that has made the kick, for it must be remembered that umpires are only "poor weak mortals after all." O'Day has to be handled with shock absorbers. McGraw tries to do it, but shock absorbers do not fit him well, and the first thing that usually occurs is a row. "Let me do the kicking, boys," McGraw always warns his players before a contest that O'Day is going to umpire. He does not want to see any of his men put out of the game. "Bill" Dahlen always got on O'Day's nerves by calling him "Henry." For some reason, O'Day does not like the name, and "Bill" Dahlen discovered long ago the most irritating inflection to give it so that it would rasp on O'Day's ears. He does not mind "Hank" and is not a "Mister" umpire. But every time Dahlen would call O'Day "Henry" it was the cold shower and the civilian's clothes for his. Dahlen was playing in St. Louis many years ago when the race track was right opposite the ball park. "Bill" had a preference in one of the later races one day and was anxious to get across the street and make a little bet. He had obtained a leave of absence on two preceding days by calling O'Day "Henry" and had lost money on the horses he had selected as fleet of foot. But this last time he had a "sure thing" and was banking on some positive information which had been slipped to him by a friend of the friend of the man who owned the winner, and "Bill" wanted to be there. Along about the fifth inning, "Bill" figured that it was time for him to get a start, so he walked up to O'Day and said: "Henry, do you know who won the first race?" "No, and you won't either, Mr. Dahlen," answered "Hank." "You are fined $25, and you stay here and play the game out." Some one had tipped "Hank" off. And the saddest part of the story is that "Bill's" horse walked home, and he could not get a bet down on him. "First time it ever failed to work," groaned "Bill" in the hotel that night, "and I said 'Henry' in my meanest way, too." Most clubs try to keep an umpire from feeling hostile toward the team because, even if he means to see a play right, he is likely to call a close one against his enemies, not intending to be dishonest. It would simply mean that you would not get any close ones from him, and the close ones count. Some umpires can be reasoned with, and a good fair protest will often make a man think perhaps he has called it wrong, and he will give you the edge on the next decision. A player must understand an umpire to know how to approach him to the best advantage. O'Day cannot be reasoned with. It is as dangerous to argue with him as it is to try to ascertain how much gasoline is in the tank of an automobile by sticking down the lighted end of a cigar or a cigarette. Emslie will listen to a reasonable argument. He is one of the finest umpires that ever broke into the League, I think. He is a good fellow. Far be it from me to be disloyal to my manager, for I think that he is the greatest that ever won a pennant, but Emslie put one over on McGraw in 1911 when it was being said that Emslie was getting so old he could not see a play. "I'll bet," said McGraw to him one day after he had called one against the Giants, "that I can put a baseball and an orange on second base, and you can't tell the difference standing at the home plate, Bob." Emslie made no reply right then, but when the eye test for umpires was established by Mr. Lynch, the president of the League, "Bob" passed it at the head of the list and then turned around and went up to Chatham in Ontario, Canada, and made a high score with the rifle in a shooting match up there. After he had done that, he was umpiring at the Polo Grounds one day. "Want to take me on for a shooting go, John?" he asked McGraw as he passed him. "No, Bob, you're all right. I give it to you," answered McGraw, who had long forgotten his slur on Emslie's eyesight. Emslie is the sort of umpire who rules by the bond of good fellowship rather than by the voice of authority. "Old Bob" has one "groove" and it is a personal matter about which he is very sensitive. He is under cover. It is no secret, or I would not give way on him. But that luxuriant growth of hair, apparent, comes off at night like his collar and necktie. It used to be quite the fad in the League to "josh" "Bob" about his wig, but that pastime has sort of died out now because he has proven himself to be such a good fellow. I had to laugh to myself, and not boisterously, in the season of 1911 when Mr. Lynch appointed "Jack" Doyle, formerly a first baseman and a hot-headed player, an umpire and scheduled him to work with Emslie. I remembered the time several seasons ago when Doyle took offence at one of "Bob's" decisions and wrestled him all over the infield trying to get his wig off and show him up before the crowd. And then Emslie and he worked together like Damon and Pythias. This business makes strange bed-fellows. Emslie was umpiring in New York one day in the season of 1909, when the Giants were playing St. Louis. A wild pitch hit Emslie over the heart and he wilted down, unconscious. The players gathered around him, and Bresnahan, who was catching for St. Louis at the time, started to help "Bob." Suddenly the old umpire came to and began to fight off his first-aid-to-the-injured corps. No one could understand his attitude as he struggled to his feet and strolled away by himself, staggering a little and apparently dizzy. At last he came back and gamely finished the business of the day. I never knew why he fought with the men who were trying to help him until several weeks later, when we were playing in Pittsburg. As I came out from under the stand on my way to the bench, Emslie happened to be making his entrance at the same time. "Say, Matty," he asked me, "that time in New York did my wig come off? Did Bresnahan take my wig off?" "No, Bob," I replied, "he was only trying to help you." "I thought maybe he took it off while I was down and out and showed me up before the crowd," he apologized. "Listen, Bob," I said. "I don't believe there is a player in either League who would do that, and, if any youngster tried it now, he would probably be licked." "I'm glad to hear you say that, Matty," answered the old man, as he picked up his wind pad and prepared to go to work. And he called more bad ones on me that day than he ever had in his life before, but I never mentioned the wig to him. Most umpires declare they have off days just like players, when they know that they are making mistakes and cannot help it. If a pitcher of Mordecai Brown's kind, who depends largely on his control for his effectiveness, happens to run up against an umpire with a bad day, he might just as well go back to the bench. Brown is a great man to work the corners of the plate, and if the umpire is missing strikes, he is forced to lay the ball over and then the batters whang it out. Johnstone had an off day in Chicago in 1911, when Brown was working. "What's the use of my tryin' to pitch, Jim," said Brown, throwing down his glove and walking to the bench disgusted, "if you don't know a strike when you see one?" Sometimes an umpire who has been good will go into a long slump when he cannot call things right and knows it. Men like that get as discouraged as a pitcher who goes bad. There used to be one in the National League who was a pretty fair umpire when he started and seemed to be getting along fine until he hit one of those slumps. Then he began calling everything wrong and knew it. At last he quit, and the next time I saw him was in Philadelphia in the 1911 world's series. He was a policeman. "Hello, Matty," he shouted at me as we were going into Shibe Park for the first game there. "I can call you by your first name now," and he waved his hand real friendly. The last conversation I had with that fellow, unless my recollection fails me entirely, was anything but friendly. Umpires have told me that sometimes they see a play one way and call it another, and, as soon as the decision is announced, they realize that they have called it wrong. This malady has put more than one umpire out. A man on the National League staff has informed me since, that he called a hit fair that was palpably two feet foul in one of the most important games ever played in baseball, when he saw the ball strike on foul ground. "I couldn't help saying 'Fair ball,'" declared this man, and he is one of the best in the National League. "Luckily," he added, "the team against which the decision went won the game." Many players assert that arbiters hold a personal grudge against certain men who have put up too strenuous kicks, and for that reason the wise ones are careful how they talk to umpires of this sort. Fred Tenney has said for a long time that Mr. Klem gives him a shade the worst of it on all close ones because he had a run in with that umpire one day when they came to blows. Tenney is a great man to pick out the good ones when at the bat, and Fred says that if he is up with a three and two count on him now, Klem is likely to call the next one a strike if it is close, not because he is dishonest, but because he has a certain personal prejudice which he cannot overcome. And the funny part about it is that Tenney does not hold this up against Klem. Humorous incidents are always occurring in connection with umpires. We were playing in Boston one day a few years ago, and the score was 3 to 0 against the Giants in the ninth inning. Becker knocked a home run with two men on the bases, and it tied the count. With men on first and third bases and one out in the last half of the ninth, a Boston batter tapped one to Merkle which I thought he trapped, but Johnstone, the umpire, said he caught it on the fly. It was simplicity itself to double the runner up off first base who also thought Merkle had trapped the ball and had started for second. That retired the side, and we won the game in the twelfth inning, whereas Boston would have taken it in the ninth if Johnstone had said the ball was trapped instead of caught on the fly. It was a very hot day, and those extra three innings in the box knocked me out. I was sick for a week with stomach trouble afterwards and could not pitch in Chicago, where we made our next stop. That was a case of where a decision in my favor "made me sick." "Tim" Hurst, the old American League umpire, was one of the most picturesque judges that ever spun an indicator. He was the sort who would take a player at his word and fight him blow for blow. "Tim" was umpiring in Baltimore in the old days when there was a runner on first base. "The man started to steal," says "Tim." He was telling the story only the other day in McGraw's billiard room in New York, and it is better every time he does it. "As he left the bag he spiked the first baseman and that player attempted to trip him. The second baseman blocked the runner and, in sliding into the bag, the latter tried to spike 'Hugh' Jennings, who was playing shortstop and covering, while Jennings sat on him to knock the wind out. The batter hit Robinson, who was catching, on the hands with his bat so that he couldn't throw, and 'Robbie' trod on my toes with his spikes and shoved his glove into my face so that I couldn't see to give the decision. It was one of the hardest that I have ever been called upon to make." "What did you do?" I asked him. "I punched 'Robbie' in the ribs, called it a foul and sent the runner back," replied "Tim." IX The Game that Cost a Pennant _The Championship of the National League was Decided in 1908 in One Game between the Giants and Cubs--Few Fans Know that it Was Mr. Brush who Induced the Disgruntled New York Players to Meet Chicago--This is the "Inside" Story of the Famous Game, Including "Fred" Merkle's Part in the Series of Events which Led up to it._ The New York Giants and the Chicago Cubs played a game at the Polo Grounds on October 8, 1908, which decided the championship of the National League in one afternoon, which was responsible for the deaths of two spectators, who fell from the elevated railroad structure overlooking the grounds, which made Fred Merkle famous for not touching second, which caused lifelong friends to become bitter enemies, and which, altogether, was the most dramatic and important contest in the history of baseball. It stands out from every-day events like the battle of Waterloo and the assassination of President Lincoln. It was a baseball tragedy from a New York point of view. The Cubs won by the score of 4 to 2. Behind this game is some "inside" history that has never been written. Few persons, outside of the members of the New York club, know that it was only after a great deal of consultation the game was finally played, only after the urging of John T. Brush, the president of the club. The Giants were risking, in one afternoon, their chances of winning the pennant and the world's series--the concentration of their hopes of a season--because the Cubs claimed the right on a technicality to play this one game for the championship. Many members of the New York club felt that it would be fighting for what they had already won, as did their supporters. This made bad feeling between the teams and between the spectators, until the whole dramatic situation leading up to the famous game culminated in the climax of that afternoon. The nerves of the players were rasped raw with the strain, and the town wore a fringe of nervous prostration. It all burst forth in the game. Among other things, Frank Chance, the manager of the Cubs, had a cartilage in his neck broken when some rooter hit him with a handy pop bottle, several spectators hurt one another when they switched from conversational to fistic arguments, large portions of the fence at the Polo Grounds were broken down by patrons who insisted on gaining entrance, and most of the police of New York were present to keep order. They had their clubs unlimbered, too, acting more as if on strike duty than restraining the spectators at a pleasure park. Last of all, that night, after we had lost the game, the report filtered through New York that Fred Merkle, then a youngster and around whom the whole situation revolved, had committed suicide. Of course it was not true, for Merkle is one of the gamest ball-players that ever lived. My part in the game was small. I started to pitch and I didn't finish. The Cubs beat me because I never had less on the ball in my life. What I can't understand to this day is why it took them so long to hit me. Frequently it has been said that "Cy" Seymour started the Cubs on their victorious way and lost the game, because he misjudged a long hit jostled to centre field by "Joe" Tinker at the beginning of the third inning, in which chapter they made four runs. The hit went for three bases. Seymour, playing centre field, had a bad background against which to judge fly balls that afternoon, facing the shadows of the towering stand, with the uncertain horizon formed by persons perched on the roof. A baseball writer has said that, when Tinker came to the bat in that fatal inning, I turned in the box and motioned Seymour back, and instead of obeying instructions he crept a few steps closer to the infield. I don't recall giving any advice to "Cy," as he knew the Chicago batters as well as I did and how to play for them. Tinker, with his long bat, swung on a ball intended to be a low curve over the outside corner of the plate, but it failed to break well. He pushed out a high fly to centre field, and I turned with the ball to see Seymour take a couple of steps toward the diamond, evidently thinking it would drop somewhere behind second base. He appeared to be uncertain in his judgment of the hit until he suddenly turned and started to run back. That must have been when the ball cleared the roof of the stand and was visible above the sky line. He ran wildly. Once he turned, and then ran on again, at last sticking up his hands and having the ball fall just beyond them. He chased it and picked it up, but Tinker had reached third base by that time. If he had let the ball roll into the crowd in centre field, the Cub could have made only two bases on the hit, according to the ground rules. That was a mistake, but it made little difference in the end. All the players, both the Cubs and the Giants, were under a terrific strain that day, and Seymour, in his anxiety to be sure to catch the ball, misjudged it. Did you ever stand out in the field at a ball park with thirty thousand crazy, shouting fans looking at you and watch a ball climb and climb into the air and have to make up your mind exactly where it is going to land and then have to be there, when it arrived, to greet it, realizing all the time that if you are not there you are going to be everlastingly roasted? It is no cure for nervous diseases, that situation. Probably forty-nine times out of fifty Seymour would have caught the fly. "I misjudged that ball," said "Cy" to me in the clubhouse after the game. "I'll take the blame for it." He accepted all the abuse the newspapers handed him without a murmur and I don't think myself that it was more than an incident in the game. I'll try to show later in this story where the real "break" came. Just one mistake, made by "Fred" Merkle, resulted in this play-off game. Several newspaper men have called September 23, 1908, "Merkle Day," because it was on that day he ran to the clubhouse from first base instead of by way of second, when "Al" Bridwell whacked out the hit that apparently won the game from the Cubs. Any other player on the team would have undoubtedly done the same thing under the circumstances, as the custom had been in vogue all around the circuit during the season. It was simply Fred Merkle's misfortune to have been on first base at the critical moment. The situation which gave rise to the incident is well known to every follower of baseball. Merkle, as a pinch hitter, had singled with two out in the ninth inning and the score tied, sending McCormick from first base to third. "Al" Bridwell came up to the bat and smashed a single to centre field. McCormick crossed the plate, and that, according to the customs of the League, ended the game, so Merkle dug for the clubhouse. Evers and Tinker ran through the crowd which had flocked on the field and got the ball, touching second and claiming that Merkle had been forced out there. Most of the spectators did not understand the play, as Merkle was under the shower bath when the alleged put-out was made, but they started after "Hank" O'Day, the umpire, to be on the safe side. He made a speedy departure under the grand-stand and the crowd got the put-out unassisted. Finally, while somewhere near Coogan's Bluff, he called Merkle out and the score a tie. When the boys heard this in the clubhouse, they laughed, for it didn't seem like a situation to be taken seriously. But it turned out to be one of those things that the farther it goes the more serious it becomes. "Connie" Mack, the manager of the Athletics, says: "There is no luck in Big League baseball. In a schedule of one hundred and fifty-four games, the lucky and unlucky plays break about even, except in the matter of injuries." But Mack's theory does not include a schedule of one hundred and fifty-five games, with the result depending on the one hundred and fifty-fifth. Chicago had a lot of injured athletes early in the season of 1908, and the Giants had shot out ahead in the race in grand style. In the meantime the Cubs' cripples began to recuperate, and that lamentable event on September 23 seemed to be the turning-point in the Giants' fortunes. Almost within a week afterwards, Bresnahan had an attack of sciatic rheumatism and "Mike" Donlin was limping about the outfield, leading a great case of "Charley horse." Tenney was bandaged from his waist down and should have been wearing crutches instead of playing first base on a Big League club. Doyle was badly spiked and in the hospital. McGraw's daily greeting to his athletes when he came to the park was: "How are the cripples? Any more to add to the list of identified dead to-day?" Merkle moped. He lost flesh, and time after time begged McGraw to send him to a minor league or to turn him loose altogether. "It wasn't your fault," was the regular response of the manager who makes it a habit to stand by his men. We played on with the cripples, many double-headers costing the pitchers extra effort, and McGraw not daring to take a chance on losing a game if there were any opportunity to win it. He could not rest any of his men. Merkle lost weight and seldom spoke to the other players as the Cubs crept up on us day after day and more men were hurt. He felt that he was responsible for this change in the luck of the club. None of the players felt this way toward him, and many tried to cheer him up, but he was inconsolable. The team went over to Philadelphia, and Coveleski, the pitcher we later drove out of the League, beat us three times, winning the last game by the scantiest of margins. The result of that series left us three to play with Boston to tie the Cubs if they won from Pittsburg the next day, Sunday. If the Pirates had taken that Sunday game, it would have given them the pennant. We returned to New York on Saturday night very much downhearted. "Lose me. I'm the jinx," Merkle begged McGraw that night. "You stick," replied the manager. While we had been losing, the Cubs had been coming fast. It seemed as if they could not drop a game. At last Cincinnati beat them one, which was the only thing that made the famous season tie possible. There is an interesting anecdote connected with that Cincinnati contest which goes to prove the honesty of baseball. Two of the closest friends in the game are "Hans" Lobert, then with the Reds, and Overall, the former Chicago pitcher. It looked as if Chicago had the important game won up to the ninth inning when Lobert came to the bat with two men out and two on the bases. Here he had a chance to overcome the lead of one run which the Cubs had gained, and win the contest for the home club, but he would beat his best friend and maybe put the Cubs out of the running for the pennant. Lobert had two balls and two strikes when he smashed the next pitch to center field, scoring both the base runners. The hit came near beating the Cubs out of the championship. It would have if we had taken one of those close games against Philadelphia. Lobert was broken-hearted over his hit, for he wanted the Cubs to win. On his way to the clubhouse, he walked with Overall, the two striding side by side like a couple of mourners. "I'm sorry, 'Orvie,'" said Lobert. "I would not have made that hit for my year's salary if I could have helped it." "That's all right, 'Hans,'" returned Overall. "It's all part of the game." Next came the famous game in Chicago on Sunday between the Cubs and the Pittsburg Pirates, when a victory for the latter club would have meant the pennant and the big game would never have been played. Ten thousand persons crowded into the Polo Grounds that Sunday afternoon and watched a little electric score board which showed the plays as made in Chicago. For the first time in my life I heard a New York crowd cheering the Cubs with great fervor, for on their victory hung our only chances of ultimate success. The same man who was shouting himself hoarse for the Cubs that afternoon was for taking a vote on the desirability of poisoning the whole Chicago team on the following Thursday. Even the New York players were rooting for the Cubs. The Chicago team at last won the game when Clarke was called out at third base on a close play, late in the contest. With the decision, the Pirates' last chance went glimmering. The Giants now had three games to win from Boston on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, to make the deciding game on Thursday necessary. We won those, and the stage was cleared for the big number. The National Commission gave the New York club the option of playing three games out of five for the championship or risking it all on one contest. As more than half of the club was tottering on the brink of the hospital, it was decided that all hope should be hung on one game. By this time, Merkle had lost twenty pounds, and his eyes were hollow and his cheeks sunken. The newspapers showed him no mercy, and the fans never failed to criticise and hiss him when he appeared on the field. He stuck to it and showed up in the ball park every day, putting on his uniform and practising. It was a game thing to do. A lot of men, under the same fire, would have quit cold. McGraw was with him all the way. But it was not until after considerable discussion that it was decided to play that game. All the men felt disgruntled because they believed they would be playing for something they had already won. Even McGraw was so wrought up, he said in the clubhouse the night before the game: "I don't care whether you fellows play this game or not. You can take a vote." A vote was taken, and the players were not unanimous, some protesting it ought to be put up to the League directors so that, if they wanted to rob the team of a pennant, they would have to take the blame. Others insisted it would look like quitting, and it was finally decided to appoint a committee to call upon Mr. Brush, the president of the club, who was ill in bed in the Lambs club at the time. Devlin, Bresnahan, Donlin, Tenney, and I were on that committee. "Mr. Brush," I said to my employer, having been appointed the spokesman, "McGraw has left it up to us to decide whether we shall meet the Chicago team for the championship of the National League to-morrow. A lot of the boys do not believe we ought to be forced to play over again for something we have already won, so the players have appointed this committee of five to consult with you and get your opinion on the subject. What we decide goes with them." Mr. Brush looked surprised. I was nervous, more so than when I am in the box with three on the bases and "Joe" Tinker at the bat. Bresnahan fumbled with his hat, and Devlin coughed. Tenney leaned more heavily on his cane, and Donlin blew his nose. We five big athletes were embarrassed in the presence of this sick man. Suddenly it struck us all at the same time that the game would have to be played to keep ourselves square with our own ideas of courage. Even if the Cubs had claimed it on a technicality, even if we had really won the pennant once, that game had to be played now. We all saw that, and it was this thin, ill man in bed who made us see it even before he had said a word. It was the expression on his face. It seemed to say, "And I had confidence in you, boys, to do the right thing." "I'm going to leave it to you," he answered "You boys can play the game or put it up to the directors of the League to decide as you want. But I shouldn't think you would stop now after making all this fight." The committee called an executive session, and we all thought of the crowd of fans looking forward to the game and of what the newspapers would say if we refused to play it and of Mr. Brush lying there, the man who wanted us to play, and it was rapidly and unanimously decided to imitate "Steve" Brodie and take a chance. "We'll play," I said to Mr. Brush. "I'm glad," he answered. "And, say, boys," he added, as we started to file out, "I want to tell you something. Win or lose, I'm going to give the players a bonus of $10,000." That night was a wild one in New York. The air crackled with excitement and baseball. I went home, but couldn't sleep for I live near the Polo Grounds, and the crowd began to gather there early in the evening of the day before the game to be ready for the opening of the gates the next morning. They tooted horns all night, and were never still. When I reported at the ball park, the gates had been closed by order of the National Commission, but the streets for blocks around the Polo Grounds were jammed with persons fighting to get to the entrances. The players in the clubhouse had little to say to one another, but, after the bandages were adjusted, McGraw called his men around him and said: "Chance will probably pitch Pfiester or Brown. If Pfiester works there is no use trying to steal. He won't give you any lead. The right-handed batters ought to wait him out and the left-handers hit him when he gets in a hole. Matty is going to pitch for us." Pfiester is a left-hand pitcher who watches the bases closely. Merkle had reported at the clubhouse as usual and had put on his uniform. He hung on the edge of the group as McGraw spoke, and then we all went to the field. It was hard for us to play that game with the crowd which was there, but harder for the Cubs. In one place, the fence was broken down, and some employees were playing a stream of water from a fire hose on the cavity to keep the crowd back. Many preferred a ducking to missing the game and ran through the stream to the lines around the field. A string of fans recklessly straddled the roof of the old grand-stand. Every once in a while some group would break through the restraining ropes and scurry across the diamond to what appeared to be a better point of vantage. This would let a throng loose which hurried one way and another and mixed in with the players. More police had to be summoned. As I watched that half-wild multitude before the contest, I could think of three or four things I would rather do than umpire the game. I had rested my arm four days, not having pitched in the Boston series, and I felt that it should be in pretty good condition. Before that respite, I had been in nine out of fifteen games. But as I started to warm up, the ball refused to break. I couldn't get anything on it. "What's the matter, Rog?" I asked Bresnahan. "They won't break for me." "It'll come as you start to work," he replied, although I could see that he, too, was worried. John M. Ward, the old ball-player and now one of the owners of the Boston National League club, has told me since that, after working almost every day as I had been doing, it does a pitcher's arm no good to lay off for three or four days. Only a week or ten days will accomplish any results. It would have been better for me to continue to work as often as I had been doing, for the short rest only seemed to deaden my arm. The crowd that day was inflammable. The players caught this incendiary spirit. McGinnity, batting out to our infield in practice, insisted on driving Chance away from the plate before the Cubs' leader thought his team had had its full share of the batting rehearsal. "Joe" shoved him a little, and in a minute fists were flying, although Chance and McGinnity are very good friends off the field. Fights immediately started all around in the stands. I remember seeing two men roll from the top to the bottom of the right-field bleachers, over the heads of the rest of the spectators. And they were yanked to their feet and run out of the park by the police. "Too bad," I said to Bresnahan, nodding my head toward the departing belligerents, "they couldn't have waited until they saw the game, anyway. I'll bet they stood outside the park all night to get in, only to be run out before it started." I forgot the crowd, forgot the fights, and didn't hear the howling after the game started. I knew only one thing, and that was my curved ball wouldn't break for me. It surprised me that the Cubs didn't hit it far, right away, but two of them fanned in the first inning and Herzog threw out Evers. Then came our first time at bat. Pfiester was plainly nervous and hit Tenney. Herzog walked and Bresnahan fanned out, Herzog being doubled up at second because he tried to advance on a short passed ball. "Mike" Donlin whisked a double to right field and Tenney counted. For the first time in almost a month, Merkle smiled. He was drawn up in the corner of the bench, pulling away from the rest of us as if he had some contagious disease and was quarantined. For a minute it looked as if we had them going. Chance yanked Pfiester out of the box with him protesting that he had been robbed on the decisions on balls and strikes. Brown was brought into the game and fanned Devlin. That ended the inning. We never had a chance against Brown. His curve was breaking sharply, and his control was microscopic. We went back to the field in the second with that one run lead. Chance made the first hit of the game off me in the second, but I caught him sleeping at first base, according to Klem's decision. There was a kick, and Hofman, joining in the chorus of protests, was sent to the clubhouse. Tinker started the third with that memorable triple which gave the Cubs their chance. I couldn't make my curve break. I didn't have anything on the ball. "Rog," I said to Bresnahan, "I haven't got anything to-day." "Keep at it, Matty," he replied. "We'll get them all right." I looked in at the bench, and McGraw signalled me to go on pitching. Kling singled and scored Tinker. Brown sacrificed, sending Kling to second, and Sheckard flied out to Seymour, Kling being held on second base. I lost Evers, because I was afraid to put the ball over the plate for him, and he walked. Two were out now, and we had yet a chance to win the game as the score was only tied. But Schulte doubled, and Kling scored, leaving men on second and third bases. Still we had a Mongolian's chance with them only one run ahead of us. Frank Chance, with his under jaw set like the fender on a trolley car, caught a curved ball over the inside corner of the plate and pushed it to right field for two bases. That was the most remarkable batting performance I have ever witnessed since I have been in the Big Leagues. A right-handed hitter naturally slaps a ball over the outside edge of the plate to right field, but Chance pushed this one, on the inside, with the handle of his bat, just over Tenney's hands and on into the crowd. The hit scored Evers and Schulte and dissolved the game right there. It was the "break." Steinfeldt fanned. None of the players spoke to one another as they went to the bench. Even McGraw was silent. We knew it was gone. Merkle was drawn up behind the water cooler. Once he said: "It was my fault, boys." No one answered him. Inning after inning, our batters were mowed down by the great pitching of Brown, who was never better. His control of his curved ball was marvellous, and he had all his speed. As the innings dragged by, the spectators lost heart, and the cowbells ceased to jingle, and the cheering lost its resonant ring. It was now a surly growl. Then the seventh! We had our one glimmer of sunshine. Devlin started with a single to centre, and McCormick shoved a drive to right field. Recalling that Bridwell was more or less of a pinch hitter, Brown passed him purposely and Doyle was sent to the bat in my place. As he hobbled to the plate on his weak foot, said McGraw: "Hit one, Larry." The crowd broke into cheers again and was stamping its feet. The bases were full, and no one was out. Then Doyle popped up a weak foul behind the catcher. His batting eye was dim and rusty through long disuse. Kling went back for it, and some one threw a pop bottle which narrowly missed him, and another scaled a cushion. But Kling kept on and got what he went after, which was the ball. He has a habit of doing that. Tenney flied to Schulte, counting Devlin on the catch, and Tinker threw out Herzog. The game was gone. Never again did we have a chance. It was a glum lot of players in the clubhouse. Merkle came up to McGraw and said: "Mac, I've lost you one pennant. Fire me before I can do any more harm." "Fire you?" replied McGraw. "We ran the wrong way of the track to-day. That's all. Next year is another season, and do you think I'm going to let you go after the gameness you've shown through all this abuse? Why you're the kind of a guy I've been lookin' for many years. I could use a carload like you. Forget this season and come around next spring. The newspapers will have forgotten it all then. Good-by, boys." And he slipped out of the clubhouse. "He's a regular guy," said Merkle. Merkle has lived down that failure to touch second and proved himself to be one of the gamest players that ever stood in a diamond. Many times since has he vindicated himself. He is a great first baseman now, and McGraw and he are close friends. That is the "inside" story of the most important game ever played in baseball and Merkle's connection with it. X When the Teams Are in Spring Training _The Hardships of the Preliminary Practice in Limbering up Muscles and Reducing Weight for the Big Campaign--How a Ball Club is Whipped into Playing Shape--Trips to the South Not the Picnics they Seem to Be--The Battle of the Bushers to Stay in the Big Show--Making a Pitcher--Some Fun on the Side, including the Adventure of the Turkish Bath._ Spring training! The words probably remind the reader of the sunny South and light exercise and good food and rubs and other luxuries, but the reader perhaps has never been with a Big League ball club when it is getting ready to go into a six months' campaign. All I can ever remember after a training trip is taking off and putting on a uniform, and running around the ball park under the inspiration of John McGraw, and he is some inspirer. The heavier a man gets through the winter, the harder the routine work is for him, and a few years ago I almost broke down and cried out of sympathy for Otis Crandall, who arrived in camp very corpulent. "What have you been doing this winter, Otie?" McGraw asked him after shaking hands in greeting, "appearing with a show as the stout lady? You'll have to take a lot of that off." "Taking it off" meant running several miles every day so bundled up that the Indiana agriculturist looked like the pictures published of "Old Doc" Cook which showed him discovering the north pole. Ever since, Crandall's spring training, like charity, has begun at home, and he takes exercise night and morning throughout the winter, so that when he comes into camp his weight will be somewhere near normal. In 1911 he had the best year of his career. He is the type of man who cannot afford to carry too much weight. He is stronger when he is slimmer. In contrast to him is George Wiltse, who maps out a training course with the idea of adding several pounds, as he is better with all the real weight he can put on. By that I do not mean any fat. George came whirling and spinning and waltzing and turkey-trotting and pirouetting across the field at Marlin Springs, Texas, the Giants' spring training headquarters, one day in the spring of 1911, developing steps that would have ruled him off any cotillion floor in New York in the days of the ban on the grizzly bear and kindred dances. Suddenly he dove down with his left hand and reached as far as he could. "What's that one, George?" I yelled as he passed me. "Getting ready to cover first base on a slow hit, Matty," he replied, and was off on another series of hand springs that made him look more like a contortionist rehearsing for an act which he was going to take out for the "big time" than a ball-player getting ready for the season. But perhaps some close followers of baseball statistics will recall a game that Wiltse took from the Cubs in 1911 by a wonderful one-hand reaching catch of a low throw to first base. Two Chicago runners were on the bags at the time and the loss of that throw would have meant that they both scored. Wiltse caught the ball, and it made the third out, and the Giants won the game. Thousands of fans applauded the catch, but the play was not the result of the exigencies of the moment. It was the outcome of forethought used months before. Spectators at ball games who wonder at the marvellous fielding of Wiltse should watch him getting ready during the spring season at Marlin. He is a tireless worker, and when he is not pitching he is doing hand springs and other acrobatic acts to limber up all his muscles. It is torture then, but it pays in the end. When I was a young fellow and read about the Big League clubs going South, I used to think what a grand life that must be. Riding in Pullmans, some pleasant exercise which did not entail the responsibility of a ball game, and plenty of food, with a little social recreation, were all parts of my dream. A young ball-player looks on his first spring training trip as a stage-struck young woman regards the theatre. She cannot wait for her first rehearsal, and she thinks only of the lobster suppers and the applause and the lights and the life, but nowhere in her dream is there a place for the raucous voice of the stage manager and the long jumps of "one night stands" with the loss of sleep and the poor meals and the cold dressing rooms. As actors begin to dread the drudgery of rehearsing, so do baseball men detest the drill of the spring training. The only thing that I can think of right away which is more tiresome and less interesting is signal practice with a college football team. About the time that the sap starts up in the trees and the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love and baseball, the big trek starts. Five hundred ball-players, attached more or less firmly to sixteen major league clubs, spread themselves out over the southern part of the United States, from Florida to California, and begin to prepare for the campaign that is to furnish the answer to that annual question, "Which is the best baseball club in the world?" In the case of the Giants, McGraw, with a flock of youngsters, has already arrived when the older men begin to drift into camp. The youngsters, who have come from the bushes and realize that this is their one big chance to make good, to be a success or a failure in their chosen profession--in short, to become a Big Leaguer or go back to the bushes for good--have already been working for ten days and are in fair shape. They stare at the regulars as the veterans straggle in by twos and threes, and McGraw has a brief greeting for each. He could use a rubber stamp. "How are you, Matty? What kind of shape are you in? Let's see you in a uniform at nine o'clock to-morrow morning." When I first start South, for the spring trip, after shivering through a New York winter, I arouse myself to some enthusiasm over the prospect, but all this has evaporated after listening to that terse speech from McGraw, for I know what it means. Nothing looms on the horizon but the hardest five weeks' grind in the world. The next day the practice begins, and for the first time in five months, a uniform is donned. I usually start my work by limbering up slowly, and on the first day I do not pitch at all. With several other players, I help to form a large circle and the time is spent in throwing the ball at impossible and unreachable points in the anatomy. The man next to you shoots one away up over your head and the next one at your feet and off to the side while he is looking at the third man from you. This is great for limbering up, but the loosening is torture. After about fifteen minutes of that, the winter-logged player goes over on the bench and drops down exhausted. But does he stay there? Not if McGraw sees him, and he is one of the busiest watchers I have ever met. "Here, Matty," he will shout, "lead this squad three times around the park and be careful not to cut the corners." By the time that little formality is finished, a man's tongue is hanging out and he goes to get a drink of water. The spring training is just one darned drink after another and still the player is always thirsty. After three hours of practice, McGraw may say: "All right, Matty. Go back to the hotel and get a bath and a rub and cut it out for to-day." Or he may remark: "You're looking heavy this year. Better take another little workout this afternoon." And so ends the first day. That night I flex the muscles in my salary wing and wonder to myself if it is going to be _very_ sore. I get the answer next day. And what always makes me maddest is that the fans up North imagine that we are having some kind of a picnic in Marlin Springs, Texas. My idea of no setting for a pleasure party is Marlin Springs, Texas. [Illustration: Photo by L. Van Oeyen, Cleveland, Ohio Close Play at the Plate This picture illustrates how easily the base runner, with his deceptive slide, can get away from the catcher, who has the ball waiting for him. It is always a hard decision for the umpire. Shown in the picture are, left to right, Conroy of Washington, Umpire Evans, and Catcher Land of Cleveland.] The morning of the second day is always a pleasant occasion. The muscles which have remained idle so long begin to rebel at the unaccustomed exercise, and the players are as pleasant as a flock of full-grown grizzly bears. I would not be a waiter for a ball club on a spring tour if they offered me a contract with a salary as large as J. P. Morgan's income. Each year the winter kinks seem to have settled into the muscles more permanently and are harder to iron out. Of course, there comes a last time for each one of us to go South, and every season I think, on the morning of the second day, when I try to work my muscles, that this one is my last. The bushers lend variety to the life in a spring camp. Many of them try hard to "horn in" with the men who have made good as Big Leaguers. When a young player really seems to want to know something, any of the older men will gladly help him, but the trouble with most of them is that they think they are wonders when they arrive. "How do you hold a curve?" a young fellow asked me last spring. I showed him. "Do you think Hans Wagner is as good as Ty Cobb?" he asked me next. "Listen!" I answered. "Did you come down here to learn to play ball or with the idea that you are attending some sort of a conversational soiree?" Many recruits think that, if they can get friendly with the veterans, they will be retained on account of their social standing, and I cannot "go" young ball-players who attempt to become the bootblacks for the old ones. I have seen many a youngster ruin himself, even for playing in the minors, through his too vigorous efforts to make good under the large tent. He will come into camp, and the first day out put everything he has on the ball to show the manager "he's got something." The Giants had a young pitcher with them in 1911, named Nagle, who tried to pick up the pace, on the first day in camp, at which he had left off on the closing day of the previous year. He started to shoot the ball over to the batters with big, sharp breaking curves on it. He had not been South three days before he developed a sore arm that required a sling to help him carry it around, and he never was able to twirl again before he was shunted back into the lesser leagues. But hope springs eternal in the breast of the bush leaguer in the spring, and many a young fellow, when he gets his send-off from the little, old home town, with the local band playing at the station, knows that the next time the populace of that place hears of him, it will be through seeing his name in the headlines of the New York papers. And then along about the middle of April, he comes sneaking back into the old burg, crestfallen and disappointed. There are a lot of humor and some pathos in a spring training trip. Many a busher I have seen go back who has tried hard to make good and just could not, and I have felt sorry for him. It is just like a man in any other business getting a chance at a better job than the one he is holding and not being big enough to fit it. It is the one time that opportunity has knocked, and most of the bush leaguers do not know the combination to open the door, and, as has been pointed out, opportunity was never charged with picking locks. Many are called in the spring, but few get past. Most of them are sincere young fellows, too, trying to make good, and I have seen them work until their tongues were hanging out and the perspiration was starting all over them, only to hear McGraw say: "I'm sorry, but you will have to go back again. I've let you out to Kankakee." "Steve Evans", who now plays right field on the St. Louis club, was South with the Giants one season and worked hard to stick. But McGraw had a lot of young out-fielders, and some minor league magnate from Montreal came into camp one day who liked "Steve's" action. McGraw started for the outfield where Evans was chasing flies and tried to get to "Steve," but every time the manager approached him with the minor league man, Evans would rush for a ball on another corner of the field, and he became suddenly hard of hearing. Finally McGraw abandoned the chase and let another out-fielder go to Montreal, retaining Evans. "Say, 'Steve,'" said "Mac," that night, "why didn't you come, when I called you out on the field there this afternoon?" "Because I could hear the rattle of the tin can you wanted to tie to me, all over the lot," replied Evans. And eventually, by that subtle dodging, he landed in the Big League under Bresnahan and has made good out there. I believe that a pitcher by profession has the hardest time of any of the specialists who go into a spring camp. His work is of a more routine nature than that which attaches to any of the other branches of the baseball art. It is nothing but a steady grind. The pitcher goes out each morning and gets a catcher with a big mitt and a loud voice and, with a couple of his fellow artists, starts to warm up with this slave-driver. The right sort of a catcher for spring rehearsing is never satisfied with anything you do. I never try to throw a curve for ten days at least after I get South, for a misplaced curve early in the season may give a man a sore arm for the greater part of the summer, and Big League clubs are not paying pitchers for wearing crippled whips. After warming up for an hour or so, three or four pitchers throw slow ones to a batter and try to get the ball on the half bounce and compete as to the number of fumbles. This is great for limbering up. Then comes the only real enjoyment of the day. It is quick in passing, like a piece of great scenery viewed out of the window of a railroad coach going sixty miles an hour. Each afternoon the regulars play the Yannigans (the spring name of the second team) a game of six innings, and each pitcher has a chance to work about one inning. The batters are away off form and are missing the old round-house curve by two feet that they would hit out of the lot in mid-season. This makes you think for a few minutes that you are a good pitcher. But there is even a drawback to this brief bit of enjoyment, for the diamond at Marlin is skinned--that is, made of dirt, although it is billed as a grass infield, and the ball gets "wingy." Little pieces of the cover are torn loose by contact with the rough dirt, and it is not at all like the hard, smooth, grass-stained ball that is prevalent around the circuit in mid-season. Grass seed has been planted on this infield, but so far, like a lot of bushers, it has failed to make good its promises. After that game comes the inevitable run around the park which has been a headliner in spring training ever since the institution was discovered. A story is told of "Cap" Anson and his famous old White Stockings. According to the reports I have heard, training with the "Cap" when he was right was no bed of roses. After hours of practice, he would lead the men in long runs, and the better he felt, the longer the runs. One hot day, so the story goes, Anson was toiling around the park, with his usual determination, at the head of a string of steaming, sweating players, when "Bill" Dahlen, a clever man at finding an opening, discovered a loose board in the fence on the back stretch, pulled it off, and dived through the hole. On the next lap two more tired athletes followed him, and at last the whole squad was on the other side of the fence, watching their leader run on tirelessly. But "Cap" must have missed the "plunk, plunk" of the footsteps behind him, for he looked around and saw that his players were gone. He kept grimly on, alone, until he had finished, and then he pushed his red face through the hole in the fence and saw his men. "Your turn now, boys," he said, and while he sat in the grand-stand as the sole spectator, he made that crowd of unfortunate athletes run around the track twice as many times as he himself had done. "Guess I won't have to nail up that hole in the fence, boys," "Cap" remarked when it was all over. Speaking of the influence of catchers on pitchers during the training trip, there is the well-known case of Wilbert Robinson, the old catcher, and "Rube" Marquard, the great left-handed pitcher of the Giants. "Robbie" devoted himself almost entirely in the spring of 1911 to the training of the then erratic "Rube," and he handed back to McGraw at the end of the rehearsal the man who turned out to be the premier pitcher of his League, according to the official figures, and figures are not in the habit of lying. "Robbie" used to take Marquard off into some corner every day and talk to him for hours. Draw up close, for I am going to tell you the secret of how Marquard became a great pitcher and that, too, at just about the time the papers were mentioning him as the "$11,000 lemon," and imploring McGraw to let him go to some club in exchange for a good capable bat boy. "Now 'Rube,'" would be "Robbie's" first line in the daily lecture, "you've got to start on the first ball to get the batter. Always have something on him and never let him have anything on you. This is the prescription for a great pitcher." One of the worst habits of Marquard's early days was to get a couple of strikes on a batter and then let up until he got himself "into a hole" and could not put the ball over. Robinson by his coaching gave him the confidence he lacked. "'Rube,' you've got a lot of stuff to-day," "Robbie" would advise, "but don't try to get it all on the ball. Mix it with a little control, and it will make a great blend. Now, this guy is a high ball hitter. Let's see you keep it low for him. He waits, so you will have to get it over." And out there in the hot Texas sun, with much advice and lots of patience, Wilbert Robinson was manufacturing a great pitcher out of the raw material. One of Marquard's worst faults, when he first broke into the League, was that he did not know the batters and their grooves, and these weaknesses Robinson drilled into his head--not that a drill was required to insert the information. Robinson was the coacher, umpire, catcher and batter rolled into one, and as a result look at the "Rube." When Marquard began to wabble a little toward the end of 1911 and to show some of his old shyness while the club was on its last trip West, Robinson hurried on to Chicago and worked with him for two days. The "Rube" had lost the first game of the series to the Cubs, but he turned around after Robinson joined us and beat them to death in the last contest. Pitchers, old and young, are always trying for new curves in the spring practice, and out of the South, wafted over the wires by the fertile imaginations of the flotilla of correspondents, drift tales each spring of the "fish" ball and the new "hook" jump and the "stop" ball and many more eccentric curves which usually boil down to modifications of the old ones. I worked for two weeks once on a new, slow, spit ball that would wabble, but the trouble was that I could never tell just when or where it was going to wabble, and so at last I had to abandon it because I could not control it. After sending out fake stories of new and wonderful curves for several years, at last the correspondents got a new one when the spit ball was first discovered by Stricklett, a Brooklyn pitcher, several seasons ago. One Chicago correspondent sent back to his paper a glowing tale of the wonderful new curve called the "spit ball," which was obtained by the use of saliva, only to get a wire from his office which read: "It's all right to 'fake' about new curves, but when it comes to being vulgar about it, that's going too far. Either drop that spit ball or mail us your resignation." The paper refused to print the story and a real new curve was born without its notice. As a matter of fact, Bowerman, the old Giant catcher, was throwing the spit ball for two or three years before it was discovered to be a pitching asset. He used to wet his fingers when catching, and as he threw to second base the ball would take all sorts of eccentric breaks which fooled the baseman, and none could explain why it did it until Stricklett came through with the spit ball. Many good pitchers, who feel their arms begin to weaken, work on certain freak motions or forms of delivery to make themselves more effective or draw out their baseball life in the Big Leagues for a year or two. A story is told of "Matty" Kilroy, a left-hander, who lived for two years through the development of what he called the "Bazzazaz" balk, and it had the same effect on his pitching as administering oxygen often has on a patient who is almost dead. "My old soup bone," says Kilroy, "was so weak that I couldn't break a pane of glass at fifty feet. So one winter I spent some time every day out in the back yard getting that balk motion down. I had a pretty fair balk motion when my arm was good, but I saw that it had to be better, so I put one stone in the yard for a home plate and another up against the fence for first base. Then I practised looking at the home plate stone and throwing at first base with a snap of the wrist and without moving my feet. It was stare steady at the batter, then the arm up to about my ear, and zip, with a twist of the wrist at first base, and you've got him! "I got so I could throw 'em harder to the bag with that wrist wriggle than I could to the batter, and I had them stickin' closer to the base for two years than a sixteen-year-old fellow does to his gal when they've just decided they would do for each other." As a rule McGraw takes charge of the batters and general team work at spring practice, and he is one of the busiest little persons in seven counties, for he says a lot depends on the start a club gets in a league race. He always wants the first jump because it is lots easier falling back than catching up. After a week or so of practice, the team is divided up into two squads, and one goes to San Antonio and the other to Houston each Saturday and Sunday to play games. One of the older men takes charge of the younger players, and there is a lot of rivalry between the two teams to see which one will make the better record, I remember one year I was handling the youngsters, and we went to Houston to play the team there and just managed to nose out a victory. McGraw thought that for the next Saturday he had better strengthen the Yannigans up a bit, so he sent Roger Bresnahan along to play third base instead of Henderson, the young fellow we had the week before. Playing third base could not exactly have been called a habit with "Rog" at that time. He was still pretty fat, and bending over quick after grounders was not his regular line. He booted two or three and finally managed to lose the game for us. We sent McGraw the following telegram that night: "John McGraw, manager of the Giants, San Antonio, Texas: "Will trade Bresnahan for Henderson. Rush answer." McGraw does not like to have any of his clubs beaten by the minor leaguers, because the bushers are inclined to imitate pouter pigeons right away after beating the Big Leaguers. The social side of a training trip consists of kicking about the grub, singing songs at night, and listening to the same old stories that creep out of the bushes on crutches year after year. Last spring the food got so bad that some of the newspaper men fixed up a fake story they said they were going to send to New York, displayed it to the proprietor, and he came through with beefsteak for three nights in succession, thus establishing a record and proving the power of the press. The trouble with the diet schedule on a spring trip is that almost invariably those hotels on the bush-league circuits serve dinner in the middle of the day, just when a ball-player does not feel like eating anything much. Then at night they have a pick-up supper when one's stomach feels as if it thought a fellow's throat had been cut. The Giants had an umpire with them in the spring of 1911, named Hansell, who enlivened the long, weary, training season some. Like a lot of the recruits who thought that they were great ball-players, this Hansell firmly believed he was a great umpire. He used to try to put players who did not agree with his decisions out of the game and, of course, they would not go. "Why don't you have them arrested if they won't leave?" McGraw asked him one day. "I would." So the next afternoon Hansell had a couple of the local constables out at the grounds and tried to have Devore pinched for kicking on a decision. "Josh" got sore and framed it up to have a camera man at the park the next day to take a moving picture of a mob scene, Hansell, the umpire, to be the hero and mobbed. Hansell fell for it until he saw all the boys picking up real clods and digging the dirt out of their spikes, and then he made a run for it and never came back. That is how we lost a great umpire. "You boys made it look too realistic for him," declared McGraw. Hansell had a notion that he was a runner and offered to bet Robinson, who is rather corpulent now, that he could beat him running across the field. Robinson took him, and walked home ahead of the umpire in the race. "I don't see where I get off on this deal," complained McGraw when it was over. "I framed up this race for you two fellows, and then Hansell comes to me and borrows the ten to pay 'Robbie.'" Somebody fixed up a Turkish bath in the hotel one day by stuffing up the cracks in one of the bathrooms and turning the hot water into the tub and the steam into the radiator full blast. Several towels were piled on the radiator and the players sat upon this swathed in blankets to take off weight. They entered the impromptu Turkish bath, wearing only the well-known smile. McGraw still maintains that it was "Bugs" Raymond who pulled out the towels when it came the manager's turn to sit on the radiator, and, if he could have proved his case, Raymond would not have needed a doctor. It would have been time for the undertaker. Finally comes the long wending of the way up North. "Bugs" Raymond always depends on his friends for his refreshments, and as he had few friends in Marlin in 1911, he got few drinks. But when we got to Dallas cocktails were served with the dinner and all the ball-players left them untouched, McGraw enforcing the old rule that lips that touch "licker" shall never moisten a spit ball for him. "Bugs" was missed after supper and some one found him out in the kitchen licking up all the discarded Martinis. That was the occasion of his first fine of the season, and after that, as "Bugs" himself admitted, "life for him was just one fine after another." At last, after the long junket through the South, on which all managers are Simon Legrees, is ended, comes a welcome day, when the new uniforms are donned and the band plays and "them woids" which constitute the sweetest music to the ears of a ball-player, roll off the tongue of the umpire: "The batteries for to-day are Rucker and Bergen for Brooklyn, Marquard and Meyers for New York. Play ball!" The season is on. XI Jinxes and What They Mean to a Ball-Player _A Load of Empty Barrels, Hired by John McGraw, once Pulled the Giants out of a Losing Streak--The Child of Superstition Appears to the Ball-Player in Many Forms--Various Ways in which the Influence of the Jinx can be Overcome--The True Story of "Charley" Faust--The Necktie that Helped Win a Pennant._ A friend of mine, who took a different fork in the road when we left college from the one that I have followed, was walking down Broadway in New York with me one morning after I had joined the Giants, and we passed a cross-eyed man. I grabbed off my hat and spat in it. It was a new hat, too. "What's the matter with you, Matty?" he asked, surprised. "Spit in your hat quick and kill that jinx," I answered, not thinking for the minute, and he followed my example. I forgot to mention, when I said he took another fork in the road, that he had become a pitcher, too, but of a different kind. He had turned out to be sort of a conversational pitcher, for he was a minister, and, as luck would have it, on the morning we met that cross-eyed man he was wearing a silk hat. I was shocked, pained, and mortified when I saw what I had made him do. But he was the right sort, and wanted to go through with the thing according to the standards of the professional man with whom he happened to be at the time. "What's the idea?" he asked as he replaced his hat. "Worst jinx in the world to see a cross-eyed man," I replied. "But I hope I didn't hurt your silk hat," I quickly apologized. "Not at all. But how about these ball-players who masticate the weed? Do they kill jinxes, too?" he wanted to know. And I had to admit that they were the main exterminators of the jinx. "Then," he went on, "I'm glad that the percentage of wearers of cross eyes is small." I have just looked into one of my favorite works for that word "jinx," and found it not. My search was in Webster's dictionary. But any ball-player can give a definition of it with his hands tied behind him--that is, any one except "Arlie" Latham, and, with his hands bound, he is deaf and dumb. A jinx is something which brings bad luck to a ball-player, and the members of the profession have built up a series of lucky and unlucky omens that should be catalogued. And besides the common or garden variety of jinxes, many stars have a series of private or pet and trained ones that are more malignant in their forms than those which come out in the open. A jinx is the child of superstition, and ball-players are among the most superstitious persons in the world, notwithstanding all this conversation lately about educated men breaking into the game and paying no attention whatever to the good and bad omens. College men are coming into both the leagues, more of them each year, and they are doing their share to make the game better and the class of men higher, but they fall the hardest for the jinxes. And I don't know as it is anything to be ashamed of at that. A really true, on-the-level, honest-to-jiminy jinx can do all sorts of mean things to a professional ball-player. I have seen it make a bad pitcher out of a good one, and a blind batter out of a three-hundred hitter, and I have seen it make a ball club, composed of educated men, carry a Kansas farmer, with two or three screws rattling loose in his dome, around the circuit because he came as a prophet and said that he was accompanied by Miss Fickle Fortune. And that is almost a jinx record. Jinx and Miss Fickle Fortune never go around together. And ball-players are always trying to kill this jinx, for, once he joins the club, all hope is gone. He dies hard, and many a good hat has been ruined in an effort to destroy him, as I have said before, because the wearer happened to be chewing tobacco when the jinx dropped around. But what's a new hat against a losing streak or a batting slump? Luck is a combination of confidence and getting the breaks. Ball-players get no breaks without confidence in themselves, and lucky omens inspire this confidence. On the other hand, unlucky signs take it away. The lucky man is the one who hits the nail on the head and not his fingers, and the ability to swat the nail on its receptive end is a combination of self-confidence and an aptitude for hammering. Good ball-playing is the combination of self-confidence and the ability to play. The next is "Red" Ames, although designated as "Leon" by his family when a very small boy before he began to play ball. (He is still called "Leon" in the winter.) Ames is of Warren, Ohio, and the Giants, and he is said to hold the Marathon record for being the most unlucky pitcher that ever lived, and I agree with the sayers. For several seasons, Ames couldn't seem to win a ball game, no matter how well he pitched. In 1909, "Red" twirled a game on the opening day of the season against Brooklyn that was the work of a master. For nine innings he held his opponents hitless, only to have them win in the thirteenth. Time and again Ames has pitched brilliantly, to be finally beaten by a small score, because one of the men behind him made an error at a critical moment, or because the team could not give him any runs by which to win. No wonder the newspapers began to speak of Ames as the "hoodoo" pitcher and the man "who couldn't win." There was a cross-eyed fellow who lived between Ames and the Polo Grounds, and "Red" used to make a detour of several blocks en route to the park to be sure to miss him in case he should be out walking. But one day in 1911, when it was his turn to pitch, he bumped into that cross-eyed man and, in spite of the fact that he did his duty by his hat and got three or four small boys to help him out, he failed to last two innings. When it came time to go West on the final trip of the 1911 season, Ames was badly discouraged. "I don't see any use in taking me along, Mac," he said to McGraw a few days before we left. "The club can't win with me pitching if the other guys don't even get a foul." The first stop was in Boston, and on the day we arrived it rained. In the mail that day, addressed to Leon Ames, came a necktie and a four-leaf clover from a prominent actress, wishing Ames good luck. The directions were inside the envelope. The four-leaf clover, if the charm were to work, must be worn on both the uniform and street clothes, and the necktie was to be worn with the street clothes and concealed in the uniform, if that necktie could be concealed anywhere. It would have done for a headlight and made Joseph's coat of many colors look like a mourning garment. "Might as well wish good luck to a guy on the way to the morgue," murmured Ames as he surveyed the layout, but he manfully put on the necktie, taking his first dose of the prescription, as directed, at once, and he tucked the four-leaf clover away carefully in his wallet. "You've got your work cut out for you, old boy," he remarked to the charm as he put it away, "but I'd wear you if you were a horseshoe." The first day that Ames pitched in Boston he won, and won in a stroll. "The necktie," he explained that night at dinner, and pointed to the three-sheet, colored-supplement affair he was wearing around his collar, "I don't change her until I lose." _And he didn't lose a game on that trip._ Once he almost did, when he was taken out in the sixth inning, and a batter put in for him, but the Giants finally pulled out the victory and he got the credit for it. He swept through the West unbeatable, letting down Pittsburg with two or three hits, cleaning up in St. Louis, and finally breaking our losing streak in Chicago after two games had gone against us. And all the time he wore that spectrum around his collar for a necktie. As it frayed with the wear and tear, more colors began to show, although I didn't think it possible. If he had had occasion to put on his evening clothes, I believe that tie would have gone with it. For my part, I would almost rather have lost a game and changed the necktie, since it gave one the feeling all the time that he was carrying it around with him because he had had the wrong end of an election bet, or something of the sort. But not Ames! He was a game guy. He stuck with the necktie, and it stuck with him, and the combination kept right on winning ball games. Maybe he didn't mind it because he could not see it himself, unless he looked in a mirror, but it was rough on the rest of the team, except that we needed the games the necktie won, to take the pennant. Columns were printed in the newspapers about that necktie, and it became the most famous scarf in the world. Ames used to sleep with it under his pillow alongside of his bank roll, and he didn't lose another game until the very end of the season, when he dropped one against Brooklyn. "I don't hardly lay that up against the tie," he said afterwards. "You see, Mac put all those youngsters into it, and I didn't get any support." Analyzing is a distasteful pastime to me, but let's see what it was that made Ames win. Was it the necktie? Perhaps not. But some sliver of confidence, which resulted from that first game when he was dressed up in the scarf and the four-leaf clover, got stuck in his mind. And after that the rest was easy. Frank Chance, the manager of the Cubs, has a funny superstition which is of the personal sort. Most ball-players have a natural prejudice against the number "13" in any form, but particularly when attached to a Pullman berth. But Chance always insists, whenever possible, that he have "lower 13." He says that if he can just crawl in under that number he is sure of a good night's rest, a safe journey, and a victory the next day. He has been in two or three minor railroad accidents, and he declares that all these occurred when he was sleeping on some other shelf besides "lower 13." He can usually satisfy his hobby, too, for most travellers steer clear of the berth. McGraw believes a stateroom brings him good luck, or at least he always insists on having one when he can get it. "Chance can have 'lower 13,'" says "Mac," "but give me a stateroom for luck." Most ball-players nowadays treat the superstitions of the game as jokes, probably because they are a little ashamed to acknowledge their weaknesses, but away down underneath they observe the proprieties of the ritual. Why, even I won't warm up with the third baseman while I am waiting for the catcher to get on his mask and the rest of his paraphernalia. Once, when I first broke in with the Giants, I warmed up with the third baseman between innings and in the next round they hit me hard and knocked me out of the box. Since then I have had an uncommon prejudice against the practice, and I hate to hear a man even mention it. Devlin knows of my weakness and never suggests it when he is playing the bag, but occasionally a new performer will drill into the box score at third base and yell: "Come on, Matty! Warm up here while you're waiting." It gets me. I'll pitch to the first baseman or a substitute catcher to keep warm, but I would rather freeze to death than heat up with the third baseman. That is one of my pet jinxes. And speaking of Arthur Devlin, he has a few hand-raised jinxes of his own, too. For instance, he never likes to hear a player hum a tune on the bench, because he thinks it will keep him from getting a base hit. He nearly beat a youngster to death one day when he kept on humming after Devlin had told him to stop. "Cut that out, Caruso," yelled Arthur, as the recruit started his melody. "You are killing base hits." The busher continued with his air until Devlin tried another form of persuasion. Arthur also has a favorite seat on the bench which he believes is luckier than the rest, and he insists on sitting in just that one place. But the worst blow Devlin ever had was when some young lady admirer of his in his palmy days, who unfortunately wore her eyes crossed, insisted on sitting behind third base for each game, so as to be near him. Arthur noticed her one day and, after that, it was all off. He hit the worst slump of his career. For a while no one could understand it, but at last he confessed to McGraw. "Mac," he said one night in the club-house, "it's that jinx. Have you noticed her? She sits behind the bag every day, and she has got me going. She has sure slid the casters under me. I wish we could bar her out, or poison her, or shoot her, or chloroform her, or kill her in some nice, mild way because, if it isn't done, this League is going to lose a ball-player. How can you expect a guy to play with that overlooking him every afternoon?" McGraw took Devlin out of the game for a time after that, and the newspapers printed several yards about the cross-eyed jinx who had ruined the Giants' third baseman. With the infield weakened by the loss of Devlin, the club began to lose with great regularity. But one day the jinxess was missing and she never came back. She must have read in the newspapers what she was doing to Devlin, her hero, and quit the national pastime or moved to another part of the stand. With this weight off his shoulders, Arthur went back into the game and played like mad. "If she'd stuck much longer," declared McGraw, joyous in his rejuvenated third baseman, "I would have had her eyes operated on and straightened. This club couldn't afford to keep on losing ball games because you are such a Romeo, Arthur, that even the cross-eyed ones fall for you." Ball-players are very superstitious about the bats. Did you ever notice how the clubs are all laid out in a neat, even row before the bench and are scrupulously kept that way by the bat boy? If one of the sticks by any chance gets crossed, all the players will shout: "Uncross the bats! Uncross the bats!" It's as bad as discovering a three-alarm fire in an excelsior factory. Don't believe it? Then listen to what happened to the Giants once because a careless bat boy neglected his duty. The team was playing in Cincinnati in the season of 1906 when one of the bats got crossed through the carelessness of the boy. What was the result? "Mike" Donlin, the star slugger of the team, slid into third base and came up with a broken ankle. Ever since that time we have carried our own boy with us, because a club with championship aspirations cannot afford to take a chance with those foreign artists handling the bats. They are likely to throw you down at any time. The Athletics have a funny superstition which is private or confined to their team as far as I know. When luck seems to be breaking against them in a game, they will take the bats and throw them wildly into the air and let them lie around in front of their bench, topsy-turvy. They call this changing the luck, but any other club would consider that it was the worst kind of a jinx. It is the same theory that card-players have about shuffling the deck vigorously to bring a different run of fortune. Then, if the luck changes, the Athletics throw the bats around some more to keep it. This act nearly cost them one of their best ball-players in the third game of the 1911 world's series. The Philadelphia players had tossed their bats to break their run of luck, for the score was 1 to 0 against them, when Baker came up in the ninth inning. He cracked his now famous home run into the right-field bleachers, and the men on the bench hurled the bats wildly into the air. In jumping up and reaching for a bat to throw, Jack Barry, the shortstop, hit his head on the concrete roof of the structure and was stunned for a minute. He said that little black specks were floating in front of his eyes, but he gamely insisted on playing the contest out. "Connie" Mack was so worried over his condition that he sent Ira Thomas out on the field to inquire if he were all right, and this interrupted the game in the ninth inning. A lot of the spectators thought that Thomas was out there, bearing some secret message from "Connie" Mack. None knew that he was ascertaining the health of a player who had almost killed himself while killing a jinx. The Athletics, for two seasons, have carried with them on all their trips a combination bat boy and mascot who is a hunchback, and he outjinxed our champion jinx killer, Charley Faust, in the 1911 world's series. A hunchback is regarded by ball-players as the best luck in the world. If a man can just touch that hump on the way to the plate, he is sure to get a hit, and any observant spectator will notice the Athletics' hitters rubbing the hunchback boy before leaving the bench. So attached to this boy have the players become that they voted him half a share of the prize money last year after the world's series. Lots of ball-players would tell you that he deserved it because he has won two world's pennants for them. Another great piece of luck is for a ball-player to rub a colored kid's head. I've walked along the street with ball-players and seen them stop a young negro and take off his hat and run their hands through his kinky hair. Then I've seen the same ball-player go out and get two or three hits that afternoon and play the game of his life. Again, it is the confidence inspired, coupled with the ability. Another old superstition among ball-players is that a load of empty barrels means base hits. If an athlete can just pass a flock of them on the way to the park, he is sure to step right along stride for stride with the three-hundred hitters that afternoon. McGraw once broke up a batting slump of the Giants with a load of empty barrels. That is why I maintain he is the greatest manager of them all. He takes advantage of the little things, even the superstitions of his men, and turns them to his account. He played this trick in one of the first years that he managed the New York club. The batting of all the players had slumped at the same time. None could hit, and the club was losing game after game as a result, because the easiest pitchers were making the best batters look foolish. One day Bowerman came into the clubhouse with a smile on his face for the first time in a week. "Saw a big load of empty barrels this afternoon, boys," he announced, "and just watch me pickle the pill out there to-day." Right at that point McGraw got an idea, as he frequently does. Bowerman went out that afternoon and made four hits out of a possible five. The next day three or four more of the players came into the park, carrying smiles and the announcement that fortunately they, too, had met a load of empty barrels. They, then, all went out and regained their old batting strides, and we won that afternoon for the first time in a week. More saw a load of barrels the next day and started to bat. At last all the members of the team had met the barrels, and men with averages of .119 were threatening to chisel into the three-hundred set. With remarkable regularity the players were meeting loads of empty barrels on their way to the park, and, with remarkable regularity and a great deal of expedition, the pitchers of opposing clubs were being driven to the shower bath. "Say," asked "Billy" Gilbert, the old second baseman, of "Bill" Lauder, formerly the protector of the third corner, one day, "is one of that team of horses sorrel and the other white?" "Sure," answered "Bill." "Sure," echoed McGraw. "I hired that load of empty barrels by the week to drive around and meet you fellows on the way to the park, and you don't think I can afford to have them change horses every day, do you?" Everybody had a good laugh and kept on swatting. McGraw asked for waivers on the load of empty barrels soon afterwards, but his scheme had stopped a batting slump and put the club's hitters on their feet again. He plays to the little personal qualities and superstitions in the men to get the most out of them. And just seeing those barrels gave them the idea that they were bound to get the base hits, and they got them. Once more, the old confidence, hitched up with ability. What manager would have carried a Kansas farmer around the circuit with him besides McGraw? I refer to Charles Victor Faust of Marion, Kansas, the most famous jinx killer of them all. Faust first met the Giants in St. Louis on the next to the last trip the club made West in the season of 1911, when he wandered into the Planter's Hotel one day, asked for McGraw and announced that a fortune teller of Marion had informed him he would be a great pitcher and that for $5 he could have a full reading. This pitching announcement piqued Charles, and he reached down into his jeans, dug out his last five, and passed it over. The fortune teller informed Faust that all he had to do to get into the headlines of the newspapers and to be a great pitcher was to join the New York Giants. He joined, and, after he once joined, it would have taken the McNamaras in their best form to separate him from the said Giants. "Charley" came out to the ball park and amused himself warming up. Incidentally, the Giants did not lose a game while he was in the neighborhood. The night the club left for Chicago on that trip, he was down at the Union Station ready to go along. "Did you get your contract and transportation?" asked McGraw, as the lanky Kansan appeared. "No," answered "Charley." "Pshaw," replied McGraw. "I left it for you with the clerk at the hotel. The train leaves in two minutes," he continued, glancing at his watch. "If you can run the way you say you can, you can make it and be back in time to catch it." It was the last we saw of "Charley" Faust for a time--galloping up the platform in his angular way with that contract and transportation in sight. "I'm almost sorry we left him," remarked McGraw as "Charley" disappeared in the crowd. We played on around the circuit with indifferent luck and got back to New York with the pennant no more than a possibility, and rather a remote one at that. The first day we were in New York "Charley" Faust entered the clubhouse with several inches of dust and mud caked on him, for he had come all the way either by side-door special or blind baggage. "I'm here, all right," he announced quietly, and started to climb into a uniform. "I see you are," answered McGraw. "Charley" stuck around for two or three days, and we won. Then McGraw decided he would have to be dropped and ordered the man on the door of the clubhouse to bar this Kansas kid out. Faust broke down and cried that day, and we lost. After that he became a member of the club, and we won game after game until some busy newspaper man obtained a vaudeville engagement for him at a salary of $100 a week. We lost three games the week he was absent from the grounds, and Faust saw at once he was not doing the right thing by the club, so, with a wave of his hand that would have gone with J. P. Morgan's income, he passed up some lucrative vaudeville contracts, much to the disgust of the newspaper man, who was cutting the remuneration with him, and settled down to business. The club did not lose a game after that, and it was decided to take Faust West with us on the last and famous trip in 1911. Daily he had been bothering McGraw and Mr. Brush for his contract, for he wanted to pitch. The club paid him some money from time to time to meet his personal expenses. The Sunday night the club left for Boston, a vaudeville agent was at the Grand Central Station with a contract offering Faust $100 a week for five weeks, which "Charley" refused in order to stick with the club. It was the greatest trip away from home in the history of baseball. Starting with the pennant almost out of reach, the Giants won eighteen and lost four games. One contest that we dropped in St. Louis was when some of the newspaper correspondents on the trip kidnapped Faust and sat him on the St. Louis bench. Another day in St. Louis the game had gone eleven innings, and the Cardinals needed one run to win. They had several incipient scores on the bases and "Rube" Marquard, in the box, was apparently going up in the air. Only one was out. Faust was warming up far in the suburbs when, under orders from McGraw, I ran out and sent him to the bench, for that was the place from which his charm seemed to be the most potent. "Charley" came loping to the bench as fast as his long legs would transport him and St. Louis didn't score and we won the game. It was as nice a piece of pinch mascoting as I ever saw. The first two games that "Charley" really lost were in Chicago. And all through the trip, he reiterated his weird prophecies that "the Giants with Manager McGraw were goin' ta win." The players believed in him, and none would have let him go if it had been necessary to support him out of their own pockets. And we did win. "Charley," with his monologue and great good humor, kept the players in high spirits throughout the journey, and the feeling prevailed that we couldn't lose with him along. He was advertised all over the circuit, and spectators were going to the ball park to see Faust and Wagner. "Charley" admitted that he could fan out Hans because he had learned how to pitch out there in Kansas by correspondence school and had read of "Hans's" weakness in a book. His one "groove" was massages and manicures. He would go into the barber shop with any member of the team who happened to be getting shaved and take a massage and manicure for the purposes of sociability, as a man takes a drink. He easily was the record holder for the manicure Marathon, hanging up the figures of five in one day in St. Louis. He also liked pie for breakfast, dinner and supper, and a small half before retiring. But, alas! "Charley" lost in the world's series. He couldn't make good. And a jinx killer never comes back. He is gone. And his expansive smile and bump-the-bumps slide are gone with him. That is, McGraw hopes he is gone. But he was a wonder while he had it. And he did a great deal toward giving the players confidence. With him on the bench, they thought they couldn't lose, and they couldn't. It has long been a superstition among ball-players that when a "bug" joins a club, it will win a championship, and the Giants believed it when "Charley" Faust arrived. Did "Charley" Faust win the championship for the Giants? * * * * * Another time-honored superstition among ball-players is that no one must say to a pitcher as he goes to the box for the eighth inning: "Come on, now. Only six more men." Or for the ninth: "Pitch hard, now. Only three left." Ames says that he lost a game in St. Louis once because McGraw forgot himself and urged him to pitch hard because only three remained to be put out. Those three batters raised the mischief with Ames's prospects; he was knocked out of the box in that last inning, and we lost the game. That was before the days of the wonder necktie. Ames won the third game played in Chicago on the last trip West. Coming into the ninth inning, he had the Cubs beaten, when McGraw began: "Come on, 'Red,' only----" "Nix, Mac," cut in Ames, "for the love of Mike, be reasonable." And then he won the game. But the chances are that if McGraw had got that "only three more" out, he would have lost, because it would have been working on his strained nerves. XII Base Runners and How They Help a Pitcher to Win _The Secret of Successful Base Running is Getting the Start--A Club Composed of Good Base Runners Is Likely to do More to Help a Pitcher Win Games than a Batting Order of Hard Hitters--Stealing Second Is an Art in Taking Chances--The Giants Stole their Way to a Pennant, but "Connie" Mack Stopped the Grand Larceny when it Came to a World's Championship._ Many times have the crowds at the Polo Grounds seen a man get on first base in a close game, and, with the pitcher's motion, start to steal second, only to have the catcher throw him out. The spectators groan and criticise the manager. "Why didn't he wait for the hitters to bat him around?" is the cry. Then, again, a man starts for the base, times his get-away just right, and slides into the bag in a cloud of dust while the umpire spreads out his hands indicating that he is safe. The crowd cheers and proclaims McGraw a great manager and the stealer a great base runner. Maybe the next batter comes along with a hit, and the runner scores. It wins the game, and mention is made in the newspapers the next morning of the fast base running of the club. A man has covered ninety feet of ground while the ball is travelling from the pitcher to the catcher and back to the fielder who is guarding second base. It is the most important ninety feet in baseball. From second base just one hit scores the runner. Stealing second, one of the most picturesque plays of the game, is the gentle art of taking a chance. In 1911, the Giants stole more bases than any other Big League club has had to its credit since the Pirates established the record in 1903. Devore, Snodgrass, Murray, Merkle and Doyle, once they got on the bases were like loose mercury. They couldn't be caught. And McGraw stole his way to a pennant with this quintet of runners, not alone because of the number of bases they pilfered, but because of the edge it gave the Giants on the rest of the clubs, with the men with base-stealing reputations on the team. I should say that holding these runners up on the bases and worrying about what they were going to do reduced the efficiency of opposing pitchers one-third. It wasn't the speed of the men that accounted for the record. A sprinter may get into the Big League and never steal a base. But it was the McGraw system combined with their natural ability. "Get the start," reiterates McGraw. "Half of base stealing is leaving the bag at the right time. Know when you have a good lead and then never stop until you have hit the dirt." It is up to the pitcher as much as the catcher to stop base stealing, for once a club begins running wild on another, the bats might as well be packed up and the game conceded. Pitchers make a study of the individual runners and their styles of getting starts. In my mind, I know just how much of a lead every base runner in the National League can take on me with impunity. "Bob" Bescher of the Cincinnati club was the leading, bright, particular base-stealing star of the National League in the season of 1911, and the secret of his success was in his start. He tries to get as big a lead as possible with each pitch, and then, when he intends to leave, edges a couple of feet farther than usual, catching the pitcher unawares. With the two extra feet, Bescher is bound to get to second base at the same time as the ball, and no catcher in the world can stop him. Therefore, it is up to the pitcher to keep him from getting this start--the two more feet he seeks. I know that Bescher can take ten feet from the bag when I am pitching and get back safely. But, I am equally sure that, if he makes his lead twelve feet and I notice it, I can probably catch him. As a good ribbon salesman constantly has in his mind's eye the answer to the question, "How far is a yard?" so I know at a glance exactly how far Bescher can lead and get back safely, when he is on first base. If I glance over and see him twelve feet away from the bag and about to start, I turn and throw and catch him flat-footed. The crowd laughs at him and says: "Bescher asleep at the switch again!" The real truth is that Bescher was not asleep, but trying to get that old jump which would have meant the stolen base. Again, he takes the twelve feet, and I don't perceive it. He gets started with my arm and goes into the bag ahead of the ball. "Great base runner," comments the fickle crowd. Bescher has only accomplished what he was trying to do before, but he has gotten away with it this time. Being a great ball-player is the gentle art of getting away with it. Spectators often wonder why a pitcher wearies them with throwing over to the first base many times, when it is plain to see that he has no chance of catching his quarry. "Bill" Dahlen used to be one of the best men in the game for getting back in some way when on base, employing a straddle slide and just hooking the bag with his toe, leaving "a shoe-string to touch." The result was that he was always handing the pitcher the laugh as he brushed himself off, for none can say Dahlen was not an immaculate ball-player. But the pitchers found out that they could tire Dahlen out by repeatedly throwing over to the bag, and that, after five throws, which required five dashes and slides back to the base, he was all in and could not steal because he didn't have the physical strength left. Thus, as soon as Dahlen got on, a pitcher began throwing over until he had him tired out, and then he pitched to the batter. So "Bill" crossed them by living on the bag until he thought he saw his opportunity to get the jump, and then he would try to steal. Few good base runners watch the ball after they have once left the bag. They look at the baseman to see how he is playing and make the slide accordingly. If Devore sees Huggins of St. Louis behind the base, he slides in front and pulls his body away from the bag, so that he leaves the smallest possible area to touch. If he observes the baseman cutting inside to block him off, he goes behind and hooks it with just one toe, again presenting the minimum touching surface. If the ball is hit while the runner is en route, he takes one quick glance at the coacher on the third base line and can tell by his motions whether to turn back or to continue. McGraw devotes half his time and energy in the spring to teaching his men base running and the art of sliding, which, when highly cultivated, means being there with one toe and somewhere else with the rest of the body. But most of all he impresses on the athletes the necessity of getting the start before making the attempt to steal. As long as I live I shall believe that if Snodgrass had known he had the jump in the third game of the world's series in 1911, when he really had it, and if he had taken advantage of it, we would have won the game and possibly the championship. It was in the contest that Baker balanced by banging the home run into the right field bleachers in the ninth inning, when I was pitching. That tied the score, 1 to 1. For nine innings I had been pitching myself out, putting everything that I had on every ball, because the team gave me no lead to rest on. When Baker pushed that ball into the bleachers with only two more men to get out to win the game, I was all in. But I managed to live through the tenth with very little on the ball, and we came to the bat. Snodgrass got a base on balls and journeyed to second on a sacrifice. He was taking a big lead off the middle base with the pitcher's motion, and running back before the catcher got the ball, because a quick throw would have caught him. It was bad baseball, but he was nervous with the intense strain and over-eager to score. Then came the time when he took a longer lead than any other, and Lapp, the Athletics' catcher, seeing him, was sure he was going to steal, and in his hurry to get the ball away and save the game, let it past him. Snodgrass had the jump, and probably would have made the base had he kept on going, but he had no orders to steal and had turned and taken a step or two back toward second when he saw Lapp lose the ball. Again he turned and retraced his steps, and I never saw a man turn so slowly, simply because I realized how important a turn that was going to be. Next I looked at Lapp and saw him picking up the ball, which had rolled only about three feet behind him. He snapped it to third and had Snodgrass by several feet. Snodgrass realized this as he plunged down the base line, but he could not stop and permit himself to be tagged and he could not go back, so he made that historic slide which was heard almost around the world, cut off several yards of Frank Baker's trousers, and more important than the damage to the uniform, lost us the game. Snodgrass had the jump in his first start, and if he had kept right on going he would have made the bag without the aid of the passed ball, in my opinion. But he did not know that he had this advantage and was on his way back, when it looked for a minute as if the Athletics' catcher had made a mistake. This really turned out to be the "break" in the game, for it was on that passed ball that Snodgrass was put out. He would probably have scored the run which would have won the game had he lived either on second or third base, for a hit followed. After losing the contest after watching the opportunity thrown away, some fan called me on the telephone that night, when I was feeling in anything but a conversational mood, and asked me: "Was that passed ball this afternoon part of the Athletics' inside game? Did Lapp do it on purpose?" In passing I want to put in a word for Snodgrass, not because he is a team-mate of mine, but on account of the criticism which he received for spiking Baker, and which was not deserved. And in that word I do not want to detract from Baker's reputation a scintilla, if I could, for he is a great ball-player. But I want to say that if John Murray had ever been called upon to slide into that bag with Baker playing it as he did, Baker would probably have been found cut in halves, and only Murray's own style of coasting would have been responsible for it. If Fred Clarke of Pittsburg had been the man coming in, Baker would probably have been neatly cut into thirds, one third with each foot. Clarke is known as one of the most wicked sliders in the National League. He jumps into the air and spreads his feet apart, showing his spikes as he comes in. The Giants were playing in Pittsburg several years ago, before I was married, and there was a friend of mine at the ball park with whom I was particularly eager to make a hit. The game was close, as are all contests which lend themselves readily to an anecdote, and Clarke got as far as third base in the eighth inning, with the score tied and two out. Warner, the Giants' catcher, let one get past him and I ran in to cover the plate. Clarke came digging for home and, as I turned to touch him, he slid and cut my trousers off, never touching my legs. It was small consolation to me that my stems were still whole and that the umpire had called Clarke out and that the game was yet saved. My love for my art is keen, but it stops at a certain point, and that point is where I have to send a hurry call for a barrel and the team's tailor. The players made a sort of group around me while I did my Lady Godiva act from the plate to the bench. Murray has the ideal slide for a base gatherer, but one which commands the respect of all the guardians of the sacks in the National League. When about eight feet from the bag, he jumps into the air, giving the fielder a vision of two sets of nicely honed spikes aimed for the base. As Murray hits the bag, he comes up on his feet and is in a position to start for the next station in case of any fumble or slip. He is a great man to use this slide to advantage against young players, who are inclined to be timid when they see those spikes. It's all part of the game as it is played in the large leagues. The Boston team was trying out a young player two years ago. Murray remarked to McGraw before the game: "The first time I get on, I bet I can make that fellow fumble and pick up an extra base." "Theatre tickets for the crowd on Saturday night?" inquired McGraw. "You've said it," answered Murray. Along about the second or third inning John walked, and started for second on the first ball pitched. The busher came in to cover the base, and Murray leaped clear of the ground and yelled: "Look out!" The newcomer evidently thought that Murray had lost control of his legs, got one look at those spikes, and bent all his energies toward dodging them, paying no attention whatever to the ball, which continued its unmolested journey to centre field. The new man proved to be one of the best little dodgers I ever saw. John was in a perfect position to start and went along to third at his leisure. "Didn't I call the turn?" Murray yelled at McGraw as he came to the bench. "What show do you want to see?" asked McGraw. But on an old campaigner this show of spikes has no effect whatever. The capable basemen in the League know how to cover the bag so as to get the runner out and still give him room to come in without hurting any one. In spite of an impression that prevails to the contrary, ball-players never spike a man on purpose. At present, I don't believe there is a runner in the National League who would cut down another man if he had the opportunity. If one man does spike another accidentally, he is heartily sorry, and often such an event affects his own playing and his base running ability. The feet-first slide is now more in vogue in the Big Leagues than the old head-first coast, and I attribute this to two causes. One is that the show of the spikes is a sort of assurance the base runner is going to have room to come into the bag, and the second is that the great amount of armor which a catcher wears in these latter days makes some such formidable slide necessary when coming into the plate. If a base runner hits a catcher squarely with his shin guards on, he is likely to be badly injured, and he must be sure that the catcher is going to give him a clear path. Some catchers block off the plate so that a man has got to shoot his spikes at them to get through, and I'm not saying that it's bad catching, because that is the way to keep a man from scoring. Make him go around if possible. But the game has changed in the last few years as far as intentional spiking goes. Many a time, when I first started with the Giants, I heard a base runner shout at a fielder: "Get out of the way there or I'll cut you in two!" And he would not have hesitated to do it, either. That was part of the game. But nowadays, if a player got the reputation of cutting men down and putting star players out of the game intentionally, he would soon be driven out of the League, probably on a stretcher. When John Hummel of the Brooklyn club spiked Doyle in 1908, and greatly lessened the Giants' chances of winning the pennant, which the club ultimately lost, he came around to our clubhouse after the game and inquired for Larry. When he found how badly Doyle was cut, he was as broken up as any member of our team. "If I'd known I was goin' to cut you, Larry, I wouldn't have slid," he said. "That's all right," answered Doyle. "I guess I was blockin' you." Ball-players don't say much in a situation of that kind. But each one who witnessed the incident knew that when Doyle doubled down, spiked, most of our chances of the pennant went down with him, for it broke up the infield of the team at a most important moment. It takes some time for a new part to work into a clock so that it keeps perfect time again, no matter how delicate is the workmanship of the new part. So the best infielder takes time to fit into the infield of a Big League club and have it hit on all four cylinders again. Fred Merkle is one of the few ball-players who still prefers the head-first slide, and he sticks to it only on certain occasions. He is the best man to steal third base playing ball to-day. He declares that, when he is going into the bag, he can see better by shooting his head first and that he can swing his body away from the base and just hook it with one finger nail, leaving just that to touch. And he keeps his nails clipped short in the season, so that there is very little exposed to which the ball can be applied. If he sees that the third baseman is playing inside the bag, he goes behind it and hooks it with his finger, and if the man is playing back, he cuts through in front, pulling his body away from the play. But the common or garden variety of player will take the hook slide, feet first, because he can catch the bag with one leg, and the feet aren't as tender a portion of the anatomy to be roughly touched as the head and shoulders. A club of base runners will do more to help a pitcher win than a batting order of hard hitters, I believe. Speed is the great thing in the baseball of to-day. By speed I do not mean that good men must be sprinters alone. They must be fast starters, fast runners and fast thinkers. Remember that last one--fast thinkers. Harry McCormick, formerly the left-fielder on the Giants, when he joined the club before his legs began to go bad, was a sprinter, one of the fastest men who ever broke into the League. Before he took up baseball as a profession, he had been a runner in college. But McCormick was never a brilliant base stealer because he could not get the start. When a man is pitching for a club of base runners he knows that every time a player with a stealing reputation gets on and there is an outside chance of his scoring, the run is going to be hung up. The tallies give a pitcher confidence to proceed. Then, when the club has the reputation of possessing a great bunch of base runners, the other pitcher is worried all the time and has to devote about half his energies to watching the bases. This makes him easier to hit. But put a hard hitter who is a slow base runner on the club, and he does little good. There used to be a man on the Giants, named "Charley" Hickman, who played third base and then the outfield. He was one of the best natural hitters who ever wormed his way into baseball, but when he got on, the bases were blocked. He could not run, and it took a hit to advance him a base. Get a fast man on behind him and, because the rules of the game do not permit one runner to pass another, it was like having a freight train preceding the Twentieth Century Limited on a single track road. Hickman was not so slow when he first started, but after a while his legs went bad and his weight increased, so that he was built like a box car, to carry out the railroad figure. Hickman finally dropped back into the minor leagues and continued to bat three hundred, but he had to lose the ball to make the journey clear around the bases on one wallop. Once he hit the old flag pole in centre field at the Polo Grounds on the fly, and just did nose the ball out at the plate. It was a record hit for distance. At last, while still maintaining the three-hundred pace, Hickman was dropped by the Toledo club of the American Association. "Why did you let Charley Hickman go?" I asked the manager one day. "Because he was tyin' up traffic on the bases," he replied. Merkle is not a particularly fast runner, but he is a great base stealer because he has acquired the knack of "getting away." He never tries to steal until he has his start. He is also a good arriver, as I have pointed out. It was like getting a steamroller in motion to start Hickman. Clever ball-players and managers are always trying to evolve new base-running tactics that will puzzle the other team, but "there ain't no new stuff." It is a case of digging up the old ones. Pitchers are also earnest in their endeavors to discover improved ways to stop base running. Merkle and I worked out a play during the spring training season in 1911 which caught perhaps a dozen men off first base before the other teams began to watch for the trick. And it was not original with me. I got the idea from "Patsy" Flaherty, a Boston pitcher who has his salary wing fastened to his left side. Flaherty would pitch over to first base quickly, and the fielder would shoot the ball back. Then Flaherty would pop one through to the batter, often catching him off his guard, and sneaking a strike over besides leaving the runner flat on the ground in the position in which he had been when he slid back to the bag. If the batter hit the ball, the runner was in no attitude to get a start, and, on an infield tap, it was easy to make a double play. The next time that the man got on base, Flaherty would shoot the ball over to first as before, and the runner would be up on his feet and away from the bag, expecting him to throw it to the plate. But as the first baseman whipped it back quickly Flaherty returned the ball and the runner was caught flat footed and made to look foolish. Ball-players do certainly hate to appear ridiculous, and the laugh from the crowd upsets a Big Leaguer more than anything else, even a call from McGraw, because the crowd cannot hear that and does not know the man is looking foolish. It was almost impossible to steal bases on "Patsy" Flaherty because he had the men hugging the bag all the time, and if he had had other essentials of a pitcher, he would have been a great one. He even lived in the Big League for some time with this quick throw as his only asset. I adopted the Flaherty movement, but it is harder for a right-hander to use, as he is not in such a good position to whip the ball to the bag. Merkle and I rehearsed it in spring practice. As soon as a man got on first base, I popped the ball over to Merkle, and without even making a stab at the runner, he shot it to me. Then back again, just as the runner had let go of the bag and was getting up. The theoretical result: He was caught flat-footed. Sometimes it worked. Then they began to play for me. Another play on which the changes have often been rung is the double steal with men on first and third bases. That is McGraw's favorite situation in a crisis. "Somebody's got to look foolish on the play," says "Mac," "and I don't want to furnish any laughs." The old way to work it was to have the man on first start for second, as if he were going to make a straight steal. Then as soon as the catcher drew his arm back to throw, the runner on third started home. No Big League club can have a look into the pennant set without trying to interrupt the journey of that man going to second in a tight place, because if no play is made for him and a hit follows, it nets the club two runs instead of one. Most teams try to stop this play by having the shortstop or second baseman come in and take a short throw, and if the man on third breaks for home, the receiver of the ball whips it back. If both throws are perfect, the runner is caught at the plate. But the catchers found that certain clubs were making this play in routine fashion, the runner on first starting with the pitch, and the one on third making his break just as soon as the catcher drew back his arm. Then the backstops began making a bluff throw to second and whipping the ball to third, often getting the runner by several feet, as he had already definitely started for the plate. "Tommy" Leach of the Pittsburg club was probably caught oftener on this bluff throw than any other man in baseball. For some time he had been making the play against clubs which used the short throw, and starting as the catcher drew back his arm, as that was the only chance he had to score. One day in the season of 1908, when the Pirates were playing against the Giants, Clarke was on first and Leach on third, with one run required to balance the game. McGraw knew the double steal was to be expected, as two were out. Bresnahan was aware of this, too. McGinnity was pitching, and with his motion, Clarke got his start. Bresnahan drew back his arm as if to throw to second, and true to form, Leach was on his way to the plate. But Bresnahan had not let go of the ball, and he shot it to Devlin, Leach being run down in the base line and the Pittsburg club eventually losing the game. Again and again Leach fell for this bluff throw, until the news spread around the circuit that once a catcher drew back his arm with a man on first base and "Tommy" Leach on third, there would be no holding him on the bag. He was caught time and again--indeed as frequently as the play came up. It was his "groove." He could not be stopped from making his break. At last Clarke had to order him to abandon the play until he could cure himself of this self-starting habit. "What you want to do on that play is cross 'em," is McGraw's theory, and he proceeded to develop the delayed steal with this intent. Put the men back on first and third bases. Thank you. The pitcher has the ball. The runner on first intentionally takes too large a lead. The pitcher throws over, and he moves a few steps toward second. Then a few more. All that time the man on third is edging off an inch, two inches, a foot. The first baseman turns to throw to second to stop that man. The runner on third plunges for the plate, and usually gets there. It's a hard one to stop, but that's its purpose. Then, again, it can be worked after the catcher gets the ball. The runner starts from first slowly and the catcher hesitates, not knowing whether to throw to first or second. Since the runner did not start with the pitch, theoretically no one has come in to take a short throw, and the play cannot be made back to the plate if the ball is thrown to second. This form of the play is usually successful. Miller Huggins is one of the hardest second basemen in the League to work it against successfully. With men on first and third, he always comes in for the short throw on the chance, and covers himself up. After we had stolen our way to a pennant in the National League in the season of 1911, and after our five leading base runners had been "mugged" by the police in St. Louis so that the catchers would know them, many fans expected to see us steal a world's championship, and we half expected it ourselves. But so did "Connie" Mack, and there lies the answer. He knew our strong point, and his players had discussed and rehearsed ways and means to break up our game. Mack had been watching the Giants for weeks previous to the series and had had his spies taking notes. "We've got to stop them running bases," he told his men before the first game, I have learned since. And they did. Guess the St. Louis police must have sent Thomas and Lapp copies of those pictures. Mack's pitchers cut their motions down to nothing with men on the bases, microscopic motions, and they watched the runners like hawks. Thomas had been practising to get the men. The first time that Devore made a break to steal, he was caught several feet from the bag. "And you call yourself fast!" commented Collins as he threw the ball back to the pitcher and jogged to his job. "You remind me of a cop on a fixed post," he flung over his shoulder. Pitchers have a great deal to do with the defensive efficiency of the club. If they do not hold the runners up, the best catcher in the world cannot stop them at their destination. That is the reason why so many high-class catchers have been developed by the Chicago Cubs. The team has always had a good pitching staff, and men like Overall, Brown and Reulbach force the runners to stick to the oases of safety. The Giants stole their way to a pennant in 1911, and it wasn't on account of the speedy material, but because McGraw had spent days teaching his men to slide and emphasizing the necessity of getting the jump. Then he picked the stages of the game when the attempts to steal were to be made. But McGraw, with his all-star cast of thieves, was stopped in the world's series by one Cornelius McGillicuddy. XIII Notable Instances Where the "Inside" Game Has Failed _The "Inside" Game is of Little Avail when a Batter Knocks a Home Run with the Bases Full--Many Times the Strategies of Managers have Failed because Opposing Clubs "Doctored" their Grounds--"Rube" Waddell Once Cost the Athletics a Game by Failing to Show up after the Pitcher's Box had been Fixed for Him--But, although the "Inside" Game Sometimes Fails, no Manager Wants a Player who will Steal Second with the Bases Full._ There is an old story about an altercation which took place during a wedding ceremony in the backwoods of the Virginia mountains. The discussion started over the propriety of the best man holding the ring, and by the time that it had been finally settled the bride gazed around on a dead bridegroom, a dead father, and a dead best man, not to mention three or four very dead ushers and a clergyman. "Them new fangled self-cockin' automatic guns has sure raised hell with my prospects," she sighed. That's the way I felt when John Franklin Baker popped that home run into the right-field stand in the ninth inning of the third game of the 1911 world's series with one man already out. For eight and one-third innings the Giants had played "inside" ball, and I had carefully nursed along every batter who came to the plate, studying his weakness and pitching at it. It looked as if we were going to win the game, and then zing! And also zowie! The ball went into the stand on a line and I looked around at my fielders who had had the game almost within their grasp a minute before. Instantly, I realized that I had been pitching myself out, expecting the end to come in nine innings. My arm felt like so much lead hanging to my side after that hit. I wanted to go and get some crape and hang it on my salary whip. Then that old story about the wedding popped into my head, and I said to myself: "He has sure raised hell with your prospects." "Sam" Strang, the official pinch hitter of the Giants a few seasons ago, was one of the best in the business. McGraw sent him to the bat in the ninth inning of a game the Giants were playing in Brooklyn. We were two runs behind and two were already out, with one runner on the bases, and he was only as far as second. "Doc" Scanlon was pitching for Brooklyn, and, evidently intimidated by Sam's pinch-hitting reputation or something, suddenly became wild and gave the Giant batter three balls. With the count three and nothing, McGraw shouted from the bench: "Wait it out, Sam!" But Sam did not hear him, and he took a nice masculine, virile, full-armed swing at the ball and fouled it out of the reach of all the local guardians of the soil. "Are you deaf?" barked McGraw. "Wait it out, I tell you." As a matter of fact, Strang was a little deaf and did not hear the shouted instructions the second time. But "Doc" Scanlon was sensitive as to hearing and, feeling sure Strang would obey the orders of McGraw, thought he would be taking no chances in putting the next ball over the centre of the plate. It came up the "groove," and Strang admired it as it approached. Then he took his swing, and the next place the ball touched was in the Italian district just over the right field fence. The hit tied the score. McGraw met Strang at the plate, and instead of greeting him with shouts of approbation, exclaimed: "I ought to fine you $25, and would, except for those two runs and the few points' difference the game will make in the percentage. Come on now, boys. Let's win this one." And we did in the eleventh inning. That was a case of the "inside" game failing. Any Big League pitcher with brains would have laid the ball over after hearing McGraw shout earnest and direct orders at the batter to "wait it out." Scanlon was playing the game and Strang was not, but it broke for Sam. It was the first time in his life that he ever hit the ball over the right field fence in Brooklyn, and he has never done it since. If he had not been lucky in connecting with that ball and lifting it where it did the most good, his pay envelope would have been lighter by $25 at the end of the month, and he would have obtained an accurate idea of McGraw's opinion of his intellectuality. In the clubhouse after the victory, McGraw said: "Honest, Sam, why did you swing at that ball after I had told you not to?" "I didn't hear you," replied Strang. "Well, it's lucky you hit it where they weren't," answered McGraw, "because if any fielder had connected with the ball, there would have been a rough greeting waiting for you on the bench. And as a tip, Sam, direct from me: You got away with it once, but don't try it again. It was bad baseball." "But that straight one looked awful good to me coming up the 'groove,'" argued Sam. "Don't fall for all the good lookers, Sam," suggested McGraw, the philosopher. Strang is now abroad having his voice cultivated and he intends to enter the grand-opera field as soon as he can finish the spring training in Paris and get his throat into shape for the big league music circuit. But I will give any orchestra leader who faces Sam a tip. If he doesn't want him to come in strong where the music is marked "rest," don't put one in the "groove," because Strang just naturally can't help swinging at it. He is a poor waiter. The Boston club lost eighteen straight games in the season of 1910, and as the team was leaving the Polo Grounds after having dropped four in a row, making the eighteen, I said to Tenney: "How does it seem, Fred, to be on a club that has lost eighteen straight?" "It's what General Sherman said war is," replied Tenney, who seldom swears. "But for all-around entertainment I would like to see John McGraw on a team which had dropped fifteen or sixteen in a row." As if Tenney had put the curse on us, the Giants hit a losing streak the next day that totalled six games straight. Everything that we tried broke against us. McGraw would attempt the double steal, and both throws would be accurate, and the runner caught at the plate. A hit and a run sign would be given, and the batter would run up against a pitch-out. McGraw was slowly going crazy. All his pet "inside" tricks were worthless. He, the king of baseball clairvoyants, could not guess right. It began to look to me as if Tenney would get his entertainment. After the sixth one had gone against us and McGraw had not spoken a friendly word to any one for a week, he called the players around him in the clubhouse. "I ought to let you all out and get a gang of high-school boys in here to defend the civic honor of this great and growing city whose municipal pride rests on your shoulders," he said. "But I'm not going to do it. Hereafter we will cut out all 'inside' stuff and play straight baseball. Every man will go up there and hit the ball just as you see it done on the lots." Into this oration was mixed a judicious amount of sulphur. The Cubs had just taken the first three of a four-game series from us without any trouble at all. The next day we went out and resorted to the wallop, plain, untrimmed slugging tactics, and beat Chicago 17 to 1. Later we returned to the hand-raised, cultivated hot-house form of baseball, but for a week we played the old-fashioned game with a great deal of success. It changed our luck. Another method which has upset the "inside" game of many visiting teams is "doping" the grounds. The first time in my baseball career that I ever encountered this was in Brooklyn when Hanlon was the manager. Every time he thought I was going to pitch there, he would have the diamond doctored for me in the morning. The ground-keeper sank the pitcher's box down so that it was below the level of all the bases instead of slightly elevated as it should be. Hanlon knew that I used a lot of speed when I first broke into the League, getting some of it from my elevation on the diamond. He had a team of fast men who depended largely on a bunting game and their speed in getting to first base to win. With me fielding bunts out of the hollow, they had a better chance of making their goal. Then pitching from the lower level would naturally result in the batters getting low balls, because I would be more apt to misjudge the elevation of the plate. Low ones were made to bunt. Finally, Hanlon always put into the box to work against me a little pitcher who was not affected as much as I by the topographical changes. "Why," I said to George Davis, the Giants' manager, the first time I pitched out of the cellar which in Brooklyn was regarded as the pitcher's box, "I'm throwing from a hollow instead of off a mound." "Sure," replied Davis. "They 'doped' the grounds for you. But never mind. When we are entertaining, the box at the Polo Grounds will be built up the days you are going to pitch against Brooklyn, and you can burn them over and at their heads if you like." The thing that worried the Athletics most before the last world's series was the reputation of the Giants as base stealers. When we went to Philadelphia for the first game, I was surprised at the heavy condition of the base lines. "Did it rain here last night?" I inquired from a native. "No," he answered. Then I knew that the lines had been wet down to slow up our fast runners and make it harder for them to steal. As things developed, this precaution was unnecessary, but it was an effort to break up what was known to be our strongest "inside" play. Baseball men maintain that the acme of doctoring grounds was the work of the old Baltimore Orioles. The team was composed of fast men who were brilliant bunters and hard base runners. The soil of the infield was mixed with a form of clay which, when wet and then rolled, was almost as hard as concrete. The ground outside the first and third base lines was built up slightly to keep well placed bunts from rolling foul, while toward first base there was a distinct down grade to aid the runner in reaching that station with all possible expedition. Toward second there was a gentle slope, and it was down hill to third. But coming home from third was up-hill work. A player had to be a mountain climber to make it. This all benefited fast men like Keeler, McGraw, Kelley and Jennings whose most dangerous form of attack was the bunt. The Orioles did not stop at doctoring the infield. The grass in the outfield was permitted to grow long and was unkempt. Centre and left fields were kept level, but in right field there was a sharp down grade to aid the fast Keeler. He had made an exhaustive study of all the possible angles at which the ball might bound and had certain paths that he followed, but which were not marked out by sign posts for visiting right-fielders. He was sure death on hits to his territory, while usually wallops got past visiting right-fielders. And so great was the grade that "Wee Willie" was barely visible from the batter's box. A hitting team coming to Baltimore would be forced to fall into the bunting game or be entirely outclassed. And the Orioles did not furnish their guests with topographical maps of the grounds either. The habit of doctoring grounds is not so much in vogue now as it once was. For a long time it was considered fair to arrange the home field to the best advantage of the team which owned it, for otherwise what was the use in being home? It was on the same principle that a general builds his breastworks to best suit the fighting style of his army, for they are his breastworks. But lately among the profession, sentiment and baseball legislation have prevailed against the doctoring of grounds, and it is done very little. Occasionally a pitching box is raised or lowered to meet the requirements of a certain man, but they are not altered every day to fit the pitcher, as they once were. Such tactics often hopelessly upset the plan of battle of the visiting club unless this exactly coincided with the habits of the home team. Many strategic plans have been wasted on carefully arranged grounds, and many "inside" plays have gone by the boards when the field was fixed so that a bunt was bound to roll foul if the ball followed the laws of gravitation, as it usually does, because the visiting team was known to have the bunting habit. A good story of doctored grounds gone wrong is told of the Philadelphia Athletics. The eccentric "Rube" Waddell had bundles of speed in his early days, and from a slightly elevated pitcher's box the batter could scarcely identify "Rube's" delivery from that of a cannon. He was scheduled to pitch one day and showed around at morning practice looking unusually fit for George. "How are you feeling to-day, George?" asked "Connie" Mack, his boss. "Never better," replied the light-hearted "Rube." "Well, you work this afternoon." "All right," answered Waddell. Then the ground-keeper got busy and built the pitcher's box up about two feet, so that Waddell would have a splendid opportunity to cut loose all his speed. At that time he happened to be the only tall man on the pitching staff of the Philadelphia club, and, as a rule, the box was kept very low. The scheme would probably have worked out as planned, if it had not been that Waddell, in the course of his noon-day wanderings, met several friends in whose society he became so deeply absorbed that he neglected to report at the ball park at all. He also forgot to send word, and here was the pitcher's box standing up out of the infield like one of the peaks of the Alps. As the players gathered, and Waddell failed to show up, the manager nervously looked at his watch. At last he sent out scouts to the "Rube's" known haunts, but no trace of the temperamental artist could be found. The visitors were already on the field, and it was too late to lower the box. A short pitcher had to work in the game from this peak of progress, while the opposing team installed a skyscraper on the mound. The Philadelphia club was badly beaten and Waddell heavily fined for his carelessness in disrupting the "inside" play of his team. An old and favorite trick used to be to soap the soil around the pitcher's box, so that when a man was searching for some place to dry his perspiring hands and grabbed up this soaped earth, it made his palm slippery and he was unable to control the ball. Of course, the home talent knew where the good ground lay and used it or else carried some unadulterated earth in their trousers' pockets, as a sort of private stock. But our old friend "Bugs" Raymond hit on a scheme to spoil this idea and make the trick useless. Arthur always perspired profusely when he pitched, and several managers, perceiving this, had made it a habit to soap the dirt liberally whenever it was his turn to work. While he was pitching for St. Louis, he went into the box against the Pirates one day in Pittsburg. His hands were naturally slippery, and several times he had complained that he could not dry them in the dirt, especially in Pittsburg soil. As Raymond worked in the game in question, he was noticed, particularly by the Pittsburg batters and spectators, to get better as he went along. Frequently, his hand slipped into his back pocket, and then his control was wonderful. Sometimes, he would reach down and apparently pick up a handful of earth, but it did no damage. After the game, he walked over to Fred Clarke, and reached into his back pocket. His face broke into a grin. "Ever see any of that stuff, Fred?" he asked innocently, showing the Pittsburg manager a handful of a dark brown substance. "That's rosin. It's great--lots better than soaped ground. Wish you'd keep a supply out there in the box for me when I'm going to work instead of that slippery stuff you've got out there now. Will you, as a favor to me?" Thereafter, all the pitchers got to carrying rosin or pumice stone in their pockets, for the story quickly went round the circuit, and it is useless to soap the soil in the box any more. There are many tricks by which the grounds or ball are "fixed," but for nearly all an antidote has been discovered, and these questionable forms of the "inside" game have failed so often that they have largely been abandoned. One Big League manager used always to give his men licorice or some other dark and adhesive and juicy substance to chew on a dingy day. The purpose was to dirty the ball so that it was harder for the batters to see when the pitcher used his fast one. As soon as a new ball was thrown into the game, it was quickly passed around among the fielders, and instead of being the lily-white thing that left the umpire's hands, when it finally got to the pitcher's box it was a very pronounced brunette. But some eagle-eyed arbiter detected this, and kept pouring new balls into the game when the non-licorice chewers were at the bat, while he saved the discolored ones for the consumption of the masticators. It was another trick that failed. Frequently, backgrounds are tampered with if the home club is notably weak at the bat. The best background for a batter is a dull, solid green. Many clubs have painted backgrounds in several contrasting, broken colors so that the sunlight, shining on them, blinds the batter. The Chicago White Sox are said to have done this, and for many years the figures showed that the batting of both the Chicago players and the visitors at their park was very light. The White Sox's hitting was weak anywhere, so that the poor background was an advantage to them. Injuries have often upset the "inside" play of a club. Usually a team's style revolves around one or two men, and the taking of them out of the game destroys the whole machine. The substitute does not think as quickly; neither does he see and grasp the opportunities as readily. This was true of the Cubs last season. Chance and Evers used to be the "inside" game of the team. Evers was out of the game most of the summer and Chance was struck in the head with a pitched ball and had to quit. The playing of the Chicago team fell down greatly as a result. Chance is the sort of athlete who is likely to get injured. When he was a catcher he was always banged up because he never got out of the way of anything. He is that kind of player. If he has to choose between accepting a pair of spikes in a vital part of his anatomy and getting a put-out, or dodging the spikes and losing the put-out, he always takes the put-out and usually the spikes. He never dodges away from a ball when at bat that may possibly break over the plate and cost him a strike. That is why he was hit in the head. He lingered too long to ascertain whether the ball was going to curve and found out that it was not, which put him out of the game, the Cubs practically out of the pennant race, and broke up their "inside" play. Roger Bresnahan is the same kind of a man. He thinks quickly, and is a brilliant player, but he never dodges anything. He is often hurt as a result. Once, when he was with the Giants, he was hit in the face with a pitched ball, and McGraw worried while he was laid up, for fear that it would make him bat shy. After he came back, he was just as friendly with the plate as ever. The injury of men like Chance and Bresnahan, whose services are of such vital importance to the "inside" play of a team, destroys the effectiveness of the club. Once, in 1908, when we were fighting the Cubs for the pennant at every step, McGraw planned a bunting game against Overall, who is big and not very fast in covering the little rollers. Bresnahan and O'Day had been having a serial argument through two games, and Roger, whose nerves were worn to a frazzle, like those of the rest of us at that time, thought "Hank" had been shading his judgment slightly toward the Cubs. In another story I have pointed out that O'Day, the umpire, was stubborn and that nothing could be gained by continually picking on him. When the batteries were announced for that game, McGraw said as the team went to the field: "We can beat this guy Overall by bunting." Bresnahan went out to put on his chest protector and shin guards. O'Day happened to be adjusting his makeup near him. Roger could not resist the temptation. "Why don't you put on a Chicago uniform, 'Hank', instead of those duds?" he asked. "Is it true, if the Cubs win the pennant, they've promised to elect you alderman in Chicago?" "Get out of the game and off the field," said O'Day. Bresnahan had to obey the injunction and Needham, the only other available catcher, went behind the mat. "Tom" Needham never beat out a bunt in his life, and he destroyed all McGraw's plans because, with him in the game instead of Bresnahan, the style had to be switched. We lost. Bresnahan, a fast man and a good bunter batted third and would have been valuable in the attack best adapted to beat Overall. But his sudden demise and the enforced substitution of the plodding Needham ruined the whole plan of campaign. Therefore, frequently umpires upset a team's "inside" game. One of McGraw's schemes back-fired on him when Luderus, the hard-hitting Philadelphia first baseman, broke into the League. Some one had tipped "Mac" off, and tipped him wrong, that this youngster could be disconcerted in a pinch by the catcher discussing signs and what-not with him, thus distracting his attention. "Chief," said McGraw before the game, "if this Luderus gets up in a tight place, slip him a little talk." The situation came, and Meyers obeyed instructions. The game was in Philadelphia, and three men were on the bases with two out. Ames was pitching. "What are you bringing the bat up with you for?" asked the "Chief" as Luderus arranged himself at the plate. No answer. Then Meyers gave Ames his sign. Next he fixed his fingers in a fake signal and addressed the young batter. "The best hitters steal signs," said the "Chief." "Just look down in my glove and see the signals." But Luderus was not caught and kept his eyes glued on Ames. He hit the next ball over the right field wall and won the game. As he crossed the plate, he said to the "Chief": "It's too easy. I don't need your signs. They pulled that one on me in the bushes long ago." "After this, when that fellow bats," said McGraw to Meyers later, "do as exact an imitation of the sphinx as you know how. The tip was no good." The trick of talking to the hitter is an old one. The idea is for the catcher to give a wrong sign, for his benefit, after having flashed the right one, induce the batter, usually a youngster, to look down at it, and then have the pitcher shoot one over the plate while he is staring in the glove. "Steve" Evans, the St. Louis right-fielder, tells a story of a fan who sat in the same box at the Cardinals' park every day and devoted most of his time to roasting him (S. Evans). His favorite expressions in connection with Evans were "bone dead," "wooden head," and so on. He loudly claimed that "Steve" had no knowledge of the game and spoiled every play that Bresnahan tried to put through. One day, when the Giants were playing in St. Louis, some one knocked up a high foul which landed in this orator's box. He saw it coming, tried to dodge, used poor judgment, and, realizing that the ball was going to strike him, snatched his hat off, and took it full on an immodestly bald head. "Steve" Evans was waiting to go to the bat. He shifted his chew to his other cheek and exclaimed in a voice that could not have been heard more than two miles away: "That's the 'gink' who has been calling me a 'bone head.'" "Steve" got a great laugh from the crowd, but right there the St. Louis club lost a patron, for the bald-headed one has never been seen at the grounds since, according to Evans, and his obituary has not been printed yet, either. "Al" Bridwell, formerly the Giants' shortstop, was one of the cleverest men at the "inside" game that ever broke into the Big Leagues, and it was this that made him valuable. Then suddenly his legs went bad, and he slowed up. It was his speed and his ability to bunt and his tireless waiting at the plate to make all toilers in the box pitch that had made him a great player. He seldom swung at a bad ball. As soon as he slowed up, McGraw knew he would have to go if the Giants were to win the pennant. He deeply regretted letting the gritty, little shortstop, whose legs had grown stiff in his service, leave the club, but sentiment never won any pennants. "Al," he said to Bridwell, "I'm going to let you go to Boston. Your legs will be all right eventually, but I've got to have a fast man now while you are getting back your old speed." "That's all right, 'Mac,'" replied Bridwell. "It's all part of the game." He did not rave and swear that he had been double-crossed, as many players do under the same circumstances. I never heard Bridwell swear, and I never found any one else who did. He had been playing for weeks, when every time he moved it pained him, because he thought he might have a share of the money that winning a pennant would mean. It was a staggering blow to him, this sending him from a pennant possibility to a hopeless tail-ender, but he took it gamely. "I guess I was 'gumming' the inside stuff," he said. And he did get some of the prize money. The boys voted him a share. It will be seen that the "inside" game sometimes fails. Many a time I have passed a catcher or good batter to take a chance on a pitcher, and then have had him make a hit just when hits were not at all welcome. I walked a catcher once and had the pitcher shove the ball over first base for a single, when he closed his eyes and dodged back in an effort to get his head out of the line he thought it was pursuing before it curved. In ducking, he got his bat in front of the ball, a result he had never obtained with his eyes open. Once I started to pass "Hans" Wagner in a pinch to take a chance on the next batter, and was a little careless in throwing the ball too close to the plate. He reached out and slapped it for a single. Again the "inside" game had failed. Speaking pretty generally, most managers prefer to use this "inside" game, though, and there are few vacancies in the Big Leagues right now for the man who is liable to steal second with the bases full. Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. Punctuation has been corrected without note. The following misprints have been corrected: "Crounds" corrected to "Grounds" (page 65) "temperameut" corrected to "temperament" (page 69) "penant" corrected to "pennant" (page 205) "te ephone" corrected to "telephone" (page 263) "innnings" corrected to "innings" (page 282) Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original. 
12735	----	The Grammar School Boys in Summer Athletics or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure By H. Irving Hancock CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. A Jolt on a Quiet Day II. The Vanishing Man III. Dick Marches His Nine On IV. The Story of the Uniforms V. North Grammars Play Real Ball VI. Setting With a Teaser VII. Ted Teall Faces the Storm VIII. Two Rivals Plan Dire Revenge IX. Hi Martin Tries to Make Terms X. "Babbling Butt-in" XI. Ted Feels the Flare-Back XII. The North Grammar Captain Grilled XIII. "Big Injun---Heap Big Noise" XIV. "Crazy as a Porous Plaster" XV. Bluffing Up to the Bug Game XVI. "Ted's Terrors" Full of Fight XVII. Dodge and Ripley Hear Something XVIII. Hi's Swimming Challenge XIX. Dave Darrin Flashes Fire XX. Arranging the Swimming Match XXI. Old Dut Gives Wise Counsel XXII. Hi Hears Something Elevating XXIII. Who Won the Swimming Matches? XXIV. Conclusion Chapter I A JOLT ON A QUIET DAY "There's just one thing that I keep thinking about on a day like this," Dave Darrin sighed contentedly. "What's that?" Tom Reade wanted to know. "Supper?" Darrin turned, favoring Reade with a flash of disgust from his large, dark eyes. "I'm still waiting for the information," insisted Tom after a short pause. "You may as well wait," retorted Dave. "You wouldn't understand what I feel, anyway. Any fellow who can keep his mind on supper, on a grand June day like this-----" "I imagine that you'll keep your mind on the meal when you reach the table," predicted Tom, grinning. "That'll be time enough," Dave rejoined. "But I'm not going to profane the woods, on a perfect June day, by thinking of kitchen odors." "Say, aren't you feeling well?" asked Tom gravely. "That's just the point, I guess," broke in Dick Prescott, with a light laugh. "Dave is feeling so extremely well and happy-----" "Now, you're shouting," Darrin assented. "But it's no use for poor Reade to ponder over the glories of nature. All he can think of is the region bounded by his belt." "Glories of nature?" repeated Reade. "If that's what you're talking about, why didn't you announce your subject earlier? Yes, sir; nature is at her greenest best to-day. Just look off through that line of trees, and see how the light breeze moves the tops in that field of young corn, and-----" "Corn?" flared Dave. "Something to eat, of course! Tom, you're hopeless when it comes to the finer things of life. You ought to have been born in a pen, close to a well-filled trough. Corn, indeed!" "This country would probably be bankrupt if there were no corn crop, and you'd be digging hard for a living, instead of being a lazy schoolboy," retorted Reade, with an indulgent smile. "Let me see; how many hundred million dollars did Old Dut tell us the annual corn crop brings in wealth to this country?" All of the other boys, save Dave, glanced at Tom, but all shook their heads. Statistics do not mix well in a Grammar School boy's head. "Oh, well, it was a lot of money, anyway," Tom pursued his subject. "I wouldn't mind having all the money that the American corn crop brings." "So you could buy the fanciest kinds of food, I suppose?" jeered Dave Darrin. "Never mind, Darry; if I had a lot of money I'd buy you the biggest and softest mattress I could find, so that you'd have nothing to do but lie off by yourself, look up at the green leaves and dream your summers away. That lying on your back and looking up at the sky is what you call reverie, isn't it?" "Quit your kidding!" ordered Dave. "Is it reverie?" asked Harry Hazelton, "or just plain laziness that ails Dave?" "Laziness, of course," laughed Tom. "Dave, I guess Harry has more sense in naming things than any of us. Yes; that's it! And Dick thought it was merely poetic temperament." "Temperament? What's that?" grinned Dan Dalzell. "Is that what you get in June by adding up the column of figures in the thermometer?" To signify his lack of interest in the talk, Darrin rolled over on his side, turning his gaze away from the other boys. In another minute Dave's eyes were closed, his lips open and his breath coming regularly and audibly. Such was the droning effect of the warm June breezes on this glorious afternoon. "Give Dave the chorus of 'He Was the Sleepiest Boy,'" whispered Greg to the others. "Put a lot of steam into every line!" At a sign from young Holmes the drowsy chorus rolled out, punctuated by timely yawns. Darry rolled over, yawning, too, an easy-going smile on his face. "Greg," he charged, "I'm certain that you put the crowd up to that outrage. When I summon up energy enough I'm going to thrash you." "All right," agreed Greg, "I'll take boxing lessons within a year or two, so as to be prepared for you." "I wish this were to-morrow afternoon," grumbled Harry Hazelton. "I'm glad it's to-day," sighed Dave easily. "But to-morrow will be Monday, and we can play baseball." "And just because to-morrow will be Monday," retorted Dave, "Old Dut will expect us to bring in those fifteen examples in insurance." "We'll be all past that, by afternoon," Dan broke in. "Then, as soon as the bell rings to dismiss school, we'll all pile outside and have a ripping practice on the diamond." "Yes; we'll have to get a lot of practice," Dick assented. "Otherwise, you know, the North Grammar will just wipe up the field with us Wednesday afternoon." "The North Grammar!" sniffed Greg scornfully. "Hi Martin's crowd? Huh!" "Those North Grammar boys have been practising," Dick insisted. "Hard work is what tells in athletics." "Well, hang it, didn't you keep us running all through the spring?" demanded Dalzell. "Didn't you say that would put us away at the top in Grammar School baseball?" "It will help us a long way," assented Dick. "Yet it won't do everything. Each of us has to be as nearly perfect as possible in the position that he has to play. That's why we really need a lot more practice than we've had on the real field." "The worst of it is" suggested Tom, "that we've got all of the best players in the school on our regular nine, and the scrub nine isn't made up of fellows who can really give us any work." "Don't croak, Dick," begged Dave. "This day is too perfect to have it spoiled by any calamity howling." Presently Darrin rolled over on his side once more. Greg took a peep, became suspicious, and started to hum: "He was the Sleepiest Boy." Smack! came a small sod, with which Dave had slyly provided himself in advance. "Ugh! Gr-r-r-r!" sputtered young Holmes, leaping to his feet and spitting out the stuff from his mouth. It was mostly the grass side of the sod that had struck his teeth, but a little of the loam had gone in with it. "Good enough for me, I suppose," grimaced Greg, seating himself once more when he had cleaned his mouth fairly well. Dave, who had turned over to grin at Greg, soon rolled back to his old posture on the grass. Greg, however, was not disposed to let the matter pass as easily as the others imagined. Shortly Holmesy jumped astride of Dave and rolled that youth over on to his back. "I didn't eat all of the sod," young Holmes announced. "You may have the rest, Darry. How does it taste?" Dave shut his mouth tightly, but Greg held his nostrils. The instant that Darrin opened his mouth for air Holmes rammed in the piece of sod. Then he jumped up, retreating. It was now Dave's turn to jump up and work vigorously getting the stuff out of his month. "Tastes immense, doesn't it, Dave?" called Holmes tantalizingly. No answer in words came from Darrin, but he suddenly wheeled, charging straight at Greg. Doubtless the latter would have gotten out of the way safely, but that Dick thrust out a foot, tripping Dave as he bounded by. Darrin came down upon his knees. The hotheaded youth was now very close to being angry in earnest. "Hold up, Dave!" Prescott advised. "You started it, you know. You will have to show that a joke is just as funny whether it's going or coming." "That's right, old chap," agreed Dave, halting and beginning to cool. "Greg, come here and shake hands." "You shake hands with Tom," Holmes retorted suspiciously. "I appoint Tom my substitute, with full powers." "I'd sooner fight Tom than you," mused Dave, gazing down at Reade, who did not appear to be very much disturbed. "Tom is the fellow who's always bringing his appetite along on the finest days that heaven has sent us." Dick Prescott lazily drew out his watch and glanced at it. Then he rose, remarking: "You may stay here and get all the comfort you can out of nature, Dave. But it's half past five and I guess the rest of us will want to be nearer to the source of kitchen odors." "Whew! If it's any such time as that I'm going to move fast," cried Harry Hazelton, leaping to his feet. "At our house supper is on at six o'clock, and anyone who gets in late has to take what's left." "Are your folks so poor as that?" laughed Tom. "Hardly," returned Harry. "But both dad and mother are sticklers for everyone being in his seat on time." By this time five of the chums had started across the broad, sunny field toward the rather dusty road. "Coming, Dave?" Dick called, looking back. "Oh, yes," grunted Darrin. "But I hate to see all of you fellows running as though you didn't know whether you'd ever get another meal." "I wonder what is Dave's sudden grouch against the eats," Tom mused aloud. "I've seen him at a few meals, and he was always a clever performer." "Probably Dave has been eating too much for this time of the year, and has a touch of indigestion," Greg laughed. Darrin overheard the discussion as he came along, but he did not choose to enlighten his friends. However, unintentionally, Greg had touched upon a part of the trouble. Dinner, that Sunday, at the Darrin cottage, had been unusually tempting, and Dave had eaten heavily. For that reason, when he had joined the crowd in the early afternoon, Dave had felt just a bit sluggish. The walk out into the country had roused his digestion a bit, and had left him in just that state where he could contentedly lie on the grass and doze half of the time. On this bright Sunday all six of our Grammar School boys had attended church and Sunday school as usual. Then, the day being so fine, they had met and gone away on this tramp, which had ended in a "resting match" on the cool grass under the shade of trees. All of our readers are familiar with these six fine American boys. Our readers were first introduced to Dick & Co., as Prescott and his chums were locally known, in the first volume in this series, "_The Grammar School Boys Of Gridley_." Therein the reader made the acquaintance of six average American boys of thirteen, and followed them through their sports and adventures---which latter were many and startling indeed. In the second volume of the series, "_The Grammar School Boys Snowbound_," the same six were shown at winter sports just before Christmas. The detection, on Main Street, of a trio of Christmas shopping thieves led to a long chain of rousing adventures. Right after Christmas, Dick & Co., securing permission from their parents, went for a few days of forest camping in an old log cabin of which they had been given the use. Another phase of their adventure with the shopping district thieveries turned up in the woods and contributed greatly to the excitement of their experience. While still camping in the old, but weather-proof cabin, the Grammar School boys found themselves snowbound in one of the greatest blizzards that had happened in that section in years. Being hardy boys from much outdoor life, however, Dick & Co., as our readers know, turned hardship into jolly fun, and incidentally made a great discovery in the woods that turned their camping expedition into the local sensation of the hour. The reader also remembers how some of the poorer specimens of High School boys and a few local young "toughs," under the leadership of Fred Ripley and Bert Dodge, tried to drive them from their forest camp. In the third volume of the series, "_The Grammar School Boys In The Woods_," Dick Prescott and his chums, each now fourteen years of age, found the most startling of all the exciting happenings that had been crowded into their short lives. How they came upon two dangerous, tattered specimens of humanity in the woods, how these two contrived to make Dick and Greg take unwilling part in an attempt to rob one of the local banks, the mystery of the haunted schoolhouse, and a host of other lively incidents---all these are so familiar to the reader of these volumes as to need no repetition. And Dick & Co., through the series of exciting adventures they had encountered, had become the best-known boys in and around the little city of Gridley. Being leaders of other boys, they had naturally made some enemies, but that is to be expected in the case of all who are born to lead, or who fit themselves for leadership. And now, on this glorious June Sunday afternoon, we find our schoolboy friends enjoying the sacred day quietly, yet looking forward to the opening of the contests on the diamond between the three local Grammar Schools, the North, Central, and South Grammars. The road they had chosen on this Sunday afternoon was one over which they had seldom traveled. It was not the road to Norton's Woods, to the great forest, nor yet the one that went by the "haunted schoolhouse." It was in a wholly different direction from Gridley. "It's a long way home, this," complained Tom Reade, as the boys plodded along the dusty highway. "And I'm hungry." "Hungry?" snorted Darrin. "Of course you are. You fellows sang a verse to me a while ago. Tom, how do you and your fellow-porkers like this lay?" Taking a deep breath, Dave started to sing a travesty, to the air of "America." _"My stomach, 'tis of thee, Sweet gland of gluttony, To thee I sing! Gland---"_ "Stop it," ordered Tom threateningly, as he advanced upon Darrin. "Stings, does it?" inquired Dave sarcastically. "Yes, it does," Reade retorted bluntly. "To my mind 'America' is as sacred as any hymn ever written, and I won't hear it guyed! That's no decent occupation for an American boy." "That's right," nodded Greg Holmes. "Well, I won't yield to any of you in being American to the backbone," Dave retorted hotly. "Prove it," said Tom more quietly. "I'll prove it by my whole life, if need be," Darrin went on warmly. "Tom Reade, I'll be glad to meet you when we're sixty years old, talk it all over and see who has been the better American through life!" "Great!" laughed Dick Prescott approvingly. "That'll be a fine time to settle the question. And that time is---let me see---forty-six years away." The other boys were grinning now, and Dave and Tom, catching the spirit of the thing, laughed good-humoredly. "But this does seem a mighty long way home," Dan complained. "I can show you fellows a shorter way, if you want it," Prescott proposed. "We all live on Missouri Avenue. Show us," begged Hazelton. "It's through the woods," Dick continued. "I warn you that you'll find some of it rough going." "Then I don't know about it," Greg replied with fine irony. "We fellows are not very well used to the woods." "It's twenty minutes of six," declared Dan, glancing at his watch. "Some of us are in danger of eating nothing but cold potatoes tonight if we don't get over the ground faster. Find the short cut, Dick." "It starts down here, just a little way," Prescott answered. "I'll turn in when we come to the right place." Dick and Darrin were now walking side by side in advance. Right behind them came Greg and Dan, while Tom and Harry, paired, brought up the rear. "In this way," called Dick, turning sharply to the left and going in under an archway of trees. It was over velvety grass that he led his chums at first. After something like an eighth of a mile the Grammar School boys came to deeper woods, where they had to thrust branches aside in making their way through the tangle. "My Sunday suit will look like a hand-me-down by the time I get home," muttered Greg Holmes. "It does now," Dave called back to him consolingly. "We suspected that Darry's grouch was due to dyspepsia," laughed Holmes. "Now I am sure of it. David, little giant, take my advice---fast to-night." "I will, if the rest of you fellows will," challenged Darrin quickly. "The truth is out," Tom burst out laughing. "Darry, by that slip of the tongue you admitted that you've been eating too much and that you're all out of sorts." Dave did not deny. He merely snorted, from which sign of defiance his chums could gain no information. They had gone another quarter of a mile through the woods when Dick, now alone in the lead, suddenly halted, holding up one hand as a signal to halt, while he rested the fingers of his other hand over his lips as a command for silence. "What is it?" whispered Darrin, stepping close. "Fred Ripley, Bert Dodge and some of their fellows," Dick whispered, at the same time pointing through the leaves. "Well, we don't have to halt, just because they're around," retorted Darrin, snorting. "If they try to pick any trouble with us we can give 'em as good as they send. We've done it once or twice already." "But we don't want to go to fighting on Sunday, if there's any way to avoid it," young Prescott urged, at which four of his chums nodded their heads approvingly. "I'm not looking for any fight, either," muttered Dave. "Yet it goes against the grain to halt just in order to let that gang slip by without seeing us." "There are five of us against your single vote, Darry," Dick reminded him. "Let us have our way." "Well, we don't need to skulk, do we?" queried Dave. "Oh, no," Dick assured him. "All we will do is to keep quiet and not bring on a fight with that tough lot." "Huh!" muttered Darrin, as though he could not see the difference between that and skulking. Presently, after holding a hand behind him to signal silence and stealth, Prescott started on in the lead. He wanted, if possible, to see just where Ripley, Dodge and their crowd went, so that the Grammar School boys would not run too suddenly into them. The "Co." trailed on in Indian file behind their leader. Finally Dick halted again, his chums crowding on his heels. They looked out into a clearing beyond. There, amid trees, stood a small three-room house, looking still quite new in its trim paint, though the building had stood there idle for some five years. At one time the city had planned a new reservoir site on a hill just above, and this little cottage had been intended for the reservoir tender. Then a better site for the reservoir had been found, and, to date, the cottage had not been removed. "Ripley and his crew went around that cottage to the door side," Dick whispered. "Are they in the cottage?" Dave demanded. "I don't know. They went around to the other side. Let's wait and see if we can guess what's up." So, forgetful of their suppers for the time being, Dick & Co. waited, screened by the bushes. "There's smoke coming up out of the chimney," whispered Tom Reade. "Yes," nodded Dick. "I had just noticed that. I'm wondering what it can mean. No one has any right to break into the cottage." "Fred Ripley and Bert Dodge, because they have a lawyer and a bank officer for fathers, don't feel that they need any rights when they want to do a thing," muttered Darrin resent fully. It was impossible to see what might be going on inside the cottage, for the simple reason that all of the windows were shuttered tightly. "Let's go ahead," begged Dave, after a few more moments spent in idle watching. "I want to know why that crowd has broken into the cottage." Truth to tell, even the leader of Dick & Co., usually very discreet, felt himself a victim of curiosity. "Shall we try to find out the secret, fellows?" Prescott inquired. "That's just what we ought to do," responded Greg. "Especially as Ripley and Dodge have always been so mean to us." Dick went forward, with his best imitation of the way he imagined an Indian scout would approach a strange house. Greg and Dan were at his heels, while Dave and Harry went around the other side of the cottage, Tom remaining well to the rear to watch. Some low, vague sounds came from within the cottage. These were not such noises as scurrying rats would make, so the boys were quick to conclude that human beings were moving inside. But what could possibly be going on? The noises that the Grammar School boys heard were hard to classify. At last Dick and Dave met before the door of the little cottage. Nor were they much surprised at finding that the door of the cottage stood perhaps a half an inch ajar. This, however, did not furnish light enough to give a glimpse of what was happening inside. "Two or three of us may as well slip inside, eh?" whispered Dave to Dick. "Wait! Listen!" counseled Prescott. "We don't want to please that crowd by stepping right into a trap. And I've an idea that by this time they must know that we're around here." "If they knew, they'd be out here making faces at us," retorted Darrin wisely. "And ordering us to get off the earth," supplemented Greg, in a whisper. "Listen," whispered Dick. "Perhaps we can guess what they're doing." "I can guess what they're doing," murmured Reade, who had now moved around to the front with his chums. "I've been watching the smoke of that fire come up through the chimney. Humph! I don't believe Rip and Dodge are doing anything worse than a little camping. There must be a stove in there, and they're cooking some supper---playing at camping out." "I don't smell anything cooking in there," rejoined Dick with a shake of his head. "We can't hear anything sizzling over the fire, either." "Then what-----" began Harry curiously. Bang! interrupted a crashing explosion inside the building. Boom! Then the door flew wide open, followed by a single great belching of white smoke. Through the center of this cloud was hurled a human figure. A man struck the ground and lay there, senseless or lifeless, a pool of blood quickly forming on the ground beside him. Chapter II THE VANISHING MAN For the first few seconds the Grammar School boys stood as if chained to the ground, their eyes staring with alarm and horror. They stared at the man, apparently of middle age, who lay there, and they beheld the blood. What on earth could have happened? Boom! It was a lesser explosion that now sounded inside, yet it was enough to galvanize the boys into action. "Come on!" cried Tom Reade, setting off in the lead. "We don't know nor care what's in there!" "The house may blow up next," added Greg, following him. All the members of Dick & Co. were now in full retreat. They were courageous lads, but, with the immediate landscape in seeming danger of blowing up, getting away was the wisest possible course. "Say, what do you make of that?" demanded Greg breathlessly, when the Grammar School boys had halted, well out of sight of the cottage and down in the woods. "Bang!" replied Tom dryly. "That's all I heard." "And blood," almost chattered Hazelton. "But what it means is a big puzzle," Dick added. "If Rip and his crowd are or were in the cottage, they would hardly explode anything purposely and perhaps kill a man. That man appeared to be dead---he must be dead. Rip and Dodge are mean fellows, but they're hardly up to killing people." "There was an explosion," remarked Tom judicially, though his voice was still husky. "Now, while I don't know everything, I believe there always has to be an explosive in order to bring about an explosion. Am I right?" "You stand on ground that no one can dispute," nodded Dick. "But how did the explosive come to be in a building that belongs to the water company, and which is supposed not to have been occupied in some years?" "What was the man doing in there, for that matter?" demanded Tom. "He wasn't very well dressed," observed Harry. "Yet he didn't look like a tramp," Dave put in. "But the man himself, and the fact that he's hurt or dead, are our two first points to consider," spoke Dick quickly. "If he's hurt we are bound to bring him help. If he's dead, we'll have to notify---some one." "I'd like to go back there and have a look at him," quoth Tom, "but the biggest explosion of all may come out of that cottage at any moment now." "Yet the facts are that another explosion hasn't come, and that the man ought to have help, as a matter of common decency," Dick urged. "I'll run to the nearest house where people are living," suggested Tom, pulling off his jacket and making ready for a run. "What are you going to tell the folks?" Prescott queried. "That the poor fellow is living or dead? I'm going back to find out which." "We'll all go," offered Dave. "But what happened to Rip and his mean crew?" asked Hazelton. "We haven't seen any signs that they were in the cottage at all," Dick responded. "If they were, as none of them came out, they must be badly hurt---perhaps worse." As a matter of fact, Ripley and his party had not gone into the cottage, but had continued directly towards their homes. That grisly thought gave all the boys a shudder as they plodded up the slope, between the bushes and thence stepped into the clearing. "Talk about dreaming!" muttered Dick, halting abruptly and staring hard at the ground around the cottage. In the first place, the cottage door was closed. There was no smoke now coming out of the chimney, and all looked peaceful and deserted, save for the presence of the Grammar School intruders. There was no injured man lying on the ground. "Crackey!" gasped Greg. "Yet we didn't all dream together, did we?" "Certainly not," muttered Dick, again starting forward. The others followed him. "This is where we saw the man fall, isn't it?" asked Dick. "Yes," nodded Greg. "But there was blood on the ground then," urged Dave. "I don't see any now." "It must have been goblin blood, then," laughed Tom rather unsteadily, for this mystery began to look unearthly. "Hold on," hinted Dick. "Doesn't it look as though fresh earth had been sprinkled here?" "Of course it does," nodded Harry. "And the earth has soaked up the blood." "I don't see any soaked-up blood," objected Greg. "No; because it's so well covered and soaked up," argued Hazelton. "But wait until I find a stick, and we'll stir up that dirt. Then we'll find the red stuff mixed to a sort of mud, and-----" "Come along out of this, you ghoul!" uttered Tom almost wrathfully, as he seized his friend by the arm. "We'll go to the door," Dick suggested. "Perhaps we can get inside. At any rate, we can find out whether there is any one inside who wants help." Dick put his hand on the doorknob, giving it a turn and a hard push. "Door's locked tightly now," he announced. "And it takes human hands to lock a door," Reade observed sagely. "Is there anyone inside who needs any help?" Prescott called loudly. All was silent inside. Then Dick played a tattoo on the locked door with his fists. Still no sound from inside. "All together, now," urged Dick. "Any---one---want---help?" bawled six lusty young voices in unison. "There is only one voice that answers," continued Dick, after a pause, as he turned to the others. "That's the silent voice of good sense." "What does it say, then," challenged Dave. "That we've done about all we can do here," Dick replied. "All we know is that a man seemed to have been hurt here. If he was, he was able to take himself away, and to conceal the signs of his hurt before going. Therefore we've no further excuse for meddling around here that I can see." "Let's get along then," Tom urged. "And---whew! It's after half past six!" "You'd better run, then," jeered Dave. "Your stomach won't allow any more fooling!" "Now, what ought I to say to a crank like Darry?" demanded Reade, turning to Prescott. "You'd better overwhelm him, by saying what the man on the clubhouse steps said," urged Dick. "And what was that?" asked Tom eagerly. "We-ell," hesitated Dick, "I believe that's still a secret." The Grammar School boys were now walking rapidly through the woods, but at mention of the clubhouse topic all had gathered close to their young leader. "Aren't you going to tell us now?" demanded Greg. "I'm afraid not right away," responded Prescott slowly. "See here, Dickins," growled Dave Darrin, "for months you've been stringing us about what the man on the clubhouse steps said. Time and again you've sprung that on us, and you've never given us the slightest satisfaction. Now, you'd either better tell us, or shut up about the man on the clubhouse steps." "All right," sighed Dick. "I'll-----" "Well?" insisted five boys in the same breath. "I reckon I'll shut up," Dick rejoined. "Say, somebody ought to hit Dickins!" grunted Reade. "That's right," grinned Dan. "Well---let Tom do it." Dick continued to smile mysteriously. He enjoyed this good-natured teasing of his chums. "What are we going to tell folks about what we saw at the cottage?" queried Dan after another five minutes of trudging. "If we tell anything at all," suggested Prescott, "I'll tell you how we can win a prize." "How?" demanded Tom innocently. "By telling the truth," Dick smiled. Soon after the Grammar School boys came out on the road. "See that group 'way ahead there?" asked Tom, pointing down the road. "Yes," nodded Dick. "That's Rip's crowd, so we know they didn't get hurt." "Then the only one who did get hurt," Tom added, "was the man who was very soon able to take mighty good care of himself." "So we don't need to bother about the matter any more," Greg hinted. "And, gracious! I hope mother has saved some supper for me." "It'll be a cold hand-out for me," groaned Hazelton. The Grammar School boys were soon on Main Street now. They hurried along, as they had not yet come to the point of parting. "Look at that crowd down the street," called Dave. "There's some excitement in the wind." "I'm not nosey," observed Tom. "No," scoffed Darrin; "you're too hungry." "I'm going to see what the excitement is about, anyway," muttered Hazelton, starting forward off a run. One by one the other boys yielded to curiosity and started at a jog-trot for the corner where the crowd was gathered. "No; the poor fellow isn't crazy in the ordinary sense of the word," Dick heard a tall man, finely dressed in black, say to some of the bystanders. "He's harmless enough, and his mind isn't permanently astray, if only he can have prompt and good care. But he's inclined to get away by himself and ponder over his inventions. If he leads a too solitary life long enough he may be past the possibility of a cure one of these days. That is why Colonel Garwood is so anxious to find his son, and offers such a handsome reward for information." "Some one missing?" asked Dick in a low voice. "Yes," nodded a man in the crowd. "A crazy inventor is lost, or he's loose, at any rate, and his old father is trying to find him. There is a reward of twenty-five hundred dollars for the lucky fellow who finds this inventor with the monkey wrenches in his brain." "What does the man look like?" asked Dick. The tall man in black overheard the question and wheeled quickly. "Amos Garwood is the missing man," said the tall man. "He is forty-seven years of age, about five feet eight in height, slightly stooped, very pallid and with cheeks slightly sunken. When last seen Amos Garwood was rather poorly dressed. He has just escaped from a sanitarium, and the only person who has seen him since reports that he looked 'hunted' and anxious, and that his cheeks were considerably sunken. Garwood has dark hair, slightly gray at the temples. He probably weighs about-----" "Pardon me, sir," Dick interposed. "What kind of beard does the missing man wear?" "Dick Prescott has found him," laughed one man in the crowd. "Garwood has no beard at all, save for what there may be for three or four days' lack of shaving," quickly replied the tall man. "Where is the missing man, Dick?" laughed another man in the crowd. "Yes; Dick has found him," called another. "I rather think so," Dick nodded. "At least, I believe our crowd has seen Garwood very lately." Prescott's evident confidence aroused instant curiosity. "Where?" demanded a dozen voices quickly. "I wish you young men wouldn't answer, but just come with me," spoke the tall man quickly. "If your information proves correct, and we find the missing man, the reward will be yours." Dick turned to nod to his companions, as the tall man in black turned to lead the way. Their guide, after making sure that Prescott was at his side, walked rapidly down the street a few doors, halting before the street door of one of the office buildings. "Come upstairs and tell Lawyer Ripley whatever you know," requested the tall man. "I don't believe you'll find him in Sundays," replied Dick. "We shall to-day," responded their guide confidently. "Mr. Ripley is helping us in this search." This, then, looked like proof that the Garwood family was well-to-do, for Lawyer Ripley seldom worked for small fees. Running ahead, the tall man threw open the door of the lawyer's office. "Mr. Ripley," he called, "here are some boys who think they have seen Amos Garwood. Probably these youngsters are half dreaming, yet they may have some information of value." "I know these boys," nodded the lawyer, looking up, "and they are dependable. They are good, bright boys. Prescott, come forward and tell me just what you know, or think you know." "First of all, sir," urged Dick, "let me give the best description I can of the man we've seen." "A good idea," nodded Mr. Ripley. "Go ahead." Nor had young Prescott been engaged very long in his task of description before the tall man broke in excitedly: "That's our man, beyond a question! Where did you see him? When?" Dick hastily recounted the strange happenings at the supposedly untenanted cottage of the old water-works project. "We must get there without delay," called the tall man to two other men who, so far, had kept in the background in the lawyer's office, but who had been deeply interested hearers. "One of you boys must go up there with us. How far is it from here?" "Come through into my rear office," suggested Mr. Ripley, "and I can show you the spot from a window. Come along, Prescott, and tell me if I'm right. Hello! There seems to be some trouble up that way," added Mr. Ripley, as he reached one of the windows at the rear. "There's a fire up there under the hill," cried Dick Prescott, as he pressed forward to another window. "Mr. Ripley, from the location of the smoke, I should say that the cottage itself is afire!" "And I believe you're right," agreed the lawyer. "Poor Amos!" groaned the tall man. "The poor fellow may have set fire to the place to destroy himself! Ripley, I can't wait here, inactive, another second. We must start! Can I get a cab here?" "I think I can get an automobile for you inside of five minutes," replied the lawyer, hurriedly leading the way to the front office. "Five minutes?" groaned the stranger. "Why not wait a year?" "An automobile will save you much more than five minutes' time on the way," returned the lawyer, snatching up his desk telephone. "Central, give me 163-J in a hurry!" A few minutes later the automobile was at the door. The tall stranger and two other men who had been in the lawyer's office were now on the sidewalk. "Crowd on all the speed you can, my man," appealed the tall stranger. "If you get into any trouble with the authorities I'll pay all the fines you incur. This is a matter of life and death." The speaker and his two men crowded into the car. "You come, too," called the tall one to Dick. "Is there room for one other boy?" asked Dick. "Yes; we can squeeze him in." "Want to come, Dave?" Dick inquired. Darrin was by his chum's side in an instant. "Let out the speed!" ordered the tall man. "Prescott will tell you where to go." Four members of Dick & Co. had been worrying about their suppers, but now not one of them but would have waited indefinitely for a chance to go on that one especial auto trip. "Greg, tell my folks where I've gone, and why," Dick shouted back. Then---whizz! The automobile was down the street and around a corner before anyone could say "Jack Robinson!" Chapter III DICK MARCHES HIS NINE ON The automobile party arrived just in time to see the blazing roof of the little cottage crash inward, sending up a shower of sparks against the sky of the dying day. "I hope Amos wasn't inside, hurt and helpless!" gulped the tall stranger, leaping outside. "But why hasn't the fire department been out here?" "The Gridley fire department doesn't respond outside of city limits, except on request and by permission of the mayor, sir," Prescott answered. "I'll drive down and telephone any message for you," offered the chauffeur, who had left his ear behind and had traveled on foot up to the cottage. "Firemen would be of little use now," replied the man in charge of the party. "We can do nothing until the blazing embers cool, which won't be for hours yet. Still, We might go as close to the blaze as possible, and see if there are any signs of a human body in the embers." While this was being done darkness came down over the summer day. There was plenty of light, however, around the destroyed cottage. For some time the searchers explored as well as the heat of the glowing embers would permit. "I am satisfied," said the tall man at last, "that no human being was consumed in this fire. If so, we would certainly see some evidences of remains. Still, these ashes, when cool, must be searched." "You don't need me any more, do you, sir?" asked Dick. "Is it near your bedtime yet?" smiled the stranger. "I haven't had my supper yet," Prescott smiled. "Neither has Darrin." "Bless me! What a brute I am to forget a boy's stomach!" cried the tall one. "Here," taking a banknote from his pocket, "I will have the chauffeur drive you back to town and then return for us. Take this money and get the best supper you can for two, at the best restaurant in Gridley." "Thank you, sir," replied Dick, shrinking back; "our parents wouldn't allow us to do that." "Are your parents any easier on such questions?" smiled the stranger, turning to Darrin. "Not a bit, sir, thank you," Dave responded. "I may at least pay you something for your kindness and trouble in coming out here with me," urged the stranger, still offering the cash. But both boys shook their heads, declining with thanks. Neither had been reared to accept money for doing a human kindness. "If you don't need us any more," Dick went on, "we'll just find the road and jog back." "If you won't accept anything else," retorted the tall man, "you will at least allow me to send you back in the auto. And you will also accept the thanks of John Winthrop, and of Colonel Garwood, whom I represent." Both boys protested, with thanks, that they were able to get home on their own feet. Mr. Winthrop, however, insisted on their going in the car. Truth to tell, both youngsters had used their feet so much that day that they did not object to being taken home. "I hope you will find your man, sir, and alive," Dick called, as he and Dave were leaving. "I believe that we shall," replied Mr. Winthrop. "Yet it will be by beginning the search from this point." The chauffeur drove them home in good time, for he was under orders to report back to Mr. Winthrop as speedily as possible. Neither Dick nor Dave had any trouble in getting a late supper served at home. "You've brought home a good tale, as you often do, to pay your mother for her extra trouble," laughed Mr. Prescott. "I hope that poor, half-witted fellow didn't destroy himself in his own fire," murmured Dick, as he fell to at the meal. By morning the people of Gridley knew that the ruins of the abandoned water-works cottage had been explored, and that the remains of Amos Garwood had not been found there. But an editorial in the "Blade" suggested that the cottage was not very likely to have taken fire unless the blaze had been started by Garwood. While the latter was declared not to be dangerous, the "Blade" hinted that his malady might suddenly have taken a dangerous turn. "The good people of this section will feel much easier," concluded the editor, "when they know that Garwood has been found and returned to the sanitarium that awaits him. A cash reward of twenty-five hundred dollars should be incentive enough to set many people to the task of finding the unfortunate man." Yet, for Dick & Co., the adventure of the afternoon before dropped very quickly into the background. Here was Monday; on Wednesday the boys of the Central Grammar must meet the boys of the North Grammar on the diamond. Then the first of a series of baseball games was to be played for the local Grammar School championship. The South Grammar would also enter a nine. Intense rivalry prevailed between the schools. The fact that the respective nines were made up almost wholly of boys who were soon to be graduated from the Grammar Schools did not in any sense lessen the rivalry. Each young player was proud of his own school and anxious to capture the laurels. "Are you going to win Wednesday's game from the North Grammar, Dick?" asked Len spencer, when that reporter met Prescott on Main Street at noon on Monday. "Of course we are," Dick replied instantly. "You seem very positive about it," quizzed Len. "That's the only way to go into athletics," claimed Dick. "A team must enter with the determination and the knowledge that it is going to win. Then there's little left to do but to walk home with the victory." "But Hi Martin was telling me, this morning, that Central hasn't a ghost of a show against North," pursued Len. "Hi Martin will know better, day after tomorrow, won't he, Dave?" queried Dick, appealing to Darrin, who had just come along. "He surely will," nodded Dave. "By the way," asked Len, "have you seen any of the new uniforms of the North Grammar?" "No," Dick admitted, his face falling a trifle. "I understand that Martin's fellows are going to wear pretty dandy uniforms, though." "They are," Len nodded. "I've had a look at the uniform." "Well, North Grammar is attended by a lot of sons of pretty well-to-do men," Dave put in. "Our boys don't come from as wealthy families, so we have to be content with less of the showy things in life." "What are your uniforms going to be like?" inquired Len Spencer. "We haven't any," Dick replied promptly. "No uniforms at all?" demanded the "Blade" reporter. "None at all," Dick continued. "Neither have the South Grammar boys. In the glories of uniform the North Grammar nine will be all in a class by itself." "It's too bad," muttered Len. "No, it isn't," Prescott retorted. "We fellows from Central are going to show that uniforms don't necessarily make players. We don't mind---that is, not very much---the absence of uniforms." "We'll try to show that we have something uniform about our team play, and let it go at that," said Dave cheerily. "Come along, Dick, or we'll be late at school." Away the pair raced. Lessons went about as usual that afternoon with Old Dut's class, which was surprising, as nearly every boy in the room had his mind much on baseball. Captain Dick Prescott, of the Central Grammar nine, had called practice for that afternoon, from half past four to six o'clock. At recess, that afternoon, a pleasant, somewhat rotund-looking man was seen engaged in conversation with Old Dut in a corner of the schoolyard. At the close of the afternoon session that same man stepped into the schoolroom, accepting the principal's offer of a chair on the platform. "Attention!" called Old Dut, striking the bell. "I am glad to be able to state that no pupil has incurred the penalty of remaining after school to-day. However, I am going to ask the members of the Central Grammar baseball nine and their substitutes to remain for a few minutes. I pledge myself not to interfere with the scheduled practice," continued the principal dryly. "All other pupils will file out promptly, and not loiter in coatrooms or corridors." Within two minutes the place had been cleared of all but Dick's baseball squad. "I now wish, young gentlemen," began Old Dut, "to introduce to you Mr. Edson Brown, who is interested in baseball, and who has a slight favor that he wishes to ask of you." "It's very simple," declared Mr. Brown, rising and stepping down from the platform. "I have been greatly interested in baseball for a number of years. Among other things I have a considerable collection of figures concerning school teams, their sizes and weights, I would like, with your permission, young gentlemen, to take a few measurements. I won't detain you more than a few moments." "Do you want a suggestion, sir?" asked Tom Reade. "Of course," nodded Mr. Brown, smilingly. "Then the real crowd that you ought to measure are the fellows of the North Grammar nine. You'd get a fine lot of chest measurements there, I can promise you." "Why?" asked Mr. Brown. "Are the North Grammar boys better developed physically?" "I can't say about that," Reade replied seriously, "but they're the only Grammar School fellows in Gridley that have baseball uniforms, and I understand that they're the chestiest lot of young fellows that any one ever saw." "I'll consider the North Grammar boys later, then," nodded Mr. Brown, smiling. "Now, will each young man oblige me by removing his coat and vest and stepping forward for the measurements that I want to take?" In a notebook Mr. Brown jotted down the measurements that he made. There being five substitute players, there were fourteen boys in all whose measurements he recorded. "That is all," nodded Mr. Brown finally, snapping his notebook and tucking it away in a pocket. "I am deeply indebted to all of you young men. "And now I beg to add," said Old Dut, "that, as all of you youngsters are in a hurry, there will be no criticism if you see fit to race through the corridors." Out on the field, just before half past four, Captain Dick Prescott lined up his squad of fourteen, himself included, and quickly added four more to the number, thus organizing two nines. "Now, play ball," he called. "Do it in a hurry," supplemented Tom Reade. "Speed is all right," Dick retorted. "But we want to play with care, even more than with speed. The scrub nine will go to bat." Dick himself ran quickly out to the pitcher's box, twirling his ball impatiently. A High School boy had been secured for umpire, and all was in readiness. Of course the school nine won over the scrub. Never mind the score, which looked badly for the scrub. Dick was satisfied that his nine was doing the best that was in it. Tuesday afternoon there was more practice, though Captain Dick did not allow it to continue too long. "Now, don't take a single chance with yourselves," called Prescott, in dismissing the squad on the field near the schoolhouse. "Don't any one of you get a sore toe or strain a 'wing' before to-morrow afternoon. Fellows, I believe that we are going to be able to put it all over the North Grammar to-morrow afternoon. But we can't do it unless we are all in the best of shape. Be careful at table. Don't any one of you overeat between now and the game. And all get into bed early to-night and have a long sleep." "I put every young man in this room on honor for to-day," stated Old Dut, facing his class, the next morning. "No matter what the disorder or breach of discipline, no boy will be kept in after school this afternoon, for I know that every one of you, whether player or 'booster,' wants to be at the inter-school ball game this afternoon. So remember, young men, that you are all on your honor to-day. Prove yourselves worthy of it." Never had discipline been better preserved in the eighth grade classroom than during that day. Soon after four o'clock scores of Gridley schoolboys had found their way to the big vacant field not far from the Central Grammar, the owner of which permitted its use freely by schoolboy athletes. The principal of the South Grammar, too, was there, flanked by rough-and-tumble Ted Teall and the South's baseball delegation. Captain Ted had to play the Centrals on Saturday, and he wanted to view their style. Though North Grammar was well represented, the principal of the school did not appear, being "detained by pressure of important duties." "Old Dut will know enough to be here," remarked one of the Central boys proudly. "Nothing but disaster could keep him from showing interest in our work." Cheering was started by a big group of North Grammar boys. A stage had just been sighted, and this bore the North Grammar's diamond champions. A few moments later the stage drew up at the edge of the field, and Hi Martin and his fellows piled out, each proudly resplendent in showy uniform of red and white, with red caps and stockings. The North Grammar boys were dandies, and they appeared to want, everyone to realize the fact. They formed at the roadside and marched on to the field in step. "Halt!" commanded Captain Hi Martin. Then he looked around curiously. "If the Centrals are here yet, why don't they come out of the crowd and receive us?" inquired Martin rather pompously. His insinuation that Dick's fellows might be mixed with the crowd was a slur on the Central boys not possessing uniforms. "Our fellows are not here yet, but they will be soon, you bet," called back a Central boy. "It's only twenty minutes past four." "Spread out, men, and practice," directed Hi Martin. "Yah! yah!" jeered a Central boy. "Get all the practice you can---you'll need it." "These ragamuffins are pretty full of brag," observed Hi scornfully to one of his lieutenants. "They're just the kind of fellows that always do brag," returned the player addressed. "Their brag will all be gone within a half an hour. You'll see." "Yes," agreed Hi thoughtfully. "If we can't trim this crowd to-day, then they're some wonders at ball. They don't have any idea how long we've been training in order to give them this trimming." Some of Hi's players had already spread out over the field, and were doing some rapid passing. Certainly Hi's fielders promised well, from the little glimpse of their skill that was now had. Then one of their best batsmen took up the willow, driving a few long, swift fielders. "This will get the Centrals nervous before they start, if they see any of our work," laughed one of Hi's players. Truth to tell, the North Grammar boys did show some pretty work. Ted Teall looked on approvingly. "Prescott has met his match to-day," remarked Ted to a friend. "These Norths will bother you, too, won't they, Ted?" "Us? No; not a bit. We can play all around the Norths. But Central will have to take third place when the series is done." "The Centrals haven't got rattled and skulked, have they?" called Hi Martin at last. A disdainful yell came back from the assembled Central boys. "Then some one hurry over and tell 'em that it's time to hustle on to the field and take their medicine," urged Hi. "We don't want to have the game called for darkness before we're half through." "The Centrals will be here on time," called back one of Old Dut's boys. "Don't you worry any about them. Dick Prescott is holding the watch over our crowd." "It's four twenty-seven," announced Hi, consulting his gold watch. "Four twenty-five and a half," corrected a Central boy. "Go get your watch fixed," retorted Hi scornfully. "And some one else run and see if he can find out where the Centrals are hiding." "Here they come!" yelled one excited Central boy. "Whoopee! They will answer for themselves!" In an instant the Central cheering became tumultuous. Even Ted Teall rubbed his eyes and gasped. For the Central Grammar School squad was marching toward the field, having just left the schoolhouse. At the head of all, chin well up, marched Old Dut. Back of him, two and two, marched Dick Prescott and his players. What marvel had been worked? For the Central boys wore uniforms that made Hi Martin's fellows look like so many gaudy figures on a cheap poster! Chapter IV THE STORY OF THE UNIFORMS "Great Scott!" gasped Hi Martin, in sheer dismay, his gaze fixed on the approaching Centrals. "Where in the mischief did they get those uniforms?" demanded Tom Percival, of the North Grammars, his mouth agape. "Well, they have 'em, anyway," added Bill Rodgers. "And they certainly look more than fine, don't they?" "The uniforms are made of cheap stuff, I'll wager," muttered Hi hoarsely. There was a choke in his throat over seeing his own nine so badly eclipsed in appearance by the despised Central Grammars. Not less astonished were the Central Grammar boy spectators themselves. Not one, outside of the baseball squad, had known that any uniforms were to be worn on the field. "Huh!" remarked Ted Teall, captain of the South Grammars, to one of his lieutenants. "We are the only school nine in town now without a uniform. When we get on the field to play we'll look like a lot of rag-pickers, won't we?" "I know where they got 'em," choked Hi at last. "Their principal, Old Dut Jones, wouldn't see his boys look too badly compared with us, so he bought 'em as good uniforms as he could afford. It's a shame. That's what it is." If Captain Dick and his baseball players walked rather proudly onto the field, it may have been partly due to the fact that they now knew that their uniforms were anything but "cheap." In point of fact, their uniforms had cost more than twice as much as those worn by Hi Martin's players. "How did they get such uniforms?" That was the question that passed from lip to lip. The answer was very simple, though as yet none of the onlookers knew what it was. Not until one minute past four did the Central Grammar players know anything about the uniforms. Old Dut had dismissed the rest of the school, detaining Dick's players. "Young men, we shall now hasten up to Exhibition Hall," announced the principal. He marched them up there, where they found the smiling Mr. Brown, backed by an assistant. Several boxes, opened, lay upon the floor. "Now, young men," called Mr. Brown jovially, "let us see how quickly you can take your baseball uniforms and get into them." "But what-----" began Dick, then paused in absolute bewilderment. "It's all right," Mr. Brown cheerily assured the dazed boys. "The uniforms are all paid for---won't cost you a cent." "But you---you told us," protested Captain Dick Prescott, "that you were collecting measurements of members of schoolboys' baseball clubs." "Well, that's the truth," protested Brown, with a mock air of injured innocence. "I'm a traveling salesman for the Haynes Sporting Goods Company, one of the biggest baseball outfitting companies in this part of the country. It's my business to travel and take orders." "But we didn't give you any orders," gasped Dave. "Some one did," laughed Mr. Brown. "Who did?" blurted Tom Reade. "Did you, Mr. Jones?" cried Dick. "Not I," laughed the principal. "But I'll tell you, boys, who did. Prescott, you remember Mr. Winthrop, who is acting for Colonel Garwood in trying to find the latter's son? Amos Garwood hasn't yet been found, but Mr. Winthrop is satisfied that they are close at his heels, and that they will soon find him. Colonel Garwood is a very wealthy old man, and very fond of his missing son. Mr. Winthrop inquired how he could best serve the boys who had brought him the first word. Some one, I believe it was Len Spencer, the 'Blade' reporter, told about your not having uniforms. Mr. Winthrop wired the Haynes Company, placing an order for the best of uniforms, provided they could be finished to be delivered this afternoon. And here they are." "When do you youngsters play?" called out Brown laughingly. "To-day or some other day?" "I would recommend you to make good time," Old Dut urged. "You don't want to start the season by being late, do you. Besides the North Grammar boys might then claim the game by default." That was enough to set Dick Prescott and his dazed comrades at work in earnest. The uniforms were of blue, and of fine texture. Even baseball shoes had been provided. The stockings were blue. Then came the trousers. The blue jersey shirts bore proudly in front two golden letters each, "C.G." This inscription stood, of course, for "Central Grammar." Then there were coats of blue, to slip on over the jersey shirts; caps of blue and belts of blue, the latter edged with golden yellow to match the shirt initials. Besides there were a catcher's mask, gloves for the different field players, half a dozen baseballs and an even dozen of bats. "Finish dressing as quickly as you can," urged Old Dut. "Your time is slipping away." At last they were ready. Carrying masks, bats, gloves, they fell in by twos, Principal Jones marching them from the building, along the street and into the field where their arrival had created such a furor. Yet, excited as he was, Dick had not forgotten to ask both Mr. Brown and Old Dut not to fail to express their deepest thanks to Mr. Winthrop and to Colonel Garwood. Ben Tozier, of the High School baseball nine, had been accepted as umpire for the day. He now came forward to meet Captain Dick's company. "My, but you youngsters look about the finest ever," announced Ben. "I hope you can play as well as you look. Captain Prescott, do you claim any time for practice?" "Not if it's time to begin playing," Dick answered. "Yes; it is. I'll call Martin, and you two will attend me for the pitch of the coin." "Wait a moment, please," called Hi, from across the field. "What's the matter?" shouted a spectator. "The North Grammars want to go home and change their uniforms," shouted another onlooker. There was a great laugh at this, which caused Hi Martin to color and look belligerent. He came stalking across the field. "Ladies and gentlemen," shouted Ted Teall, affecting the manner of an announcer, "I beg to state that the game about to begin will be between two famous nines, known as the Gentlemen and the Chromos." At this there was more laughter, while Hi Martin shook with rage. Looking at the bright red so prominent in the North Grammar uniforms, there could be no doubt as to which nine had been dubbed the "Chromos." "Mr. Umpire," called Hi angrily, "have you power to preserve order here to-day?" "I'll do my best," agreed Tozier. "But this is an open field that any one may enter, and there are no police here." "Play ball, you red-heads!" jeered a boy, referring to the bright red caps of the North Grammars. "Don't holler for the police until you find out whether you can stand up to the Centrals." "Now, let us stop all guying of the players and all other nonsense," called Tozier firmly, as he held up his right hand. "Remember that we are here to see a game and not to listen to cheap wit." That held the unruly ones back for a few moments. Tozier drew a coin from one of his pockets, exhibited it to the captains, and asked: "Who will call the toss?" "Martin may," nodded Captain Dick. "Ready, then." Ben Tozier sent the coin spinning skyward. When it turned to fall Hi called out: "Tails." "Heads win," declared Umpire Tozier. "Captain Martin, have you any choice?" inquired Prescott politely. "I didn't win the toss," Hi returned sulkily. "But we'll give you your choice if you have any," Dick insisted. "We'd rather go to bat," Hi observed. "Then, Mr. Umpire," continued Dick, turning to Tozier, "the Centrals choose the field." "Get to your places," nodded Ben. "Martin at bat; Percival on deck," called the score-keeper. Dick ran down to the pitcher's box, while Greg, slipping on mask and glove, took up his position behind the plate. Tozier carelessly broke the seal on the package enclosing a ball, inspected it, and dropped it into Dick's hands. Dick threw an overshoot to Greg, who mitted it neatly. But Ted Teall could not let the occasion go by without some nonsense. "Whack!" shouted Teall. "Woof! Did you hear it strike? And it hurt, too. Who has the arnica bottle?" There was laughter, but Dick ignored it, sending in a neat drive over the plate. Greg caught it and sent the ball back. As it once more reached Dick's hand Umpire Tozier shouted: "Ready! Play ball!" Greg Holmes signaled what he wanted. Dick gave the ball a twist, and the game was on. Chapter V NORTH GRAMMARS PLAY REAL BALL "Say, dress a kid up swell, and send him on the street---did you ever know him to be any good?" demanded Ted Teall scornfully of those who stood near him. "Well, that's what ails the Centrals. They're wearing a bale of glad dry goods and they can't keep their eyes off their togs long enough to find the ball." Dick and Dave heard this as they went to grass at the end of the third inning. So far, though the Centrals had made some bases, none of their players had succeeded in scoring at the plate. One of Hi Martin's players had scored a run in the first inning and another in the third. "Teall is a torment, isn't he?" whispered Dick. "He is now," muttered Dave. "He won't be after this game is finished." "Why not?" "I'm going to trim some of the funny talk out of him after the game." "Don't do anything foolish, Dave," urged Dick. "That won't be foolish. It's necessary." "Don't do it, Dave, or even think of it. You'll give the Centrals the name of not being able to stand defeat." Then Dick ran over to the box to begin pitching for the fourth inning. His arm had not given out. Prescott had been doing some pretty good pitching, and Greg had backed him up well. But the North Grammars had a few batsmen who seemed to guess the ball in advance. "Hey, Mr. Umpire," shouted a boyish onlooker, as Dick faced the plate, ball in hand, "better call the game and let the Centrals play some weak primary school team." Even at this cheap witticism there was considerable laughter. It made Dick's face flush. "I'll show 'em whether we can play or not," he muttered to himself, as he caught the signal from Greg. "We've got to start, too, for we've got to match those two runs and then pick up this game for our own." Hi Martin was again at the plate. He swung his bat idly, grinning mockingly at Prescott. "I'll let you off without trying, if you'll give me second base," offered Hi tantalizingly. "If the batsman talks again he will be ordered off the grounds," declared Umpire Tozier sternly. But Dick felt the sting of his opponent's taunt and longed to be even. Greg signaled for a drop ball---a difficult one for a schoolboy to throw. It was the first time in the game that Greg had asked for this. Dick "made up" the ball with extra care, then let it go. It looked like a chest-high ball as it came, and was so slow that Hi threw back his bat to slam it. "A home run on this!" thought Hi exultantly. From the sides of the field came a mocking laugh, for the ball had dropped, leaving Hi pounding wildly at the air. "Strike one!" called Ben Tozier, slipping a pebble to his other hand. Dick smiled quietly as the ball came back to him. Greg signaled for an outshoot. But Dick "made up" the ball and imitated his delivery of the throw before. "I'll get down and get it, this time!" flashed Martin resentfully. He did, only to find himself no nearer the ball than before. "Strike two!" Tittering came from the sides now, also some applause. The spectators had just begun to understand that Dick Prescott was pitching better ball. "Ball one!" Hi felt a bit better for a moment. Then: "Strike three! Out!" With a muttered growl of disgust, Captain Martin gave up his post to Percival. "What has got into Prescott?" demanded Rodgers, of the Norths, anxiously. "Oh, we'll pound him to pieces soon," muttered Hi. "Strike one!" sounded the umpire's steady, low voice. In a moment or two more it was: "Strike three. Out!" Then a third batsman took post. Dick Prescott, his face now flushed with pleasure, not humiliation, and his eyes flashing battle, put the third man out for the Norths. Yet, though the Central Grammars put two of their men on bases, they, too, went back to grass ere a run could be scored. The fifth inning was almost a duplicate of the fourth; no ground gained. In the sixth, after having two men struck out, the Norths took two base hits away from Prescott, and had men on first and second. In an unwary moment for the Centrals the man at second made third just ahead of the ball. "We'll have a third run in a moment, if our boys keep their heads," murmured Hi Martin confidently. "That will keep us at three to nothing." At that instant Dick delivered a ball that the North batsman tapped, but just hard enough to drive it for a fair catch into Prescott's hands. "You idiot!" glared Martin at the offender, as the Norths took the field. However, all predictions were still in favor of the North Grammars, who had two runs put away while they had kept Prescott's men from scoring. "Fellows, we've got to do something, and we must make it strong!" muttered Dick, as his side came in. Reade went to bat---was struck out. "That wasn't very strong," sighed Tom, as he passed Dick going to the plate. Dick Prescott had his favorite bat in his hand. He gripped it a little harder for an instant, then relaxed and waited for Hi's puzzling delivery. "Strike one!" Dick swung for the next one that came. Almost mechanically Tozier opened his mouth to call: "Stri-----" But Dick's willow cut in with a "whack!" "Woof! Whoop!" Central boys among the spectators sent up an expectant yell, then watched breathlessly. Was the luck about to change? "Go it! Go it! Go it!" yelled the Central boys in three different pitches of enthusiasm. Dick, as he struck first and turned, took a fleeting look at the North's right fielder, still in pursuit of the long fly that had gone by him and was rolling over the field. Then, straining lungs and nerves, Dick sprinted toward the second bag. "Go it! Hustle!" Behind him Dick heard the whistle of the coming ball. Just ahead of him was the plate. He took a long leap, then slid. Second baseman held up the ball in his right hand. "Safe, safe!" yelled the gleeful Central spectators. "Out! That was out!" hoarsely declared the boosters for the North Grammars. "Safe at second," called Ben Tozier steadily. "Oh, you ape of an umpire!" grunted Hi Martin disgustedly, as he mitted the ball from second. For an instant he watched Dick, who was edging away from second. Then he turned to send in a drive past Greg, who now hovered over the plate. Greg Holmes went to two strikes and three balls, Hi all the time alertly watching Prescott at second. Crack! And now Greg was running. Norths' left-fielder muffed the ball, then recovered and threw like a flash to third. But Dick was there a shade of a second ahead of the leather. "Safe" declared the umpire. Hi Martin flashed a warning look at the catcher for his nine, then sent a sweeping glare around the bases. Greg and Dick smiled sweetly back. "Play ball!" ordered Umpire Tozier. Dan Dalzell was now at bat, tingling with anxiety, though his grin seemed a yard wide. "Oh, you Danny Grin! Eat the leather!" appealed a Central rooter from the side. Dan grinned again, his look seeming to say, "Watch me!" Two strikes, with no called balls. Dick, dancing away from third, felt himself on tenterhooks. Not all of his perspiration was due to the heat of the day. Again Dan offered. Crack! A wild, gleeful whoop went up from some of the Central rooters, while others held their breath. The ball went high, and right field came running in for it. As it happened, the fielder underestimated the length of the flight. It struck the ground to his rear and rolled. Before the outfielder could pick it up Dan had kicked the first bag. "Prescott! Prescott!" Dick was in, scoring the first run, while Greg was at second, and Dan hugging first as though he dared not be found two yards away from that bag. Henderson now went to bat, accompanied by the grave anxiety of the members of his nine, for Spoff was not one of the star players. True to expectations Spoff struck out. "Do it, Hazelton! You've got to do it!" yelled the Central fans despairingly. "Don't miss any tricks!" Harry, however, could find nothing safe to hit at. He took first on called balls, advancing Greg to third and Dan to second. Wrecker Lane now swung the willow. On his face was a do-or-die, dogged expression. Wrecker was not a brilliant player, though he was one to whom defeat came hard. "Go after it, Wrecker. Put it over hard! Slam!" After two strikes and one ball had been called Wrecker let go in deadly earnest. Bang! The blow split the leather, which went in an erratic though by no means short course. Greg dashed in over the plate amid wild cheers. Dan, hotfooting as he had never before done in his life, crossed the plate also. Wrecker, panting, reached first, looked at the fielder almost on the ball, sped on, then prudently turned and make back for first. Toby Ross now went to bat, and struck out in crisp one-two-three order. "Wrecker, that was a bully liner!" glowed Dick, grasping the hand of the boy who had saved the score in its critical moment. "You seemed to have Hi Martin's delivery down to a certainty." "Yes, and it was a wonder, too," confessed Wrecker, still a bit dazed. "I couldn't see the ball at all, but I knew that it was up to me to do something." "How do you feel now, Chromos?" bawled Ted Teall at the beginning of the seventh. The score was now three to two in favor of Central Grammar. It was still there when the seventh ended, and also at the finish of the eighth. Then the North Grammars went to bat for the first half of the ninth. "You fellows simply must do something---do a lot," had been Hi's almost tearful urging as be addressed his fellows at the bench. It was Bill Rodgers who stood before him as Dick twirled the ball, awaiting Greg's signal, which came a second later---a drop ball. Bill swung for it, then looked foolish. Two more bad guesses, and he was out. A second man was soon out, and then a third. Not one of the trio had been able to judge Dick's ball. Central Grammar had won the first game by the close score of three to two. That, however, was as good for all purposes as any other could possibly be. "What ails you Norths?" amiably remarked Ted Teall. "Is it the gayness of your uniforms? The red gets in your eyes and keeps you from seeing the ball." "You're not funny," glowered Hi Martin. "You're merely a clown." "Wait until my nine plays yours," retorted Teall genially. "Then we'll see who looks more like a clown---you or I." But now there was time, and Dick Prescott and his fellows had to tell scores of eager inquirers how they came by their new uniforms, when they had not expected to have any. "Just what I thought, or as bad, anyway," muttered Martin when the news was brought to him. "These muckers couldn't buy their uniforms, as our fellows did. They had to depend upon charity to make a good appearance on the field." "Hold on, there, Martin," angrily objected one of the Central fans. "I suppose it was charity, too, when you gave our fellows the game, eh? It was mighty kind of you, too." "Huh!" retorted Hi. "This is only one game lost, and by a hair's breadth. Wait until the end of the season, and see who carries the laurels." "Prescott, what do these letters mean on your jersey?" asked Ted Teall, halting and squinting at the golden yellow emblems. "C.G.?" smiled Dick. "That's for Central Grammar, of course. But the letters have been put on so that they can be easily changed around to read G.C." "What'll that stand for?" quizzed Teall, winking at some of the other fellows. "Why, we'll change the letters around after we've played this series, and then the letters will stand for Grammar Champions." "Oh, I see," grinned Ted. "My, but that will be kind of you, to give our fellows the jerseys." "You haven't won them yet," retorted Dick. "The Centrals will keep their own jerseys and wear the G.C. by right of conquest." "Perhaps they will, and perhaps they won't," muttered Hi Martin angrily to himself and Tom Percival. Chapter VI SETTLING WITH A TEASER Saturday morning, about eight o'clock, the entire team of the Central Grammar met at Dave Darrin's house. In the front yard they waited for their captain. "Queer Dick should be a bit late," muttered Torn Reade. "He's our model of punctuality." "You'll see him come around the corner 'most any minute," Greg predicted. Nor was Holmes wrong in this. When Prescott arrived he came on a jog trot. "We wondered what kept you, our right-to-the-minute captain," announced Dave. "Well, you see," replied Dick quizzically, "I've been thinking." "Thinking?" repeated Tom. "Oh, I understand. You've been thinking about what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "Well, hardly anything as big as that," teased Dick. "I'm afraid that you fellows are growing impatient on what is, after all, not a very important matter." "So, then, the speech of the man on the clubhouse steps wasn't very important?" inquired Tom, seeking to pin their leader down. "Why, that would depend on how you happened to regard what the man on the clubhouse steps said," Dick laughed. "Is that what you're going to tell us?" almost bowled Hazelton. "I don't know that I am going to tell you much of anything," Prescott continued. "What did the man on the clubhouse steps say?" asked Dan, advancing with uplifted bat. "You'll never drag the secret from me by threats or violence," retorted Dick, with a stubborn shake of the head. "We're getting away from the point," Tom went on. "You said you had been thinking." "Well?" "You've made the claim of having been thinking, but you haven't offered the slightest proof." "What I was thinking, fellows, was that we are obliged to meet the South Grammar nine on the diamond to-day." "We're not afraid of them," scoffed Dave. "No," Dick went on, "but I've an idea that we're up against an ordeal, after a fashion. You all know what a guyer Ted Teall is---how he nearly broke up our match with the Norths last Wednesday afternoon." "Ted can't do any guying this morning," declared Greg readily. "If he does, the umpire will rule him out of the game, and that would snap all of Ted's nerve. No; Ted won't guy us to-day." "But I'll tell you just what will happen to us," Dick offered. "The spectators who come from the South Grammar aren't under the umpire's orders. You may be sure that Ted has posted the fellows from his school on a lot of things that they can yell at us. Oh, we'll get guyed from the start to the finish of the game." "If they go too far," hinted Dave, "we can thrash some of the funny ones afterwards." "I shan't feel like thrashing anyone for having a little fun with us," remarked Reade. "Thrashing wouldn't do any good, anyway," Dick continued. "Besides which, we might just happen, incidentally, to be the fellows that got the worst thrashing if we started anything like that going. I don't object to good-natured ridicule. But the South Grammar fellows may have some things to yell at us that will rattle our play. That's what I want to stop." "How can you stop it?" queried Greg. "That's what kept me home a little later than I intended to stay there," Dick replied. "I have been thinking, since last night, how I could take some of the starch out of Ted Teall, and have some way of throwing the horse laugh back on the South Grammar boys in case they start anything funny enough to rattle us." "How did the thinking get on?" Tom wanted to know. "I believe I've something here that will do it," Prescott replied, taking an object from one of his pockets and holding it up. "It looks like a home-made ball for babies to play with," remarked Dan Dalzell, grinning. "It's a home-made ball, all right," Dick nodded. "Yet I don't believe that I'd let a baby have it to play with." "What's the matter with it?" Tom asked. "Loaded?" "Some one told you," protested Prescott, pretending to look astounded. "What are you going to do with that thing?" Dave insisted. "If I have a chance I'm going to get Ted Teall up in the air, and before the crowd, too," Dick asserted. "With this ball?" Greg asked, taking it from his friend's hand. "Yes." "Hm! I don't see anything about it to shatter the nerves of a hardy youth like Ted Teall," Greg muttered. "This ball is just wound with string and covered with pieces of old glove. Why, it's so soft that I don't believe I could throw it straight." Greg raised the home-made ball to throw it. "Here! Don't toss it, or you may put it out of business," objected Prescott, taking it away from his friend. "If the ball can't be thrown, then what on earth is it good for?" questioned Darrin. "I'll come to that by degrees," Dick promised. "Did you know that dad has secured a license this year to sell fireworks at his store?" "Yes," nodded several of the boys. "Well, yesterday, Dad had a lot of samples come in from the manufacturers. There were a few of the extra big and noisy torpedoes," Dick explained. "I got one of them and wrapped this string and leather around it." Then, in low tones, Dick confided to his comrades the use to which he hoped to put the ball. There were a good many grins as the plot dawned on the young diamond enthusiasts. "That'll be a warm one, if it works," grinned Reade. "Say, but I shall be hanging right around to see it happen," declared Darrin. Originally this Saturday game had been scheduled for two in the afternoon. However, so many of the schoolboys in town wanted to have Saturday afternoon for other fun that the time had been changed to nine in the forenoon. "Hadn't we better be starting?" asked Dick, looking at his watch. "Yes; I want to be in at the death of Teall," agreed Reade. All in uniform the Central Grammars started down the street, though this time they did not march. As they moved along other boys joined them, some from the Central and others from the North Grammar. By the time that Dick's nine and substitutes neared the field more than a hundred fans trailed along with them. Nearly three hundred other boys were walking about on the field, or lying down under the trees. Already the South Grammar boys were on the field, practicing by way of warming up. "Hello! Here come the bluebells!" yelled a group of South Grammar fans and rooters. "Blue? You bet they'll be blue when the game is over!" "Hey, Prescott! What'll you take for the letters on your shirt?" "Gimme that yellow curl over your forehead? I saw it first." "Oh, my, don't the Little Boys Blue look sweet?" In silence the Central players marched by their tormentors. Dick gazed across the field to see Ted Teall swinging a bat at the home plate. "Teall!" called Dick, as he and the others dropped their jackets at the batters' benches. "Hello!" returned Ted. "I'm glad to see that you fellows really had the nerve to come to-day." "I saw you doing some pretty wild batting, Teall," laughed Dick Prescott. "That kind of work won't save you when I get started. Shall I throw you in a few real ones---hard ones---before we get at it in earnest?" "Go on!" retorted Ted scornfully. "Oh, I won't hurt you," Prescott promised. "You bet you won't," boasted Teall. "He's afraid, even before the game starts," jeered a group of Central Grammar boys. "That's right, Ted. Guard your life." "Don't be afraid, Teall," Dick urged tantalizingly. "Trying to hit some of my deliveries will be something like an education for you." "Bosh!" sneered Teall. "Then why won't you try a few?" "I will, if you really think you can throw a ball that will rattle me any," Teall agreed, grinning broadly. "Go at him, Dick!" "Whoop! Show him what a cheap batter he is." Laughing, balancing a ball in his hands, Dick glided out on to the diamond. "Ready, Ted? Just see what you can do with one like this," Dick mocked. It was a swift ball, but a straight one. To a batsman of Teall's skill it was not a difficult one to hit. Ted swung his bat and gave the ball a crack that sent it far out into outfield. "Is that the best you can do?" jeered Ted. "Oh, I've one or two better than that," replied Dick, pretending to feel flustered. Again Prescott sent in a swift one, and once more Teall sent the leather spinning over the field. Hoots and cat-calls from the Souths filled the air. The Central fans began to look a bit uneasy. What was their champion pitcher doing, to let Teall get away with his deliveries as easily as this? A third ball Dick drove in, with the same result as before. "Say, what you fellows need is practice," leered Ted. "Look out that I don't catch you yet," mocked Dick Prescott, bending to scoop up the returning ball from the ground. Then he wheeled like a flash to confront the batsman. This time, by a quick substitution, Dick held the home-made ball. He twirled it for an instant, then sent it in toward the plate. "Just---as---easy!" scoffed Ted, whirling his bat, then reaching out for the ball. Crack! Teall hit it soundly. Bang! With such force had the batsman struck that he exploded the large torpedo inside the home-made ball. There was a rattling explosion, and Teall, unable to figure, in that first instant, what had happened, sent the bat flying. "Ow-ow-ow!" yelled startled Ted, leaping up into the air. When he alighted he ran a dozen or more steps as fast as he could go, then halted and looked around him. For an instant Teall's face expressed panic. Then mocking laughter from hundreds of throats greeted him. "I knew any little thing out of the ordinary would rattle you," smiled Dick. "Don't lose your nerve. It wasn't anything." "Just a fresh idiot's attempt to be funny!" growled Teall, his face now red with mortification. "Laugh, Ted, confound you!" urged Tom Reade. "Laugh! Don't be a grouch." "What you need, Teall," teased Dave Darrin, "is some nerve tonic. You ought not to let yourself get into such bad shape that you almost faint when you hit the ball." For once Ted Teall's ready tongue went back on him. He could think of nothing to say that would not make him look still more ridiculous. "I guess he'll be good, for one game at least," grimaced Dick as he turned to his teammates. Chapter VII TED TEALL FACES THE STORM The game had gone into the third inning, with the Centrals retired from the bat and the Souths now in from the field. In the second inning Greg, backed splendidly by Tom and Dick, had scored a run for his side---the only run listed as yet. In this third inning, with South Grammar now at the bat, two men were out, and one on second when Ted Teall stepped to the plate. "Put a real slam over on 'em, Ted!" shouted a South fan. "Drive a ball over into Stayton and then fill up the score card while the Centrals are looking for it!" advised another Teall partisan. "Centrals?" jeered another boy from the South. Grammar. "Centrals? Show 'em they're just plain hello-girls!" Ted grinned broadly at this "hello-girls" nickname. Just then another fan from the southern part of Gridley piped up: "Ted, eat 'em. They're only nine pieces of blue cheese!" That was going too far, and it was time for Central Grammar to take notice effectively. "Bang!" roared one half of the Central fans. "Ow-ow-ow!" yelled the other half of the Central boosters, leaping up into the air. Even Ted Teall had to laugh at this mortifying reminder of his terror when he had struck the torpedo ball. The next instant his face went deep red, for everyone on the field appeared to be laughing and jeering at him. "Confound Prescott and his tricks!" muttered Teall under his breath. "It'll take a lot of thinking for me to get even with that trick." Whizz-zz! went the ball by Ted's body, just below shoulder-high. "Strike one!" called the umpire sharply. "Centrals will get me rattled with that bang-ow-ow! of theirs every time they spring it on me," thought Ted savagely. "Strike two!" Again Ted had failed to realize that the ball was coming. In his anger be wondered whether he'd rather throw his bat at the umpire or at smiling Dick Prescott. "Strike three!" called the umpire's steady voice. "Side out." Then Ted, in sheer exasperation, did hurl his bat a score of feet away. "Bang!" came in a volley of Central voices. "Ow-ow-ow!" wailed the other half of Old Dut's boys while the North Grammars joined in. "Go it, you boobs!" muttered Ted, shaking his fist at the spectators. "Hurrah!" cheered Spoff Henderson from the subs' bench. "We know how to stop Ted Teall's mouth now!" Teall happened to hear the remark. "Oh, you fellows are a lot of boobies!" sputtered Ted wrathfully. "Anyway," Toby Ross leered back at him, "we're not so young that we yell when we hit a ball by mistake." In the fourth and fifth innings the Central Grammars, though they booked some base hits, did not succeed in getting any runs through. However, they succeeded in preventing Teall's nine from scoring, which kept the score still at one to nothing. In the first half of the sixth Harry Hazelton was brought home from third by a good one by Dan. Then the side went out. In this inning Teall again had a chance at bat. Before batting he stalked over to where a lot of his schoolfellows were grouped and muttered: "Don't you fellows shoot any funny remarks in this inning. Keep quiet." "Huh!" shot out one of the boys. "What's the matter with you, Ted?" "No matter. But I don't want any funny line of talk steered over to the Centrals to-day." "Seems to me you've changed a lot, Ted," grinned one of his classmates. "Yesterday afternoon you put us up to a lot of funny things to holler to-day." "Forget 'em," ordered Ted. "Dick Prescott certainly stabbed you with that torpedo," grinned another South. "Ted, your nerve is gone for to-day." "Don't get too funny with me, or I'll see you after the game," threatened Teall, as he stalked away, for he was now on deck, and due to go next to bat. The second man for the Souths struck out. "Teall at bat!" called the score-keeper. Hi Martin and a lot of the North Grammar boys had come to the field late. Hi didn't like to see the score two to nothing in favor of the Centrals. He would have preferred to have the Souths win. "Let's get Prescott rattled?" whispered Martin. "I don't believe you can do it," replied Bill Rodgers. "Prescott is a mighty cool one." "Yes, we can," insisted Hi. "I'll tell you what to boiler just the instant that Teall picks up the stick and Prescott starts to twist the ball." Ted, all unsuspicious, and believing that he had stilled his own band of teasing torments, picked up his bat and went to the plate. "Put it over the robbers, Ted!" came from Hi Martin's crowd. "Don't be afraid of the Centrals---the fellows who stole their uniforms from a lunatic in the woods." Dick heard the senseless taunt and understood it. But it didn't anger or confuse him. Instead, the ball left his hand with surer guidance. But a crowd of Central fans also heard, and imagined that the yell came from one of the groups of Souths. "Bang! bang!" yelled a lot of Central Grammar boys with enthusiasm. "Ow-ow-ow! Ow-ow-ow!" came the response. "Strike one!" called the umpire. Ted, his face crimson and his eyes flashing fire, threw his bat from him. "Teall, pick up your bat," ordered the umpire. "If you do that again I'll order you from the game." "I don't care if you do!" trembled on Ted's lips, but he caught the words in time. He gulped, swallowed hard, hesitated, then went tremulously to pick up his stick. However, his grit was gone for the day. He struck out and retired. "Ow-ow-ow!" yelled a few of the Central fans in the eighth, and Dave Darrin struck a two bagger, bringing Prescott in safe from second, scoring a third run and landing Darrin on second. Had not Ross struck out immediately afterward there would have been other runs scored. The count was now three to nothing in favor of the Central Grammars. "Prescott's fellows are playing some ball," declared Bill Rodgers. "Hub! You mean that the Souths don't know how to play," sneered Hi Martin. "Teall's fellows are playing well," argued Rodgers. "If you watch, you'll see that the luck of the Centrals depends a lot on the way they run the bases. Whew! They go like greased lightning when they're sprinting around the diamond." "Well, why shouldn't they run?" demanded Hi. "Prescott and his fellows have been running every day since the snow went away." "I wish our Norths had been running all the time, too," sighed Bill. The Souths were playing desperately well in the field. Dick's side came in for the ninth, but did not succeed in getting another run. "Now, watch 'em closely, fellows," counseled Dick, as, from the benches, he started his men out to the field. "The Souths are mad and game, and they may get runs enough in this last half to beat us. Play, all the time, as if you didn't know what it was to be tired. Keep after 'em!" Dick struck the first South Grammar fellow out. The next man at bat took first on called balls. The next hit a light fly that was good for a base. The player who followed sent a bunt that Dave, as short-stop, fumbled. And now the bases were full. "Oh, you Ted!" wailed the South fans hopefully. "Do your duty now, Teall!" Ted gripped the bat, stepping forward. As he reached the plate he shot at his schoolmates a look of grim resolution. "I'll bring those three fellows in, if I have to kill the ball, or drive it through a fielder!" muttered Ted resolutely. "If we can tie the score then we can break this fearful hoodoo and win the game yet." "Don't let that pitcher scare you, Ted!" yelled a South encouragingly. "He hasn't a wing any longer. It's only a fin." "Codfish fin, at that," mocked another. "Bang!" retorted a dozen Central fans. Before the answering chorus could come Dick Prescott held up a hand, looking sternly at his sympathizers. "Strike one!" called the umpire, and once more Teall reddened. "I've got to brace, and work myself out of this," groaned red-faced Teall. "There's too much depending on me." "Ball one!" "Now, I hope the next one will be good, and that I can hit it a crack that will drive it into the next county," muttered Ted, feeling the cold sweat beading his forehead. He judged wrongly, on a drop ball. "Strike two!" "Drive a plum into that pudding in the box, Ted," sang out one of his classmates. "Ow-ow-ow!" shrieked a score of watching Central Grammar boys. That was the last straw. Ted felt the blood rush to his head and all looked red before him. "Strike three! Side out! Game!" came slowly, steadily from the umpire. Then the score-keeper rose to his feet. "Central Grammar wins by a score of three to nothing." This time Ted Teall didn't throw his bat. Gripping it savagely, he stalked over to a group of his own schoolmates. "What fellow was it that started the yelling?" demanded Ted huskily. "Why?" challenged three or four of the Souths. "I want to know who he is---that's all," muttered Ted. In a moment there was a mix-up. But Teall wasn't popular at that moment. A captain who had led his men into a whitewash was entitled to no very great consideration. "Let go of that bat!" roared Ted, as he felt it seized. "Let go, or I'll hit some one with it." "That's what he wants to do anyway," called out one of the boys. "Yank it away from him!" The bat torn from him, Ted Teall was fighting mad. He was so ugly, in fact, that he was borne to the ground, three of his own classmates sitting on him. "You're all right, Ted," announced one of his classmates. "All that ails you is that you've got a touch of heat. Cool off and we'll let you up." "There's one guyer who has lost his hold on his favorite pastime of annoying other people," remarked Tom Reade grimly. "Dick's trick was the slickest that ever I saw done in that line," chuckled Dave Darrin. "But I wonder how our fellows tumbled to the idea of calling 'bang' first, and then following it up with 'ow-ow-ow'?" "Want to know very badly?" Tom questioned. "I surely do," Darry nodded. "Well, then," Tom declared, "I put some of the fellows up to that trick." Chapter VIII TWO RIVALS PLAN DIRE REVENGE "I wonder what Ted Teall will do after this when he wants to play rattles on the other side?" inquired Harry. Dick & Co. were now making the most of Saturday afternoon. Having no money to spend, and no boat in which to enjoy themselves on the river, they had gone out of Gridley some distance to a small, clear body of water known as Hunt's pond. When sufficient time after dinner had passed, they intended to strip and go in swimming, for this pond, well in the woods, was, by common understanding, left for boys who wanted to indulge in that sport. "I don't believe Ted will get very funny, in the immediate future," replied Tom reflectively. "His fellows came to the field, all primed with a lot of funny remarks they were going to shoot at us during the game. Yet the only fellows who got hit by any flying funny talk were the Souths themselves. I have been wondering if 'Bang---ow-ow' was what cost the Souths the game?" "I don't quite believe that," replied Dick. "Yet I am certain that it took a lot of starch out of Ted himself. Do you remember that time when he went over and spoke to his fellows?" "Yes," nodded Greg. "Well," Dick pursued, "I've heard since that that was the time when Ted went over and begged his fellows to 'can' all funny talk until the game was over." "But they didn't," chuckled Dan. "That was why Ted was so angry at the end." "Anyway," Tom insisted, "Teall isn't likely to bother us any more." "Either he'll quit on the funny talk," agreed Prescott, "or else he'll go to the other extreme and be more tantalizing than ever." It would greatly have interested these Central Grammar boys had they known that the subject of their conversation was even then listening to them. Ted Teall, sore and angry, had come away from town all by himself. He wanted a long swim in the pond, to see if that would cool off the anger that consumed him. Hearing voices as he came through the woods, Ted halted first, then, crawling along the ground, made his way cautiously forward. And now the captain of the South Grammar nine lay flat, his head hidden behind a clump of low bushes. "Having fun over me, are they?" growled Ted. "It was a rough trick to play, of course," laughed Dick. "But I felt so wholly certain Ted's fellows would start in to break us up that I felt I had to spring that torpedo trick in order to shut the other crowd up in advance." "Oh, you did, did you?" thought Teall angrily. "But now there's something else to be thought of," Prescott went on. "Teall is bound to feel sore and ashamed, and he won't rest until be has done his best to get even with us." "Teall had better leave us alone," replied Tom, shaking his head. "Ted's brain isn't any too heavy, and he'll never be equal to getting the better of a crowd with a Dick Prescott in it." "We won't do any bragging just yet," Prescott proposed. "That's right. You'd better not," Ted growled under his breath. "Fellows," announced Dan Dalzell, "I've made an important discovery." "I wonder if he saw me?" flashed through Teall's mind, as he tried to lie flatter than before. "Name the discovery," begged Hazelton. "Look at your watches, fellows," Dan continued, "and I think you'll find that it's now proper time for us to go in swimming." "So it is," Darrin agreed. "Hurrah!" Little more was said for a few moments. All the fellows of Dick & Co. were busy in getting their clothing off. "Say, but I hope you fellows get far enough away from your duds!" breathed Teall vengefully, as he watched through the screen of leaves. "Do you fellows think we had better leave a guard over our clothes?" queried Dick, as they stood forth, ready for swimming. "Not!" returned Dalzell with emphasis. "If I agreed to it, it would be just my luck to have the lot fall to me. For the next half hour I don't want to do a thing but feel the water around me all the way up to my neck." "What's the use of a guard over our clothes?" queried Dave. "There isn't another soul besides ourselves in these woods this afternoon." "Go on thinking that!" chuckled Teall. Running out on a log and putting his hands together, Dick dived. "How's the water?" called Tom. "Cold," Prescott answered, blowing out a mouthful as he struck out for the middle of the pond. "You'd better keep out." "He wants the pond all to himself," muttered Tom, and dived at once. In a moment all six boys were in the water, sporting about and enjoying themselves. "I wish they'd get further away from here," thought Ted wistfully. "They're hanging right around here. If I show myself they'll all swim in. There wouldn't be time to do anything." All too late Ted heard some one coming through the woods behind him. He crouched, ready to crawl away to privacy, but found himself too late. Hi Martin parted the bushes as be forced his way through. "Hello, Teall," called the North Grammar captain. "Hush---sh---sh!" warned Ted, putting a finger to his lips. "What's the matter?" "Prescott and his crew are out there swimming, and their clothes are right below." "I see," nodded Martin. "You want to get the clothes?" "Sit down here, out of sight, and keep quiet, won't you?" urged Teall. Hi sat down quietly. He didn't like Teall especially, but he disliked Prescott, and perhaps here was a chance to serve Dick's discomfort. "If they'd only swim away for a little stretch!" whispered Ted. "I see," nodded Hi Martin rather pompously. "Too bad, isn't it? Now, Teall, you and Prescott both come from mucker schools, and I don't know that I ought to butt in any. But I don't mind seeing you torment Prescott a bit. You wait. I'll go in, and maybe I can challenge those fellows to swim down the pond that will take them away from this point." Ted's face had flushed sullenly at Hi's remark about "mucker schools." At another time Teall might have been ready to fight over a slighting word like that. Just now, however, he craved help against Prescott more than anything else. "All right," urged Ted. "You decoy that crowd away from here for a few minutes, and maybe I won't do a thing to them!" "I'll see what I can do for you," returned Martin, going down to the edge of the pond. "How's the water, fellows?" called Hi. "Fine," returned Dick with enthusiasm. "Room enough in the pond for another?" Hi asked. "Surely. Come on in." "I believe I will," Hi answered, seating himself and fumbling at his shoe-lacings. A couple of minutes later Hi dived from the log and swam out to the other boys. "Are you fellows any good on swimming distances?" Martin asked, as, with lazy stroke, he joined Dick & Co. The North Grammar boy was an expert swimmer and proud of it. "I guess we can swim a little way," Prescott replied. "I don't remember that we ever swam any measured courses." "Can you swim down to that old elm?" asked Hi, indicating a tree at the further end of the pond. "We ought to," smiled Dick. "Come along, then," invited Hi, starting with a side stroke. Dick & Co. started in irregular fashion, Darrin and Reade soon spurting on ahead of Martin. "How long can you tread water?" inquired Hi, after they had reached the neighborhood of the elm. This sport is always interesting to boys who are good swimmers. Forthwith some endurance tests at treading were started. Then Hi showed them all a few "stunts" in the water, some of which Dick & Co. could duplicate easily, and some which they could not. Thus the minutes slipped by. Hi, for once in his life, went out of his way to be entertaining to Central Grammar boys. But, at last, he muttered to himself: "I guess Teall has had plenty of time for his tricks. If he hasn't, then all afternoon wouldn't he time enough." "Hello, Hi," called Dick. "Where are you going?" "Back to dress," Martin replied. "I've been in long enough." "I guess we all have," Dick nodded, himself turning back. His chums followed. "I don't know whether I'll dress or not," remarked Tom Reade, as he shot ahead of the others. "If I find I don't want to dress, then I'll just sit on the bank and dry my skin before going in again." Continuing his spurt, Tom kept on until be reached the log from which the first diving had been done. He waded ashore, looked about in some bewilderment, and then called over the water: "Say, fellows, just where was it that we left our clothes?" "Why, barely a dozen feet back of the log," Dick called from the water. "Hardly ten feet from where my clothes lie," added Hi Martin, his face solemn, but with an inward chuckle over the rage of six boys that he knew was soon to follow. "But where are your clothes, Martin?" asked Tom, staring about him. "Where is anybody's clothes?" The look in Hi's face changed rapidly. He took a few swift, strong strokes that bore him to shore. Then, indeed, Martin's wrath and disgust knew no bounds. For his clothing was as invisible as that of the Central Grammar boys. Chapter IX HI MARTIN TRIES TO MAKE TERMS "Confound that fellow Teall!" This angry expression slipped past Hi's lips unguardedly. By this time Dick Prescott was on shore. His quick, keen glances took in the patent fact that some one had removed all the discarded clothing from sight. "So Ted Teall was around here, and you knew that he was going to take our clothing?" demanded Dick, flashing a searching look at Hi Martin. When too late, Hi Martin saw how he had put his foot into the mess by his indignant exclamation. "And, knowing that Teall was going to slip away with our clothing," Dick went on, "you went into the water and lured us away to the lower end of the pond. That was what you did to us, was it, Martin?" Hi shook his head, then opened his mouth to utter an indignant denial. "Don't try to fool us," advised Dick bitterly. "Martin, you may have thought it funny, but it was a mean trick to serve us, and I am glad that Teall has shown you how little he likes you." Under ordinary circumstances Ted might have left Hi Martin's clothes behind. It had been Hi's impolitic remark about "mucker schools" that had decided Ted to take away Hi's belongings as well. "That Teall is a dirty sneak," cried Hi. "He was simply a comical genius as long as he took only our clothes," Dick retorted. "But now that your things are gone as well, it's a mean, low-down bit of business." "Martin," observed Tom Reade dramatically, "thine own ox is gored." "Talking won't bring back any duds," grunted Harry Hazelton. "Teall can't have gotten very far with such a load. Let's rush after him." "You lead the way, then, son," suggested Dick, "and instead of following you, we'll wait here until you bring the things back." "I wonder which way he went?" puzzled Hazelton. "Probably straight to the road," smiled Dick grimly. "That's the shortest cut, and the road isn't far from here." "But I can't go near the road in this---this---fix," sputtered Harry, looking down at his wet, glistening skin. "Exactly," nodded Prescott. "Nor can any of us go. That's the joke. Like it? Ha, ha, ha!" Dick's laugh had anything but a merry sound. None of the boys had a truly jovial look, nor was it to be expected of them. Tom was solemn as an owl, Harry fussy; Dan was grinning in a sickly sort of way, as was Dave Darrin. Greg Holmes, utterly silent, stood with his fists clenched, thinking how he would like to be able at this moment to pounce upon Ted Teall. "It's an outrage!" sputtered Hi Martin, white to the roots of his hair. He was walking about, stamping with his bare feet on the ground, the fingers of both his hands working nervously. "Oh, well, you won't get any sympathy in this crowd," Tom assured Hi glumly. "You were party to this, and all that disturbs you is that any one should dare take the same kind of a liberty with you. We don't care what happens to you, now, Martin." "What shall we do with Martin, anyway?" demanded Dan Dalzell. "Nothing," returned Dick crisply. "He isn't worthy of having anything done to him." "Let's call 'Ted' with all our might," proposed Harry. "You can, if you want to," Dick rejoined. "I doubt if he is now near enough to hear you. Even if he did hear, he'd only snicker and run further away." After a few moments more Dick and his chums, as though by common consent, squatted on the sand near the edge of the pond. It was warmer for them that way. Martin edged over close to them. Not one member of Dick & Co. did the captain of the North Grammar nine really like, but in his present woeful plight Hi wanted human company of some kind, and he could not very well go in search of people who wore all their clothing. While the swimmers had been occupied in the water at the lower end of the pond, Ted Teall had been wonderfully busy. First of all, Ted had loaded himself with about half the clothing belonging to Dick & Co. The shoes he had carried by tying each pair by means of the laces and swinging three pair around his neck. The first load be carried swiftly through the woods until be came to a thicket where he hoped he would find concealment. Then he had gone back for the other half of the clothing. This, upon arrival at the thicket, Ted dropped in on top of the first installment. "Now, I guess I ought to hide somewhere where there won't be the least danger of them finding me. Then I can see the fun when those fellows come ashore," chuckled Teall. "Hold on, though! There's one more debt to pay. That confounded Hi Martin called the South Grammar a 'mucker' school. I believe I'll hide his clothes, too, for his saying what he did. But I'll have to go carefully, and see whether the fellows are still out of sight." Ted returned with a good deal of caution. Then he discovered, by the sound of voices, that the swimmers were still at the lower end of the pond. "Plenty of time to get Hi's duds, too," chuckled the pleased joker. He slipped down close to the beach, gathering up all of Martin's garments and the hat and shoes. "Say, it must be fine to have a pretty well fixed father," murmured Ted wistfully. "All these duds of Hi's are of the best quality. I wonder if I'll be able to wear clothes like these when I'm earning my own money?" Then he started off, going more slowly than on his two previous trips, for he felt that he had plenty of time. But at last the nearing voices of the returning swimmers warned him. "They can't see me," chuckled Ted. "If any of 'em chase me, I can make a quick dash for the road and they won't dare follow me there. They'd be afraid of running into other people." So Ted even dallied for a while. Some of the angry words uttered reached his ears and delighted him. "Hi Martin is hot with wrath, and I'm glad of it," chuckled Ted to himself. "So he thought I'd spare him, did he! Huh! The next time he'd better be a little more careful over his remarks about 'mucker' schools!" Then Ted walked on again leisurely. "I believe I'll let these fellows stay here until about dark, hunting for their clothes, and not finding 'em," reflected Teall. "Then I'll have Ed Payne drop around and tell 'em just where to look. They can't thump Payne, for he won't be guilty of anything but helping 'em. Then maybe Dick Prescott will pitch dynamite again for me to bat at!" Teall gained the thicket that concealed the other clothing. Just as he was about to cast Martin's belongings after the other wardrobes, he was disturbed by a sound close at hand. With a start Ted looked up. Then he felt uneasy; frightened, in fact. At his side stood a shabbily dressed man of middle age. The man's cheeks were sunken, though they burned with an unhealthy glow. There was, in the eyes, also a light that made Ted creepy. "S-s-say, wh-what do you want?" stammered Teall. "So you are a thief, and at work?" inquired the man, who had rested a thin but rather strong hand on Ted's shoulder. "A thief?" Teall repeated indignantly. "No, sir! And nothing like it, either." "Is all the clothing in there yours?" demanded the stranger sternly. "No, sir," Ted answered promptly. "Then-----" "You see," Ted went on more glibly, and trying to conceal the fact that he was very uneasy under those burning eyes, "it's just a joke that I'm playing on some fellows who are swimming." "You consider that sort of a joke humorous?" demanded the stranger, tightening the grip of his hand on Teall's shoulder until the boy squirmed. "It's not a bit worse than what one of them did to me this morning," Ted asserted, strongly on the defensive now. "And I don't know what business it is of yours, mister. Who are you, anyway?" "My name," replied the other quietly, "is Amos Garwood." "Amos Gar---wood?" Ted repeated. At first the name conveyed no information to him. But suddenly he remembered the name that had been on everyone's tongue a few days before. "The crazy man?" cried Ted, his voice shaking. Then the woods rang with his startled combination of whoop and prayer. "This is no place for me!" gasped Teall huskily, as, frantically, he tore himself free of that grip on his shoulder. Without more ado Ted Teall broke through cover for the road. Never before had he realized how fast it was possible for him to sprint. Terror is an unexcelled pacemaker at times. That whoop, followed by the yell of fear, traveled until it reached the boys at the lakeside. The distance and the breeze must have robbed the voice of some of its terror, for Dick sprang to his feet like a flash. "That was Ted Teall's fine voice!" he cried, running up the slight slope. "Come on, fellows! We'll travel straight in that direction---and we'll find our clothing." Nor were any of the boys very far behind Dick in the mad race. Though two or three of them stepped on stones on the way, no one gave a thought to so slight an accident. Nor was it long ere they burst from cover and came upon Amos Garwood, standing as though lost in thought, for Garwood was trying to comprehend Teall's words, "the crazy man." All in a flash Dick recognized the man. So did his chums. Hi Martin alone was in the dark. "Good afternoon," was Garwood's greeting, as he looked up as though coming out of a trance. "You are looking for your clothing, I imagine?" "Marvelous what a good guesser you are, sir," gasped Tom. "You'll find your clothing in this thicket," announced Garwood, indicating the spot with a wave of one arm. Dick and Tom piled into the thicket, passing out the mixed-up articles to the other boys. A quick sorting was made and each item claimed. "Say!" cried Hi, greatly disturbed. "There isn't a single thing of mine here." "Serve you right, then," uttered Tom, as he drew an undershirt over his head. "You don't deserve anything to wear." "You fellows didn't hand out my things," uttered Hi, darting into the thicket. He searched savagely at first, then despairingly. Not a shred of his wardrobe was to be found. "What became of my clothes?" Martin demanded, stepping out into the open. Tears brimmed his eyes now. "Clothes? Your clothing?" asked Amos Garwood, again coming to a realization of things about him. "Why, I believe the boy who yelled and ran away from here carried one armful of things with him." "Which way did he run?" throbbed Hi. "That way." Garwood pointed to the road. "You fellows get a few things on and run after Teall as fast as you can go," ordered Hi. "Quick! Don't lose a moment. Do you hear?" "Yes," nodded Prescott. "Hustle, then!" "Forget it," requested Dick, deliberately drawing on a shoe over a sock, next doing the lacing slowly and with great care. "Which one of you will go!" asked Hi, turning appealingly to the others. "Hear the echo?" mocked Dave Darrin. "The echo says, 'which one?'" "Say, you fellows are meaner than poison!" Hi exploded tremulously. "You have a very short memory, Hi," retorted Greg Holmes. "Who was it that put up the job on us? Who helped Teall to do it?" asked Harry Hazelton. "But I'm sorry for that," protested Hi Martin, tears again coming to his eyes. "I believe you," Dick nodded cheerily. "You're indeed sorry---sorry for the way it turned out for yourself." "But aren't you fellows going after Teall and my clothes?" insisted the naked one. "We're not going to chase Teall," Darrin answered, "if that's what you mean. But, see here, Martin, I'm not going to be downright mean with you." "Thank you," said Martin gratefully. "You always were a good fellow, Darrin." "I'm going to be a good fellow now," Dave pursued. "I'm not going to chase Teall, for we don't know which way he went, and he'll be hiding. But I'll go around to your house and tell your folks where you are, and what a fix you're in." I'll go to-night, just as soon as I've eaten my supper." "You---you great idiot!" exploded Hi. "Now, for that insult, I take back my promise," Dave retorted solemnly. "You needn't talk any more, Martin. I won't do a blessed thing for you now." "Dave, you're altogether too rough on a fellow that's in hard luck," remonstrated Greg, then turned to Martin to add: "Hi, it's no use to go chasing Ted Teall, but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'm all dressed now, and I'll go straight to your house and get some clothes for you, so you can come out of these woods and walk home. I'll do it for half a dollar." "Thank you, Holmesy, I'll do it," Martin eagerly promised. "And I'll thank you, too, from the bottom of my-----" "You can keep the thanks," proposed Greg gravely. "But you can hand over the half dollar." "E-e-eh?" stammered Hi, nonplussed, rubbing one hand, for an instant, over his naked thigh in the usual neighborhood of the trousers' pocket. "Fork over the half dollar!" Greg insisted. "This is a strictly cash-in-advance proposition." "Why, you---you---you-----" stuttered Hi in his wrath. "How can I pay in advance when Ted Teall is a mile away from here with my---my trousers and all?" "Cash right in hand, or I don't stir on your job," insisted Greg. "I---I'll pay you a whole dollar as soon as I can get home," Hi offered eagerly. "Hi Martin, after what you've done to us to-day," demanded Greg virtuously, "do you think there's a fellow in this crowd who'd take your word for anything? If you don't pay right now, then I won't stir a step for you." Again tears of helpless rage formed in Hi's eyes. Amos Garwood stood looking on, unseeing. But Dick Prescott's thoughts were flying like lightning. He knew that, somehow, Garwood ought to be seized and held until the friends searching for him could be notified. Chapter X "BABBLING BUTT-IN" "You fellows seem to think that everything is done when you get your own old duds back," complained Hi Martin angrily. "You don't seem to think that there's any need of doing anything for me." "Why should we?" demanded Dick curtly. "You're the fellow who helped put up a job to hide our clothes. Now, you yell because you can't find your own." "I'll go and get you some other clothes, whenever I'm paid for it in advance," Greg smilingly repeated his offer. Dick's brain was busy with plans for holding Amos Garwood until the latter's father and friends could take charge of him. "You're all the meanest lot!" protested Martin, tears of anger standing in his eyes. "And you're the funniest fellow," mocked Tom. "To see a lot of sport in playing a trick on us, but howling like a dog with a can tied to his tail when you find yourself the only one stung by the joke." "I'm going to leave here," Dick suddenly declared. "Oh, I wish you would find my clothes and bring them to me," begged Hi. "Come along, Greg. You, too, Dave. The rest wait here until we come back." Dick shot a significant look at Tom Reade, then glanced covertly in Amos Garwood's direction. Reade understood and nodded. "I don't really need or want you along with me, Dave," Dick murmured as soon as the three boys were out of sight of the others. "What I wanted was a chance to talk to you. Amos Garwood must be held, if necessary, until we can find some men to seize him and turn him over to the authorities. Be careful and tactful with him, but don't let him get away from you. The other fellows will help you, if necessary. I'm taking Greg with me, just so that Greg may run in one direction and I in another, in case we don't find help easily. But you get back and help Tom and the others. Of course you won't lay hands on Amos Garwood unless it becomes necessary, but in any case don't let him get away from you. Now, hurry back, for, if Garwood suspects, and shows fight, it will take all four of you to hold him. But if you all talk naturally and pleasantly, I don't believe he will be suspicious, or make any effort to get away." Dave nodded, turning back, while Dick and Greg hastened to the road. Barely had they turned into the highway, when, a short distance, ahead, they espied a boy standing under a tree. "There's Ted, and he has Martin's clothes with him," called Dick quietly. "Let's hurry up to him and get him to take the clothes back." "A precious lot I care whether Hi Martin ever has any clothes again," Greg retorted. "Oh, well, Greg, there's such a thing as a joke, and there's such a thing as carrying it too far. Hi Martin has had his dose of punishment already. We can afford to be decent and let up on him now. Hi, there, Ted!" Teall looked as though uncertain whether to run or to stand. "Don't be afraid, Ted," Dick called pleasantly. "A joke is all right, and we admit that it was on us." So Ted, after a first start of suspicion, decided to remain where he was. "Hi Martin sent you after his duds, I reckon?" inquired Ted as the other two boys ran up to him. All of Hi's apparel lay on the ground near Teall's feet. "He certainly wanted some one to come," laughed Dick. "But, say, Teall, the thing has been rubbed in too hard. Run back with the things. You'll find all hands where you hid our things." "And I'll find the crazy man there, too, maybe," ventured Teall. "Also, I'll run right into a gang that is just waiting to trim me. I thank you kindly, but if any one is to go back into that crowd with Hi's things, it will be some one else. I won't go---too much regard for my health, you know." "Greg, you carry Hi's clothes back," urged Dick. "I'll take Ted with me." "I will not," flared Greg in open revolt. "Be a good fellow," begged Dick. "That's all right," grumbled Greg Holmes. "But I'm no valet to any North Grammar boy. "If you fellows won't either of you do it," protested Dick, "I'll have to do it myself, and---oh, dear! I'm in such a hurry to get help to take care of Garwood." "What about that crazy man, anyway?" demanded Ted, his mouth agape with curiosity. "I don't believe he's crazy at all, though he may perhaps be a little flighty in his head," Prescott answered. "At any rate, he isn't violent. There's no danger in him. Ted, won't you take back these-----" Teall shook his head with vigor. In the meantime four Grammar School boys had stationed themselves around Garwood, who stood under a tree chewing a blade of grass. Hi, either from modesty or humiliation, had retired into a clump of bushes. "They've gone to find that boy who took the clothes, I suppose," remarked Amos Garwood, looking towards Dave Darrin. "That was a strange boy, a very nervous boy," continued Garwood aloud. "Just as soon as I told him my name, he turned and fled like a streak of lightning. I wonder what ailed him?" "I wonder?" repeated Dave solemnly. "And that boy said something else that made me very curious," went on Amos Garwood. "He said something about a crazy man. I almost thought he referred to me, though the boy himself was the only one who showed any signs of being crazy. What did he mean?" "He hasn't told us," Dave rejoined. But Hi, who felt that he was being shamefully used by the crowd, suddenly broke in with: "If your name is Garwood, then Ted Teall meant that you're the one that's crazy. And I know where the boys have gone. They're not looking for my clothes at all. They're looking for constables to come and seize you!" "You shut up, Hi Martin!" raged Tom Reade, making a dash at Hi's leafy screen. But the harm was done. Amos Garwood changed color swiftly. "Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" he laughed harshly. "I begin to understand now. But no one shall seize me. I won't let any one take me." He started madly through the bushes, not seeking a path. Dan, who was nearest him as be passed, leaped and threw both arms around the man, bringing him to the ground. Dave leaped to aid Dalzell, nor was Hazelton long in getting to the spot. Tom Reade decided to defer the punishment of Martin, and went to the aid of his friends instead. Though he had been downed swiftly, Garwood was almost as speedily on his feet, fighting desperately. Darrin he seized and hurled several feet into a thicket. Dalzell sought again to wind his arms around the fellow's legs, but was brushed aside as though he had been a fly. Tom Reade received a blow against his right shoulder that sent him reeling away, while Hazelton, in trying to get a new hold, was boxed over his left ear in a way that seemed to make the earth revolve about him. Hardly had the scrimmage started when Garwood was free. "No one shall stop me, or hinder me!" cried Amos exultingly, then wheeled and raced through the forest. After him, as soon as they could recover their faculties, dashed the Grammar School boys. For a minute or two they had him in sight. Then Garwood, on his long legs, sped ahead and out of sight. For another half minute they could hear the man's progress through the brush. After that all was so still that Darrin and the others halted, gazing perplexedly at each other. "Where is he?" gasped Tom. "Which way did he go?" breathed Dan. Though they listened, neither sight nor sound now aided them. "Of all the sneaks and trouble-makers!" cried Dave Darrin indignantly. "Hi Martin ought to be tied to a tree and switched until he can't see! He's a regular babbling butt-in." "What good did it do him to meddle in that fashion?" burst from Reade. "The mean, worthless fellow! And we had plenty of reason to feel grateful to Colonel Garwood, Amos's father, after the handsome uniforms that were given us." "It must have been Hi's reason for spoiling our plan," muttered Hazelton. "He didn't want us to be able really to earn the uniforms." "Come on," urged Dave. "We mustn't lose a bit of time. If we spread out and keep on we may sight Garwood again." "Huh!" muttered Reade. "If Garwood has gone right ahead at the speed with which be started, then he's in the next county by this time. We won't see him again to-day." After a few minutes of searching the other boys came to the same conclusion. "Out into the road, then," ordered Dave, who naturally took command when Prescott was absent. "We want to head off any men Dick may have found and tell 'em what has happened." They turned, making rapidly for the road. As it happened, they came out near where Ted Teall stood guarding Hi's clothing. "Have you seen Dick?" was Darrin's hail. "Yes; he and Holmesy have run down the road to get some men. Here they come now with the men," Ted answered, pointing. Dick had had the good fortune to find help before going far. With such a reward as had been offered for the capture of Amos Garwood, it was not difficult to find men who could be interested in taking part in such a capture. "What are you all doing here?" Dick yelled up the road. "Garwood got away from us," Dave shouted back. "Hi Martin spoiled the game for us, and we simply couldn't hold Garwood." Then Dick, Greg and the three men hurried up. Dave and Tom told the story. "What a miserable hound Martin is!" burst from indignant Dick. "So that boy spoiled us from getting a good slice of a fat reward, did he?" growled one of the three men. "Where is he?" "Up in the woods," muttered Dick, "waiting until some one takes him his clothes. Ted Teall, you've simply got to return the booby's outfit to him." "Won't do it," retorted Teall. "But you took them away from him," Dick insisted. "Suppose I did?" "It may prove a serious matter, to steal any one's clothing," Prescott retorted. "And Hi Martin's father is a hot-tempered man. Ted, if I were in your place I don't believe I'd run the risk of being arrested. A joke is one thing, but keeping any one's clothes, after you've taken 'em, is proof of intention to steal. I don't believe I'd take the risk, if I were you." The men were turning back down the road now, having decided to telephone the Gridley police and then turn out more men and go into the woods for an all-night search. Dick & Co. turned to go with the men. "Say, you fellows," Ted called after them. "You going to shake me like that? Who's going back into the woods with me, if I take these clothes to Hi?" "No one," Dick retorted over his shoulder. "You don't have to take the clothes back, you know, unless you happen to consider it safer to do it." "Hang those fellows," sighed Ted, as be gazed after the retreating Dick & Co. "Well, I guess they've got me. The wise thing will be for me to take these duds to Hi before he catches cold." So Ted gathered up the articles of apparel and with them started back into the woods. "Hi, Hi!" he called, as be neared the thicket. "Here," came an angry voice. "Here's your old duds," growled Teall, as he reached the thicket that concealed young Martin, and threw the things on the ground. "It's about time you brought 'em back," snapped Hi, making a dive for his belongings. "I had a good mind not to do it at all," retorted Teall hotly. "You'd have found yourself in hot water if you hadn't done it," Hi declared testily, as, having drawn on his underclothing, he seated himself to lace up his shoes. Then he rose and reached for his trousers. "See here, Ted Teall," cried Hi suddenly, holding the trousers forward, "what did you do with my gold watch that was in the pocket of these trousers." "I didn't see your old watch," grumbled Ted. "Then you lost it out of the pocket while running through the woods, did you?" insisted Hi angrily. Teall felt cold sweat come out on his neck and forehead. Well enough did he remember the gold watch, which was the envy of most of the schoolboys in Gridley. Nor was there any denying the fact that the watch was absent. "Honest, Hi; honest," he faltered. "I didn't see the watch at all." "You've got to find it, just the same," retorted Martin stubbornly. "If you take things away and lose them you've got to find them, or make good for them. Now, Mr. Smarty, I'm going home, and you're going to find the watch." "Say, you might help a fellow and be decent about it," pleaded Ted. "I didn't lose the watch, and I won't help you look for it," snapped back Hi Martin, as he strode away. "But if you aren't at my home with that gold watch before dark to-night, then you may look for things to happen to you! Find the watch, or wait and see what the law will do to you, Mr. Ted Smarty!" Right on the spot Ted Teall started to look, a feeling of dull but intense misery gnawing in his breast. "Oh, gracious! But now I've gone and done it!" groaned Teall, beginning to shake in his shoes. "Now, I'm in a whole peck and half of trouble, for I'll never be lucky enough to find that watch again!" Chapter XI TED FEELS THE FLARE-BACK Ted didn't find the watch, nor did the men searchers get anywhere near a reliable trail of Amos Garwood. As for Dick & Co., they aided in the search for a while, then went home to supper, feeling that they had done their present duty as well as boys might do it. Ted Teall slunk home considerably after dark. Fortunately, as it happened, his parents didn't force him to tell his reason for being late, but Ted sat down to a supper that was cold and all but tasteless. However, Teall could find no fault with his supper. He was so full of misery that he didn't have the slightest idea what the meal was like. "I wonder if I'd better run away from home before I'm arrested?" puzzled Ted, as he secured his hat and stole away from the house. "Br-r-r-r! I don't like the idea of being hauled up in court." It finally occurred to him that, if the officers were on his track, the news would be known up in town. "If I nose about Main Street, but keep myself out of sight, and keep my eyes peeled for trouble," reflected wretched Ted, "I may find out something that will show me how to act." So to Main Street Ted slowly made his way, keeping an alert lookout all the time for trouble in the form of a policeman. At one corner Ted suddenly gasped, feeling his legs give way under him. By a supreme effort of will he mastered his legs in time to dart into a dark doorway. "Huh! But that was a lucky escape for me," Teall gasped, as he came out from the doorway, peering down the street after the retreating form of Hi Martin's father. "I guess he's out looking for me. He'll want his son's gold watch. Crackey! I wonder if folks will think I'm low enough down to steal a fellow's watch?" If Teall was rough, he was none the less honest, and had all of an honest boy's sensitive horror of being thought guilty of theft. "Yet the matter stands just this way," Ted reflected as he moped along. "The watch must have been in the trousers when I snatched 'em up, and the watch wasn't there when I returned the trousers. What will folks naturally think? Oh, I wonder if there ever was as unlucky a fellow in the world before?" A great lump formed in Ted's throat as he puzzled over this problem. "Hello, Teall!" called a hearty voice. "Was Hi much obliged when you gave him back his duds this afternoon?" Dick Prescott was the speaker, and with him were his five chums. "Nothing like it," muttered Ted, turning as the boys came up. "Say, something awful happened to-day, and I'm in a peck of trouble!" "Tell us about it," urged Tom Reade. Ted started to tell them, mournfully. "I don't believe a word of that, Ted," Dick broke in energetically. "I'm telling you just as it happened," Teall protested. "Oh, I guess you are, all right. But I don't believe Hi had his watch with him. If he had had it, he would have worn a chain or a fob, and I didn't see any, did you, fellows?" "If I thought he had fooled me-----" muttered Ted vengefully. Then, with a change of feeling, he continued: "But I don't believe he was fooling me. Hi was too mad, and he looked as though he'd like nothing better than to see me get into big trouble over it." "You went all over the ground where you'd been?" Dick asked. "Must have gone over it seventeen times," Ted declared positively. "I didn't quit looking until it was so dark that my eyes ached with the strain. But not one sight did I catch of the watch." "Don't worry any more about it, Teall," urged Dave Darrin. "Like Dick, I don't believe, for an instant, that Hi had his watch with him." "Here comes Hi now, out of the ice cream place," whispered Greg. Young Martin certainly didn't look much worried as he gained the street. For a few seconds he looked about him. He saw Dick & Co. and scowled. Then he caught sight of Ted, despite the latter's trying to shrink behind Reade. "See here, Teall, did you find my watch?" demanded Hi, stepping over to the group. His manner was aggressive, even threatening. "N-n-no," stammered Ted. "Then I don't believe you looked for it," insisted Hi. "Didn't I, though? Until after dark," Ted rejoined. "Then why didn't you find it?" "Because I didn't happen to see it---that was the only reason," Teall retorted. "There may have been another reason," observed Hi Martin dryly. "Do you mean to say that I tried to steal it?" flared Ted, now ready to fight. "How do I know?" Hi asked. "If I thought you meant that-----" "Well?" asked Hi Martin, gazing coolly into the flashing eyes. "You know better!" choked Teall. "Of course you know better, Hi Martin," Dick broke in. "Ted Teall isn't any more of a thief than you are." "You fellows have no share in this matter," Hi retorted coldly. "I'll thank you to keep out, and to mind your own business." A little way down the street Hi caught sight of his father approaching. He turned to Ted to inquire: "You say that you looked faithfully for my watch until dark?" "Yes; I did," Ted shot back at him. "And you didn't find the watch?" "No, sirree; I didn't." "Oh, well, then," drawled Hi, "I guess---" Grinning broadly, he thrust a hand in under his clothing, drawing out his gold watch. "I guess," Hi continued, "that it's time now to quit looking. It's quarter of nine. Good night!" At sight of that watch Ted Teall's eyes bulged. Then the nature of the outrage dawned on him. In a moment all his pent-up emotions took the form of intense indignation. "You mean fellow!" hissed Ted, his fists clenching. "You-----" "Teall, when you play jokes," warned Martin coolly, "you always want to be sure to look out for the flare-back. Don't forget that. Good evening, father!" Hi slipped off by the side of his parent just in time for Ted to slow down and realize that he couldn't very well thrash Hi with the elder Martin looking on. Tom and Greg began to laugh. "Oh, cheer up, Ted," Dick smiled. "All's well that ends well, you know." "But this matter isn't ended yet," cried Ted Teall excitedly, shaking his fist at Hi Martin's receding back. "It isn't ended---no, sir!---not by a long shot!" Chapter XII THE NORTH GRAMMAR CAPTAIN GRILLED Nor was Teall long in finding his opportunity to be revenged. On the following Tuesday, immediately after school, the North and South Grammar nines met on the field. It was an important meeting, for, under the rules governing the Gridley Grammar League, whichever of these two teams lost, having been twice defeated, was to retire vanquished; the victor in this game was to meet the Central Grammar to contest for the championship. On the toss Captain Ted Teall won, and elected that his side go to bat forthwith. The instant that Ted stepped to the plate a score of North Grammar fans yelled: "Bang!" From another group of Norths came: "Ow-ow-ow!" This was followed by some fantastic jumping. "Huh! Those fellows don't show much brains!" uttered Teall wearily. "They have to steal a josh from the Centrals." It did not annoy Ted to-day. He had expected this greeting, and had steeled himself against it. Dick & Co., with a lot of other fellows from Central Grammar, looked on in amusement. "It's a pity one of Hi's fellows hasn't ingenuity enough to work up a new 'gag,'" Tom remarked dryly. "They'll never rattle Teall again with a 'bang,'" smiled Prescott. When the Souths went to grass, however, and the Norths took to the benches, all was in readiness for Hi, who came forth third on the batting list. The first two men had been struck out. "Come on in!" yelled a dozen tormentors from South Grammar onlookers. "The water's fine!" In spite of himself Hi frowned. He had been expecting something, but had hoped that the events of the preceding Saturday afternoon would be left out. Hi made a swing for the ball, and missed. "Who's seen my duds?" went up a mighty shout. "Confound the hoodlums!" hissed Martin between his teeth. As mascot, the Souths had brought along a small colored boy, who attended to a pail of lemonade for the refreshment of Ted's players. Ere the ball came over the plate a second time this mascot was seen running close to the foul lines. Over one arm he carried jacket and trousers; in the other hand he bore a pair of shoes and of socks. That the clothing was patched and the shoes looked fit only for a tramp's use did not disguise the meaning of the scene from any beholder, for the news of that Saturday afternoon had traveled through the school world of Gridley. "Cheer up, suh!" shrieked the colored boy shrilly. "I'se bringing yo' duds!" Then the ball came from the box, but Hi was demoralized by the roar of laughter that swept over the field. A moment later the rather haughty captain of the North Grammar nine had been struck out and retired. His face was red, his eyes flashing. "Teall, we might expect something rowdyish from your crowd of muckers," declared Martin scornfully, as the sides changed. "If I were you, Martin, I wouldn't do much talking to-day," grinned Ted. "It's bad for the nerves." A half a dozen times thereafter the colored boy was seen scurrying with "the duds." He took good care, however, to keep away from the foul lines, and so did not come under the orders of the umpire. Whenever the mascot appeared with his burden he raised a laugh. Hi could not steel himself against a combination of anger and hurt pride. Some of the North Grammar girls in whose eyes he was anxious to stand well were among those who could not help laughing at the ridiculous antics of the colored lad. Toward the close of the first half of the third inning Teall again came to bat. There were no men out in this inning, and two men were on bases. "Now we'll see how you will stand a little jogging," muttered Hi under his breath as he crossed his hands in signal to some of the North Grammar fans. Just as Ted picked up his bat a dozen boys squeaked: "What time is it?" This was followed by: "Who stole my watch?" Another lot of North tormentors---those who had them---displayed time pieces. "That's almost as bad as a stale one," Ted told himself scornfully. Just then the ball came just where Teall wanted it. Crack! Ted hit it a resounding blow, dropped his bat and started to run. Amid a din of yells one of the Souths came in, another reached third and Ted himself rested safely at second base. In that inning the Souths piled up five runs. Thereafter the game went badly for the North Grammars, for most of the players lost their nerve. Hi, himself, proved unworthy to be captain, he had so little head left for the game. The contest ended with a score of nine to two in favor of the South Grammars. "That will be about all for the Norths," remarked Ted, with a cheerful grin, as be met Hi Martin at the close of the game. "Your nine doesn't play any more, I believe." "I'm glad we don't," choked Hi. "There's no satisfaction being in a league in which the other teams are made up of rowdies." "It is tough," mocked Ted. "Especially when the rowdies are the only fellows who know how to play ball." Hi stalked away in moody, but dignified silence. Yet, though he could ignore the players and sympathizers of other nines, it was not so easy to get away from the grilling of his own schoolmates. "Huh!" remarked one North boy. "You told us, Martin, that you'd prove to us the benefit of having a real captain for a nine. Why didn't you?" "Martin, you're all wind," growled another keenly disappointed North. "You talked a lot about what you'd do with the nine---and what have you done? Left us the boobies of the league. We're the winners of the leather medal." "Why didn't you play yourself, then?" snarled Hi. "I wish I had. But we Norths were fooled by the talk you gave us about how baseball really ought to be played and managed. You're the school's mascot, you are, Hi Martin. Not!" In the meantime Dick Prescott was being surrounded by anxious Central Grammar boys. "Dick," said one of them, while others listened eagerly, "you beat the Norths. But you didn't give them any such drubbing as the Souths did to-day. Are they a better nine than ours?" "No," Prescott answered promptly. "Yet they whipped the Norths worse than we did. Can we down the Souths?" "Yes," nodded Prescott. "Why can we?" "For the simplest reason in the world, Tolman. We've got to. Isn't that a fine reason?" "It sounds fine," remarked another boy doubtfully. "But can you whip another crowd just because you want to?" "If you want to badly enough," Dick smiled. "Hm! I'll be surer about that when I see it done." "It'll happen next Friday afternoon, if rain doesn't call the game," Prescott promised. "What do you say to that, Darrin?" demanded another Central boy. "Just what Dick said." "What's your word, Tom!" "You heard what our captain said," Reade laughed. "I always follow orders. If Dick Prescott tells me to pile up seven runs against the Souths I'm going to do it." "I hope you do," murmured another boy. "Yet it seems against us---after the way we saw the Souths play to-day." "Or rather," added Dick quietly, "the way the North Grammars didn't play. They'd have put up a lot better game if their captain hadn't lost his nerve and his head." As the Central Grammar boys left, most of them in one crowd, there was a rather general feeling that Dick was just a bit too confident. Or, was he simply "putting it on," in order to bolster up the courage of his players? Dick Prescott, at least, was qualified to know what he really expected. He really was confident of victory in the game that should decide the league championship. "If you feel that you can't be beaten, and won't be beaten, but that you've got to win and are going to win, then that's more than half the points of a game won in advance," he told his chums. "Fellows, in baseball or anything else, we won't say die, either now or at any later time in life. We'll make it our rule to ride right over anything that gets in our way. That way we can't know defeat." "Unless, finally, we ride to our deaths," laughed Tom. "What of it?" challenged Dick. "That wouldn't be defeat. The man who rides to death in the search for victory has won. He has carried the winning spirit with him to the very finish. Or else the history we've been studying at school is all a mess of lies." "There's a lot in that idea," nodded Dave thoughtfully. "There's more in it every time that you think of it," Dick contended. Thus Dick was starting, in Dick & Co., the never-give-up spirit which made them almost invincible later as High School boys. Wednesday and Thursday were days filled with eagerness for the Central Grammar boys. The members of the baseball squad were not by any means the only ones on tenterhooks. Every boy in the upper grades of the school was waiting impatiently to learn who would be the winners of the championship. Somewhat to the astonishment of the Central Grammar boys Captain Dick, on Wednesday afternoon, gave his team only a brief half hour of diamond practice. Thursday afternoon they didn't play at all. Instead, the nine and its subs. went off on a tramp through the woods. "What we want to-morrow above all," Dick explained, as he marshaled his forces, "is steady nerves. There's nothing like a good walk in the cool and shady spots for tuning up a schoolboy's nerves for an ordeal. A walk is good whether you're facing an exam. or a championship game." "May the rest of us go with you!" called one of the Central boys outside the squad. "We can't stop you," Dick replied, "but we'd rather you let the ball squad go by itself." "All right, then," cried three or four. The fourteen of the squad marched away, unhampered by any followers. Once outside the town and halted under a grove of trees, Dick turned to his teammates. "Fellows," he said quietly, "I believe some of you have been anxious to know what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "It's coming, at last!" gasped Tom Reade. "Well, let us hear what the man on the clubhouse steps said. It must be one of the choice pieces of wisdom of all the ages." "It is," Dick replied quietly. "Then let us hear shouted Dave. "Not now," Prescott answered, shaking his head solemnly. "But, fellows, you win to-morrow's game and you shall all hear just what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "Win?" retorted Tom Reade. "Dick Prescott, with a bribe like that before us, we're bound to win! We couldn't do anything else." Then they went further into the woods. Dick had brought his players here in search of peace, quiet and nerve rest. Had he had even one prophetic glimpse of what was ahead of some of them that afternoon it would have been far better to have remained in town. Chapter XIII "BIG INJUN---HEAP BIG NOISE" "Say, we don't want to just go on walking. There's no fun in that," objected Spoff Henderson. "We're out for rest more than for fun," Dick replied. "The walk and the rest this afternoon are all by way of preparing for the big game to-morrow afternoon." "But wouldn't there be more rest about it if we had a little fun?" Spoff insisted. "Perhaps," Dick nodded. "What's your idea of fun?" "Why not play 'Indians and Whites'?" put in Toby Ross eagerly. "That would be just the sort of game for to-day," Dave approved. "That's what I say," nodded Tom. "Dick, you're used to these woods," Spoff went on. "You be the big Injun---the big chief. Choose two more of the fellows to be Injuns with you, and the rest will be whites." "All right," nodded Dick. "Dave and Tom can go with me. Who'll be your captain?" "Greg!" cried Spoff. "Holmesy," said Ross in the same breath. So Greg Holmes was chosen captain, to command the whites. "Give us the full six minutes, Greg, won't you?" Dick called, as he and his two fellow "Injuns" prepared to enter the deep woods. "Of course I will," Greg nodded. "You don't think I'd cheat, do you?" Those of the boys who were proud owners of watches hurriedly consulted their timepieces. Greg retained his in his hand. "Now," called Dick, and away he started, followed by Braves Darrin and Reade. As the Gridley boys had their own version of "Indians and Whites," a description of the game may as well be given here. The Indians always chose a chief, the whites a captain. Chief and braves started away at the call of time. Six minutes later, to the second, the whites started in pursuit. The whites must keep in one band, as must also the Indians. Yet, in trailing, the whites could spread out, while the Indians must keep together. Though the Indians were allowed to double on the trail, they were not permitted to run. Nothing faster than an ordinary walk was permitted to them, unless they found themselves sighted by the whites. Moreover, owing to the lack of skill on the part of the whites in following a trail, the Indians were required to walk as usual, making no special efforts to hide their footprints. The whites were permitted to pursue at any gait. If they sighted the Indians, then they were expected to yell by way of warning. If more than half the Indians were captured before the expiration of an hour from the first departure of the Indians, then the whites won. Otherwise the Indians were victors. Dick walked in advance, Dave and Tom side by side just behind him. "We must try to think up some way to fool the fellows," muttered Reade. "Halt!" warned Dick, when they were barely two minutes away from the starting point. Darrin and Reade stopped in their tracks. "See that low-hanging limb, and the bushes just beyond?" asked young Prescott. "Of course," assented Dave. "We'll go on about a minute further," suggested Dick, who had kept his watch in hand from the outset. "Then we'll walk backward, stop here, grab that limb and swing ourselves over past the bushes. That ought to throw the fellows off the track and get 'em all mixed up." "If the whites are spread enough they'll probably be outside those bushes," remarked Reade. "Then they'll find where the trail changes." "That's one of the chances that we have to take," smiled Dick. "Let's see if we can't make it work." Onward again they went, halting when Prescott gave the word. Walking backward, they were soon at the oak with the low-hanging limb. "I'll try it first," proposed Dick, "and see if it's easy enough. Don't walk around here and make enough tracks to call the attention of the whites to the fact that we stopped here." Dick made a bound, catching the limb fairly. Three or four times he swung himself back and forth, until he had gained enough momentum. Then he let go, on the last swing, landing on his feet well behind the bushes. Dave came next, Tom following. Now the three Indians hurried on again, Big Injun Dick in the lead as before. "If we do throw them off, Greg's fighting men will have a hard job hitting the trail again," chuckled Tom. "If they don't find our trail, Dick, where are you headed for?" whispered Dave. "For the road and home," laughed Dick. "Then, while they're trying to figure out where we've gone, we fellows will be washing up for supper." "I'd like to hear Old Greg grumbling if the 'double' does throw 'em off the trail altogether," grinned Darrin. "Dick, I think we've more than half a chance to get away." "We have about four chances out of five of slipping away from Greg's soldiers," predicted Prescott. For ten minutes Dick and his two braves plodded on. There were, as yet, no audible sounds of pursuit. "We caught 'em, surely enough, that time," chuckled Tom. "Going to hit for the road now, Dick?" "We can't reach the road until our hour is up; we're bound to keep to the woods," Prescott replied. "However, you'll note that I am taking a course that will gradually lead us to the road." "Right-o," nodded Reade, after taking a look at their surroundings. All the members of Dick & Co. had spent so much of their time in the woods that they knew every foot of the way. "I wonder where that valiant band of whites is, anyway?" muttered Dave. "I haven't heard a sound of them." "You may hear their battle yell any minute," Dick whispered. "Be careful not to talk loudly enough to give them any clue." For two or three minutes more Dick led the way. Of a sudden he halted---right up against a huge surprise. For the boys had suddenly broken into a little circular clearing, not much more than thirty feet in diameter. Near the center of this clearing, under a flimsy shelter he had made of poles and branches, crouched Amos Garwood. He was at work over a low bench built of a board across two boxes. So intent was Garwood on what he was doing that he appeared not to have heard the approach of the boys. Dick Prescott stood looking on, one hand raised as a signal for the silence of those behind him. But both Dave and Tom had caught sight of the stranger at about the same instant. "If any who know me have hinted that my brain is not strong enough," muttered Garwood, whose back was turned to the startled Grammar School boys, "there is bound to be a great awakening when my wonderful invention is perfected. Then the world will bow down to me, for I shall be its master." "Crazy as a porous plaster!" muttered Tom Reade under his breath. "It will be a new, a strange sensation," continued Garwood, speaking just loud enough to be heard by the onlookers. "A great sensation, too, to be master of the world when, during these present dark days, I am compelled to run and hide for fear envious scientists will succeed in capturing me and locking me up." "I wonder what he thinks he's doing there?" pondered Dick curiously. "To think that a few grains of this wonderful substance would pulverize a regiment!" continued Garwood, in an inventor's ecstasy. "An ounce of this wonderful material enough to blow up an army corps. A single pound sufficient to bring the nations of the world to my feet in awed homage. And I can make a hundred pounds a day of it! Oh, that I could reach other worlds, to make them feel my mastery!" "If his stuff is as good as he thinks it is, I certainly hope he won't shoot off any of it accidentally," thought Prescott, with an odd little shiver. "Oh, that I dared trust my secret to one or two others!" murmured Garwood, as he delved with one hand into one of the boxes that supported his simple bench. "And now for the great finishing touch!" Amos Garwood placed on the board a fairsized wide-mouthed bottle. From where he stood, Dick could read the label on the bottle--- "Potassium Chlorate---crystals." "Chlorate of potash?" thought Dick. "That's what Dr. Bentley gave me once for sore throat." Dick, however, was soon to get an inkling of a suspicion that chlorate of potash might be used to serve other purposes. As the mentally queer inventor reached into the box for that bottle, the three silent, observing "Injuns" saw that Garwood had on the crude table before him a glass mortar and pestle, the former of about two quarts' capacity. In this mortar lay a quantity of powdered stuff, which Garwood had evidently been grinding before their arrival. Now he poured out a heaping handful of the chlorate crystals, dropping them on top of the mixture in the mortar. "A few turns---a little more fatigue of the wrist---and I am the world's master---its owner!" cried Garwood exultantly. "Ker-choo!" sneezed Tom Reade at the worst possible moment. Amos Garwood turned like a flash, tottering to his feet. "Spies! Traitors! Ingrates!" he gasped in hoarse terror. "Nothing at all like it," Dick replied, with a pleasant smile. "Mr. Garwood, we boys are playing in these woods. If we've meddled with your affairs you'll pardon us, and let us pass on, won't you?" "Didn't you try to find me here?" demanded Garwood, suspicious still. "I give you my word of honor that we didn't, sir," answered Dick. "Until a moment ago we hadn't any idea that you were within fifty miles of this spot. You see, sir, we're playing Indians and whites. We're the big Injuns, even if we don't look it. And behind us, somewhere on our trail, is Captain Greg Holmes, with a company of his brave soldiers, trailing us relentlessly." "Soldiers?" quivered Amos Garwood, his face going ashen. Then his face suddenly took on a look of intense exultation. "Soldiers?" he repeated. "It couldn't be better. It is on soldiers that my amazing discovery should be proved. But I waste time---and loss of time may be fatal to all my plans. A few turns, and my discovery is ready. I can then defy whole armies, if necessary!" Sweeping the mortar around within reach, so that he could work and watch the Grammar School boys at the same time, Amos Garwood began to grind his pestle into the mixture with feverish energy. Then all of a sudden the very earth shook and rocked. Big Injun Prescott and his two braves were in the center of the biggest explosion they had ever heard! Chapter XIV "CRAZY AS A POROUS PLASTER" It was terrific, and yet the only effect on the bench on which the mortar lay was to knock the board sideways from the boxes. The mortar became as powder itself, though not a splinter was raised from the wood. From the lips of Amos Garwood a fearful yell went up. He plunged headlong a few feet, then lay on the ground, feebly nursing his right hand with his left. As for Dick, Dave and Tom, their ears rang with the noise until they felt as though surely their ear-drums had been ruptured by the force of that awesome detonation. An instant later all was quiet. Dick and his chums speedily realized that they had escaped actual injury, yet their legs shook so that they could hardly stand. "Wh---wh---what was it?" asked Reade in accents that quivered in unison with his trembling legs. "See here, fellows, we mustn't be fools," Dick cried chidingly. "We're not hurt, and Mr. Garwood is. Let's see what we can do for him." "Do for me, will you?" groaned the injured one. "No, you won't. You boys keep your distance from me, or you're going to be worse scared than you are already. Don't imagine that I'm helpless, for I'm not. In me you behold the master of the world!" "Confound him, I've a good mind to go away and let him have the world to himself," muttered Reade. But Dick and Dave had already started toward the spot where Amos lay. The man scrambled to his feet, the old, hunted look coming into his eyes. "You keep away from me!" he screamed. "Get away! Clear out! I don't want to hurt you. I wouldn't harm a fly. But I'm not going to allow any one near me!" Dick ventured too near. Garwood swung his uninjured arm so unexpectedly that Prescott had no chance to get out of the way. He fell flat on the ground. Warned by the light in the eye of the world's master, Dick believed it prudent to roll several yards before be tried to get up. "Say," blazed Darrin indignantly. "Are you going to stand for that?" "Don't excite him," murmured Prescott in an undertone. "The poor fellow isn't responsible for what he's doing. And I'd fight, too, if I thought any one was trying to seize me." "I'm sorry if I had to hurt you," said Amos Garwood in a milder tone. "But I allow no one to come near me. I have too many enemies ---so many who are jealous of me that I can trust no one." "He isn't really dangerous, poor fellow," whispered Prescott to his companions. "No, though he has a habit of blowing up suddenly," muttered Reade. "He did the same thing once before, you'll remember, at the old water-works cottage." "Are we going to try to catch the fellow this time?" Darrin whispered. "Yes," nodded Dick. "We ought to, both for his father's sake and his own." "What do you say, then, if we all three rush him?" pressed Darrin. "It would be mean," Dick retorted in an undertone. "The poor fellow might be tempted to use his injured hand. And you can see how it's burned. I don't wonder. You saw how the flame of the explosion leaped all over that arm. It's a wonder it didn't set him afire." "Are you boys going to leave me," inquired Garwood, "or are you going to remain and thus show me that you are truly of my enemies?" "You slip back into the woods, Tom," whispered Dick. "See if you can find Greg and the other fellows. If you can, bring them up quickly." Dave and I'll stay here, unless Garwood moves away. If he does, Darry and I will follow him. If you hear any war whoops, come running in that direction, you and the other fellows. You'll know that the whoop means that we need you." "I hate to leave you two with him," muttered Reade reluctantly. "If this world-boss gets violent you two won't be enough for him." "We can get out of the way, if we have to," Dick rejoined. "But hurry, Tom. We need a lot of the fellows, for we ought to seize this poor fellow and get him into town, even if only that be may have proper attention for his burned hand and arm. Hustle. You'll help me more in that way than in any other." Thus urged, Tom turned and vanished into the forest behind the others. "Why do you stay here?" demanded Amos Garwood fretfully. "I don't want to injure you, boys; but if you belong to my enemies, then I shall be forced to hurt you. Run away before I lose my temper. I am always sorry afterwards when I have lost my temper." The flash in the man's eyes made both boys feel "creepy." Thin as he was, there was about him, none the less, a suggestion of great strength and force when put in action. "We have a right to stay in the woods, Mr. Garwood," Dick answered. "I don't want to seem impudent, either, but I would suggest that if you don't like to be with us here, then there are other parts of the forest that you can find." As Dick spoke he swung one arm, pointing artfully to the woods in the direction that Tom Reade had gone, and where it was believed that Greg and his followers were searching. "If that's the way you want me to go," smiled Amos Garwood darkly, "then I believe I'll go in the opposite direction. And, young men, it won't be wise for you to attempt to follow me!" With that hint he started. Dick and Dave waited until they could see only the top of his head. Then they started on his trail. For an instant Amos Garwood was out of sight. Then, with a suddenness that startled both trailers, Garwood stepped out from behind a tree and right into their path. "I cautioned you both," he announced sharply. "I shall not go to that trouble again. Keep away from me. Never mind where I am going, or what I am going to do." Then a spasm of pain shot across the poor fellow's face. Calm as he tried to keep himself, it was plain that his burned hand and arm were causing him great suffering. "Won't you come with us," pleaded Dick, "and get that arm of yours attended to? We'll take you to the right place." "To the right place?" mocked Garwood harshly. "Right into the camp of my enemies, I suppose? Among those who deride my great invention, and yet who would capture me and steal my wonderful discovery from me. Boys, I have already told you that if you follow me, you will follow me to grave harm. Beware in time. Run! Leave me! Or your fates be on your own heads, for I am master of the world and can force you to obey me!" As Garwood spoke the last words another change crossed his face. He reached into an inner coat pocket. "You will not obey me," he remarked. "Therefore, I must act to save myself and my great discovery. 'Tis as you would have it!" "Duck!" gasped Dave Darrin, seizing Dick by one arm. "He means big mischief!" What it was for which he had reached in his pocket neither Grammar School boy saw, for both turned at the same instant, beating a swift retreat. Sixty feet away, however, they halted, wheeling about. Garwood, seeing the boys run, acted as though he would give them no further thought. He was already walking in the opposite direction, his back turned to them. "Ugh! He gives me cold chills," cried Darrin. "He does the same to me," sighed Dick, "but it's a plain case of duty to follow him until we can turn him over to those who'll take good care of the poor fellow." Just as Amos Garwood was on the point of vanishing from their view, the two schoolboys started forward, more cautiously than before. Back of them in the woods, far away, sounded a boyish war-whoop. "Hi-yi-yi-yi-_yoop_!" answered Dave Darrin. Amos Garwood started forward with a bound like that of a deer. Then his long legs went into rapid operation. Prescott and Darrin ran onward as fast as they could go. They were trained to running, too, but this "master of the world" set them a pace that no fourteen-year-old boys on earth could have followed with any hope of success. "Whoop, but he's an airship for speed!" gasped Dave Darrin. "We couldn't catch him with a locomotive," confessed Dick, when, panting, he was at last obliged to halt. "Hear him---going," gasped Darrin. "I can't hear him," confessed Dick, after a moment of listening. "That's just the point. He has gotten so far away that we can't hear him crashing through the undergrowth." "I'm afraid we won't catch up with him again to-day," sighed Dick. "The folks who are trying to catch Amos Garwood are foolish in sending detectives to look for him," muttered Dave. "They ought to hire professional sprinters." Away at their rear sounded a fainter whoop. "Answer the fellows, Dave," urged Prescott. "I will---when I get some wind," muttered Darrin. Three times more Greg and his fellows whooped before Dick could get together enough wind to make his voice travel. Greg repeated the hail, and again Dick answered. After a few minutes the other Grammar School boys caught up with Dick and his friend, who told to the new-comers the story of the encounter with Amos Garwood. "Get away from you again?" asked Tom blankly. "I don't believe we'll ever chase that streak of light again," growled Dave. "I don't feel as though I'd ever be able to run again. Amos Garwood can walk faster than any of us can run." "The most that we can do at present," Prescott concluded, will be to notify Lawyer Ripley or Chief Coy that we've seen the Garwood flyer again." "I wish we could catch him," sighed Torn, while Greg nodded. "You two can have the next chance," smiled Dick. "As for me, I am certain that I can never catch Amos Garwood unless he and I happen to be running toward each other." "All in favor of supper," proposed Dan Dalzell, glancing at his watch, "say 'aye' and turn homeward." "But shan't we try, for a while, to trail Garwood?" queried Greg. "What's the use?" cross-questioned Dick disconsolately. "We might sight him, but we'd never catch him. Nor do I believe he has stopped running yet." "If he hasn't," grumbled Dave, "he's twenty miles from here by this time." So Dan's motion prevailed. The baseball squad of the Central Grammar School turned toward the road that led homeward. Chapter XV BLUFFING UP TO THE BIG GAME "That explosion was fearful, what there was of it," Dick declared to Chief Coy. It was evening, and the head of the local police department had stopped the boys on the street for additional information on the subject. "What did it look like?" asked Chief Coy. "There came a big flash and a loud bang in the same instant, and Mr. Garwood was hurled over on his side. The queer part of it was that the explosion didn't do any real damage to the bench, though there wasn't a piece of the glass mortar left that was big enough to see." "The explosion all went upward. It didn't work sideways or downward?" asked Chief Coy. "That's the way we saw it," Dick replied. "And it didn't hurt either you or Darrin?" "Not beyond the big scare, and the shock to our ear-drums." "I wonder what the explosive could have been?" mused the chief aloud. "I don't know what was in the mortar in the first place, sir," Dick Prescott went on. "All Amos Garwood put in the mortar after we got there was some chlorate of potash. Then he put the pestle in and began to grind." "And then the explosion happened?" followed up Chief Coy. "Chlorate of potash, eh?" broke in a local druggist, who had halted and was listening. "Hm! If Garwood ground that stuff with a pestle, then it doesn't much matter what else was in the mortar!" "Is the chlorate explosive, sir?" questioned Dick. "Is it?" mimicked the druggist. "When I first started in to learn the drug business it was a favorite trick to give an apprentice one or two small crystals of chlorate to grind in a mortar. After a lot of accidents, and after a few drug clerks had been send to jail for playing the trick it became played out in drug stores." "But I've seen powdered chlorate of potash," interposed Tom Reade, who was always in search of information. "Yes," admitted the druggist. "I can show you, at my store, about ten pounds of the powdered chlorate." "Then how do they get it into a powder, sir?" pressed Tom. "Do the manufacturers grind it between big millstones?" "If any ever did," laughed the druggist, "they never remained on earth long enough to tell about it. A few pounds of the chlorate, crushed between millstones, would blow the roof off of the largest mill you ever saw!" "But what makes the stuff so explosive?" queried Prescott. "I don't know whether I can make you understand it," the druggist replied. "Potassium chlorate is extremely 'rich' in oxygen, and it is held very loosely in combination. When a piece of the chlorate is struck a hard blow it sets the oxygen free, and the gas expands so rapidly that the explosion follows." On the outskirts of the little crowd stood a new-comer, Ted Teall, who was drinking in every word that the druggist uttered. Dick saw him and felt a sudden start of intuition. "See here, Teall," Dick called, "you needn't pick that up as a pointer for the way to serve me with a home-made ball at our game to-morrow. The trick I played on you wasn't dangerous, but this chlorate racket is. Mr. Johnson, what would happen if a fellow should hit a ball with his bat, and that ball was packed with chlorate of potash?" "I'm not sure that the fellow with the bat would ever know what happened," answered the druggist. "Is it as bad as that?" gasped Teall. "Worse," replied the druggist grimly. "So, Teall, if you had any thoughts of playing a trick like that," interposed Chief Coy, "take my word for it that such a trick would be likely to land you in a reform school until you were at least twenty-one years old." "Oh, if it's as bad as that-----" muttered Ted reluctantly. "What did you and Darry say, when the explosion came off?" asked Dan Dalzell, as Dick & Co. walked on again. "I don't remember just what Darry said," Prescott confessed reluctantly. "As for me, I remember just what I said." "What?" "I said just what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "And what was that?" pressed Dalzell. "That's what you're going to find out if you win the game from South Grammar to-morrow." "Then the game is as good as won already," declared Tom solemnly, "for we're in that frame of mind where we've got to know what the man on the clubhouse steps said." Through the evening, and the long night that followed, Chief Coy had two of his policemen out searching the woods where Garwood had last been seen. Mr. Winthrop added three detectives to the chase. When morning came the "queer" inventor was still at large. He had not even been seen since Dick and Dave had lost sight of him. "The last time that I put this class on honor," announced Old Put, when the morning session began, "we had one of the best records of good behavior during the day that I can remember. I will, therefore, announce that this class is on honor again to-day, and that, no matter what the breaches of discipline, no pupil will be kept after school to-day. All will be allowed to go and see the great, the glorious game." Then, after a pause, Old Dut added dryly: "I haven't the heart to keep any one after school to-day. I am going to the game myself." At this statement a laugh rippled around the room. Then every boy and girl settled down to the serious business of the day. At three o'clock Old Put announced: "If Captain Prescott so desires, he may withdraw now with his team, in order to have time to dress and get oiled up on the diamond." "I thank you, sir, for that permission," responded Dick, rising at once. He was followed by the other players. "Go out a little more quietly, if you please---that's all," called Old Dut. On tiptoe the members of the squad stole upstairs to the exhibition hall. There they quickly got into their uniforms, next stowing their street clothing in a closet, the key of which the principal had supplied to Captain Dick Prescott. In thoughtful silence Dick led his small host from the schoolhouse to the diamond. When they had halted by the benches Dick began: "Now, fellows, each of you keep steadily in mind what we have at stake this afternoon." "Yes, sirree!" grinned Dan Dalzell. "If we win to-day we're going to learn what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "To-day's victory gives one school or the other the championship of the Gridley Grammar School League," Dick declared. "Oh, that's a side issue, entirely," retorted Tom gravely. "What we're really burning about is to know what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "Are we going to pitch in to practice now?" asked Greg. "You fellows can, if you want to, but don't go at it too hard," replied Captain Dick. "If you didn't want to practice, what were you in such a hurry to get out of school for?" demanded Holmes. "Because I felt that we had been in school about as long as we could stand on the day of the championship game," laughed Prescott. "Wise captain," approved Darrin. They had not been on the field many minutes when a whoop sounded near at hand that caused the boys to look with surprise. "Here come the Souths!" called Dave. "They must have been let out early, too." "Hello!" hailed Captain Teall. "You fellows are here early, but I don't see your shovels." "Shovels?" repeated Dick. "Yes; to dig holes to get into after the game is over," Ted retorted. "Teall," Prescott responded sternly, "if the South Grammars want any holes to hide in, they'll have to dig them themselves." "Humph! We'll see which side feels most like digging a hole when the score is read!" retorted Ted. "Come along, Souths!" Ted led the way down the field for practice. On the way he turned to shout something back. At that moment he tripped over a small wooden box and fell flat. "Oh, Ted!" called Dick hurriedly. "Well?" growled Teall, rubbing his shins. "Did you enjoy your little trip?" "My---little---trip?" repeated Ted wonderingly. "Oh---pshaw! Of course you'd think of something like that to say." "If you're lamed any by your little trip," offered Tom, "I'll leave left field to do your base running for you this afternoon." "Yah! I'll bet you would," jeered Teall. "And if I let you, I'd be down on the score card for three less than no runs at all." "You will, anyway," said Reade gravely. "Somehow," broke in Dan, "I feel unusually happy this afternoon." "That's because you know we're going to win to-day," laughed Dick. "Oh, that's a part of it, yes," Dalzell agreed. "But the real cause of my happy feeling is that I'm going to find out what the man on the clubhouse steps said. That's what I've been aching to know ever since some time last winter." "The time will pass shortly now, Danny Grin," Prescott remarked comfortingly. By this time a score of spectators had arrived. Then came a few High School boys, among them Ben Tozier, who was again to umpire. "Tozier, what's the High School delegation for?" Dan asked. "To find out who'll be handy for the High School nine next year?" "Perhaps," Ben replied gravely. "There's some good, young material in the two nines, all right. The trouble is that a lot of you fellows won't go to High School." "All of Dick & Co. are going to attend High School," Dave proudly informed Tozier. Two more High School boys now appeared who were not as welcome. Fred Ripley and Bert Dodge walked on to the field side by side. "What are they doing here?" asked Dave. "We are in luck," spoke up Tom, "if they haven't come here to start mischief." "If they do, if they even try it," Dick predicted grimly, "they'll be the ones out of luck. We'll turn the boys of two Grammar Schools loose on them and run them off the field." Down the street sounded a noise that could come from only one cause. Central Grammar School had "let out." All the boys and many of the girls were now hurrying toward the ball field. It was natural to take the biggest sort of interest in this game, which was to decide which school was the "champion." "I'm sorry to see your crowd in such high spirits, Prescott," said Ted Teall, coming up. "It'll be all the harder for Central Grammar to bear when the score is announced." "You're sure of winning, then, Teall?" Dick inquired. "Absolutely certain!" Captain Ted rejoined. "We're going to set off a big bonfire this evening, Ted," Captain Prescott rejoined. "If we win to-day will you agree to be on hand to light the fire?" "Yes; if you win," agreed Ted. "But you can't!" Chapter XVI "TED'S TERRORS" FULL OF FIGHT The umpire's quiet voice called the captains of the nines apart. "Who'll call the toss?" asked Ben. "Let Teall do it," Dick answered. "You do it, Prescott," urged Captain Ted. "Well, which one of you is going to call?" inquired Tozier. "Teall," Dick again answered. "Oh, all right, then," nodded Ted. "I suppose, Prescott, you feel that, whichever way I call, I'd wish I'd taken the other way." The coin spun upward in the air, for Ben Tozier was a master of the art of flipping. "Tails," announced Teall. "It's heads this time," announced Umpire Tozier. "Captain Prescott?" "We'll go to bat, then," decided Prescott. "We might as well begin to pile up the score that we're going to make." "We'll show you how you're not going to make it," Ted grinned. "Remember, Prescott, that I and Wells are the battery to-day." "What you need," laughed Dick, "is a good right fielder and a star third baseman." "Huh!" grunted Teall. "Get to your places," ordered Tozier briskly. "We want to end this game some time to-day." The umpire inspected a new ball, then sent it grounding to Teall. Back and forth between the members of the South Grammar battery the ball passed three times. "Play ball!" called the umpire sharply. Tom Reade already stood by the plate. He swung his stick idly, watching Teall. Along came the ball. Tom judged it and hit at it. "Strike one!" called Tozier, shifting a pebble to his left hand. Ted grinned derisively as he twisted the leather for the next throw. "Ball one!" and a bean followed the pebble into the umpire's left hand. "Strike two! Ball two! Ball three!" Ted Teall began to feel angry over the growing pile of called balls. He delivered one with great care. Whack! Tom never waited to see whether the ball was headed inside or outside of foul lines. He simply dropped his willow, then gave his best exhibition of the sprinting that he had learned in the spring. It was a fair ball that struck inside of left field. South's left fielder had to run in for the leather, which struck the ground, then rolled to one side. Thump! The ball landed neatly in the first baseman's hands, but Tom had kicked the bag a second before. "Runner safe," drawled Tozier. Spoff Henderson came next to bat. Ted, with great care, struck him out. Toby Ross met with similar disaster, nor did Reade have any chance to steal up to second. Then Greg advanced to the plate. He had his own favorite stick, which he swung with great confidence. "Now, just see what I'll do to you!" was what Ted Teall's impudent smile meant. Crack! Holmes hit the first ball, reaching first and pushing Tom to second. "Danny Grin, don't fail us," begged Prescott, as Dan started for the plate. "Two men out, remember!" As Dalzell faced the pitcher his grin was broader than Teall's. Two strikes and two balls were quickly called. Some of Dalzell's assurance was gone now, but he steadied himself down. It would never do to strike out at such a time. Then Danny Grin made his third strike, but he drove the ball ahead of him, forcing the right fielder of the Souths to run backward for it, but he missed the catch and by the time the ball was in circulation again the bases were full of Central Grammar runners. "I'm glad you're going forward," whispered Dave, just as Dick started towards the plate, his favorite bat in hand. "I'll make a monkey of you," muttered Teall, just loudly enough for the words to reach Prescott. "If you can, you're welcome," grunted Dick under his breath. Swat! It was the first ball driven in. Had there been a fence around the field that fair drive would have gone over it. How it soared and then flew! The right fielder who followed that ball was nervous from the start. He panted as he fell upon the ball. "Throw it to third!" yelled Teall. "Just at that instant Dan Dalzell was nearing the home plate, which Tom and Greg had already passed. Prescott's ankle turned slightly or he would have got in ahead of the ball. "Runner out at third," called Tozier in a singsong voice. "Side out!" "Yet who cared?" Dick's wonderful blow on the leather had brought three men in safe. The Souths followed at bat. One, two, three, Prescott struck them out. Ted Teall's face looked solemn, indeed. "Wells, we've simply got to hold these fellows down," grunted Teall to his catcher in the brief conference for which there was time. "We don't want to be walloped by a score of ninety-four to two." "I haven't let anything get by me, have I?" grunted the catcher. "No; but signal for some of my new ones." "I don't want to put a crimp in your wing," muttered Wells. "That's all right. It's a tough wing. Don't let the Centrals score anything on us in this inning." "I'll do my best to help you hold 'em down," promised the South Grammar catcher as he hurried to his place behind the plate. Dave Darrin, to his intense disgust, was struck out on three of the most crafty throws that Teall had on his list. Hazelton followed. Another player reached first on called balls, but the next Central boy struck a fair, short fly that landed in Ted's own hands. "That was more like," grunted Ted, as he met his catcher at the bench. "In that first inning these Centrals had me almost scared." In the second half of this second inning the Souths scored one run. They did the same in the third and the fourth innings, meantime preventing Prescott's fellows from scoring again, though in the fourth inning Prescott saw the bases full with Centrals just before the third man was struck out. In the fifth and sixth innings neither side scored. At last the spectators began to realize that they were watching two well-matched nines. "I can't see that the Central Grammars are doing such a lot of a much," grunted Hi Martin to a High School boy. "The Centrals are playing fine ball," retorted the High School boy. "The only trouble is that the Souths rank pretty close to them." "I'd like to play both teams again," asserted Hi. "All that happened to us was that we struck a few flukes when we played." "Humph!" retorted the High School lad, just before turning away. "Your North Grammar nine was kicked all over the field by both of these nines. Both Prescott's and Teall's fellows have improved a lot since they met you." Hi subsided, feeling unhappy. It hurt him to hear any one praise a fellow like Prescott. "I wonder if they could beat us, if we had another try?" pondered Hi. "But what's the use of talking? Prescott would never think of giving us another chance. He's too thankful to have lugged the score away from us before." In the eighth inning Teall brought in one more run for the Souths, who now led. "We've got to work mighty hard and carefully," grunted Tom Reade. "Yes," assented Dick briefly. "We're beaten, anyway, I guess," sighed Hazelton. Dick Prescott wheeled upon him almost wrathfully. "We're never beaten, Harry---remember that. We don't propose to be beaten, and we can't be. We're going to bat now to pile up a few more runs. The championship is ours, fellows---don't let that fact escape you." "I wish I had Dick's confidence," sighed Harry, turning to Reade. "It isn't confidence; it's nerve," Tom retorted. "If we all show nerve like Dick's, then nothing but the hardest sort of luck can take this game away from us." Greg went first to bat, securing the first bag. Dick followed, with a two-bagger that brought frantic cheers from the on-looking Central Grammar boys. "There are our two runs---the ones we need," cheered Darrin to himself, as he snatched up his bat. "Now if I'm any good on earth, I'll bring Greg in and perhaps Dick, too." Though Dave was excited, he kept the fact to himself, facing Ted Teall with steely composure. Two strikes and three balls were called. The two base-runners, full of confidence in Darry, were edging off daringly. "If I dared," throbbed Dave inwardly, "I'd refuse and walk to first on a called ball. But Tozier might call a strike on me---most likely would. Darry, you idiot, you've got to hit the next delivery, even if it goes by you ten feet from the line." Poising himself on tip-toe, Dave awaited the coming of the ball. Wells, with a wicked grin, signaled for a ball that he felt sure would catch Dave napping. Earlier in the game it might have done so, but Ted's right "wing" was now drooping. Hi did his best, but Dave reached and clubbed the leather. In raced Greg, while Dick had a loafing time on his way to third. Dave reached first in plenty of time. Two men went out, leaving the nines tied. Dick fumed now at third. "I wish some one else than Henderson were going to bat," groaned Prescott inwardly. However, Spoff had the honor of his school desperately at heart. He did his best, watching with cool judgment and backed by an iron determination to make his mark. The third strike he hit. It was enough to bring Prescott in. Dick seemed to travel with the speed of a racing car, reaching the home plate just ahead of the ball. The side went out right after that. "What did I tell you?" breathed Dick jubilantly. "We now stand five to four." "But Ted's terrors have a chance at bat," returned Hazelton. "It won't do them any good," Captain Dick affirmed. "Greg, signal for all the hard ones. Don't have any mercy on my arm. This is the last inning and the last game of the series. I can stand being crippled." "The last inning and the last game, unless the Souths score now," Holmes answered. "Don't _let_ 'em score!" Dick insisted. "Remember, kill me with hard work, but don't let the Souths score!" Ted Teall went to bat first for his side. Chapter XVII DODGE AND RIPLEY HEAR SOMETHING Teall's grin, as he swung his stick and waited, was more impudent than ever. He meant to show the bumptious Centrals a thing or two. Then in came Dick's wickedest drop ball, and it looked so good that Captain Ted took a free chance. "Strike one!" remarked Umpire Tozier. Some of the grin vanished from Ted's face, but his eyes now flashed the fire of resolve. "Strike two!" Teall began to feel little tremors running all up and down his spine. "Steady, you idiot!" he warned himself. "Ball one!" Captain Teall began to feel better. Perhaps Dick's arm was beginning to grow stale. "Strike three. Out!" Ted started for the bench, hurling his bat before him. He was full of self-disgust. "A fellow never can guess when he has Dick thrashed," he said to a South beside him. "I didn't expect to see you play out before him in the ninth, Ted," replied the classmate. "Neither did I," muttered Teall gloomily. "Strike three! Out!" sounded Umpire Tozier's droning voice. Then Ted sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. "Two out, and no one on bases!" groaned Ted. "Oh, fellows---those of you who have a chance---do something. For goodness' sake, do something to save South Grammar." A few agonized moments passed while those at the batting benches looked on at the fellow now performing by the plate. "Strike three! Out!" remarked Ben Tozier decisively. Then the game was given to the Central Grammar boys by a score of five to four. The championship of the local Grammar League was also awarded them. Ted gulped down hard. Some of his fellows looked decidedly mad. "It's a shame!" choked Wells. "No; it isn't, either," Ted disputed. "Dick Prescott and his fellows beat us fairly. Come on we'll congratulate 'em." Good sportsman that he was, Ted almost limped across the field, followed by some of his players, to where Dick and the other Central Grammar players were surrounded by their friends. "Prescott, you fellows are wonders!" broke forcefully from Captain Ted. "Nothing like it," Captain Dick laughed modestly. "Some one had to win, you know, and the luck came to us." "Luck!" exploded Ted unbelievingly. "Nothing like it, either. No sheer luck could ever have broken down the cast-iron determination that our fellows had to win. You Centrals are the real ball players of the town---that's the only answer." Whooping wildly in their glee, scores of Central Grammar boys rushed at Dick Prescott, trying to get at his hand and wring it. "Please don't fellows," begged Dick, going almost white under the torment, after three or four boys had succeeded in pumping that arm. "You've no idea how sore my arm is." "It must be," shouted Greg. "Dick told me to kill his arm, if I had to, but to signal for the balls that would strike out three batsmen in lightning order." "The left hand, then!" clamored more of Dick's admirers. Laughingly, Prescott submitted to having his left hand "shaken" almost out of joint. "Don't make such a fuss about it, fellows," begged Dick at last. "Remember that we have a permit for a bonfire on this lot to-night, and that the stuff is piled up in the rear of the next yard. You fellows who didn't have to go lame bestir yourselves now in bringing on the old boxes and barrels." "Whoops!" yelled a Central Grammar boy, starting off. "Bring out the stuff and pile it high." "Let the Souths help!" bawled Ted Teall at the top of his voice. "No matter who won, we'll all celebrate." "Ted, you won't play any funny tricks on that pile of wood?" questioned Dick a bit uneasily, as he followed Captain Teall. "What do you take me for?" demanded the South Grammar boy. "Do you think that I'm not on the level?" "I'm answered," was Dick Prescott's satisfied answer. Ere long the material for a monster bonfire was piled. Word was given out that it would be set going just a few minutes after dark. "We came up here to see what we could find to do, didn't we?" whispered Bert Dodge, nudging Fred Ripley. "Yes," nodded Fred uneasily; "and, so far, we haven't struck a thing that would be safe to do." "The dickens we haven't," chuckled Dodge. "What, then?" Fred inquired. Bert whispered in his ear, adding: "It won't cost us more than a dollar apiece, Fred." "It's great," declared Ripley enthusiastically. "But we've got to move quickly, and at the right minute, or we'll be caught. I wouldn't give much for our chances of comfort if we're caught in this thing." "We won't be, or we ought not to be," Dodge retorted. "But we'd better get home and get our suppers on the jump." "We can do better than that; we can get a quick meal at one of the restaurants and then jump back on the job." "Rip, you have a great head sometimes," admitted Bert Dodge. At a time when every one else was at supper Fred Ripley and Bert Dodge stole back to the scene of the bonfire. After glancing cautiously about, they felt sure that no one was observing them. Then they stole close to the pile of combustibles. For a few moments they worked there, removing lids from tin cans and planting them safely out of sight. Human nature---of the American brand, at any rate---dearly loves a bonfire. By dark that evening some two hundred grown-up and several hundred Gridley boys had congregated on the late ball field. "Touch it off, some one. There's no use in waiting any longer," urged some of the bystanders. "It's almost dark." "No, no! Wait!" urged Tom Reade. "The blaze will be all the finer after dark." "Where's Dick Prescott?" sounded a voice, this being followed by a dinning clamor for the captain of the Centrals. "Here!" called Dick, when he could make himself heard. "Pouch it off, Dick! Let the fun start. You're the right one to set the bonfire going." "Not I," Prescott answered. "There is some one else here who has been appointed to set the blaze going, and who has accepted the job." "Then trot him out and let him get busy!" came the urgent demand. "Wait just a few minutes, fellows. We want it really dark," urged Captain Prescott. At last, when he judged it dark enough, Dick stepped forward, Captain Ted Teall at his side. "Friends," Dick explained, "Teall has been good enough to agree to start the blaze tonight." "South Grammar fellows this way, please!" called Teall. "Now, friends, please don't any of you make any noise until we Souths have a chance to say just a few words. All ready, South Grammars? Then three cheers for the Central Grammar School, winners of the school baseball league series. Let 'em rip out loudly!" The cheers were given, followed by a tiger. "Is Hi Martin, captain of the North Grammar nine, here?" called Ted Teall. But Hi wasn't, or else he kept his presence very quiet. "Hi wouldn't he here," jeered some one. "He didn't win---couldn't win---and he's sore." Again Ted called for Hi Martin, though still without success. "Then I'll have to light the fire alone," Ted declared. "I had hoped that the captains of both of the walloped teams might share the honor." Tom Reade and Dave Darrin hastily emptied a five-gallon can of oil on the old boxes and barrels and other pieces of wood. "All clear?" called Ted. "All clear," nodded Tom Reade. "Then I'll light the blaze," shouted Ted. "This is a lot easier than winning ball games," he added good-naturedly. Three or four wind-proof matches Teall struck on a box and tossed into the oil-soaked pile of combustibles. In a moment the increasing heat of the blaze drove him back several yards. Higher and higher mounted the red and yellow flames. Hundreds stood about, their faces fully illumined by the big glow. "It's going to be a great one," Ted called to Dick, as the latter came toward him. "Finest bonfire I've ever seen," Prescott answered. "But---" began Teall, a puzzled look on his face. Then---sniff! sniff! "Queer stuff, that! What a stuffing smoke it makes. I wonder what it is that burns with such a sharp smell?" "It must be pitch," replied Dick Prescott, also sniffing. "Whew! How sharp it is!" Ted began to sneeze. Dick followed suit. Presently all of the boys who were standing at all near the blazing pile found themselves sneezing, coughing or sputtering at a great rate. Some of the men, further away, caught the acrid fumes. "This is a mean trick some one has played on us," cried Dick, falling back before the stifling odors. "I hope you don't think I did a mean thing like that?" demanded Teall anxiously. "I'm sure you didn't," Prescott answered. "You're full of tricks, Ted Teall, but you're a real sportsman after you've been beaten." "Say, can this possibly be any of Hi Martin's work?" demanded Tom Reade, as the boys fell back steadily from the bonfire. "Only one objection to suspecting Hi," retorted Teall. "What's that?" asked Greg. "Too proud?" "No," snapped Teall. "Hi hasn't brains enough to think up anything." "This is just like boys. It's really what one gets for turning out to a boys' bonfire!" growled one man between fits of coughing, as he rapidly got away from the fire. It's an abominably mean trick!" "Who did it?" asked another man. "Oh, you can't find that out now," replied still another. "You all know the way that boys hang together in mischief. No one would tell you, or dare to tell you, if he knew." "I'd like to know the boy, for about one minute!" snapped one stout, red-faced man, down whose cheeks the tears were trickling. "It's that loutish trick of putting red pepper on a fire. No one but a feeble-minded boy would think of playing an old, moth-eaten trick like that!" "It would pay us to get out of here quickly, if any one suspected us," whispered Fred Ripley to his friend. "Sh! Shut up!" returned Dodge in a hoarse whisper. "It isn't best for us to be seen whispering. Look innocent." From behind a heavy hand descended abruptly on either coat collar, taking firm hold. "Here are the young apes who played the trick!" roared an angry voice. "I just heard them whispering about it, and when I was finishing supper I remember that I looked out of the window and saw these boys fooling about the pile." "What did you put on the fire?" demanded a man, stepping in front of the now frightened youths, who were hemmed in so that they could not escape. "Red pepper," returned Ripley sullenly. He spoke before he thought, thus admitting his guilt and Dodge's. "You idiot!" hissed Bert. "You're both of you idiots," retorted the captor, who had now released both young men. "Besides being a mean, detestable trick, it's as old as the world. That red-pepper trick was invented by some stupid lout who lived thousands of years before the Flood." "What shall we do with these imps?" demanded a voice. "There must be some High School boys here," said the man who had first seized the humiliated pair by their collars. "Let the High School boys decide what is to be done with them." "We don't care what's done with a pair of simpletons like them," spoke up Ben Tozier. "Let the crowd go as far as it likes with such a pair." "Don't you dare do anything to us" screamed Ripley, now beside himself with rage. "It will go hard with any one who interferes with us. "Ha! ha! Ho! ho!" roared some of the crowd. "Listen to the half-witted pair!" While another man spoke up jovially: "I'll tell you what to do with them. They came here to spoil the fun of the Grammar School boys. Let the Grammar School boys dispose of these stupid fellows as they choose." "I tell you," raged Ripley, "that it will go hard with any one who interferes with our comfort. There are laws in this land." "Look at what doesn't want its comfort interfered with!" jeered another voice. "This comes from a lout who interfered with our comfort by putting several cans of red pepper on the bonfire. Turn 'em over to the Grammar School boys. Boys, what do you want to do with this pair?" "We'll make 'em run the gauntlet," spoke up Spoff Henderson eagerly. In a twinkling, so it seemed, a long double row of Grammar School boys was formed down the street. Some of these boys had light twigs or sticks; others stood ready to use their hands. "Start 'em!" yelled Spoff. Some one did start the pair. Bert and Fred sullenly refused to run, but quickly changed their minds. Down the street they raced, Ripley in advance, between two parallel lines of Grammar School boys. Sticks were laid over them, or hands reached out and administered cuffings. It was a grotesque sight. Long before they reached the end of the double line Bert and Fred yelled for mercy, but got none. With final blows they were turned loose and vanished into the night. Within a few minutes the pepper in the bonfire had burned out. Then the revelers drew nearer, piling on other combustible stuff. Thus was fittingly observed the victory of Dick Prescott's nine in winning the local Grammar School championship. Chapter XVIII HI'S SWIMMING CHALLENGE The reader may be sure that the members of his baseball squad had reminded him of his promise to tell them what the man on the clubhouse steps said. "I promised I'd tell you, if you won that game," Dick admitted. "Yes, yes!" the other boys pressed. "But I didn't say _when_ I'd tell you, did I?" "You're not going to try to sneak out of it that way, are you, Dick?" Dave Darrin demanded, as the boys met on Main Street the following morning, Saturday. "I'm not going to sneak out of it at all, as you fellows ought to know," Dick replied. "I'm going to tell you---when the proper time comes." "When will that be?" asked Greg. "And that's all we'll get out of him, no matter how how much we talk!" muttered Tom Reade. "Here comes Hi Martin," announced Greg. "He has Bill Rodgers with him." "It can't be about baseball, anyway," said Dick. "I think Hi has his fill of that game." "Good morning," was Martin's greeting, as he and Rodgers approached. "I have a message for you from North Grammar." "Deliver it, and we'll sign on the book for it," retorted Reade. "We're not satisfied to rest the claims of the North Grammar on baseball alone," Hi went on. "I shouldn't imagine you would be," Dick smiled. "Therefore we are going to challenge you to another form of contest." "A talking match?" Tom wanted to know. "No, sir. I bear from the North Grammar boys a challenge to Central Grammar to meet us in swimming matches in the river. The contests must be so arranged as to show which school may hold the championship in swimming. Are you afraid to meet us in the water?" Hi asked. "Afraid? No," Dick retorted. "But why didn't you fellows spring this on us earlier? Next week Thursday will be graduating day." "Well, we can swim the Saturday after," Hi proposed. "But we'll be graduated then. We won't be Grammar School boys any more," protested Dick. "Is that the way you're going to get out of the challenge that we've issued?" Martin demanded scornfully. "No; and you certainly know better," Dick retorted. "But how can we hold a school contest when we're no longer enrolled in the school that we're supposed to represent?" Dick insisted. "You can if you want to," Hi sneered. "But I can see that you fellows don't care about meeting us in a swimming contest. All right; then I'll go back and tell the North Grammar fellows that Central funks. "There's a way that we can arrange it, I think," put in Dave Darrin, who had been listening intently. "Dick, why can't we get Old Dut to authorize us to represent Central Grammar within a day or two after graduation? If he says it's all right, then surely, even though we have just graduated, we'll be able to represent our old school." "We can talk that over with Mr. Jones," Dick nodded. "My idea is that you fellows are afraid to say 'yes' to our challenge, sneered Martin. "You may go on thinking that, if it gives you any pleasure," said Dick coolly. "But if you really want our answer, we'll give it to you on Monday afternoon." "The Monday after Christmas?" jeered Hi. "We'll give you our answer next Monday afternoon," Dick rejoined a bit stiffly. "Is the South Grammar to be in this?" asked Dave. "No; we don't want that crowd," Hi answered quickly before Rodgers could speak. "Then the contest won't be for the championship of Gridley, will it?" Dick inquired. "Yes, it will," Hi assured him. "I don't see how it can be, when it's only between two out of the three Grammar Schools in the town," Dick argued. "The challenge is issued only to Central Grammar," wound up Hi, turning to leave. "And if you haven't accepted before Monday evening, we of the North Grammar will hold that you have backed out and don't dare meet us. Oh, by the way, Prescott, you'd better look out for Ripley and Dodge. They mean to get square with you for what happened last night." "Get square with me for it?" laughed Prescott, unafraid. "All right, but that's rather rich! Why, I had nothing to do with it." "They blame you a good deal for it," added Hi, "and they declare that they're going to get even with you." "All right; let them try it," Dick nodded. "What do you think of this swimming challenge?" asked Dave quickly. "Why, I think," Dick replied, "that it will bear looking into closely. There may be some trick about it, and we must look out that we are not roped into some funny game. We'll see the fellows at school on Monday." "Hi Martin is probably the best swimmer among the Grammar School boys of Gridley," Tom suggested. "I think that he most likely is," Dick agreed. "If he proposes to stand for North Grammar, and wants us to put up one candidate against him, then Hi would probably take the race. If we take the challenge, either we ought to insist on a team race, or else on a number of separate events by different fellows, each event to count for so many points on the score. In any match of singles Hi Martin might win. If we go into this at all, we must look out that it isn't fixed so that Hi Martin, alone, can carry off the championship for his school." "The very fact that Hi proposed it makes me suspicious that he has some trick in reserve," Tom urged. "I like the general idea," spoke up Greg. "Any swimming contest that is a real match between the schools, instead of between individuals, will be good sport and arouse a lot of school interest. There are a lot of fairly good swimmers in our school, too." "We'll talk it over with the fellows, and with Old Dut also," Dick went on. "Of course we have no right to act for the school unless the other fellows are willing." When Dick left his chums at noon it was with an agreement to meet on Main Street again at half past one. At fifteen minutes past one the telephone bell rang in the little bookstore. "Have you a copy of Moore's Ballads?" asked a masculine voice. "Yes," replied Mr. Prescott; "in different styles of bindings and at different prices." The bookseller then went on to describe the bindings and named the prices. The customer at the other end of the wire seemed to prefer an expensive volume, which came at four dollars. "Can you deliver the book immediately, with a bill, to Mrs. Carhart, at the Gideon Wells place?" continued the voice at the other end. "Yes; I think so," replied Mr. Prescott. "The book must be delivered within the hour," continued the voice, "as Mrs. Carhart is going on a journey and wishes the book to read while on the train." "I will deliver the book within fifteen minutes," Mr. Prescott promised. "At the Gideon Wells place, did you say? I didn't know that it had a tenant." "Mrs. Carhart has taken the place for the summer. I will rely upon you to deliver the book immediately. Thank you; good-bye." "I suppose you have an appointment with the crowd, Dick," smiled his father, as he hung up the receiver. "I don't like to get in the way of your fun, but I shall have to ask you to deliver the book, for the profit on that volume is too large to be overlooked." "I don't mind going," Dick answered. "I can get back just a little late. I'm all ready as soon as you have the book wrapped and the bill made out." Three or four minutes later Dick left the store. At the corner of Main Street he looked to see whether any of his chums were visible, but none were. So he turned and started, traveling fast. Had young Prescott answered the 'phone call himself he very likely would have suspected that the voice of the customer was that of Bert Dodge disguised. However, as it was, the Grammar School boy had no suspicion whatever. He made part of the distance at a jog trot. He was soon in the less thickly inhabited part of the town, down in a section of large estates, many of which were used only as summer homes. "This Mrs. Carhart must be a new-comer in Gridley," reflected Dick, as he hastened along. "I hope she'll buy a lot of books of us at as good prices." He came now to the corner of the Wells estate, the grounds of which were some eighty acres in extent. He passed the corner and ran along toward two great elms that grew just inside the trim wall. Just as he reached these elms two figures started up from behind the wall beyond. The same two figures leaped over the wall, confronting the Grammar School boy. "Howdy, Prescott," called Bert Dodge, with a mocking grin. "We were just saying that we'd rather see you than any one else on earth," leered Fred Ripley, as he stepped in the Grammar School boy's path. "I haven't any time to waste on you two just now," Prescott answered coldly, trying to step around the pair. "Then you'll take the time," scoffed Bert, reaching out to seize Dick by the shoulder. Fred Ripley aimed an unexpected blow that sent the lad to earth and the book flying several feet beyond. Chapter XIX DAVE DARRIN FLASHES FIRE "That was just like you---it was so cowardly and low down!" cried Dick hotly, as he leaped to his feet. He was now near the package containing the book. Doubtless he could have snatched up the book and sprinted to safety. But that was not his way of meeting so great an affront. "Don't you get saucy!" warned Fred, edging in closer. Bert Dodge veered around so that be could attack Dick from one side. "It would be honoring you too much to talk to you in any vein," Dick retorted sarcastically. "You're a pair of the most worthless rowdies in Gridley." "Go for him, Bert!" called Ripley. "Why don't you?" sneered Dick, making a leap forward, straight at Ripley. Dodge swung in from behind, hitting Dick over the head. But Prescott's movement, in the same moment, made the blow only a glancing one. Bump! Dick landed on Fred Ripley's nose with force and weight enough to make the lawyer's son stagger. "Pound his head off, Bert!" howled Ripley putting a hand to his injured nose. But Dick wheeled just in time to avoid a treacherous blow from the rear. With all the fury of the oppressed, Prescott leaped in, planting one foot heavily on some of Bert's toes and striking a blow that landed over that indignant youth's belt-line. Bert fell back, panting. "If you two have enough now," remarked Dick more coolly, "I'll pick up my package and go on about my business." "You can wager you won't get away until we've settled with you!" snarled Dodge. "Rip, never mind your nose. Help me close in on this scamp and show him what we can do to a fellow that we don't like." In another moment Dick was the center of a cyclone, or so it felt to him. Both boys were larger and stronger, even if not quite as quick as he. They rained blows upon him. "Don't try to holler," jeered Fred Ripley. "That won't do you any good. We'll tell you when you've had enough. Take it from us and never mind your own opinions." Dick did not answer. Sore and winded, he fought with all the spirit that was in him. So busy were all three of the boys, that none of them noted the approach of a light express wagon drawn by a single horse. The driver hauled up, a few yards away, then advanced, driving whip in hand. Slash! "O-o-o-h!" yelled Fred Ripley, as he felt the whip land on his legs. Slash! slash! "Quit that, you fiend!" begged Bert Dodge, doubling up and screaming with pain. "I'll quit when I think you've had enough!" hissed Dave Darrin, his face ablaze with anger, his eyes flashing fire. Slash! slash! slash! Dave plied the whip relentlessly until he had inflicted half a dozen more blows on the legs of each High School boy. "If you try to run away," warned Dave, "either of you, I'll run after you and lay on ten times as much as I'm giving you." "Quit, now, Dave," urged Dick, running to his chum and laying a hand on Darrin's active right arm. "They've had lots---plenty. Such things as they, can't stand a man's dose." "I'm not a bit tired," retorted Dave ironically. "Besides, I rather enjoy this exercise." "We'll have you arrested, Dave Darrin!" moaned Ripley. "You will, eh?" Dave demanded, breaking away from Prescott's restraining hold and making for Fred. "No, no, no!" cried Ripley, cowering. "Yes, we will---you can wager we will!" yelled Dodge from a safer distance. "Arrested---for what?" demanded Darrin. "For assaulting us," returned Bert Dodge. "Oh, you'll catch it!" "Have I been guilty of any more of an assault than I found you fellows engaged in", Dave asked coolly. "Don't you think you'd look rather funny in court when it was known why I laid the whip over you?" "We'll get the better of you, just the same," yelled Ripley, who had now retreated to the side of his friend and felt bolder. "My father's a lawyer---the smartest in the town." "And he's also a gentleman," broke in Dick. "I wish his son took after him. As for arrest---and trouble in court---bosh! Try it on!" Prescott now walked coolly to where his little package lay, and found it uninjured. "How did you happen to come along on the wagon?" Dick asked, as Fred and Bert limped away from their Waterloo. "One of the express company's drivers was late coming back from dinner, and there was a package that had to be delivered at once," Darrin answered. "The manager offered me ten cents to make the delivery. I am glad that I took the job. Where are you going?" "In there," Prescott answered, pointing to the house. "I've got to deliver this book collect to a Mrs. Carhart." "Get up on the seat and I'll drive you in there," proposed Dave. "Though I don't believe there's any one living in the house. All the front doors and windows are boarded up." After five minutes of doorbell ringing Dick concluded that he would find no Mrs. Carhart there. "I guess I understand," nodded Prescott. "Either Dodge or Ripley must have sent that 'phone message. That was their way to get me alone where they could both handle me without much danger of interference." "It turned out finely---for them," chuckled Dave, as both boys climbed back to the seat of the wagon. "But say, do you think they could really make any trouble for me for using the whip over them?" "I don't know. I don't believe they'll try, anyway," Dick answered thoughtfully. "It wouldn't be very nice for Fred to have his father find out how his son spends his time and pocket money." Dave drove back to Main Street, letting Dick off at his corner. Down the side street a few doors and into the bookshop he hurried. "Back again?" was Mr. Prescott's greeting. "What was the matter---the volume not satisfactory!" "No such party at the address," his son answered. "But I think I can explain why the order was 'phoned in." Dick then proceeded to narrate what had happened. His father listened with growing anger. "What a low, worthless trick that was to play," he cried. "Dick, if you'll stay here and attend the store I'll step around to Mr. Ripley's office and speak to him about it. Then I'll go over to the bank and see Bert's father." "Don't, dad; please don't," begged the boy. "It seems to me that such action is highly necessary," maintained Mr. Prescott. "I hope you won't do it, dad. The best way to treat boys' rows is to let them settle among themselves. If you interfere in this matter, dad, I shall get a name among other boys for running to my father for protection. That will turn the laugh on me all over town. I'd much rather fight my own battles and take an occasional pounding." "Well, perhaps you're right about it," admitted his father thoughtfully. "At all events, I'm glad to see that your disposition is to take care of your own troubles. I won't interfere, though I am certain that Mr. Ripley would like to know something about this affair." "I already do know something about it," gravely announced a voice behind them. There stood Lawyer Ripley, who had dropped in to buy a magazine. "I shall be glad if you will tell me more about this," the lawyer went on solemnly. Gladly would Dick have gotten out of it. He was inclined to say very little, though what he did say was added to by his father. "Is this the book, in this package?" inquired Mr. Ripley, as be picked up the parcel. "Yes," nodded Mr. Prescott. "And the price?" "Four dollars." "Mr. Prescott, kindly charge this book to my account, unless I return it by Monday morning," the lawyer went on. "I shall try to see young Darrin this afternoon. Then I shall question my son when I return home. I don't consider it fair to condemn him unheard, but if I find that he had such a part in this afternoon's affair as has been described, then I shall tell him that he is bound to take goods that he has any part in ordering. In that connection, when I hand him his next allowance of pocket money, I shall keep out four dollars and hand him the book in place thereof. That ought to make him rather careful about ordering goods in which he is not really interested." "But, as I now recall the voice over the telephone," urged Mr. Prescott, "I am inclined to think that it was young Dodge's voice, disguised, that I heard." "If my son had any share in the transaction, it will make no difference," replied Lawyer Ripley very gravely. "This book will then become a part of his small library, and at his own personal expense. I thank you both. Good afternoon." "Well, of all the queer turn-overs, that's the best!" grinned Dick appreciatively, after the lawyer had gone. "Wouldn't I like to see Rip when he gets that book of ballads handed him as the larger part of his pocket allowance!" "It's certainly a clever way for his father to handle the affair," smiled Mr. Prescott. "However, in making the charge for the book I shall deduct the profit. Like yourself, son, I don't want to profit by tale-bearing. And now, why not run out and see if you can find your young friends? I don't believe I shall need you further this afternoon." Inwardly Dave Darrin was a good bit disturbed when, a few minutes later, Lawyer Ripley walked into the express office and inquired for him. Fred's father asked a good many questions, which Dave answered truthfully though reluctantly. "Assuming that the affair was as you describe, Darrin," stated the legal man at last, "I wish to thank you for teaching the young man what must have been a needed lesson." When Dave learned from Dick, a little later, the story of Fred's unintentional purchase of a four-dollar book, there was a big laugh. Chapter XX ARRANGING THE SWIMMING MATCH "See no reason why you can't represent this school in an athletic meet a day or two after graduation," said Old Dut, when asked about it. "If the North Grammar boys believe they excel at that sport, they should be given a chance. Naturally they are disappointed over finding themselves at the bottom of the list in baseball." "Go after 'em to-day, Dick!" yelled the boys. "Perhaps we can beat them in the water, too." "Find Hi Martin this afternoon and settle it," added others. "I won't serve alone," Dick retorted, shaking his head. "If you fellows want me to serve on a committee and will give us full powers to act, I'm willing." "I think that will be the best way to go about it, boys," approved Old Dut. "There should be a committee, and then you must be prepared to stand by any arrangements that the committee may make." "What's the matter with choosing a committee of ten?" proposed Toby Ross. "Too many," smiled Old Dut wisely. "There'd be too much talking then. A committee should have but a very few members." "Are nominations in order?" queried Spoff Henderson. "Yes," nodded Old Dut. "Since I've been consulted, I'll preside at this yard meeting." "Then I nominate Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes," Spoff continued. "Second the motion," called Ross. Old Dut put the motion, which was carried. "As Master Prescott was first named," announced the principal, "he will naturally be the chairman of the committee." "I move the committee have full powers in arranging for the race," Spoff added. This was also carried. That afternoon, when school was out, the boys hurried along Main Street, keeping a sharp lookout for Hi. At last they espied him, with Bill Rodgers. "What are you going to do about the swimming race?" called Hi from across the street. "This is our committee, duly appointed by the Central Grammar boys," Dick called back. "When will your committee be ready?" "We're ready now," answered Hi. "Come over here and we'll talk about it." Hi leaned against the fence on his own side of the street, determined not to concede anything to the Central Grammar boys. "Have you two been regularly appointed as a committee?" asked Prescott. "We don't have to be," Hi answered indifferently. "We know what we're talking about." "You'll have to be regularly appointed by your school before we'll talk with you," Dick retorted. "You're afraid to meet us in a swimming match," Hi jeered. "So afraid," Prescott answered, "that we've appointed a committee regularly; but you fellows, who have been doing all the talking, aren't willing to get together and elect a regular committee to represent your school." "You're afraid, I tell you," sneered Hi, while Bill Rodgers grinned. "No; we're ready to arrange the match when your school sends a regular committee." "Come on over here and talk it over, if you're not afraid," urged Hi Martin. "We can't talk it over with you, as you've admitted that you don't represent your school." "Well, then, we do represent it," claimed Hi. "That statement comes too late. Hi, we'll meet you at this same place at half past four to-morrow afternoon. If you fail to show up it will be all off. And your committee will have to bring a note, signed by your principal, naming the members of your committee and stating that it has been regularly appointed. We'll bring the same from our principal. "I guess the swimming match between the two schools is all off, then," yawned Martin. "You fellows don't want to go into it, for you know you'd be beaten stiff. That's why you try to hedge behind a committee." "It's all off if you fellows don't go at it in a regular way," Dick contended firmly. "We're not going to enter a match and then find that you and Bill Rodgers represent no one but yourselves." "What's all the noise about?" good-naturedly asked Reporter Len Spencer, who, turning the corner, had halted behind Prescott and his friends. Dick explained the situation. "Prescott is right," decided Len. "Martin, if the boys at your school are not enough in earnest to arrange the contest through an authorized committee, then folks will understand that the North Grammar didn't really want a swimming contest." "But we do want one," blustered Martin. "Then go about it in a regular way, after consulting your principal, as the Central Grammar boys have done," urged Len. "And, instead of meeting here on a corner, you can meet at my desk at the 'Blade' office." Hi Martin was "stumped" at this point, and he knew it. If he backed out now he would make himself and his school ridiculous. "All right," agreed the North Grammar boy reluctantly. "Don't forget to bring a note from your principal to the effect that the boys named are the regular school committee," Dick called after him. "We'll do the thing in our own way," Hi retorted. "Come along, Bill." "I thought Martin might be up to some tricks," muttered Dick Prescott. "If he is, tricks won't help him or his school," laughed Len. "We'll see this thing put through in regular shape." So, on Tuesday afternoon, Dick and his fellow members of the committee were at the "Blade" office punctually. At ten minutes past the time no boy from the North Grammar had appeared. "You won't have to wait much longer," smiled Len. "It looks as though the North Grammar boys were bluffing." At ten minutes of five Dick and his chums rose to leave the "Blade" office. "Wait a minute," urged Len at the door. "I believe I see your rivals coming now." Hi Martin, Bill Rodgers and Courtney Page strolled rather indolently up to the door and entered. "You're late," said Len crisply. "If you boys go into a race, I believe you'll be just as late at the finish." "There wasn't any use in hurrying," grunted Eel. "There's lots of the day left." "Unless you regard an appointment as a gentlemen's agreement, and to be kept," marked Len Spencer, rather severely. "I have been giving up my time to this affair of yours, and my time is worth something. But take seats. Have you boys any paper to show that you represent your school?" "Yes," admitted Hi, producing an envelope. "Our principal gives us the proper authority." Len read the note, nodding. "The Central Grammar boys have also produced their authority to act, so now we can get down to the details of the contest. The North Grammar boys are the challengers, are they not?" "Yes," claimed Hi. "Then what sort of a swimming contest do you propose?" Len asked. "Each school to appoint its best swimmer, and arrange a half-mile race between the champions of the two schools," Hi answered promptly. "The school whose champion wins is to be declared the champion in swimming." "We expected that," nodded Dick, "and we won't agree to it. If this match is to be held for the school championship, then there should be several boys entered from each school----say five, six or seven from each school. Then the contest would really represent the schools." "But one boy would win, just the same, in any case," retorted Martin. "What difference would it make?" "The way that I propose," urged Dick, "no single boy could win for his school. Suppose we enter seven boys from each school. Then the school whose seven boys are in ahead of the seven boys on the other side will win the contest. In other words, of the fourteen swimmers, one is bound to come in last of all. The school to which this last-in swimmer belongs is the school that loses the match." "Huh! I don't see anything in that idea," retorted Hi. "That, perhaps, wouldn't mean anything at all for the school that happened to have the one best swimmer of all." "It would make it impossible for either school to enter one real swimmer and six dummies, and still win the match," Dick argued. "My plan will stop the contest from being a one-boy race and will give the contest to the school that has the best average swimmers." "Huh! I don't see it," said Hi doggedly. "I think Prescott has the better of the argument," broke in Len Spencer, who had sat tapping his desk with a pencil. "Then I don't care much for your idea, either, Spencer," retorted Martin. "It may be that my idea isn't any good," nodded Len indulgently. "I won't even claim that I know anything about sports. But you must surely know who the umpire is in any such dispute. It's always the editor of the local paper. So, Martin, if you won't agree with Prescott, and if you won't admit that I know anything about it either, suppose we lay the question before the editor of the 'Blade.' I think he's in just now." "As for me," spoke up Bill Rodgers, breaking his silence, "it seems to me that Prescott's idea is good and fair." "What do you say to that kind of stuff, Page?" inquired Hi quickly. "I---I---er---well, I am agreeable to anything that pleases the rest of you," stammered Courtney Page, by nature, a sail trimmer. "You're a chump, then," Hi retorted elegantly. "The whole reason why Prescott objects to one boy representing each school is that he's afraid I can out-swim any boy that Central Grammar can produce." "And I take it, Martin," Dick retorted, "that your reason for insisting on the one-boy race, is due to your belief that you can win from any one boy. Very likely you are the fastest and strongest swimmer in any Gridley school. But a race with seven boys on a side will better represent the average abilities of the two schools. In baseball we tried to find out which school had the average best players. We didn't try simply to find out which school could boast of the one star player." "That's right," nodded Len Spencer. "Prescott, you're afraid to race with me, you or any other one fellow in Central Grammar!" exclaimed Hi indignantly. "No; I'm not afraid to swim against you," Dick declared quietly. "I won't have the championship between the two schools rest on any such race, but I'll enter a separate race against you---any distance---this in addition to a seven-fellow race between the schools." "Now, I guess you haven't a leg left to stand on, Martin," smiled Spencer. "Prescott proposes a seven-fellow race between the schools, the school responsible for the last man who comes in to lose the contest. That is to be for the school championship. Then, if you think you can outswim Prescott, he agrees to enter an individual and personal race with you." "If Prescott and I swim against each other, then we won't swim in the seven-fellow race, anyway." protested Hi. "I'll agree to that," Dick nodded. After some more talking the details were arranged. Len reduced them to writing and the committees for both schools signed. "I'll publish this in the 'Blade' to-morrow morning," said Spencer. "Then the whole town will know the terms of the race." Friday, if pleasant, was the date chosen, the seven-fellow race to begin as soon as possible after two P.M., the personal race between Prescott and Martin to follow. Such details as choosing the officials of the race were to be left to the principals of the two schools. "It's all settled, then, gentlemen," said Spencer, rising and holding out his right hand. "If you don't see me before you may be sure of my being on hand to report the races themselves. I shall do all I can to encourage schoolboy sports in Gridley. I've a notion, too, that there will be on hand Friday a goodly showing of High School athletes. The young men of the High School will naturally want to look over the contestants and see who is going to make good material for the High School teams." "I'm thankful to say," retorted Hi stiffly, "that I do not expect to attend Gridley High School. My father is going to send me to one of the best prep. schools in the country. Page and Rodgers are going to good schools, too." "I hope none of your fathers will be disappointed," remarked Spencer gravely. "Personally, I consider the Gridley High School one of the best schools in the United States." "It will do, of course, for those who really can't afford to go to better and more select schools," Hi conceded. "Prescott, look out that you don't get drowned when you're practicing to beat me on Friday." "I'm not really sure that I shall practice swimming before Friday," Dick smiled in answer. "I'm going to be pretty busy until after graduation." "Dick," asked Greg seriously, when the three chums were by themselves, "have you any idea in the world that you can win out against Hi Martin?" "Oh, I may not win," Prescott replied. "Yet, if I don't I'll promise you to be the hardest pace-maker that Hi Martin ever had behind him in the water." Chapter XXI OLD DUT GIVES WISE COUNSEL Boys attired in their best tip-toed about in creaking new shoes, resplendently polished for the occasion. Every boy had a flower in his upper button-hole. Exhibition Hall, usually so bare and barnlike in appearance, was now a jungle of potted plants and ferns, with clumps of bright flowers everywhere. Over the broad stage hung a fourteen-foot American flag. Flags of other nations, in smaller bits of bunting, trailed off on either side. The piano stood before the center of the stage, down on the floor. Grouped near were the music stands and chairs for other members of the orchestra on this festal day of graduation. Here and there women teachers still superintended little squads of girls who were putting on the last bright touches of ornamentation. One teacher was drilling a dozen much-dressed-up boys of the seventh grade, who were to act as ushers on this great Thursday afternoon. It was half an hour before the doors were to be opened. Curiously enough, there were no eighth-grade pupils present. These were assembled in Room 1, on the floor below, seated behind the desks that had been theirs during the school year. "Young ladies and gentlemen," began Old Dut, rapping on his desk and rising. As he looked about there was a curious expression on his face, and some water in his twinkling eyes. "I am going to take occasion to say the last few words that I shall have a chance to say to you confidentially and in private," continued the principal. "I am conscious that I am taking one of my last looks at you all as my pupils. I might call this the dying class, if it were not for the fact that, for most of you, to-day will be the real birth. You will go forth into the world to-day, the larger portion of you. You will leave school behind and tackle the world as budding men and women. You will begin soon to grapple with the work, the problems, the toil---the tears and the joys that come with the beginnings of grown-up life. Those of you who are to be favored with a chance to go further in your education, and who will be schoolboys and schoolgirls yet a while, I most sincerely congratulate. For those who, on the other hand, will step straight from Exhibition Hall into the world of work---aye, and the world of deeds and triumphs, too---I bid you to be of good cheer and courage! "Be bold, true and loyal! If you have any wonder, any misgivings as to what the world and life may have in store for you, I tell you that these are questions that you will decide mainly for yourselves. It's the hardest thing in this universe to down any man or woman who faces grown-up life with a good and honest claim on the good things of existence. Yet on this subject one word more. Uprightness of heart, of word and deed are not alone sufficient. There is one more great quality that you must link with general honesty and loyalty. Castle Great cannot be stormed except by those who move forward with backbone---Courage! Be bold, steadfast, unwavering. Never lose anything that you justly want through fear that you can't get it. Go after it! The soldier is the type of courage and a good one. Yet you don't find more than one of our soldiers of life in a military uniform. There are soldiers, boys, in every crowd that you mingle with on the street. Be one of them yourselves! "Boys, be brave, but be gentle. Remember that the bravest men are gentle as any woman. As a soldier proves his courage by his conquests, so must you prove your courage, if you have any to show, by your achievements in the life that starts to-morrow for most of you. Honor and courage! Together they will carry you to lofty heights. If you fail, then reflect that you don't possess these two qualities of manhood. Get these qualities---at no matter what cost---and start out again to victory. "Girls, be women. Stop and think what it means to be women. All the sweetest, truest and gentlest attributes of the human race. Be women, every minute of your lives, and you will have reached heights where not even the most soldierly boys may follow you. Be women, and the men of our race will reverence and honor you. "Young ladies and gentlemen, this day comes to me once in every year. It is an old practice with me, as I see each class go forth in our last hour together, to feel that I am watching the departure of the best and truest class that I have yet taught. But this year I am moved more than ever to that feeling. There are those among you who have shown me traits of character that have filled me with even more much more than my usual amount of faith in the future of the American nation. Young ladies and gentlemen, my fellow citizens, permit me to thank you for your loyal work to make this graduating class what it is, and what it is destined to become. Go forth to uphold the traditions of Gridley and the glory of America, and may God bless you, one and all." His voice rather husky, and his eyes a little more wet, Old Dut sank back into the well-worn chair from which he had taught so many eighth-grade classes. "Three cheers for our principal!" proposed Danny Grin. The cheers were given lustily, with half a dozen tigers. "Master Dalzell," replied Old Dut, "coming from the boy who, as the records show, has been disciplined more frequently in the last year than any other pupil present, I consider that a tribute indeed." "I meant it," said Dan simply. Later the pupils of the five upper grades marched solemnly into Exhibition Hall, the appearance of the graduating class being greeted with applause by enthusiastic relatives and friends. The orchestra played triumphal marches until all had marched in to their seats. Then the orchestra paused, only to begin a moment later with the first measures of the opening chorus, sung by more than three hundred youthful voices. It was the usual medley, contributed by pupils who could really sing and by others who really couldn't. An undertone of varying discord ran along under the truer melody. Then, after his name had been called by the principal, Dick Prescott rose. Very stiff and starched, and painfully conscious of the creaking of his shoes as he went forward in that awesome stillness, Dick ascended the platform, advanced to the front center, made an elaborate bow, and then, in an almost scared voice he began to tell the assembled hundreds of grown-ups why they were there as though they didn't know already. This performance, which admitted of very few gestures, was stated on the programme to be "The Salutatory." From his being chosen to render this address, it was easily to be inferred that Dick was regarded as the brightest boy of the class. Then other exercises followed. Two members of the Board of Education also had pieces to speak. One told of the educational policy and methods followed in the Gridley schools, on which subject he knew vastly less than any of the eight smiling teachers present. The other member of the Board of Education gave a lot of chilled advice to the members of the graduating class, he did this at much greater length and with far less effect than Old Dut had lately done in his last private talk with his class. There were a lot of other pieces to be spoken, most of them by the youngsters. There were songs, also exercises in vocal gymnastics. Pupils of the lower classes displayed their expertness at mental arithmetic. Then, after more singing, the superintendent of schools, who had just arrived, mounted the platform and presented each graduating one with a diploma, showing that the recipients had faithfully and successfully completed their Grammar School course. More music, after which Laura Bentley, a pretty little vision in white cloud effects, with yards of pink ribbon for the sunshine, stepped to the platform, made her bow and launched into the valedictory. "And now," called Old Dut from the audience, "the old eighth grade is no more. The exercises are over. I thank all who have contributed to make this occasion so pleasant." "Three cheers for Old---Mr. Jones, the principal!" yelled Dan Dalzell, as the scrambling to get out began. Needless to say, the cheers were given. Now that the ordeal was over, it was nothing to the discredit of fine Old Dut that the youngsters would have cheered a yellow dog had they been so requested. Old Dut had slipped down to the egress. There he shook hands with each graduate, wishing them all possible success in life. "And be sure to come back to these exhibitions whenever you can in after years," the principal called as the last members of the late class were going down the stairs. "Dick," chuckled Harry Hazelton, as they descended, "when Old Dut was calling on you to go forward and do your little stunt, did you notice the fly on the left side of his nose that he was trying to brush off without letting any one see the move? Ha, ha, ho!" "Shut up, Hazy," growled Prescott almost savagely. "Haven't you any idea of reverence? We're going down these steps for the last time as Central Grammar boys. I'd rather do it in silence, and thoughtfully." "Isn't Dickins the queer old chap?" demanded Harry Hazelton, falling back by Reade's side. "It's a pity you couldn't be queer, just for once, and hold your tongue until we are outside the good old schoolyard," grunted Tom. "They're a pair of cranks," muttered Harry to Dave Darrin. "Imitate 'em for once," Darry advised dryly. "Remember, it's the cranks who make the world go around." For the most part, both boys and girls got their hats very quietly. Then they passed out into the open, walked across the yard and gathered in little groups outside, each holding his beribboned diploma in his right hand. "It's all over," sighed Tom Reade outside the gate. "Somehow, I wish that I had another year to go---or else that I'd been a little more decent to Old Dut." "It was a good old school," sighed Dick, looking back almost regretfully. "And, by the way-----" "Speech, Dick!" cried a dozen of the boys, crowding around him. "Get out!" laughed Prescott. "I spoke my piece two hours ago." Yet the boys continued to crowd about him. "He's going to tell us now what the man on the clubhouse steps said!" proclaimed Danny Grin hopefully. Chapter XXII HI HEARS SOMETHING ELEVATING "Do you fellows really want to know what the man on the clubhouse steps said?" Prescott asked, looking about him with a tantalizing smile. "Do we?" came in a chorus. "Hurry up and tell us!" "Quit your kidding," begged Tom Reade. "Dick, we've waited for months to have the mystery solved. Now, surely, we ought to know. Look at these diplomas; they certify that we know everything else. So trot on the speech of the man on the clubhouse steps." "Or look for trouble!" added Harry Hazelton warningly. Dick appeared to hesitate. The boys around him, highly curious, thought he was debating within himself whether or not to give the desired information. "Come, get swift," desired Spoff Henderson. "See here, fellows, I'll tell you what I'll do," proposed Dick at last. "You'll tell us what the man on the clubhouse steps said," broke in Toby Ross. "Yes," Dick agreed; "but you'll have to let me do so on my own conditions and in my own way. You see this diploma?" holding it up. "I've been working hard for eight years to win this document. Now I'm going to hurry home and put this in a place of safety. After that I'll put on my everyday clothes, and then I'll meet you at the usual corner on Main Street at five o'clock. If any of you fellows really want to know, then, what the man on the clubhouse steps said, I'll tell you." "You won't postpone telling us, and you won't try to crawl out of it?" pressed Dave Darrin. "On my honor, I won't," Dick promised. "On your honor, you won't tell us what the man on the clubhouse steps said?" demanded Tom Reade suspiciously. "On my honor, I won't try to dodge out of it, or postpone it a minute beyond five o'clock. On my honor I'll tell you, at five o'clock, to-day, what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "Good!" cried many voices. "Will many of you be there?" Dick inquired. "We'll all be there," declared Spoff Henderson. "But, remember, Dick Prescott, you're in honor bound to tell us at last." "You won't find me dodging or up to any tricks," Dick agreed solemnly. "Until five o'clock, then." Dick started along. At first quite a crowd went with him, but by degrees the number decreased until only his own five immediate chums were with him. "Say," suggested Reade suddenly, "since you're going to make a public, show of this, Dick, you ought to let our little crowd in on a private view." "What do you mean?" Prescott quizzed. "You know well enough what I mean," Tom retorted. "You ought to tell our own little crowd in advance what the man on the clubhouse steps said." "Do you really think so?" Prescott asked. "I do," affirmed Tom. "And so do the rest of us," asserted Dave Darrin. "Well-----" Dick paused hesitatingly. "Come, hurry up!" begged Greg. "It's no more than fair to us," insisted Dan. "On the whole," Dick continued, "I don't believe it would be fair to the other fellows." "You big tease!" blurted Harry Hazelton indignantly. "No; I don't mean to tease you," Dick rejoined, his eyes twinkling. "But I believe in playing fair in life. Don't you, fellows?" "What has this to do with being fair?" demanded Tom. "Why, just this: I promised to tell you all at five o'clock. Now, if I were to tell a special few before that time, it would be a bit unfair!" "Not a bit," retorted Dave. "You've had us dangling from the string longer than you have the rest of the crowd. Therefore, we ought to know the answer before the other fellows." "It's a question of conscience with me," Dick replied soberly. "Humph!" snorted Tom. "Well, I suppose we may as well give it up, fellows. The only way we could worm it out of Dick would be to rub his nose in the dirt. And he might fight if we did. This is where I have to leave you. So long! I'll meet the army at five o'clock." Smiling broadly, Dick went on his way home. He put away his diploma, next removing his best suit and laying it carefully away. Then he donned his more accustomed clothes and ran down to the store. "It was a very enjoyable exhibition, Dick," said his father. "And I suppose our son feels that he's a man now?" smiled Mrs. Prescott. "No; I'm not, mother, and I don't want to be in any hurry, either. There's too much fun in being a boy. And now I've an appointment to meet a lot of the fellows." "Don't let that appointment make you forget supper time," his mother called after him. Spoff Henderson and Toby Ross were already at the place of appointment. "Here comes Dick!" called Spoff. "Now, tell us." "Wait until the crowd gets here." returned Prescott. "Ain't you the mean one?" growled Toby. "And we ran all the way home and back." "Too much hurry is said to be one of the greatest American sins," laughed Dick. "Well, you're going to tell us, anyway, aren't you?" pressed Spoff. "Yes; but give the crowd a chance to get here." Dave and Dan came along, then Tom, Harry and Greg. Tolman and a few other fellows hurried up. "You might tell us all about that business, now," suggested Tolman. "I see some more fellows coming up the street," Prescott replied. "I don't have to tell more than once." Five minutes later there were more than thirty boys at the corner, and still others were in sight, coming from both ways. "Say, get busy, Prescott!" called some of the newer corners. "Let the crowd all get here," Dick insisted. Presently the crowd numbered more than fifty a lot of their elders, seeing such an unusual crowd of youths on one corner, halted curiously near by. Then Reporter Len Spencer came along. "What's all the excitement?" demanded Len, ever keen for local news. One of the boys exclaimed to him what was in the wind. "Then you'd better hurry up with your statement, Dick," Len advised. "There'll be a riot here soon." "Five o'clock was the time named," Prescott rejoined. Just then the town clock began to strike. "It's five o'clock now, Dick," called Greg. "Yes," nodded Dick, "and I'm ready at last to redeem my promise." "He's going to tell us!" "Hurrah!" "Shut up! We want to hear." "You are all assembled here," Prescott continued, "to hear just what it was that the man on the clubhouse steps said." "Cut out the end-man explanations. Give us the kernel!" shouted one boy. "What the man on the clubhouse steps said," Dick went ahead, "should be a model to everyone. It is of especial value to all who are tempted to talk too fast and then to think an hour later." "Yes, but what _did_ he say---the man on the clubhouse steps?" howled Harry Hazelton. "You will know, in a minute," Dick assured his hearers. "Yet, before telling you, I want to impress upon you that, whenever you are tempted to be angry, to be harsh in judgments, or when you can think only ill of your neighbor, then you should always hark back to just what the man on the clubhouse steps said." There was a pause and silence, the latter broken by Danny Grin demanding impatiently: "Well, what did he say?" "You see," Dick explained, "the man was all alone on the clubhouse steps." "Yes, yes." "And he wasn't exactly sociable by nature." "Go on!" "As I have explained," smiled Dick Prescott, "the man on the clubhouse steps was alone, and-----" "Get ahead faster!" "So, being alone, he just naturally said-----" "Well?" breathed the auditors. "Well?" "He just naturally said---_nothing_!" "What?" Dick dodged back, laughing. There were a few indignant vocal explosions among the assembled youngsters, followed by dangerous calm and quiet. "Whenever you find yourself under trying circumstances, or when anger is surging within you, fellows, believe me, you'll always find it wiser to say just what the man on the clubhouse steps said---which was nothing," Dick urged. "And you got us all the way up here, at an appointed time, just to hear that?" demanded Spoff Henderson. "It's worth the time it has cost you," Dick urged. "Rush him fellows!" bawled Toby Ross. "Don't let him escape!" Indeed, there was no time or chance for getting away. Dick Prescott was rushed, caught and pinned. "What'll we do with him?" rose the chorus. "To the fountain! Duck him!" With a cheer the boys started, carrying Dick along on the shoulders of a few tightly-wedged boys. Dick's chums made no effort to rescue him. Indeed, perhaps they felt that he deserved what was right ahead of him. But they ran along in the press of boisterous lads. Len Spencer, grinning hard, rushed along at the head of the juvenile mob. "Boys, you'd better reconsider!" shouted the young reporter. "Don't write yourselves down as louts. The man on the clubhouse steps, on account of just what he said, proved himself one of the sages of the ages. Prescott, in telling you just what he said, has performed a public service, if only you fellows were bright enough to comprehend." "Get out of our way, Spencer!" ordered Spoff Henderson. "As sure as guns we're going to duck Dick Prescott in the public fountain." "If you won't listen to reason, then," roared Len, using his long legs to put him well in advance of the juvenile mob, "then I'll use enchantment to spoil your foolish work. You shall not duck Prescott! Hi, pi, yi, animus, hocus pocus! That enchantment will foil you!" Having reached the fountain, Len drew aside dramatically. "In with him!" shouted the youngsters. Then they halted in sheer amazement. For the first time the boys noted that no water was running in the fountain, and that the basin underneath was wholly dry. "My enchantment has worked," chuckled Len. "How did you do it?" demanded one puzzled youngster. "Never mind," Len retorted mysteriously. "Now, if you don't instantly put Dick Prescott on his feet and leave him alone, I'll work an enchantment that will raise hob with every boy who lays as much as a finger on Dick." So Prescott was allowed to slide down to his feet. He was laughing, enjoying every moment of the fun. "We could have run him down to the next fountain," suggested one of the schoolboys. "It would do you no good, and Prescott no harm," Len retorted dryly. "At three o'clock this afternoon the fire department turned off all of the public fountains in order to clean 'em." Now Dick's late tormentors began to feel that they had been badly "sold" all around. After the manner of boys, they grinned sheepishly, then more broadly and finally ended by laughing heartily. But the crowd did not break up at once. All waited, with a vague hope that some kind of mischief would happen. A smaller boy went by, calling the evening newspaper. Tom Reade bought one and stood at the edge of the crowd, reading. "Here comes Hi Martin!" called someone. That youth had just turned a corner, swinging from his left hand a pudgy rubber bag of the kind that is used for holding a wet bathing suit. "Hello, Prescott," was Hi's greeting. "Are you all ready to be left behind in the spray tomorrow?" "If you can leave me there," Dick smiled. "Been out for a practice swim, have you?" "Yes," nodded Hi; "and if you had seen my speed this afternoon you'd have been scared away from the river for to-morrow." "Well, I hope one of us wins," grinned Dick. "One of us?" sniffed Hi. "Of course, one of us has to win when there are only us two in that race. And, after I beat you to-morrow," Hi added consequentially, "I'll be off and away for a good time. Saturday father is going to take our family to New York for three weeks." "Going to stop at one of the big hotels there?" Reade inquired, looking up from his newspaper. "Of course we are," Hi rejoined, swelling out his chest. "We shall stop at one of the biggest and finest hotels in the city." "Then don't get a room too high up from the ground," advised Tom. "I've just been reading in the evening paper that the city authorities in New York have taken all the elevators out of all the biggest hotels." "Why?" demanded Hi. "The paper says it's because the elevators are considered too dangerous," Tom replied innocently. "I don't believe it," scoffed Hi. "Why, how could people get up to their rooms on the fifteenth or eighteenth floor of one of the skyscraper hotels?" "Oh, well," Tom replied artlessly, "according to the paper the hotels are all going to be equipped with safety-raisers." "Safety-razors?" demanded Hi Martin blankly. "You idiot, what good would safety-razors be for getting people up twenty floors in a hotel?" There was a moment's pause. Then a few chuckles came, followed by a few more. "Whoop!" yelled Danny Grin. Snatching the bathing suit bag from Hi's hand, Dalzell got a good hold on the tie strings, then swung the bag, bringing it down on the top of Hi's head. "Run along home, Martin!" jeered Dan. "If don't tumble before bed time, then ask your father how it is that dangerous elevators can be replaced with safety-raisers. Here's your bag. Scoot---before an idea hits you!" Red-faced and angry, but still puzzled, Hi snatched at his bathing suit bag and hastily decamped. "Now he'll beat you at swimming or die tomorrow," predicted Dave grimly. Chapter XXIII WHO WON THE SWIMMING MATCHES? Thanks to Len Spencer's interest in schoolboy athletics, there was a goodly crowd gathered at the river bank the next afternoon. Many people came out in boats. There were at least a dozen launches, including the one that bore Len Spencer, who had been chosen to conduct the races. The owner of a two room boathouse which adjoined a long wharf had yielded to Spencer's request for a loan of this property. In the boathouse the two school teams disrobed and donned their bathing suits. Dave Darrin had been called upon to captain the swimming squad from the Central Grammar. With him were Tom, Greg, Dan, Harry, Henderson and Ross. It was as good and representative a team as Central Grammar could furnish. Bill Rodgers captained the squad from North Grammar. Bill had had his fellows three times in the water, and was proud of them. Just ten minutes before the time for calling the contestants Dave Darrin led his squad from the boathouse. Out along the pier they ran and dived in. "The water's just fine for swimming to-day," ecstatically remarked Tom Reade, as he came up, blew the water from his mouth and took a few strokes. "In fact, the water's too fine." "Too fine?" queried Dave. "How so?" "Why, it makes a fellow feel so fine," retorted Tom, "that I'm afraid it will make us all winners, and then there won't be any glory for either school." The North Grammar boys now splashed in. Len Spencer, who had just seen to the placing of the further stake boat, now returned in the launch. Both the squad race and the individual contest were to be for a quarter of a mile straightaway, with the start from a moored raft down the river. "Every one pile aboard!" called Len, the launch that he was on gliding in at the pier. Wet swimmers dropped into the launch until it was filled. Then another small gasoline craft took aboard the left-overs. The crowd preferred to remain at this end of the course to see the finish. "It won't take North Grammar long to wind your crowd up in the water," declared Hi Martin, as he and Dick stood at the end of the pier watching the departure. Both were already in their bathing costumes. "Maybe not," Dick assented. "Yet you mustn't forget one fact, Hi." "What is that?" "You mustn't forget that our fellows have already got their winning gait on this season." "Humph! We'll see." "It won't take us long, either," Dick continued. "There, the fellows are piling on the raft." From the distance the spectators could see the two swimming teams lining up on the raft. They could also make out that Len Spencer was addressing the boys from the raft. Bang! It was the warning shot. Spectators along the Gridley shore crowded close to the bank to get a better view. Bang! At the second shot fourteen boys dived into the water almost in the same second. Fourteen heads came up, one after another, and the young swimmers settled down to their work. A launch followed along on each side of the course, to pick up any who needed help. "It was thoughtful of some one to provide launches for the Central swimmers," leered Martin. "I hope neither launch will be needed for any of our fellows," Dick responded. "If either school has to have a fellow picked up, then of course that's the school which loses the race." Hi didn't answer. Despite his confident brag, he was now very anxious over the outcome. Along came the swimmers, all doing well, making a fine showing for a crowd of fourteen boys whose average age was only fourteen years. From time to time spectators cheered favorite boys in either squad. "Central wins!" yelled one enthusiast, as the swimmers neared the stakeboat off the pier. "Don't you believe it," yelled another. "Wait for the finish." There wasn't long to wait. As the swimmers came nearer it was seen that Dave Darrin was ahead of all the swimmers, though Tom Reade was pressing him hard. Behind Tom came Bill Rodgers, then Greg Holmes, next two more North Grammar boys. Dan was next, with Harry following. The three tailenders were North Grammar boys. "Central Grammar wins handily," announced Len Spencer through a megaphone. Hi Martin's face darkened. "Anyway, I'll have the satisfaction of showing Dick Prescott my heels all the way up the course," he grunted. "Now, you two individual racers tumble aboard, and get ready for your work," warned Len, as the launch ran in alongside the pier. "Wipe him up, Dick!" "Don't show him any mercy, Hi!" Various other comments wafted to the pair as they sat in the launch facing each other. "Some of those people must think we can both win," laughed Dick good-humoredly. "I'll soon show you that only one of us can win," retorted Hi almost savagely. Arrived at the raft, Len Spencer spoke briefly: "At the first shot of the pistol you two youngsters take up your positions, ready to dive. At the second shot, or as soon after as you wish, you may dive and begin the race. Either contestant who dives before the second shot is heard will be disqualified and then the race will go to the other contestant." Dick waited, tingling with the desire to win, though he knew that Martin was a splendid swimmer for his age. "Are you ready?" asked Len in a low voice. Both boys nodded. Bang! Len fired a revolver into the air, calling the attention of all spectators. Dick and Hi stepped nimbly to the edge of the raft, poising with hands pointed. Bang! The splash was simultaneous as the swimmers struck the water. Each swimmer made a shallow dive and came up. Hi at once dropped into an overhead stroke, Dick relying upon a side stroke. For the first seventy-five yards, as nearly as the onlookers could judge, the boys swam nose and nose. "I'll tire this fellow out with a good pace, and then take a better one," thought Hi Martin. "I'm going to make a finish that will stop Dick Prescott from bragging whenever he sees me around hereafter." Dick still swam well, but gradually Martin stole ahead of him. "Where's Prescott now?" jeered a dozen North Grammar boys. "Centrals, send out a launch to tow your champ! Then maybe he'll make better time." Hi swam steadily and rapidly until he had more than half covered the course. Then he ventured on a look behind him. "Prescott won't catch up all day," grinned Hi to himself. "Oh, I'm glad I insisted on this individual race!" Gradually, and, to those on shore it seemed painfully, Dick gained on the leader. Still, when the race was almost over, Hi was well in the lead. "Hi Martin! Hi Hi Hi!" yelled the North Grammar boys, dancing and tossing their caps in their glee. "Prescott, where art thou? Say, what did you try to get into the race for?" "Now, I'll show the folks a few things," Hi resolved, putting on the best spurts of speed that were in him. It was truly a fine performance for a Grammar School boy. Yet, to the amazement of most of the onlookers, Dick also was doing some very speedy swimming now. A yard he gained on Martin, then another and another. When they were still fifty yards from the stakeboat Dick suddenly changed his stroke and surged ahead, distinctly in the lead. "Confound the human steam launch!" gasped Hi, almost choking, as he saw the powerful strokes of the swimmer ahead. "He'll make me look like a fool if I don't haul up on him---and the distance left is so confoundedly short!" Now it could be seen that Martin was exerting every ounce of energy and strength that he possessed. Yet still young Prescott gained. Then Martin foolishly lost his head altogether. "If I can't win I'll make it look like a fluke!" he gritted. Just as Dick was nearing the stakeboat, Hi threw up one hand. "I've got a cramp!" he shouted. "Help!" To some on shore he appeared about to sink. Dick passed the stakeboat, then turned like a flash and swam back toward Hi. "Prescott wins!" called Len Spencer. A few more strokes brought Dick up to where Hi pretended to flounder. "Keep quiet, Hi, and let me get a hold on you," Dick offered. "I'll have you at the pier in a jiffy." "You get away from me," snarled Martin. "I don't want any of your kind of help." With that Hi appeared to forget his recent complaint of "cramp," for he made a lusty plunge toward the pier and pulled himself up. Then, an instant later, he must have remembered, for he assumed an expression of pain and limped. "There's that mean cramp again," he muttered. "I'd have won by a good many yards if it hadn't been for that." Some of the Central Grammar boys nearby were impolite enough to laugh incredulously. "Oh, I've dropped my handbag into the river!" exclaimed one woman to another suddenly, at the end of the pier. The other woman turned, giving a quick, startled glance toward the water. "I---I don't know how it happened," gasped the loser. "There it is, away down the stream, floating toward that boathouse. Oh, Master Prescott, do you feel able to go and get it for me?" "I'll do it with pleasure, madam," Dick nodded. He looked for a moment. Then, seeing a black floating object, he started after it, his stroke apparently none the weaker after his swift race. It had floated nearly under the boathouse at the water end. The building in question belonged to the estate next to that from which the swimming contests had been conducted. This boathouse was closed, for the owners had not yet come to Gridley for the summer. The windows of the little green building were shuttered from the inside. Over the water the walls came down to within six inches of the present level of water. Keeping his eyes turned toward the black, floating object, Dick swam easily to the spot. The black object floated under the open sidewall into the boathouse. Just as Dick got there he dived, duck fashion, head first, and passed to the interior of the boathouse at the river end. As he came up inside Dick's first discovery was that of artificial light in the boathouse. Then his gaze rested on the platform end over the land. "Amos Garwood here, of all places!" gasped the astonished Grammar School boy. Chapter XXIV CONCLUSION The mentally queer inventor had rigged up a bench just under shelves on which rested tools and boat supplies. Just at the moment the inventor had his back turned to the water as he stood working at his bench. Dick was able to look at him while not in immediate danger of being seen himself. How quietly the Grammar School boy trod water! He hardly dared breathe, for fear of giving an alarm. Yet, even in all his astonishment, Prescott did not forget to let one hand close over the handle of the black bag whose recovery had brought him here. "I can't do anything with Garwood alone," reflected Dick swiftly. "I must get out, if I can, without making a noise, and then give the hurry alarm. That fellow is mixing something, and, if he isn't stopped soon, he's quite likely to blow up the boathouse, himself included." Fortunately there was sufficient depth of water at this outer end of the boathouse. Prescott let himself sink so quietly that there was barely a ripple above his head. Next, with a few cautious strokes, he carried himself past the hanging side wall and into the open upstream. "Gracious, but no wonder Garwood has been able to keep away from pursuers," thought the boy excitedly, as he swam steadily up toward the other pier. "He has a place where not even a Sherlock Holmes would ever think of looking for him. Why, he could work, sleep and eat there and never give a sign of his presence!" "Did you get it?" called the owner of the handbag eagerly. "Yes, ma'am," Dick replied. "The bag wasn't open, was it?" "No, ma'am." "Let me have it quickly, please. Oh, I'm so thankful! Here is my purse with all the money safe and sound. Wait, Master Prescott, I must reward you suitably." "No; I thank you," Dick replied, his color rising. "Your thanks are enough. I've been taught that courtesy can't be repaid with cash. You are very, very welcome to any service that I was able to do you." As Dick hurried into the Central Grammar "dressing room" he found all five of his chums waiting to rub him down and help him dress. "Here, give me that towel, and get out on other business in a hurry!" begged Dick. "Dave! Tom! Amos Garwood is in the boathouse below here, working at a bench. Get some of the men and rush down there to make a capture. Greg, run and see to it that a launch moves down to the river end of the boathouse in case Garwood tries to get out that way when he hears the alarm!" Prescott's chums darted out in a hurry. Dick half dried himself in a few frenzied dabs with the towel. Then he pulled on his clothing faster than ever before. He got outside on the pier just in time to see Dave and Tom leading a dozen men stealthily toward the door of the boathouse. Out on the water Len Spencer's launch, with half a dozen men in it, stood as river sentinel. While those approaching the boathouse door were still more than a score of feet away there came a startling interruption. Bang! sounded inside. The door of the building strained an instant, but did not give way. "That's our old friend, Amos bang-bang, to a dot," muttered Tom dryly, as the advancing party of men and boys halted. "I don't care about fooling with a dynamite factory," remarked one of the men. Dick, at a dead run, joined the party. "Come along!" he cried. "Let's break down the door and find out whether the poor fellow is hurt." "Yes! And have that 'poor fellow' hand you a peck of nitro-glycerine for a surprise," retorted a man. "Come on, fellows! We can get the door down without help," Dick called, appealing to his chums. All five of them rallied to his support. It took but a few sturdy shoulder blows to complete the work of the explosion and break the lock of the door. Dick took one quick look inside. "Tom, run and 'phone for a physician!" Prescott called back. "Poor Garwood is unconscious, and cut. He's bleeding. Poor chap, with his lop-sided mind and his 'mastery of the world' imaginings!" Reade sped away. As soon as the crowd found there was no danger there was a rush to the scene. Darrin and three friends managed to hold the crowd somewhat at bay, while Prescott assisted two women in trying to bring the injured man to. "I hope he doesn't get away this time," thought Dick. "If Garwood remains at large much longer he'll fix up a bang-bang that will carry him clean into the next world!" While those having the injured man in charge waited they explored the boathouse. Of the explosive materials not a particle was found. Evidently it had all gone up in smoke. But, in a far corner, the searchers discovered a package of gauze, and another of salve, with which poor Garwood had evidently attended to the burns resulting from former explosions. Later it was found that both packages came from a drugstore some twenty miles away, where the poor fellow had also bought his explosive materials from time to time. He must have walked the long distance at night when other people were abed, for the druggist stated that his customer came in, on each visit, as soon as the store was opened in the morning. Blankets and a few groceries, found in the loft, explained the demented man's manner of housekeeping during the last few days. It was half an hour ere a physician finally arrived in a touring car. "The man doesn't appear to be badly hurt," declared the medical man. "It won't take us five minutes to get him into town and in the hospital, so I believe we had better start to revive him after we get him there." Two strong men were found who were willing to sit in the tonneau, holding Amos Garwood's insensible body between them. As the car started away a subdued cheer arose. The mystery and the vanishing of Amos Garwood were at an end at last. Those who had feared having a demented man at large in the community breathed more easily. From the day of the race the summer vacation for the late Grammar School boys began in earnest. A few days later Dick and his swimming squad met a similar organization from the South Grammar, and a match was held on the river. As Prescott's squad again won, Central Grammar was now undisputed Grammar School champion on the water as well as in baseball. Colonel Garwood tried to pay the offered reward to the members of Dick & Co., but the parents of the boys refused to entertain the idea. Amos Garwood, not seriously injured in body, was soon well enough to be taken back to the sanitarium. Here his malady was found not to be severe. A year later he was discharged, fully cured of his delusions, and able once more to take his place as a useful member of society. There does not remain a great deal more to be told. Many of the boys who have appeared in these pages went no further in school life, but stepped out into the working world, there to fit themselves for the men's places in life. The more fortunate ones, however, went to High School. All the members of Dick & Co. were thus favored in being able to go forward into the fields of higher education. We shall speedily meet with these manly American boys again, for their further doings will be described in the _High School Boys' Series_. In the first volume of this series, "_The High School Freshmen; Or Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports_," the friends of these six wide-awake boys will find them in a new field of action, and follow them through an exciting series of trials and triumphs. Dick & Co.'s interest in High School athletics, and the way in which they won a permanent place in the hearts of the older students is told so realistically in the first volume of this series as to make all readers long to know more about them. All the big and little boys who wish to continue their friendship with Dick & Co. will find their further adventures related most entertainingly in the four volumes of the High School Boys' Series just published. 
9477	----	and PG Distributed Proofreaders [Illustration: *Text included in illustration. Spalding's Official Base Ball Guide*] THE SPALDING TRADE MARK. [Illustration : *Spalding trade mark*] Experience has shown that in Base Ball and Athletic Goods, as in all other lines of business, unprincipled persons are always eager to prey on the reputation gained by honest dealing and good business management. We regret to state that we have not escaped the attention of such parties, who have appropriated our original designs, styles and names, and by using similar illustrations and descriptions, deceive the public into believing that the articles were manufactured by us, and that we are responsible for their inferior quality. 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BEWARE OF CHEAP IMITATIONS; NO League Ball is genuine without our Trade Mark on each box and ball, and the autograph of [Illustration: *Autogram of A. G. Spalding*] on each label. We hope that ball players will not be misled by the remarks of interested dealers handling inferior goods, that the articles they offer "are just as good as Spalding's" and at a cheaper price. We accept their frequent references to our goods as the highest compliment that can be paid us, and only ask that purchasers will do their own comparisons, and be convinced that our goods are really the cheapest as they certainly are the best. Special trade prices are quoted to dealers on application. CHICAGO. A. G. SPALDING & BROS. NEW YORK. Publisher's Notice * * * * * "Spalding's Base Ball Guide" again greets the base ball public with the official records of America's national game. First issued in 1877, it has grown in popularity, has been enlarged and improved from year to year, and is now the recognized authority upon base ball matters. The statistics contained in the "Guide" can be relied upon, nearly all of them having been compiled from official records. The "Guide" has attained such a size--180 pages--as to preclude the possibility of publishing in the same issue the League Constitution in full, and other interesting League matter. We are therefore compelled, in addition, to publish the "Official League Book," which contains only official League matter as furnished by Secretary Young, including the League Constitution in full. Copies of the "Guide" or "League Book," will be mailed to any address upon receipt of twelve cents each. Trade orders supplied through the News Companies, or direct from the publishers. CHICAGO. A. G. SPALDING & BROS. NEW YORK * * * * * WASHINGTON, D. C., March 5, 1889. By the authority vested in me, I do hereby certify that Messrs. 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ELLIOTT Danville, Ill. EASTERN. N. A. FROST Hanover, N. H. G. W. BLODGETT & Co Amherst, Mass. TALBOT BROS Pittsfield, Mass J. W. BRINE New Haven, Ct. C. S. WEST Flushing, L. I. J. W. BRINE Cambridge, Mass. A. H. POMEROY Hartford, Ct HIRST & LEACH Princeton, N. J. A. W. SCOTT Stamford, Ct. BRENNAN & DAVIS Bradford, Pa. F. A. CLAPP & Co Worcester, Mass. GEO. DART Tuxedo, N. Y. WILLIAM A. HULBERT. The late Mr. William A Hulbert may be justly considered as the Father of the National League, for he it was who in 1875 was mainly instrumental in bringing about the secession from the old National Professional Association in 1875 which resulted in the establishment of the National League in 1876. To Mr. Hulbert is due the credit of rescuing professional ball playing from the abuses which prevailed in the ranks at the time he first became connected with the Chicago Club. Especially to his persistent course in refusing to consent to the reinstatement of any player expelled from a professional club for crooked play, is the present honesty of the game due. Mr. Hulbert was the second President of the National league, Mr. M G Bulkely, the present Governor of Connecticut, being the League s first President. Mr. Hulbert died in April, 1882 from heart disease. He was essentially a reformer and in his business and social relations sincerity and candor were marked characteristics. The National League adopted this resolution at his death: _Resolved_ That to him alone is due the credit of having founded the National League, and to his able leadership, sound judgment and impartial management is the success of the League chiefly due. SPALDING'S BASE BALL GUIDE AND Official League Book for 1889. A complete hand book of the national game of base ball, CONTAINING Statistical reviews of the various professional association championship seasons, as also the records and averages of the inter-collegiate associations, east & west. ADDED TO WHICH IS THE COMPLETE OFFICIAL LEAGUE RECORD FOR 1888. ALSO _Brief Record of the Base Ball Tours to England in 1874 and to Australia in 1888._ TOGETHER WITH The new code of playing rules, as revised by the committee of conference. Attached to which is an official explanatory appendix, giving a correct interpretation of the new rules, also the official record of all league games and players, and the official schedule of league games for 1889, pitchers' records in victories for 1888. Base running and throwing records of 1888, with the leading noteworthy events. Records of the veteran batsmen of the league from 1876 to 1888. _Handsomely Illustrated with Portraits and Pictures_ [Illustration: Boston Grounds.] [Illustration: CORRECT DIAGRAM OF A BALL GROUND.] [Illustration: PHILADELPHIA GROUNDS] The publishers of "Spalding's Base Ball Guide" present to the fraternity in the GUIDE for 1889, the model baseball annual of the period; the thirteenth annual edition of the work being in every respect the most complete baseball GUIDE ever issued. Exceeding as it does every other book of the kind in size--over two hundred pages of reading matter --as also in its new feature of pictorial illustrations, it presents an epitome of the professional history of the game for 1888, unequaled by any other work of the kind previously published. In fact, the GUIDE for 1889 has been made to conform to the very exceptional year of important events its chapters record--a year which will be remembered for a long time to come as fruitful of the most noteworthy occurrences known in the annals of our national game. The prominent features of the GUIDE for 1889 are the complete record of the pitching in the League and American championship contests; the instructive chapters on "the lessons of the campaign," then on "team work;" the analyses of the play in the world's championship series of contests; the new tables showing the figures of the campaigns of the past eighteen years, and especially the explanatory appendix or chapter of official instructions to umpires and captains. The great size of the GUIDE precludes the possibility of including the games record of the League campaign, as also other records of League legislation, etc., and these will be found in the "Official League Book," which contains only official League matter as furnished by Secretary Young, including the League Constitution in full. [Illustration: CHICAGO GROUNDS.] The American national game of base ball has reached a period in its history, when it no longer needs to be referred to as a field exercise, calling for particular mention of its peculiar merits. It is now the established favorite game of ball of the American people, and occupies a position in public estimation which no other field sport in vogue approaches. The game has attained its present position of popularity, not only from its adaptability to our peculiar national characteristics, as regards its possession of special points of attraction; but also from its value as a field sport which presents sufficient excitement in itself to draw thousands of spectators, without the extrinsic aid of betting as its chief point of interest, the latter attraction being something which pertains to nearly every other popular sport. Then, too, it should be borne in mind that base ball first taught us Americans the value of physical exercise as an important aid to perfect work in cultivating the mind up to its highest point. It is to the introduction of base ball as a national pastime, in fact, that the growth of athletic sports in general in popularity is largely due; and the game pointed out to the mercantile community of our large cities that "all work and no play" is the most costly policy they can pursue, both in regard to the advantages to their own health, and in the improvement in the work of their employees, the combination of work and play judiciously, yielding results in better work and more satisfactory service than was possible under the old rule. Thus, the game has acted like a lever in lifting into public favor all athletic sports. A great deal is said about the special attraction of this and that leading sport of the day. The turfman thinks there is nothing approaching the excitement of a horse race, which from the start to the finish occupies but a few minutes of time. The rower regards a three mile "shell" race as the very acme of sporting pleasures; while the yachtsman looks upon all other contests as of trifling importance compared with that ending in the winning of his club regatta cup; and so on through the whole category of sports of the field, the forest and the river. But if any one can present to us a sport or pastime, a race or a contest, which can in all its essentials of stirring excitement, displays of manly courage, nerve and endurance, and its unwearying scenes of skillful play and alternations of success equal our national game of ball, we should like to see it. What can present a more attractive picture to the lover of out door sports than the scene presented at a base ball match between two trained professional teams competing for championship honors, in which every point of play is so well looked after in the field, that it is only by some extra display of skill at the bat, that a single run is obtained in a full nine innings game? If it is considered, too, that base ball is a healthy, recreative exercise, suitable for all classes of our people, there can be no surprise that such a game should reach the unprecedented popularity it has. THE PROFESSIONAL SEASON OF 1888. The season of 1888, in the professional arena, was marked by several events which placed it on record as the most noteworthy, known in the thirteen years' history of the National League. In the first place it was the inaugural year of the grand movement made by the President of the Chicago Club, to extend the popularity of our national game beyond the American continent; an event which exhibited the characteristic energy, pluck, liberality and business enterprise of Mr. Spalding, in a very marked manner; the grand success which the venture met with being a well merited reward for the large financial outlay which he incurred in the experiment. Secondly, the struggle for the championship of the League, resulting as it did in the success of the New York club, gave to the East a lead in the pennant races which they had not held since 1884, when the Providence club won the championship, Chicago having held the honors in 1885 and 1886, and Detroit in 1887. The past season, too, excelled all previous years in the vast assemblages of spectators who were gathered at the grounds of the prominent clubs on holiday occasions; as also in the immense aggregate of people who patronized the professional contests of the year. It was also an exceptional year in regard to the close and exciting contest for the League pennant, between the four leading clubs of that organization; and at the end of the championship season the sequel of the contest for the base ball championship of the world finished off the campaign of 1888, in a manner that greatly added to the honors won by the victorious League club from New York. The contest for the American Association championship was also one of the interesting events of the season, and one, too, which taught aspiring clubs a lesson which they can well profit by; and that is, that success in championship contests is due far more to able management, competent captaining, and thorough team work, than to the gathering together of the strongest of star players in a club team. In the League, in this respect, while the Boston club had invested, at great financial cost, in securing the services of noted star players, the Chicago club, though weakened by the release of players from their team who had done yeoman service in their ranks for years, were yet able to excel the picked team of star players of the Boston club, simply by superiority in handling those they had left to them. In the Association arena, too, a similar condition of things prevailed in the case of the St. Louis and Brooklyn clubs, the costly investment of the Brooklyn club for new players, only enabling them to reach second place in the pennant race, while the "weakened"(?) St Louis team, by better conceited work together were enabled to break the record by capturing the Association pennant for the fourth successive season, something only equaled by the Boston club under the reign of the old National Association in 1872, '73, '74, and '75. An event of the season of 1888, also, was the widening the sphere of professional club operations in the United States, by the inauguration of the Texas League, which, though not as successful as desired in its first year, nevertheless opened up a new and large territory for the occupation of the professional clubs. Closing too, as the year did with a commendable movement on the part of the League legislators to regulate the salary system so as to get rid of several costly abuses; it may be justly said that in no year since professional ball playing was officially recognized, was there so much done to promote the welfare of the national game as during the season of 1888. The summary record of the season's work of the several professional Leagues and Association prominent during the season of 1888, is as follows: |Champion |Games |Per Cent. of Leagues |Club. |Played |Victories -------------------+------------+---------+---------- National League |New York | 532 | .641 American | | | Association |St. Louis | 540 | .681 International | | | Association | Syracuse | 433 | .718 Western | | | Association | Des Moines | 458 | .648 Central League | Newark | 4*6[A] | .783 Southern League | Birmingham | 101 | .620 New England League | Lowell | 209 | .566 California League | Stockton | 268 | .615 Texas League | Dallas | 146 | .660 Tri-State League | Lima | 538 | .701 [**Proofreaders note A: * indecipherable number**] | Number of Clubs. | Began the | Ended the Leagues | Season. | Season. ---------------------------+-------------+--------- National League | 8 | 8 American Association | 8 | 8 International Association | 8 | 8 Western Association | 8 | 7 Central League | 8 | 7 Southern League | 4 | 4 New England League | 7 | 4 California League | 4 | 4 Texas League | 6 | 4 Tri-State League | 10 | 10 THE LEAGUE'S PENNANT RACE OF 1888. The championship campaign of the League for 1888 began on April 20, with the customary home games between the eight clubs, each in its respective section, the New York team opening the season at Washington, and the Bostons at Philadelphia; while in the West Detroit opened at Pittsburg, and the Chicagos at Indianapolis, the winning clubs being New York, Boston, Pittsburg and Chicago. By the end of the first week of the campaign, Boston was in the van without a defeat being charged to them, while every other club had suffered at least one defeat, Boston leading in the race, followed by Chicago, New York, Pittsburg, Detroit, Indianapolis, Washington and Philadelphia, the latter suffering from the great drawback of the death of their best player Ferguson, a loss which handicapped them all through the season. By the end of the first week in May the contest had assumed quite an interesting phase in one respect, and that was the remarkable success of the Boston team, which, up to May 2 had won every championship game they had played, the record on May 4 leaving them in the van. By May 5, however, Chicago pulled up even with them, the two teams standing with a record of 11 victories and 2 defeats each, and a percentage of .862 at the close of the third week of the spring campaign. In the meantime Philadelphia had rallied and had pulled up to seventh place, and Detroit had overhauled Pittsburg, Indianapolis falling into the last ditch. By the end of May quite a change had been made in the relative position of the eight clubs, Chicago having gone to the front and Boston to second position, while Detroit had moved up to third place, and New York had fallen back to fourth; while Philadelphia had worked up well and had got into fifth position, Pittsburg having made a bad tumble to sixth place, leaving Indianapolis and Washington to bring up the rear. The month of June saw more changes in the positions of all of the eight clubs except Chicago and Philadelphia, the former having tenaciously held on to first place since the last week in April; while Philadelphia steadily remained a good fifth. Boston, however, fell off badly in the running, the second week in June seeing, them down to fourth place; while by June 9 Detroit had got into second place, and was running Chicago a close race. During the last of May New York had got down to fourth position; but in the first week of June they had rallied and resumed third place; but the next week saw them fall back again, while Boston rallied back to third position. By the end of June the eight clubs occupied the following relative positions in the race Chicago held the lead, with Detroit second, Boston third, New York fourth, Philadelphia fifth, Pittsburg sixth, with Indianapolis and Washington as the two tail enders. July proved to be the most important month of the season's race, as it was in this month that the New York team as effectually rallied under the personal influence of Mr. John B. Day, who from that time out took personal cognizance of the doings of the "Giants." The first week in July saw the New York team drive Boston out of third place, while Pittsburg, for the time being, was forced to occupy seventh position, Indianapolis leading them for a week in July. During the last week in July, Chicago -- which club had held the lead consecutively from May 5 to July 23--took a bad tumble, and fell back to third position, while New York and Detroit stood tied for a few days for first place, until Chicago rallied, and then the Detroits were driven back; the end of July leaving New York in the van, with Detroit second, Chicago third, Boston and Philadelphia close together in fourth and fifth positions, while Pittsburg, Indianapolis, and Washington occupied the rear positions. It was now that the race began to be intensely interesting. The steady play of the New York team gave a new feature to the contest, and it now began to be a nip and tuck fight between the "Giants" and the Chicagos for first place, with Detroit close to them as a good third. August saw the steadiest running of the season in the race, but few changes being made in the relative positions of the contestants, the last week of the month seeing New York in the van, Chicago second, Detroit third, Boston fourth, Philadelphia fifth, and Pittsburg, Washington and Indianapolis in the rear. The promise for an exciting close of the campaign loomed up very bright in September, and during that month, while New York and Chicago still retained their leading positions, Boston temporarily rallied, and got into third place for a week; but Detroit pushed them back, while Philadelphia began to rally for a closing dash for one of the three leading positions. At the close of September the record left New York in the van, with the assurance of a successful termination of the campaign for the "Giants," while the struggle for second place between Chicago, Boston, Detroit and Philadelphia greatly added to the excitement of the closing month of the campaign. Chicago held on to second place, and Philadelphia, which club on September 29 stood in fifth place rallied brilliantly in October, and drove Boston to fourth place and Detroit to fifth, Boston having occupied fifth place on the 6th of October, Pittsburg, Indianapolis and Washington finally bringing up the rear. A feature of the campaign was the fact that at no time after May was it doubtful in regard to the position of Pittsburgh, Indianapolis and Washington as the three tail-enders of the race. But for this the campaign would have been the most brilliant on record. As it was, however, the contest for the three leading positions by the other five clubs made it exceedingly interesting throughout, New York's final success giving a new impetus to the succeeding campaign of 1889. THE STATISTICS OF THE CAMPAIGN. During the League championship season of 1888 an aggregate of 552 games were played, of which 530 were victories and defeats; and 22 were drawn games, and two were won by forfeit. Of the 552 games played and won, no less than 432 were won by single figure scores, and but 98 by double figures. A noteworthy feature of the campaign was, that while the New York Club won the championship by 84 victories to Chicago's 77, with but 47 defeats to Chicago's 58, they failed to score as many runs in the aggregate as the Chicago Club did by 659 to 725, the Chicago's majority of runs being 66. The New York Club's score of runs, in fact, was exceeded by Detroit, Boston, and even Indianapolis, the latter's aggregate of runs being 666. Below will be found a complete summary of the statistics of the League campaign of 1888: | | | P | | | | I | | | | h | | | | n | | | | i | | | | d | W | | | l | | | P | i | a | N | | a | | | i | a | s | e | C | d | | D | t | n | h | w | h | e | B | e | t | a | i | | i | l | o | t | s | p | n | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o | g | o | a | h | t | o | u | l | t | r | g | i | o | i | r | i | o | k | o | a | n | t | g | s | n | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . ------------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+-- Victories | 84| 77| 69| 70| 68| 66| 50| 48 Defeats | 47| 58| 61| 64| 63| 68| 85| 86 Drawn Games | 7| 1| 1| 3| 3| 4| 1| 2 Total Games Played | 138| 135| 131| 137| 134| 138| 136| 136 Won by Forfeit | 1| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0 Lost by Forfeit | 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0 Per Cent. of Victories |.641|.570|.532|.522|.519|.493|.370|.358 Series Won | 5| 4| 2| 2| 3| 2| 1| 0 Series Lost | 1| 1| 2| 2| 1| 1| 6| 5 Series Tied | 0| 1| 0| 0| 2| 1| 0| 0 Series Unfinished | 6| 4| 6| 4| 5| 3| 3| 5 Chicago Victories | 19| 13| 16| 7| 10| 13| 6| 6 Chicago Defeats | 3| 9| 7| 13| 5| 19| 11| 23 Home Victories | 44| 43| 37| 34| 41| 38| 31| 26 Home Defeats | 23| 26| 31| 29| 26| 30| 35| 38 Victories Abroad | 40| 34| 32| 36| 27| 28| 19| 22 Defeats Abroad | 24| 32| 30| 31| 37| 70| 50| 48 Extra Innings Victories | 2| 1| 8| 6| 3| 6| 3| 0 Extra Innings Defeats | 2| 1| 3| 8| 6| 0| 5| 4 Single Figure Victories | 70| 55| 62| 58| 50| 57| 37| 44 Single Figure Defeats | 44| 45| 55| 49| 51| 58| 67| 65 Double Figure Victories | 12| 22| 6| 12| 18| 9| 13| 4 Double Figure Defeats | 4| 12| 6| 15| 12| 10| 18| 21 Batting Average |.240|.247|.229|.240|.243|.223|.233|.207 Fielding Average |.918|.906|.919|.904|.916|.914|.904|.899 Highest Score in Games | 19| 21| 17| 20| 18| 14| 15| 22 Worst Defeat |4-11|0-14|1-14|0-13|2-12|1-16|0-13|0-14 Won by One Run | 21| 18| 28| 16| 10| 10| 13| 12 Lost by One Run | 12| 7| 16| 21| 19| 16| 28| 17 Total Runs Scored | 659| 725| 536| 669| 716| 531| 666| 482 The following is the record of the single figure victories scored in the League championship arena in 1888: SINGLE FIGURE| | | P | | | | I | || VICTORIES. | | | h | | | | n | || | | | i | | | | d | W || | | | l | | | P | i | a || V | N | | a | | | i | a | s || i | e | C | d | | D | t | n | h || c | w | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || t | | I | l | o | t | s | p | n || o | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || r | o | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || i | r | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || e | k | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . -------------+---+---+---+----+---+---+---+---++--- New York | --| 12| 10|8[1]| 5| 11| 13| 11|| 70 Philadelphia | 4| --| 9| 5 | 8| 7| 9| 10|| 60 Boston | 8| 9| --| 9 | 5| 6| 12| 9|| 58 Pittsburg | 7| 6| 7| -- | 8| 8| 8| 13|| 57 [**Proofreaders note: The data for the last two teams was not included**] [Footnote 1: One victory scored by New York was from a forfeited game charged against the Pittsburg team as 9 to 0.] The following is the record of the double figure victories scored by the eight League clubs in the championship arena in 1888: DOUBLE FIGURE| | | | I | | | P | || VICTORIES. | | | | n | | | h | || | | | | d | | | i | W || | | | | i | | P | l | a || V | | | N | a | | i | a | s || i | C | D | e | n | | t | d | h || c | h | e | w | a | B | t | e | i || t | i | t | | p | o | s | l | n || o | c | r | Y | o | s | b | p | g || r | a | o | o | l | t | u | h | t || i | g | i | r | i | o | r | i | o || e | o | t | k | s | n | g | a | n || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . -------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++---- Chicago | --| 3| 0| 4| 4| 3| 1| 7|| 22 Detroit | 1| --| 2| 5| 2| 4| 2| 2|| 18 New York | 3| 0| --| 3| 2| 1| 2| 2|| 13 Indianapolis | 1| 2| 0| --| 5| 1| 0| 4|| 13 Boston | 2| 4| 0| 2| --| 1| 0| 3|| 12 Pittsburg | 3| 2| 0| 1| 1| --| 0| 2|| 9 Philadelphia | 1| 0| 1| 3| 1| 0| --| 1|| 7 Washington | 1| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0| 1| --|| 4 -------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++---- Defeats | 12| 12| 4| 18| 15| 10| 6| 21|| 89 The following table presents the figures of the _series_ of games won and lost in the League championship arena in 1888. The letters "W" and "L" indicate games won and lost: | | | P | | | | I | || | | | | h | | | | n | ||S|S | | | i | | | | d | W ||S|e|e | | | l | | | P | i | a ||e|r|r | N | | a | | | i | a | s ||r|i|i | e | C | d | | D | t | n | h ||i|e|e | w | h | e | B | e | t | a | i ||e|s|s | | i | l | o | t | s | p | n ||s| | | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || |L|T | o | a | h | t | o | u | l | t ||W|o|i | r | g | i | o | i | r | i | o ||o|s|e | k | o | a | n | t | g | s | n ||n|t|d | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . ||.|.|. ------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----++-+-+- | W| L| W| L| W| L| W| L| W| L| W| L| W| L| W| L|| | | New York |--|--| 8|11|11| 7|10| 7|14| 5|12| 8|14| 5|15| 4||5|1|0 Chicago |11| 8|--|--|10|10| 9|11| 8|10|12| 7|14| 6|13| 6||4|1|1 Detroit | 7|11|10|10|--|--|10|10|11| 7| 8|10|11| 8|11| 7||3|1|2 Pittsburg | 7|10| 1| 9|10|10|--|--| 6|11| 8|10|14| 6|10| 9||2|1|1 Philadelphia| 5|14|10| 8| 7|11|14| 6|--|--|10| 9|13| 4|10| 9||2|2|0 Boston | 8|12| 7|13|10| 8|10| 8| 9|10|--|--|11| 9|15| 5||2|2|0 Indianapolis| 5|14| 6|14| 8|11| 6|14| 4|13| 9|11|--|--|12| 9||1|6|0 Washington | 4|15| 6|13| 7|11| 9|10| 9|10| 5|15| 8|12|--|--||0|5|0 THE "CHICAGO" GAMES OF 1888. The record of the "Chicago" games--or games in which the defeated team did not score a single run--in the League championship series of 1888 is appended: | | P | | | | | I | || | | h | | | | | n | || | | i | | | | | d | W || | | l | | P | | | i | a || V | N | a | | i | | | a | s || i | e | d | C | t | D | | n | h || c | w | e | h | t | e | B | a | i || t | | l | i | s | t | o | p | n || o | Y | p | c | b | r | s | o | g || r | o | h | a | u | o | t | l | t || i | r | i | g | r | i | o | i | o || e | k | a | o | g | t | n | s | n || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- New York | --| 1| 2| 4| 2| 1| 3| 6|| 19 Philadelphia| 0| --| 3| 6| 1| 4| 0| 2|| 16 Chicago | 1| 1| --| 3| 1| 2| 1| 4|| 13 Pittsburg | 1| 2| 1| --| 0| 2| 4| 3|| 13 Detroit | 0| 1| 2| 1| --| 2| 1| 3|| 10 Boston | 1| 0| 0| 3| 0| --| 1| 2|| 7 Indianapolis| 0| 0| 1| 0| 1| 1| --| 3|| 6 Washington | 0| 2| 0| 2| 0| 1| 1| --|| 6 ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- Defeats | 3| 7| 9| 19| 5| 13| 11| 23|| 90 EXTRA INNINGS GAMES. The record of the victories and defeats scored by the eight League Clubs in extra innings games in the championship series of 1888 was as follows: Date. |Contesting |Cities. |Pitchers. |In's.|Scr. |Clubs. | | | | --------+----------------+------------+----------+-----+ Sept. 1|Philadelphia |Philadelphia|Sanders | | | v. Wash'n | |Widner | 12 | 2-0 July 30 |Philadelphia |Boston |Buffinton | | | v. Boston | |Sanders | 11 | 4-3 July 31|Philadelphia |Boston |Sanders | | | v. " | |Clarkson | 11 | 6-5 Sept. 22|Philadelphia |Indianapolis|Sanders | | | v. In'polis | |Healy | 11 | 6-5 May 26|Philadelphia |Boston |Buffinton | | | v. Boston | |Madden | 10 | 1-0 Aug. 11|Philadelphia |Philadelphia|Casey | | | v. Detroit | |Getzein | 10 | 1-0 Aug. 13|Philadelphia |Philadelphia|Buffinton | | | v. In'polis | |Burdick | 10 | 2-1 Aug. 9|Philadelphia |Philadelphia|Casey | | | v. Detroit | |Getzein | 10 | 6-5 April 20|Pittsburg |Pittsburg |Morris | | | v. Detroit | |Getzein | 12 | 5-2 Aug. 1|Pittsburg |Chicago |Galvin | | | v. Chicago | |Baldwin | 12 | 6-4 Sept. 21|Pittsburg |Pittsburg |Morris | | | v. Boston | |Radbourne | 10 | 2-1 Sept. 3|Pittsburg |Indianapolis|Morris | | | v. Indianap's | |Healy | 10 | 5-4 Sept. 4|Pittsburg |Indianapolis|Galvin | | | v. Indianap's | |Boyle | 10 | 5-4 May 10|Pittsburg |Pittsburg |Morris | | | v. Boston | |Clarkson | 10 | 11-10 June 28 |Boston |Boston |Sowders | | | v. Washington | |O'Day | 14 | 9-7 Aug. 15|Boston |Boston |Radbourne | | | v. Detroit | |Beatin | 12 | 4-3 April 21|Boston |Washington |Clarkson | | | v. Washington | |O'Day | 11 | 1-0 June 19|Boston |Washington |Sowders | | | v. New York | |Keefe | 11 | 8-7 April 30|Boston |New York |Clarkson | | |v. New York | |Welch | 10 | 4-3 April 28|Boston |Washington |Sowders | | | v. Washington | |Daily | 10 | 4-3 July 30|Indianapolis |Detroit |Burdick | | | v. Detroit | |Getzein | 11 | 6-5 July 31|Indianapolis |Detroit |Healy | | | v. Detroit | |Conway | 11 | 7-5 July 6|Indianapolis |Indianapolis|Boyle | | |v. Ph'd'phia | |Casey | 11 | 9-8 June 8|Detroit |Boston |Getzein | | | v. Boston | |Clarkson | 16 | 11-5 May 12|Detroit |Detroit |Conway | | |v. Philadelphia | |Gleason | 12 | 3-1 July 2|Detroit |Indianapolis|Conway | | |v. Indianapolis | |Healy | 12 | 4-3 July 24|New York |New York |Welch | | | v. Boston | |Madden | 13 | 6-3 July 28|New York |New York |Keefe | | | v. Philadelphia| |Sanders | 10 | 4-2 June 6|Chicago |Boston |Van Halt'n| | | v. Boston | |Radb'rn e| 10 | 3-2 DRAWN GAMES. Date. |Contesting Clubs. |Cities. | Pitchers. |In's.|Scr. ------+---------------------+----------+---------------+-----+---- Apr 23|New York v. Was'ngt'n|Washingt'n|Welch O'Day| 13 | 1-1 Aug 13|Chicago v. New York |New York |Baldwin Welch| 12 | 5-5 Sept 3|Philadelphia v N York|New York |Sanders Keefe| 11 | 0-0 May 15|New York v. Pittsburg|Pittsburg |Keefe Galvin| 11 | 3-3 Aug 8|Pittsburg v. Boston |Boston |Morris Sowders| 11 | 3-3 Sep 28|Detroit v. New York |New York |Gruber Titcomb| 10 | 2-2 The following is the record of the victories scored by the eight League Clubs on home grounds in the championship arena during 1888: | | | P | | | | I | || | | | h | | | | n | || | | | i | | | | d | W || | | | l | | | P | i | a || G | N | | a | | | i | a | s || a | e | C | d | | D | t | n | h || m | w | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || e | | i | l | o | t | s | p | n || s | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || | o | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || W | r | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || o | k | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || n | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . ||.. ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- New York | --| 4| 8| 5| 6| 6| 7| 8|| 44 Chicago | 6| --| 4| 7| 5| 4| 9| 8|| 43 Philadelphia| 4| 4| --| 3| 5| 7| 9| 5|| 37 Boston | 3| 4| 1| --| 6| 6| 6| 8|| 34 Detroit | 4| 5| 8| 5| --| 7| 6| 6|| 41 Pittsburg | 3| 6| 2| 6| 7| --| 8| 6|| 38 Indianapolis| 3| 5| 3| 5| 4| 4| --| 7|| 31 Washington | 1| 4| 4| 3| 4| 5| 5| --|| 26 ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- Games Lost | 24| 32| 30| 34| 37| 39| 50| 48||294 The record of victories on opponent's grounds is as follows: | | | P | | | | I | || | | | h | | | | n | || | | | i | | | | d | W || | | | l | | | P | i | a || G | N | | a | | | i | a | s || a | e | C | d | | D | t | n | h || m | w | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || e | | i | l | o | t | s | p | n || s | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || | o | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || W | r | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || o | k | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || n | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . ||.. ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- New York | --| 4| 6| 7| 5| 4| 7| 7|| 40 Chicago | 5| --| 4| 5| 5| 5| 5| 5|| 34 Philadelphia| 1| 6| --| 6| 2| 8| 4| 5|| 32 Boston | 5| 3| 8| --| 4| 4| 5| 7|| 36 Detroit | 3| 5| 3| 3| --| 3| 5| 5|| 27 Pittsburg | 4| 5| 4| 2| 3| --| 6| 4|| 28 Indianapolis| 2| 1| 1| 4| 4| 2| --| 5|| 19 Washington | 3| 2| 5| 2| 3| 4| 3| --|| 22 ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- Games Lost | 23| 26| 31| 29| 26| 30| 35| 38||238 [Illustration: JOHN B. DAY, NEW YORK] [Illustration: F. K. STEARNS DETROIT] [Illustration: A. G SPALDING, CHICAGO.] [Illustration: F. DE H ROBINSON, CLEVELAND] LEAGUE CLUB PRESIDENTS. [Illustration: W. A. NIMICK, PITTSBURG.] [Illustration: J. T. BRUSH, INDIANAPOLIS.] [Illustration: WALTER F. HEWETT, WASHINGTON.] [Illustration: A. J. REACH, PHILADELPHIA.] LEAGUE CLUB PRESIDENTS. THE LESSONS OF THE LEAGUE CAMPAIGN OF 1888. Among the noteworthy results of the League championship campaign of 1888 meriting special comment as affording lessons to be profited by in the future, may be named, first, the success of the Eastern Club of New York, in winning the pennant from the West; secondly, that of the Chicago Club in attaining second place in the race in the face of drawbacks which, under any other management, would have sufficed to have left the Club among the tail-enders; and thirdly, the remarkable failure of the Boston Club to attain even one of the three leading positions in the race, after that club had incurred such a heavy expense in strengthening its team with "star" players. The success of the New York Club in winning the championship, introducing, as it did, a new possessor of the League pennant and its accompanying honors, may justly be regarded as an advantage to the general interests of the National League, inasmuch as it is anything but desirable that one club should, season after season, carry off the honors, as the old Boston Club did in the early history of the professional championship contest; or as the Chicago Club has done in monopolizing the championship of the National League during the past thirteen years of its history. Such monopoly of the honors of each season's campaign, by one or two of the leading clubs of each year, materially lessens the public interest taken in the annual competition. Besides which, it interferes, to a costly extent, with the financial prosperity of a majority of the competing clubs. Now that a club, new to championship honors, has replaced one of the monopolists, the other previously unsuccessful clubs will begin to entertain hopes of being able to "get in at the death," as the fox hunters say, in future pennant races, if not this ensuing year, and thereby a new interest will be imparted to coming campaigns. A feature of the past campaign of 1888 worthy of remark, too, is the fact of the surprisingly good work on the field accomplished by the so-called "weakened Chicago team." While this work was unquestionably due in a great measure to able management, the assisting element of "temperance in the ranks" had much to do with it. It is equally unquestionable that the very reverse had a great deal to do with the lamentable failure of the Boston team to follow up the success with which that club's team opened the campaign. The contrast, these two clubs presented in this special respect calls for the most earnest consideration of the vital question of insisting upon temperate habits in all the club teams during the period of the championship season each year. The evil of drunkenness among the professional teams is one which has grown upon the fraternity until it has become too costly an abuse to be longer tolerated. Drunken professionals should be driven from service just as the crooks of a dozen years ago were, never to be allowed to return. Drunken players are not only a costly drawback to success individually, but they permeate the whole baseball fraternity with a demoralizing influence. The fact is, professional baseball playing has arrived at that point of excellence, and reached so advanced a position in regard to its financial possibilities, that it will no longer pay, in any solitary respect, to allow players of drinking habits in first-class teams. The demands of the game, as it is now played, are such as to require a player to have all his wits about him to play ball up to the standard it has now reached. He needs the steadiest of nerves, the clearest eyesight, the most unclouded judgment, and the healthiest physique to play the game as it is required to be done by the exacting public patrons of the present day. Another thing, the capitalists who have ventured thousands of dollars in baseball stock companies, can no longer allow their money to be risked in teams which are weakened by the presence of men of drinking habits. Mr. Spalding's plucky and most successful experiment has conclusively shown that a baseball team run on temperance principles can successfully compete with teams stronger in other respects, but which are weakened by the toleration of drinking habits in their ranks. Here is a lesson taught by the campaign of 1888 which points a moral, if it does not adorn a tale. Another special lesson of the past campaign which was practically illustrated by the Boston Club was, that star players do not make a winning team. The fact is, the pennant cannot be won by any costly outlay in securing the services of this, that, or the other "greatest player in the country." It is well managed and harmonious teams, not picked nines led by special stars, which win in the long run. Now and then--as there are exceptions in all cases--a picked nine will attain a certain degree of success. But for steady struggles for permanent success in the professional championship arena, team work of the very best, and admirably managed teams will alone achieve steady victory. The old Boston teams under Harry Wright, and the Chicago teams under Anson, are a standing proof of this fact. Let the National League magnates ponder these truths earnestly. THE LEAGUE PITCHING OF 1888. While there is no more reliable a record, by which to estimate a pitcher's skill in the box, than the figures showing the runs clean earned off the pitching; in the absence of such figures the best criterion is that of the record of victories and defeats pitched in, the percentage of victories to games played being the deciding point in awarding the palm of superior work in the box. In 1888 the pitchers were handicapped by the absurd rule which charged runs scored on bases on balls as _earned_ runs, successive bases on balls giving an earned run to the batting side, even in the absence of a single base hit. To estimate a pitcher's skill on such a basis is nonsense. As the scoring rules do not admit of the record of data showing runs clean earned off the pitching, and not off the fielding and pitching combined, we are obliged to make up a record of the percentage of victories as the only reliable figures at command on which to judge the pitching of the season. By and by the Committee of Conference will get out of the old rut in this respect, and then correct data will be available; until then we must do the best we can under the circumstances, and consequently the names of the pitchers of the League Clubs who took part in not less than ten games are appended, and these are placed in the order of the best percentage of victories. | | | | | | P | | | | | | e | | | | | | r | | | | | | c | | | | | P | e | | | | | l | n | | | | L | a | t | | | W | o | y | a | | | o | s | e | g | | | n | t | d | e |PITCHERS. |CLUB. | . | . | . | . --+-----------+------------+---+---+---+----- 1|Keefe |New York | 35| 12| 47| .745 2|Conway |Detroit | 31| 14| 15| .689 3|Buffinton |Philadelphia| 29| 15| 44| .659 4|Sanders |Philadelphia| 19| 10| 29| .655 5|Krock |Chicago | 25| 14| 39| .641 6|Titcomb |New York | 14| 8| 22| .636 7|Clarkson |Boston | 33| 20| 53| .623 8|Tener |Chicago | 7| 5| 12| .583 9|Welch |New York | 26| 19| 45| .577 10|Sowders |Boston | 19| 15| 34| .559 11|Morris |Pittsburg | 29| 24| 53| .547 12|Van Haltren|Chicago | 13| 11| 24| .542 13|Staley |Pittsburg | 12| 12| 24| .500 14|Burdick |Indianapolis| 10| 10| 20| .500 15|Galvin |Pittsburg | 23| 25| 48| .479 16|Whitney |Washington | 19| 21| 40| .475 17|Baldwin |Chicago | 13| 15| 28| .464 18|Gruber |Detroit | 11| 13| 24| .458 19|Crane |New York | 5| 6| 11| .455 20|Casey |Philadelphia| 14| 19| 33| .424 21|Beatin |Detroit | 5| 7| 12| .417 22|Getzein |Detroit | 18| 26| 44| .409 23|Boyle |Indianapolis| 15| 22| 37| .405 24|Madden |Boston | 7| 12| 19| .368 25|Widner |Washington | 4| 7| 11| .364 26|O'Day |Washington | 16| 31| 47| .340 27|Shreve |Indianapolis| 11| 24| 35| .314 28|Radbourne |Boston | 7| 16| 23| .304 29|Gleason |Philadelphia| 7| 17| 24| .292 Some remarkable pitching was done during the season of 1888, alike in the American arena, as in the League. The strategic work was up to a very high mark in the League, and in this, Keefe, Conway, Buffinton, Clarkson, Welch, Galvin, and Morris bore off the palm, while in speed alone, Crane of New York excelled. The detailed record of victories and defeats pitched in during the championship campaign of 1888 by those who pitched in at least five victories, is as follows. The names are given in the order of most victories and fewest defeats: VICTORIES. | | | P | | | | I | || | | | h | | | | n | || | | | i | | | | d | W || | | | l | | | P | i | a || V | N | | a | | | I | a | s || i | e | C | d | | D | t | n | h || c | w | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || t | | i | l | o | t | s | p | n || o | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || r | o | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || i | r | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || e | k | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . -----------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- Keefe | --| 3| 5| 5| 5| 3| 8| 6|| 35 Clarkson | 5| --| 5| --| 6| 1| 5| 6|| 33 Conway | 5| 5| 5| 2| --| 5| 6| 3|| 31 Buffinton | 3| 4| --| 5| 2| 7| 5| 3|| 29 Morris | 6| 3| 4| 6| 3| --| 4| 3|| 29 Welch | --| 3| 5| 6| 1| 4| 3| 4|| 26 Krock | 5| --| 2| 3| 4| 3| 4| 4|| 25 Sanders | 0| 3| --| 3| 1| 3| 5| 4|| 19 Sowders | 3| 1| 2| --| 2| 4| 2| 5|| 19 Whitney | 3| 3| 4| 3| 1| 3| 2| --|| 19 Getzein | 0| 4| 4| 2| --| 2| 3| 3|| 18 O'Day | 1| 2| 3| 2| 3| 3| 2| --|| 16 Boyle | 2| 1| 2| 4| 2| 1| --| 3|| 15 Titcomb | --| 1| 2| 1| 3| 2| 1| 4|| 14 Casey | 1| 2| --| 2| 4| 2| 2| 1|| 14 Van Haltren| 0| --| 2| 1| 2| 2| 2| 4|| 13 Baldwin | 3| --| 1| 3| 2| 2| 2| 0|| 13 Staley | 0| 2| 0| 1| 1| --| 6| 3|| 12 Gruber | 2| 1| 1| 3| --| 1| 2| 1|| 11 Shreve | 2| 1| 0| 3| 3| 1| --| 1|| 11 Burdick | 1| 3| 0| 1| 1| 3| --| 1|| 10 Tener | 2| --| 0| 2| 1| 0| 1| 1|| 7 Madden | 0| 0| 2| --| 0| 3| 1| 1|| 7 Radbourne | 0| 1| 0| --| 2| 1| 0| 3|| 7 Gleason | 1| 0| --| 0| 0| 3| 1| 2|| 7 Crane | --| 1| 2| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1|| 5 Beatin | 0| 0| 0| 1| --| 1| 0| 3|| 5 DEFEATS | | | P | | | | I | || | | | h | | | | n | || | | | i | | | | d | W || | | | l | | | P | i | a || | N | | a | | | I | a | s || | e | C | d | | D | t | n | h || | w | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || D | | i | l | o | t | s | p | n || e | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || f | o | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || e | r | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || a | k | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . -----------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- Tener | 1| --| 2| 0| 0| 0| 1| 1|| 5 Crane | --| 0| 0| 0| 1| 1| 2| 2|| 6 Beatin | 1| 2| 1| 2| --| 0| 1| 0|| 7 Titcomb | --| 1| 0| 1| 3| 2| 0| 1|| 8 Sanders | 3| 2| --| 2| 1| 1| 0| 1|| 10 Burdick | 1| 1| 3| 1| 1| 0| --| 3|| 10 Van Haltren| 2| --| 1| 2| 3| 2| 1| 0|| 11 Keefe | --| 4| 1| 4| 0| 1| 2| 0|| 12 Staley | 2| 1| 2| 2| 3| --| 1| 1|| 12 Madden | 3| 2| 2| --| 2| 2| 1| 0|| 12 Gruber | 3| 1| 2| 2| --| 0| 2| 3|| 13 Conway | 2| 2| 1| 2| --| 3| 1| 3|| 14 Krock | 2| --| 2| 3| 2| 3| 1| 1|| 14 Buffinton | 4| 2| --| 3| 2| 2| 1| 1|| 15 Sowders | 3| 2| 4| --| 2| 2| 2| 0|| 15 Baldwin | 1| --| 1| 1| 4| 4| 2| 2|| 15 Radbourne | 2| 5| 0| --| 2| 2| 2| 3|| 16 Gleason | 2| 3| --| 3| 3| 1| 0| 5|| 17 Welch | --| 6| 4| 3| 2| 2| 1| 1|| 19 Casey | 5| 1| --| 1| 5| 2| 3| 2|| 19 Clarkson | 4| 3| 4| --| 2| 2| 3| 2|| 20 Whitney | 4| 1| 2| 5| 2| 4| 3| --|| 21 Boyle | 5| 5| 3| 3| 1| 5| --| 0|| 22 Morris | 3| 4| 4| 2| 3| --| 2| 6|| 24 Shreve | 4| 4| 4| 2| 5| 3| --| 2|| 24 Galvin | 4| 3| 7| 5| 3| --| 1| 2|| 25 Getzein | 5| 3| 3| 4| --| 7| 3| 1|| 26 O'Day | 4| 5| 4| 5| 3| 3| 7| --|| 31 These pitching records not only present a tolerably fair criterion of a pitcher's skill in the box--though of course not as reliable as the data of clean earned runs off his pitching or of clean hits made from it--but they afford an interesting and instructive record from which to judge of the success of a pitcher in defeating one particular team more frequently than he does another, and vice versa. In fact, experience has shown that no matter how effective a pitcher may be in a season's work, it will be found that there is always one team which bothers him more than any other he has to face, just as shown in the above quoted instances. In regard to judging of a pitcher's ability as a fielder in his position by the fielding averages of pitchers the basis was made equally as unreliable as the estimate of earned runs was, owing to the fact that the data of the fielding averages of a pitcher were made up from the figures of "assistance on strikes" as well as from legitimate fielding assistances. For this reason the pitcher, who was really a poor fielder in his position in fielding balls from the bat, but who happened to be fortunate in striking batsmen out by his pitching--thereby getting a big record of pitching assistances--became the leader in the pitcher's fielding averages; while the pitcher who really excelled as a fielder when in the box, but who was not as fortunate in striking out his batting opponents, and therefore could not furnish as good a record of assistances on strikes, was set down in the fielding averages as a tail-ender. The individual club record of the pitching of 1888 presents some interesting figures. For instance, we find that while Chicago used no less than eleven pitchers during the championship season Philadelphia was content with but four. No less than twenty new pitchers entered the League season in 1888, and of these, Sanders of Philadelphia; Tener and Krock of Chicago; Sowders of Boston; Staley of Pittsburgh; Burdick of Indianapolis, and Widner of Washington, proved to be acquisitions. Below will be found the individual club pitching records for 1888, showing the victories and defeats each club pitcher participated in as an occupant of the box. The names given in italics are those of pitchers new to the League arena: EASTERN CLUBS. NEW YORK. | | P | | | | I | || | | h | | | | n | || | | i | | | | d | W || | | l | | | P | i | a || | | a | | | i | a | s || | C | d | | D | t | n | h || | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || | I | l | o | t | s | p | n || | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. --------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. --------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Keefe | 3| 4| 5| 2| 5| 4| 5| 0| 3| 1| 8| 2| 6| 0||35|12| 47 Welch | 3| 6| 5| 4| 6| 3| 1| 2| 4| 2| 3| 1| 4| 1||25|19| 45 Titcomb | 1| 1| 2| 0| 1| 1| 3| 3| 2| 2| 1| 0| 4| 1||14| 8| 22 _Crane_ | 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 1| 0| 2| 1| 2|| 5| 6| 11 George | 0| 0| 2| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0|| 2| 1| 3 Weidman | 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0|| 1| 1| 2 --------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Totals | 8|11|14| 5|12| 8|11| 7| 9| 7|14| 5|15| 4||83|47|130 | | | | | | | | |[1] [Footnote 1: One game with Pittsburg was won by forfeit.] CHICAGO. | | P | | | | I | || | | h | | | | n | || | | i | | | | d | W || | | l | | | P | i | a || | N | a | | | i | a | s || | e | d | | D | t | n | h || | w | e | B | e | t | a | i || | | l | o | t | s | p | n || | Y | p | s | r | b | o | g || | o | h | t | o | u | l | t || | r | i | o | i | r | i | o || | k | a | n | t | g | s | n || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. -----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. -----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- _Krock_ | 5| 2| 2| 2| 3| 3| 4| 2| 3| 3| 4| 1| 4| 1||25|14|39 Van Haltren| 0| 2| 2| 1| 1| 2| 2| 3| 2| 2| 2| 1| 4| 0||13|11|24 Baldwin | 3| 1| 1| 1| 3| 1| 2| 4| 2| 4| 2| 2| 0| 2||13|15|28 _Tener_ | 2| 1| 0| 2| 2| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 1| 1| 1| 1|| 7| 5|12 _Dwyer_ | 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 2| 0|| 4| 1| 5 _Borchers_ | 0| 0| 1| 1| 1| 0| 0| 1| 1| 2| 1| 0| 0| 1|| 4| 5| 9 Ryan | 1| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0|| 3| 1| 4 _Gumpert_ | 0| 1| 0| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 2| 0|| 3| 3| 6 _Clark_ | 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 2| 0| 0| 0|| 2|| 0| 2 _Bryman_ | 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1|| 2| 1| 3 _Mains_ | 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0|| 1| 1| 2 -----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Totals |11| 8| 8| 9|12| 7|10|10| 9|11|14| 6|13| 6||77|57|134 | | | |[1] [Footnote 1: One defeat with the Philadelphia Club was by forfeit.] DETROIT. | | | P | | | I | || | | | h | | | n | || | | | i | | | d | W || | | | l | | P | i | a || | N | | a | | i | a | s || | e | C | d | | t | n | h || | w | h | e | B | t | a | i || | | i | l | o | s | p | n || | Y | c | p | s | b | o | g || | o | a | h | t | u | l | t || | r | g | i | o | r | i | o || | k | o | a | n | g | s | n || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. -------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. -------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Conway | 5| 2| 5| 2| 5| 1| 2| 2| 5| 3| 6| 1| 3| 3||31|14| 45 Getzein| 0| 5| 4| 3| 4| 3| 2| 4| 2| 7| 3| 3| 3| 1||18|26| 44 Gruber | 2| 3| 1| 1| 1| 2| 3| 2| 1| 0| 2| 3| 1| 3|| 1|13| 24 Beatin | 0| 1| 0| 2| 0| 1| 1| 2| 1| 0| 0| 1| 3| 0|| 5| 7| 12 Baldwin| 0| 0| 0| 2| 1| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0|| 3| 3| 6 -------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Totals | 7|11|10|10|11| 7| 8|10|10|10|11| 8|11| 7||68|63|131 PHILADELPHIA. | | | | | | I | || | | | | | | n | || | | | | | | d | W || | | | | | P | i | a || | N | | | | i | a | s || | e | C | | D | t | n | h || | w | h | B | e | t | a | i || | | i | o | t | s | p | n || | Y | c | s | r | b | o | g || | o | a | t | o | u | l | t || | r | g | o | i | r | i | o || | k | o | n | t | g | s | n || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|P. ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Buffinton| 3| 4| 4| 2| 5| 3| 2| 2| 7| 2| 5| 1| 3| 1||29|15| 44 _Sanders_| 0| 3| 3| 2| 3| 2| 1| 1| 3| 1| 5| 0| 4| 1||19|10| 29 Casey | 1| 5| 2| 1| 2| 1| 4| 5| 2| 2| 2| 3| 1| 2||14|19| 33 _Gleason_| 1| 2| 0| 3| 0| 3| 0| 3| 3| 1| 1| 0| 2| 5|| 7|17| 24 ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Totals | 4|14| 9| 8|10| 9| 7|11|15| 6|13| 4|10| 9||69|71|130 | | |[1] | | | | |[2] [Footnote 1: One game with Chicago was won by forfeit.] [Footnote 2: One game with Pittsburg thrown out.] BOSTON. | | | P | | | I | || | | | h | | | n | || | | | i | | | d | W || | | | l | | P | i | a || | N | | a | | i | a | s || | e | C | d | D | t | n | h || | w | h | e | e | t | a | i || | | i | l | t | s | p | n || | Y | c | p | r | b | o | g || | o | a | h | o | u | l | t || | r | g | i | i | r | i | o || | k | o | a | t | g | s | n || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Clarkson | 5| 4| 5| 3| 5| 4| 6| 2| 1| 2| 5| 3| 6| 2||33|20| 53 _Sowders_| 3| 3| 1| 2| 2| 4| 2| 2| 4| 2| 2| 2| 5| 0||19|15| 34 Madden | 0| 3| 0| 2| 2| 2| 0| 2| 3| 2| 1| 1| 1| 0|| 7|12| 19 Radbourne| 0| 2| 1| 5| 0| 0| 2| 2| 1| 2| 0| 2| 3| 3|| 7|16| 23 Conway | 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 3| 1| 0| 0|| 4| 1| 5 ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Totals | 8|12| 7|10| 9|10|10| 8|10| 8|11| 9|15| 5||70|64|134 INDIANAPOLIS. | | | P | | | | || | | | h | | | | || | | | i | | | | W || | | | l | | | P | a || | N | | a | | | i | s || | e | C | d | | D | t | h || | w | h | e | B | e | t | i || | | i | l | o | t | s | n || | Y | c | p | s | r | b | g || | o | a | h | t | o | u | t || | r | g | i | o | i | r | o || | k | o | a | n | t | g | n || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Boyle | 2| 5| 1| 5| 2| 3| 4| 3| 2| 1| 1| 5| 3| 0||15|22| 37 Healy | 0| 3| 1| 4| 2| 2| 1| 3| 2| 3| 1| 6| 5| 3||12|24| 36 Shreve | 2| 4| 1| 4| 0| 4| 3| 2| 3| 5| 1| 3| 1| 2||11|24| 35 _Burdick_| 1| 1| 3| 1| 0| 3| 1| 1| 1| 1| 3| 0| 1| 3||10|10| 20 Moffat | 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 2| 0| 1| 0| 0| 2| 0|| 2| 5| 7 ---------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Totals | 5|14| 6|14| 4|13| 9|11| 8|11| 6|14|12| 8||50|85|135 WASHINGTON. | | | P | | | | I || | | | h | | | | n || | | | i | | | | d || | | | l | | | P | i || | N | | a | | | i | a || | e | C | d | | D | t | n || | w | h | e | B | e | t | a || | | i | l | o | t | s | p || | Y | c | p | s | r | b | o || | o | a | h | t | o | u | l || | r | g | i | o | i | r | i || | k | o | a | n | t | g | s || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. ----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. ----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Whitney | 3| 4| 3| 1| 4| 2| 3| 5| 1| 2| 3| 4| 2| 3||18|21| 40 O'Day | 1| 4| 2| 5| 3| 4| 2| 5| 3| 3| 3| 3| 2| 7||16|31| 47 Keefe | 0| 2| 0| 2| 0| 1| 0| 1| 2| 1| 2| 0| 2| 0|| 6| 7| 13 _Widner_ | 0| 1| 0| 2| 1| 2| 0| 2| 1| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0|| 4| 7| 11 Daily | 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 2| 0| 0| 1| 0|| 2| 4| 6 Gilmore | 0| 3| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 1| 0| 2| 0| 2| 0| 1|| 1|10| 11 _Greening_| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0|| 0| 1| 1 _Haddock_ | 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0|| 0| 2| 2 Shaw | 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 1|| 0| 3| 3 ----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+--- Totals | 4|15| 6|13| 9|10| 5|15| 7|11| 9|10| 8|12||48|86|134 PITTSBURG. | | | P | | | I | || | | | h | | | n | || | | | i | | | d | W || | | | l | | | i | a || | N | | a | | | a | s || | e | C | d | | D | n | h || | w | h | e | B | e | a | i || | | i | l | o | t | p | n || | Y | c | p | s | r | o | g || | o | a | h | t | o | l | t || | r | g | i | o | i | i | o || | k | o | a | n | t | s | n || | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || Totals. -----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----++-+--+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. -----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----++-+--+--- Morris | 6| 3| 3| 4| 4| 4| 6| 2| 3| 3| 4| 2| 3| 6||29|24| 53 Galvin | 1| 4| 5| 3| 2| 7| 1| 5| 6| 3| 5| 1| 3| 2||23|25| 48 _Staley_ | 0| 2| 2| 1| 0| 2| 1| 2| 1| 3| 5| 1| 3| 1||12|12| 24 _Knell_ | 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0|| 1| 2| 3 _Henderson_| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 0|| 1| 4| 5 Maul | 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0|| 0| 1| 1 -----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----++-+--+--- Totals | 7| 9|11| 9| 6|15| 8|10|10|10|14| 6|10| 9||66|68|134 |[1] | | | |[1] [Footnote 1: One game with New York was forfeited, and one defeat with Philadelphia was thrown out.] The retiring pitchers of the year were McCormick of Pittsburgh, Ferguson of Philadelphia, who died early in the season; Weidman and Twitchell of Detroit; Shaw of Washington; Mattimore of New York; Pyle and Sprague of Chicago; Leitner, Morrison and Kirby of Indianapolis, and Stemmyer of Boston THE MONTHLY RECORDS. The month of _April_ saw Boston taking the lead in the record of victories for that month, that club not sustaining a single defeat in April. Chicago stood second, with New York and Pittsburgh tied in the number of victories and defeats credited and charged to each club, Detroit standing fifth, while Indianapolis, Philadelphia and Washington brought up the rear. _In May_ Chicago led all the other teams in their victories that month; Detroit being second, Philadelphia third, New York fourth, and Boston fifth, Indianapolis being sixth, with Pittsburgh and Washington tied for last place in the May record, Boston and Pittsburgh falling off badly this month. _In June_ Detroit won the most victories, it being their best month's work of the season, Chicago being second, Philadelphia third, New York fourth, Boston fifth, Washington sixth, with Indianapolis seventh and Pittsburgh last, it being the latter club's poorest month's work of the campaign. _In July_ the new rule of management, inaugurated by Mr. Day, placed New York in the front, and the result was that the "Giants" in July made the best month's record of the season, over 18 victories to but five defeats; Detroit stood second on the list in July victories, with Pittsburgh third, the latter making a good rally in July; Indianapolis, too, played well this month and stood fourth, Washington being fifth, and Chicago sixth, the latter taking a bad tumble, Philadelphia and Boston being the two last in July victories, Boston winning but five victories out of twenty-two games, that club's worst monthly record. _In August_ Boston rallied in brilliant style, scoring 16 victories out of 22 games, quite a contrast to their poor work in July; New York was second, and Pittsburgh third, the latter doing better, even, than in July; Philadelphia stood fourth, Chicago fifth, Washington sixth, with Indianapolis seventh and Detroit last, the latter only winning five victories out of 21 games in August. _In September_ Chicago rallied well and went to the front in the record of the month's victories, Pittsburgh being second, New York third, Detroit fourth--the latter rallying; Philadelphia sixth, with Indianapolis and Washington bringing up the rear. By the close of the month New York had virtually settled the question of the championship, and the only struggle left was that for second place. _In October_ Philadelphia made its usual "spurt" at the finish, and that club won eight out of nine games in October, after giving Chicago a close fight for second place, and came in a good third in the pennant race. New York was second in the October victories, Boston third, Pittsburgh and Washington tied for fourth, Chicago was sixth--that club gaining second position in the pennant race; Indianapolis and Washington being the two last. Here is the full record of the monthly victories and defeats of the campaign: |April| May | June| July| Aug.|Sept.| Oct.||Totals. ------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----++--------- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.|P. New York | 5| 3|12| 9|13|11|18| 5|16| 8|13| 8| 7| 3||84|47|131 Chicago | 6| 2|15| 7|14| 8|10|14|12|13|16| 9| 4| 5||77|58|135 Philadelphia| 2| 7|12| 7|13|10| 9|15|15| 9|10|12| 8| 1||69|61|130 Boston | 9| 0|11|13|12|11| 5|17|16| 6|12|12| 5| 5||70|64|134 Detroit | 3| 5|14| 8|16| 6|14|10| 5|16|13|11| 3| 7||68|63|131 Pittsburg | 5| 3| 7|14| 5|15|13| 9|16| 9|15|12| 5| 6||66|68|134 Indianapolis| 2| 6| 8|14| 7|14|13|11| 6|21|10|13| 4| 6||50|85|135 Washington | 1| 7| 7|14| 9|14|11|12|10|14| 5|19| 5| 6||48|86|134 [Illustration: A. C. Anson. ] THE LEADING PLAYERS OF THE LEAGUE. Looking over the League averages, and taking those players who have taken part in a majority of the championship contests of the season, we find the appended names among those occupying the leading positions at the bat and in the field. Of those who played in one hundred games and over in the League championship arena, the following comprise the first ten batsmen: |BATSMEN. |CLUB. |Games.|Per cent. of | | | |Base Hits. --+---------+--------+------+--------- 1|Anson |Chicago | 134 | .343 2|Ryan |Chicago | 130 | .331 3|Kelly |Boston | 105 | .318 4|Brouthers|Detroit | 129 | .306 5|Ewing |New York| 103 | .306 6|White |Detroit | 125 | .298 7|Johnston |Boston | 135 | .295 8|Tiernan |New York| 113 | .293 9|Connor |New York| 134 | .291 10|Nash |Boston | 135 | .283 Of those who played in one hundred games and over in the League campaign, the following are the first seven in fielding averages: FIELDERS. |POSITION. |CLUB. |Games.|Fielding|Per cent. | | | |Average.| of | | | | |Base Hits. ----------+--------------+---------+------+--------+---------- Anson |First Baseman |Chicago | 134 | .985 | .343 Richardson|Second Baseman|New York | 135 | .942 | .226 Nash |Third Baseman |Boston. | 104 | .913 | .283 Glasscock |Short Stop |Ind'polis| 109 | .900 | .269 Hornung |Left Fielder |Boston | 107 | .947 | .239 Slattery |Center Fielder|New York | 103 | .917 | .245 Tiernan |Right Fielder |New York | 113 | .959 | .293 Of the pitchers who took part in 50 games and over, the following led in fielding averages: No pitcher or catcher played in 100 games. PITCHERS.|CLUB. |Games.|Fielding|Per cent. | | |Average.| of | | | |Base Hits. ---------+---------+------+--------+---------- Keefe |New York | 51 | .785 | .127 Galvin |Pittsburg| 50 | .758 | .143 Morris |Pittsburg| 54 | .732 | .102 Clarkson |Boston | 54 | .678 | .195 Of the catchers who took part in 60 games and over, the following led in fielding averages: CATCHERS.|CLUB. |Games.|Fielding|Per cent. | | |Average.| of | | | |Base Hits. ---------+------------+------+--------+---------- Bennett |Detroit | 72 | .941 | .263 Daly |Chicago | 62 | .880 | .191 Clements |Philadelphia| 84 | .874 | .247 Ewing |New York | 78 | .861 | .306 Mack |Washington | 79 | .843 | .186 Miller |Pittsburg | 68 | .805 | .277 Kelly |Boston | 74 | .796 | .318 THE BASE RUNNING RECORD. Those of the League championship players who are credited with not less than 50 stolen bases in the pennant race, are as follows: BASERUNNERS.|CLUB. |Games.|Stolen Bases. ------------+------------+------+----------- Hoy |Washington | 136 | 82 Seery |Indianapolis| 133 | 80 Sunday |Pittsburg | 119 | 71 Pfeffer |Chicago | 136 | 64 Ryan |Chicago | 130 | 60 Fogarty |Philadelphia| 120 | 58 Kelly |Boston | 105 | 56 Ewing |New York | 103 | 53 Tiernan |New York | 113 | 52 The above are the leaders in seven of the eight League clubs. Hanlon led in the Detroit team, but he only scored 38 stolen bases in 108 games. The Detroit team was singularly weak in this respect. Mr. R.M. Larner of Washington has made up an interesting table from the figures of the League averages, which presents some very interesting statistics of the base running in the League during the championship season of 1888. Mr. Larner says: "The official averages of League players contain the number of bases stolen by each player during the season, but furnish no means of comparison between the clubs in that most important department of the game. A glance, however, shows that the three tail-end clubs possess the three most successful base-runners in the League, in Hoy of the Washingtons, Seery of Indianapolis, and Sunday of Pittsburgh, the latter of whom would probably have finished first had an accident not prevented him from playing during the last two weeks of the season." The following table includes in its first column all those methods of reaching first base, except the force-outs, which cannot be ascertained, and would not materially affect the record, in this comparison. Indianapolis and Washington still lead, Pittsburgh comes well to the front, pushing the next three clubs down a peg each, and the Phillies and Detroits keep their places at the foot: CLUBS. |Reached 1st Base.|Stolen Bases.|Percentages. ------------+-----------------+-------------+----------- Indianapolis| 1,589 | 350 | .220 Washington | 1,515 | 331 | .218 Pittsburg | 1,474 | 282 | .191 New York | 1,772 | 315 | .178 Boston | 1,719 | 292 | .170 Chicago | 1,720 | 285 | .166 Philadelphia| 1,569 | 246 | .157 Detroit | 1,843 | 193 | .105 Mr. Larner says. "The simple total of bases stolen is misleading as to a club's proficiency in base running, since the strong batting clubs having more men who reach first base have more chances to steal, and hence excel in totals, while in percentages they fall below clubs which are weaker in batting. The true measure is the relation between the number of bases stolen and the number of chances offered for the attempt, which is the whole number of those who reach first base, whether on hits, balls, errors, hits by pitcher, illegal delivery, or force-outs." THE CLUB RECORD OF STOLEN BASES. The record in stolen bases in championship games, showing the first man of each club in base stealing for 1888 is appended. WASHINGTON. ||PITTSBURG. | | |Stolen|| | | |Stolen |PLAYERS.|Games.|Bases.|| |PLAYERS.|Games.|Bases. -+--------+------+------++-+--------+------+------- 1|Hoy | 136 | 82 ||1|Sunday | 119 | 71 2|Wilmot | 119 | 46 ||2|Smith | 130 | 32 3|Donnelly| 117 | 44 ||3|Dunlap | 81 | 24 4|Daily | 110 | 44 ||4|Mider | 103 | 27 5|Mack | 85 | 31 ||5|Beckley | 71 | 20 6|Schock | 90 | 23 ||6|Carroll | 96 | 18 7|Myers | 132 | 20 ||7|Kuehne | 137 | 17 8|Irwin | 37 | 15 ||8|Coleman | 115 | 15 9|O'Brien | 133 | 10 ||9|Fields | 44 | 9 -+--------+------+------++-+--------+------+------- Total | 315 ||Total | 228 NEW YORK. || PHILADELPHIA. | | |Stolen|| | | |Stolen |PLAYERS. |Games.|Bases.|| |PLAYERS. |Games.|Bases. -+----------+------+------++-+-------=-+------+------- 1|Ewing | 105 | 53 ||1|Fogart | 120 | 58 2|Tiernan | 113 | 52 ||2|Delahanty| 74 | 38 3|Ward | 122 | 38 ||3|Andrews | 123 | 35 4|Richardson| 135 | 35 ||4|Farrar | 130 | 21 5|Connor | 134 | 27 ||5|Wood | 105 | 20 6|Slattery | 103 | 26 ||6|Irwin | 124 | 19 7|O'Rourke | 107 | 25 ||7|Mulvey | 99 | 18 8|Gore | 64 | 9 ||8|Sanders | 57 | 13 9|Whitney | 90 | 8 ||9|Bastian | 80 | 12 -+----------+------+------++-+---------+------+------- Total | 280 ||Total | 234 Taking the total bases stolen by each club nine as the criterion, Indianapolis takes the lead, with Washington second and New York third, followed by Chicago, Boston, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and Detroit in regular order, the latter club being the weakest of the eight League teams in base running. Here is the record in full: INDIANAPOLIS. || BOSTON. | | |Stolen|| | | |Stolen |PLAYERS. |Games.|Bases.|| |PLAYERS. |Games.|Bases. -+----------+------+------++-+---------+------+------- 1|Seery | 133 | 80 ||1|Kelly | 105 | 56 2|McGeachy | 118 | 49 ||2|Brown | 107 | 46 3|Glasscock | 112 | 48 ||3|Johnston | 135 | 35 4|Denny | 126 | 32 ||4|Wise | 104 | 33 5|Hines | 132 | 31 ||5|Hornung | 107 | 29 6|Myers | 66 | 28 ||6|Morrill | 134 | 21 7|Bossett | 128 | 24 ||7|Nash | 135 | 20 8|Daily | 57 | 15 ||8|Quinn | 38 | 12 9|Esterbrook| 64 | 11 ||9|Sutton | 28 | 10 -+----------+------+------++-+---------+------+------- Total | 318 ||Total | 263 CHICAGO. || DETROIT. | | |Stolen|| | | |Stolen |PLAYERS. |Games.|Bases.|| |PLAYERS. |Games.|Bases. -+-----------+------+------++-+----------+------+------- 1|Pfeffer | 136 | 64 ||1|Hanlon | 108 | 38 2|Ryan | 130 | 60 ||2|Brouthers | 129 | 34 3|Burns | 134 | 34 ||3|Campau | 70 | 27 4|Anson | 134 | 28 ||4|Twitchell | 130 | 14 5|Williamson | 132 | 25 ||5|Richardson| 57 | 13 6|Van Haltren| 81 | 21 ||6|White | 125 | 12 7|Duffy | 71 | 13 ||7|Ganzell | 93 | 12 8|Daly | 65 | 10 ||8|Rowe | 105 | 10 9|Sullivan | 75 | 9 ||9|Getzein | 45 | 6 -+-----------+------+------++-+----------+------+------- Total | 264 ||Total | 166 The following table is for immediate reference. It shows the winning club for each season from 1871 to 1888 inclusive; as also the manager of each of the champion clubs of each year: Year.|WINNING CLUB.|MANAGER. |Victories.|Defeats.|Games | | | | |Played. -----+-------------+---------+----------+--------+------- 1871 |Athletic |Hayhurst | 22 | 7 | 29 1872 |Boston |H. Wright| 39 | 8 | 47 1873 |Boston |H. Wright| 43 | 16 | 59 1874 |Boston |H. Wright| 52 | 18 | 70 1875 |Boston |H. Wright| 71 | 8 | 79 1876 |Chicago |Spalding | 52 | 14 | 66 1877 |Boston |H. Wright| 31 | 17 | 48 1878 |Boston |H. Wright| 41 | 19 | 60 1879 |Providence |G. Wright| 55 | 23 | 78 1880 |Chicago |Anson | 67 | 18 | 84 1881 |Chicago |Anson | 56 | 28 | 84 1882 |Chicago |Anson | 55 | 29 | 84 1883 |Boston |H. Wright| 63 | 35 | 98 1884 |Providence |Bancroft | 84 | 28 | 112 1885 |Chicago |Anson | 87 | 25 | 112 1886 |Chicago |Anson | 90 | 34 | 124 1887 |Detroit |Watkins | 79 | 45 | 124 1888 |NewYork |Mutrie | 84 | 47 | 131 It will be seen that in the old Professional Association the Boston club won the pennant four times, and the Athletics once, while in the League the Chicago Club won it six times, the Boston Club three times, the Providence Club twice, and the Detroit and New York once each. The best percentage of victories was made by the Boston Club in 1875, that being the best on record in professional club history. THE CHAMPION LEAGUE TEAM OF 1888. Though the New York Club's team for 1888 included over twenty different players, only seven of them took part in one hundred championship matches and over, and these were Richardson, 135; Connor, 134; Ward, 122; Tiernan, 113; O'Rourke, 107; Ewing, 103, and Slattery, 103. Whitney took part in 90; Gore in 64; Keefe in 51; Welch in 47; Foster in 37; Murphy in 28; Hatfield in 27; Titcomb in 23; Brown in 17, and Crane in but 11. All the others played in less than ten games. The first nine were Keefe p, Ewing c, Connor 1b, Richardson 2b, Whitney 3b, Ward ss, O'Rourke lf, Slattery cf, and Tiernan, rf, these playing the nine positions respectively. The appended table presents an interesting epitome of the work done on the field by the New York team in the championship contests of the past season: NEW YORK. vs. | | P | | | | I | || | | h | | | | n | || | | i | | | | d | W || | | l | | | P | i | a || | | a | | | i | a | s || | C | d | | D | t | n | h || | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || T | i | l | o | t | s | p | n || o | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || t | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || a | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || l | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . --------------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- Victories | 8 |14 |12 |11 |10 |14 |15 || 84 Defeats |11 | 5 | 8 | 7 | 7 | 5 | 4 || 47 Drawn Games | 1 | 1 | 0 | 2 | 2 | 0 | 1 || 7 Series Won | 0 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 0 | 1 | 1 || 5 Series Lost | 1 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 || 1 Series Unfinished | 1 | 1 | 0 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 || 6 Victories by Forfeit| 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 1 | 0 | 0 || 1 "Chicago" Victories | 2 | 1 | 1 | 2 | 4 | 3 | 6 || 19 "Chicago" Defeats | 1 | 0 | 1 | 0 | 1 | 0 | 0 || 3 Single Figure | 5 |12 |10 |11 | 8 |11 |14 || 71 Victories | | | | | | | || Single Figure |11 | 4 | 8 | 5 | 7 | 5 | 4 || 44 Defeats | | | | | | | || Double Figure | 3 | 2 | 2 | 0 | 1 | 3 | 2 || 13 Victories | | | | | | | || Double Figure | 0 | 1 | 0 | 2 | 0 | 0 | 1 || 4 Defeats | | | | | | | || Extra Inning Games | 1 | 2 | 3 | 1 | 1 | 0 | 1 || 9 Victories at Home | 4 | 8 | 5 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 || 43 Defeats at Home | 5 | 1 | 5 | 3 | 4 | 2 | 3 || 23 Victories Abroad | 4 | 6 | 7 | 5 | 4 | 7 | 7 || 40 Defeats Abroad | 6 | 4 | 3 | 4 | 3 | 3 | 1 || 24 THE PITCHING RECORD. The pitching record of the champion team of 1888 is worthy of note in regard to the figures showing the victories won and defeats sustained by each pitcher in his games with the seven opposing clubs. Here is the record in full, the names being given in the order of percentage of victories. Despite this method of estimating the pitching strength there is no questioning the fact of the superiority of Keefe, Welch and Titcomb according to the record each made against the clubs they were opposed to: [Illustration: NEW YORK TEAM. 1 TITCOMB 2 KEIFE* 3 WHITNEY 4 * 5 WARD 6 RICHARDSON 7 FOSTER 8 WELCH 9 MUIRIL * 10 CRANE 11 GEORGE 12 EWING 13 CONNOR 14 HATFIELD. 15 GORE 16 O'ROURKE 17 TIERNAN 18 MURPHY 19 BROWN] [**Proofreaders note: In some cases the caption identifying the players was indecipherable. These are marked with an *] | | P | | | | I | || |P | | h | | | | n | || |e | | i | | | | d | W || |r | | l | | | P | i | a || | V | | a | | | i | a | s || |c i | C | d | | D | t | n | h || |e c | h | e | B | e | t | a | i || T |n t | i | l | o | t | s | p | n || o |t o | c | p | s | r | b | o | g || t |. r | a | h | t | o | u | l | t || a | i | g | i | o | i | r | i | o || l |o e | o | a | n | t | g | s | n || s |f s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . | . -------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----++-----+----- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L.| -------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+----- Keefe | 3| 4| 5| 1| 5| 4| 5| 0| 3| 1| 8| 2| 6| 0||35|12|.744 George | 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0|| 2| 1|.666 Titcomb| 1| 1| 2| 0| 1| 1| 3| 3| 2| 2| 1| 0| 4| 1||14| 8|.636 Welsh | 3| 6| 5| 4| 6| 3| 1| 2| 4| 2| 3| 1| 4| 1||26|19|.577 Weidman| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0|| 1| 1|.500 Crane | 1| 0| 2| 0| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 1| 0| 2| 1| 2|| 5| 6|.450 -------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+--+----- Totals | 8|11|14| 5|12| 8|11| 7| 9| 7|14| 5|15| 4||83|47| | | | | | | | | | | | | |[1] [Footnote 1: The game forfeited by Pittsburg is, of course, not included.] In the pitching averages, based on the existing method of estimating earned runs off the pitching, the record stands as follows: Pitchers.|Per cent. earn'd|Per cent. of |Runs per Game. |Base Hits. Keefe | 1.4* | .198 | [B] | Welch | 1.47 | .201 Titcomb | 1.82 | .212 [**Proofreaders note B: * undecipherable number**] The other three pitchers did not pitch in a dozen games. THE FULL LEAGUE RECORD. The following record presents the scores of the total victories won by every League Club each year since the National League was organized, the table presenting the figures of thirteen consecutive seasons from 1876 to 1888 inclusive: | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | 1 | Y | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | r | 7 | 7 | 7 | 7 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | 8 | s | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | . ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+--- Chicago | 52| 18| 30| 44| 67| 56| 55| 59| 62| 87| 90| 71| 77|13 Boston | 39| 31| 41| 49| 40| 38| 45| 63| 73| 46| 56| 61| 70|13 Providence | --| --| 38| 55| 52| 47| 52| 58| 84| 53| --| --| --| 8 Detroit | --| --| --| --| --| 41| 42| 40| 28| 41| 87| 79| 68| 8 Buffalo | --| --| --| 44| 24| 45| 45| 52| 64| 38| --| --| --| 7 Cleveland | --| --| --| 24| 47| 36| 42| 55| 35| --| --| --| --| 6 New York | --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 46| 62| 85| 75| 68| 84| 6 Philadelphia| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 17| 39| 56| 71| 75| 69| 6 St Louis | 45| 19| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 38| 43| --| --| 4 Cincinnati | 9| --| 37| 38| 21| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 4 Troy | --| --| --| 19| 41| 39| 35| --| --| --| --| --| --| 4 Worcester | --| --| --| --| 40| 32| 18| --| --| --| --| --| --| 3 Washington | --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 26| 46| 48| 3 Indianapolis| --| --| 24| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 37| 59| 3 Hartford | 47| 24| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 2 Louisville | 30| 28| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 2 Pittsburg | --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 55| 66| 2 Athletic | 14| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 1 Mutual | 21| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 1 Syracuse | --| --| --| 15| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 1 Milwaukee | --| --| 15| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 1 Kansas City | --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| --| 29| --| 1 ------------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+--- Totals |257|120|185|288|332|334|334|390|447|444|448|521|541| THE COMPLETE RECORD. Following is a summary showing the results of each year's campaign since the organization of the League: 1876. |Won |Lost|Per cent. -----------+----+----+-------- Chicago | 52 | 14 | .788 Hartford | 47 | 21 | .691 St. Louis | 45 | 19 | .703 Boston | 39 | 31 | .557 Louisville | 30 | 36 | .455 Mutual | 21 | 35 | .375 Athletic | 14 | 45 | .237 Cincinnati | 9 | 56 | .135 1877. |Won |Lost|Per cent. -----------+----+----+-------- Boston | 31 | 17 | .648 Louisville | 28 | 20 | .583 Hartford | 24 | 24 | .500 St. Louis | 19 | 29 | .396 Chicago | 18 | 30 | .375 1878. |Won |Lost|Per cent. -------------+----+----+-------- Boston | 41 | 19 | .707 Cincinnati | 37 | 23 | .617 Providence | 33 | 27 | .550 Chicago | 30 | 30 | .500 Indianapolis | 24 | 36 | .400 Milwaukee | 15 | 45 | .250 1879. |Won |Lost|Per cent. -----------+----+----+-------- Providence | 55 | 23 | .705 Boston | 49 | 29 | .628 Chicago | 44 | 32 | .579 Buffalo | 44 | 32 | .579 Cincinnati | 38 | 36 | .514 Cleveland | 24 | 53 | .312 Troy | 19 | 56 | .253 Syracuse | 15 | 27 | .357 1880. |Won |Lost|Per cent. -----------+----+----+-------- Chicago | 67 | 17 | .798 Providence | 52 | 32 | .619 Cleveland | 47 | 37 | .559 Troy | 41 | 42 | .494 Worcester | 40 | 43 | .482 Boston | 40 | 44 | .474 Buffalo | 24 | 58 | .293 Cincinnati | 21 | 59 | .263 1881. |Won |Lost|Per cent. -----------+----+----+-------- Chicago | 56 | 28 | .667 Providence | 47 | 37 | .559 Buffalo | 45 | 38 | .542 Detroit | 41 | 43 | .488 Troy | 39 | 45 | .464 Boston | 38 | 45 | .458 Cleveland | 36 | 48 | .429 Worcester | 32 | 50 | .390 1882. |Won |Lost|Per cent. -----------+----+----+-------- Chicago | 55 | 29 | .655 Providence | 52 | 32 | .619 Buffalo | 45 | 39 | .536 Boston | 45 | 39 | .536 Cleveland | 42 | 40 | .512 Detroit | 42 | 41 | .506 Troy | 35 | 48 | .422 Worcester | 18 | 66 | .214 1883. |Won |Lost|Per cent. ------------+----+----+-------- Boston | 63 | 35 | .643 Chicago | 59 | 39 | .602 Providence | 58 | 40 | .592 Cleveland | 55 | 42 | .567 Buffalo | 52 | 45 | .539 New York | 46 | 50 | .479 Detroit | 40 | 58 | .408 Philadelphia| 17 | 81 | .173 1884. |Won |Lost|Per cent. ------------+----+----+-------- Providence | 84 | 28 | .750 Boston | 73 | 38 | .658 Buffalo | 64 | 47 | .577 Chicago | 62 | 50 | .554 New York | 62 | 50 | .554 Philadelphia| 39 | 73 | .348 Cleveland | 35 | 77 | .313 Detroit | 28 | 84 | .250 1885. |Won |Lost|Per cent. ------------+----+----+-------- Chicago | 87 | 25 | .776 New York | 85 | 27 | .758 Philadelphia| 56 | 54 | .509 Providence | 53 | 57 | .481 Boston | 46 | 66 | .410 Detroit | 41 | 67 | .379 Buffalo | 38 | 74 | .339 St. Louis | 36 | 72 | .333 1886. |Won |Lost|Per cent. ------------+----+----+-------- Chicago | 90 | 34 | .725 Detroit | 87 | 36 | .707 New York | 75 | 44 | .630 Philadelphia| 71 | 43 | .622 Boston | 56 | 61 | .478 St. Louis | 43 | 79 | .352 Kansas City | 30 | 91 | .247 Washington | 28 | 92 | .233 1887. |Won|Lost|Per cent. ------------+----+----+-------- Detroit | 79 | 45 | .637 Philadelphia| 75 | 48 | .610 Chicago | 71 | 50 | .587 New York | 68 | 55 | .553 Boston | 61 | 60 | .504 Pittsburg | 55 | 69 | .444 Indianapolis| 46 | 76 | .377 Washington | 37 | 89 | .294 1888. |Won |Lost|Per cent. ------------+----+----+-------- New York | 84 | 47 | .641 Chicago | 77 | 58 | .510 Philadelphia| 69 | 61 | .531 Boston | 70 | 64 | .522 Detroit | 68 | 63 | .519 Pittsburg | 66 | 68 | .493 Indianapolis| 50 | 85 | .370 Washington | 48 | 86 | .358 A summary of the above shows that the Chicago club won the championship six times; the Boston club three times; the Providence club twice, and the Detroit and New York clubs once each. The Chicago club has the best record of a single season--90 victories and 34 defeats-and the highest percentage of victories .798. The only clubs which played in every single season were the Chicago and Boston clubs. THE LEAGUE AVERAGES FOR 1888. The following is the official batting record of players members of League Clubs who have taken part in fifteen or more championship games. SEASON OF 1888. [**Proofreaders note: Table has been split into two parts in order to fit on page.**] | | | G | T | | | | | a | i | R | | | | m | m | u | | | | e | e | n | | | | s | s | s | | | | | | | | | | P | a | S | | | | l | t | c | R | | | a | | o | a | | | y | B | r | n | | | e | a | e |Ave. k | | | d | t | d |per . |NAME. |CLUB | . | . | . |Game. --+------------+------------+---+---+---+----- 1| Anson |Chicago |134|515|101| 0.75 2| Beckley |Pittsburg | 71|283| 35| 0.49 3| Ryan |Chicago |130|549|115| 0.88 4| Kelly |Boston |105|440| 85| 0.81 5|{Ewing |New York |103|415| 83| 0.80 |{Brouthers |Detroit |129|522|118| 0.91 6| Quinn |Boston | 38|156| 19| 0.50 7| White |Detroit |125|527| 75| 0.60 8| Johnston |Boston |135|585|102| 0.75 9| Tiernan |New York |113|443| 75| 0.66 10| Connor |New York |134|481| 98| 0.63 11| Richardson |Detroit | 57|266| 60| 1.05 12|{Van Haltren|Chicago | 81|318| 46| 0.56 |{Nash |Boston |135|526| 71| 0.52 13| Duffy |Chicago | 71|298| 60| 0.84 14| Thompson |Detroit | 55|238| 51| 0.92 15| Hines |Indianapolis|132|513| 84| 0.63 16|{Rowe |Detroit |105|451| 62| 0.59 |{Miller |Pittsburg |103|404| 50| 0.48 17| Conway |Detroit | 44|167| 28| 0.63 18| Hoy |Washington |136|503| 77| 0.56 19|{Buckley |Indianapolis| 71|260| 27| 0.38 |{O'Rourke |New York |107|409| 50| 0.46 20| Brown |New York | 17| 59| 4| 0.23 21| Glasscock |Indianapolis|112|442| 63| 0.56 22|{Hanlon |Detroit |108|459| 64| 0.59 |{McGuire |Phil. & | 15| 64| 17| 0.46 | |Detr't. | | | | 23| Bennett |Detroit | 72|258| 32| 0.44 24|{Dunlap |Pittsburg | 81|317| 41| 0.50 |{Denny |Indianapolis|126|524| 92| 0.73 25| Nicholson |Detroit | 24| 85| 11| 0.46 26| Sutcliffe |Detroit | 49|191| 17| 0.34 27| Pettit |Chicago | 43|169| 24| 0.56 28| Ward |New York |122|510| 70| 0.57 29|{Williamson |Chicago |132|452| 75| 0.57 |{Beaton |Detroit | 16| 56| 8| 0.50 30| Pfeffer |Chicago |135|517| 90| 0.66 31| Ganzell |Detroit | 93|386| 45| 0.48 32|{Clements |Philadelphia| 85|323| 26| 0.30 |{Brown |Boston |107|426| 62| 0.58 |{Ray |Boston | 50|206| 26| 0.52 33| Farrar |Philadelphia|130|504| 53| 0.40 34|{Sanders |Philadelphia| 57|236| 27| 0.47 |{Getzein |Detroit | 45|167| 14| 0.31 |{Slattery |NewYork |103|391| 49| 0.47 35| Twitchell |Detroit |130|524| 71| 0.54 36| Carroll |Pittsburg | 90|362| 61| 0.63 37| Bassett |Indianapolis|128|481| 57| 0.44 38|{Hornung |Boston |107|431| 61| 0.57 |{Wise |Boston |104|417| 66| 0.63 39|{Burns |Chicago |134|483| 60| 0.44 |{Andrews |Philadelphia|123|524| 74| 0.60 |{Myers |Indianapolis| 66|248| 35| 0.53 40| Shoeneck |Indianapolis| 48|169| 15| 0.31 41|{Sullivan |Chicago | 75|314| 40| 0.53 |{Fogarty |Philadelphia|120|451| 71| 0.59 42| Kuhne |Pittsburg |137|520| 60| 0.44 43| Sunday |Pittsburg |119|501| 68| 0.57 44| Farrell |Chicago | 63|241| 34| 0.54 45|{Wood |Philadelphia|105|429| 67| 0.63 |{Coleman |Pittsburg |115|434| 48| 0.41 46|{Tate |Boston | 40|148| 18| 0.45 |{Healy |Indianapolis| 37|131| 14| 0.38 47| Delehanty |Philadelphia| 74|290| 40| 0.54 48| Richardson |New York |135|561| 82| 0.60 49|{Daily |Washington |110|453| 56| 0.50 |{O'Brien |Washington |133|528| 42| 0.31 50|{Wilmot |Washington |119|473| 61| 0.51 |{Dalrymple |Pittsburg | 56|223| 19| 0.33 51| Irwin |Washington | 37|126| 14| 0.38 52|{Irwin |Philadelphia|124|444| 51| 0.41 |{Seery |Indianapolis|133|500| 87| 0.65 |{Gore |New York | 64|254| 37| 0.57 53|{McGeachy |Indianapolis|118|452| 45| 0.38 |{Esterbrook |Indianapolis| 64|246| 21| 0.32 |{Whitney |NewYork | 90|328| 28| 0.31 54|{Sutton |Boston | 28|110| 16| 0.57 |{Daily |Indianapolis| 57|202| 14| 0.24 55|{Mulvey |Philadelphia| 99|394| 37| 0.37 |{Radbourne |Boston | 24| 79| 6| 0.25 56|{Cleveland |N.Y.& Pitts.| 40|145| 17| 0.42 |{Shomberg |Indianapolis| 29|112| 11| 0.38 57| Darling |Chicago | 20| 75| 13| 0.65 58| Maul |Pittsburg | 73|255| 21| 0.29 59|{Myers |Washington |132|502| 47| 0.35 |{Smith |Pittsburg |130|477| 61| 0.44 60| Hallman |Philadelphia| 16| 63| 5| 0.31 61| Gleason |Philadelphia| 23| 83| 4| 0.17 62| Campau |Detroit | 70|251| 28| 0.40 63|{Scheffler |Detroit | 27| 94| 17| 0.63 |{Burdock |Boston | 21| 79| 5| 0.24 64| Donnelly |Washington |122|428| 43| 0.35 65| Widner |Washington | 15| 60| 4| 0.26 66| Morrill |Boston |134|486| 60| 0.44 67| Arundel |Washington | 16| 51| 2| 0.12 68|{Clarkson |Boston | 54|205| 20| 0.37 |{Fields |Pittsburg | 44|169| 22| 0.50 69|{Schriver |Philadelphia| 39|134| 15| 0.38 |{McShannic |Pittsburg | 26| 98| 5| 0.19 70| Bastian |Philadelphia| 80|275| 31| 0.38 71| Daily |Chicago | 65|219| 34| 0.52 72| Welch |New York | 47|169| 16| 0.34 73| Mack |Washington | 85|300| 49| 0.57 74| Schock |Washington | 90|317| 46| 0.51 75|{Fuller |Washington | 49|170| 11| 0.22 |{Shreve |Indianapolis| 36|115| 10| 0.28 76|{Flint |Chicago | 22| 77| 6| 0.27 |{Hatfield |New York | 27|105| 7| 0.26 77| O'Rourke |Boston | 20| 74| 3| 0.15 78| Buffinton |Philadelphia| 44|156| 13| 0.29 79| Whitney |Washington | 42|141| 13| 0.31 80| Murphy |New York | 28|106| 11| 0.39 81| Klusman |Boston | 28|107| 9| 0.32 82|{Madden |Boston | 19| 67| 7| 0.36 |{Krock |Chicago | 39|134| 9| 0.23 83|{Deasley |Washington | 34|127| 6| 0.17 |{Wells |Detroit | 16| 57| 5| 0.31 84| Glenn |Boston | 19| 65| 8| 0.42 85| Casey |Philadelphia| 33|118| 11| 0.33 86| Baldwin |Chicago | 30|106| 11| 0.37 87|{Sowders |Boston | 35|122| 14| 0.40 |{Burdick |Indianapolis| 20| 68| 6| 0.30 |{Foster |New York | 37|136| 15| 0.40 88| Boyle |Indianapolis| 37|125| 13| 0.35 89| Galvin |Pittsburg | 50|175| 6| 0.12 90| Gruber |Detroit | 27| 92| 8| 0.29 91| O'Day |Washington | 47|166| 6| 0.12 92| Staley |Pittsburg | 24| 85| 6| 0.25 93| Keefe |New York | 51|181| 10| 0.19 94| Titcomb |New York | 23| 82| 6|0.26 95| Morris |Pittsburg | 54|186| 12|0.22 | | F | | | | | | | I | | | | | | | r | | | | | | | s | | | | B | | | t | | T | | a | | | | P | o | | s | | | B | e | t | | e | | | a | r | a | | s | | | s | c | l | | | | | e | e | | | S | | | | n | B | | t | R | | H | t | a | | o | a | | i | a | s | | l | n | | t | g | e |Ave. | e |Ave. k | | s | e | s |per | n |per . |NAME. | . | . | . |Game.| . |Game. --+------------+---+----+---+-----+---+----- 1| Anson |177|.343|252| 1.88| 28| 0.20 2| Beckley | 97|.342|121| 1.70| 20| 0.28 3| Ryan |182|.331|285| 2.19| 60| 0.46 4| Kelly |140|.318|205| 1.95| 56| 0.53 5|{Ewing |127|.306|195| 1.89| 53| 0.51 |{Brouthers |160|.306|270| 1.86| 34| 0.26 6| Quinn | 47|.301| 43| 1.92| 12| 0.31 7| White |157|.298|200| 1.60| 12| 0.09 8| Johnston |173|.295|276| 2.04| 35| 0.26 9| Tiernan |130|.293|182| 1.61| 52| 0.46 10| Connor |140|.291|224| 1.67| 27| 0.20 11| Richardson | 77|.289|117| 2.05| 13| 0.23 12|{Van Haltren| 90|.283|130| 1.60| 21| 0.26 |{Nash |149|.283|209| 1.54| 20| 0.15 13| Duffy | 84|.282|121| 1.70| 13| 0.18 14| Thompson | 67|.281|111| 2.02| 5| 0.09 15| Hines |144|.280|186| 1.40| 31| 0.23 16|{Rowe |125|.277|168| 1.60| 10| 0.09 |{Miller |112|.277|139| 1.35| 27| 0.26 17| Conway | 46|.275| 59| 1.34| 1| 0.02 18| Hoy |138|.274|171| 1.26| 82| 0.60 19|{Buckley | 71|.273| 95| 1.33| 4| 0.05 |{O'Rourke |112|.273|154| 1.44| 25| 0.23 20| Brown | 16|.271| 17| 1.00| 1| 0.06 21| Glasscock |119|.269|145| 1.29| 48| 0.43 22|{Hanlon |122|.265|157| 1.45| 38| 0.35 |{McGuire | 17|.265| 23| 1.35| 0| 0.00 23| Bennett | 68|.263|102| 1.41| 4| 0.05 24|{Dunlap | 83|.261|106| 1.30| 24| 0.29 |{Denny |137|.261|220| 1.74| 32| 0.25 25| Nicholson | 22|.259| 33| 1.37| 6| 0.25 26| Sutcliffe | 49|.257| 59| 1.20| 6| 0.12 27| Pettit | 43|.254| 62| 1.44| 7| 0.16 28| Ward |128|.251|154| 1.26| 38| 0.31 29|{Williamson |113|.250|175| 1.32| 25| 0.19 |{Beaton | 14|.250| 25| 1.56| 1| 0.06 30| Pfeffer |129|.249|193| 1.43| 64| 0.47 31| Ganzell | 96|.248|119| 1.28| 12| 0.13 32|{Clements | 80|.247|100| 1.17| 3| 0.03 |{Brown |104|.247|155| 1.45| 46| 0.43 |{Ray | 51|.247| 65| 1.30| 7| 0.14 33| Farrar |124|.246|155| 1.19| 21| 0.17 34|{Sanders | 58|.245| 74| 1.29| 13| 0.22 |{Getzein | 41|.245| 50| 1.11| 6| 0.13 |{Slattery | 96|.245|122| 1.18| 26| 0.25 35| Twitchell |128|.244|167| 1.28| 14| 0.10 36| Carroll | 88|.243|117| 1.22| 18| 0.19 37| Bassett |116|.241|147| 1.15| 24| 0.19 38|{Hornung |103|.239|134| 1.25| 29| 0.27 |{Wise |100|.239|155| 1.49| 33| 0.31 39|{Burns |115|.238|152| 1.13| 34| 0.25 |{Andrews |125|.238|157| 1.27| 35| 0.28 |{Myers | 59|.238| 72| 1.09| 28| 0.42 40| Shoeneck | 40|.237| 44| 0.91| 11| 0.23 41|{Sullivan | 74|.235|117| 1.56| 9| 0.12 |{Fogarty |106|.235|137| 1.14| 58| 0.48 42| Kuhne |122|.234|175| 1.28| 34| 0.25 43| Sunday |117|.233|140| 1.18| 71| 0.59 44| Farrell | 56|.232| 80| 1.27| 8| 0.12 45|{Wood | 99|.230|154| 1.46| 20| 0.19 |{Coleman |100|.230|118| 1.02| 15| 0.13 46|{Tate | 34|.229| 44| 1.10| 3| 0.07 |{Healy | 30|.229| 42| 1.10| 5| 0.13 47| Delehanty | 66|.227| 82| 1.10| 38| 0.51 48| Richardson |127|.226|176| 1.30| 35| 0.26 49|{Daily |102|.225|139| 1.26| 44| 0.40 |{O'Brien |119|.225|167| 1.25| 10| 0.08 50|{Wilmot |106|.224|146| 1.22| 46| 0.38 |{Dalrymple | 50|.224| 64| 1.14| 7| 0.12 51| Irwin | 28|.222| 36| 0.97| 15| 0.40 52|{Irwin | 98|.220|115| 0.92| 19| 0.15 |{Seery |110|.220|163| 1.23| 80| 0.60 |{Gore | 56|.220| 72| 1.12| 11| 0.17 53|{McGeachy | 99|.219|115| 0.97| 49| 0.41 |{Esterbrook | 54|.219| 61| 0.95| 11| 0.17 |{Whitney | 72|.219| 87| 0.96| 7| 0.07 54|{Sutton | 24|.218| 32| 1.14| 10| 0.35 |{Daily | 44|.218| 52| 0.91| 15| 0.26 55|{Mulvey | 85|.215|105| 1.06| 18| 0.12 |{Radbourne | 17|.215| 18| 0.75| 4| 0.16 56|{Cleveland | 31|.214| 51| 1.27| 4| 0.10 |{Shomberg | 24|.214| 33| 1.13| 6| 0.20 57| Darling | 16|.213| 27| 1.35| 0| 0.00 58| Maul | 54|.211| 71| 0.97| 9| 0.12 59|{Myers |104|.207|139| 1.05| 20| 0.15 |{Smith | 99|.207|131| 1.00| 37| 0.27 60| Hallman | 13|.206| 19| 1.19| 1| 0.06 61| Gleason | 17|.205| 20| 0.87| 3| 0.13 62| Campau | 51|.203| 65| 0.93| 27| 0.38 63|{Scheffler | 19|.202| 24| 0.89| 4| 0.15 |{Burdock | 16|.202| 16| 0.76| 1| 0.05 64| Donnelly | 86|.201|104| 0.85| 44| 0.36 65| Widner | 12|.200| 12| 0.80| 1| 0.06 66| Mo*rill | 96|.197|135| 1.00| 21| 0.15 67| Arundel | 10|.196| 12| 0.75| 1| 0.06 68|{Clarkson | 40|.195| 53| 0.98| 5| 0.09 |{Fields | 33|.195| 47| 1.07| 9| 0.20 69|{Schriver | 26|.194| 36| 0.92| 2| 0.05 |{McShannic | 19|.194| 20| 0.77| 3| 0.11 70| Bastian | 53|.192| 62| 0.77| 12| 0.15 71| Daily | 42|.191| 54| 0.83| 10| 0.15 72| Welch | 32|.189| 42| 0.89| 4| 0.08 73| Mack | 56|.186| 77| 0.90| 31| 0.36 74| Schock | 58|.183| 77| 0.85| 23| 0.25 75|{Fuller | 31|.182| 38| 0.77| 6| 0.12 |{Shreve | 21|.182| 24| 0.66| 5| 0.14 76|{Flint | 14|.181| 17| 0.77| 1| 0.04 |{Hatfield | 19|.181| 20| 0.74| 8| 0.29 77| O'Rourke | 13|.175| 13| 0.65| 2| 0.10 78| Buffinton | 27|.173| 32| 0.72| 1| 0.02 79| Whitney | 24|.170| 27| 0.64| 3| 0.07 80| Murphy | 18|.169| 20| 0.71| 3| 0.10 81| Klusman | 18|.168| 28| 1.00| 3| 0.11 82|{Madden | 11|.164| 11| 0.58| 4| 0.21 |{Krock | 22|.164| 25| 0.64| 1| 0.02 83|{Deasley | 20|.157| 23| 0.67| 2| 0.06 |{Wells | 9|.157| 10| 0.63| 0| 0.00 84| Glenn | 10|.154| 12| 0.63| 0| 0.00 85| Casey | 18|.152| 22| 0.66| 2| 0.06 86| Baldwin | 16|.151| 24| 0.80| 4| 0.13 87|{Sowders | 18|.147| 20| 0.57| 1| 0.03 |{Burdick | 10|.147| 11| 0.55| 0| 0.00 |{Foster | 20|.147| 27| 0.73| 13| 0.35 88| Boyle | 18|.144| 21| 0.57| 1| 0.03 89| Galvin | 25|.143| 31| 0.62| 4| 0.08 90| Gruber | 13|.141| 17| 0.63| 0| 0.00 91| O'Day | 23|.138| 25| 0.53| 3| 0.06 92| Staley | 11|.129| 12| 0.50| 2| 0.08 93| Keefe | 23|.127| 33| 0.64| 3| 0.06 94| Titcomb | 10|.122| 13| 0.56| 5| 0.21 95| Morris | 19|.102| 23| 0.42| 2| 0.04 FIELDING RECORD. Of Players, Members of League Clubs, who have taken part in fifteen or more Championship Games, Season of 1888. FIRST BASEMEN. | | | | | T | F | | P | | | | N | i | i | | e | | | | u | m | e | T | r | | | G | m | e | l | o | c | | | a | b | s | d | t | e | | | m | e | | i | a | n | | | e | r | A | n | l | t | | | s | | s | g | | a A | | | | P | s | | C | g c | | | P | u | i | E | h | e c | | | l | t | s | r | a | e R | | | a | | t | r | n | p a | | | y | O | i | o | c | t n | | | e | u | n | r | e | e k | | | d | t | g | s | s | d . |NAME. |CLUB. | . | . | . | . | . | . --+-----------+------------+---+----+---+---+----+----- 1| Anderson |Chicago |134|1314| 65| 20|1399| .985 2| Connor |New York |133|1337| 43| 26|1406| .981 3| Beckley |Pittsburg | 71| 744| 19| 16| 779| .979 | Farrar |Philadelphia|130|1345| 53| 30|1428| .979 | Morrill |Boston |134|1398| 72| 31|1501| .979 4| Esterbrook|Indianapolis| 61| 628| 20| 16| 654| .976 5| Coleman |Pittsburg | 25| 235| 4| 6| 245| .975 | O'Brien |Washington |132|1272| 38| 33|1343| .975 6| Shoeneck |Indianapolis| 48| 501| 16| 14| 531| .973 7| Brouthers |Detroit |129|1345| 48| 42|1435| .970 8| Maul |Pittsburg | 37| 392| 9| 13| 414| .968 9| Shomberg |Indianapolis| 15| 136| 0| 5| 141| .964 SECOND BASEMEN. | | | | | T | F | | P | | | | N | i | i | | e | | | | u | m | e | T | r | | | G | m | e | l | o | c | | | a | b | s | d | t | e | | | m | e | | i | a | n | | | e | r | A | n | l | t | | | s | | s | g | | a A | | | | P | s | | C | g c | | | P | u | i | E | h | e c | | | l | t | s | r | a | e R | | | a | | t | r | n | p a | | | y | O | i | o | c | t n | | | e | u | n | r | e | e k | | | d | t | g | s | s | d . |NAME. |CLUB. | . | . | . | . | . | . --+-----------+------------+---+----+---+---+----+----- 1| Bastian |Philidelphia| 65| 145|258| 23| 427| .946 2| Richardson|New York |135| 321|423| 46| 790| .942 3| Danlap |Pittsburg | 81| 237|276| 33| 546| .939 4| Nicholson |Detroit | 24| 44| 71| 8| 123| .935 5| Pfeffer |Chicago |135| 421|457| 65| 943| .931 6| Richardson|Detroit | 57| 173|185| 29| 387| .925 7| Bassett |Indianapolis|128| 250|423| 57| 730| .921 8| Meyers |Washington |132| 271|399| 60| 730| .918 9| Kinsman |Boston | 28| 63| 75| 13| 151| .914 10| Quinn | " | 38| 97|115| 20| 232| .913 11| Smith |Pittsburg | 56| 131|184| 33| 348| .905 12| Nash |Boston | 31| 90|108| 21| 219| .904 13| Burdock | " | 21| 53| 68| 13| 134| .903 14| Ganzell |Detroit | 51| 110|168| 31| 309| .899 15| Delehanty |Philadelphia| 56| 129|170| 44| 343| .871 THIRD BASEMEN. | | | | | T | F | | P | | | | N | i | i | | e | | | | u | m | e | T | r | | | G | m | e | l | o | c | | | a | b | s | d | t | e | | | m | e | | i | a | n | | | e | r | A | n | l | t | | | s | | s | g | | a A | | | | P | s | | C | g c | | | P | u | i | E | h | e c | | | l | t | s | r | a | e R | | | a | | t | r | n | p a | | | y | O | i | o | c | t n | | | e | u | n | r | e | e k | | | d | t | g | s | s | d . |NAME. |CLUB. | . | . | . | . | . | . --+-----------+------------+---+----+---+---+----+----- 1| Nash |Boston |104| 139|250| 37| 426| .913 2| Kuhne |Pittsburg | 74| 95|166| 26| 287| .909 3| McShannie | " | 26| 39| 49| 9| 97| .907 4| Burns |Chicago |134| 194|273| 49| 516| .905 5| Denny |Indianapolis| 96| 158|214| 44| 416| .894 6| Mulvey |Philadelphia| 99| 87|174| 32| 293| .890 7| Whitney |New York | 90| 90|184| 35| 309| .886 8| Donnelly |Washington |117| 126|230| 51| 407| .874 9| Sutton |Boston | 27| 82| 47| 13| 92| .858 10| White |Detroit |125| 146|244| 65| 455| .857 11| Ewing |New York | 21| 32| 29| 15| 76| .802 12| Buckley |Indianapolis| 21| 17| 28| 12| 57| .789 13| Cleveland |NY & Pitts'g| 40| 27| 57| 23| 107| .785 SHORT STOPS. | | | | | T | F | | P | | | | N | i | i | | e | | | | u | m | e | T | r | | | G | m | e | l | o | c | | | a | b | s | d | t | e | | | m | e | | i | a | n | | | e | r | A | n | l | t | | | s | | s | g | | a A | | | | P | s | | C | g c | | | P | u | i | E | h | e c | | | l | t | s | r | a | e R | | | a | | t | r | n | p a | | | y | O | i | o | c | t n | | | e | u | n | r | e | e k | | | d | t | g | s | s | d . |NAME. |CLUB. | . | . | . | . | . | . --+-----------+------------+---+----+---+---+----+----- 1| Denny |Indianapolis| 23| 65| 88| 14| 167| .916 2| Kuhne |Pittsburgh | 63| 112|159| 25| 296| .915 3| Smith |Pittsburgh | 74| 90|246| 37| 373| .900 3|{Glasscock |Indianapolis|109| 201|334| 59| 594| .900 |{Irwin |Philadelphia|121| 204|374| 64| 642| .900 |{Shock |Washington | 52| 84|168| 28| 280| .900 |{Sutcliffe |Detroit | 24| 39| 88| 14| 141| .900 4| Williamson|Chicago |132| 120|375| 62| 557| .888 5| Wise |Boston | 89| 179|271| 57| 507| .887 6| Ray |Boston | 47| 58|130| 26| 214| .878 7| Rowe |Detroit |103| 133|312| 72| 517| .860 8| Irwin |Washington | 27| 54| 87| 23| 164| .859 9| Ward |New York |122| 185|331| 86| 602| .857 10| Fuller |Washington | 47| 67|140| 38| 245| .854 FIELDERS | | | | | T | F | | P | | | | N | i | i | | e | | | | u | m | e | T | r | | | G | m | e | l | o | c | | | a | b | s | d | t | e | | | m | e | | i | a | n | | | e | r | A | n | l | t | | | s | | s | g | | a A | | | | P | s | | C | g c | | | P | u | i | E | h | e c | | | l | t | s | r | a | e R | | | a | | t | r | n | p a | | | y | O | i | o | c | t n | | | e | u | n | r | e | e k | | | d | t | g | s | s | d . |NAME. |CLUB. | . | . | . | . | . | . --+------------+------------+---+----+---+---+----+----- 1|{O'Rourke |New York | 87| 136| 13| 6| 149| .959 |{Tiernan |New York |113| 174| 16| 8| 198| .959 2| Glenn |Boston | 19| 42| 2| 2| 46| .956 3| Sanders |Philadelphia| 25| 38| 5| 2| 46| .955 4| Hornung |Boston |107| 151| 10| 9| 170| .947 5| Maul |Pittsburgh | 34| 59| 8| 4| 71| .943 6| Seery |Indianapolis|133| 258| 19| 18| 295| .939 7| Sunday |Pittsburgh |119| 292| 27| 21| 340| .938 8|{Campau |Detroit | 70| 101| 10| 8| 119| .932 |{McGeachy |Indianapolis|117| 194| 27| 16| 237| .932 9| Petit |Chicago | 43| 46| 8| 4| 58| .931 10| Fogarty |Philadelphia|116| 239| 26| 20| 285| .929 11|{Sullivan |Chicago | 75| 114| 13| 10| 137| .927 |{Coleman |Pittsburgh | 90| 160| 20| 14| 194| .927 12|{Slattery |New York |103| 187| 16| 18| 221| .918 |{Hanlon |Detroit |108| 230| 7| 21| 258| .918 13| Miller |Pittsburgh | 32| 58| 7| 6| 71| .915 14| Daily |Washington |100| 179| 19| 19| 217| .912 15| Hines |Indianapolis|124| 255| 13| 26| 294| .911 15| Delehanty |Philadelphia| 17| 28| 3| 3| 34| .911 16| Duffy |Chicago | 67| 103| 19| 12| 134| .910 17| Dalrymple |Pittsburgh | 57| 80| 9| 9| 98| .908 18| Wood |Philadelphia|103| 175| 15| 20| 210| .904 19| Andrews |Philadelphia|123| 210| 23| 25| 258| .903 20| Johnston |Boston |135| 286| 30| 36| 352| .897 20| Hoy |Washington |136| 296| 26| 37| 359| .897 21| Brown |Boston |107| 172| 18| 22| 212| .896 22| Shock |Washington | 35| 59| 7| 8| 74| .892 23| Fields |Pittsburgh | 29| 49| 6| 7| 62| .887 24| Twitchell |Detroit |129| 195| 13| 27| 235| .885 25| Farrell |Chicago | 31| 50| 3| 7| 60| .883 26| Thompson | Detroit | 55| 86| 4| 12| 102| .882 27| Ryan |Chicago |125| 217| 84| 35| 286| .877 28| Van Haltren|Chicago | 54| 73| 9| 12| 94| .872 28| Wilmot |Washington |119| 260| 19| 41| 320| .872 29| Foster |New York | 37| 64| 5| 12| 81| .851 30| Scheffler |Detroit | 27| 49| 1| 9| 59| .847 31| Gore |New York | 64| 88| 4| 18| 110| .836 32| Carroll |Pittsburg | 38| 45| 2| 10| 57| .824 33| Kelly |Boston | 31| 28| 4| 12| 44| .727 CATCHERS' AVERAGES. | | | | | T | F| | | P | | | | N | i | i| | | e | | | | u | m | e| | T | r | | | G| m | e | l| P| o | c | | | a| b | s | d| a| t | e | | | m| e | | i| s| a | n | | | e| r | A | n| s| l | t | | | s| | s | g| e| | a A | | | | P | s | | d| C | g c | | | P| u | i | E| | h | e c | | | l| t | s | r| B| a | e R | | | a| | t | r| A| n | p a | | | y| O | i | o| L| c | t n | | | e| u | n | r| L| e | e k | | | d| t | g | s| S| s | d . |NAME. |CLUB. | .| . | . | .| .| . | . --+----------+------------+--+---+---+--+--+---+----- 1| Bennett |Detroit |72|424| 94|18|14|550| .941 2| Ganzell |Detroit |25|156| 41| 9|15|221| .891 3| Daily |Chicago |69|400|107|33|36|576| .880 4| Clements |Philadelphia|84|494|104|47|39|684| .874 5| Ewing |New York |78|480|143|35|65|723| .861 6| Wells |Detroit |16| 96| 25|11| 9|141| .858 7| Myers |Indianapolis|46|211| 63|21|27|322| .851 8| Flint |Chicago |22| 96| 42|11|14|163| .846 9| Mack |Washington |79|361|152|47|48|608| .843 10|{Deasley |Washington |31|177| 60|20|25|282| .840 |{Murphy |New York |28|186| 56|23|23|288| .840 11| Darling |Chicago |20|139| 26|12|21|198| .833 12| Buckley |Indianapolis|48|213| 60|31|28|332| .822 13| Miller |Pittsburg |68|268| 76|35|48|427| .805 14| O'Rourke |Boston |20| 89| 37|17|14|157| .803 15| Tate |Boston |40|188| 64|43|19|314| .802 16| Kelly |Boston |74|367|146|77|54|644| .796 17| Carroll |Pittsburg |53|265| 58|37|46|406| .795 18| Daily |Indianapolis|42|215| 69|34|41|359| .791 19| Brown |New York |17|134| 24|19|26|203| .778 20| Farrell |Chicago |31|171| 50|32|34|287| .770 21| Schriver |Philadelphia|27|148| 39|28|29|244| .760 22| Arundel |Washington |16| 63| 16|15|21|115| .687 PITCHERS' RECORD IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER [**Proofreaders note: To fit the page I broke this chart into 2 tables*] | | |T |R | |R | |F M| | | |I |u | |u | |i a| | | |m |n | |n | |r d| | | |e |s | |s | |s e| | | |s | | | | |t | | | G| o |S b| |E b| | b| | | a|a f |C y| |a y| |B y| | | m|t |o | |r | |a | P | | e| O |r O| |n O| |s O| e | | s|B p |e p| |e p| |e p| r | | |a p |d p| |d p| | p| c | | P|t o | o| | o| |H o| e | | l| n | n| | n| |i n| n | | a| e | e| | e| |t e| t | | y| n | n| | n| |s n| a | | e| t | t|Ave. | t|Ave. | t| g | | d| s | s|per | s|per | s| e NAME. |CLUB. | .| . | |Game.| .|Game.| .| . -----------+-------------+--+-----+----+-----+----+-----+----+---- Buffinton |Philadelphia |44|1492 | 134|3.04 | 72| 1.63| 321|.215 Baldwin |Chicago |28| 960 | 125|4.46 | 65| 2.32| 233|.242 Burdick |Indianapolis |20| 700 | 88|4.40 | 52| 2.60| 167|.238 Boyle | " " |37|1294 | 181|4.89 | 90| 2.43| 317|.245 Conway |Detroit |44|1508 | 168|3.82 | 84| 1.81| 315|.208 Clarkson |Boston |53|1885 | 239|4.51 | 120| 2.26| 436|.231 Casey |Philadelphia |32|1141 | 153|4.78 | 86| 2.69| 296|.259 Getzein |Detroit |45|1626 | 224|4.98 | 137| 3.04| 402|.247 Gleason |Philadelphia |23| 791 | 106|4.61 | 57| 2.48| 200|.252 Galvin |Pittsburg |50|1760 | 193|3.86 | 123| 2.46| 437|.248 Gruber |Detroit |27| 934 | 124|4.59 | 57| 2.11| 199|.213 Healy |Indianapolis |37|1326 | 204|5.51 | 128| 3.46| 357|.269 Krock |Chicago |39|1294 | 143|3.66 | 74| 1.89| 293|.226 Keefe |New York |50|1643 | 149|2.99 | 75| 1.50| 329|.200 Madden |Boston |19| 648 | 84|4.42 | 53| 2.79| 154|.237 Morris |Pittsburg |54|1911 | 213|3 94 | 114| 2.11| 459|.240 O'Day |Washington |46|1545 | 215|4.67 | 108| 2.34| 374|.242 Radbourne |Boston |24| 791 | 110|4.58 | 67| 2.79| 192|.242 Shreve |Indianapolis |35|1235 | 210|6.00 | 134| 3.82| 356|.2*8 Sowders |Boston |35|1219 | 155|4.43 | 69| 1.97| 283|.232 Staley |Pittsburg |24| 774 | 103|4.29 | 58| 2.41| 186|.240 Sanders |Philadelphia |31|1097 | 113|3.64 | 57| 1.84| 247|.225 Titcomb |New York |23| 756 | 97|4.21 | 41| 1.78| 159|.210 Van Haltren|Chicago |27| 967 | 160|5.92 | 81| 3 00| 264|.273 Welch |New York |47|1592 | 156|3.32 | 80| 1.70| 330|.207 Whitney |Washington |39|1309 | 181|4.64 | 94| 2.41| 317|.242 | | | T | F| |B | |P | | N| i | i| |a | |e | | u| m | e| |s o | T |r | | m| e | l| W|e p c| o |c | | b| s | d| i|s p a| t |e | | e| | i| l| o l| a |n | | r| A | n| d|g n l| l |t | | | s | g| |i e e| |a A | | P| s | | P|v n d| C |g c | | u| i | E| i|e t | h |e c | | t| s | r| t|n s b| a | e | | | t | r| c| a| n | p | | O| i | o| h| o l| c | t | | u| n | r| e| n l| e | e | | t| g | s| s| s| s | d NAME |CLUB | .| . | .| .| .| . | . -----------+------------+--+---+--+--+-------+---+----- Buffinton |Philadelphia|31|322|10|12| 62 |437| .808 Baldwin |Chicago |11|208| 5|18| 99 |341| .642 Burdick |Indianapolis|14| 87| 5|14| 44 |164| .616 Boyle | " " |14|180| 7|20| 59 |280| .692 Conway |Detroit |10|267| 7|12| 57 |353| .784 Clarkson |Boston |24|351|22|37| 119 |553| .678 Casey |Philadelphia|15|176| 9|15| 48 |263| .726 Getzein |Detroit |29|276|16|24| 52 |397| .768 Gleason |Philadelphia| 6|128|13|14| 53 |214| .626 Galvin |Pittsburg |23|224|10|11| 58 |326| .758 Gruber |Detroit | 4|121| 8|14| 42 |189| .661 Healy |Indianapolis| 5|206|15|22| 81 |329| .641 Krock |Chicago | 4|217|12|18| 45 |296| .746 Keefe |New York |29|410|17|24| 86 |566| .775 Madden |Boston | 4| 95| 4| 8| 28 |139| .712 Morris |Pittsburg |20|240| 8|17| 70 |355| .732 O'Day |Washington |19|252| 7|23| 123 |424| .639 Radbourne |Boston |14|104| 6| 9| 44 |177| .666 Shreve |Indianapolis| 7|173|16|31| 94 |321| .560 Sowders |Boston |23|192| 8|16| 71 |310| .693 Staley |Pittsburg | 8|127| 5| 8| 52 |200| .675 Sanders |Philadelphia|17|194| 7|10| 34 |262| .805 Titcomb |New York | 1|157| 8| 9| 48 |223| .708 Van Haltren|Chicago |25|181| 5|24| 53 |288| .715 Welch |New York |16|248|17|20| 113 |414| .637 Whitney |Washington |24|145|11|10| 60 |250| .676 BATTING AND FIELDING RECORD Of Clubs, Members of the National League of Professional B. B. Clubs. * * * * * SEASON OF 1888. [**Proofreaders note: Table split into three parts to fit on page] R | | | ||BATTING a | | | ||Times| |Ave.| |Ave. n | |Games |Games||at |Runs |per |Runs |per k |CLUB |Played|Won ||Bat |Scored|Game|Earned|Game --+------------+------+-----++-----+------+----+------+----- 1|New York | 137 | 84 || 4751| 659 |4.81| 334 | 2.44 2|Chicago | 135 | 77 || 4616| 734 |5.43| 441 | 3.26 | | | [1]|| | | | | 3|Philadelphia| 130 | 69 || 4496| 535 |4.11| 272 | 2.09 4|Boston | 137 | 70 || 4835| 669 |4.88| 355 | 2.59 5|Detroit | 134 | 68 || 4859| 721 |5.38| 423 | 3.15 6|Indianapolis| 137 | 66 || 4678| 531 |3.87| 308 | 2.27 | | | [2]|| | | | | 7|Pittsburg | 136 | 50 || 4626| 600 |4.41| 269 | 1.97 8|Washington | 136 | 48 || 4548| 482 |3.54| 225 | 1.65 [Footnote 1: 1 game forfeited to Philadelphia] [Footnote 2: 1 game forfeited to New York] |BATTING |First| | |Ave. | |Ave. |Base |Per- |Total| per |Bases |per CLUB |Hits |centage|Bases| Game |Stolen|Game ------------+-----+-------+-----+------+------+------ New York |1150 | .242 |1581 |11.54 | 314 | 2.29 Chicago |1202 | .260 |1753 |12.98 | 292 | 2.16 Philadelphia|1017 | .226 |1298 | 9.98 | 246 | 1.89 Boston |1180 | .244 |1673 |12.21 | 292 | 2.13 Detroit |1268 | .261 |1724 |12.86 | 192 | 1.43 Indianapolis|1061 | .226 |1359 | 9.92 | 287 | 2.09 Pittsburg |1112 | .240 |1443 |10.61 | 351 | 2.58 Washington | 944 | .207 |1233 | 9.06 | 336 | 2.47 |FIELDING | | T | F | | | |P | | i | i | | | |e | | m | e | | | |r | | e A | l | | | |c A | | s s | d | | | |e c | | s | i | | | |n c | | i | n E| | | |t e | | s | g r|Passed |Bases | |a p | | t | r|Balls |given | |g t |Number| i | o|and |Opponents| |e e | Put | n | r|Wild |on Called|Total | d CLUB | Out | g | s|Pitches|Balls |Chances| ------------+------+------+-----+-------+---------+-------+----- New York | 3633 | 2349 | 432 | 205 | 302 | 6921 |.864 Chicago | 3549 | 2305 | 409 | 200 | 289 | 6752 |.867 Philadelphia| 3469 | 2189 | 429 | 144 | 200 | 6431 |.879 Boston | 3652 | 2288 | 520 | 162 | 270 | 6892 |.861 Detroit | 3579 | 2172 | 474 | 128 | 181 | 6534 |.880 Indianapolis| 3581 | 2048 | 408 | 159 | 225 | 6421 |.876 Pittsburg | 3545 | 2097 | 453 | 189 | 296 | 6580 |.857 Washington | 3497 | 2062 | 522 | 173 | 313 | 6567 |.846 TIE GAMES.--New York 7, Chicago 1, Philadelphia 1, Boston 3, Detroit 3, Pittsbnrg 4, Indianapolis 1, Washington 2. THE VETERANS OF THE LEAGUE. Those of the players who have taken part in League contests for not less than ten years are entitled to the honor of belonging to the ranks of the veterans of the League, and they include the following representative players, the majority of whom are now in League Clubs: |Number |Number | | | |of |of | |First | |Seasons|Games |Times | Base | Perc- Name. |played.|played.|at bat.| hits.| entage -----------------+-------+-------+-------+------+------- Adrian C. Anson | 13 | 1173 | 4904 | 1751 | .357 James O'Rourke | 13 | 1133 | 4832 | 1519 | .314 James L. White | 13 | 1101 | 4610 | 1439 | .312 Paul Hines | 13 | 1184 | 5112 | 1591 | .311 E. B. Sutton | 13 | 1007 | 4196 | 1216 | .289 John F. Morrill | 13 | 1194 | 4685 | 1253 | .267 John J. Burdock | 13 | 871 | 3584 | 911 | .254 M. J. Kelly | 11 | 1080 | 4370 | 1421 | .325 A. Dalrymple | 11 | 909 | 4041 | 1198 | .296 Joseph Start | 11 | 776 | 3366 | 995 | .295 E. N. Williamson | 11 | 1071 | 4163 | 1133 | .274 Geo. F. Gore | 10 | 886 | 3689 | 1157 | .313 Hardy Richardson | 10 | 910 | 3974 | 1230 | .309 John W. Glasscock| 10 | 952 | 3847 | 1089 | .283 Chas. W. Bennett | 10 | 709 | 2720 | 761 | .279 Joseph Hornung | 10 | 858 | 3706 | 988 | .266 F. S. Flint | 10 | 708 | 2759 | 669 | .242 Jas. McCormick | 10 | 499 | 1957 | 464 | .237 D. W. Force | 10 | 746 | 2873 | 598 | .208 Of these Sutton, Dalrymple, Burdock, and Force are in the service of minor League Clubs, while the retired players include Start and McCormick. Those who have played for less than ten years and not less than seven include the following second class of veterans, the first class being limited to players who have a credit of a decade of service: |Number |Number | | | |of |of | |First | |Seasons|Games |Times | Base | Perc- Name. |played.|played.|at bat.| hits.| entage -----------------+-------+-------+-------+------+------- Dennis Brouthers | 9 | 845 | 3578 | 1267 | .354 Rodger Connor | 9 | 943 | 3870 | 1309 | .338 J. C. Howe | 9 | 827 | 3548 | 1067 | .300 Geo. A. Wood | 9 | 854 | 3677 | 1024 | .278 M. C. Dorgan | 9 | 660 | 2719 | 756 | .277 Thomas Burns | 9 | 900 | 3597 | 990 | .275 Edwin Hanlon | 9 | 893 | 3629 | 972 | .267 Jno. M. Ward | 9 | 1046 | 4403 | 1169 | .265 A. A. Irwin | 9 | 796 | 3136 | 796 | .254 Jno. Farrell | 9 | 729 | 3048 | 776 | .254 M. Welch | 9 | 491 | 1817 | 433 | .238 B. Gilligan | 9 | 510 | 1848 | 380 | .209 Jos. F. Galvin | 9 | 524 | 2000 | 418 | .208 Wm. Ewing | 8 | 640 | 2708 | 812 | .299 Fred Dunlap | 8 | 707 | 2972 | 867 | .292 P. Gillespie | 8 | 703 | 2907 | 817 | .278 Thomas York | 8 | 566 | 2291 | 617 | .269 Robert Ferguson | 8 | 538 | 2209 | 596 | .269 Jas. E. Whitney | 8 | 525 | 2085 | 555 | .266 Jeremiah Denny | 8 | 824 | 3308 | 881 | .266 Chas. Radbourn | 8 | 530 | 2092 | 517 | .247 George Shaffer | 7 | 521 | 2137 | 602 | .281 Sam W. Wise | 7 | 698 | 2826 | 785 | .277 Jno. E. Clapp | 7 | 398 | 1688 | 465 | .275 W. A. Purcell | 7 | 500 | 2136 | 559 | .261 J P. Cassidy | 7 | 416 | 1718 | 433 | .252 J. J. Gerhardt | 7 | 565 | 2182 | 489 | .224 Geo. E. Weidman | 7 | 338 | 1273 | 22* | .1*4 | | | | [A] | [A] [**Proofreaders note A: * Indecipherable number**] Of the above Gillespie, Dorgan, Clapp, York, Ferguson and Cassidy have retired from field service. One of the most interesting records of the games played in the professional arena during the past eighteen years of the existence, first of the old National Association from 1871 to 1875 inclusive, and then of the National League from 1876 to 1888 inclusive, is that of the contests each year between the rival Boston and Chicago clubs, the former winning the pennant in 1872, '73, '74, '75, '77 and '78, and also in 1883; while Chicago won it in 1876 and in 1880, '81, '82, '85 and '86. As a matter for interesting reference, we give below the full record of victories and defeats scored by the two clubs from 1871 to 1888 inclusive. The Chicago Club did not play in 1872 and 1873, having been burned out in the great fire of '71. |1871 |1872 |1873 |1874 |1875 |1876 |1877 |1878 |1879 -------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L. -------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- Boston |22|10|39| 8|43|16|52|18|71| 8|39|31|31|17|41|19|49|20 Chicago|20| 9| -| -| -| -|27|31|30|37|52|14|18|30|30|30|44|32 |1880|1881|1882|1883|1884|1885|1886|1887|1888 -------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L. -------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- Boston |40|44|38|45|45|39|63|35|73|38|46|66|56|61|61|60|70|64 Chicago|67|17|56|28|55|29|59|39|62|50|87|25|90|31|71|50|77|58 THE LEAGUE'S PRESIDENT. The close of the League campaign of 1888 saw the President of the League, Mr. N. E. Young, enter upon a new era in the history of his official duties, first as Secretary, then as President-Secretary, two positions he has so faithfully and efficiently filled since the organization of the League. Mr. Young was prominent in organizing the first professional National Association; and but for him Mr. Chadwick would not have been able to have carried out his project of dividing the baseball fraternity into the two officially recognized classes which he did when he started the first professional Association in 1871. From that year to 1875 inclusive, Mr. Young acted as Secretary of the old National Association, and when it was superseded by the National League in 1876 he was elected Secretary of the new organization, Mr. Bulkely, the present Governor of Connecticut, being the League's first President. Mr. Young was also Secretary under the Presidency of Mr. A. G. Mills, and when that gentleman resigned, the worthy Secretary was elected to the joint offices of President, Secretary and Treasurer of the League, and this position he has most capably filled ever since. A Washington journalist has this well-merited compliment to say of the veteran: "The rugged honesty of the League president is a matter with which those interested in base ball have long been familiar. His residence is in Washington, and he was for years a player and umpire, having all the ups and downs usual to their lot, but he is now in very comfortable circumstances. The duties of his office require a cool-headed man, able to do justice to all without fear or favor. It is singularly trying at times, but though the intense rivalry of the different clubs sometimes causes the managers to lose their heads and charge unfairness against the umpires, not a word has ever been said that would in any way compromise Nick Young. It is an honor and credit to the baseball magnates that they have such a man at the head of the League." THE JOINT RULES COMMITTEE AND THEIR WORK. [Illustration: N.E. Young.] The work accomplished by the Joint Rules Committee of the National League and the American Association at their meeting in New York in November, 1888, ranks with the best on record in the revision of the playing rules of the game, and the successful results achieved in improving the code was largely due to the marked efficiency evinced by the chairman of the Committee, Mr. Chas. H. Byrne, the president of the Brooklyn club, who was indefatigable in doing the large amount of revisory work which was thrown upon the committee. In the face of a very noisy and sensational demand for radical changes in the rules governing the game, the committee, as a whole, manifested a wise conservatism in several respects, which cannot help but be of material assistance in advancing the welfare of the game at large. In the first place, by reducing the powers of the attack nearer to an equality with those of the defence--which result was accomplished when they reduced the number of called balls from five to four--they not only adopted a rule which will moderate the dangerous speed in delivering the ball to the bat, but they thereby afforded the batsman an additional chance for more effective work at the bat. This latter point, too, has been aided by reducing the number of outs the batsman has hitherto been unfairly subjected to. The rule which puts batsmen out on catches of foul balls, which, since the game originated, has been an unfair rule of play, has seen its best day; and this year the entering wedge to its ultimate disappearance has been driven in, with the practical result of the repeal of the foul tip catch. This improvement, too, is in the line of aiding the batting side, as it gets rid of one of the numerous ways of putting the batsman out. The argument brought to bear in favor of the elimination of outs from foul balls from the code was in the main as follows: When the batsman hits a fair ball, while at the same time that he gives the fielders a chance to put him out, he himself is also given an equal chance of making a base or of scoring a run; but when he hits a foul ball, while he affords the fielders an opportunity to catch him out, no such compensating advantage is given him in the way of earning a base or a run as in the case of a fair hit ball; and it is in this that the working of the foul ball rule becomes so palpably unjust. It is sufficient punishment for hitting a foul ball that he, as batsman, be deprived of making a base, without adding the unjust penalty of an out. This one sided condition of things, too, is increased when a double play is made on the catch of a foul ball, for not only is the batsman unfairly punished, but also the base runner who may have made the base by a clean hit. It is this latter unfair rule which the committee repealed in getting rid of the foul fly tip; and now a batsman who has earned his base by a safe hit and who runs to the next base on a foul fly tip ball caught by the catcher, can no longer be put out on the double play, as he is now allowed to return to the base he left on the hit, as in the case of a foul ball not caught. Another step in advance was made by the committee when they officially recognized a sacrifice hit as a factor in team work at the bat. Hitherto far too great stress has been laid upon the alleged skill of the batsman in making extra hits--two and three baggers and home runs--at the cost of giving due credit to the batting which forwards base runners and sends in runs. The work of the slugging batsman who, nearly every time he goes to the bat when no one is on the bases, makes an extra hit, does not compare with that of the team worker who either by a single base hit or a sacrifice hit forwards a runner round the bases, or sends a run in. Here is where the batting averages prove to be complete failures so far as affording a criterion of a batsman's value in team work is concerned; which work, by the way, is neither more nor less than that of forwarding base runners or sending runs in by batting--for one batsman may make four extra base hits in a game without forwarding a runner or sending in a run in a single instance, while another batsman may make but one safe hit and three sacrifice hits, and yet either forward as many runners or send in as many runs. Probably the best piece of work done by the committee was the amendment they made to the rules governing the umpire, wherein, in defining the powers of an umpire to impose a fine of not less than $5 nor more than $25 for abusive, threatening or improper language to the umpire, an amendment was made as follows: "A repetition of the offence shall subject such player to a removal from the game, and the immediate substitution of another player then in uniform." Lastly, the rule admitting of an extra substitute being allowed to play in the game, at the option of the captain of either of the contesting teams, though an experiment, gives promise of being a desirable amendment. The classifying of the code of rules so as to facilitate the finding of any special rule during the hurry of a contest in progress, was also a desirable improvement. Take it altogether, the present committee did excellent work at their Fall meeting of 1888. OVERRUNNING THE BASES. Twenty odd years ago George Wright suggested to the Chairman of the old National Association's Committee of Rules that it would be a good plan to allow base runners to overrun first base, giving them the privilege to return and touch the base again without being put out, before attempting to make another base. The suggestion was adopted, and the rule went into effect in 1870, and it has been in operation ever since. When the amendment was presented at the convention of 1869, a delegate wanted the rule applied to all bases, but the majority preferred to test the experiment as proposed at first base. The rule of extending the over-running to all the bases was advocated at the last meeting in 1888 of the Joint Committee of Rules, but it was not adopted. The rule is worthy of consideration, in view of the constant sprains and injuries of one kind and another arising from sliding to bases. There has not been a single instance of an injury occurring from the working of the rule of overrunning first base since the rule was adopted, while serious injuries are of daily occurrence in match games, arising from collisions at other bases than first, and these are due entirely to the absence of the overrunning rule. The most irritating disputes caused by questions involved in sliding to bases and in running up against base players, are also due to the same cause. Why not put a stop to these injuries and these disputes by giving the base runner the same privileges in overrunning second, third and home bases that he now has in overrunning first base? In every way will the adoption of the rule suggested be an improvement, and not the least of its advantages will be its gain to base running, which is, next to fielding, the most attractive feature of our game. THE PATRONS OF BALL GROUNDS. There are two classes of the patrons of professional baseball grounds which club Presidents and Directors have their choice in catering to for each season, and these are, first, the reputable class, who prefer to see the game played scientifically and by gentlemanly exemplars of the beauties of the game; and second, the hoodlum element, who revel in noisy coaching, "dirty ball playing," kicking against the umpires, and exciting disputes and rows in every inning. The Chicago, Philadelphia and Boston Clubs in the League have laid out nearly $200,000 within the past two years in constructing their grounds for the express purpose of eliciting the very best patronage of their respective cities. The Brooklyn Club have excelled in this respect in the American Association by constructing their grounds for a similar class of patrons. But all of the clubs have not followed this example, the majority committing the blunder of considering only the tastes and requirements of the hoodlum class apparently in catering for patronage. This is a great financial mistake. Experience has shown conclusively that it pays best to cater solely for the best class of patronage. The work in doing this is so much more satisfactory for one thing, and it is sure to be the most remunerative. If there is any sport which yields a fair equivalent in the special attractions it presents for an admission fee of half a dollar, it is such ball playing as was exhibited during the past season on the grounds of the leading clubs of the National League. A feature of the attendance at the League games of 1888 was the presence of the fair sex in such goodly numbers. Where the ladies congregate as spectators of sports a refining influence is brought to bear which is valuable to the welfare of the game. Besides which, the patronage of ladies improves the character of the assemblages and helps to preserve the order without which first-class patronage cannot be obtained. THE VALUE OF TEAM WORK. Nothing has been more gratifying to the admirers of the game in the practical experience of improved points of play realized during the season of 1888, than the growing appreciation, by the most intelligent patrons of the game, of the value of team work at the bat, and its great superiority as an element of success in winning pennants, to the old school plan of record batting as shown in the efforts to excel solely in home run hitting and the slugging style of batting. So intent have been the general class of batsmen on making big batting averages that the science of batting and the advantages to be derived from "playing for the side of the bat" have been entirely lost sight of until within the past year. Now, however, the best judges of play in the game have begun to "tumble to" the benefits and to the attractions of team work at the bat, as illustrated by skillful sacrifice hits, batting to help base-runners around and to bring runs in, and not that of going to the bat with the sole idea of trying to "hit the ball out of the lot," or "knock the stuffing out of it," in the effort to get in the coveted home run. with its costly expenditure of physical strength in the 120 yards spurt in running which it involves. There is one thing the season's experience has shown, and that is that field captains of intelligence and judgment, like Anson, Comiskey, Ward, Irwin, et al. have come to realize the fact that team batting is a very important element in bringing about pennant winning, and by team batting is meant the rule which makes everything secondary in the work of the batsman to the important point to forward men around the bases and to bring runs in. The batsman who excels in the essentials of the art of batting is the true leader, though he may not make a three-bagger or a home run more than half a dozen times in a season's batting. And a part of team work at the bat is sacrifice hitting--sacrifice hits being hits which, while they result in the striker's retirement, nevertheless either forward runners to the bases or bring runs in. After a batsman has become a base-runner, whether by a hit, a fielding error, or a battery error, if he be forwarded to second by a safe bunt or a neat tap of the ball, both being base hits; or by a sacrifice hit, the batsman is equally entitled to credit if he forward a runner by such hit. In regard to the slugging tactics which the batsman goes in for extra hits at all costs, it may partly be regarded as a very stupid piece of play at the bat to endeavor to make a home run when there is no one on the bases to benefit by it, and for the reason that it subjects the batsman to a violent sprinting of 120 yards, and professional sprint-runners who enter for runs of that distance, even when in training for the effort, require a half-hour's good rest before making another such effort. And yet there are batsmen who strive to make hits which necessitate a 120 yards run two or three times in a single game. Do field captains who go in for this sluggish style of batting ever think of the wear and tear of a player's physical strength in this slugging business? EVILS IN THE PROFESSIONAL ARENA. The two great obstacles in the way of the success of the majority of professional ball players are wine and women. The saloon and the brothel are the evils of the baseball world at the present day; and we see it practically exemplified in the failure of noted players to play up to the standard they are capable of were they to avoid these gross evils. One day it is a noted pitcher who fails to serve his club at a critical period of the campaign. Anon, it is the disgraceful escapade of an equally noted umpire. And so it goes from one season to another, at the cost of the loss of thousands of dollars to clubs who blindly shut their eyes to the costly nature of intemperance and dissipation in their ranks. We tell you, gentlemen of the League and Association, the sooner you introduce the prohibition plank in your contracts the sooner you will get rid of the costly evil of drunkenness and dissipation among your players. Club after club have lost championship honors time and again by this evil, and yet they blindly condone these offences season after season. The prohibition rule from April to October is the only practical rule for removing drunkenness in your teams. PRIVATE SIGNALS IN COACHING. The coaching of base runners by private signals is an improvement in the game which is bound to come into vogue eventually. The noisy method of coaching which disgraced most of the American Association club teams in 1888 is doomed to die out. In the case of the coaching of deaf mutes, like Hoy and others, private signals had to be employed, and it can readily be seen how effective these can be made to be when properly systematized. There is not a single point in noisy verbal coaching which aids base-runners. In fact, in five cases out of six, it is a detriment to the runner. The fact is, the whole object of rowdy coaching is to annoy and confuse the battery players and not to help base-running. The way to rattle both the catcher and pitcher with the best effect, and to do it legitimately, is by private coaching. In this way a pitcher is more likely to get bothered in his endeavors to interpret the private signals than by the noisiest of verbal coaching. [Illustration: Brooklyn Grounds.] THE AMERICAN ASSOCIATION. THE CHAMPIONSHIP CAMPAIGN OF 1888. The championship campaign of the American Association in 1888 proved to be exceptionally interesting in one respect, and that was in the close contest for the lead between the St. Louis, Brooklyn, Athletic and Cincinnati Clubs. Another feature was the fact that the best managed and most ably captained team of the eight clubs deservedly bore off the championship honors of the season; and that, too, against the strong team of picked star players which the Brooklyn Club gathered together at such cost to oppose the champions. The season was also made specially noteworthy by the fact that the St. Louis Club came in victors in the race for the fourth consecutive season, a record no other club except the Boston has ever been able to equal, and in the case of the Boston Club it was done before the organization of the National League. The pennant race was commenced on April 18, on which date the Louisville team began play at St. Louis, and the Cincinnatis at Kansas City in the West; while the Cleveland team opened at Brooklyn, and the Baltimore at Philadelphia in the East, the victors being the St. Louis, Cincinnati, Brooklyn, and Baltimore teams. By the end of April the Cincinnati and Athletic teams led in the West and East, with St. Louis and Brooklyn occupying fourth and fifth positions respectively, in the race. Before the end of May, while Cincinnati stood in the van, St. Louis had pulled up to second place, and Brooklyn had secured third position, the Athletics being fourth. In June Cincinnati fell off and St. Louis went to the front, with Brooklyn a close second, and the Athletics third. In July, Cincinnati rallied well and pushed the Athletics down to fourth place, while St. Louis and Brooklyn still occupied the leading positions. It was during the week ending July 15 that Brooklyn held first place with a percentage of .676 to St. Louis .639; before the month ended, however, St. Louis pulled up to .662, while Brooklyn stood at .641. August proved to be a fatal month for Brooklyn, they only winning 8 games out of 22 won and lost this month, the result of their tumble being their retirement to fourth place, Cincinnati rallying well this month, while St. Louis began to look sure for the pennant, the Athletics ending the month a good third in the race. In September the Athletics pressed the Cincinnatis hard, and drove them out of second place, and before the month ended it was made evident that the closing part of the campaign would see a hot fight for the second position in the race between the Athletic and Brooklyn teams, September seeing the St. Louis team a fixture for first place, while Cincinnati was kept back in fourth position. By the close of September, St. Louis held first with a percentage of .691; the Athletics were second, with .615; Brooklyn third with .606, and Cincinnati fourth with .574. October saw a close struggle between the Athletic and Brooklyn teams for second place, and had the former team been kept temperate they would have finished second; but they "boozed" too much in October, and this gave Brooklyn the chance to take the position from them, and when the campaign ended on the 17th of October the record left the eight clubs occupying the following relative positions: | Won. | Lost. | Per Ct. ----------+------+-------+------- St. Louis | 92 | 43 | .681 Brooklyn | 88 | 52 | .629 Athletic | 81 | 52 | .609 Cincinnati| 80 | 54 | .597 Baltimore | 57 | 80 | .416 Cleveland | 50 | 82 | .378 Louisville| 48 | 87 | .355 Kans. City| 43 | 89 | .326 In the above record the Athletic Club is credited with one victory and Baltimore with one defeat less than they were given credit for in the records published at the close of the season. The game was taken out of the record by the following order of President Wikoff: NEW YORK, October 16. W.S. KAMES, Esq, Secretary Athletic Base Ball Club, Philadelphia: _Dear Sir:_--I find on examination that the Baltimore Athletic game of June 10, 1888, played at Gloucester, N.J., and won by your club, and which has been counted in the regular championship series as a postponed game of April 21, was irregular, for the reason that the said postponed game of April 21 was played off by your club in Philadelphia as per authority of my official circular No. 36, on May 16, 1888. Therefore, the game won by the Athletic Club on June 10 cannot be counted in the regular championship series. Yours truly, WHEELER C. WIKOFF, Secy. It will be seen that the St. Louis Club won the championship, and for the fourth consecutive time, thus breaking the record. The Brooklyns, by a liberal expenditure of money toward the close of the season, succeeded in strengthening sufficiently to head off the Athletics for second place, and the latter had to be content with third position. The Cincinnatis did good work toward the close, despite the sale of several valuable players, and almost succeeded in closing the gap between fourth and third places; as it was, they ended a close fourth. Baltimore secured fifth place by a goodly margin over the sixth club, Cleveland. Louisville finished seventh, the lowest position the club ever occupied. Kansas City, though the tail-ender, nevertheless made an excellent first-season record. Neither the St. Louis nor Brooklyn Clubs lost a series. They split even with ten victories each in their games, and Brooklyn stood alone in winning the series from every other club. The Brooklyn Club alone played its full schedule of 140 games. The following is a full and complete summary of the work done by the eight clubs in the championship arena during 1888: | | | | | | | | K | | | | C | | | L | a | S | | | I | B | C | o | n | t | B | A | n | a | l | u | s | . | r | t | c | l | e | i | a | | o | h | i | t | v | s | s | L | o | l | n | i | e | v | | o | k | e | n | m | l | i | C | u | l | t | a | o | a | l | i | i | y | i | t | r | n | l | t | s | n | c | i | e | d | e | y | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . -----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Victories | 92| 88| 81| 80| 57| 50| 48| 43 Defeats | 43| 52| 52| 54| 80| 82| 87| 89 Drawn Games | 2| 3| 3| 3| 0| 3| 4| 0 Total Played | 137| 143| 136| 137| 137| 135| 139| 132 Per Cent. of Victories |.681|.629|.609|.597|.416|.378|.355|.326 Series Won | 4| 6| 4| 3| 2| 0| 1| 0 Series Lost | 0| 0| 1| 1| 4| 3| 5| 6 Series Tied | 1| 1| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0 Series Unfinished | 2| 0| 1| 2| 1| 4| 1| 1 "Chicago" Victories | 12| 9| 13| 9| 3| 5| 6| 4 "Chicago" Defeats | 4| 9| 5| 7| 8| 12| 6| 10 Home Victories | 60| 52| 51| 56| 30| 32| 26| 25 Home Defeats | 21| 20| 20| 24| 26| 27| 29| 33 Victories Abroad | 29| 36| 30| 24| 27| 18| 22| 18 Defeats Abroad | 22| 32| 32| 50| 31| 23| 58| 56 Extra Innings Victories| 3| 7| 5| 8| 3| 1| 2| 1 Extra Innings Defeats | 6| 3| 7| 4| 3| 1| 5| 2 Extra Innings Drawn | 2| 2| 2| 2| 0| 1| 1| 0 Single Figure Victories| 73| 74| 57| 56| 48| 37| 37| 32 Single Figure Defeats | 38| 46| 46| 44| 59| 58| 62| 65 Double Figure Victories| 19| 14| 24| 24| 9| 13| 11| 11 Double Figure Defeats | 5| 6| 6| 10| 21| 24| 25| 24 Batting Average |.250|.243|.263|.240|.231|.235|.248|.221 Fielding Average |.930|.924|.934|.940|.928|.941|.913|.921 Highest Score in a Game| 18| 18| 28| 18| 12| 23| 18| 26 Worst Defeat | 5-0| 7-0| 8-0|12-0|14-0|15-0| 9-0|14-0 Won by One Run | 15| 20| 11| 19| 16| 14| 11| 16 Lost by One Run | 18| 15| 15| 14| 10| 19| 10| 15 Total Runs Scored | 790| 757| 828| 734| 653| 641|.678| 578 Total Stolen Bases | 526| 413| 568| 464| 374| 399| 368| 266 THE CHAMPION CLUB TEAM OF 1888. There were fourteen players of the St. Louis team who took part in forty games and over, the first nine being as follows: King, pitcher, 65 games; Boyle, catcher, 71 games; Comiskey, first baseman, 137 games; Robinson, second baseman, 134 games; Latham, third baseman, 133 games; White, shortstop, 109 games; O'Neill, left field, 130 games; Lyons, center field, 123 games; and McCarthy, right field, 131 games. The other battery players were Hudson, pitcher, 55 games; Milligan, catcher, 63 games; Chamberlain, pitcher, 40 games; Herr, shortstop, 43 games, and McGarr, second base, 35 games. The other players are not named in the official averages. The first nine who played in one hundred games and over, and who led in batting averages, were O'Neill, McCarthy, Comiskey, Latham, Robinson, White, and Lyons; Hudson, Milligan, Boyle, King and Chamberlain, all of whom played in less than one hundred games, following in order. In fielding averages, Comiskey, Milligan, O'Neill, Boyle, McCarthy, Lyons, Robinson and Latham. The feature of the work of the team in winning the pennant was the ability shown by Captain Comiskey in his position; the fine infield work, too, of Latham and Robinson, and the outfielding of O'Neill and McCarthy greatly aiding the batteries of the team. The full summary of the team's work is given below: | | | | | | | K || | | | C | | | L | a || | | | i | B | C | o | n || | B | A | n | a | l | u | s || | r | t | c | l | e | i | a || | o | h | i | t | v | s | s || T | l | l | n | i | e | v | || o | k | e | n | m | l | i | C || t | l | t | a | o | a | l | I || a | y | i | t | r | n | l | t || l | n | c | i | e | d | e | y || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . -----------------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----++--- Victories | 10| 10| 10| 14| 16| 16| 16|| 92 Defeats | 10| 7| 8| 6| 4| 4| 4|| 43 Drawn Games | 1| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0|| 2 Series Won | 0| 0| 0| 1| 1| 1| 1|| 4 Series Tied | 1| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0|| 1 Series Unfinished | 0| 1| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0|| 2 "Chicago" Victories | 3| 2| 0| 2| 4| 1| 0|| 12 "Chicago" Defeats | 1| 1| 1| 0| 1| 0| 0|| 4 Single Figure Victories| 9| 10| 8| 11| 13| 10| 14|| 75 Single Figure Defeats | 9| 5| 7| 6| 4| 3| 4|| 38 Double Figure Victories| 1| 0| 2| 3| 4| 6| 2|| 18 Double Figure Defeats | 1| 2| 1| 0| 0| 1| 0|| 5 Extra Innings Games | 2| 2| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0|| 5 Victories at Home | 6| 6| 6| 8| 9| 11| 14|| 60 Defeats at Home | 4| 3| 4| 3| 1| 2| 3|| 21 Victories Abroad | 4| 4| 4| 6| 7| 5| 2|| 32 Defeats Abroad | 6| 4| 4| 2| 3| 2| 1|| 22 Won by One Run | 2| 3| 2| 0| 3| 4| 1|| 15 Lost by One Run | 5| 1| 4| 4| 1| 1| 2|| 18 Highest Score in a Game|13-4| 8-1|17-5|16-9|14-4|18-1|14-5| Worst Defeat |2-11| 0-5|1-10| 2-6| 2-8|4-10| 7-9| The pitching record of the champion team for 1888 is appended: [**Proofreaders note: Table split into two parts to fit on page] | | | | | | | K | | | C | | | L | a | | | i | B | C | o | n | B | A | n | a | l | u | s | r | t | c | l | e | i | a | o | h | i | t | v | s | s | l | l | n | i | e | v | | k | e | n | m | l | i | C | l | t | a | o | a | l | i | y | i | t | r | n | l | t | n | c | i | e | d | e | y | . | . | . | . | . | . | . ------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+--- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L. ------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- King | 8| 4| 6| 3| 5| 4| 6| 5| 1| 6| 3| 6| 1| 1 Hudson | 1| 3| 3| 2| 2| 0| 5| 1| 7| 2| 6| 0| 2| 2 Chamberlain | 1| 1| 1| 1| 3| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 2| 0| 2| 0 Devlin | 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 2| 0| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 4| 1 Knauff | 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 2| 2| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| 2| 0 Freeman | 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0 ------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- Totals |10|10|10| 7|10| 8|14| 6|16| 4|16| 4|16| 4 | |Per | |Cent | |of |Totals. |Victories. ------------+--------------+--------- | W. | L. | P. | ------------+----+----+----+--------- King | 44 | 21 | 65 | .671 Hudson | 26 | 10 | 36 | .722 Chamberlain | 11 | 2 | 13 | .853 Devlin | 6 | 5 | 11 | .545 Knauff | 5 | 4 | 9 | .555 Freeman | 0 | 1 | 1 | .000 ------------+----+----+----+--------- Totals | 92 | 43 |135 | The appended record of the six years' work in the American Association championship arena, showing the winning clubs and their managers, as also their victories, defeats and percentage of victories, will be found interesting: |WINNING | | | | | YEAR.|CLUB. |MANAGER.|Victories.|Defeats.|Games.|Percentage. -----+------------+--------+----------+--------+------+----------- 1882 |Cincinnati |Thorner | 55 | 25 | 80 | .680 1883 |Athletic |Simmons | 66 | 32 | 98 | .670 1884 |Metropolitan|Mutrie | 75 | 32 | 107 | .700 1885 |St. Louis |Comiskey| 79 | 33 | 112 | .705 1886 |St. Louis |Comiskey| 93 | 46 | 139 | .669 1887 |St. Louis |Comiskey| 95 | 40 | 135 | .704 1888 |St. Louis |Comiskey| 92 | 43 | 135 | .681 THE MONTHLY RECORD. The record of the victories and defeats scored each month of the championship campaign is appended, by which it will be seen that the record of the Brooklyn team for October surpassed that of any other club's monthly record of the season. Cincinnatis led in April, Brooklyn in May, the Athletics in June, Cincinnatis in July, St. Louis in August, while in September St. Louis and Brooklyn tied, Brooklyn leading in October. St. Louis's best month's work was done in August, Brooklyn's in October, the Athletics' in June, the Cincinnatis' in July, the Baltimores' in September, the Clevelands' in September, the Louisvilles' in July, and the Kansas Citys' in August. Kansas City was the only club which failed in at least one month to score more victories than defeats, their best record for any month being a tie in victories and defeats. Here is the table in full: |April.|May. |June.|July.|Aug. |Sept. |Oct. ||Totals. -----------+------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-------+-----++------- |W.| L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.| W.|L. |W.|L.|| W.|L. -----------+--+---+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+---+---+--+--++---+--- St. Louis | 5| 3 |14| 5|16| 7|15|12|18| 3| 18| 8| 6| 5|| 92| 43 Brooklyn | 7| 5 |18| 4|14| 9|12|11| 8|14| 18| 8|11| 1|| 88| 52 Athletic | 7| 4 | 7|11|18| 4|12|11|16| 6| 14| 12| 7| 4|| 81| 52 Cincinnati | 8| 3 |15| 6| 9|13|16| 7|12| 9| 11| 14| 9| 2|| 80| 54 Baltimore | 6| 4 | 7|11|12|12| 9|17| 7|17| 13| 12| 3| 8|| 57| 80 Cleveland | 2| 9 | 9|11| 6|15|12|13| 6|12| 12| 12| 3|10|| 50| 82 Louisville | 4| 7 | 5|16| 7|15|13|10| 8|14| 7| 18| 4| 7|| 47| 87 Kansas City| 2| 6 | 5|16| 7|14| 9|17|11|11| 8| 15| 2| 8|| 43| 89 -----------+--+---+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+---+---+--+--++---+--- Totals |41|41 |80|80|89|89|98|98|86|86|100|100|45|45||539|539 The Athletics' victory over Baltimore on June 10, is not counted in the above table. The official record of the American Association for the season of 1888 as sent us by President Wikoff, will be found in full below: BATTING RECORD. (In the following, no in or outfielders' record is given unless twenty games have been played in the position, and no pitcher or catcher's record is given unless fifteen games have been played.) [**Proofreaders note: Table split into two parts to fit on page] | | |No. of Rank| Name. | Club. |Games. ----+-----------+------------------------+------ 1| O'Neill |St. Louis | 130 2| Stovey |Athletic | 130 3| Lyons |Athletic | 111 4| Reilly |Cincinnati | 126 5| Collins |Louisville and Brooklyn | 126 6| Browning |Louisville | 99 7| Orr |Brooklyn | 95 8| Burns |Baltimore and Brooklyn | 129 9| Wolf |Louisville | 127 10| McKean |Cleveland | 130 11|{Tucker |Baltimore | 136 |{Welch |Athletic | 136 12| Corkhill |Cincinnati and Brooklyn | 137 13|{Foutz |Brooklyn | 140 |{Larkin |Athletic | 135 14| Bierbauer |Athletic | 134 15| Sullivan |Athletic | 28 16| McCarthy |St. Louis | 131 17|{Trott |Baltimore | 31 |{O'Brien |Brooklyn | 136 18| Weaver |Louisville | 26 19| Comiskey |St. Louis | 137 20| Carpenter |Cincinnati | 135 21|{Robinson |Athletic | 67 |{Mattimore |Athletic | 41 22|{Davis |Kansas City | 122 |{Herr |St. Louis | 43 |{Stratton |Louisville | 65 23| Smith |Athletic and | 35 | |Baltimore | 24|{Latham |St. Louis | 133 |{Fantz |Cleveland | 120 25| Hudson |St. Louis | 55 26| Griffin |Baltimore | 137 27| Pinkney |Brooklyn | 143 28| Hecker |Louisville | 55 29|{Kappell |Cincinnati | 35 |{Terry |Brooklyn | 30 30| Milligan |St. Louis | 63 31|{McTamany |Kansas City | 110 |{Mullane |Cincinnati | 51 32|{Hamilton |Kansas City | 35 |{Zimmer |Cleveland | 63 |{Goodfellow|Cleveland | 69 |{Hotaling |Cleveland | 97 33| Smith |Louisville | 56 34|{Boyle |St. Louis | 71 |{Clark |Brooklyn | 45 35| Cline |Kansas City | 73 36| Donohue |Kansas City | 87 37| Kerins |Louisville | 81 38|{Nicol |Cincinnati | 134 |{Hogan |Cleveland | 77 39| Phillips |Kansas City | 129 40| Gilks |Cleveland | 118 41|{Robinson |St. Louis | 134 |{Stricker |Cleveland | 126 42|{McPhee |Cincinnati | 110 |{Carruthers|Brooklyn | 94 43| Keenan |Cincinnati | 84 44|{Tebean |Cincinnati | 121 |{Mack |Louisville | 110 45|{Goldsby |Baltimore | 44 |{Poorman |Athletic | 85 46| Esterbrook|Louisville | 23 47|{O'Brien |Baltimore | 57 |{Radford |Brooklyn | 91 48|{Gleason |Athletic | 123 |{Purcell |Baltimore | 119 | |and Athletic | 49| White |Louisville | 109 | |and St Louis. | 50|{Barkley |Kansas City | 116 |{Smith |Cincinnati | 40 |{_Bushong__|Brooklyn | 69 |{Baldwin |Cincinnati | 66 51|{Weybing |Athletic | 49 |{Fagan |Kansas City | 18 52| Gunning |Athletic | 23 53|{Shindle |Baltimore | 135 |{Snyder |Cleveland | 63 54|{McClellan |Brooklyn and | 97 | |Cleveland | |{Sommer |Baltimore | 79 |{Allen |Kansas City | 37 55| _Smith_ |Brooklyn | 103 56| Cross |Louisville | 47 57| King |St. Louis | 65 58| Werrick |Louisville | 109 | |No. of|No. of| | |Base |Stolen|Av. B.H. Rank| Name. |Hit. |Bases.|to A.B. ----+-----------+------+------+------- 1| O'Neill | 176 | 24 | .332 2| Stovey | 171 | 156 | .318 3| Lyons | 145 | 45 | .325 4| Reilly | 167 | 80 | .324 5| Collins | 164 | 91 | .318 6| Browning | 120 | 39 | .313 7| Orr | 119 | 16 | .303 8| Burns | 158 | 48 | .298 9| Wolf | 159 | 40 | .298 10| McKean | 161 | 66 | .297 11|{Tucker | 152 | 49 | .291 |{Welch | 160 | 121 | .291 12| Corkhill | 159 | 41 | .285 13|{Foutz | 159 | 40 | .283 |{Larkin | 154 | 19 | .283 14| Bierbauer | 148 | 56 | .279 15| Sullivan | 31 | 8 | .277 16| McCarthy | 141 | 109 | .276 17|{Trott | 30 | 3 | .275 |{O'Brien | 147 | 68 | .275 18| Weaver | 31 | 12 | .274 19| Comiskey | 156 | 77 | .271 20| Carpenter | 147 | 56 | .269 21|{Robinson | 67 | 15 | .268 |{Mattimore | 38 | 14 | .268 22|{Davis | 131 | 45 | .266 |{Herr | 46 | 9 | .266 |{Stratton | 64 | 15 | .266 23| Smith | 31 | 3 | .265 24|{Latham | 150 | 124 | .264 |{Fantz | 124 | 68 | .264 25| Hudson | 51 | 6 | .262 26| Griffin | 141 | 53 | .261 27| Pinkney | 150 | 56 | .260 28| Hecker | 53 | 23 | .255 29|{Kappell | 35 | 22 | .254 |{Terry | 29 | 13 | .254 30| Milligan | 55 | 8 | .252 31|{McTamany | 130 | 56 | .251 |{Mullane | 44 | 13 | .251 32|{Hamilton | 32 | 23 | .250 |{Zimmer | 53 | 18 | .250 |{Goodfellow| 68 | 7 | .250 |{Hotaling | 103 | 33 | .250 33| Smith | 48 | 48 | .246 34|{Boyle | 63 | 15 | .245 |{Clark | 37 | 12 | .245 35| Cline | 71 | 30 | .243 36| Donohue | 80 | 12 | .241 37| Kerins | 74 | 20 | .239 38|{Nicol | 128 | 104 | .236 |{Hogan | 63 | 35 | .236 39| Phillips | 120 | 11 | .235 40| Gilks | 110 | 19 | .232 41|{Robinson | 106 | 62 | .231 |{Stricker | 113 | 68 | .231 42|{McPhee | 104 | 53 | .230 |{Carruthers| 77 | 33 | .230 43| Keenan | 72 | 8 | .225 44|{Tebean | 95 | 33 | .228 |{Mack | 100 | 23 | .228 45|{Goldsby | 37 | 19 | .227 |{Poorman | 87 | 43 | .227 46| Esterbrook| 21 | 6 | .226 47|{O'Brien | 44 | 15 | .224 |{Radford | 70 | 36 | .224 48|{Gleason | 112 | 37 | .224 |{Purcell | 105 | 25 | .224 49| White | 104 | 30 | .221 50|{Barkley | 106 | 16 | .220 |{Smith | 29 | 3 | .220 |{_Bushong__| 55 | 11 | .220 |{Baldwin | 58 | 2 | .220 51|{Weybing | 40 | 8 | .219 |{Fagan | 14 | 0 | .219 52| Gunning | 20 | 15 | .217 53|{Shindle | 111 | 59 | .216 |{Snyder | 50 | 10 | .216 54|{McClellan | 75 | 29 | .215 |{Sommer | 64 | 15 | .215 |{Allen | 29 | 5 | .215 55| _Smith_ | 86 | 31 | .214 56| Cross | 39 | 9 | .213 57| King | 42 | 5 | .212 58| Werrick | 86 | 21 | .210 A mistake is made in the above record in placing the names of batsmen whose averages are alike, in the wrong order. Thus, Pratt who played in but 31 games is placed ahead of O'Brien, who played in 136, both making the same batting averages. The official record of the American Association for the season of 1888 as sent us by President Wikoff, will be found in full below: BATTING RECORD. (In the following, no in or outfielders' record is given unless twenty games have been played in the position, and no pitcher or catcher's record is given unless fifteen games have been played.) R | | | | | |Av. a | | | |No. of|No. of|B.H. n | | |No. of|Base |Stolen|to k | Name. | Club. |Games.|Hit. |Bases.|A.B. --+---------------+-----------+------+------+------+----- 1| O'Neill |St. Louis | 130 | 176 | 24 | .332 2| Stovey |Athletic | 130 | 171 | 156 | .318 3| Lyons |Athletic | 111 | 145 | 45 | .325 4| Reilly |Cincinnati | 126 | 167 | 80 | .324 5| Collins |Louisville | 126 | 164 | 91 | .318 | |and | | | | | |Brooklyn | | | | 6| Browning |Louisville | 99 | 120 | 39 | .313 7| Orr |Brooklyn | 95 | 119 | 16 | .303 8| Burns |Baltimore | 129 | 158 | 48 | .298 | |and | | | | | |Brooklyn | | | | 9| Wolf |Louisville | 127 | 159 | 40 | .298 10| McKean |Cleveland | 130 | 161 | 66 | .297 11|{Tucker |Baltimore | 136 | 152 | 49 | .291 |{Welch |Athletic | 136 | 160 | 121 | .291 12| Corkhill |Cincinnati | 137 | 159 | 41 | .285 | |and | | | | | |Brooklyn | | | | 13|{Foutz |Brooklyn | 140 | 159 | 40 | .283 |{Larkin |Athletic | 135 | 154 | 19 | .283 14| Bierbauer |Athletic | 134 | 148 | 56 | .279 15| Sullivan |Athletic | 28 | 31 | 8 | .277 16| McCarthy |St. Louis | 131 | 141 | 109 | .276 17|{Trott |Baltimore | 31 | 30 | 3 | .275 |{O'Brien |Brooklyn | 136 | 147 | 68 | .275 18| Weaver |Louisville | 26 | 31 | 12 | .274 19| Comiskey |St. Louis | 137 | 156 | 77 | .271 20| Carpenter |Cincinnati | 135 | 147 | 56 | .269 21|{Robinson |Athletic | 67 | 67 | 15 | .268 |{Mattimore |Athletic | 41 | 38 | 14 | .268 22|{Davis |Kansas City| 122 | 131 | 45 | .266 |{Herr |St. Louis | 43 | 46 | 9 | .266 |{Stratton |Louisville | 65 | 64 | 15 | .266 23| Smith |Athletic | 35 | 31 | 3 | .265 | |and | | | | | |Baltimore | | | | 24|{Latham |St. Louis | 133 | 150 | 124 | .264 |{Fantz |Cleveland | 120 | 124 | 68 | .264 25| Hudson |St. Louis | 55 | 51 | 6 | .262 26| Griffin |Baltimore | 137 | 141 | 53 | .261 27| Pinkney |Brooklyn | 143 | 150 | 56 | .260 28| Hecker |Louisville | 55 | 53 | 23 | .255 29|{Kappell |Cincinnati | 35 | 35 | 22 | .254 |{Terry |Brooklyn | 30 | 29 | 13 | .254 30| Milligan |St. Louis | 63 | 55 | 8 | .252 31|{McTamany |Kansas City| 110 | 130 | 56 | .251 |{Mullane |Cincinnati | 51 | 44 | 13 | .251 32|{Hamilton |Kansas City| 35 | 32 | 23 | .250 |{Zimmer |Cleveland | 63 | 53 | 18 | .250 |{Goodfellow |Cleveland | 69 | 68 | 7 | .250 |{Hotaling |Cleveland | 97 | 103 | 33 | .250 33| Smith |Louisville | 56 | 48 | 48 | .246 34|{Boyle |St. Louis | 71 | 63 | 15 | .245 |{Clark |Brooklyn | 45 | 37 | 12 | .245 35| Cline |Kansas City| 73 | 71 | 30 | .243 36| Donohue |Kansas City| 87 | 80 | 12 | .241 37| Kerins |Louisville | 81 | 74 | 20 | .239 38|{Nicol |Cincinnati | 134 | 128 | 104 | .236 |{Hogan |Cleveland | 77 | 63 | 35 | .236 39| Phillips |Kansas City| 129 | 120 | 11 | .235 40| Gilks |Cleveland | 118 | 110 | 19 | .232 41|{Robinson |St. Louis | 134 | 106 | 62 | .231 |{Stricker |Cleveland | 126 | 113 | 68 | .231 42|{McPhee |Cincinnati | 110 | 104 | 53 | .230 |{Carruthers |Brooklyn | 94 | 77 | 33 | .230 43| Keenan |Cincinnati | 84 | 72 | 8 | .225 44|{Tebean |Cincinnati | 121 | 95 | 33 | .228 |{Mack |Louisville | 110 | 100 | 23 | .228 45|{Goldsby |Baltimore | 44 | 37 | 19 | .227 |{Poorman |Athletic | 85 | 87 | 43 | .227 46| Esterbrook |Louisville | 23 | 21 | 6 | .226 47|{O'Brien |Baltimore | 57 | 44 | 15 | .224 |{Radford |Brooklyn | 91 | 70 | 36 | .224 48|{Gleason |Athletic | 123 | 112 | 37 | .224 |{Purcell |Baltimore | 119 | 105 | 25 | .224 | |and | | | | | |Athletic | | | | 49| White |Louisville | 109 | 104 | 30 | .221 | |and St. | | | | | |Louis | | | | 50|{Barkley |Kansas City| 116 | 106 | 16 | .220 |{Smith |Cincinnati | 40 | 29 | 3 | .220 |{_Bushong_ |Brooklyn | 69 | 55 | 11 | .220 |{Baldwin |Cincinnati | 66 | 58 | 2 | .220 51|{Weybing |Athletic | 49 | 40 | 8 | .219 |{Fagan |Kansas City| 18 | 14 | 0 | .219 52| Gunning |Athletic | 23 | 20 | 15 | .217 53|{Shindle |Baltimore | 135 | 111 | 59 | .216 |{Snyder |Cleveland | 63 | 50 | 10 | .216 54|{McClellan |Brooklyn | 97 | 75 | 29 | .215 | |and | | | | | |Cleveland | | | | |{Sommer |Baltimore | 79 | 64 | 15 | .215 |{Allen |Kansas City| 37 | 29 | 5 | .215 55| _Smith_ |Brooklyn | 103 | 86 | 31 | .214 56| Cross |Louisville | 47 | 39 | 9 | .213 57| King |St. Louis | 65 | 42 | 5 | .212 58| Werrick |Louisville | 109 | 86 | 21 | .210 59| Raymond |Louisville | 32 | 26 | 6 | .208 60| McGuire |Cleveland | 25 | 18 | 1 | .207 61| Ewing |Louisville | 21 | 16 | 6 | .205 62| Daniels |Kansas City| 61 | 46 | 19 | .205 63| Vaughn |Louisville | 49 | 37 | 5 | .203 64| Greenwood |Baltimore | 113 | 82 | 54 | .202 64| Andrews |Louisville | 27 | 20 | 5 | .202 65| O'Connor |Cincinnati | 36 | 28 | 13 | .201 66| Cook |Louisville | 53 | 35 | 15 | .200 67| _Peoples_ |Brooklyn | 33 | 21 | 9 | .198 68| Farrell |Baltimore | 103 | 79 | 32 | .197 69| Fennelly |Cincinnati | 127 | 96 | 49 | .196 | |and | | | | | |Athletic | | | | 70| Esterday |Kansas City| 114 | 78 | 18 | .195 70| Rowe |Kansas City| 32 | 24 | 1 | .195 71| Albert |Cleveland | 101 | 69 | 32 | .192 72| Lyons |St. Louis | 123 | 95 | 42 | .190 73| Cunningham |Baltimore | 51 | 33 | 2 | .198 74| McGarr |St. Louis | 35 | 25 | 25 | .187 75| O'Brien |Cleveland | 31 | 20 | 2 | .185 76| McGlone |Cleveland | 55 | 37 | 26 | .183 77| Fulmer |Baltimore | 51 | 30 | 17 | .179 78| Hankinson |Kansas City| 37 | 27 | 2 | .175 79| Brennan |Kansas City| 34 | 20 | 6 | .174 80| Kilroy |Baltimore | 43 | 24 | 12 | .166 81| Cantz |Baltimore | 37 | 21 | 1 | .165 82| Chamberlain |Louisville | 40 | 23 | 12 | .161 | |and St. | | | | | |Louis | | | | 83| Seward |Athletic | 64 | 35 | 12 | .154 84| Townsend |Athletic | 43 | 24 | 1 | .150 84| Hughes |Brooklyn | 39 | 20 | 3 | .150 85| Tomney |Louisville | 34 | 18 | 12 | .149 86| Porter |Kansas City| 55 | 27 | 1 | .137 87| Bakely |Cleveland | 60 | 25 | 1 | .131 88| Burdock |Brooklyn | 60 | 30 | 9 | .125 89| Ramsey |Louisville | 41 | 17 | 0 | .123 90| Holbert |Brooklyn | 15 | 6 | 1 | .115 91| Sullivan |Kansas City| 28 | 10 | 7 | .109 92| Mays |Brooklyn | 18 | 6 | 2 | .095 93| Viau |Cincinnati | 41 | 12 | 3 | .085 94| Crowell |Louisville | 19 | 5 | 2 | .080 | |and | | |Cleveland | FIELDING RECORD. CATCHERS. Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+----------+-----------+------+-------+--------- 1 | Donohue |Kansas City| 66 | 395 | .965 2 |(Robinson |Athletic | 66 | 595 | .955 |{Keenan |Cincinnati | 70 | 536 | .955 3 | Milligan |St. Louis | 58 | 429 | .944 4 | Holbert |Brooklyn | 15 | 106 | .934 5 | Boyle |St. Louis | 70 | 539 | .933 6 | Cross |Louisville | 38 | 292 | .928 7 | Snyder |Cleveland | 43 | 334 | .922 8 | Zimmer |Cleveland | 56 | 443 | .921 9 | Trott |Baltimore | 27 | 205 | .917 10 |{Vaughn |Louisville | 25 | 184 | .913 |{Baldwin |Cincinnati | 64 | 483 | .913 11 | Bushong |Brooklyn | 68 | 489 | .9** | | | | | [A] 12 | Townsend |Athletic | 43 | 330 | .906 13 | O'Brien |Baltimore | 38 | 274 | .905 14 | Fulmer |Baltimore | 46 | 309 | .903 15 | Cook |Louisville | 50 | 316 | .902 16 | Gunning |Athletic | 23 | 192 | .896 17 | Cantz |Baltimore | 33 | 227 | .890 18 | Kerins |Louisville | 30 | 320 | .888 19 | Brennan |Kansas City| 25 | 176 | .887 20 | McGuire |Cleveland | 16 | 131 | .885 21 | Daniels |Kansas City| 31 | 232 | .875 22 | Clark |Brooklyn | 36 | 307 | .857 23 | Peoples |Brooklyn | 26 | 252 | .841 [*Proofreaders Note A: * number indecipherable.] PITCHERS. Rank| NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+------------+-----------+------+-------+-------- 1 | Chamberlain|Louisville | 37 | 255 | .988 | |and St. | | | | |Louis | | | 2 | Ewing |Louisville | 21 | 135 | .985 3 | Terry |Brooklyn | 24 | 186 | .978 4 | Mays |Brooklyn | 18 | 12O | .975 5 | Foutz |Brooklyn | 19 | 115 | .974 6 | Sullivan |Kansas City| 24 | 167 | .970 7 | Stratton |Louisville | 34 | 184 | .968 8 |(Hudson |St. Louis | 37 | 230 | .962 |{Kilroy |Baltimore | 42 | 229 | .965 9 |{Hughes |Brooklyn | 39 | 261 | .962 |{King |St. Louis | 65 | 397 | .962 10 |{Crowell |Cleveland | | | | |and | | | | |Louisville | 19 | 103 | .961 |{Bakely |Cleveland | 60 | 359 | .961 |{Mullane |Cincinnati | 44 | 284 | .961 |{Viau |Cincinnati | 41 | 257 | .961 11 | Seward |Athletic | 57 | 428 | .957 12 | O'Brien |Cleveland | 29 | 213 | .953 13 | Porter |Kansas City| 55 | 507 | .951 14 |{Weyhing |Athletic | 48 | 328 | .948 |{Smith |Cincinnati | 4O | 211 | .948 15 | Carruthers |Brooklyn | 45 | 273 | .945 16 | Hecker |Louisville | 28 | 154 | .942 17 | Smith |Athletic | 38 | 248 | .940 | |and | | | | |Baltimore | | | 19 | Cunningham |Baltimore | 51 | 335 | .934 20 | Ramsey |Louisville | 37 | 290 | .924 21 | Mattimore |Athletic | 26 | 162 | .914 81 | Fagan |Kansas City| 17 | 92 | .913 {sic.}| This table is rendered useless as a criterion of a pitcher's skill as a fielder, on account of the mixing up of assistances on strikes with fielding assistances, which are distinct and separate figures for data. FIRST BASEMEN. Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+------------+-----------+------+-------+-------- 1 | Andrews |Louisville.| 27 | 302 | .993 2 |{Foutz |Brooklyn | 42 | 371 | .986 |{Faatz |Cleveland | 120 | 1247 | .986 3 | Orr |Brooklyn | 95 | 1044 | .980 4 | Reilly |Cincinnati | 116 | 1313 | .979 5 | Phillips |Kansas City| 119 | 1500 | .977 6 | Tucker |Baltimore | 129 | 1441 | .975 7 | Smith |Louisville | 56 | 578 | .974 8 |{Larkin |Athletic | 121 | 1294 | .972 |{Comiskey |St. Louis | 133 | 1379 | .972 9 | Esterbrook |Louisville | 23 | 238 | .958 10 |Hecker |Louisville | 27 | 294 | .952 SECOND BASEMEN. Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+------------+-----------+------+-------+-------- 1 | Berkley |Kansas City| 116 | 683 | .941 2 |{Striekler |Cleveland | 122 | 791 | .938 |{McPhee |Cincinnati | 110 | 776 | .938 3 | Bierbauer |Athletics | 122 | 795 | .935 4 | Collins |Louisville | 30 | 170 | .926 | |and | | | | |Brooklyn | | | 5 | McClellan |Brooklyn | 62 | 346 | .920 | |and | | | | |Cleveland. | | | 6 | Burdock |Brooklyn | 69 | 431 | .919 7 | Mack |Louisville | 110 | 703 | .915 8 |{Greenwood |Baltimore | 87 | 442 | .914 |{Farrell |Baltimore | 47 | 174 | .913 9 | McGarr |St. Louis | 34 | 193 | .915 10 | Robinson |St. Louis | 100 | 496 | .904 SHORT STOPS. Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+---------+-------------+------+-------+-------- 1 |Farell |Baltimore | 56 | 395 | .937 2 |Tomney |Louisville | 34 | 174 | .914 3 |Esterday |Kansas City | 114 | 640 | .900 4 |McKean |Cleveland | 75 | 380 | .895 5 |Sommer |Baltimore | 32 | 161 | .885 6 |Herr |St.Louis | 28 | 133 | .872 7 |Fenelly |Cincinnati | 120 | 723 | .871 | |and | | | | |Athletic | | | 8 |Gleason |Athletic | 121 | 565 | .865 9 |Wolf |Louisville | 38 | 222 | .860 10 |Alberts |Cleveland | 52 | 272 | .857 11 |Burns |Baltimore | 53 | 277 | .848 | |and | | | | |Brooklyn | | | 12 |Smith |Brooklyn | 103 | 600 | .847 13 |Robinson |St. Louis | 34 | 168 | .845 14 |Greenwood|Baltimore | 26 | 118 | .831 15 |White |Louisville | 96 | 596 | .827 | |and St. Louis| | | 16 |Kapell |Cincinnati | 21 | 107 | .785 LEFT FIELDERS. Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+------------+-----------+------+-------+-------- 1 |Stovey |Athletic | 117 | 226 | .950 2 |Browning |Louisville | 21 | 35 | .943 3 |Allen |Kansas City| 33 | 80 | .938 4 |O'Neill |St. Louis | 130 | 257 | .934 5 |O'Brien |Brooklyn | 136 | 261 | .931 6 |Collins |Louisville | 57 | 152 | .921 | |and | | | | |Brooklyn | | | 7 |{Sommer |Baltimore | 30 | 56 | .911 |{Tebeau |Cincinnati | 121 | 235 | .911 8 |Vaughn |Louisville | 20 | 40 | .900 9 |Goldsby |Baltimore | 42 | 58 | .893 10 |McKean |Cleveland | 43 | 88 | .886 11 |{Hogan |Cleveland | 26 | 41 | .878 |{Gilks |Cleveland | 58 | 115 | .878 12 |Burns |Baltimore | 47 | 120 | .833 | |and | | | | |Brooklyn | | | 13 |Cline |Kansas City| 26 | 46 | .826 14 |Sullivan |Kansas City| 16 | 25 | .800 15 |Stratton |Louisville | 23 | 37 | .730 THIRD BASEMEN. Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+---------+-----------+------+-------+-------- 1 |Shindle |Baltimore | 135 | 606 | .919 2 |Pinkney |Brooklyn | 143 | 470 | .896 3 |Albert |Cleveland | 48 | 198 | .894 4 |Lyons |Athletic | 111 | 397 | .889 5 |Latham |St. Louis | 132 | 525 | .882 6 |Carpenter|Cincinnati | 135 | 491 | .878 7 |Raymond |Louisville | 31 | 129 | .876 8 |Davis |Kansas City| 114 | 576 | .849 9 |Werrick |Louisville | 89 | 321 | .822 10 |Gilks |Cleveland | 26 | 109 | .798 11 |McGlone |Cleveland | 48 | 198 | .793 RIGHT FIELDERS Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number|Chances|Per Cent. | | |Games.|Offered|Accepted. ----+----------+-----------+------+-------+--------- 1 |Hogan |Cleveland | 51 | 90 | .988 2 |McClellan |Brooklyn | 32 | 52 | .962 | |and | | | | |Cleveland | | | 3 |Nicol |Cincinnati | 124 | 218 | .959 4 |Hamilton |Kansas City| 29 | 35 | .943 5 |Foutz |Brooklyn | 78 | 251 | .932 6 |McCarthy |St. Louis | 118 | 276 | .924 7 |Purcell |Athletic | 111 | 182 | .923 | |and | | | | |Baltimore | | | 8 |Carruthers|Brooklyn | 31 | 80 | .900 8 |Cline |Kansas City| 44 | 80 | .900 9 |Poorman |Athletic | 85 | 134 | .896 10 |Wolf |Louisville | 83 | 158 | .892 11 |McTamany |Kansas City| 48 | 92 | .891 12 |Goodfellow|Cleveland | 51 | 100 | .850 13 |Kerins |Louisville | 35 | 61 | .820 CENTER FIELDERS. Rank|NAME. |CLUB. |Number |Chances |Per Cent. | | |Games. |Offered |Accepted. ----+--------+-----------+-------+--------+--------- 1 |Welch |Athletic | 135 | 309 | .968 2 |Corkhill|Cincinnati | 131 | 320 | .966 | |and | | | | |Brooklyn | | | 3 |Gilks |Cleveland | 26 | 50 | .960 4 |Radford |Brooklyn | 84 | 208 | .947 5 |Griffin |Baltimore | 137 | 323 | .941 6 |McTamany|Kansas City| 68 | 206 | .932 7 |Lyons |St. Louis | 108 | 267 | .910 8 |Weaver |Louisville | 26 | 49 | .898 8 |Rowe |Kansas City| 32 | 68 | .897 9 |Browning|Louisville | 78 | 181 | .884 10 |Hotaling|Cleveland | 97 | 200 | .875 11 |Collins |Louisville | 24 | 61 | .852 | |and | | | | |Brooklyn | | | 12 |O'Connor|Cincinnati | 19 | 39 | .846 CLUB BATTING RECORD Rank|Clubs |Number |Times |Runs|Number |Stolen|Per cent | |of Games|at Bat| |of Base|Bases |B. H. to | | | | |Hits | |A. B. ----+-----------+--------+------+----+-------+------+------ 1 |Athletic | 136 | 4801 | 828| 1262 | 568 | .263 2 |St. Louis | 137 | 4753 | 790| 1188 | 526 | .250 3 |Louisville | 137 | 4807 | 678| 1190 | 368 | .248 4 |Brooklyn | 143 | 4868 | 757| 1183 | 413 | .243 5 |Cincinnati | 136 | 4762 | 734| 1143 | 464 | .240 6 |Cleveland | 134 | 4560 | 641| 1073 | 399 | .235 7 |Baltimore | 137 | 4654 | 653| 1073 | 379 | .231 8 |Kansas City| 132 | 4582 | 578| 1011 | 266 | .221 +--------+------+----+-------+------+------ |Total | 1092 |37787 |5659| 9123 | 3383 | .241 CLUB FIELDING RECORD. Rank|Clubs |Number|Put |Assists.|Errors.|Total |Per c. | |Of |Outs.| | |Chances |Chances | |Games | | | |Offered.|Accepted. ----+------------+------+-----+--------+-------+--------+--------- 1|Cincinnati | 136 | 3671| 2266 | 445 | 6382 | .940 2|Athletic | 136 | 3623| 2315 | 422 | 6360 | .934 3|St. Louis | 137 | 3635| 2092 | 432 | 6159 | .930 4|Baltimore | 137 | 3597| 2226 | 452 | 6269 | .928 5|Brooklyn | 143 | 3851| 2318 | 508 | 6677 | .924 6|{Kansas City| 132 | 3471| 2321 | 500 | 6292 | .921 |{Cleveland | 134 | 3484| 2217 | 487 | 6188 | .921 7|Louisville | 137 | 3631| 2307 | 566 | 6504 | .913 +-----+--------+-------+--------+------- |Total | | 8963| 18056 | 3812 | 50831 | .927 CHICAGO GAMES. The following is the record of the "Chicago" games played in the American Association championship arena in 1888, games in which the defeated nine fails to score a single run: CLUBS. | | | | | | | | K || | | | | C | | | L | a || | S | | | i | B | C | o | n || V | t | B | A | n | a | l | u | s || i | . | r | t | c | l | e | i | a || c | | o | h | i | t | v | s | s || t | L | o | l | n | i | e | v | || o | o | k | e | n | m | l | i | C || r | u | l | t | a | o | a | l | i || i | i | y | i | t | r | n | l | t || e | s | n | c | i | e | d | e | y || s | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . || . -----------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++-- St. Louis | --| 3| 2| 0| 2| 4| 1| 0||12 Brooklyn | 1| --| 1| 1| 0| 3| 1| 1|| 8 Athletic | 1| 1| --| 2| 2| 1| 1| 5||13 Cincinnati | 1| 1| 1| --| 1| 2| 1| 2|| 9 Baltimore | 0| 0| 1| 1| --| 0| 0| 1|| 3 Cleveland | 1| 0| 0| 2| 1| --| 0| 2|| 6 Louisville | 0| 2| 0| 1| 1| 2| --| 0|| 6 Kansas City| 0| 2| 0| 0| 1| 0| 1| --|| 4 +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--- Defeats | 4| 9| 5| 7| 8| 12| 5| 11||61 EXTRA INNINGS GAME. The ganes-victories, defeats and drawn-which required extra innings to be played, were as follows: Clubs | | | | | | | | K || | | | | | C | | | L | a || | | S | | | i | B | C | o | n ||V | | t | B | A | n | a | l | u | s ||I | | . | r | t | c | l | e | i | a ||c | | | o | h | i | t | v | s | s ||t | | L | o | l | n | i | e | v | ||o | D | o | k | e | n | m | l | i | C ||r | r | u | l | t | a | o | a | l | I ||i | a | i | y | i | t | r | n | l | t ||e | w | s | n | c | i | e | d | e | y ||s | n | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . ||. | . -----------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--+--- St. Louis | --| 2| 2| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0|| 5| 2 Brooklyn | 2| --| 2| 3| 0| 0| 2| 1||10| 2 Athletic | 1| 1| --| 2| 1| 0| 2| 0|| 7| 2 Cincinnati | 3| 2| 2| --| 1| 2| 1| 0||11| 2 Baltimore | 2| 0| 0| 0| --| 0| 1| 0|| 3| 0 Cleveland | 0| 0| 1| 1| 0| --| 0| 0|| 2| 1 Louisville | 0| 0| 2| 0| 0| 0| --| 1|| 3| 1 Kansas City| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| --|| 1| 0 +---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---++--+--- Defeats | 8| 5| 9| 7| 3| 2| 6| 2||42| 10 The record of the series of games won and lost by each club with every other club in the American Association championship arena in 1888 is as follows: | | | | | | | | K || | | | | C | | L | | a || | | S | | i | B | o | C | n || | B | t | A | n | a | u | l | s || | r | . | t | c | l | i | e | a || | o | | h | i | t | s | v | s || | o | L | l | n | i | v | e | || | k | o | e | n | m | i | l | C || | l | u | t | a | o | l | a | i || | y | I | i | t | r | l | n | t || | n | s | c | i | e | e | d | y ||Series Clubs | . | . | . | . | . | . | . | . ||Totals. -----------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----++-------- |W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.|W.|L.||W.|L. -----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--++--+----- Brooklyn |--|--|10|10|12| 8|14| 6|12| 8|13| 8|16| 4|11| 9|| 6| 0 St. Louis |10|10|--|--|10| 7|10| 8|15| 5|16| 4|16| 4|16| 4|| 4| 0 Athletic | 8|12| 7|10|--|--|10|10|15| 5|15| 5|13| 7|11| 3|| 4| 1 Cincinnati | 6|14| 8|10|10|10|--|--|14| 6|17| 3|10| 7|15| 4|| 3| 1 Baltimore | 8|12| 5|15| 5|15| 6|14|--|--|11| 9|10| 9|11| 9|| 2| 4 Louisville | 8|13| 4|16| 5|15| 3|17| 9|11|--|--| 8| 9|11| 6|| 1| 5 Cleveland | 4|16| 4|16| 7|13| 7|10| 9|10| 9| 8|--|--| 9| 9|| 0| 3 Kansas City| 9|11| 4|16| 3|14| 4|15| 9|11| 6|11| 9| 9|--|--|| 0| 6 The St. Louis, Brooklyn, Athletic and Cincinnati Clubs, each had one series tied; while the Baltimore Club had four unfinished series; the St. Louis and Cincinnati Clubs two each, and the Athletic, Baltimore, Louisville and Kansas City Clubs one each, The Brooklyn Club playing their full quota of scheduled games. THE YEARLY RECORD. The appended table gives the number of games won by all the clubs which have competed for the American Association championship from 1882 to 1888 inclusive: Clubs |1882|1883|1884|1885|1886|1887|1888|Yrs.||Total | | | | | | | | ||Vict'r's ------------+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----++--------- St. Louis | 37| 65| 67| 79| 92| 94| 92| 7|| 526 Cincinnati | 55| 62| 68| 63| 64| 80| 80| 7|| 472 Athletic | 41| 66| 61| 55| 60| 64| 81| 7|| 428 Baltimore | 19| 28| 63| 41| 48| 76| 57| 7|| 332 Louisville | 42| 52| 68| 53| 66| 76| 48| 7|| 405 Metropolitan| --| 54| 75| 44| 53| 43| --| 6|| 269 Pittsburg | 39| 30| 30| 56| 78| --| --| 5|| 233 Brooklyn | --| --| 40| 53| 76| 59| 88| 5|| 316 Columbus | --| 32| 69| --| --| --| --| 2|| 104 Cleveland | --| --| --| --| --| 38| 50| 2|| 88 Indianapolis| --| --| 29| --| --| --| --| 1|| 29 Washington | --| --| 12| --| --| --| --| 1|| 12 Virginia | --| --| 12| --| --| --| --| 1|| 12 Kansas City | --| --| --| --| --| --| 43| 1|| 43 Toledo | --| --| 46| --| --| --| --| 1|| 46 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---------- Total | 233| 389| 640| 444| 537| 530| 539| A COMPARATIVE RECORD. The following table gives the comparative figures of the League and the Association in their Championship contests in 1888: Clubs |Vic.|Def |Pct. ||Clubs |Vic.|Def.|Pct. -------------+----+----+------++-----------+----+----+------ New York | 84 | 47 | .641 ||St. Louis | 92 | 43 | .681 Chicago | 77 | 58 | .570 ||Brooklyn | 88 | 52 | .629 Philadelphia | 69 | 61 | .531 ||Athletic | 82 | 52 | .612 Boston | 70 | 64 | .522 ||Cincinnati | 80 | 54 | .597 Detroit | 68 | 63 | .519 ||Baltimore | 57 | 81 | .413 Pittsburg | 66 | 68 | .493 ||Cleveland | 50 | 82 | .379 Indianapolis | 50 | 85 | .370 ||Louisville | 48 | 87 | .356 Washington | 48 | 86 | .358 ||Kansas City| 43 | 89 | .328 NEW YORK AND BROOKLYN RECORDS. The New York League Club and the Brooklyn American Association Club closed the first six years of their existence in 1888. The New York Club joined the League in 1883, and won the championship in 1888. The principal statistics of the club's work on the diamond field during that period is shown in the appended table: Years |Won. |Lost.|Drawn.|Played.|Batting |Fielding | | | | |Average.|Average ------+-----+-----+------+-------+--------+-------- 1883 | 46 | 50 | 2 | 98 | .256 | .825 1884 | 62 | 50 | 4 | 116 | .257 | .816 1885 | 85 | 27 | 0 | 112 | .269 | .866 1886 | 75 | 44 | 5 | 124 | .269 | .853 1887 | 68 | 55 | 6 | 129 | .331 | .886 1888 | 84 | 47 | 7 | 138 | .240 | .918 +-----+-----+------+-------+--------+------ Totals| 420 | 273 | 24 | 717 | .270 | .860 During these six seasons the New Yorks played 398 games with the Chicagos, Detroits, Bostons and Philadelphias, winning 223 and losing 175. Of these four clubs the New Yorks found the Chicagos to be their strongest opponents, and the Bostons their weakest. One hundred games were played with each of the two clubs, the New Yorks winning sixty-one from Boston, and only forty-one from Chicago. The Brooklyn Club began its career in 1883 by winning the championship of the Interstate Association of that year, and in 1884 the club entered the American Association. The following is the record of the Brooklyn Club's field work in the first six years of its history: Years. |Victories.|Defeats.|Games |Drawn.|Pr. Ct. of | | |Played.| |Champ. Victs. ---------+----------+--------+-------+------+------------ 1883 | 65 | 33 | 101 | 3 | .643 1884 | 57 | 75 | 136 | 4 | .384 1885 | 83 | 67 | 142 | 2 | .473 1886 | 91 | 63 | 160 | 6 | .557 1887 | 78 | 80 | 156 | 4 | .448 1888 | 88 | 52 | 160 | 3 | .629 Totals +----------+--------+-------+------+--------- six years| 462 | 370 | 875 | 22 Each club won championship honors in but one season out of six, the Brooklyns beginning by winning a pennant, and the New Yorkers ending with championship honors. THE PHILADELPHIA CITY CHAMPIONSHIP. The Philadelphia League Club and the American Association Athletic Club played a spring and fall exhibition game series for the professional championship of Philadelphia, the result of which was a victory for the American teams, as will be seen by the appended record: ATHLETIC VICTORIES. ATHLETIC VS. PHILADELPHIA. ------------------------------------- DATE. PITCHERS. Score. ------------------------------------- April 9 Seward, Gleason 4-2 April 11 Seward, Sanders 15-4 April 12 Weyhing Casey 7-1 April 14 Seward, Gleason 3-1 April 16 Weyhing, Tyng 13-7 October 18 Seward, Sanders 8-5 ------------------------------------- PHILADELPHIA VICTORIES. PHILADELPHIA VS. ATHLETIC. ---------------------------------------- DATE. PITCHERS. Score. --------------------------------------- April 13 Gleason, Mattimore 8-2 April 17 Buffinton, Blair 7-1 October 19 Casey, Weyhing 8-0 October 20 Buffinton, Smith 12-0 THE EXHIBITION GAME CAMPAIGN. The experience of the season of 1888 in the playing of exhibition games during the spring and fall between League and American Clubs, shows that while the spring series prove attractive, owing to the desire of the patrons of the game to see how the club teams of the two organizations compare with each other in relative strength, preparatory to the opening of the championship campaign in each arena; those played in the fall, after the two championships have been decided, have ceased to draw paying patronage. This decrease of interest in the fall exhibition games, too, has been largely due to the introduction of the World's Championship series, which now monopolize public interest after the regular championship season has ended. It has been proposed to substitute a series of regular championship matches, on the basis of the series of the world's championship contests for the old time fall exhibition games, the plan in question including not only games between the championship teams of the League and the Association, but also between all the eight clubs of each organization, so as to show which are the eight leading club teams of the League, and the American Association. Had this plan been carried out in 1888, we should not only have had the interesting series between the two champion teams of New York and St. Louis, but also those between Chicago and Brooklyn, Philadelphia and Athletic, Boston and Cincinnati, Detroit and Baltimore, Pittsburg and Cleveland, Indianapolis and Louisville, and Washington and Kansas City. It is to be hoped that a grand test series of games of this character will mark the closing professional campaign of 1889, for such a series would substitute very interesting championship matches for October in the place of the unmeaning and useless exhibition games of the past fall campaigns. THE WORLD'S CHAMPIONSHIP. THE FULL RECORD OF THE SERIES. It has now become an established rule of the National League and the American Association, to close each season with a supplementary championship series of games between the teams of the two leading clubs winning the respective championships of the two organizations each year, to decide as to which of the two champion clubs is entitled to the honor of being the champion club of the United States, and consequently the world's champions in base ball. This supplementary series of games has grown in importance each year since the inaugural trial games of 1884, when a short series of games of this character took place on the Polo Grounds in October, 1884, between the League championship team of the Providence Club and the American championship team of the Metropolitan Club. It was a short series of best two games of the three played, the result being an easy victory for the League team, as the appended record shows: THE SERIES OF 1884. Oct. 23, Providence vs. Metropolitan, at the Polo Grounds 6--0 Oct. 24, Providence vs. Metropolitan, at the Polo Grounds 3--1 Oct. 25, Providence vs. Metropolitan, at the Polo Grounds 12--2 Total 21--3 THE SERIES OF 1885. In 1885 the St. Louis Club first won the honors in the American pennant race, and the Chicago team in that of the League, and in October of that year the rival teams contested for the United States championship in a series of best four out of seven games. Though the series was a far more important one than that of 1884, still the rules governing the special games were not what they should have been, and consequently the result was not satisfactory, as a dispute, followed by a forfeited game, led to a draw contest and an equal division of the gate receipts. In this series $1,000 was the prize competed for, and as neither team won the series, each club received $500 of the prize money, each winning three games after the first game had been drawn. The record of these games is appended: Oct. 14, St, Louis vs. Chicago, at Chicago (8 innings) 5-5 Oct. 15, Chicago vs. St. Louis, at St. Louis (6 innings) forfeited 5-4 Oct. 16, St. Louis vs. Chicago, at St. Louis 7-4 Oct. 17, St. Louis vs. Chicago, at St.Louis 3-2 Oct. 22, Chicago vs. St. Louis, at Pittsburg (7 innings) 9-2 Oct 23, Chicago vs. St. Louis, at Cincinnati 9-2 Oct. 24, St. Louis vs. Chicago, at Cincinnati 13-4 Total victories for Chicago, 3: for St. Louis, 3, with one game drawn Total runs scored by Chicago, 43: by St. Louis, 41. THE SERIES OF 1886. In 1886 the Chicago and St. Louis club teams again won the championship honors of their respective associations, and they again entered the lists for the "world's championship," this series being best out of six games, three being played at Chicago, and three at St. Louis; the winner of the series taking ail the gate receipts. The result was the success of the St. Louis team, the scores being as follows: Oct. 18, Chicago vs. St. Louis, at Chicago 6-0 Oct. 19, St. Louis vs. Chicago, at Chicago (8 innings) 12-0 Oct. 20, Chicago vs. St. Louis, at Chicago (8 innings) 11-4 Oct. 21, St. Louis vs. Chicago, at St. Louis (7 innings) 8-5 Oct. 22, St. Louis vs. Chicago, at St. Louis (6 innings) 10-3 Oct. 23, St. Louis vs. Chicago, at St. Louis (10 innings) 4-3 Total runs for St. Louis, 38; for Chicago, 29. THE SERIES OF 1887. In 1887 the world's championship series had become an established supplementary series of contests, and in this year these contests excited more interest than had previously been manifested in regard to them, the demands made upon the two contesting teams--the Detroit champions of the League and the St. Louis champions of the American Association--for a game of the series from the large cities of the East and West being such as to lead the two clubs to extend the series to one of best out of fifteen games. These were played at St. Louis, Detroit, Chicago, and Pittsburg in the W st, and at New York, Brooklyn, Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore in the East. The series began in St. Louis, and the eighth victory of the Detroits was won at Baltimore, St. Louis winning the last game of the series at St. Louis. The record of the fifteen games, showing the pitchers in each contest, is as follows: Date. |Contesting |Cities. |Pitchers. |Innings.|Score. |Clubs. | | | | -------+-------------+------------+--------------+--------+------ Oct. 10|St. Louis v. |St. Louis |Carruthers, | 9 | 6-1 | Detroit | |Getzein | | " 11|Detroit v. |St. Louis |Conway, Foutz | 9 | 5-3 | St. Louis | | | | " 12| " " " |Detroit |Getzein, | 13 | 2-1 | | |Carruthers | | " 13| " " " |Pittsburg |Baldwin, King | 9 | 8-0 " 14|St. Louis v. |Brooklyn |Carruthers, | 9 | 5-2 | Detroit | |Conway | | " 15|Detroit v. |New York |Getzein, Foutz| 9 | 9-0 | St. Louis | | | | " 17|" " " |Philadelphia|Baldwin, | 9 | 3-1 | | |Carruthers | | " 18| " " " |Boston |Baldwin, | 9 | 9-2 | | |Carruthers | | " 19| " " " |Philadelphia|Conway, King | 9 | 4-2 " 21|St. Louis v. |Washington |Carruthers, | 9 | 11-4 [1] | Detroit | |Getzein | | " 21|Detroit v. |Baltimore |Baldwin, Foutz| 9 | 13-3 [2] | St. Louis | | | | " 22|" " " |Baltimore |Baldwin, Foutz| 9 | 13-3 " 24|" " " |Detroit |Baldwin, | 9 | 6-3 | | |Carruthers | | " 25|" " " |Chicago |Getzein, King | 9 | 4-3 " 26|St. Louis v. |St. Louis |Carruthers, | 6 | 9-2 | Detroit | |Baldwin | | ---------------------------------------------------------------- [Footnote 1: A.M.] [Footnote 2: P.M.] THE SERIES OF 1888. The contest for the world's championship in 1888 was the most exciting and important of any yet played; and the public attention given to the series throughout the entire base ball world, was such as to show that it would be a paying policy on the part of the League and the Association to establish a supplementary championship season, to begin on the first of October each year, the series of games to be played including not only that for the world's championship, but also to include contests between the other clubs of each organization so as to settle the question as to which were the eight leading professional teams of the country. Prior to 1888 but three clubs had participated in the regular series, and these were: St. Louis on the one hand, and Chicago (twice) and Detroit on the other. In 1888, however, a new League candidate entered the field against the St. Louis champions, and that was the New York club team, it being the first time the two clubs had ever encountered each other. The series arranged between the two clubs was one of ten games, the first six victories to decide the contest. They were commenced at the Polo Grounds on October 16, and the opening contest gave promise of a very interesting series of games, and when the St. Louis team "Chicagoed" their League adversaries the next day the interest in the matches doubled. But the close of the first week's games left New York in the van with a credit of four victories out of the five games played. The contest of the 19th took place in Brooklyn, but the other four were played at the Polo Grounds, the largest attendance of the whole series being that of Saturday, Oct. 20, when the receipts exceeded $5,000. At the four games played at the Polo Grounds the aggregate of receipts was $15,405, while the aggregate of receipts at the four games at St. Louis, was but $5,612, less than that at the Saturday game at the Polo Grounds the previous week. The game at Brooklyn was marred by the bad weather, while that at Philadelphia was dampened by the lead the New York team had previously attained. The series virtually ended at St. Louis on October 25, when New York won their sixth victory and the championship. After that Ward left the New York team to join the Australian tourists, and the interest in the games ended, the receipts falling off from $2,365 on October 25 to $411 on October 26. The last game of the series was a mere ordinary exhibition game, Titcomb pitching in four innings and Hatfield in four. The player's game on the 28th was even less attractive, the St. Louis team winning easily by 6 to 0, Keefe, Welch and George taking turns in the box for New York. The record of the series in full is as follows: Date. |Contesting |Cities. |Pitchers. |In's.|Scr. |Rec |Clubs. | | | | | -------+-------------+----------+------------+-----+------+ Oct 16 |N. York v. |New York |Keefe | | | | St. Louis | |King | 9 | 2-1 | $2,876 " 17 |St. Louis v. | " " |Chamberlain | | | | N. York | |Welch | 9 | 3-0 | 3,375 " 18 |N. York v. | " " |Keefe | | | | St. Louis | |King | 9 | 4-2 | 3,530 " 19 | " " " |Brooklyn |Crane | | | | | |Chamberlain | 9 | 6-3 | 1,502 " 20 | " " " |New York |Keefe | | | | | |King | 8 | 6-4 | 5,624 " 22 | " " " |Phild'l'a |Welch | | | | | |Chamberlain | 8 | 12-5 | 1,781 " 24 |St. Louis v. |St. Louis |King | | | | N. York | |Crane | 8 | 7-5 | 2,624 " 25 |N. York v. | " " |King | | | | St. Louis | |Chamberlain | 9 | 11-3 | 2,365 " 26 |St. Louis v. | " " |King | | | | N. York | |George | 10 | 14-11| 411 " 27 | " " " | " " |Chamberlain,| | | | | |Titcomb | 9 | 18-7 | 212 Hatfeld, | -------+-------------+----------+------------+-----+------+------------ Total | | | | | | $24,362 Total Runs--New York, 64; St. Louis, 60. Pitchers' Victories--Keefe, 4; Welch, 1; King, 2; Chamberlain, 2; Crane, 1. Pitchers' Defeats--Keefe, 0; Welch, 1; Crane, 1; Titcomb, 1; King, 3; Chamberlain, 3. THE STATISTICS OF THE GAMES. THE BATTING FIGURES. The batting figures of those of the New York team who played in five games and over, are as follows: PLAYERS. |Games.|A.B.|R. |B.H.|S.B.|Per ct. | | | | | |B.H. -----------+------+----+---+----+----+------ Ward | 8 | 28 | 4 | 11 | 6 | .393 Ewing | 7 | 26 | 5 | 9 | 5 | .346 Tiernan | 10 | 38 | 8 | 13 | 5 | .342 O'Rourke | 10 | 36 | 4 | 12 | 3 | .333 Whitney | 10 | 37 | 7 | 11 | 3 | .297 Connor | 7 | 24 | 7 | 6 | 4 | .250 Slattery | 10 | 39 | 6 | 8 | 5 | .205 Richardson | 9 | 36 | 6 | 6 | 2 | .167 ------------------------------------------ Of those who played in less than five games, the batting figures were as follows: PLAYERS. |Games.|A.B.|R. |B.H.|S.B.|Per cent. | | | | | |B.H. | | | | | | ---------+------+----+---+----+----+----- Titcomb | 1 | 4 | 1 | 1 | O | .500 Gore | 3 | 11 | 5 | 5 | 2 | .454 Brown | 2 | 8 | 1 | 3 | 0 | .375 George | 2 | 9 | 2 | 3 | 0 | .333 Welch | 2 | 7 | 2 | 2 | 0 | .286 Hatfield | 2 | 8 | 2 | 2 | 1 | .250 Crane | 2 | 7 | 2 | 2 | 0 | .143 Murphy | 3 | 10 | 1 | 1 | 0 | .100 Keefe | 4 | 11 | 2 | 2 | 0 | .090 ------------------------------------------ Of those of the St. Louis team who took part in five games and over, the batting figures were as follows: PLAYERS. |Games.|A.B.| R. |B.H.|S.B.|Per cent. | | | | | |B.H. ------------+------+----+----+----+----+------- Milligan | 8 | 25 | 5 | 10 | 0 | .400 Comiskey | 10 | 38 | 6 | 10 | 4 | .263 Robinson | 10 | 38 | 7 | 10 | 2 | .263 O'Neil | 10 | 38 | 9 | 10 | 0 | .263 McCarthy | 10 | 41 | 10 | 10 | 4 | .244 Latham | 10 | 41 | 10 | 9 | 10 | .219 White | 10 | 35 | 4 | 5 | 1 | .143 Lyons | 5 | 18 | 0 | 2 | 0 | .111 King | 5 | 16 | 1 | 1 | 0 | .063 Chamberlain | 5 | 13 | 3 | 0 | 1 | .000 --------------------------------------------- Of those who played in less than five games, the batting figures were as follows: PLAYERS.|Games.|A.B.|R. |B.H.|S.B.|Per ct. | | | | | |B.H. --------+------+----+---+----+----+------- Boyle | 4 | 16 | 4 | 6 | 3 | .375 Herr | 3 | 11 | 2 | 0 | 1 | .000 Devlin | 1 | 3 | 0 | 0 | 0 | .000 THE PITCHERS' FIGURES The pitchers' figures showing their work in the box, are as follows: NEW YORK. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- PLAYERS. |Games.|At |Runs.|Earned|Hits.|Totals.|Wild |Struck |Bases | |Bat. | |Runs. | | |Pitches.|Out. |on | | | | | | | | |Balls. ---------+------+-----+-----+------+-----+-------+--------+-------+------- Keefe | 4 | 123 | 10 | 2 | 18 | 19 | 0 | 32 | 9 Welch | 2 | 56 | 8 | 2 | 10 | 14 | 1 | 3 | 6 Crane | 2 | 62 | 10 | 3 | 14 | 17 | 3 | 12 | 6 +------+-----+-----+------+-----+-------+--------+-------+---- Total | 8 | 241 | 28 | 7 | 42 | 50 | 4 | 47 | 21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ST. LOUIS. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- PLAYERS. |Games.|At |Runs.|Earned|Hits.|Totals.|Wild |Struck |Bases | |Bat. | |Runs. | | |Pitches.|Out. |on | | | | | | | | |Balls. -----------+------+-----+-----+------+-----+-------+--------+-------+----- -- King | 5 | 137 | 25 | 8 | 34 | 43 | 2 | 11 | 9 Chamberlain| 4 | 210 | 43 | 22 | 64 | 94 | 7 | 14 | 20 +------+-----+-----+------+-----+-------+--------+-------+----- --- Total | 10 | 347 | 68 | 30 | 98 | 137 | 9 | 25 | 29 -------------------------------------------------------------------------- --- In the fielding figures of pitchers the assistances on strikes were mixed up with the fielding assistances which rendered them useless. The record of the batting and fielding of the two club teams as a whole, is as follows: CLUB BATTING. CLUBS. |Games.|At Bat.|Runs.|Base |S.B.|Average. | | | |Hits.| | ----------+------+-------+-----+-----+----+-------- New York | 10 | 366 | 64 | 96 | 37 | .289 St. Louis | 10 | 333 | 61 | 73 | 26 | .219 CLUBS. |Games | P.O. | A. | E.|Total |Per Cent | | | | |Chances.|Accepted. ----------+------+------+----+---+--------+-------- New York | 10 | 213 | 174| 40| 427| .906 St. Louis | 10 | 249 | 157| 42| 449| .906 THE FINANCIAL RECORD. The appended figures showing the gate receipts of each day in each city, are as follows: Where Played.|When Played. |Receipts. -------------+---------------------+---------- New York City|Tuesday, October 16 | $2,876.50 |Wednesday, October 17| 3,375.50 |Thursday, October 18 | 3,530.00 Brooklyn |Friday, October 19 | 1,562.00 New York City|Saturday, October 20 | 5,624.50 Philadelphia |Monday, October 22 | 1,781.60 |Wednesday, October 24| 2,024.00 St. Louis |Thursday, October 25 | 2,365.00 |Friday, October 26 | 411.00 |Saturday, October 27 | 212.00 +----------- Total | $24,362.10 Total expenses | 8,000.00 Total amount divided | 16,362.10 Fifty per cent. each amounted to | 8,181.05 Of the New York's share of the receipts, $200 was paid to each of their eighteen players, reducing the club's profits by some $3,600. The general expense account includes traveling expenses and advertising for both clubs. The following table shows the figures for the series between St. Louis and Detroit in 1887: RECEIPTS.--At St. Louis, $9,000; Detroit, $6,750; Pittsburgh, $2,300; Brooklyn, $5,800; New York, $4,100; Philadelphia, $8,000; Washington, $800; Boston, $3,100; Baltimore, $2,000; Chicago, $200; total $42,000. The expenses of the trip was $18,000, leaving a balance of $24,000. This was divided evenly, so that St. Louis received $12,000 and Detroit $12,000. The St. Louis papers complimented the visiting New York team highly. In fact, the St. Louis _Post-Dispatch_ said that no more gentlemanly appearing or behaving set of men belonging to a ball club ever played in St. Louis. Messrs. Von der Ahe and the secretary of his club, Mr. George Munson, did everything in their power for the visiting newspaper men. THE FIELDING FIGURES. NEW YORK. PLAYERS. |Positions.|Games.|Fielding | | |Average. -----------+----------+------+-------- Ewing |C | 7| .875 Brown |C | 2| 1.000 Murphy |C | 3| .759 Connor |1B | 7| .975 Richardson |2B | 9| .978 Whitney |3B | 10| .862 Ward |S S | 8| .919 O'Rourke |L F | 10| .955 Slattery |C F | 10| .826 Tiernan |R F | 10| .783 ST. LOUIS. PLAYERS. |Positions.|Games.|Fielding | | |Average. ---------+----------+------+------- Milligan |C | 8| .932 Comiskey |1B | 10| .966 Robinson |2B | 10| .891 Latham |3B | 10| .923 White |S S | 10| .796 O'Neill |L F | 10| .885 Lyons |C F | 5| .941 McCarthy |R F | 10| .765 THE AMERICAN PENNANT HOLDERS OF 1886, 1887 AND 1888. An interesting chapter of American club history is the record made by the four leading clubs of the Association in their games together during the seasons of 1886, 1887 and 1888. In each year the St. Louis Club occupied the leading position at the end of the season, while the other three followed close after the champions. Here is the record of 1886: 1886. |St. Louis.|Brooklyn.|Athletic.|Cincinnati.||Won. ----------+----------+---------+---------+-----------++----- St. Louis | --| 13| 15| 15|| 43 Brooklyn | 7| --| 12| 13|| 32 Athletic | 5| 7| --| 10|| 22 Cincinnati| 5| 7| 10| --|| 22 +----------+---------+---------+-----------++--- Lost | 17| 27| 37| 38|| 119 It will be seen that while St. Louis led in 1886 Brooklyn stood second, with the Athletics third, and Cincinnati fourth. The record of 1887 is appended: 1887. |Cincinnati.|Brooklyn.|Athletic.|St. Louis.||Won. -----------+-----------+---------+---------+----------++----- Cincinnati | --| 12| 11| 13|| 36 St. Louis | 6| --| 12| 16|| 34 Athletic | 9| 8| --| 8|| 25 Brooklyn | 4| 4| 10| --|| 18 +-----------+---------+---------+----------++--- Lost | 19| 24| 33| 37|| 113 This year, though St. Louis won the pennant, it will be seen that in their games together Cincinnati held the lead, the Athletics being second, the St. Louis third and Brooklyn last, the season being a very hard one for Brooklyn through the drinking habits of the players, which the management failed to repress. The record for 1888 is as follows: 1888. |Brooklyn.|St. Louis.|Athletic.|Cincinnati.||Won. -----------+-----------+---------+---------+----------++----- Brooklyn | --| 10| 12| 14|| 36 St. Louis | 10| --| 10| 9|| 29 Athletic | 7| 8| --| 10|| 25 Cincinnati | 7| 6| 10| --|| 23 +-----------+---------+---------+----------++----- Lost | 24| 24| 32| 33|| 113 Last season, it will be seen, that while St. Louis again won the pennant, in their games together Brooklyn took the lead, St. Louis being second, the Athletics third, and Cincinnati last. EAST vs. WEST. THE LEAGUE GAMES. The contests between the four clubs of the East and the four of the West in the League in 1888 ended in favor of the East, as will be seen by the appended record: EAST VS. WEST. CLUBS. | | | | I || | G | | | | | n || | a | | | | P | d || | m | P | | | i | i || G | e | e | | | t | a || a | s | r | C | D | t | n || m | | c | h | e | s | a || e | P | e | I | t | b | p || s | l | n | c | r | u | o || | a | t | a | o | r | l || W | y | a | g | i | g | i || o | e | g | o | t | h | s || n | d | e | . | . | . | . || . | . | . ------------+---+---+---+---++----+---+--- Philadelphia| 10| 7| 14| 13|| 44| 73|.693 New York | 8| 11| 10| 14|| 43| 73|.589 Boston | 7| 10| 10| 11|| 38| 75|.567 Washington | 6| 7| 9| 8|| 30| 76|.359 ----+---+---+---++----+---+ Games lost | 31| 35| 43| 46|| 155|297| WEST VS. EAST. CLUBS. | P | | | || | G | | h | | | || | a | | i | | | W || | m | P | l | | | a || G | e | e | a | N | | s || a | s | r | d | e | | h || m | | c | e | w | B | i || e | P | e | l | | o | n || s | l | n | p | Y | s | g || | a | t | h | o | t | t || W | y | a | i | r | o | o || o | e | g | a | k | n | n || n | d | e | . | . | . | . || . | . | . ------------+---+---+---+---++----+---+----- Chicago | 8| 11| 12| 13|| 44| 76|.587 Detroit | 11| 7| 8| 11|| 37| 72|.614 Pittsburg | 6| 1| 8| 10|| 31| 74|.419 Indianapolis| 4| 5| 9| 12|| 30| 76|.305 +---+---+---+---++----+---+ Games lost | 29| 30| 37| 46|| 142|297| It will be seen that the four Eastern clubs won 155 victories to 142 by the four Western clubs. THE AMERICAN GAMES. The struggle between the East and the West in the American arena in 1888 resulted as follows: EAST VS. WEST. CLUBS. | | | K | || | G | | | C | a | L || | a | | S | i | n | o || | m | P | t | n | s | u || G | e | e | . | c | a | i || a | s | r | | i | s | s || m | | c | L | n | | v || e | P | e | o | n | C | i || s | l | n | u | a | i | l || | a | t | i | t | t | l || W | y | a | s | i | y | e || o | e | g | . | . | . | . || n | d | e | | | | || . | . | . ----------+---+---+---+---++----+----+----- Athletic | 7| 10| 14| 15|| 46| 74|.622 Brooklyn | 10| 14| 11| 13|| 48| 80|.600 Baltimore | 6| 6| 11| 11|| 34| 79|.430 Cleveland | 4| 7| 10| 9|| 30| 73|.411 +---+---+---+---++----+----+ Games lost| 27| 37| 40| 48|| 158| 306| WEST VS. EAST. CLUBS. | | | | || | G | | | | | || | a | | | | | || | m | P | | | B | C || G | e | e | A | B | a | l || a | s | r | t | r | l | e || m | | c | h | o | t | v || e | P | e | l | o | i | e || s | l | n | e | k | m | l || | a | t | t | l | o | a || W | y | a | i | y | r | n || o | e | g | c | n | e | d || n | d | e | . | . | . | . || . | . | . ------------+---+---+---+---++----+----+----- St. Louis | 10| 10| 14| 16|| 50| 77|.649 Cincinnati | 10| 6| 14| 10|| 40| 77|.519 Kansas City | 3| 9| 8| 9|| 29| 75|.387 Louisville | 5| 7| 9| 8|| 29| 77|.377 +---+---+---+---++----+----+----- Games lost | 28| 32| 45| 43|| 148| 306| It will be seen that the East won by 158 to 148. PHENOMENAL CONTEST. The most noteworthy contest of the season in the League championship arena in 1888, was the game played at the Polo Grounds on September 4, between the New York and Philadelphia teams. In this game eleven innings had been completed without either side being able to score a single run when sunset obliged the umpire to call the game on account of darkness. The turnstile count showed that 9,505 people had passed through the gates. It was a pitchers' contest from start to finish, both Keefe and Sanders doing great work in the curving line. But ten base hits were made in the eleven innings, six against Sanders and but four against Keefe. O'Rourke, Richardson and Andrews led the little batting that was done. The fielding play was of a phenomenal order, brilliant stops, catches and throws occurring in every inning, and being loudly applauded. The Philadelphians all but had the game in the tenth inning, but over anxiety lost them the chance. Farrar was on third and might have scored on Mulvey's fly to Slattery. He left the base, however, before the ball was caught, and was promptly declared out. The score was: NEW YORK. | T.| R.| B.| P.| A.| E. --------------+---+---+---+---+---+--- Slattery, cf | 5| 0| 0| 1| 1| 0 Ewing, c | 5| 0| 0| 8| 3| 0 Tiernan, rf | 5| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0 Connor, 1b | 3| 0| 0| 15| 0| 0 Ward, ss | 4| 0| 0| 2| 3| 1 Richardson, 2b| 4| 0| 2| 3| 2| 0 Whitney, 3b | 3| 0| 1| 1| 5| 1 O'Rourke, lf | 4| 0| 2| 1| 1| 0 Keefe, p | 4| 0| 1| 1| 10| 0 +---+---+---+---+---+--- Totals | 37| 0| 6| 33| 25| 2 PHILADELPHIA. | T.| R.| B.| P.| A.| E. -------------+---+---+---+---+---+--- Andrew, 3 cf | 5| 0| 2| 1| 0| 0 Fogarty, rf | 4| 0| 1| 1| 0| 0 Farrar, 1b | 4| 0| 0| 12| 1| 0 Delahanty, lf| 4| 0| 0| 2| 0| 0 Mulvey, 3b | 4| 0| 0| 0| 2| 0 Sanders, p | 4| 0| 0| 1| 7| 0 Schriver, c | 4| 0| 1| 9| 4| 0 Irwin, ss | 4| 0| 0| 5| 4| 0 Bastian, 1b | 3| 0| 0| 2| 3| 0 +---+---+---+---+---+--- Totals | 36| 0| 4| 33| 18| 0 Philadelphia 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0--0 NewYork 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0--0 Two-base hit--O'Rourke. Double plays--Keefe and Connor, Farrar and Sanders. First base on balls--Connor, Whitney, Bastain. First base on errors--Philadelphia, 1. Struck out--Tiernan, Whitney, Keefe, 2; Andrews, Fogarty, 2: Delehanty, Mulvey, Sanders, Schriver, Irwin. Wild pitches-- Keefe, 2; Sanders, 1. Time--Two hours. Umpire--Kelly. REMARKABLE EVENTS. LONGEST GAME.--Played at Boston May 11, 1877, between the Harvard College nine and the Manchester professional team, twenty-four innings, score 0 to 0. BEST LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH.--Played August 17, 1882, at Providence, between the Providence and Detroit teams, eighteen innings, score 1 to 0-- _seventeen innings without a run!_ NEXT BEST LEAGUE CLUB GAME.--Played at St. Louis on May 1, 1877, between the St. Louis team and the Syracuse Stars, fifteen innings, score 0 to 0-- a drawn match. BEST INTERNATIONAL ASSOCIATION GAME.--Played May 7, 1878, at Lynn, Mass., between the Live Oak team of Lynn, and the Crickets of Binghamton, fifteen innings, score 1 to 0. BEST JUNIOR GAME.--Played at Hoboken, August 19, 1878, fifteen innings, score 1 to 0. SHORTEST GAME.--Excelsior vs. Field in Brooklyn on Excelsior's grounds, in May, 1861--50 minutes, 9 innings. LONGEST THROW.--By John Hatfield, made at Union Grounds, Brooklyn, Oct. 15, 1872. Distance 133 yards, 1 foot, 7 inches-- over 400 feet. GREATEST SCORE.--In match between the Niagara Club, of Buffalo, and a visiting nine at Buffalo in 1864, score 202 to 26. THE THROWING CONTESTS RECORDS. The longest throw of a baseball on record up to 1872 was that made in 1868 by John Hatfield, then a member of the Cincinnati team, he then throwing a ball 132 yards. In October, 1872, a throwing contest took place on the old Union ball grounds, Brooklyn, in which John Hatfield--then of the Mutuals--threw the ball 133 yds, 1 ft 7-1/2 in., the distance being officially measured. The contest was also participated in by Andy Leonard, whose record was 119 yds. 1 ft. 10 in.; George Wright, 117 yds. 1 ft. 1 in.; Billy Boyd, 115 yds. 1 ft. 7 in.; Fisler, 112 yds. 6 in., and Anson, 110 yds. 6 in. This throw of Hatfield's--over 400 ft.--has never been equaled in any regular throwing contest. On September 9, 1882, a throwing match took place on the Chicago ball grounds between E. Williamson of the Chicago Club and Pfeffer of the Troys. Three trials were had and Pfeffer's best throw was 132 yards and 5 inches. Williamson's best throw was 132 yards, 1 foot, or four feet seven and one half inches short of Hatfield's champion throw. In 1884, while connected with the Boston Union Association Club, Ed Crane, while in Cincinnati October 12 of that year, was credited with throwing a baseball 135 yards, 1 foot, and 1/2 inch, and also again at St. Louis on October 19, he was credited with throwing a ball 134 yards, 5 inches. But the circumstances attendant upon both trials were not such as to warrant an official record, so the _Clipper_ says, through its editor for 1888, Mr. A. H. Wright, in his answer to a query on the subject. At any rate, Crane has not since reached such figures, and he is as swift a thrower now as ever. The throwing contest which took place at Cincinnati in 1888, at intervals through the summer and fall, failed to result in the record being beaten, though some very good long distance throwing was done, as will be seen by the appended record: Rank| PLAYERS. |CLUB. | Distance Thrown. ----+------------+-----------+------------------ 1 | Williamson |Chicago | 399 feet 11 inches. 2 | Griffin |Baltimore | 372 " 8 " 3 | Stovey |Athletic | 369 " 2 " 4 | Vaughn |Louisville | 366 " 9 " 5 | Burns |Brooklyn | 364 " 6 " 6 | O'Brien |Brooklyn | 361 " 5 " 7 | Collins |Brooklyn | 354 " 6 " 8 | Tebeau |Cincinnati | 353 " 0 " 9 | Gilks |Cleveland | 343 " 11 " 10 | Reilly |Cincinnati | 341 " 6 " 11 | Brennan |Kansas City| 339 " 6 " 12 | Stricker |Cleveland | 337 " 8 " 13 | Foutz |Brooklyn | 335 " 4 " 14 | Davis |Kansas City| 333 " 6 " 15 | O'Connor |Cincinnati | 330 " 0 " 16 | McTamany |Kansas City| 327 " 6 " When Williamson threw, the grounds were slippery, but he managed to easily win the $100 prize money and diamond locket. One hundred and thirty- three yards eight inches, was the distance Williamson threw, and he would have done still better and beaten Hatfield's throw, had the conditions been more favorable. The best throw of a cricket ball on record is that of W. F. Torbes, of Eton College, England, in March, 1876, the distance foeing 132 yards. The longest throw of a lacrosse ball is that made by W. B. Kenny, at Melbourne, Australia, in September, 1886, the ball being thrown from his lacrosse stick 446 feet. The longest in America was that of Ross McKenzie, in Montreal, on October, 1882, he throwing the ball 422 feet. THE TRIP TO ENGLAND IN 1874. Mr. Spalding made an effort to introduce base ball in England in 1874, but the experiment proved to be a costly one financially, and it did not result favorably in popularizing the American game in England. The two teams who visited England in July, 1874, included the following players of the Boston and Athletic clubs of that year: BOSTON. POSITIONS. ATHLETIC. ------------------------------------------------- James White Catcher James E. Clapp. A.G. Spalding Pitcher James D. McBride. James O'Rourke First Base West D. Fisler. Ross C. Barnes Second Base Joseph Battin. Henry Shafer Third Base Edward B. Sutton. George Wright Short Stop M.H. McGeary. And. J. Leonard Left Field Albert W. Gedney. Harry Wright Center Field James F. McMullen. Col. C. McVey Right Field A.C. Arisen. George W. Hall Substitute Al. J. Reach. Thomas L. Beals Substitute J.P. Sensenderfer. Sam Wright, Jr Substitute Thomas Murnan.[A] [**Proofreaders note A: "Murnan" might be a typo, as it appears as "Murnam" later on the page.] The record of the games played in England on the trip is as follows: DATE. |CONTESTING CLUBS. |CITIES. |PITCHERS. |SCORES. -------+-------------------+----------+----------+------- July 30|Athletic vs. Boston|Liverpool |McBride, | | | |Spalding | | | |10in. | 14-11 " 31|Boston vs. Athletic| " |Spalding, | | | |McBride | 23-18 Aug. 1 |Athletic vs. Boston|Manchester|McBride, | | | |Spalding | 13-12 " 3 |Boston vs. Athletic|London |Spalding, | | | |McBride | 24-7 " 6 | " " " | " |Spalding, | | | |McMullen | 14-11 " 8 |Athletic vs. Boston|Richmond |McBride, | | | |Spalding | 11-3 " 10|Boston vs. Athletic|Crystal |Spalding, | | | Pal. |McBride | 17-8 " 11|Athletic vs. Boston| " |McBride, | | | |Spalding | 19-8 " 13|Boston vs. Athletic|Kensington|Spalding, | | | |McBride | 16-6 " 14|Spalding's Nine vs.| " |Spalding, | |McMullen's Nine | |McMullen | 14-11 " 15|Boston vs. Athletic|Sheffield | " , " | 19-8 " 17| " " " | " | " , " | 18-17 " 20|Athletic vs. Boston|Manchester|McBride, | | | |Spalding | 7-2 " 24|Boston vs. Athletic|Dublin |Spalding, | | | |McBride | 12-7 " 25|Athletic vs. Boston| " |McMullen, | | | |H. Wright | 13-4 Boston victories 8, Athletic victories 6. In the percentage of base hits of those who played in a majority of the games on the Boston side McVey led with .435, Leonard being second, with .418, and George Hall third, with .364, Barnes, O'Rourke, Schafer, Harry and George Wright and Spalding following in order. On the Athletic side Anson led with .437, McGeary being second, with .388, and McMullen third, with .367. McBride, Clapp, Murnam, Sutter, Gedner and Battin following in order, the latter having a percentage of .323. Sensenderfer only played in 9 games, Kent in 8, Fisler in 5, and Beals in 4. All the others played in 10 games and over. In the description of the players of the team given in the London papers at the time of their visit the following paragraph appeared, quoted from Mr. Chadwick's comments in the _Clipper_: "Spalding is justly regarded as one of the most successful of the strategic class of pitchers. In judgment, command of the ball, pluck, endurance, and nerve, in his position he has no superior; while his education and gentlemanly qualities place him above the generality of base- ball pitchers. As a batsman he now equals the best of what are called 'scientific' batsmen--men who use their heads more than their muscle in handling the ash. His force in delivery is the success with which he disguises a change of pace from swift to medium, a great essential in successful pitching. Spalding is a thorough representative of the spirited young men of the Western States, he being from Illinois." Of George Wright the same writer said: "George Wright is generally regarded as a model base-ball player, especially in his responsible position of short-stop; and until he injured his leg he had no equal in the position. He is a jolly, good-natured youth full of life and spirit, up to all the dodges of the game, and especially is he noted for his sure catching of high balls in the infield, and for his swift and accurate throwing. At the bat, too, he excels; while as a bowler, fielder, and batsman, in cricket, he ranks with the best of American cricketers. He comes of real old English stock, his father being a veteran English cricketer, and formerly the professional of the St. George Cricket Club of New York." Besides the base-ball matches played during the tour, the following table shows what the two clubs combined did on the cricket field, against the strongest players of London, Sheffield, Manchester and Dublin. The sides in each contest were eighteen Americans against twelve British cricketers: |AMERICANS vs. |AMERICANS. |OPPONENTS. -----------+-------------------+----------------+------------ | |1st.|2d. |Total|1st.|2d. ||Total -----------+-------------------+----+----+-----+----+----++------ Aug. 3,4 |12 Marylebone | 107| ---| 107 | 105| ---|| 105 |Club on Ground at | | | | | || |Lords | | | | | || Aug. 6,7 |11 Prince's C. C. | 110| ---| 110 | 21| 39|| 60 |at Prince's | | | | | || Aug. 8 |13 Richmond C at | 45| ---| 45 | 108| ---|| 108 |Richmond[1] | | | | | || Aug. 13,14 |11 Surrey C. S. at | 100| 111| 211 | 27| 2|| 29 |Ovalt[2] | | | | | || Aug. 15,17 |12 Sheffield, at | 130| ---| 130 | 43| 45|| 88 |Sheffield | | | | | || Aug. 20, 21|11 Manchester, at | 121| 100| 221 | 42| 53|| 95 |Manchester | | | | | || Aug. 24, 25|11 All Ireland, at | 71| 94| 165 | 47| 32|| 79 |Dublin |____|____|_____|____|____||____ |Totals | 684| 305| 989 | 393| 171 || 564 [Footnote 1: Unfinished innings, only six wickets down.] [Footnote 2: Second innings unfinished, only four wickets down.] The ball players did not lose a single game, and had the best of it in the games which were drawn from not having time to put them out. The trip cost the two clubs over $2,000, exclusive of the amount received at the gate. In fact, the Britishers did not take to the game kindly at all. To show what the All England eleven could do in the way of playing base ball, the score of a game played in Boston in October, 1868, after the All England eleven had played their cricket match there, is given below: American Nine 3 2 0 0 1 6 3 5 0 || 20 English Cricketers' Nine 4 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 || 4 George Wright pitched for the cricketers, the nine including Smith c; Tarrant 1b; Peeley 2b; Shaw 3b; Humphrey ss; Jupp lf; Clarkwood cf, and Rowbotham rf. The American nine was a weak picked nine, including O'Brien--a Boston cricketer--and Archy Buch, of Harvard, as the battery; Shaw, Barrows and Lowell on the bases; Pratt as short stop, and Smith Rogers and Conant in the out field. In all the base-ball games in which the English professional cricketers took part during their visits to America from 1859 to 1880, they failed to begin to equal in their ball play the work done by the ball players in cricket in England. * * * * * THE GREAT BASE BALL TRIP AROUND THE WORLD IN 1888-'89. [Illustration: ALL AMERICA. BROWN FOGARTY CARROLL WARD HEALY HANLON WOOD CRANE MANNING EARLE.] [Illustration: CHICAGO TEAM.] The greatest historical event recorded in the annals of the national game was undoubtedly the journey to Australia, which began in November, 1888, and ended in March, 1889, on a trip around the world. While in 1874 Mr. A. G. Spalding was the _avant cornier_ of the visiting party of base ball players to England, and also one of the most prominent of the victorious team players; in 1888 Mr. Spalding was the originator of the trip, the master spirit of the remarkable enterprise, and the leader of the band of base ball missionaries to the antipodes. Of course, in recording the Australian trip in the GUIDE for 1889, only a cursory glance can be taken of the trip, as it would require a volume of itself to do the tour justice. Suffice it to say that the pluck, energy and business enterprise which characterized the unequaled event reflected the highest credit not only on Mr. Albert G. Spalding, as the representative spirit of Western business men, but also on the American name in every respect, and it did for the extension of the popularity of our national game in six short months what as many years of effort under ordinary circumstances would have failed to do. The party of tourists which started on their journey to Australia on October 20, 1888, met with an enthusiastic welcome on their route to San Francisco, and in that city they were given a reception on their arrival and a send-off on their departure for Australia, unequaled in the history of the game on the Pacific coast. The record of the series of games played by the two teams--Chicago and All America--en route to San Francisco and while in that city, is appended: DATE |CLUBS. |CITIES. |PITCHERS. |SCORE. -------+------------+--------------+----------------+------- Oct. 20|Chicago vs. |Chicago |Spalding, | 11--6 |America. | |Hutchinson | " 21|" " "|St. Paul |Baldwin, Healy | 8--5 " 22|" " "|Minneapolis |Baldwin, Duryca | 1--0 " 22|America vs. | " |Van Haltren, | 6--3 |Chicago. | |Tener | " 23|Chicago vs. |Cedar Rapids |Tener, | 6--5 |America. | |Hutchinson | " 24|America vs. |Des Moines |Hutchinson, | 3--2 |Chicago. | |Baldwin. | " 25|" " "|Omaha |Healy, Ryan | 12--2 " 26|Chicago vs. |Hastings |Baldwin, | 8--4 |America. | | Van Haltren | " 27|" " "|Denver |Tener, Healy | 16--2 " 28|America vs. | " |Crane, Baldwin | 9--8 |Chicago. | | | " 29|Chicago vs. |Colorado |Ryan, Healy | 3--9 |America. | Spr's | | " 31|America vs. |Salt Lake |Crane, Tener | 19--3 |Chicago. | City | | Nov. 1|" " " | " " " |Healy, Baldwin | 10--3 " 4|" " " |San Francisco.| " " | 4--4 " 11|" " " | " " |Van Haltren, | 9--6 | | |Tener | " 14|Chicago vs. |Los Angeles |Baldwin, Healy | 5--0 |America. | | | " 15|America vs. | " " |Crane, Tener | 7--4 |Chicago. | | | The teams, when they left San Francisco on November 18, 1888, included the following players: CHICAGO TEAM. A. C. Anson, Capt. and 1st baseman. N. F. Pfeffer, 2d baseman. Thos. Burns, 3d baseman. E. N. Williamson, .short stop. M. Sullivan, left fielder. Jas. Ryan, center fielder. R. Pettitt, right fielder. Thos. P. Daly, catcher. J. K. Tener, .pitcher. M. Baldwin, pitcher. ALL AMERICA TEAM. J. M. Ward, Capt. and short stop. G. A. Wood, 1st baseman. H. C. Long, 2d baseman. H. Manning, 3d baseman. J. Fogarty, left fielder. E. Hanlon, center fielder. J. C. Earl, right fielder. F. H. Carroll, catcher. John Healy, pitcher. F. N. Crane, pitcher. Earl also acted as change catcher. The All America team included players from the League clubs of New York, Philadelphia, Detroit, Pittsburg and Indianapolis, and from the American Association clubs of Cincinnati and Kansas City. Mr. Spalding stood at the head of the tourist party, with Mr. Leigh S. Lynch as his business manager, and H. H. Simpson as assistant, Mr. J. K. Tener being the treasurer and cashier. The record of the games played by the two teams with outside clubs en route to San Francisco and in California is as follows: DATE. |CLUBS. |CITIES. |PITCHERS. |SCORE. -------+--------------------+-------------+---------------+------- Oct. 21|St. Paul vs. Chicago|St. Paul |Duryea, Tener | 8-5 Nov. 6|Haverly vs. America |San Francisco|Anderson, Crane| 12-5 " 8|Chicago vs. Stockton|Stockton |Tener, Harper | 2-2 " 8|Pioneer vs. America |San Francisco|Purcell, Healy | 9-4 " 9|America vs. Stockton|Stockton |Crane, Baker | 16-1 " 10|Chicago vs. Haverly |San Francisco|Baldwin Inal | 6-1 While en route to Australia the tourists stopped at Honolulu, where they were given a public reception, by King Kalakaua, but their first game played after they had left California was at Auckland, where they first realized what a cordial reception the Australians had prepared for them. On their arrival at Sydney, and afterward at Melbourne, the hearty welcome accorded them, not only as ball players but as representatives of the great Western Republic, was such as to surpass all their anticipations, the heartiness of the greeting, the boundless hospitality and the crowded attendance at their games imparting to their visit a brilliancy of success which fully remunerated Mr. Spalding for all the pecuniary risks he had incurred by the trip. It was originally intended to have made the tour of the colonies a more extended one than was afterward found possible, and so the sojourn of the players on the Australian continent ended sooner than anticipated, only four cities being visited, instead of eight or ten, as laid out. The record of the games played in Australia is as follows: DATE. |CLUBS. |CITIES. |PITCHERS. |Score. -------+-------------------+---------+--------------+------- Dec. 10|Chicago vs. America|Auckland |Baldwin, Crane| 22-13 " 15|America vs. Chicago|Sydney |Healy, Tener | 5-4 " 17| " " " | " |Healy, Baldwin| 7-5 " 18| " " " | " |Healy, Tener | 6-3 " 22|Chicago vs. America|Melbourne|Tener, Crane | 5-3 " 24|America vs. Chicago| " |Healy, Ryan | 10-13 " 26| " " " |Adelaide |Healy, Tener | 19-14 " 27|Chicago vs. America| " |Baldwin, Healy| 12-9 " 28| " " " | " |Ryan, Simpson | 11-4 Dec. 29|America vs. Chicago|Ballarat |Healy, Baldwin| 11-7 Jan. 1 |Chicago vs. America|Melbourne|Tener, Healy | 14-7 " 1 | " " " | " |Baldwin, Crane| 9-4 " 5 | " " " | " |Baldwin, Crane| 5-0 " 26 |America vs. Chicago|Colombo |Crane, Baldwin| 3-3 After leaving Australia the tourists called at Colombo, Ceylon, and from thence went to Cairo, and while in that city visited the Pyramids, and they managed to get off a game on the sands in front of the Pyramid Cheops on Feb. 9. Their first game in Europe was played at Naples on Feb. 19, and from there they went to Rome, Florence and Nice, the teams reaching Paris on March 3. The record of their games in Europe is as follows: DATE. |CLUBS. |CITIES. |PITCHERS. |Score. -------+-------------------+--------+---------------+------- Feb. 9|America vs. Chicago|Ghiz eh |Healy, Tener | 9-1 " 19| " " " |Naples |Healy, Baldwin | 8-2 " 23|Chicago vs. America|Rome |Tener, Crane | 3-2 " 25|America vs. Chicago|Florence|Healy, Baldwin | 7-4 March 3| |Paris In commenting on the physique of the American ball players, the editor of the Melbourne _Argus_ says: "Right worthy of welcome did those visitors appear-stalwarts every man, lumps of muscle showing beneath their tight fitting jersey garments, and a springiness in every movement which denoted grand animal vigor and the perfection of condition. We could not pick eighteen such men from the ranks of all our cricketers, and it is doubtful if we could beat them by a draft from the foot ballers. If base ball has anything to do with building up such physique we ought to encourage it, for it must evidently be above and beyond all other exercises in one at least of the essentials of true athletics." The Melbourne _Sporteman_ in its report of the inaugural game in that city, said: "The best evidence offered that Melbournites were pleased and interested in the exhibition lies in the fact that the crowd of nearly ten thousand people remained through not only nine but twelve innings of play, and then many of them stayed to see a four inning game between the Chicago team and a nine composed mainly of our local cricket players, who made a very creditable show, considering the strength of the team they were playing against, and the fact that they were almost utter strangers to base ball. Not only did the spectators remain upon the ground but they heartily applauded the heavy batting, the base running and base sliding and the brilliant fielding executed by our Yankee visitors. Perhaps the truest realization of just how difficult it is to play a finished game of base ball was obtained by the cricketers who went in against the Chicagos. A man may be able to guard a wicket with a degree of skill that would win him wide fame in cricket circles, but when it comes to standing beside the home plate of a base ball diamond, and mastering the terrific delivery of an American professional pitcher, the average cricketer is compelled to acknowledge the wide difference existing between the two positions. Then again, the quick handling of a batted or thrown ball, that it may be returned with all accuracy and lightning like rapidity to the waiting basemen are points which our cricketers are deficient in, when compared with the American professional ball player. It can be seen at a glance that the game is prolific of opportunities for quick and brilliant fielding." The following is the score of the first match at cricket played by the base ball tourists with Australian cricketers in Sydney on December 18, 1888: BASE BALL EIGHTEEN. Anson, b. Charlton 15 Williamson, c. Woolcott, b. Charlton 0 Ward, b. Charlton 1 Spalding, b. Charlton 0 Wright, b. Gregory 11 Pfeffer, b. Gregory 16 Wood, b. Gregory 0 Carroll, c. Robinson, b. Gregory 0 Earle, st. Crane, b. Gregory 0 Fogarty, b. Charlton 0 Burns, b. Charlton 10 Hanlon, hit wicket, b. Gregory 2 Manning, c. Woolcott, b. Gregory 14 Pettit, b. Gregory 3 Ryan, c. Robinson, b. Gregory 3 Sullivan, c. Halligan, b. Gregory, 0 Baldwin, not out 0 Sundries 5 ---- Total 81 SYDNEY ELEVEN. Robinson, l. b. w., b. Earle 1 Halligan, c. Burns, b. Anson 21 Kidman, c. Pfeffer, b. Anson 19 Woolcott, c. and b. Anson 4 Crane, c. Williamson b. Earle 14 A. Gregory, c. Burns, b. Wright 35 Hemsley, not out 18 Sundries 3 ----- Total for six wickets 115 We are compelled to omit the National Agreement for want of space. It will be given in the Official League Book. [Illustration: A. G. MILLS.] Mr. A. G. Mills was connected with the Chicago Club at the organization of the National League, and he participated in the legislative work of the League from 1876 to 1885 when he resigned his position as President, to which position he was unanimously elected on the death of President Hulbert. To his efficient services as President and one of the Board of Directors is the success of the League after the death of its founder largely due. He was the originator of the National Agreement which has so firmly bound together the National League and the American Association. Since he resigned his position as President of the League in 1885, he has been practically out of Base Ball, although he still takes a deep interest in the game. He was succeeded by the worthy President, Mr. N. E. Young. * * * * * INDEX TO RULES AND REGULATIONS * * * * * RULE. The Ground 1 The Infield 2 The Bases 3 Number of (1) 3 The Home Bases (2) 3 First, Second and Third (3) 3 Position (4) 3 Foul Lines 4 Pitcher's Lines 5 Catcher's Lines 6 Captain's Lines 7 Player's Lines 8 Batman's Lines 9 Three Feet Lines 10 Lines must be Marked 11 The Ball 12 Weight and Size (1) 12 Number Balls Furnished (2) 12 Furnished by Home Club (3) 12 Replaced if Injured (4) 12 The Bat 13 Material of (1) 13 Shape of (2) 13 THE PLAYERS AND THEIR POSITIONS. Number of Players in Game 14 Players' Positions 15 Players not to Sit with Spectators 16 Club Uniforms 17 The Pitcher's Position 18 The Batsman's Position 19 Order of Batting 20 Where Players Must Remain (1) 20 Space Reserved for Umpire (2) 20 Space Allotted Players "at Bat" (3) 20 The Players' Benches 21 THE GAME. Time of Championship Game (1) 22 Number of Innings (2) 22 Termination of Game (a) 22 The Winning Run (b) 22 A Tie Game 23 A Drawn Game 24 A Called Game 25 A Forfeited Game 26 Failure of the Nine to Appear (1) 26 Refusal of One Side to Play (2) 26 Failure to Resume Playing (3) 26 Willful Violation (4) 26 Disobeying Order to Remove Player (5) 26 Written Notice to President (6) 26 No Game 27 Substitutes 28 One or More Substitute Players (1) 28 Extra Player (2) 28 Base Runner (3) 28 Choice of Innings 29 A Fair Ball 30 An Unfair Ball 31 A Balk 32 Motion to Deceive (1) 32 Delay by Holding (2) 32 Pitcher Outside of Lines (3) 32 A Dead Ball 33 A Foul Strike 34 Block Balls 35 Stopped by Person Not in Game (1) 35 Ball Returned (2) 35 Base Runner Must Stop (3) 35 The Scoring of Runs 36 A Fair Hit 37 A Foul Hit 38 Batted Ball Outside Grounds 39 A Fair Batted Ball 40 Strikes 41 Ball Struck at by Batsman (1) 41 A Fair Ball Delivered by Pitcher (2) 41 Attempt to Make Foul Hit (3) 41 A Foul Strike 42 The Batsman is Out 43 Failure to Take Position at Bat in Order (1) 43 Failure to Take Position Within One Minute after Being Called (2) 43 If He Makes a Foul Hit (3) 43 If He Makes a Foul Strike (4) 43 Attempt to Hinder Catcher (5) 43 Three Strikes Called by Umpire (6) 43 If Ball Hits Him while Making Third Strike (7) 43 Attempted Foul Hit after Two Strikes (8) 43 The Batsman Becomes a Base Runner 44 After a Fair Hit (1) 44 After Four Balls are Called (2) 44 After Three Strikes are Declared (3) 44 If Hit by Ball While at Bat (4) 44 After Illegal Delivery of Ball (5) 44 Bases to be Touched 45 Entitled to Base 46 If Umpire Call Four Balls (1) 46 If Umpire Award Succeeding Batsman Base (2) 46 If Umpire Calls Balk (3) 46 If Pitcher's Ball Passes Catcher (4) 46 Ball Strikes Umpire (5) 46 Prevented from Making Base (6) 46 Fielder Stops Ball (7) 46 Returning to Bases 47 If Foul Tip (1) 47 If Foul Strike (2) 47 If Dead Ball (3) 47 Ball Thrown to Intercept Base Runner (4) 47 Base Runner Out 48 Attempt to Hinder Catcher from Fielding Ball (1) 48 If Fielder Hold Fair Hit Ball (2) 48 Third Strike Ball Held by Fielder (3) 48 Touched with Ball after Three Strikes (4) 48 Touching First Base (5) 48 Running from Home Base to First Base (6) 48 Running from First to Second Base (7) 48 Failure to Avoid Fielder (8) 48 Touched by Ball While in Play (9) 48 Fair or Foul Hit Caught by Fielder (10) 48 Batsman Becomes a Base Runner (11) 48 Touched by Hit Ball before Touching Fielder (12) 48 Running to Base (13) 48 Umpire Calls Play (14) 48 When Batsman or Base Runner is Out 49 Coaching Rules 50 THE UMPIRE. Umpire's Power 51, 52 When Master of the Field (1) 52 Must Compel Observance of Playing Rules (2) 52 Special Duties 53 Is Sole Judge of Play (1) 53 Shall see Rules Observed Before Commencing Game (2) 53 Must Keep Contesting Nines Playing (3) 53 Must Count and Call Balls (4) 53 Attention of Umpire is Directed Against 54 Laziness or Loafing , (1) 54 Seeking to Disconcert Fielder (2) 54 Violation of Rules by Base Runner (3) 54 Umpire Must Call Play 55 Umpire Allowed to Call Time 56 Umpire is Empowered to Inflict Fines 57 For Indecent Language (1) 57 Wilful Failure of Captain to Remain within Bounds (2) 57 Disobedience of a Player (3) 57 Shall Notify Captain (4) 57 Repetition of Offenses (5) 57 FIELD RULES. No Club Shall Allow Open Betting 58 Who Shall be Allowed in the Field 59 Audience Shall Not be Addressed 60 Every Club Shall Furnish Police Force 61 GENERAL DEFINITIONS. Play 62 Time 63 Game 64 An Inning 65 A Time at Bat 66 Legal 67 Scoring 68 Batting (1) 68 Runs Made (2) 68 Base Hits (3) 68 Sacrifice Hits (4) 68 Fielding (5) 68 Assists (6) 68 Error (7) 68 Stolen Bases (8) 68 Runs Earned (9) 68 The Summary 69 Number of Earned Runs (1) 69 Number of Two Base Hits (2) 69 Number of Three Base Hits (3) 69 Number of Home Runs (4) 69 Number of Stolen Bases (5) 69 Number of Double and Triple Plays (6) 69 Bases on Called Balls (7) 69 Bases from Being Hit (8) 69 Men Struck Out (9) 69 Passed Balls (10) 69 Wild Pitches (11) 69 Time of Game (12) 69 Name of Umpire (13) 69 Amendments 70 NATIONAL PLAYING RULES OF Professional Base Ball Clubs AS ADOPTED JOINTLY BY THE NATIONAL LEAGUE AND AMERICAN ASSOCIATION, AND GOVERNING ALL CLUBS PARTIES TO THE NATIONAL AGREEMENT. 1889. * * * * * THE BALL GROUND. RULE 1. The Ground must be an enclosed field, sufficient in size to enable each player to play in his position as required by these Rules. RULE 2. The Infield must be a space of ground thirty yards square. THE BASES. RULE 3. The Bases must be SEC. 1. Four in number, and designated as First Base, Second Base, Third Base and Home Base. SEC. 2. The Home Base must be of whitened rubber twelve inches square, so fixed in the ground as to be even with the surface, and so placed in the corner of the infield that two of its sides will form part of the boundaries of said infield. SEC. 3. The First, Second and Third Bases must be canvas bags, fifteen inches square, painted white, and filled with some soft material, and so placed that the center of the second base shall be upon its corner of the infield, and the center of the first and third bases shall be on the lines running to and from second base and seven and one-half inches from the foul lines, providing that each base shall be entirely within the foul lines. SEC. 4. All the bases must be securely fastened in their positions, and so placed as to be distinctly seen by the Umpire. THE FOUL LINES. RULE 4. The Foul Lines must be drawn in straight lines from the outer corner of the Home Base, along the outer edge of the First and Third Bases, to the boundaries of the Ground. THE POSITION LINES. RULE 5. The Pitcher's Lines must be straight lines forming the boundaries of a space of ground, in the infield, five and one-half feet long by four feet wide, distant fifty feet from the center of the Home Base, and so placed that the five and one half feet lines would each be two feet distant from and parallel with a straight line passing through the center of the Home and Second Bases. Each corner of this space must be marked by a flat iron plate or stone six inches square, fixed in the ground even with the surface. RULE 6. The Catcher's Lines must be drawn from the outer corner of the Home Base, in continuation of the Foul Lines, straight to the limits of the Ground back of Home Base. RULE 7. The Captain's or Coacher's Lines must be a line fifteen feet from and parallel with the Foul Lines, said lines commencing at a line parallel with and seventy-five feet distant from the catcher's lines, and running thence to the limits of the grounds. RULE 8. The Players' Lines must be drawn from the Catcher's Lines to the limits of the Ground, fifty feet distant from and parallel with, the foul lines. RULE 9. The Batsman's Lines must be straight lines forming the boundaries of a space on the right, and of a similar space on the left of the Home Base, six feet long by four feet wide, extending three feet in front of and three feet behind the center of the Home Base, and with its nearest line distant six inches from the Home Base. RULE 10. The Three Feet Lines must be drawn as follows: From a point on the Foul Line from Home Base to First Base, and equally distant from such bases, shall be drawn a line on Foul Ground, at a right angle to said Foul Line, and to a point three feet distant from it; thence running parallel with said Foul Line, to a point three feet distant from the First Base; thence in a straight line to the Foul Line, and thence upon the Foul Line to point of beginning. RULE 11. The lines designated in Rules 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 must be marked with chalk or other suitable material, so as to be distinctly seen by the Umpire. They must all be so marked their entire length, except the Captain's and Player's Lines, which must be so marked for a distance of at least thirty-five yards from the Catcher's Lines. THE BALL. RULE 12. The Ball. SEC. 1. Must not weigh less than five or more than five and one-quarter ounces avoirdupois, and measure not less than nine nor more than nine and one-quarter inches in circumference. The Spalding League Ball, or the Reach American Association Ball must be used in all games played under these rules. SEC. 2. For each championship game two balls shall be furnished by the Home Club to the Umpire for use. When the ball in play is batted over the fence or stands, on to foul ground out of sight of the players, the other ball shall be immediately put into play by the Umpire. As often as one of the two in use shall be lost, a new one must be substituted, so that the Umpire may at all times, after the game begins, have two for use. The moment the Umpire delivers the alternate ball to the catcher or pitcher it comes into play, and shall not be exchanged until it, in turn, passes out of sight on to foul ground. SEC. 3. In all games the ball or balls played with shall be furnished by the Home Club, and the last ball in play becomes the property of the winning club. Each ball to be used in championship games shall be examined, measured and weighed by the Secretary of the Association, inclosed in a paper box and sealed with the seal of the Secretary, which seal shall not be broken except by the Umpire in the presence of the captains of the two contesting nines after play has been called. SEC. 4. Should the ball become out of shape, or cut or ripped so as to expose the yarn, or in any way so injured as to be--in the opinion of the Umpire--unfit for fair use, the Umpire, on being appealed to by either captain, shall at once put the alternate ball into play and call for a new one. THE BAT. RULE 13. The Bat. SEC. 1. Must be made wholly of wood, except that the handle may be wound with twine or a granulated substance applied, not to exceed eighteen inches from the end. SEC. 2. It must be round, except that a portion of the surface may be flat on one side, but it must not exceed two and one-half inches in diameter in the thickest part, and must not exceed forty-two inches in length. THE PLAYERS AND THEIR POSITIONS. RULE 14. The players of each club in a game shall be nine in number, one of whom shall act as Captain, and in no case shall less than nine men be allowed to play on each side. RULE 15. The players' positions shall be such as may be assigned them by their Captain, except that the Pitcher must take his position within the Pitcher's Lines, as defined in Rule 5. When in position on the field, all players will be designated "Fielders" in these rules. RULE 16. Players in uniform shall not be permitted to seat themselves among the spectators. RULE 17. Every Club shall be required to adopt uniforms for its players, and each player shall be required to present himself upon the field during said game in a neat and cleanly condition, but no player shall attach anything to the sole or heel of his shoes other than the ordinary base ball shoe plate. THE PITCHER'S POSITION. RULE 18. The pitcher shall take his position facing the batsman with both feet square on the ground, one foot on the rear line of the "box." He shall not raise either foot, unless in the act of delivering the ball, nor make more than one step in such delivery. He shall hold the ball, before the delivery, fairly in front of his body, and in sight of the Umpire. When the pitcher feigns to throw the ball to a base he must resume the above position and pause momentarily before delivering the ball to the bat. THE BATSMEN'S POSITION--ORDER OF BATTING. RULE 19. The batsmen must take their positions within the Batsmen's Lines, as defined in Rule 9, in the order in which they are named on _the score_, which must contain the batting order of both nines, and be submitted by the Captains of the opposing teams to the Umpire before the game, and when approved by him THIS SCORE must be followed except in the case of a substitute player, in which case the substitute must take the place of the original player in the batting order. After the first inning the first striker in each inning shall be the batsman whose name follows that of the last man who has completed his turn--time at bat--in the preceding inning. RULE 20. SEC. 1. When their side goes to the bat the players must immediately return to and seat themselves upon the players' bench and remain there until the side is put out, except when batsman or base runner. All bats not in use must be kept in the bat racks, and the two players next succeeding the batsman, in the order in which they are named on the score, must be ready with bat in hand to promptly take position as batsman; provided, that the Captain and one assistant only may occupy the space between the players' lines and the Captain's lines to coach base runners. SEC. 2. No player of the side at bat, except when Batsman, shall occupy any portion of the space within the Catcher's Lines, as defined in Rule 6. The triangular space behind the Home Base is reserved for the exclusive use of the Umpire, Catcher and Batsman, and the Umpire must prohibit any player of the side "at bat" from crossing the same at any time while the ball is in the hands of, or passing between, the Pitcher and Catcher, while standing in their positions. SEC. 3. The players of the side "at bat" must occupy the portion of the field allotted them, but must speedily vacate any portion thereof that may be in the way of the ball, or of any Fielder attempting to catch or field it. PLAYERS' BENCHES. RULE 21. The Players' Benches must be furnished by the home club, and placed upon a portion of the ground outside the Players' Lines. They must be twelve feet in length, and must be immovably fastened to the ground. At the end of each bench must be immovably fixed a bat rack, with fixtures for holding twenty bats; one such rack must be designated for the exclusive use of the Visiting Club, and the other for the exclusive use of the Home Club. THE GAME. RULE 22 SEC. I. Every Championship Game must be commenced not later than two hours before sunset. SEC. 2. A Game shall consist of nine innings to each contesting nine, except that, (a) If the side first at bat scores less runs in nine innings than the other side has scored in eight innings, the game shall then terminate. (b) If the side last at bat in the ninth inning scores the winning run before the third man is out, the game shall terminate, upon the return of the ball to the pitcher. A TIE GAME. RULE 23. If the score be a tie at the end of nine innings to each side, play shall only be continued until the side first at bat shall have scored one or more runs than the other side, in an equal number of innings, or until the other side shall score one or more runs than the side first at bat. A DRAWN GAME. RULE 24. A Drawn Game shall be declared by the Umpire when he terminates a game on account of darkness or rain, after five equal innings have been played, if the score at the time is equal on the last even innings played; but if the side that went second to bat is then at the bat, and has scored the same number of runs as the other side, the Umpire shall declare the game drawn, without regard to the score of the last equal innings. A CALLED GAME. RULE 25 If the Umpire calls "Game" on account of darkness or rain at any time after five innings have been completed by both sides, the score shall be that of the last equal innings played, unless the side second at bat shall have scored one or more runs than the side first at bat, in which case the score of the game shall be the total number of runs made. A FORFEITED GAME. RULE 26. A Forfeited Game shall be declared by the Umpire in favor of the club not in fault, at the request of such club, in the following cases: SEC. 1. If the nine of a club fail to appear upon the field, or being upon the field, fail to begin the game within five minutes after the Umpire has called "Play," at the hour appointed for the beginning of the game, unless such delay in appearing or in commencing the game be unavoidable. SEC. 2. If, after the game has begun, one side refuses or fails to continue playing, unless such game has been suspended or terminated by the Umpire SEC. 3. If, after play has been suspended by the Umpire, one side fails to resume playing within five minutes after the Umpire has called "Play." SEC. 4. If, in the opinion of the Umpire, any one of these rules is willfully violated. SEC. 5. If, after ordering the removal of a player, as authorized by Rule 57, Sec. 5, said order is not obeyed within five minutes. SEC. 6. In case the Umpire declares a game forfeited, he shall transmit a written notice thereof to the President of the Association within twenty four hours thereafter. NO GAME. RULE 27. "No Game" shall be declared by the Umpire if he shall terminate play on account of rain or darkness, before five innings on each side are completed. SUBSTITUTES. RULE 28. SEC. 1. In every championship game each team shall be required to have present on the field, in uniform, at least one or more substitute players. SEC. 2. One player, whose name shall be printed on the score card as an extra player, may be substituted at the end of any completed innings by either club, but the player retired shall not thereafter participate in the game In addition thereto a substitute may be allowed at any time in place of a player disabled in the game then being played, by reason of illness or injury, of the nature and extent of which the Umpire shall be the sole judge. SEC. 3. The Base Runner shall not have a substitute run for him, except by consent of the Captains of the contesting teams. CHOICE OF INNINGS--CONDITION OF GROUND. RULE 29. The choice of innings shall be given to the Captain of the Home Club, who shall also be the sole judge of the fitness of the ground for beginning a game after rain. THE DELIVERY OF THE BALL--FAIR AND UNFAIR BALLS. RULE 30. A Fair Ball is a ball delivered by the Pitcher while standing wholly within the lines of his position, and facing the batsman, the ball, so delivered to pass over the home base, not lower than the batsman's knee, nor higher than his shoulder. RULE 31. An Unfair Ball is a ball delivered by the Pitcher, as in Rule 30, except that the ball does not pass over the Home Base, or does pass over the Home Base above the batsman's shoulder, or below the knee. BALKING. RULE 32. A Balk is SEC. 1. Any motion made by the Pitcher to deliver the ball to the bat without delivering it, and shall be held to include any and every accustomed motion with the hands, arms or feet, or position of the body assumed by the Pitcher in his delivery of the ball, and any motion calculated to deceive a base runner, except the ball be accidentally dropped. SEC. 2. The holding of the ball by the Pitcher so long as to delay the game unnecessarily; or SEC. 3. Any motion to deliver the ball, or the delivering the ball to the bat by the Pitcher when any part of his person is upon ground outside of the lines of his position, including all preliminary motions with the hands, arms and feet. DEAD BALLS. RULE 33. A Dead Ball is a ball delivered to the bat by the Pitcher that touches the Batsman's bat without being struck at, or any part of the Batsman's person or clothing while standing in his position without being struck at; or any part of the Umpire's person or clothing, while on foul ground, without first passing the Catcher. RULE 34. In case of a Foul Strike, Foul Hit ball not legally caught out, Dead Ball, or Base Runner put out for being struck by a fair hit ball, the ball shall not be considered in play until it is held by the Pitcher standing in his position. BLOCK BALLS. RULE 35. SEC. 1. A Block is a batted or thrown ball that is stopped or handled by any person not engaged in the game. SEC. 2. Whenever a Block occurs the Umpire shall declare it, and Base Runners may run the bases, without being put out, until the ball has been returned to and held by the Pitcher standing in his position. SEC. 3. In the case of a Block, if the person not engaged in the game should retain possession of the ball, or throw or kick it beyond the reach of the Fielders, the Umpire should call "Time," and require each base runner to stop at the last base touched by him until the ball be returned to the Pitcher standing in his position. THE SCORING OF RUNS. RULE 36. One Run shall be scored every time a Base Runner, after having legally touched the first three bases, shall touch the Home Base before three men are put out. If the third man is forced out, or is put out before reaching First Base, a run shall not be scored. THE BATTING RULES. RULE 37. A Fair Hit is a ball batted by the batsman, standing in his position, that first touches the ground, the First Base, the Third Base, any part of the person of a player, Umpire, or any other object that is in front of or on either of the Foul Lines, or batted directly to the ground by the Batsman, standing in his position, that (whether it first touches Foul or Fair Ground) bounds or rolls within the Foul Lines, between Home and First, or Home and Third Bases, without interference by a player. RULE 38. A Foul Hit is a ball batted by the Batsman, standing in his position, that first touches the ground, any part of the person of a player, or any other object that is behind either of the Foul Lines, or that strikes the person of such Batsman, while standing in his position, or batted directly to the ground by the Batsman, standing in his position, that (whether it first touches Foul or Fair Ground) bounds or rolls outside the Foul Lines, between Home and First or Home and Third Bases, without interference by a player. Provided, that a Foul Hit not rising above the Batsman's head and caught by the Catcher playing within ten feet of the Home Base, shall be termed a Foul Tip. BALLS BATTED OUTSIDE THE GROUNDS. RULE 39. When a batted ball passes outside the grounds, the Umpire shall decide it Fair should it disappear within, or Foul should it disappear outside of the range of the Foul Lines, and Rules 37 and 38 are to be construed accordingly. RULE 40. A Fair batted ball that goes over the fence at a less distance than two hundred and ten feet from Home Base shall entitle the Batsman to two bases and a distinctive line shall be marked on the fence at this point. STRIKES. RULE 41. A Strike is SEC. 1. A ball struck at by the Batsman without its touching his bat; or SEC. 2. A fair ball, legally delivered by the Pitcher, but not struck at by the Batsman. SEC. 3. Any obvious attempt to make a foul hit. RULE 42. A foul strike is a ball batted by the Batsman when any part of his person is upon ground outside the lines of the Batsman's position. THE BATSMAN IS OUT. RULE 43. The Batsman is out: SEC. 1. If he fails to take his position at the bat in his order of batting, unless the error be discovered and the proper Batsman takes his position before a fair hit has been made, and in such case the balls and strikes called must be counted in the time at bat of the proper Batsman: _Provided_, this rule shall not take effect unless _the out_ is declared before the ball is delivered to the succeeding Batsman. SEC. 2. If he fails to take his position within one minute after the Umpire has called for the Batsman. SEC. 3. If he makes a foul hit, other than a foul tip as defined in Rule 38 and the ball be momentarily held by a Fielder before touching the ground, provided it be not caught in a Fielder's hat or cap, or touch some object other than a Fielder before being caught. SEC. 4. If he makes a foul strike. SEC. 5. If he attempts to hinder the Catcher from fielding the ball, evidently without effort to make a fair hit. SEC. 6. If, while the first base be occupied by a base runner, three strikes be called on him by the Umpire, except when two men are already out. SEC. 7. If, while making the third strike, the ball hits his person or clothing. SEC. 8. If, after two strikes have been called, the Batsman obviously attempts to make a foul hit, as in Section 3, Rule 41. BASE RUNNING RULES. WHEN THE BATSMAN BECOMES A BASE RUNNER. RULE 44. The Batsman becomes a Base Runner: SEC. 1. Instantly after he makes a fair hit. SEC. 2. Instantly after four Balls have been called by the Umpire. SEC. 3. Instantly after three strikes have been declared by the Umpire. SEC. 4. If, while he be a Batsman, his person or clothing be hit by a ball from the pitcher, unless--in the opinion of the Umpire--he intentionally permits himself to be so hit. SEC. 5. Instantly after an illegal delivery of a ball by the pitcher. BASES TO BE TOUCHED. RULE 45. The Base Runner must touch each Base in regular order, viz.: First, Second, Third and Home Bases; and when obliged to return (except on a foul hit) must retouch the base or bases in reverse order. He shall only be considered as holding a base after touching it, and shall then be entitled to hold such base until he has legally touched the next base in order, or has been legally forced to vacate it for a succeeding Base Runner. ENTITLED TO BASES. RULE 46. The Base Runner shall be entitled, without being put out, to take one Base in the following cases: SEC. 1. If, while he was Batsman, the Umpire called four Balls. SEC. 2. If the Umpire awards a succeeding Batsman a base on four balls, or for being hit with a pitched ball, or in case of an illegal delivery-- as in Rule 44, Sec. 5--and the Base Runner is thereby forced to vacate the base held by him. SEC. 3. If the Umpire calls a "balk." SEC. 4. If a ball delivered by the Pitcher pass the Catcher and touch the Umpire or any fence or building within ninety feet of the Home Base. SEC. 5. If upon a fair hit the Ball strikes the person or clothing of the Umpire on fair ground. SEC. 6. If he be prevented from making a base by the obstruction of an adversary. SEC. 7. If the Fielder stop or catch a batted ball with his hat or any part of his dress. RETURNING TO BASES. RULE 47. The Base Runner shall return to his Base, and shall be entitled to so return without being put out. SEC. 1. If the Umpire declares a Foul Tip (as defined in Rule 38) or any other Foul Hit not legally caught by a Fielder. SEC. 2. If the Umpire declares a Foul Strike. SEC. 3. If the Umpire declares a Dead Ball, unless it be also the fourth Unfair Ball, and he be thereby forced to take the next base, as provided in Rule 46, Sec. 2. SEC. 4. If the person or clothing of the Umpire is struck by a ball thrown by the Catcher to intercept a Base Runner. WHEN BASE RUNNERS ARE OUT. RULE 48. The Base Runner is out: SEC. 1. If, after three strikes have been declared against him while Batsman, and the Catcher fail to catch the third strike ball, he plainly attempts to hinder the Catcher from fielding the ball. SEC. 2. If, having made a Fair Hit while Batsman, such fair hit ball be momentarily held by a Fielder, before touching the ground or any object other than a Fielder. _Provided_, it be not caught in a Fielder's hat or cap. SEC. 3. If, when the Umpire has declared three strikes on him, while batsman, the third strike ball be momentarily held by a Fielder before touching the ground. _Provided_, it be not caught in a Fielder's hat or cap, or touch some object other than a Fielder before being caught. SEC. 4. If, after Three Strikes or a Fair Hit, he be touched with the ball in the hand of a Fielder before such Base Runner touches First Base. SEC. 5. If, after Three Strikes or a Fair Hit, the ball be securely held by a Fielder, while touching First Base with any part of his person, before such Base Runner touches First Base. SEC. 6. If, in running the last half of the distance from Home Base to First Base, he runs outside the Three Feet Lines, as defined in Rule 10; except that he must do so if necessary to avoid a Fielder attempting to field a batted ball, and in such case shall not be declared out. SEC. 7. If, in running from First to Second Base, from Second to Third Base, or from Third to Home Base, he runs more than three feet from a direct line between such bases to avoid being touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder; but in case a Fielder be occupying the Base Runner's proper path, attempting to field a batted ball, then the Base Runner shall run out of the path and behind said Fielder, and shall not be declared out for so doing. SEC. 8. If he fails to avoid a Fielder attempting to field a batted ball, in the manner prescribed in Sections 6 and 7 of this Rule; or if he, in any way, obstructs a Fielder attempting to field a batted ball, or intentionally interferes with a thrown ball: _Provided_, That if two or more Fielders attempt to field a batted ball, and the Base Runner comes in contact with one or more of them, the Umpire shall determine which Fielder is entitled to the benefit of this Rule, and shall not decide the Base Runner out for coming in contact with any other Fielder. SEC. 9. If, at any time while the ball is in play, he be touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder, unless some part of his person is touching a base he is entitled to occupy: _Provided_, The ball be held by the Fielder after touching him; but (exception as to First Base), in running to First Base, he may overrun said base without being put out for being off said base, after first touching it, provided he returns at once and retouches the base, after which he may be put out as at any other base. If, in overrunning First Base, he also attempts to run to Second Base, or, after passing the base he turns to his left from the foul line, he shall forfeit such exemption from being put out. SEC. 10. If, when a Fair or Foul Hit ball, other than a foul tip as referred to in Rule 38, is legally caught by a Fielder, such ball is legally held by a Fielder on the base occupied by the Base Runner when such ball was struck (or the Base Runner be touched with the ball in the hands of a Fielder), before he retouches said base after such Fair or Foul Hit ball was so caught. _Provided_, That the Base Runner shall not be out in such case, if, after the ball was legally caught as above, it be delivered to the bat by the Pitcher before the Fielder holds it on said base, or touches the Base Runner with it; but if the Base Runner in attempting to reach a base, detaches it before being touched or forced out he shall be declared safe. SEC. 11. If, when a Batsman becomes a Base Runner, the First Base, or the First and Second Bases, or the First, Second and Third Bases, be occupied, any Base Runner so occupying a base shall cease to be entitled to hold it, until any following Base Runner is put out and may be put out at the next base or by being touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder in the same manner as in running to First Base, at any time before any following Base Runner is put out. SEC. 12. If a Fair Hit ball strike him _before touching the fielder_ and in such case no base shall be run unless forced by the Batsman becoming a Base Runner, and no run shall be scored. SEC. 13. If when running to a base or forced to return to a base, he fail to touch the intervening base or bases, if any, in the order prescribed in Rule 45, he may be put out at the base he fails to touch, or by being touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder, in the same manner as in running to First Base. SEC. 14. If, when the Umpire calls "Play," after any suspension of a game, he fails to return to and touch the base he occupied when "Time" was called before touching the next base. WHEN BATSMAN OR BASE RUNNER IS OUT. RULE 49. The Umpire shall declare the Batsman or Base Runner out, without waiting for an appeal for such decision, in all cases where such player is put out in accordance with these rules, except as provided in Rule 48, Sections 10 and 14. COACHING RULES. RULE 50. The Captains and Coachers are restricted in coaching to the Base Runner only, and are not allowed to address any remarks except to the Base Runner, and then only in words of necessary direction; and no player shall use language which will in any manner refer to or reflect upon a player of the opposing club, or the audience. To enforce the above, the Captain of the opposite side may call the attention of the Umpire to the offence, and upon a repetition of the same the club shall be debarred from further coaching during the game. THE UMPIRE. RULE 51. The Umpire shall not be changed during the progress of a game, except for reasons of illness or injury. HIS POWERS AND JURISDICTION. RULE 52. SEC. 1. The Umpire is master of the Field from the commencement to the termination of the game, and is entitled to the respect of the spectators, and any person offering any insult or indignity to him must be promptly ejected from the grounds. SEC. 2. He must compel the players to observe the provisions of all the Playing Rules, and he is hereby invested with authority to order any player to do or omit to do any act as he may deem necessary, to give force and effect to any and all of such provisions. SPECIAL DUTIES. RULE 53. The Umpire's duties shall be as follows: SEC. 1. The Umpire is the sole and absolute judge of play. In no instance shall any person be allowed to question the correctness of any decision made by him except the Captains of the contending nines, and no other player shall at such time leave his position in the field, his place at the bat, on the bases or players' bench, to approach or address the Umpire in word or act upon such disputed decision. Neither shall any Manager or other officers of either club--except the Captains as before mentioned-- be permitted to go upon the field or address the Umpire in regard to such disputed decision, under a penalty of a forfeiture of the game to the opposing club. The Umpire shall in no case appeal to any spectator for information in regard to any case, and shall not reverse his decision on any point of play on the testimony of any player or bystander. SEC. 2. Before the commencement of a Game, the Umpire shall see that the rules governing all the materials of the game are strictly observed. He shall ask the Captain of the Home Club whether there are any special ground rules to be enforced, and if there are, he shall see that they are duly enforced, provided they do not conflict with any of these Rules. He shall also ascertain whether the fence in the rear of the Catcher's position is distant ninety feet from the Home Base. SEC. 3. The Umpire must keep the contesting nines playing constantly from the commencement of the game to its termination, allowing such delays only as are rendered unavoidable by accident, injury or rain. He must, until the completion of the game, require the players of each side to promptly take their positions in the field as soon as the the third man is put out, and must require the first striker of the opposite side to be in his position at the bat as soon as the fielders are in their places. SEC. 4. The Umpire shall count and call every "unfair ball" delivered by the Pitcher, and every "dead ball," if also an unfair ball, as a "ball," and he shall also count and call every "strike." Neither a "ball" nor a "strike" shall be counted or called until the ball has passed the home base. He shall also declare every "Dead Ball," "Block," "Foul Hit," "Foul Strike," and "Balk." RULE 54. For the special benefit of the patrons of the game, and because the offences specified are under his immediate jurisdiction, and not subject to appeal by players, the attention of the Umpire is particularly directed to possible violations of the purpose and spirit of the Rules of the following character: SEC. 1. Laziness or loafing of players in taking their places in the field, or those allotted them by the Rules when their side is at the bat, and especially any failure to keep the bats in the racks provided for them; to be ready (two men) to take position as Batsmen, and to remain upon the Players' Bench, except when otherwise required by the Rules. SEC. 2. Any attempt by players of the side at bat, by calling to a Fielder, other than the one designated by his Captain, to field a ball, or by any other equally disreputable means seeking to disconcert a Fielder. SEC. 3. The Rules make a marked distinction between hindrance of an adversary in fielding a batted or thrown ball. This has been done to rid the game of the childish excuses and claims formerly made by a Fielder failing to hold a ball to put out a Base Runner. But there may be cases of a Base Runner so flagrantly violating the spirit of the Rules and of the Game in obstructing a Fielder from fielding a thrown ball that it would become the duty of the Umpire, not only to declare the Base Runner "out" (and to compel any succeeding Base Runners to hold their bases), but also to impose a heavy fine upon him. For example: If the Base Runner plainly strike at the ball while passing him, to prevent its being caught by a Fielder; if he holds a Fielder's arms so as to disable him from catching the ball, or if he run against or knock the Fielder down for the same purpose. CALLING "PLAY" AND "TIME." RULE 55. The Umpire must call "Play," promptly at the hour designated by the Home Club, and on the call of "Play" the game must immediately begin. When he calls "Time," play shall be suspended until he calls "Play" again, and during the interim no player shall be put out, base be run, or run be scored. The Umpire shall suspend play only for an accident to himself or a player (but in case of accident to a Fielder, "Time" shall not be called until the ball be returned to, and held by the Pitcher, standing in his position), or in case rain falls so heavily that the spectators are compelled, by the severity of the storm, to seek shelter, in which case he shall note the time of suspension, and should such rain continue to fall thirty minutes thereafter, he shall terminate the game; or to enforce order in case of annoyance from spectators. RULE 56. The Umpire is only allowed, by the Rules, to call "Time" in case of an accident to himself or a player, a "Block," as referred to in Rule 35, Sec. 3, or in case of rain, as defined by the Rules. The practice of players suspending the game to discuss or contest a discussion with the Umpire, is a gross violation of the Rules, and the Umpire must promptly fine any player who interrupts the game in this manner. INFLICTING FINES. RULE 57. The Umpire is empowered to inflict fines of not less than $5.00 nor more than $25.00 for the first offence on players during the progress of a game, as follows: SEC 1. For indecent or improper language addressed to the audience, the Umpire or any player. SEC. 2. For the Captain or Coacher willfully failing to remain within the legal bounds of his position, except upon an appeal by the Captain from the Umpire's decision upon a misinterpretation of the rules. SEC. 3. For the disobedience by a player of any other of his orders, or for any other violation of these Rules. SEC. 4. In case the Umpire imposes a fine on a player, he shall at once notify the Captain of the offending player's side, and shall transmit a written notice thereof to the President of the Association or League within twenty-four hours thereafter, under the penalty of having said fine taken from his own salary. SEC. 5. A repetition of any of the above offences shall, at the discretion of the Umpire, subject the offender either to a repetition of the fine or to removal from the field and the immediate substitution of another player then in uniform. FIELD RULES. RULE 58. No Club shall allow open betting or pool selling upon its grounds, nor in any building owned or occupied by it. RULE 59. No person shall be allowed upon any part of the field during the progress of the game, in addition to the players in uniform, the Manager on each side and the Umpire; except such officers of the law as may be present in uniform, and such officials of the Home Club as may be necessary to preserve the peace. RULE 60. No Umpire, Manager, Captain or Player shall address the audience during the progress of a game, except in case of necessary explanation. RULE 61. Every Club shall furnish sufficient police force upon its own grounds to preserve order, and in the event of a crowd entering the field during the progress of a game, and interfering with the play in any manner, the Visiting Club may refuse to play further until the field be cleared. If the ground be not cleared within fifteen minutes thereafter, the Visiting Club may claim, and shall be entitled to, the game by a score of nine runs to none (no matter what number of innings have been played). GENERAL DEFINITIONS. RULE 62. "Play" is the order of the Umpire to begin the game or to resume play after its suspension. RULE 63. "Time" is the order of the Umpire to suspend play. Such suspension must not extend beyond the day of the game. RULE 64. "Game" is the announcement by the Umpire that the game is terminated. RULE 65. "An Inning" is the term at bat of the nine players representing a Club in a game, and is completed when three of such players have been put out as provided in these Rules. RULE 66. "A Time at Bat" is the term at bat of a Batsman. It begins when he takes his position, and continues until he is put out or becomes a Base Runner; except when, because of being hit by a pitched ball, or in case of an illegal delivery by the Pitcher, as in Rule 44. RULE 67. "Legal" or "Legally" signifies as required by these Rules. SCORING. RULE 68. In order to promote Uniformity in Scoring Championship Games, the following instructions, suggestions and definitions are made for the benefit of scorers, and they are required to make all scores in accordance therewith. BATTING. SEC. 1. The first item in the tabulated score, after the player's name and position, shall be the number of times he has been at bat during the game. The time or times where the player has been sent to base by being hit by a pitched ball, by the pitcher's illegal delivery, or by a base on balls shall not be included in this column. SEC. 2. In the second column should be set down the runs made by each player. SEC. 3. In the third column should be placed the first base hits made by each player. A base hit should be scored in the following cases: When the ball from the bat strikes the ground within the foul lines, and out of reach of the fielders. When a hit ball is partially or wholly stopped by a fielder in motion, but such player cannot recover himself in time to handle the ball before the striker reaches First Base. When a hit ball is hit so sharply to an infielder that he cannot handle it in time to put out the batsman. In case of doubt over this class of hits, score a base hit, and exempt the fielder from the charge of an error. When a ball is hit so slowly towards a fielder that he cannot handle it in time to put out the batsman. That in all cases where a base runner is retired by being hit by a batted ball, the batsman should be credited with a base hit. When a batted ball hits the person or clothing of the Umpire, as defined in Rule 37. SEC. 4. In the fourth column shall be placed Sacrifice Hits, which shall be credited to the batsman, who when but one man is out advances a runner a base on a fly to the outfield or a ground hit, which results in putting out the batsman, or would so result if handled without error. FIELDING. SEC. 5. The number of opponents put out by each player shall be set down in the fifth column. Where a striker is given out by the Umpire for a foul strike, or because he struck out of his turn, the put-out shall be scored to the Catcher. SEC. 6. The number of times the player assists shall be set down in the sixth column. An assist should be given to each player who handles the ball in assisting a run out or other play of the kind. An assist should be given to a player who makes a play in time to put a runner out, even if the player who should complete the play fails, through no fault of the player assisting. And generally an assist should be given to each player who handles the ball from the time it leaves the bat until it reaches the player who makes the put out, or in case of a thrown ball, to each player who throws or handles it cleanly and in such a way that a put-out results, or would result if no error were made by the receiver. ERRORS. SEC. 7. An error shall be given in the seventh column for each misplay which allows the striker or base runner to make one or more bases when perfect play would have insured his being put out, except that "wild pitches," "bases on balls," "bases on the batsman being struck by a pitched ball," or case of illegal pitched ball, balks and passed balls, shall not be included in said column. In scoring errors of batted balls see Section 3 of this Rule. STOLEN BASES. SEC. 8. Stolen bases shall be scored as follows: Any attempt to steal a base must go to the credit of the base runner, whether the ball is thrown wild or muffed by the fielder, but any manifest error is to be charged to the fielder making the same. If the base runner advances another base he shall not be credited with a stolen base, and the fielder allowing the advancement is also to be charged with an error. If a base runner makes a start and a battery error is made, the runner secures the credit of a stolen base, and the battery error is scored against the player making it. Should a base runner overrun a base and then be put out, he should receive the credit for the stolen base. EARNED RUNS. SEC. 9. An earned run shall be scored every time the player reaches the home base unaided by errors before chances have been offered to retire the side. THE SUMMARY. RULE 69. The Summary shall contain: SEC. 1. The number of earned runs made by each side. SEC. 2. The number of two-base hits made by each player. SEC. 3. The number of three-base hits made by each player. SEC. 4. The number of home runs made by each player. SEC. 5. The number of bases stolen by each player. SEC. 6. The number of double and triple plays made by each side, with the names of the players assisting in the same. SEC. 7. The number of men given bases on called balls, by each Pitcher. SEC. 8. The number of men given bases from being hit by pitched balls. SEC. 9. The number of men struck out. SEC. 10. The number of passed balls by each Catcher. SEC. 11. The number of wild pitches by each Pitcher. SEC. 12. The time of game. SEC. 13. The name of the Umpire. AMENDMENTS. RULE 70. No Amendment or change of any of these National Playing Rules shall be made, except by a joint committee on rules, consisting of three members from the National League and three members from the American Association. Such committee to be appointed at the annual meetings of each of said bodies to serve one year from the twentieth day of December of each year. Such committee shall have full power to act, provided that such amendments shall be made only by an affirmative vote of the majority of each delegation. [Illustration: HENRY CHADWICK--"Father of Base Ball."] Henry Chadwick, the veteran journalist, upon whom the honored sobriquet of "Father of Base Ball" rests so happily and well, appears in portraiture, and so well preserved in his physical manhood that his sixty-three years rest lightly upon his well timed life. Since the age of thirteen he has resided in Brooklyn, New York, and is an honored member of the distinguished society of old Brooklynites. He entered upon the journalistic career in which he has attained eminent distinction in 1856, his first work finding a ready field on the New York _Times_. In 1857 he associated himself with the New York _Clipper_, and was identified with that journal steadily for thirty-one years. After twenty-nine years of remarkable devotion to the interests of morning journalism in the metropolis Mr. Chadwick retired in 1886 to accept an editorial position on the _Outing Magazine_, which, together with his work on the Brooklyn _Eagle_, keeps his ready pen busy. He is one of the most valued contributors on _The Sporting Life_ staff, and his work in other journals has made his name a household word as the "Father of Base Ball." He comes from a famous family of English birth, his brother, Mr. Edwin Chadwick, being the noted sanitary philosopher of England. Mr. Chadwick has edited our League GUIDE since 1880. A. G. SPALDING & BROS., Chicago and New York. AN EXPLANATORY APPENDIX TO THE NEW CODE OF RULES FOR 1889. The experience of each season in regard to the conflicting opinions of umpires and players in their interpretation of the code of playing rules, has made it a necessity on the part of the editor of the GUIDE, to devote a special chapter each year to the subject of properly interpreting every important rule of the game. This year we make up this special chapter in the form of an _Explanatory Appendix_ to the new code, which is officially indorsed by the President of the National League, and the Secretary of the Joint Committee on Rules of the League and the American Association. Taking up the rules of the new code in their regular order we proceed to give the official interpretation of the practical application of each newly amended rule, as also of every rule, of the correct definition of which there is likely to arise any question. THE PLAYERS ON EACH SIDE. "In no case shall less than nine men be allowed to play on each side." So says Rule 14. The practical application of the rule is that if a club has not nine men ready to take the field at the hour appointed for beginning a regularly scheduled championship-game, the club short handed must forfeit the game. Moreover, if they begin play with the required complement of men, and one of the number becomes injured and disabled from service in the field, and they have no legal substitute player to take the disabled man's place, the game cannot be continued with but eight men in the field, and therefore it must be similarly forfeited. PLAYERS MUST BE IN UNIFORM. Rule 17 requires that "every club shall be required to adopt uniforms for the players;" and Rule 28 renders it necessary that at least one substitute player shall be ready "in uniform" to take the place of a disabled player, or to become the tenth player of the team in accordance with section 2 of Rule 28. A TENTH MAN AS SUBSTITUTE. Besides the regular substitute player required to be ready to take the place of a disabled player, Rule 28--a new amendment--admits of an _independent substitute player_ on each side, whose services in the field are held subject to the requirement of either of the two Captains whenever he shall deem it advisable to remove any player, who, though not disabled "by illness or injury," is not doing the work in the field to the Captain's satisfaction. But such substitute can only replace another player at the close of a regular innings play; and, moreover, the player whose place the extra substitute takes, cannot again take part in the game then being played. It should be borne in mind that this special rule was adopted not only to enable the Captain of a team to strengthen a weak point discovered during the progress of the game, but also to enable him to utilize new talent when the game has been virtually won, as the experience in such instances is especially valuable to young players, notably so in the case of battery players. It also enables the Captain to save the work of a valuable battery player from a prolonged strain rendered unnecessary by the winning lead obtained. PUTTING A NEW BALL IN PLAY. Rule 12, Sec. 2, requires the Umpire to call for the putting in play of the substitute ball whenever the ball previously in play, is batted foul over the fence or the grand stands, "_out of the sight of the players_." Also in case the ball in play becomes "_unfit for fair use_," as to which the Umpire is the sole judge. A new ball can only be called for in case neither of the two balls in use are legally available for service. THE NEW RULE FOR PITCHERS. The amended rule governing the delivery of the ball by the pitcher--Rule 18 of the new code--has had the words "his left foot in front of the right, and to the left of an imaginary line from his right foot to the center of the home base" eliminated from it, and in consequence the pitcher is not now required to abide by that portion of the rule, which governed his movements in 1888. The pitcher's position, when he prepares to deliver the ball to the bat, must be that in which he stands with both feet squarely on the ground, and with one foot--left or right--placed on the rear line of his position. While thus standing ready to deliver the ball, he must hold it before him in full sight of the Umpire. The words "in the act of delivering the ball" refer to the very last motion in delivery, and in making this motion the rear foot is of necessity placed on the ground, as it is from this standpoint that the power to give the last impetus to the ball in delivery is derived. Consequently the foot cannot be lifted from the ground entirely until the ball leaves his hand. In making his regular motions to deliver while he is prohibited from lifting the entire foot in the rear line from the ground, he is not debarred from lifting the heel of the foot an inch or so. In making the preliminary movements, too, he cannot take but one forward step, though he can make this single step in any way he chooses, provided it be a regular and habitual motion of his delivery. FEIGNING TO THROW TO A BASE. When the pitcher feigns to throw to a base prior to delivering the ball to the bat, in every such instance after making the feint to throw, he must resume his original position, "facing the batsman," and "holding the ball fairly in front of his body," and "momentarily pause before delivering the ball to the bat." If he makes a feint to throw and then delivers the ball with one apparent motion, without pausing to stand, he commits a balk. THE ORDER OF BATTING. Rule 19 says that "Batsmen must take their position at the bat in the order in which they are named on _the score_." This _score_ is not sufficiently defined in the rule, but it means the printed or written order of batting, which each captain of the contesting team presents to the umpire prior to the commencement of the game; and such order, on approval of the umpire, should be copied verbatim in the score book of the official scorer of the home club, who alone is authorized to send a copy of the score of the game, as the official copy, to the secretary of the League or Association the club belongs to. After the order of batting has been submitted to the umpire, it becomes the official order, and after being thus indorsed it cannot be changed except in the case of a substitute player taking the place either of a disabled player, or that of a removed player--under the new rule--and in such case the incoming substitute player takes the place in the order of batting of the disabled or removed player. THE CAPTAIN CAN PLACE HIS MEN AS HE LIKES. The captain of a nine can place his nine men in any position of the field he chooses. There is in fact no arbitrary rule governing the placing of the men except in the case of the pitcher, and he of course must always occupy the pitcher's box. Under Rule 15, the captain can place his infielders, in close within the diamond, or all outside of it, also the outfielders, either in close to the infielders, or lying out deep or close to the foul line, etc. But the pitcher of the ball must always be in the "box" when delivering the ball. THE DEFINITION OF THE BALK. Rule 32, Section I, defines a balk as "Any motion made by the pitcher to deliver the ball to the bat without delivering it." This definition embraces every one of the motions the pitcher is accustomed to make preliminary to the actual delivery of the ball, whether of his hands, arms, or feet, or any motion of his body. He cannot therefore make any pretense of delivering the ball while not having the ball in his hand ready to deliver it as in the case of a base player hiding the ball while the pitcher acts as if he himself had possession of it--without his making a balk. The words "any motion calculated to deceive a base runner," refer to pretended movements to deliver outside of those referred to in the first portion of the rule. TAKING A BASE ON A BALK. There is an important distinction between a "_balk_" and an "_illegal delivery_." A "_balk_" is made when the pitcher makes a motion to deliver the ball to the bat without following such motion with actual delivery, or if he holds the ball in his hand long enough to unnecessarily delay the game. An "_illegal delivery_" is made when the pitcher steps out of his "box" in delivery, or lifts his rear foot from the ground before the ball leaves his hand--his lifting his foot afterward is of no account--or if he fails to pause before delivery after making a feint to throw to a base. In the case of a "balk," every occupant of a base, as a base runner, becomes entitled to one base, whether forced by the batsman or not. But the batsman cannot take a base on a "balk." In the case of an "illegal delivery," however, while occupants of bases can only take a base on such delivery in case of being "forced off," the batsman is given a base on such illegal delivery. While an "illegal delivery" is in the nature of a balk, it is not an actual "balk" as technically termed in the rules. DEAD BALLS. The ball cannot be used to put a player on the batting side out, either in the case of a batted ball to foul ground not caught on the fly; a called _foul strike_; a runner being hit by a batted ball; a pitched ball striking the batsman, or striking his bat without being intentionally struck at; or from the ball striking the umpire while he is on foul ground, before it passes the catcher; or, in the case of a called block ball, until said ball is _first held by the pitcher while standing within his position_. THE FOUL TIP CATCH. The elimination of the sharp foul-tip catch from the rules will necessitate the placing of a white line, forming a half circle, within a radius of ten feet from the home base, and located on foul ground, as it is only foul tips caught within ten feet of the home base which do not put the batsman out. THE BLOCKING OF BALLS. Any interference with the progress of a batted or thrown ball by any person not one of the contesting players in a game, is what is termed _blocking the ball_. Suppose a ball is batted to the short stop, and that fielder overthrows the ball to first base, and it goes toward the crowd and is there stopped or touched by an outsider, the moment this stoppage of the ball or interference with it occurs, the umpire must call "Block ball," and until the ball is returned to the field and held by the pitcher while in his "box," it is _dead_ for putting out any base runner; and such runners are permitted to run all the bases they can until the ball is thus put legally into play. But should such overthrown ball, in addition to its being stopped or diverted from its course by any outsider, be also kicked aside or picked up and thrown out of reach by a fielder, the umpire must in addition call "Time," in which case runners shall only be entitled to hold such bases as they had touched before the ball had been so kicked or thrown out of reach, the ball, as in the prior case, not being in play until held by the pitcher while in his box. HITTING BALLS FOUL INTENTIONALLY. Rule 42, Section III, requires the umpire to call a strike on the batsman every time he makes "an obvious attempt to make a foul hit." Rule 43, Section XIII, states that "If, after two strikes have been called, the batsman _obviously attempts to make a foul hit_" he is out. Last year these rules were both misinterpreted by umpires. In the first place, in both cases the _intention_ of the batsman must be plainly manifest; and to judge of this the circumstances of the case must be taken into consideration. For instance, if the batsman _bunts_ a ball foul when a runner is on abase, it is evident that he does so unintentionally, for no point of play is to be gained by such a foul hit. Then, too, the hitting of a foul ball must be repeatedly done before such hitting can be adjudged as otherwise than accidental. BATTING OUT OF ORDER. Rule 43 states that the batsman who fails to bat in his proper turn according to the approved order of batting, must be decided out by the umpire, unless the error in question be discovered and the right batsman be sent to the bat in the regular order "_before a fair hit has been made_." If, before the mistake is discovered, "strikes" or "balls" be called upon the batsman who is out of his order of batting, such strikes and balls shall be counted against the batsman who should have gone to the bat in the regular order. But the violation of the rule must be declared by the field Captain before the ball is delivered to a succeeding batsman, or the penalty of an out cannot be enforced, the mistake, of course, being at once corrected, without the enforcement of the penalty. RETURNING TO BASES ON FOUL BALLS. The change made in Rule 45 is to the effect that base runners required to return to bases which they had left on a hit ball, can, if the ball be hit foul and not caught on the fly, return to their respective bases directly. For instance, suppose the batsman hits a long fly ball to right field, on which he runs to third base before the ball falls on foul ground, under the old rule he would be required to return to home base after retouching second and first bases; but under the new rule he can in such case return to home base direct from third, instead of returning around the diamond. The object of the amended rule was to save loss of time by a runner's leisurely return to the base he had left. HOLDING BASES AFTER TOUCHING THEM. Rule 45, in its reference to a base runner having the right to hold a base after touching it, is to be thus defined: Suppose that base runners are on third and second bases, and that the runner on third is trying to steal home, and in doing so vacates third base and runs for home base, the occupant of second base in the meantime running to third base and holding that base; and suppose that in such case the runner from third to home finds himself likely to be put out at home base, and then returns to third base, he still has the right to that base, and having such right, the runner from second to third must give up holding third base and try and get back to second, failing which, and preferring to hold third base, he can be put out there even while standing on third base, provided the legal occupant of that base is also standing on that base, but not otherwise. OBSTRUCTING BASE RUNNERS. Rule 46, Section VI, states that a base runner is entitled to the base he is running to "_if he be prevented from making that base by the obstruction of an adversary._" Now the correct interpretation of this rule is that such obstruction as that in question must be that at the hands of a fielder who has not the ball in hand ready to touch the runner. Of course if the runner is met by the fielder with ball in hand ready to touch the runner, and thus stands directly in the path of the runner, no legal obstruction has been presented, though in fact he is obstructed. But the "obstruction" meant by the rule is that presented by a fielder who has not the ball in hand at the time. A THROWN BALL HITTING THE UMPIRE ON FAIR GROUND. Rule 47, Section IV, states that "The base runner shall return to his base and be entitled to so return without being put out, if the person or clothing of the umpire is struck by a ball thrown by the catcher to intercept a base runner." Rule 46, in referring to base runners entitled to take bases without being put out, states that "if a fair hit ball strikes the person or clothing of the umpire, the batsman making the hit, or a base runner running a base upon such a hit, shall be entitled to the base he is running for without being put out." For instance, suppose there is a runner at first base trying to steal second, and the catcher throws the ball to the second baseman to cut him off, and that the ball thus thrown hits the umpire and glances off out of the reach of the fielders, the runner in such case, while being debarred from making second base by the accident, is allowed to return to the base he left without being put out. But the umpire must see to it that the ball is not intentionally thrown to hit the umpire with a view of preventing what would otherwise be a successful steal. In other words, the throw in question must be an accidental one, or it must be judged as an illegal play. THE COACHING RULE. Umpires must enforce the rule governing the "coaching" of base runners in accordance with the spirit as well as the letter of the law, and this forbids the addressing of any remarks except to the base runner, and then only in words of necessary direction. Moreover, no coacher is allowed to use any language, in his position either as player or coacher, "which shall in anyway" refer to or reflect upon a player of the opposing club. The noisy, vulgar yelling of some coachers is in direct violation of the spirit of the rule, as it is done, not to coach the runner, but to confuse the pitcher or catcher, and distract their attention. The penalty for violating the rule is the suspension of all coaching by the offending club during the remainder of the game. PLAYERS MUST BE SEATED ON THEIR BENCH. Rule 54, Section I, requires that all the players of the batting side when not actually engaged in batting, base running or in coaching--as in the case of the two appointed coachers--must remain seated on the bench until called in their turn to go to the bat. The umpire too must see to it that the requirements of this same rule be strictly enforced in regard to keeping the bats in the racks, and not allow them to be laid on the ground in the way of the catcher running to catch foul balls. REMOVING A PLAYER FOR KICKING. The most important change in the rules affecting the duties of the umpire is that made in Rule 57, Section V, which gives the umpire the discretionary power to remove an offending player from the field who is found violating Rule 57. It should be borne in mind, however, that the rule is not compulsory, for if it were so, a captain desirous of substituting another player for one in the field, after he had availed himself of the tenth man rule, might conspire with a player to violate the rule intentionally to aid the captain in getting in an extra man. ON CALLED STRIKES. In the case of a called third strike when two men are out, Rule 43, Section VI., requires the ball to be held on the fly whether first base be occupied or not, in order to put the batsman out. But in the case of the first base being occupied by a base runner, when only one man is out, when the third strike is called, in such case the batsman is out on called strikes, whether the ball on the third called strike is held on the fly or not. The batsman is out too,--under the new rule--if, _when the thud strike is called, the pitched ball hits him or touches his clothing_. ON FORFEITED GAMES. The Joint Rules Committee have decided that an umpire cannot declare any game forfeited of his own motion, though in Rule 26 it states that forfeited games are incurred under several conditions, one of which definitely states is the wilful violation of any one rule of the code. But he can declare a game forfeited under any one of the specified conditions in Rule 26 if requested to do so by the captain of the club at fault. Section IV of Rule 26 gives the umpire the discretionary power to declare any game forfeited in which he is personally cognizant of the fact of any single rule having been wilfully violated, the offending team forfeiting the game then and there. But only in very rare cases should this power be used in opposition to the wishes of the captain of the team not in fault. When the rules have been plainly violated and the captain of the team not in fault claims forfeit, the umpire must enforce the penalty. THE UMPIRE'S POWER. Under Section II of Rule 52 the umpire _is invested with the authority to order any player to do, or to omit to do, any act, as he may deem it necessary_, to give force or effect to any or all of the provisions of the code of playing rules. This gives him the authority to decide all disputed points in a game not expressly covered by the rules, subject, of course, to legal protest. JUDGING THE CONDITION OF THE FIELD. Rule 29 gives the captain of the home club the sole power to decide whether the field is in condition for play at the hour appointed for beginning a game. But after a game has been commenced, and it be interrupted by rain, the umpire alone decides whether the field is in fair condition for resuming play after such suspension of the game. THE UMPIRE SOLE JUDGE OF ILLNESS OR INJURY. Rule 28 makes the umpire the sole judge as to the nature and extent of the "illness or injury" claimed to disable a player from service on the field. The captains have nothing to say in the matter. All they can do is to appeal to the umpire, and abide by his decision. GAMES STOPPED BY RAIN. Rule 55 the umpire is prohibited from suspending play in a match game on account of rain, unless "_rain falls so heavily that the spectators are compelled by the severity of the storm_, to seek shelter." If the rain is light, or an ordinary drizzle, it is not sufficient to legalize the suspension of the play. THE CAPTAIN ONLY CAN ADDRESS THE UMPIRE. Rules 53 and 57 are explicit in prohibiting any player, except the captain of the nine, from addressing the umpire in regard to any decision he may make; and even the captain can only do so in the case of a question involving an error in misinterpreting the rules. If the decision disputed involves only an error of judgment, even the captain has no right to question the decision. In every case of a violation of this rule, the umpire must fine the offender _five dollars_, or he himself be liable to immediate dismissal for violating the rules. BATSMEN CHANGING POSITION. Last season a custom came into vogue which virtually violated Section V of Rule 43. It was the habit some batsmen had of jumping from one batting position to the other just as the pitcher was about to deliver the ball to the bat, this act virtually hindering the catcher from properly fielding the pitched ball. While no rule should prevent a batsman from batting from either the left or the right batting position at his option it certainly was never intended to allow the change to be made while play was in progress: and it therefore becomes the duty of the umpire to interpret this rule according to its spirit, and to regard the action of a batsman in jumping from one position to the other while the ball is in play from pitcher to catcher as hindering the catcher, and in such case he should declare him out. INTERFERING WITH A BATTED OR THROWN BALL. Rule 48 prohibits a base runner from interfering with a fielder attempting to field a batted ball. The runner has no right to the line of the base when a fielder is occupying it in the effort to catch a fly ball, or to field a batted ball; nor can a base runner make any attempt to hinder or obstruct a fielder from fielding a thrown ball without his being promptly decided out. In all cases the base runner must run off the line of the bases to avoid interfering with a fielder standing on the line of the bases to field a batted ball. Section VIII of Rule 28 says, "_Or intentionally interferes with a thrown ball_," and the intention is judged by his effort to avoid interference or not. PASSED BALLS WHICH GIVE A BASE. Rule 46, Section IV., states that in the case of a pitched ball which passes the catcher and then touches the umpire; or if such passed ball touches any fence or building within ninety feet of the home base, the runner is entitled to one base without being put out, and can of course take more at his own risk. OVERRUNNING FIRST BASE. The base runner, in running to first base, is only exempt from being touched out after overrunning the base, when he turns to the right after overrunning the base. If he crosses the foul line after overrunning, toward second base, that is tantamount to turning to the left, but so long as he is on foul ground after overrunning the base, it is immaterial whether he turns to the left or to the right. The leaving foul ground in overrunning decides the point against him. It is best, however, always to turn to the right in returning. DOUBTFUL DECISIONS IN FAVOR OF THE BATTING SIDE. The rules expressly make a distinction in favor of the batting side in all cases where there is any doubt as to the player being fairly out. Especially is this the case in the case of the batsman's being put out at first base, for Section IV. of Rule 48 requires the ball to be securely held by the base player "_before_" the runner touches the base in order to put him out, and the rub applies to the touching out of all base runners on bases; the words being "_before_" the runner reaches the base, if at the same time, he--the runner--is not out. Time and again were base runners unfairly decided out last season in cases where the ball was held by the base player simultaneously with the runner's touching the base, every such decision being illegal. In regard to the umpire's enforcement of Rule 48, President Young says, "Too many base runners are decided out when the ball is held by the base player simultaneously with the runner's reaching the base, which decisions are illegal." If umpires will strictly enforce the rule it will greatly increase the chances for base running and team work at the bat. Mr. Byrne, of the Joint Rules Committee, in joining with Mr. Young in having this rule enforced, says: "We are doing all we can to encourage base stealing and a proper attention to the rule, by more frequently deciding men safe at first, as it will add interest to the game. I believe, too, that it would be wise in all cases of decision on first base points for the Umpire to give the base runner the benefit of the doubt." BATTED BALLS HITTING THE BASES. Since the first and third bases were placed entirely on fair ground and within the foul lines, every batted ball touching either the first or third base bag, must be declared a fair ball no matter where it strikes after touching either bag. It would be better to have the bags in question on foul ground, so as to make every batted ball foul that strikes them; but until this is done, all such batted balls must be declared fair. COACHERS MUST KEEP WITHIN THEIR LINES. Captains or their assistants who engage in "coaching" base runners, must keep within the lines of their designated position, or if they attempt to coach a runner while standing outside of their position, or to run toward home base outside the lines of their position, they must be fined five dollars for each violation of the rule. OPEN BETTING PROHIBITED. Rule 58 prohibits open betting on all ball grounds of clubs governed by the rules of the _National Agreement_. The penalty for a violation of this rule is the forfeiture of the game which is being played when the rule is violated; and the Umpire must enforce this rule or be amenable to a prompt removal from his position. NO UMPIRE TO BE INSULTED. Rule 52 states that "the umpire is master of the field from the commencement to the termination of the game; and he is entitled to the respect of the spectators, and _any person offering any insult or indignity to him must be promptly ejected from the grounds_," under the penalty of a forfeiture of the game. [**Proofreaders note: the chart has been reformatted to improve readability**]. NATIONAL LEAGUE SCHEDULE OF CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES FOR 1889. Boston ------------------------------------------------------------------------- At |At |At |At |At |At |At New York|Philadelp'a|Washingt'n|Chicago |Cleveland|Pittsburg|Indianapl's --------+-----------+----------+--------+---------+---------+------------ April 24|April 29 |May 3 |June 28|July 4,|June 19 |June 24 | | | | a.m. | | " 25| " 30 | " 4 | " 29| " 4,| " 20 | " 25 | | | | p.m. | | " 26|May 1 | " 6 |July 1| " 5 | " 21 | " 26 " 27| " 2 | " 7 | " 2| " 6 | " 22 | " 27 June 10|July 25 |Aug. 1 |Aug. 8|Aug. 15 |Aug. 12 |Aug. 5 " 11| " 26 | " 2 | " 9| " 16 | " 13 | " 6 " 12| " 27 | " 3 | " 10| " 17 | " 14 | " 7 Aug. 29|Aug. 26 |Sept. 19 |Sept. 23|Sept. 30 |Oct. 3 |Sept. 26 " 30| " 27 | " 20 | " 24|Oct. 1 | " 4 | " 27 " 31| " 28 | " 21 | " 25| " 2 | " 5 | " 28 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ New York -------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----- At |At |At |At |At |At |At Boston |Philadelp'a|Washingt'n|Chicago |Cleveland|Pittsburg|Indianapl's --------+-----------+----------+--------+---------+---------+------------ May 8|May 3 |June 1 |June 24|June 19 |July 4, |June 28 | | | | | a.m. | " 9| " 4 | " 3 | " 25| " 20 | " 4, | " 29 | | | | | p.m. | " 10| " 6 | " 4 | " 26| " 21 | " 5 |July 1 " 11| " 7 | " 5 | " 27| " 22 | " 6 | " 2 June 6|July 22 |July 29 |Aug. 5|Aug. 12 |Aug. 15 |Aug. 8 " 7| " 23 | " 30 | " 6| " 13 | " 16 | " 9 " 8| " 24 | " 31 | " 7| " 14 | " 17 | " 10 Aug. 19|Sept. 19 |Sept. 16 |Sept. 26|Oct. 3 |Sept. 30 |Sept. 23 " 20| " 20 | " 17 | " 27| " 4 |Oct. 1 | " 24 " 21| " 21 | " 18 | " 28| " 5 | " 2 | " 25 -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Philadelphia --------------------------------------------------------------------- At |At |At |At |At |At |At Boston |New York|Washingt'n|Chicago |Cleveland|Pittsburg|Indianapl's --------+--------+----------+--------+---------+---------+------------ June 1|June 13|April 24 |June 19|June 24 |June 28 |July 4, | | | | | | a.m. " 3| " 14| " 25 | " 20| " 25 | " 29 | " 4, | | | | | | p.m. " 4| " 15| " 26 | " 21| " 26 |July 1 |" 5 " 5| " 17| " 27 | " 22| " 27 | " 2 |" 6 July 29|Aug. 1|June 10 |Aug. 12|Aug. 8 |Aug. 5 |Aug. 15 " 30| " 2| " 11 | " 13| " 9 | " 6 | " 16 " 31| " 3| " 12 | " 14| " 10 | " 7 | " 17 Sept. 16| " 22|Aug. 29 |Oct. 3|Sept. 23 |Sept. 26 |Sept. 30 " 17| " 23| " 30 | " 4| " 24 | " 27 |Oct. 1 " 18| " 24| " 31 | " 5| " 25 | " 28 | " 2 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Washington ----------------------------------------------------------------------- At |At |At |At |At |At |At Boston |New York|Philadelp'a|Chicago |Cleveland|Pittsburg|Indianapl's --------+--------+-----------+--------+---------+---------+------------ June 13|April 29|May 8 |July 4,|June 28 |June 24 |June 19 | | | a.m. | | | " 14| " 30| " 9 | " 4,| " 29 | " 25 | " 20 | | | p.m. | | | " 15|May 1| " 10 | " 5|July 1 | " 26 | " 21 " 17| " 2| " 11 | " 6| " 2 | " 27 | " 22 July 22|July 25|June 6 |Aug. 15|Aug. 5 |Aug. 8 |Aug. 12 " 23| " 26| " 7 | " 16| " 6 | " 9 | " 13 " 24| " 27| " 8 | " 17| " 7 | " 10 | " 14 Aug. 22|Aug. 26|Aug. 19 |Sept. 30|Sept. 26 |Sept. 23 |Oct. 3 " 23| " 27| " 20 |Oct. 1| " 27 | " 24 | " 4 " 24| " 28| " 21 | " 2| " 28 | " 25 | " 5 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Chicago ------------------------------------------------------------------------ At |At |At |At |At |At |At Boston |New York |Philadelp'a|Washingt'n|Cleveland|Pittsburg|Indianapl's -------+---------+-----------+----------+---------+---------+------------ May 28|May 22|May 13 |May 17 |May 3 |Apr. 24 |Apr. 29 " 29| " 23| " 14 | " 18 | " 4 | " 25 | " 30 May 30| " 24| " 15 | " 20 | " 6 | " 26 |May 1 a.m.| | | | | | " 30| " 25| " 16 | " 21 | " 7 | " 27 | " 2 p.m.| | | | | | July 18|July 15|July 11 |July 8 |June 14 |July 29 |July 25 " 19| " 16| " 12 | " 9 | " 15 | " 30 | " 26 " 20| " 17| " 13 | " 10 | " 17 | " 31 | " 27 Sept. 9| Sept. 12|Sept. 2 |Sept. 5 |Aug. 26 |Aug. 29 |Aug. 19 " 10| " 13| " 3 | " 6 | " 27 | " 30 | " 20 " 11| " 14| " 4 | " 7 | " 28 | " 31 | " 21 ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cleveland ----------------------------------------------------------------------- At |At |At |At |At |At |At Boston |New York|Philadelp'a|Washingt'n|Chicago |Pittsburg|Indianapl's -------+---------+-----------+----------+---------+---------+------------ May 17|May 13|May 22 |May 28 |May 3| Apr. 24 |Apr. 29 " 18| " 14| " 23 | " 29 | " 4| " 25 | " 30 " 20| " 15| " 24 |May 30 | " 6| " 26 |May 1 | | | a.m. | | | " 21| " 16| " 25 | " 30 | " 7| " 27 | " 2 | | | p.m. | | | July 8|July 11|July 15 |July 18 | June 14| July 29 | July 25 " 9| " 12| " 16 | " 19 | " 15| " 30 | " 26 " 10| " 13| " 17 | " 20 | " 17| " 31 | " 27 Sept. 12|Sept. 9|Sept. 5 |Sept. 2 | Aug. 26| Aug. 29 | Aug. 19 " 13| " 10| " 6 | " 3 | " 27| " 30 | " 20 " 14| " 11| " 7 | " 4 | " 28| " 31 | " 21 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Pittsburg ----------------------------------------------------------------------- At |At |At |At |At |At |At Boston |New York|Philadelp'a|Washingt'n|Chicago |Cleveland|Indianapl's -------+---------+-----------+----------+--------+---------+------------ May 13|May 17|May 28 |May 22 |June 1|Apr. 29 |Apr. 24 " 14| " 18| " 29 | " 23 | " 3| " 30 | " 25 " 15| " 20|May 30 | " 24 | " 4|May 1 | " 26 | | a.m. | | | | " 16| " 21| " 30 | " 25 | " 5| " 2 | " 27 | | p.m. | | | | July 11|July 8|July 18 |July 15 |Aug. 1|July 25 |June 11 " 12| " 9| " 19 | " 16 | " 2| " 26 | " 12 " 13| " 10| " 20 | " 17 | " 3| " 27 | " 13 Sept. 5|Sept. 2|Sept. 9 |Sept. 12 |Sept. 19|Sept. 16 |Aug. 22 | a.m. | | | | | " 6| " 2| " 10 | " 13 | " 20| " 17 | " 23 | p.m. | | | | | " 7| " 3| " 11 | " 14 | " 21| " 18 | " 24 ------------------------------------------------------------------- Indianapolis ---------------------------------------------------------------------- At |At |At |At |At |At |At Boston |New York|Philadelp'a|Washingt'n|Chicago |Cleveland|Pittsburg -------+---------+-----------+----------+--------+---------+------------ May 22|May 28 |May 17 |May 13 |June 6|May 8 |June 1 " 23| " 29 | " 18 | " 14 | " 7| " 9 | " 3 " 24|May 30 | " 20 | " 15 | " 8| " 10 | " 4 | a.m. | | | | | " 25| " 30 | " 21 | " 16 | " 10| " 11 | " 5 | p.m. | | | | | July 15|July 18 |July 8 |July 11 |July 22|July 29 |Aug. 1 " 16| " 19 | " 9 | " 12 | " 23| " 30 | " 2 " 17| " 20 | " 10 | " 13 | " 24| " 31 | " 3 Sept. 2|Sept. 5 |Sept. 12 |Sept. 9 |Sept. 16|Aug. 29 | " 26 a.m. | | | | | | " 2| " 6 | " 13 | " 10 | " 17| " 30 | " 27 p.m. | | | | | | Sept. 8| " 7 | " 14 | " 11 | " 18| " 31 | " 28 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- AMERICAN ASSOCIATION SCHEDULE OF CHAMPIONSHIOP GAMES FOR 1889 Brooklyn In |In |In |In |In |In |In Philadelphia|Baltimore.|Columbus.|Cincinnati.|Louisville|St. |Kansas | | | | | Louis.| City ------------+----------+---------+-----------+----------+--------+------- April 17 |April 22 |May 25 |May 11 |May 7 |May 16 |May 20 | | [1] | [1] | | | " 18 | " 23 | " 26 | " 12 | " 8 | " 17 | " 21 | | [2] | [2] | | | " 20 | " 24 | " 27 | " 13 | " 9 | " 18 | " 22 [1] | | | | | [1] | " 21 |Aug. 27 | " 28 | " 14 | " 10 | " 19 | " 23 [2] | | | | | [2] | June 29 | " 28 |Aug. 6 |July 13 |July 10 |July 3 |July 6 [1] | | | [1] | | | [1] " 30 | " 29 | " 7 | " 14 | " 11 | " 4 | "7 | | | | | [2] [2] | | | [2] | | | July 1 |Oct. 8 | " 8 | " 15 | " 12 | " 4 | " 8 Sept. 17 | " 9 |Oct. 12 |Aug. 22 |Aug. 17 |Aug. 10 |Aug.13 | | [1] | | [1] | [1] | " 18 | " 10 | " 13 | " 24 | " 18 | " 11 | " 14 | | [2] | [1] | [2] | [2] | " 19 | " 11 | " 14 | " 25 | " 20 | " 12 | " 15 | | | [2] | | | ------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] Athletics In |In |In |In |In |In |In Brooklyn.|Baltimore.|Columbus.|Cincinnati.|Louisville|St. |Kansas | | | | | Louis.| City ---------+----------+---------+-----------+----------+--------+--------- May 2 |April 25 |April 28 |May 7 |May 11 |May 20 |May 16 | | [2] | | [1] | | " 3 | " 26 | " 29 | " 8 | " 12 | " 21 | " 17 | | | | [2] | | " 4 | " 27 | " 30 | " 9 | " 13 | " 22 | " 18 [1] | [1] | | | | | [1] " 5 |May 25 |Aug. 27 | " 10 | " 14 | " 23 | " 19 [2] | [1] | | | | | [2] July 18 | " 27 | " 28 |July 6 |July 3 |July 10 |July 13 | | | [1] | | | [1] " 20 | " 28 | " 29 | " 7 | " 4 | " 11 | " 14 [1] | | | [2] | | | [2] " 21 | " 29 |Oct. 8 | " 8 | " 4 | " 12 | " 15 [2] | | | | | | Oct. 3 |Sept. 21 | " 9 |Aug. 13 |Aug. 10 |Aug. 17 |Aug. 22 | [1] | | | [1] | [1] | " 5 | " 23 | " 10 | " 14 | " 11 | " 18 | " 24 [1] | | | | [2] | [2] | [1] " 6 | " 24 | " 11 | " 15 | " 12 | " 20 | " 25 [2] | | | | | | [2] --------------------------------------------------------------------- [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] Baltimore In |In |In |In |In |In |In Brooklyn.|Philadelphia|Columbus.|Cincinnati.|Louisville|St. |Kansas | | | | | Louis.| City ---------+------------+---------+-----------+----------+--------+--------- -- April 28 |June 23 |May 2 |May 16 |May 20 |May 11 |May 7 [2] | [2] | | | | [1] | " 29 | " 24 | " 3 | " 17 | " 21 | " 12 | " 8 | | | | | [2] | " 30 | " 25 | " 4 | " 18 | " 22 | " 13 | " 9 | | [1] | [1] | | | May 1 | " 26 | " 5 | " 19 | " 23 | " 14 | " 10 | | [2] | [2] | | | June 19 |Aug. 6 |July 18 |July 3 |July 6 |July 13 |July 10 | | | | [1] | [1] | " 20 | " 7 | " 20 | " 4 | " 7 | " 14 | " 11 | | [1] | | [2] | [2] | " 22 | " 8 | " 21 | " 4 | " 8 | " 15 | " 12 [1] | | [2] | | | | Sept. 27 | Oct. 12 |Sept. 17 |Aug. 10 |Aug. 13 |Aug. 22 |Aug. 17 | [1] | | [1] | | | [1] " 28 | " 13 | " 18 | " 11 | " 14 | " 24 | " 18 [1] | [2] | | [2] | | [1] | [2] " 29 | " 14 | " 19 | " 12 | " 15 | " 25 | " 20 [2] | | | | | [2] | ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] Columbus In |In |In |In |In |In |In Brooklyn.|Philadelphia|Baltimore.|Cincinnati.|Louisville|St. |Kansas | | | | |Louis. |City ---------|------------|----------|-----------|----------|--------|------- April 25|April 22 |April 17 |May 20 |May 16 |May 7 |May 11 | | | | | | [1] " 26 | " 23 | " 18 | " 21 | " 17 | " 8 | " 12 | | | | | | [2] " 27 | " 24 | " 19 | " 22 | " 18 | " 9 | " 13 [1] | | | | [1] | | June 23 |June 19 | " 20 | " 23 | " 19 | " 10 | " 14 [2] | | [1] | | [2] | | " 24 | " 20 |June 27 |July 10 |July 13 |July 6 |July 3 | | | | [1] | [1] | " 25 | " 21 | " 28 | " 11 | " 14 | " 7 | " 4 | | | | [2] | [2] | " 26 | " 22 | " 29 | " 12 | " 15 | " 8 | " 4 | [1] | [1] | | | | Sept. 21 |Sept. 28 |Oct. 3 |Aug. 17 |Aug. 22 |Aug. 13 |Aug. 10 [1] | [1] | | [1] | | | [1] " 22 | " 29 | " 4 | " 18 | " 24 | " 14 | " 11 [2] | [2] | | [2] | [1] | | [2] " 24 | " 30 | " 5 | " 20 | " 25 | " 15 | " 12 | | [1] | | [2] | | -------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] Cincinnati In |In |In |In |In |In |In Brooklyn.|Philadelphia|Baltimore.|Columbus.|Louisville|St. |Kansas | | | | | Louis. |City. ---------+------------+----------+---------+----------+---------+------ June 13 |May 30 |June 3 |June 8 |May 25 |April 25 |April 29 | | | [1] | [1] | | " 14 | " 30 | " 4 | " 9 | " 26 | " 26 | " 30 | | | [2] | [2] | | " 15 |June 1 | " 5 | " 10 | " 27 | " 27 |May 1 [1] | [1] | | | | [1] | " 16 | " 2 | " 6 | " 11 | " 28 | " 28 | " 2 [2] | [2] | | | | [2] | July 26 |July 23 |Aug. 2 |July 29 |Aug. 7 |June 25 |June 29 | | | | | | [1] " 27 | " 24 | " 3 | " 30 | " 8 | " 26 | " 30 [1] | | [1] | | | | [2] " 28 | " 25 | " 5 | " 31 | " 9 | " 27 |July 1 [2] | | | | | | Sept. 2 |Aug. 30 |Sept. 7 |Sept. 12 |Sept. 17 |Sept. 21 |Sept. 26 | | [1] | | | [1] | " 2 | " 31 | " 9 | " 14 | " 18 | " 22 | " 28 | [1] | | [1] | | [2] | [1] " 4 |Sept. 1 | " 10 | " 15 | " 19 | " 23 | " 29 | [2] | | [2] | | | [2] -------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] Louisville In |In |In |In |In |In |In Brooklyn.|Philadelphia|Baltimore.|Columbus.|Cincinnati.|St. |Kansas | | | | |Louis. |City. ---------+------------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+-------- June 8 |June 3 |June 13 |May 30 |May 4 |April 29 |April 25 [1] | | | | [1] | | " 9 | " 4 | " 14 | " 30 | " 5 | " 30 | " 26 [2] | | | | [2] | | " 10 | " 5 | " 15[1]|June 1 | " 6 |May 1 | " 27 | | | [1] | | | [1] " 11 | " 6 | " 17 | " 2 |Aug. 26 | " 2 | " 28 | | | [2] | | | [2] July 30 |Aug. 2 |July 23 |July 26 | " 27 |June 29 |June 26 | | | | | [1] | " 31 | " 3 | " 24 | " 27 | " 28 | " 30 | " 27 | [1] | | [1] | | [2] | Aug 1 | " 4 | " 25 | " 28 |Oct. 3 |July 1 | " 28 | [2] | | [2] | | | Sept. 12 |Sept. 7 |Aug. 30 |Sept. 3 | " 4 |Sept. 26 |Sept. 21 | [1] | | | | | [1] " 14 | " 8 | " 31 | " 4 | " 5 | " 28 | " 22 [1] | [2] | [1] | | [1] | [1] | [2] " 15 | " 9 |Sept. 2 | " 5 | " 6 | " 29 | " 23 [2] | | | | [2] | [2] | -------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] St. Louis In |In |In |In |In |In |In Brooklyn. |Philadelphia|Baltimore.|Columbus.|Cincinnati.|Louisville|Kansas | | | | | |City. ----------+------------+----------+---------+-----------+----------+------ ---- May 30 |June 13 |June 8 |June 3 |April 17 |April 21 |May 3 | | [1] | | | [2] | " 30 | " 15 | " 10 | " 4 | " 18 | " 22 | " 4 | [1] | | | | | [1] June 1 | " 16 | " 11 | " 5 | " 19 | " 23 | " 5 [1] | [2] | | | | | [2] " 2 | " 17 | " 12 | " 6 | " 20 |June 20 | " 6 [2] | | | | [1] | | Aug. 2 |July 30 |July 26 |July 22 |July 18 | " 22 |Aug. 7 | | | | | [1] | " 3 | " 31 | " 27 | " 23 | " 20 | " 23 | " 8 [1] | | [1] | | [1] | [2] | " 4 |Aug. 1 | " 29 | " 24 | " 21 | " 24 | " 9 [2] | | | | [2] | | Sept. 7 |Sept. 12 |Sept. 3 |Aug. 30 |Oct. 12 |Oct. 8 |Sept. 18 [1] | | | | [1] | | " 8 | " 14 | " 4 | " 31 | " 13 | " 9 | " 19 [2] | [1] | | [1] | [2] | | " 10 | " 15 | " 5 |Sept. 1 | " 14 | " 10 | " 20 | [2] | | [2] | | | -------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------ [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] Kansas City In |In |In |In |In |In |In Brooklyn.|Philadelphia|Baltimore.|Columbus.|Cincinnati.|Louisville.|St. | | | | | |Louis. ---------+------------+----------+---------+-----------+-----------+------ --- June 3 |June 8 |May 30 |June 13 |April 21 |April 17 |May 24 | [1] | | | [2] | | " 4 | " 9 | " 30 | " 14 | " 22 | " 18 | " 25 | [2] | | | | | [1] " 5 | " 10 | " 31 | " 15 | " 23 | " 19 | " 26 | | | [1] | | | [2] " 6 | " 11 |June 1 | " 16 |June 20 | " 20 | " 27 | | [1] | [2] | | [1] | July 23 |July 27 |July 30 |Aug. 2 | " 21 |July 18 |Aug. 26 | [1] | | | | | " 24 | " 28 | " 31 | " 3 | " 22 | " 20 | " 27 | [2] | | [1] | [1] | [1] | " 25 | " 29 |Aug. 1 | " 4 | " 23 | " 21 | " 28 | | | [2] | [2] | [2] | Aug. 30 |Sept. 2 |Sept. 12 |Sept. 7 |Oct. 8 |Oct.12 |Oct. 3 | | | [1] | | [1] | " 31 | " 3 | " 13 | " 8 | " 9 | " 13 | " 5 [1] | | | [2] | | [2] | [1] Sept. 1 | " 4 | " 14 | " 9 | " 10 | " 14 | " 6 [2] | | [1] | | | | [2] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Footnote 1: Saturday] [Footnote 2: Sunday] * * * * * READY APRIL 10TH. Spalding's Minor League Guide for 1889 --AND-- College and Amateur Club Annual. --CONTAINING-- The Statistics of the Championship Contests of the Season of 1888 --OF THE-- INTERNATIONAL ASSOCIATION, CENTRAL LEAGUE, WESTERN ASSOCIATION, TRI-STATE LEAGUE, SOUTHERN AND TEXAS LEAGUES, NEW ENGLAND LEAGUE, CALIFORNIA LEAGUE, etc. --ALSO-- THE OFFICIAL AVERAGES -OF THE-- AMERICAN COLLEGE LEAGUE, THE INTER-COLLEGIATE ASSOCIATION, MAINE COLLEGE LEAGUE, NEW YORK STATE LEAGUE, AMATEUR LEAGUE, CHICAGO AMATEUR LEAGUE --TOGETHER WITH-- The Revised National Agreement for 1889 and the New National Code of Playing Rules, Schedules, etc. PRICE 10 CENTS. PUBLISHERS: A. G. SPALDING & BROS. CHICAGO.--------------------------NEW YORK. * * * * * A TOUR OF THE WORLD, as made by SPALDING'S AMERICAN BASE BALL TEAMS. A Complete and Interesting History of the Great Trip of the CHICAGO AND ALL AMERICAN BASE BALL TEAMS, From CHICAGO to SAN FRANCISCO, to the SANDWICH ISLANDS, to NEW ZEALAND, to the AUSTRALIAN COLONIES, to CEYLON, INDIA, EGYPT, THE HOLY LAND, and the great Cities of EUROPE, is being compiled by HARRY PALMER, The Official Scorer of the Tour, and will be placed in the hands of the publishers immediately upon the return of the party to America. The volume will consist of from 400 to 450 pages, and will be profusely illustrated. Seldom, if ever, has the tour of the Globe been made by so large a party of Americans. The public and private receptions tendered them at every point have been most brilliant in character, and the trip has abounded with humorous and interesting incidents, which every American, whether or not he be a lover of the national game, will enjoy. The first edition of the book will be limited. Orders for the same will be placed on file, and the book sent by express to any address C. O. D., charges prepaid, and with the privilege of examination. PRICE: CLOTH, $3.50 MOROCCO, 5.00 ADDRESS ALL ORDERS TO HARRY PALMER, Care Evening Journal, CHICAGO, ILL. * * * * * FROM CHICAGO, EAST AND SOUTH take the PENNSYLVANIA LINES, PITTSBURGH, FT. WAYNE AND CHICAGO RAILWAY, (Fort Wayne Route.) to Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Harrisburgh, Washington, New York, And All Eastern Points, and the CHICAGO, ST. LOUIS & PITTSBURGH R.R. (Pan Handle Route,) to Columbus, Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Louisville, And All Points South, and Pittsburgh, and All Points East. JAS. McCREA, Gen'l Manager, E. A. FORD, Gen'l Pass. Agt., Pittsburgh, PA. C. W. ADAMS, Ass't Gen. Pass. Agt., Chicago, ILL. * * * * * MICHIGAN CENTRAL "The Niagara Falls Route." [Illustration: SOLID VESTIBULED TRAINS] Solid vestibuled trains run over the Michigan Central, "The Niagara Falls Route." between Chicago and Buffalo. These trains are not only equipped with the finest Wagner Palace Sleeping-Cars, but are made thoroughly complete by having Vestibuled Dining, Smoking, First-Class and Baggage Cars, and although constituting the famous "Limited" of the Michigan Central, carry all classes of passengers without extra charge. These trains carry through vestibuled Sleeping Cars between Chicago and New York, via New York Central & Hudson River Railroad, and between Chicago and Boston, via New York Central and Boston & Albany Railroads. The eastbound "Limited" also carries a through Sleeper, Chicago & Toronto (via Canadian Pacific), where connection is made with Parlor Car for Montreal. Accommodations secured at the Michigan Central Ticket Offices, No. 67 Clark Street, corner Randolph, and Depot, foot of Lake Street, Chicago. ASHLAND M.LS. & W.RY. ROUTE The Milwaukee, Lake Shore and Western Railway. THROUGH PALACE SLEEPING AND PARLOR CAR LINE -BETWEEN- CHICAGO and MILWAUKEE, and APPLETON, WAUSAU, and ASHLAND, the GOGEBIC, PENOKEE and MONTREAL IRON and MINERAL RANGES, HURLEY, IRONWOOD, BESSEMER and WAKEFIELD. THE DIRECT LIKE TO DULUTH, And the Manufacturing Centers and Lumbering Districts of Central and Northern Wisconsin, SHEBOYGAN, MANITOWOC, KAUKAUNA, APPLETON and WAUSAU. Special Inducements and Facilities offered for the Location of Manufacturing Establishments. Close Connections at Ashland and Duluth for Northern Pacific and Pacific Coast Points. * * * * * SPORTSMEN: The best Fishing and Hunting in the Northwest is reached by the ASHLAND ROUTE, and Excursion Tickets are sold at reduced rates during proper seasons. For MUSCALLONGE, BASS, PIKE, and other varieties, go to the Eagle Waters, Twin Lakes, and Lake St. Germain, Tomahawk and Pelican Lakes, and all headquarters of the Wisconsin River. For BROOK TROUT, go to Watersmeet, Great Trout Brook, the Brule, the Ontonagon, and Lake Gogebic. For BLACK BASS, go to Lake Gogebic, the best Bass Fishing in the country. For MACKINAW TROUT, LANDLOCKED SALMON, go to Island Lake, Black Oak Lake, Trout Lake. Send to the General Passenger and Ticket Agent for Descriptive and Illustrated Publications, Maps, Folders, Game Laws, Time Cards and General Information. C.L. RYDER, General Agent., 114 Clark St., Chicago. ERNEST VLIET, Gen'l Pass. & Tkt. Agt., Milwaukee, Wis. * * * * * Chicago and North-Western Railway. OVER 7,000 MILES Of steel track in Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota, Nebraska, Dakota and Wyoming, penetrates the Agricultural, Mining and Commercial Centres of the WEST and NORTHWEST The Unrivaled Equipment of the Line embraces Sumptuous Dining Cars, New Wagner and Pullman Sleepers, Superb day Coaches and FAST VESTIBULED TRAINS Running direct between Chicago, St, Paul and Minneapolis, Council Bluffs and Omaha, connecting for Portland, Denver, San Francisco and all Pacific Coast Points. ONLY LINE TO THE BLACK HILLS For Tickets, Rates, Maps, Time Tables and full information, apply to any Ticket Agent or address the Gen'l Passenger Agent, Chicago, Ill. J. M. WHITMAN, General Manager. H. C. WICKER, Traffic Manager. E. P. WILSON, Gen'l Pass. Agt. OFFICES: MINNEAPOLIS OFFICE--13 Nicollet House, and C., St. P. M. & O. Depot. ST. PAUL TICKET OFFICES--159 East Third St., Western Ave. Station, Palmer House, Grand Pacific Hotel, Wells Street Depot. DENVER OFFICE--8 Windsor Hotel Block. COUNCIL BLUFFS TICKET OFFICES--421 Broadway, at Union Pacific Depot, and C. & N. W. Railway Depot. OMAHA TICKET OFFICES--1401 Farnam St., and U. P. Depot. MILWAUKEE TICKET OFFICE--102 Wisconsin St. DULUTH, MINN.--112 West Superior St. * * * * * PURCHASE YOUR TICKETS VIA THE Burlington Route C.B.& Q.R.R. FROM CHICAGO, PEORIA OR ST. LOUIS TO ST. PAUL AND MINNEAPOLIS, CONNECTING AT MINNEAPOLIS AND ST. PAUL FOR ALL POINTS NORTHWEST. TO COUNCIL BLUFFS AND INTERMEDIATE POINTS IN IOWA, OR TO OMAHA IT IS THE POPULAR LINE. TO CHEYENNE IT HAS A DIRECT THROUGH LINE. TO ST. JOSEPH AND TO ATCHISON OR KANSAS CITY IT IS THE DIRECT LINE. TO DENVER IT RUNS THREE DAILY THROUGH TRAINS FROM CHICAGO, TWO FROM PEORIA, AND ONE FROM ST. LOUIS. * * * * * Tickets via the Burlington Route can be obtained of any coupon Ticket Agent of connecting lines. P. S. EUSTIS, Gen. Passenger & Ticket Agent, Chicago. THE CHICAGO AND ALTON R.R. IS THE ONLY LINE RUNNING PULLMAN VESTIBULED TRAINS --TO-- KANSAS CITY AND ST. LOUIS. * * * * * Palace Reclining Chair Cars and Ladies' Palace Day Cars Free of Extra Charge. Pullman Palace Buffet Sleeping Cars, Pullman Palace Compartment Buffet Sleeping Cars, Palace Dining Cars, and Smoking Cars. For Tickets and all information call on or address R. SOMERVILLE, City Passenger and Ticket Agent, 195 SOUTH CLARK STREET,--CHICAGO, ILL. GRAND UNION PASSENGER DEPOT, Canal Street, between Adams and Madison Streets CHICAGO, MILWAUKEE & ST. PAUL R'Y. Electric Lighted Vestibuled Trains to St. Paul and Minneapolis. Finest Dining Cars in the World. Through Sleeping Cars to Denver. The route of the first "Golden Gate Special" Excursion Tickets to Colorado. Excursion Tickets to California. Everything First-Class. First Class people patronize First-Class Lines. Ticket Agents everywhere sell Tickets over the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway. * * * * * SEASON OF 1889. BASE BALL POSTERS, WINDOW HANGERS, Colored Score Cards, Again Adopted by The National Leape and All Principal Associations. Inclose 25 Cents in Stamps for Sample Set of Twenty-Four Designs. JOHN B. SAGE, -- Buffalo, N. Y. The Pullman Buffet Sleeping Car Line --between-- THE WINTER CITIES OF THE SOUTH --and-- THE NORTHWESTERN SUMMER RESORTS, THE MONON ROUTE GIVES CHOICE OF 21 INTERESTING TOURIST LINES VIA Chicago or Michigan City to Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Louisville Burgin, and the South. For further information and descriptive pamphlets of Fishing and Hunting Resorts, etc., address E. 0. McCORMICK, Gen'l Passenger Agent. 186 Dearborn St., Chicago, Ill. * * * * * THE SPORTING TIMES A JOURNAL DEVOTED TO BASEBALL, THE TURF, AND ALL MANLY SPORTS. PUBLISHED EVERY SUNDAY BY THE SPORTING TIMES PUBLISHING CO., P.O. BOX 611, No. 73 Park Row, New York. IT COVEKS THE ENTIRE COUNTRY. DeWITT RAY, Editor and Manager. TERMS: SUBSCRIPTION, ONE YEAR $2.00 SUBSCRIPTION, SIX MONTHS 1.00 ALWAYS IN ADVANCE. ADVERTISING RATES: OUTSIDE PAGE, 20 CENTS A LINE EACH INSERTION. INSIDE PAGES, 15 CENTS A LINE EACH INSERTION. READING NOTICES, 50 CENTS A LINE EACH INSERTION DISCOUNTS: Advertisements running 6 months 15 per cent. Advertisements running 12 months 25 per cent. The Guaranteed Circulation of THE SPORTING TIMES is 35,000 COPIES EVERY ISSUE. THE REPRESENTATIVE B. B. PAPER OF AMERICA THE SPORTING LIFE Recognized by all Organizations, all Players, and the entire Base Ball loving public as the BEST BASE BALL JOURNAL PUBLISHED. It chronicles all sporting events. Nothing escapes it, and it leads in news gathering. It has the best corps of editors and correspondents ever organized, and contains more reading matter than any similar paper in the world. Has a larger sworn and proved circulation than any other sporting or base ball paper, or indeed, any number of similar papers combined, in the country, if not in the world. The only sporting paper in America which has all the mechanical work performed under its own roof, and which is printed on its own Web Perfecting Press, with a capacity of 15,000 printed, cut and folded complete, papers per hour. To read It Once Is to Swear by It Forever. -PUBLISHED BY- SPORTING LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 34 SOUTH THIRD ST., P. O. Box 948, Philadelphia, Pa. F. C. RICHTER, Editor, SUBSCRIPTION TERMS: IN ADVANCE. ONE YEAR $ 2.25 SIX MONTHS 1.25 THREE MONTHS .65 SINGLE COPIES .O5 For sale by all Newsdealers in the United States and Canada. Sample Copies Free. Send for one. * * * * * THE INTER OCEAN IS PUBLISHED EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR --AND-- HOLDS THE FIRST PLACE IN PUBLIC FAVOR. The Sporting Hews and Dramatic Departments of the INTER OCEAN are the Ablest and Most Complete of any paper in Chicago. THE SUNDAY INTER OCEAN IS THE Best Literary Publication in America. The Daily Inter Ocean, per Year, $8.00 The Sunday Inter Ocean, Per Year, 2.00 ADDRESS THE INTER OCEAN, CHICAGO The Inter Ocean gives a Prize of $100 to the person or persons guessing the correct standing of the League Clubs at the end of the season. For blanks apply to the Inter Ocean. * * * * * THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE. THE WESTERN SPORTING AUTHORITY. THE SUNDAY EDITION OF THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE and the DAILY EDITION throughout the playing season of 1889, will be found, as heretofore, indispensable to those who desire accurate, reliable and comprehensive base ball records and reports. Every club and club-room should keep THE SUNDAY TRIBUNE on file. THE TURF DEPARTMENT Of THE TRIBUNE is universally admitted to be without an equal, and during 1889 it will be still further improved. Special telegraphic reports of the principal running and trotting meetings will be furnished, and particular attention be given to the performances of the American horses in England. In other departments of sport THE TRIBUNE will maintain the superiorly it has so long enjoyed. SUNDAY EDITION, 24 Pages, per year, $2.00 DAILY TRIBUNE, including Sunday, 8.00 Address THE TRIBUNE, CHICAGO, ILL. * * * * * TREMONT HOUSE, CHICAGO. The Proprietors of the Tremont would respectfully solicit the patronage of the League and other traveling Base Ball Clubs, for the season of 1889. We offer a special rate of $2.50 Per Day, And refer to all the League Clubs who have made their home with us, also to Messrs. A. G. Spalding & Bros., 108 Madison St. JOHN A. RICE & CO. M. VAN S. RICE, Manager * * * * * [Illustration: Celebrate Spalding's Baseballs] Each of following styles are put up in separate box, and sealed. To Clubs. Each. Per doz. No. 1. SPALDING'S LEAGUE BALL, as adopted by the National League; the finest ball made $1.50 $15.00 No. 1A. SPALDING'S ASSOCIATION BALL 1.25 13.00 No. 1B SPALDING'S BOY'S LEAGUE BALL, a first class ball for boys, made like our League Ball 1.00 11.00 No. 2. SPALDING'S PROFESSIONAL DEAD BALL, white. The best dead ball ever made 1.00 11.00 No. 3. SPALDING'S AMATEUR DEAD BALL, white. Especially adapted for school nines, and for practice .75 8.50 No. 3R. SPALDING'S AMATEUR DEAD BALL, red .75 8.50 No. XX SPALDING'S AMATEUR LIVELY BALL, white. A first- class lively ball .75 8.50 All above balls are fully warranted. FINE HORSEHIDE COVER 50-CENT BALLS. No. 5. SPALDING'S KING OF THE DIAMOND, white. Horsehide cover, regulation size 50 5.00 No. 5B. SPALDING'S BOY'S PROFESSIONAL BALL, white Horsehide cover, junior size ball .50 5.00 HORSEHIDE COYER 25-CENT BILLS. No. 7. SPALDING'S BOY'S FAVORITE. Regulation size and weight. Horsehide cover .25 2.75 No. 7B. SPALDING'S LEAGUE JUNIOR. Horsehide cover, junior size .25 2.75 REGULATION SIZE 20-CENT BALLS. No. 8. SPALDING'S EUREKA BALL, white. Regulation size and weight .20 2.00 No. 9. SPALDING'S RATTLER BALL, white. Nearly regulation size .10 1.00 No. 9B. SPALDING'S BOY'S DEAD. An 8-inch ball for boys .10 1.00 THE BOSS JUVENILE 5-CENT BALL. No. 10. SPALDING'S BOSS BALL, large size, 5 cent ball, best in the market 50 .50 If you cannot obtain these balls of your local dealer send the price for sample ball and we will mail free of all charges. SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED BATS. Spalding's Trade-Marked bats were first introduced in 1877, and they have gradually grown in popularity until now they are used almost exclusively by all prominent professional and amateur players. The demand for different styles and lengths of bats has changed as the batting and pitching rules have changed. Our models have changed so from year to year that bats of the present are very different from those of a few years since. We have adopted an entirely new set of models for 1889, and each crate of our trade-marked bats has four different models and as many different lengths. All timber used in these bats is allowed to season from one to two years before being turned, and the result is we are enabled to make much lighter and stronger bats than when timber is hastily "kiln-dried," as done by all manufacturers of cheap goods. Bach bat is turned by hand, and when found to answer all the requirements as to shape, size, weight and soundness, the trade-mark is stained on each bat to insure its genuineness. Each and every one of our trade marked bats, after it is completed, is carefully weighed, and the weight in ounces stamped under the trade-mark. The success and popularity of these bats, which is due to the great care taken in their manufacture, has brought out many cheap imitations, and we would caution the trade to see that the Spalding trade-mark is stamped on each bat. The special attention of professional players is called to our new "Wagon Tongue Brand" No. 3-0 Bat. PRICES. To Clubs Each. Per doz. No. 3-0. SPALDING'S SPECIAL BLACK END "WAGON TONGUE" BAT. This is a new special quality Bat, selected and manufactured with more care than any bat made. Nothing but the very best clear second growth thoroughly seasoned ash is used. The bats are turned to special models as used by the leading League batters. _Oriental Finish_, which is very durable, and gives a pleasant firm hold for the hands. Each bat carefully weighed, and trade- marked, and inclosed in a strong paper bag $1.00 10.00 No. 2-0. SPALDING'S SPECIAL BLACK BAND LEAGUE BAT, made out of the choicest selected second growth white ash. Each bat is carefully weighed and the weight in ounces stamped under the Trade-mark; they are lathe polished and finished in the highest possible manner, and we guarantee it to be superior to any bat made by other manufacturers. Granulated handle, incased in a strong paper bag. .75 7.50 No. 0.- SPALDING'S BLACK BAND LEAGUE BAT, made from selected straight grained white ash; highly polished. Each bat incased in strong paper bag; and the weight stamped under trade-mark. .50 5.50 No. 1. SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED ASH BAT, made on four different models; finished with three coats of best shellac, and lathe polished. Each bat has the weight stamped under Trade-mark. .25 3.00 SPALDING'S LIGHTWOOD BATS. We wish to call the attention of the trade to the elegant manner in which we are finishing our lightwood bats; we have entirely changed the style and finish of these bats in a way that is sure to win the approval of players. To Clubs Each. Per doz. No. 3. SPALDING'S BLACK BAND BASSWOOD BAT, is made from selected timber. Each bat has weight stamped under Trademark, and is finished in elegant manner; incased in strong paper bag. $.30 $ 3.00 No. 4. SPALDING'S BLACK BAND WILLOW BAT, highly finished. Each bat has weight stamped under Trade-mark, and is guaranteed to be the best light wood bat made; incased in strong paper bag. .50 5.50 SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED BOYS' BATS. The demand among the younger generation for a Trade-marked Spalding bat has been so great that we have taken great pains in getting out a line of bats for the boys as near as possible like the men's in shape, quality and general appearance. To Clubs Each. Per doz. No. 0B. SPALDING'S BLACK BAND TRADE-MARKED BOY'S ASH BAT. This bat is highly finished, made from selected timber, and finished in same manner as our No. 00 bat stamped weight; incased in paper bag, 30-34 inches. $ .30 $ 3.00 No. 1B SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED BOY'S ASH BAT, finished same style as No. 1; 28 to 30 in. .25 2.50 No. 3B. SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED BOYS' BASSWOOD BAT, made after same models as our No. 3 bat, only proportionately smaller; nicely finished; 28 to 32 inches. .25 2.50 SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED FANCY BATS. Owing to large demand for fancy bats, three years ago we placed on the market our line of Trade-marked Fancy bats, which are superior in every way to any line of fancy bats ever offered to the trade. To Clubs Each. Per doz. No. AA. SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED FANCY ASH BAT, mahogany finish, with white band Trade-mark; granulated handle; stamped weight; incased in strong paper bag. $ .75 $ 7.50 No. BB. SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED FANCY BASSWOOD BAT, same finish as the above. .75 7.50 POLISHED, STAINED AND PLAIN BATS. Each. Per doz. No. 21. POLISHED ASH BATS, for men. $ .25 $ 2.5O No. 24. POLISHED AMERICAN WILLOW BATS, for men .25 2.50 No. 5O. ROSEWOOD FINISH MEN'S BATS, Gilt Band .35 3.00 No. 5O B. ROSEWOOD FINISH BOYS' BATS, Gilt Band .20 2.00 No. 53. POLISHED MAPLE, Colored Band, Youths, 30-32 inch. .10 1.20 No. 56. STAINED AND POLISHED MAPLE, Black Handle, Youths' 30-32 inch. .10 1.20 No. 54. BOYS' MAPLE, Colored Band, 26-28 inch. .05 .60 If you cannot obtain these bats from your local dealer send your order direct to us. SPALDING'S TRADE-MARKED CATCHERS' MASK. The suit for infringement on Catchers' Masks brought against us by F. W. Thayer of Boston was, after a two years' litigation, decided against us in the U. S. District Court, and in settlement for back damages we arranged to protect all of our customers. Ball players and dealers in Base Ball Goods are cautioned against buying any Catchers' Masks unless made under license from Thayer, and plainly stamped "Manufactured under Thayer's Patent." At present it would be considered unsafe and even dangerous for a catcher to face the swift underhand throwing of the present day unless protected by a reliable mask. The increased demand for these goods has brought manufacturers into the field who, having no reputation to sustain, have vied with each other to see how _cheaply_ they could make a so-called mask, and in consequence have ignored the essential qualification, _strength_. A cheaply made, inferior quality of mask is much worse than no protection at all, for a broken wire, or one that will not stand the force of the ball without caving in, is liable to disfigure a player for life. Our trade-marked masks are made of the very best hard wire, plated to prevent rusting, and well trimmed, and every one is a thorough face protector. We make them in four grades, as described below: Beware of counterfeits. _None genuine without our trade-mark stamped on each mask._ [Illustration: No. 3-0 Mask.] [Illustration: No. 2-0 Mask.] No. 3-0. SPALDING'S NEW PATENTED NECK-PROTECTING MASK. This mask has a peculiar shaped extension at the bottom which affords the same protection to the neck as the mask does to the face. It does not interfere in the slightest degree with the free movement of the head, and is the only mask made which affords perfect protection to a catcher. The entire mask is constructed of the best hardened wire, extra heavy padded with goat hair, and the padding faced with the best imported dogskin, which is impervious to perspiration, and always soft and pliable, each. $4.00 No. 2-0. SPALDING'S SPECIAL LEAGUE MASK, used by all leading professional catchers, extra heavy wire, well padded with goat hair, and the padding faced with the best imported dogskin, which is impervious to perspiration, and retains its pliability and softness $3.50 No. 1-0. SPALDING'S REGULATION LEAGUE MASK, made of heavy wire, well padded and faced with horsehide, warranted first-class in every respect. $3.00 No. 1. SPALDING'S BOYS' LEAGUE MASK, made of heavy wire, equally as heavy in proportion to size as the No. 2-0 mask. It is made to fit a boy's face, and gives the same protection as the League Mask. 2.50 AMATEUR MASKS. [Illustration: Amateur Mask.] To meet the demand for good masks at a low price, we have manufactured a line of amateur masks, which is superior to any mask in the market at the same price. We do not guarantee these masks and believe that our Trade- Marked Masks are worth more than the difference in price. No. A. AMATEUR MASK, made the same size and general style as the League Mask, but with lighter wire, and faced with leather. (We guarantee this mask to be superior to so- called League or professional masks sold by other manufacturers.) $1.75 No. B. BOYS' AMATEUR MASK, similar to No. A Mask, only made smaller to fit a boy's face. 1.50 Any of the above masks mailed post-paid on receipt of price. SPALDING'S PATENT CELLULOID UMPIRE INDICATOR, [Illustration: ] As shown in the above cut, is intended for the use of BASE BALL UMPIRES and SCORERS to keep tally of the number of Strikes and Balls that may be called. The illustration, which represents the exact size of the Indicator, gives a good idea of its construction and mode of handling. It can be easily operated by the thumb or finger while held in the palm of the hand. It has been highly recommended by all League and Association umpires who have seen it. Price, each 50¢ By mail postpaid on receipt of price. CATCHERS' GLOVES. Spalding's Trade-Marked Catchers' Gloves. After considerable expense and many experiments we have finally perfected a Catcher's Glove that meets with general favor from professional catchers. The old style of open backed gloves introduced by us several years ago is still adhered to, but the quality of material and workmanship has been materially improved, until now we are justified in claiming the best line of catchers' gloves in the market. These gloves do not interfere with throwing, can be easily put on and taken off, and no player subject to sore hands should be without a pair. Our new patent seamless palm glove is admittedly the finest glove ever made, and is used by all professional catchers. We make them in ten different grades, as follows: Price of Full Left-Hand Gloves. No. 3-0. Spalding's Special League Catchers' Gloves. Patented, both gloves without seams in palm. Full left-hand back stop glove, made of heaviest Indian-tanned or drab buckskin, the very best that can be produced. The full left-hand glove is extra padded and sole leather finger tips to prevent the low curve balls from breaking or otherwise injuring the fingers. The right-hand glove is made with open back and fingerless, thoroughly padded. We especially recommend this glove for catchers. Each pair packed in separate box. $5.00 No. 4-0. Spalding's Special League Catchers' or Fielders' Gloves, full left-hand soft-tips, lined, drab color buckskin. $5.00 No. 2-0. Spalding's League Regulation Catchers' Gloves full left- hand, with tips, good quality buckskin, same style of gloves as 3-0, not quite so heavy. $3.50 No. 3.A. Full Left-Hand "Spring Buck" with sole leather tips. $3.00 No. A. Full left-hand buckskin without tips. $2.50 No. AA. Full left-hand oiled tan sheepskin, without tips. $1.25 IRWIN'S GLOVES WE HAVE BEEN MADE SOLE AGENTS FOR THESE GLOVES. No. 25. Irwin's Celebrated Catchers' Gloves $5.00 No. 25A. " " Infielder's " 3.50 INFIELDERS' GLOVES. No. XX. Spalding's Drab Buck Infielders' Gloves 2.50 No. X. " White " " " 2.00 BASE BALL FINGERLESS GLOVES OPEN BACK [Illustration: No. 1-0 Glove.] No. 1-0. Spalding's League Cat'hrs Gloves made of extra heavy Indian-tanned buck, and carefully selected with special reference to the hard service required of them, open back, both hands fingerless, well padded, and fully warranted. We especially recommend this glove for catchers 2.50 No. 1 Spalding's Professional Gloves, made of Indian-tanned buckskin, open back, well padded, but not quite as heavy as the No. 0 2.00 [Illustration: Nos. E. and F.] No. B. Spalding's Amateur Gloves, made of buckskin, open back, well padded and adapted for amateur players, 1.50 No. C. Spalding's Practice Gloves, made of buckskin, open back, well padded 1.00 No. D. Open back, a good glove at the price, made of light material. .75 No. E. Boy's size, cheap open back glove. .50 No. F. Youth's size, cheap open back glove. .25 Any of the above Gloves mailed postpaid on receipt of price. In ordering, please give size of ordinary dress glove usually worn. SPALDING'S SPECIAL HAND MADE KANGAROO BALL SHOE. IMPROVED FOR 1889. No. 2-0 ... Price, $7.00. We now have on the third floor of our New York store a thoroughly equipped Shoe Factory for the manufacture of fine Base Ball and Athletic Shoes. This department of our business is under the immediate charge and supervision of Wm. Dowling, who for several years past has enjoyed the reputation of being the leading maker of Athletic Shoes in New York. We employ in this department the most skilful workmen, and use only the very best material, and are prepared to take special orders and make a special last for professional players. The special attention of Ball players is called to our new genuine KANGAROO BASE BALL SHOE. The above cut represents this Shoe, which is made from selected genuine Kangaroo skin, all hand sewed, slipper heel, cut low in front, and wide, so they can be laced tight or loose as the player likes. Each pair is provided with porpoise laces, and the whole Shoe made with reference to comfort and the hard usage required of it. Our new Hand Forged Shoe Plates--for toe and heel--will be riveted on when required, without additional expense. HOW TO MEASURE. MEASUREMENT BLANKS will be furnished on application, or a player can take a piece of manilla paper of sufficient size, and by following the directions herein given, can take his own measure. Place the foot flat on the paper, and with a pencil draw around the foot close to it. Then take other measurements as shown in the cut. LEFT FOOT. ANKLE INCHES. HEEL " INSTEP " BALL " Ball Players will bear in mind that we make a special last for each man, which will be kept for future use. Satisfaction both as to fit and quality of shoe guaranteed. SPALDING'S Trade-Marked Base Ball Shoes. SPALDING'S SPECIAL LEAGUE SHOE. Per pair. No. 0. Spalding's Special League Shoe. Used by League Players. Made of choicest selected Calf, skin, with natural side out. Hand Sewed and Warranted, superior to any Shoe on the market except our No. 20 Shoe $6.00 [Illustration: No. 0.] No. 1. Spalding's Special Canvas Base Ball Shoe. Hand made, the finest Canvas Shoe made 5.00 [Illustration: No. 1] AMATEUR, OR PRACTICE SHOE. No. 3 Amateur, or Practice Shoe. Good quality, canvas strap over ball $2.00 [Illustration: No. 3] AMATEUR BASE BALL SHOE FOR BOYS. No. 3X. Amateur Base Ball Shoe. Second quality canvas $1.50 No. 5. Third quality canvas Shoe 1.00 OXFORD TIE BASE BALL SHOE No. 4. Oxford Tie Base Ball Shoe, Low cut, canvas $2.00 SPALDING'S SHOE PLATES. We have experienced more difficulty in the manufacture of a Shoe Plate than any other article that goes to make up a ball player's outfit, but at last we are prepared to offer something that will give the player satisfactory service. No. 3-0. Spalding's Extra Special Hand Forged Steel Plates, polished and plated, per pair, $0.75 No. 2-0. Spalding's Hand Forged Steel Heel Plates, per pair, .50 No. 0. Spalding's Tempered Steel Shoe Plate, made of imported steel, and warranted not to bend or break; put up with screws. .50 No. 1. Professional Steel Shoe Plate, similar in shape per and style to the No. 0 Plate, put up with screws pair .25 No. 2. Amateur Steel Shoe Plate, put up with screws per pair .15 PITCHER'S TOE PLATE. Made of heavy brass, to be worn on the toe of the right shoe. A thorough protection to the shoe, and a valuable assistant in pitching. All professionals use them. Each .50¢. Any of above plates sent post-paid on receipt of price. SPALDING'S BASE BALL STOCKINGS. Per doz. No. 2-0. Spalding's New Linen Sole Base Ball Stockings. $15.00 No. 1-0. Spalding's New Linen Sole, Bicycle or Tennis Stockings. 13.20 Special. League Regulation, made of the finest worsted yarn. The following colors can be obtained: White, Light Blue, Navy Blue, Scarlet, Gray, Green, Old Gold, Brown. 18.00 No 1. Fine Quality Woolen Stockings, Scarlet, Blue or Brown. 12.00 No. 2. Good Quality Woolen Stockings, Scarlet, Blue or Brown. 9.00 No. 3. Second Quality Woolen Stockings, Scarlet or Blue 6.00 No. 4. Cotton 3.50 No. 5. " 2.50 Sample pair mailed on receipt of price. BAT BAGS. No. 0. LEAGUE CLUB BAT BAG, made of sole leather, name on side, to hold 11/2 dozen bats each, $15.00 No. 1. CANVAS BAT BAG, heavy waterproof canvas, leather ends, to hold a dozen bats each, $ 5.00 No. 2. CANVAS BAT BAG, heavy waterproof canvas, leather end, to hold 1 dozen bats each, $ 4.00 No. 01. INDIVIDUAL LEATHER BAT BAG, for 2 bats, Spalding's design, used by the players of the Chicago Club, each, $ 4.00 No. 02. INDIVIDUAL CANVAS BAT BAG, heavy water proof canvas, leather cap at both ends. each, 1.50 No. 03. INDIVIDUAL CANVAS BAT BAG, heavy canvas, leather cap at one end. each, 1.00 * * * * * BASES. No. 0. League Club Bases, made of extra canvas, stuffed and quilted complete, with straps and spikes, without home plate. Per set of three $7.50 No. 1. Canvas Bases, with straps and spikes, without home Plate 5.00 No. 2. Cheap Canvas Bases, with straps and spikes, complete, without home plate. 5.00 Rubber Home Plate. each 7.50 Marble Home Plate. " 3.00 BASE BALL UNIFORMS. We offer our regular line of Flannel Uniforms, and in addition offer a new style of heavy knit suits, such as was first worn by Chicago Club during 1887-1888. They are well adapted for warm weather, and are very neat and elastic. We make in one quality only; any color. NO. 2-0 KNIT BASE BALL UNIFORM. Consisting of-- No. 2-0. Knit Shirt, with collar, and with name on breast. $5.00 " 2-0. Knit Pants, very strongly reinforced 4.50 Special quality Stockings 1.50 No. 0. Cap 1.00 Special quality Belt .50 Necktie to match trimmings. ---- Complete without shoes $12.50 NO. O UNIFORM. NO. O. BEST QUALITY LEAGUE OR ASSOCIATION CLUB UNIFORM. The flannel used in this uniform is manufactured exclusively for us, and which we have used for the past six years. For the durability of the material and superiority of the styles and workmanship, we refer to all clubs who have used our uniforms. We have made uniforms for the following leading clubs in THE LEAGUE--NEW YORK, CHICAGO, BOSTON, DETROIT, WASHINGTON, INDIANAPOLIS, PITTSBURGH. THE ASSOCIATION--ST. Louis, BROOKLYN, CINCINNATI, METROPOLITAN, LOUISVILLE, CLEVELAND. And for the majority of the clubs of the N. E. League, International League, Southern League, Western League, N. W. League and others. We have fifteen different styles or colors. Send for sample card. No. 0. Quality Shirts, any style Each, $5.00 " 0. " Pants, " " " 4.50 Special " Stockings " 1.50 No. 0. " Caps " 1.00 Special " Belt " .50 Necktie to match trimmings. ---- Uniform complete without shoes $12.50 Extra for Padded pants Each pair, 1.50 NO. 1 UNIFORM. NO. 1 UNIFORM. The flannel used in this uniform is the same quality as the No. 0 grade, but lighter in weight. We have fifteen styles and colors, as follows: No. 16, White; No. 17, Yale Gray; No. 18, Drab, mixed; No. 19, Shaker Gray; No. 20, Steel, mixed; No. 21, Navy Blue; No. 22, Dark Brown; No. 23, Maroon; No. 24, Royal Blue; No. 25, Old Gold, No. 26, Scarlet; No. 17, Green; No. 28, Light Brown; No. 29, Dark Gray; No. 30, Light Gray. PRICE. No. 1. Quality Shirts, any style Each, $4.00 " 1. " Pants, " " " 3.75 " 1. " Stockings " 1.00 " 1st " Caps " .75 " 0 or 2 " Belt " .50 Necktie to match trimmings. ---- Uniform complete without shoes $10.00 Extra for Padded pants Each pair, 1.50 NO. 2 UNIFORM. NO. 2 UNIFORM. Made of 4-1/2 oz. twilled flannel, in the following colors: No. 31, White; No. 32, Yale Gray; No. 33. Shaker Gray; No. 34 Steel, mixed; No. 35, Navy Blue. PRICE. No. 2. Quality Shirts, any style Each, $3.00 " 2. " Pants, " " " 1.75 " 2. " Stockings " .75 " 2d " Caps " .60 " 1 or 3 " Belt " .40 Necktie to match trimmings. ---- Uniform complete without shoes $7.50 Extra for Padded pants Each pair, 1.50 NO. 3 UNIFORM. NO. 3 UNIFORM. Made of three colors of flannel-White, Gray, Navy Blue. Heavy and strong. The best value at the price. PRICE. No. 3. Quality Shirts, any style Each, $2.00 " 3. " Pants, " " " 1.75 " 3. " Stockings " .50 " 3. " Caps " .50 " 3 or 4 " Belt " .25 ----- Uniform complete without shoes $5.00 Extra for Padded pants Each pair, 1.00 NO. 4 UNIFORM. Made of a White Shaker flannel and a Gray Cotton Cloth. PRICE. No. 4. Quality Shirts, plain, pleat or lace Each, $1.64 " 4. " Pants, " 1.25 " 4. " Stockings " .25 Cotton Flannel Cap, lined " .35 " 4 Belt " .15 ------ Uniform complete without shoes $3.50 Extra for Padded pants Each pair, .75 Special Measurement Blanks, Samples of Flannel and Belt Webbing for all of above Uniforms furnished upon application. ATHLETIC CLOTHING. Our facilities for manufacturing Base Ball, Cricket, Lawn Tennis, Boating, Bicycle and all other styles of Uniforms for athletic and sporting purposes, are unequaled. In this department we employ both at Chicago and New York a thoroughly practical and scientific cutter, one who is fully capable of making fine clothing for ordinary wear, but is especially educated in the cutting of Athletic Clothing. We would urge clubs not to make the mistake of entrusting the making of their uniforms to local dealers, whose experience in this kind of work is necessarily limited. BASE BALL SHIRTS. No.0. League Club Shirts, any style Each, $5.00 " 1. First Quality " " " 4.00 " 2. Second " " " " 3.00 " 3. Third " " " " 2.00 " 4. Fourth " lace or button only " 1.60 For description of Flannels used in making these Shirts, see Complete Uniforms. TO MEASURE FOR SHIRT. Size of collar worn, length of sleeve from shoulder seam to wrist with arm raised and bent, size around chest. Send for special measurement blank. BASE BALL PANTS. No. 0. League Club Pants, any style Each, $4.50 " 1. First Quality " " " 3.75 " 2. Second " " " " 2.75 " 3. Third " " " " 1.75 " 4. Fourth " " " " 1.25 Each Pair. For padding and Quilting No. 0, 1 or 2 Quality at hips and knees $1.50 " " " " " 3 Quality at hips and knees 1.00 " " " " " 4 " " " " " .75 TO MEASURE FOR PANTS. Outseam from waistband to 8 inches below knee. Inseam from crotch to 8 inches below knee, around waist, around hips. Send for our special measurement blank. GRAY'S Patent Body Protector. We now have the sole agency for this most useful device ever invented for the protection of catchers or umpires This body protector renders it impossible for the catcher to be injured while playing close to the batter. It is made of best rubber and inflated with air, and is very light and pliable, and does not interfere in any way with the movement of the wearer, either in turning, stooping or throwing. No catcher should be without one of these protectors. When not in use the air can be let out, and the protector rolled in a very small space. No 0 Extra heavy professional $10.00 No 1 Standard Amateur $ 6.00 * * * * * CATCHERS' AND UMPIRES' BREAST PROTECTOR. This supplies a long felt want for the protection of Catchers and Umpires exposed to the swift underhand throwing. They are nicely made, well padded and quilted, and used by nearly all professional Catchers and Umpires. No A Chamois and Canvas Body Protector $3.00 " B Leather Body Protector $5.00 [Illustration: No. 5. 4 Qualities.] [Illustration: No. 13.] [Illustration: No. 3. 3 Qualities.] [Illustration: No. 19.] [Illustration: No. 1. 1 Quality.] [Illustration: Cheap Muslin.] BASE BALL CAPS [Illustration: No. 21. 5 Qualities.] [Illustration: No. 7.] [Illustration: No. 21. Cheap Flannel.] [Illustration: No. 11.] BASE BALL HATS AND CAPS. Our line of Base Ball Hats and Caps is unequaled for quality, style, workmanship and variety. Please note carefully before ordering what styles and colors we furnish in each quality, so there can be no delay in filling orders. 0 QUALITY--This quality we make in any style from the same flannel that we use in League Uniforms. Colors, white, red, royal blue, navy blue, brown, maroon, old gold and nine patterns of grays, stripes and checks, as shown on our No. 0 Sample Card of Uniforms. 1ST QUALITY--This quality we make in any style and of the following colors: White, red, royal blue, navy blue, brown, maroon, old gold, green, or any of the grays and mixes, as shown in our No. 1 Uniform Sample Card. 2D QUALITY--Any style. Colors, white, red, royal blue, navy blue, light gray, medium gray, dark gray. 3D QUALITY--Any style, except hats; same colors as 2d quality. 4TH QUALITY--Any style, except hats, and No. 5, Chicago style; colors same as 2d and 3d qualities. CHEAP FLANNEL CAPS--Made in Style 21 only; colors, white, red, or royal blue. CHEAP MUSLIN CAPS--Style 19 only; color, white, red or royal blue. NO. 1. STYLE CAP--We make this cap from a special imported striped flannel, of which we carry in stock the following patterns in 3/4 and 1 1/4 inch stripes: Black and white, maroon and white, royal blue and white, blue and black, black and scarlet, black and orange. |0 Quality, (For colors see above) |$2.00 NO. 3. B.B. HAT |1st " " " " | 1.50 |2d " " " " | 1.25 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- NO. 1. PARTI-COLORED CAPS--1st quality 3/4 and 1-1/4 inch stripes. | 1.00 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- |0 Quality, (For colors see above) | 1.00 NO. 5. CHICAGO CAP |1st " " " " | .75 Plain or with bands. |2d " " " " | .65 |3d " " " " | .50 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- |0 Quality, (For colors see above) | 1.00 |1st " " " " | .75 NO 7. Boston Style |2d " " " " | .65 CAP |3d " " " " | .50 |4th " " " " | .40 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- |0 Quality, (For colors see above) | 1.00 |1st " " " " | .75 NO. 11. JOCKEY SHAPE |2d " " " " | .65 CAP |3d " " " " | .50 |4th " " " " | .40 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- |0 Quality, (For colors see above) | 1.00 |1st " " " " | .75 NO. 13. BOSTON STYLE |2d " " " " | .65 CAP, with Star. |3d " " " " | .50 |4th " " " " | .40 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- |0 Quality, (For colors see above) | 1.00 |1st " " " " | .75 NO. 19. SKULL CAP |2d " " " " | .65 |3d " " " " | .50 |4th " " " " | .40 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- |0 Quality, (For colors see above) | 1.00 |1st " " " " | .75 NO. 21. COLLEGE STYLE |2d " " " " | .65 CAP |3d " " " " | .50 |4th " " " " | .40 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- CHEAP FLANNEL CAPS |Lined, (for colors see above) | .25 |Unlined, " " " | .15 ----------------------+--------------------------------------------+---- CHEAP MUSLIN CAPS, |Unlined |Per doz. | 1.20 SPALDING'S SCORE BOOK Spalding's Pocket and Club Score Book continues to be the popular score book, and is used by all the leading scorers and base ball reporters. They are adapted for the spectator of ball games, who scores for his own amusement, as well as the official club scorer, who records the minutest detail. By this system, the art of scoring can be acquired in a single game. Full instructions, with the latest League rules, accompany each book. [Illustration: Score Book page.] The above represents a page in our Score Book, greatly reduced. The diamond in the center of the square represents the base ball field. The home base is at the bottom of diamond, the first base at right side, etc. The spaces in each corner of the square are intended to be used in scoring whatever may have happened to batter or base runner on the line between the two bases forming a boundary of said space. PRICES. POCKET. EACH. No. 1. Paper Cover, 7 games $ .10 No. 2. Board Cover, 22 games .25 No. 3. Board Cover, 46 games .50 Score Cards .05 Reporter's Score Book, pocket size, leather bound 1.00 CLUB BOOKS. No. 4. Large Size, 30 games $1.00 No. 5. " " 60 games 1.75 No. 6. " " 90 games 2.50 No. 7. " " 120 games 3.00 Mailed upon receipt of price. SPALDING'S WAGON TONGUE BATS [Illustration] Are made of the finest straight grained, well seasoned, second growth Ash Sticks. All timber must be seasoned at least two years, and free from knots or imperfections. They are pronounced superior to anything, in the way of a bat, ever brought out, both as to quality of timber, model and finish. Special attention is called to the "Oriental Finish" put on these bats which enables the batter to get a firm grip and renders the custom of scraping the bat unnecessary. They are made from models of the actual bats used by the most skillful batters in the League and Association. These bats were used last year by all the prominent batters in the leading Leagues and during the World's Series nine-tenths of the bats on the field were WAGON TONGUE BRAND. Beware of cheap imitations, the only genuine WAGON TONGUE BAT has our TRADEMARK; all others are counterfeits. These bats are intended especially for Professional Players, and we urge Club Managers to place their orders as early as possible, to insure a supply, as the quantity made is necessarily limited. PRICE TO CLUBS: Per Doz. $10.00. Each. $1.00. 108 MADISON ST, A. G. Spaulding & Bros. 241 BROADWAY, CHICAGO NEW YORK [Illustration: SPALDING'S OFFICIAL LEAGUE BALL, as represented in above illustration is made in very best manner, of finest materials, wrapped in tin foil, put up in separate box and sealed in accordance with League Regulations. Warrented to last afull game without ripping or losing its elasticity or shape. PRICE, PER DOZEN, $15.00 PRICE, EACH, $1.50] 
9916	----	Distributed Proofreaders [Transcriber's Note: Some portions of the original text were illegible; these portions are noted with an asterisk (*).] [Title page] [Illustration: SPALDING'S SPECIAL ATHLETIC LIBRARY BASE BALL GUIDE 1895] [Advertisement] The Leader for 1895 is The Spalding Bicycle. ITS NAME IS ITS GUARANTEE. _The name stands for the Highest Grade in Athletic Goods throughout the world, and now stands for THE HIGHEST-GRADE BICYCLE MADE._ THE SPALDING BICYCLE ... DURING THE YEAR 1894 MADE A PHENOMENAL RECORD A. H. Barnett on the Spalding Bicycle won the Great Irvington-Milburn Road Race ... Monte Scott, of the Crescent Wheelman, on the Spalding Bicycle made new world's road records for 5, 10, 15, 20 and 25 miles, and ... Fred Titus at Springfield, on September 13th rode 27 miles, 1489 yards in one hour, making a world's record, and making records from 7 to 27 miles. Watch the Spalding Team for '95--SANGER-TITUS-CABANNE. A.G. SPALDING & BROS. NEW YORK PHILADELPHIA *AT CHICOPEE [Illustration: Albert G. Spalding.] BASE BALL GUIDE AND OFFICIAL LEAGUE BOOK FOR 1895. * * * * * A Complete Hand Book Of The National Game Of Base Ball, Containing The Full Official League Records For 1894, Together With The New Code Of Playing Rules As Revised By The Committee Of Rules. Attached To Which Are Explanatory Notes, Giving A Correct Interpretation Of The New Rules. * * * * * A Prominent Feature Of The Guide For 1895 Is The New Championship Record; Added To Which Are The Complete Pitching Records Of 1894 And Special Chapters On The Fielding And Base Running Of 1894, Together With Interesting Records Of The Most Noteworthy Contests, Incidents And Occurrences Of The Eventful Season Of 1894, Occurring In The College Arenas As Well As In That Of The Professional Clubs. * * * * * Edited By Henry Chadwick. Published By American Sports Publishing Company, 241 Broadway, New York PUBLISHERS' NOTICE. The official handbook of America's national game--SPALDING'S BASE BALL GUIDE--which was first issued in 1876, has grown in size, importance and popular favor year by year, until it has become the great standard statistical and reference annual of the game throughout the base ball world; and it is now recognized as the established base ball manual of the entire professional fraternity, as well as the authorized _Guide Book_ of the great National League, which is the controlling governmental organization of the professional clubs of the United States. The _Guide_ of 1895 not only records the doings of the twelve clubs of the National League for the past season, with all the official statistics, but it gives space to the championship campaigns of 1894, not only of the Minor Professional Leagues of the country, but also of those of the College clubs and of the leading organizations of the amateur class--the majority class of the entire base ball world--and in this respect the _Guide_ has no equal, the book of 1895 being exceptionally full of the most interesting chapters of the leading events of the diamond fields of the past year, and for the first time contains many fine half-tone illustrations of all the leading clubs and players, making it the largest and most complete Guide ever issued. Copies of the _Guide_ will be mailed to any address upon receipt of twelve cents each. Trade orders supplied through the News Companies, or direct from the Publishers, American Sports Publishing Company, 241 Broadway, New York. The _Guide_, as hitherto, is issued under the entire editorial control of the veteran writer on sports, Mr. Henry Chadwick, popularly known as "The Father of Base Ball." The great size of the _Guide_ precludes the possibility of including the game record of the League campaign, as also other records of League legislation, etc., and these will be found in the "Official League Book," which contains only official League matter, as furnished by Secretary Young, including the League Constitution in full. PREFACE. SPALDING'S BASE BALL GUIDE for 1895 is the twentieth annual edition of the work issued under the auspices of the National League. It is also the fifteenth annual edition published under the editorship of Mr. Henry Chadwick, he having first entered upon his editorial duties on the GUIDE in 1881. Moreover, it is the fourth annual edition issued under the government of the existing major League, which League was the result of the reconstruction measures adopted during the winter of 1891-92; and this latest issue of SPALDING'S LEAGUE GUIDE in several respects, if not in all, surpasses all of its predecessors. New features are presented in its pages this year which are of special interest; the most noteworthy being the new record of every game played in the League championship series---won, lost or drawn---from April 19 to September 30, 1894, inclusive; the names of the opposing pitchers in each game; being a record never before published in any base ball manual, this alone making the GUIDE of 1895 a model book of reference for the whole base ball fraternity. Added to this are not only the full statistics of the League season of 1894, but also special articles on the latest scientific points of play developed in the professional arena; together with editorial comments on the leading events of the past season---now regarded as one of the interesting features of the book---and the scores of the model games of 1894, etc. A new chapter is "The Reference Guide," devoted to statistics valuable as references. In addition to which is the new code of rules which went into effect in April, 1895, and the editorial explanatory appendix, revised by President Young of the League; the whole making the GUIDE the model base ball manual of the period, the book being of special value, alike to the amateur class of the base ball fraternity, as to the class of professional exemplars of the game. AMERICAN SPORTS PUBLISHING COMPANY, 241 BROADWAY, NEW YORK CITY. * * * * * WASHINGTON, D. C, March, 1895. By authority vested in me, I do hereby certify that Messrs. A. G. Spalding & Bros, have been granted the _exclusive_ right to publish the "OFFICIAL LEAGUE BOOK" for 1895. N. E. YOUNG, Secretary of the National League and American Association of Professional Base Ball Clubs. [Illustration A.G. Mills; N.E. Young; Wahulbert--The Three Presidents] [Illustration: Baltimore Base Ball Club. Champions of 1894.] [Illustration] [Illustration: New York Base Ball Club, '94.] INTRODUCTION. The decade of the nineties in League history bids fair to surpass, in exciting events, that of every preceding series of years known in the annals of professional base ball. The decade in question began with the players' revolt in 1890 and was followed up by the secession of the old American Association, a fatal movement, which ended in the death of that organization in the winter of 1891-92; the reorganization of the National League resulting in the absorption of the best half of the old Association clubs and the beginning of the experiment of governing the whole professional fraternity by one _major League_ instead of by a dual government as before; this one powerful League being itself controlled by the laws of the "_National Agreement_." The cost of the amalgamation of the four American Association clubs with the National League, together with the financial losses incurred by the revolutionary period of 1890 and 1891--losses, by the way, which the players did not participate in, the clubs alone being the sufferers--left a heavy burden of debt to handicap the reconstructed National League in its efforts to recover the public confidence in professional ball playing lost by the malcontents of 1890 and 1891. But, nevertheless, the seasons of 1892 and 1893 saw the heavy indebtedness removed from the League's shoulders; and in 1894 the flourishing financial times of 1888 and 1889 were, in a measure, renewed, and for the first time since the Brotherhood revolt of 1890, the professional base ball business in 1894 became a paying investment. It will scarcely be believed that, in the face of the financial losses incurred during the revolutionary period of 1890 and 1891, that the closing part of the season of 1894 saw another attempt made to renew the troubles of 1891, by an effort made to resuscitate the defunct American Association under the banner of "_Death to the League's reserve rule_," together with that of a joint attempt made to revive the old Brotherhood plan of rival League clubs in the larger base ball cities of the Union. This revolutionary effort, made by one of the promoters of the revolt of 1890, aided by two dismissed managers and a disgruntled star player itching for notoriety at any cost, led the magnates of the National League to adopt repressive measures calculated to put an end to any future revolutionary efforts of the kind, by severely punishing any League club manager or player who should prove recreant in fealty to the laws of the National Agreement, or who should join in any attempt to organize any base ball association opposed to the reserve rule, which rule over ten years' experience had proved to be the fundamental law and corner-stone of the professional base ball business. Without such a repressive law it was evident that the League would be subject to periodical attempts on the part of unscrupulous managers or players to war upon the reserve rule for blackmail purposes. The necessity for some such law was made evident by the recent efforts made to organize a new American Association on the basis of not only warring upon the reserve rule but of trespassing on the territorial rights of existing League clubs. #The League Manifesto of 1894.# The finale to the annual meeting of 1894 was the issuing of a manifesto by the National League, which was called forth by an effort at treachery in the League ranks which required prompt action for its repression. This manifesto was issued without regard to efforts to organize a new American Association, any opposition of the kind to the National Agreement clubs, with the major League at its head, being looked upon as futile, owing to the character of the men alleged to be at the head of the movement; the main incentive of the League magnates being to publicly announce what the penalty of treachery to National Agreement interests would be in the future. The manifesto in question was the work of a special committee appointed by the National League at its annual meeting in November, 1894, which consisted of Messrs. Chas. H. Byrne, H. R, Von der Horst, James A. Hart and John T. Brush. The following is the statement drawn up by the committee, and referred to the National Board for adoption: TO THE NATIONAL BOARD OF PROFESSIONAL BASE BALL ASSOCIATIONS: From the year 1876, when base ball was established in this country on a substantial and responsible basis by the disbandment of the so-called National Association of Professional Base Ball Clubs and the organization of the National League of Professional Base Ball Clubs, down to the present time, the duty has been imposed upon some body or organization to uphold and enforce the objects for which base ball was established, to wit: First--To perpetuate base ball as the national game of the United States, and to surround it with such safeguards as to warrant for the future absolute public confidence in its integrity and methods. Second--To protect and promote the mutual interests of professional base ball clubs and professional base ball players. The National League formed in 1876 found a difficult task before it in undertaking to carry out the objects above referred to. Interest in base ball was at a low ebb. Gamblers were in possession. The game was without discipline, organization or legitimate control. The sport was conducted with dishonest methods and for dishonest purposes, and had neither the respect nor confidence of the press or public. Heroic methods were absolutely necessary. At a meeting of the National League, held in Cleveland December 5, 1877, the League directors unanimously ratified the action of the Louisville club in expelling from the professional ranks James A. Devlin, W. H. Craver, A. H. Nichols and G. W. Hall "for conduct in contravention to the object of the League." These men had been charged with and convicted of willfully selling a game of base ball. At first the action of the League in taking such an extreme course was strongly denounced. The League, however, foresaw that any condonation of fraud or crookedness meant death to the national game and remained firm in its position. Public opinion soon turned, and to-day it is universally conceded that the course then taken did more to establish the honesty and integrity of base ball than any action taken or legislation since enacted. From that day to this no charge of crookedness or dishonesty has been made against a professional ball player. Repeated attempts have been made to reinstate these men or those of them now living, but their expulsion was final and irrevocable. That the League was earnest in its efforts to purify the game was further demonstrated by its action taken at a special meeting held at the Russell House, Detroit, Mich., on June 24, 1882, when Richard Higham, a League umpire, was, upon charges preferred by the Detroit club, expelled for "crooked" work as an umpire. From that day to this no such charge has ever been made against an official umpire. The rapid increase in the compensation of ball players soon opened up another avenue of trouble for the League, which needed and received prompt attention. This was flagrant and open dissipation in the ranks at home and abroad. While this was confined comparatively to a few men, the innocent suffered largely from it, and the National League was brought into disrepute. Heroic measures were again adopted, and several players were indefinitely suspended, with excellent effect. It is safe to say that to-day there is less dissipation and drunkenness in the ranks of professional ball players in proportion to their number than in any other organized or unorganized body in this country identified with outdoor sports. The success achieved by the National League in its efforts to develop base ball as the national game became apparent in its rapid growth in popular favor, and the establishment of clubs and associations throughout the various States. It became evident soon that something must be done to foster and protect the rights and interests of these various bodies, and "that there was a recognized need of some central power in base ball to govern all associations, by an equitable code of general laws, to put the game on a prosperous and lasting basis." To accomplish this purpose a meeting was held in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, New York, February 17, 1883, at which delegates were present representing the National League, the American Association, and the Northwestern League. At that meeting the so-called Tripartite Agreement was drawn up and agreed to, which substantially was an offensive and defensive alliance, embodying a mutual respect of all contracts and other obligations, and all rights of the parties to the agreement to territorial rights, players under contract or held under reserve. The adoption of the tripartite agreement opened a new era in base ball, and it was so readily recognized as being a step in the line of progress that when the committee which drew up the agreement was called together in New York city in October, 1883, they decided to call the instrument they had framed the National Agreement of Professional Base Ball Clubs, the purpose being to open the door to all clubs, leagues and associations desiring to live under the conditions, rules and regulations of the agreement. Immediately several leagues and associations applied for the protection assured the, and readily pledged themselves to abide by the requirements designated in the agreement. The action of the committee in framing the new national agreement was subsequently ratified by the signatures of the Presidents of the parties thereto, viz.: The National League of Professional Base Ball Clubs, A. G. Mills, President, November 22, 1883. The American Association of Base Ball Clubs, H. D. McKnight, President, December 13, 1883. The Northwestern League of Professional Base Ball Clubs, Elias Mather, President, January 10, 1884. The Eastern League of Professional Base Ball Clubs, William C. Sedden, President, February 19, 1884. The fundamental principle of the national agreement as originally drawn, and which is now in operation, is a respect for territorial rights. This, in fact, is the corner stone of the structure. It contemplates and provides for the organization of cities into leagues or associations, with one club, and one only, in each city, and a contest between the respective cities for championship honors. The interest which base ball arouses in any city is based absolutely on local pride. The essence of value to a championship is entirely to the city to which the victorious club belongs. Experience has demonstrated that whenever and wherever territorial rights have been invaded and rival clubs established, the element of local pride is absent and interest in both destroyed. It is this which makes a respect for territorial rights a principle which we must uphold. It is true, nevertheless, and we so declare that we will gladly welcome and shall encourage the formation of leagues and associations who desire to operate under the national agreement, and consent to abide by the fundamental principles of that document. Reference has been made above to the difficulties and the obstacles which at times have presented themselves and which have been by severe but just methods removed. To-day the future of base ball is confronted by a new condition, a condition which in every particular is as harmful and in many respects far more dangerous than open dishonesty or flagrant dissipation. That is, treachery within the lines. To-day, and for months past we have had men identified with professional base ball who for years have been the beneficiaries of the game, have received liberal compensation for the work they have done, earned their livelihood entirely and absolutely from the opportunities afforded them by clubs and organizations operating under the national agreement, and we find and now know that these men, during this time, have persistently been identifying themselves with schemes and combinations the objects and sole purposes of which are to weaken and perhaps destroy the splendid fabric of our national game, which it has taken years of effort, anxiety and large outlay of capital to construct. To-day we have the confidence of the public and the press of the country in the methods and the integrity of base ball in larger measure than at any prior period in the history of our national game. It devolves upon us to continue to deserve and retain this confidence. We must endeavor to do it. The interests of clubs and professional ball players are identical. One cannot succeed without the other. Success means mutual benefit. The moment any suspicion attaches to base ball, public confidence lost or even chilled, the occupation of the ball player is gone. We must all stand or fall together. There is no middle ground. We stand by the fundamental law, our national agreement, which guarantees protection to players as well as to clubs, or we destroy it. One road leads to the perpetuation of the national game, the other to its decline. There should be no place, no standing room in base ball for any anarchistic element which never aids in building up but is ever ready to destroy. The time has come when some action should be taken to place this element without the pale of our ranks. The National Board, operating under the national agreement, was created to protect and guard the interests of all players, clubs and associations identified with the agreement. Any attempt to encroach upon that, to nullify or affect any of its provisions, is of direct and material concern to all alike. The obligations of contracts, the right of reserve, and the territorial rights of clubs, associations and leagues must be upheld, and shall be, at any cost. It is a matter of public rumor and is also a fact which has come to our knowledge that men identified with clubs, members of the national agreement, have been co-operating in the formation of clubs or organizations whose purpose is to conflict with the national agreement. In view of this knowledge, the National League and American Association of Professional Clubs in convention assembled respectfully suggests to and requests the National Board to declare A. C. Buckenberger, William Barnie and Fred Pfeffer ineligible to be employed either as manager or player or in any capacity whatever, by any club or organization operating under the national agreement, and they be forthwith suspended. Such suspension to remain in force until such time as they or either of them can satisfy the National Board that they have in no way been engaged directly or indirectly in the organization of any club, league or association formed or to be formed in conflict with the principles of the national agreement. And in the event of their failure to relieve themselves from this suspension within such time as your Board may direct, they shall be expelled and forever debarred from any connection with clubs or organizations identified with the National Agreement of Professional Base Ball Clubs. We furthermore request that your Board take like action in the case of any player, manager, umpire or club official who in the future identifies himself with a similar movement. C. H. BYRNE, J. T. BRUSH, JAMES A. HART, H. R. VON DER HORST, N. E. YOUNG. The above address was submitted to the National League at its annual meeting, fully discussed and unanimously adopted. Appended is the decision of the National Board: To all National Agreement Clubs, Leagues, and Associations: At a meeting of the National Board of Professional Base Ball Clubs, held in New York city November 16, 1894, a communication was received from the National League and American Association of Professional Base Ball Clubs, in convention assembled, requesting this Board to take action in the case of certain individuals heretofore identified with clubs operating under the national agreement who have been charged with treachery to their employers and the organizations with which they have been identified. The request, so presented, was supplemented by an appeal from the executive officers of the Eastern League of Base Ball Clubs and the Western League of Base Ball Clubs to take such action as was proper to protect said leagues in the rights assured them under the national agreement. After mature consideration, and governed absolutely by a desire to comply with the letter and spirit of the requests made to this Board, and having reasonable and substantial evidence upon which to base our action. This Board has decided to announce, and it does declare that A. C, Buckenberger, William Barnie and Fred Pfeffer are ineligible to be employed either as manager, player or in any other capacity by any club or organization identified with the national agreement, and said persons are hereby declared suspended. This Board further declares that such suspension shall remain in force up to and including December 31, 1894, and in the event of the failure of the above named persons, or either of them, on or before the above named date, to show to this Board that he or they have been in no manner, directly or indirectly, engaged in any attempt to promote the organization of clubs, leagues or associations antagonistic to the national agreement, they shall be expelled and forever debarred from any connection with clubs or organized bodies operating under the national agreement. N.E. YOUNG, A.H. SODEN, C.H. BYRNE, The foregoing action was partially caused by the following communication: NEW YORK, November 15, 1894. TO THE NATIONAL LEAGUE AND AMERICAN ASSOCIATION OF PROFESSIONAL BASE BALL CLUBS. _Gentlemen_: We the representatives of the undersigned leagues, operating under the National Agreement of Professional Base Ball Clubs, respectfully submit the following: Your body is the recognized major base ball organization of the country, and have sole right to elect the National Board and control all bodies identified with the agreement. It has been made known to us, and we have good and substantial reasons for believing that such knowledge is correct, that a new organization of base ball clubs is contemplated, which, of necessity, must operate without the pale of the national agreement. It appears also that it is the purpose of the new association, if it materializes, to attempt to take from our respective organizations and clubs players now held by us under the right of reservation accorded us by the national agreement. We therefore request that you, as a body, take some action to protect us, so far as possible, against all outside organizations. We trust you will give this immediate attention, and we await your action. Respectfully, B.B. JOHNSON, Sec. Western League, P.B.B.C. P.T. POWERS, Pres. Eastern League. * * * * * #The Base Ball Season of 1894.# To professional base ball, as governed by the existing National League, is mainly due the great popularity our national game has achieved within the past twenty years. Of course the amateur class of the fraternity greatly outnumber the professionals; but the game could never have reached its present point of excellence in field work but for the time and attention the professional clubs were enabled to devote to its thorough development from the year of Harry Wright's famous "Red Stocking" nine of Cincinnati, in 1869, to the existing period of model professional ball playing. In the first place, the amateur clubs could never have given the game the time and labor required for its evolution which the professional clubs were enabled to do; and, moreover, not one club in a thousand could have spared the money required to fit up and keep in serviceable condition such finely equipped ball grounds as those now owned by the leading professional clubs of the National League. To these facts, too, are to be added the statement that to the National League's government of the professional class of the fraternity is due the lasting credit of sustaining the integrity of play in the game up to the highest standard; so much so, indeed, that it has reached the point of surpassing, in this most important respect, every other sport in vogue in which professional exemplars are employed. Take it for all in all, no season since the inauguration of the National League in 1876, has approached that of 1894 in the number of clubs which took part in the season's games, both in the amateur as well as the professional arena; and certainly no previous season ever saw the professional clubs of the country so well patronized as they were in 1894. Moreover, it was the most brilliant and successful season in every respect known in the annals of the college clubs of the country. In fact, there was but one drawback to the creditable success of the entire championship campaigns of 1894, and that was the unwonted degree of "hoodlumism" which disgraced the season in the professional arena, and this, we regret to say, was painfully conspicuous among the players of the National League clubs, this organization having been noted, prior to its absorption of the old American Association element in its ranks in 1892, for the reputable character of its annual struggles for championship honors. One result of the rowdy ball playing indulged in by a minority of each club team in the League was a decided falling off in the attendance of the best class of patrons of the professional clubs. Much of the "_Hoodlumism_"--a technical term applicable to the use of _blackguard language; low cunning tricks_, unworthy of manly players; _brutal assaults_ on umpire and players; that nuisance of our ball fields, "kicking," and the dishonorable methods comprised in the term "_dirty ball playing_"---indulged in in 1894 was largely due to the advocacy of the method of the so-called "_aggressive policy_," which countenanced rowdy ball playing as part and parcel of the work in winning games. The most energetic, lively and exciting method of playing a game of ball can mark a professional club contest without its being disgraced by a single act of rowdyism--such as that of spiking or willfully colliding with a base runner; bellowing like a wild bull at the pitcher, as in the so-called coaching of 1893 and 1894; or that of "kicking" against the decisions of the umpire to hide faulty captaincy or blundering fielding. Nothing of this "hoodlumism" marked the play of the four-time winners of the League pennant from 1872 to 1875, inclusive, viz., the old, gentlemanly Boston Red Stockings of the early seventies, under the leadership of that most competent of all managers, Harry Wright. Yet, despite of this old time fact, if club managers do not adopt the rough's method of playing the game, as illustrated in the League arena in 1894, advocated by the class of newspaper managers of local clubs, the scribes in question go for the local team officials for not having a team with "plenty of ginger" in their work and for their not being governed by "a hustling manager." Is it any wonder, under such circumstances, that the League season of 1894 was characterized by "hoodlumism?" But little advance was made in the way of effective team management in the League in 1894. About a third of the twelve teams of the League only were controlled by competent team managers, while at least another third were wretchedly managed, and the other third were not above the average in management. Two of the old drawbacks to the successful running of teams by professional clubs conspicuous in 1892 and 1893 marked the team management of 1894, viz., the employment of drinking players and the condoning of their costly offenses, and the interference of club presidents and directors in the work of the regular manager of the club team. There is a class of club officials in the League who, for the life of them, cannot keep from interfering with the club's legitimate manager in his running of the team. Some of them have the cool effrontery of stating that "the manager of our team is never interfered with in any way." One costly result of this club official interference is, that needed discipline of the players is out of the question, and in its absence cliqueism in the ranks of the team sets in--one set of players siding with the manager, and another with the real "boss of the team," with the costly penalty of discord in the ranks. It is all nonsense for a club to place a manager in the position with a merely nominal control of the players and then to hold him responsible for the non-success of the team in winning games. Under such a condition of things, the club manager might sign a team of costly star players and yet find himself surpassed in the pennant race by a rival manager, who, with _entire control of his team_, and that team composed of so-called "second-class players" or ambitious "colts," working in thorough harmony together, and "playing for the side" all the time and not for a record, as so many of the star players do, would deservedly carry off the season's honors. Since the reconstructed National League began its new life, blundering management of teams has characterized the running of a majority of its twelve clubs, and it will continue to do so while the system of engaging players for their records merely and not for their ability in doing team work and in playing harmoniously together, is continued. Especially, too, is the plan of engaging players whose daily habits of life are at war with their ability to do first-class work in the field. Year after year are drinking offenses condoned by the club officials who run the club, and old time drunkards re-engaged for the coming season, while steady, sober players are left out in the cold. Besides this blunder, there is that of engaging half worn out stars in the place of rising young players ambitious of distinguishing themselves in the League arena. This mistake in team management was as conspicuous in 1894 as it was in 1893. A feature of the professional base ball season of 1894 was the almost phenomenal success of the clubs--alike of the minor leagues as of the great major league itself--in battling against the serious drawback of the "hard times" of the year, which prevailed throughout the entire season. Experience shows that in the sports in vogue which have innate attractions for public patronage in times of great financial difficulties in the commercial centres of the union, the national game stands conspicuous; and the past season in this respect presented a most notable record, no such crowds of spectators ever having been seen at the leading contests of the season as in 1894. Another feature of the past season was the interest taken in the college club contests of the spring and early summer campaign, the leading club teams giving a superior exhibition of team work play in the field to that of 1893. In fact, the national game flourished as a whole throughout the entire country in 1894 as it never had done before in the history of the game. #The League Championship Campaign of 1894.# The struggle for the League's championship pennant in 1894 was the most noteworthy one on record in one particular respect, and that was in the exciting struggle by the three leaders of the first division for the championship, which struggle began on June 20th with the Baltimores first and Boston second, and was continued on that line until New York became one of the trio on July 5th, after which date these three clubs occupied the position of first three in the race to the finish, the other nine clubs not being "in it" after July 5th. In all other respects the race for the pennant of 1894 was far from being up to the standard that should characterize the League's championship season, no less than three of the minor league pennant races being more evenly contested than was that of the great major league. From the following record of the difference in percentage points each season between the leader and tail ender it will be seen that in no less than seven of the seasons from 1881 to 1894, inclusive, were the pennant races of past seasons superior in this respect to that of 1894, that of 1891 being the smallest in difference of points on record. Here is the record in question: ------------------------------------------------------------- POINTS OF POINTS OF POINTS OF YEARS. DIFFERENCE. | YEARS. DIFFERENCE. | YEARS. DIFFERENCE. ------------------------------------------------------------- 1881 277 | 1886 493 | 1890 499 1882 441 | 1887 333 | 1891 223 1883 570 | 1888 303 | 1892 367 1884 400 | 1889 328 | 1893 359 1885 442 | | 1894 418 ------------------------------------------------------------- Judging by the percentage figures of the twelve clubs, recorded at the end of each month's campaign of the season, the race was a one-sided one almost from the start, the Baltimore and Boston clubs being in the leading positions from the very outset of the race, the remaining ten clubs fighting for third place from April 19th to June 20th, when New York took the lead of the other nine, joining Baltimore and Boston in the struggle for the leading position. A League pennant race--or that of a minor league, for that matter--to be up to the regulation standard, should at least show a difference in percentage figures varying, on the average, not far from 250 points; a model race, in these figures, not exceeding 200 points. But this standard has not been reached in League records for fifteen years, the best being over 223 points. Then, too, comes the record of the occupancy of the several positions of the two divisions, this, to a certain extent, showing the character of the pennant race of the season. In this regard, an evenly contested race should show a weekly change of position in each division, for one thing, and also a change from first division to second division at least once a month. A model race should see the first three positions changed weekly, the first six places at least fortnightly, and the tail end positions once a month at farthest. But what does the figures of the pennant race of the League for 1894 show? Let us glance at the; records of the occupancy of the first and second divisions in last year's pennant race. From the 22d of April to the close of the season, the Baltimore and Boston clubs were never out of the ranks of the first division clubs; nor were the Chicago, Washington and Louisville clubs ever out of those of the second division. This alone was a one-sided condition of affairs in the race. From May 1st to July 17th the Philadelphia and Pittsburgh clubs occupied positions in the first division, and the Cleveland club was in the first division from April 22d to June 27th and from July 17th to the finish, while New York was in the same division from June 29th to the close and Brooklyn from August 27th to the end of the season. On the other hand, Chicago, St. Louis and Cincinnati, together with Washington and Louisville, were practically out of the race from May to September. The April campaign finished with St. Louis, Cleveland and Boston tied for first place in the race, with Philadelphia, Baltimore and Cincinnati following. Boston and Baltimore's occupancy of fourth and fifth places being the lowest each occupied during the entire season's campaign, while Cincinnati's position, tied for that of first in the race on April 20th, was the highest that club reached from April 19th to September 30th; St. Louis, as tied for first place, together with Louisville on April 20th, was the highest these three clubs reached. Baltimore was the first to reach the leading place in the race, that club being first, with the percentage figures of 1.000, on April 24th; St. Louis occupying the lead on April 28th; Cleveland on May 2d, that club occupying the leading place from that date to May 28th, when Pittsburgh jumped into first place for a short time. Boston occupied the lead for the first time on April 26th. The nearest New York got to the leading position was on April 19th, when the club was tied for first place with Boston, St. Louis and Washington. The highest position the "Phillies" reached in the pennant campaign was second place, which they occupied on May 23d. Brooklyn's highest position was reached on June 22d, when that club occupied third place. Chicago's highest was eighth place, and the only clubs which stood in the last ditch were Chicago, up to May 10th; Washington, from May to August 15th, and afterwards Louisville up to the finish of the season. For the first time in the annals of the League, but one western club occupied a position in the first division as early in the season as July 2d, when the Pittsburgh club stood fourth in the race, following Baltimore, Boston and Brooklyn, being followed by Philadelphia and New York, Cleveland at that date being in the second division. On July 17th Cleveland replaced Brooklyn in the first division, and remained there to the finish of the race. Pittsburgh was driven into the ranks of the second division on August 21st, and failed to get back again. Baltimore had the pennant virtually in hand in August, and New York drove Boston out of the second place on September 6th, the percentage figures of the three leaders on that day showing Baltimore to be in the van with .676, New York .652, and Boston .646; with the "Phillies" fourth, the Brooklyns fifth and the Clevelands sixth, these relative positions not afterwards being changed. Neither were those of the clubs in the second division at that date, except in the case of the Cincinnati and St. Louis clubs, the team under the Boss Manager, Chris Von der Ahe beating the Brush-Comiskey combination team of Cincinnati out the very last day of the race, greatly to the disgust of the Cincinnati cranks. A great disappointment to the Louisville cranks, whose pet club started the season with a picked team of star players, containing three ex-captains of League teams, in Pfeffer, D. Richardson and Tom Brown--was the sad falling off of that club from the position of being tied for first place with Baltimore and Boston in April, to a permanent place in the last ditch in August, a result which relieved Manager Schmelz considerably, as up to August 22nd Washington had occupied the tail end position in the race from July 9th to August 23d. Similar bad management of a club team had retired Pittsburgh from second position, on June 8th, to seventh place, on July 2d, and it was only through a wise change of managers that the club was able to retain the lead in the second division to the end of the campaign. An incident of the campaign of 1894 was the disastrous start in the race made by the Chicago club, which occupied the tail end position in the race at the close of the April campaign and remained in the last ditch up to May 11th, after which the club gradually passed the Washington, Louisville, Cincinnati and St, Louis teams, finally occupying eighth position the last of September. The pennant race of 1894, as a whole, was a decided failure as far as an evenly contested race was concerned, the only exception in the way of an exciting struggle for the lead being that between the three leaders from July 5th to September 30th, this being the one redeeming feature of the League championship campaign of 1894. #The Contests for the Pennant in 1894.# Not since 1890 has a new candidate for League championship been successful in winning the pennant, but in 1894 another club was added to the list of League pennant winners, the interest in the annual races, of course, being thereby proportionately increased. In 1876, when the League was organized, Chicago was the first city to win League championship honors, and in 1877 Boston entered the arena of pennant winners. Next came Providence in 1879, after which a whole decade of League seasons passed without a new pennant winner being added to the above two, Detroit winning in 1887 for the first time. Next came New York in 1888, followed by Brooklyn in 1890, and now Baltimore has entered the contest arena of champion clubs, that city winning the honors in 1894. During the intervals of this period of nineteen years of League championship campaigns the Boston and Chicago clubs won the majority of pennant races; Boston carrying off the flag during the seasons of 1877, 1878, 1883, 1891, 1892 and 1893, and Chicago winning in 1876, 1880, 1881, 1882, 1885 and 1886, this latter club being the only one to win the pennant in three successive years, from 1876 to 1890 inclusive, the Bostons not being three time winners until the seasons of 1891, 1892 and 1893. That club, however, is the only one to win the championship in four successive seasons--outside of the League--since the professional championship was inaugurated in 1871, the Bostons afterwards winning in 1872, 1873, 1874 and 1875. There are now in the League eight clubs out of the twelve which have yet to win a single pennant race, viz., the Philadelphia and Washington clubs of the Eastern divisions, and all six of the Western clubs. There are also but four clubs now in the League which have never reached higher than second position since the League was organized, viz., Louisville, 1877--that club's earned title to first place having been lost by the crookedness of four of its team of that year--Cincinnati in 1878, Philadelphia in 1887 and Pittsburgh in 1893, while there are two clubs now in the League which have never reached higher than third place, viz., St. Louis in 1876, and Cleveland in 1880 and 1893. The only aspirant for a position in League pennant races higher than fourth place at the close of the season now in the League is the Washington club; so there is plenty of room to win honors in 1895 if only in getting in among the six leaders by October next. #The Three Leading Clubs in the Pennant Race of 1894.# It is about time that the record of the championship campaigns of each year should be divided up, in order that the leading minority of the competing teams may be awarded the additional credit due them for obtaining positions of special distinction during each season; beginning, of course, with the winner of the pennant, and followed by the occupants of _second_ and _third_ positions with the three other clubs of the first division ranking in due order. By thus extending the list of honorary positions in the race an additional incentive for making extra efforts toward the close of the race is given to each one of the twelve clubs of the League at large. Thus, in the early part of the championship campaign, if two or three clubs find themselves hopelessly contending for the pennant itself, there will still be left over those of the other two honorary places in the race, viz., _second_ and _third_ positions, to compete for; and failing to achieve success to that extent, there will be one or other of the last three places in the _first division_ to strive for. This opens the door to win other creditable places in the season's race to be fought for by the six clubs of the second division, instead of their losing heart in the contest, simply because, by the end of the May or June campaign, they are left without a chance of winning the pennant. It would seem to be, from this view of the case, an object of special interest for the League to award a series of honorary prizes to the players of each team attaining one or other of the three leading positions in the race of each year, in the proportion, we will say, of $3,000 for the first place, $2,000 for second and $1,000 for third. In the future the GUIDE will give special prominence, in its statistical records, to the clubs attaining second and third positions; in the race, leaving a less detailed record to the other nine clubs entering the campaign for championship honors, this change beginning with the GUIDE of 1895. We now present first in order the complete record of the Baltimore champions of 1894: #The Campaigns of the Three Leaders and of the First Division Clubs for 1894.# An interesting statistical chapter of the GUIDE of 1895 includes the comparative tables of the three leaders in the pennant race of 1894, viz., those of the Baltimore, New York and Boston clubs, the struggle between these three clubs being a decidedly attractive feature of the past season's championship campaign. The season opened on April 19th, and the close of the first day's play saw the Boston and New York clubs tied for first place, with Baltimore tied with four other clubs for second place, only eight of the twelve clubs playing on that day. By the end of the first month's campaign, on April 30th, Boston had dropped to third position; Baltimore to fifth place and New York down to ninth in the race. On May 31st, the close of the second month's campaign, Baltimore led Boston, being then in third position, and Boston in fourth, New York having pulled up to sixth place. On June 2d Baltimore jumped to first place, with Boston fifth and New York seventh. By June 9th the Bostons had got up to second place, but New York was still in the second division, Baltimore, of course, still leading in the race on that date. At the end of the third month of the season's campaign, on June 30th, Baltimore held the lead, with the percentage of victories of .712, with Boston second, having .667 in percentage figures, while New York had got back into the first division again with the figures of .564. On July 5th the "Giants" had worked up to third place, preceded by Baltimore and Boston, each with the percentage figures respectively of .679, .672 and .593, it being a close fight at this time between Baltimore and Boston, while New York was close behind. From July 5th to the finish these three clubs occupied the three leading positions in the race, the others being virtually "not in it," as far as winning the pennant was concerned. This fact alone made the pennant race of 1894 a very one-sided one, as nearly three months of the season's games remained to be played. At the end of the July campaign the record showed Boston in the van, with the percentage figures of .659, to Baltimore's .618 and New York's .613, Boston having taken the lead from Baltimore on July 24th, It was just about this time that Boston stock on the racing market was above par, it being fully expected at this time that the best the Baltimores would be likely to accomplish would be to retain second place, while New Yorkers were sanguine at this period of the contest that the "Giants" would soon lead Baltimore. The Boston champions retained first position up to July 30th, while New York tried in vain to push Baltimore out of second place. By, the close of the August campaign the Baltimores, by a brilliant rally, had replaced Boston in the lead, the record on August 31st showing Baltimore in the van with the percentage figures of .657, followed by Boston with .645, and New York close to the champions with .639. Now came a grand fight for second place on the part of New York, the Bostons, from this time to the finish failing to make the accustomed final rally which their friends had anticipated. On September 6th New York ousted Boston out of second place, at which date Baltimore led with the percentage figures of .676, followed by New York with .652, Boston's figures being .646; the rest of the clubs in the first division at that time being in the five hundreds only in percentage figures. Boston got down to .632 on September 19th, New York being then credited with .667 and Baltimore "way up" with .692. It was now Baltimore's race and New York was regarded as a fixture for second position, there being a difference in percentage points between Baltimore and Boston of no less, than 62 points on September 22d; New York then being behind Baltimore 39 points and ahead of Boston 24 points; in fact, a week before the finish, on September 30th, the positions of the three leaders were fixtures, the only interest left remaining being the struggle between Philadelphia, Brooklyn and Cleveland for fourth place. As before remarked, the chief interest in the September campaign was the expectation on the part of the majority of the patrons of the game that the Bostons would rally towards the finish and that the Baltimores would fall off during the last week or two; instead, however, it was the Boston champions who failed to play up to their old mark, while it was the Baltimores who did the rallying, and in fine style, too, under the leadership of the champion manager of the campaign of 1894. #The New Champions of 1894.# The Baltimore Club's Career. We have the pleasure of greeting a new champion club in the League arena in the GUIDE of 1895, viz., the Baltimore club, and it is therefore a point of interest to give a brief resume of its career from the time it entered the defunct American Association in 1882 to the date of its being taken into the reconstructed National League in 1892. The Baltimore club's career in the late American Association was one thing; that of its progress since the club was taken into the National League is altogether quite a different matter. From 1882, the year of the organizing of the old American Association, up to the period of its secession from the National Agreement ranks in 1891, the Baltimore club occupied the position of being the occupant of the "last ditch" in the Association's pennant races for no less than four years, viz., in 1882, 1883, 1885 and 1886. In 1884, when twelve clubs were in the Association race of that year, the highest the Baltimore club reached was sixth position. In 1888, 1889 and 1890, the club got no higher than fifth place in the three races of those years; while the nearest it could get to first place during the decade of the eighties was in 1887, when it ended in third place, being led by St. Louis and Cincinnati. During all that period William Barnie was the club's manager. In 1892 he was superseded by Manager Hanlon; and from that date to the close of the past season, the club began to get out of its previous "slough of despond," induced by its repeated failures to win a pennant race. Here is the club's record while in the American Association, from 1882 to 1890, inclusive, showing the positions occupied in the several pennant races of that period: ------------------------------------------------------ NUMBER OF CLUBS YEAR. POSITION. IN THE RACE. ------------------------------------------------------ 1882 Sixth (last ditch) Six. 1883 Eighth " Eight. 1884 Sixth. Twelve. 1885 Eighth (last ditch) Eight. 1886 Eighth " Eight. 1887 Third. Eight. 1888 Fifth. Eight. 1889 Fifth. Eight. 1890 Fifth. Eight. ------------------------------------------------------ In 1891 the Cincinnati club was ahead of the Baltimores when the former was transferred to Milwaukee, after which the "Reds" broke badly, and the Baltimores were thus enabled to get into third place. The wretched management of the Association during the year was costly in demoralization to every club in the race. Up to the date of the Cincinnati transfer, that club stood with a percentage of .619, to Baltimore's .526. During the season of 1892 the Baltimore club occupied an experimental position in the race of that year, Manager Hanlon not joining the club in 1892 until too late to get a good team together. They began the campaign of 1893 low down in the race record, but they finally pulled up among the six leaders, beating out Brooklyn in the race by 10 games to 2, as well as St. Louis, Louisville and Cleveland; but they were so badly beaten by Boston-2 games to 10-and by Pittsburgh--1 game to 11-that they finished in eighth place only. That season's experience enabled Manager Hanlon to prepare for 1894 with a better chance of success than he had had since he took the club in hand, and the effect of the improved management was made apparent before the May campaign of 1894 had ended, his team closing that month one among the three leaders. From that position the club was not afterwards removed, the team first heading the Bostons and finally taking the lead in the race, the New Yorks coming in second, ahead of the previous three-time champion club of Boston. THE BALTIMORE CLUB'S RECORD. Under the heading of "The Three Leaders in the Race," will be found the record of the monthly campaigns of the Baltimores and the progress made by Hanlon's team from the start to the finish in the race of 1894. We now give the detailed record of the season's campaign of the Baltimores in full. Here is the record of the club's victories, defeats, games played and drawn, and the percentage of victories made against each individual club, as well as the grand percentage against all of the eleven opposed to the Baltimores: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L l a C i S i o N a B s l t t n u e d r h e t C . c i BALTIMORE w B e o i v s h i s o l o n e b i L n v vs. Y s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l k n a n n d h o s i e Grand Totals Total Total ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 6 4 6 8 11 35 9 6 9 10 10 10 54 89 Defeats 6 8 4 4 1 23 8 4 2 2 2 2 16 39 Games played 12 12 10 12 12 58 12 10 12 12 12 12 70 128 Drawn games 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Per cent. of Victories .500.333.400.667.917 .603 .750.600.750.833.833.833 .771 .695 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- It will be seen that the "Orioles," under Hanlon, did the pennant winning business up in style in 1894. Of the six Eastern clubs in the race, they tied the New York "Giants," had the best of the unfinished series with the "Phillies," took the Brooklyns into camp without difficulty, had almost a walkover with the Washingtons, and found the Boston champions the only club that got the best of them in the five series played against their Eastern adversaries, their percentage of victories against the Bostons being only .333, while their figures against the Washingtons were as high as .917. Against their six Western opponents, the Baltimores almost wiped out the St. Louis, Cincinnati and Louisville teams, each of these clubs winning but two games out of the twelve played with the "Orioles," while the best each of the Cleveland and Chicago teams could do was to win three of the twelve, the Pittsburgh "Pirates" being the only Western team to trouble them, their series with that club being unfinished, with a credit of but four victories to Pittsburgh's six. Only one game was drawn, and that with the "Phillies." The additional details of the record follows: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L l a C i S i o N a B s l t t n u e d r h e t C . c i BALTIMORE w B e o i v s h i s o l o n e b i L n v vs. Y s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l k n a n n d h o s i e Grand Totals Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 1 1 2 0 1 1 1 1 1 5 7 Series lost 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Series tied 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Series unfinished 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 2 "Chicago" victories 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 "Chicago" defeats 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 Won by 1 run 1 0 0 0 1 2 1 0 1 3 2 2 9 11 Lost by 1 run 1 1 1 0 0 3 0 1 1 1 1 0 4 7 Single figure victories 2 1 2 4 3 12 6 1 2 7 5 7 28 40 Single figure defeats 5 3 2 1 0 11 1 3 1 0 1 1 7 18 Double figure victories 4 3 4 4 8 23 3 5 8 3 5 2 26 49 Double figure defeats 1 5 2 3 1 12 2 1 2 2 1 1 9 21 Home victories 5 1 4 5 5 20 6 4 7 8 6 6 37 57 Home defeats 1 4 2 2 1 10 1 1 0 1 0 0 3 13 Victories abroad 1 2 3 3 6 15 3 2 2 2 4 4 17 32 Defeats abroad 5 4 2 2 0 13 2 3 3 1 2 2 13 26 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- It will be seen that the Baltimores "shut out" but one Eastern team and not a single Western opponent, while they themselves were "Chicagoed" once by each, viz., by New York and Louisville, the tail ender's "shut out" being annoying. Only two of their contests with the Eastern teams were won by a single run, but they won three games against the Eastern teams by one run. They lost seven games by a single run, three of them in the East and four against Western adversaries. No less than forty of their games were won by single figure scores, viz., 12 against Eastern teams and 28 against Western opponents. They lost a total of but 18 single figure games. Their double figure victories were no less than 49, against but 21 double figure defeats. They won 57 home victories against 32 abroad, the defeats being 18 at home to 26 abroad. Take it all in all, the Baltimores did splendid work in the box, the field and at the bat, the only drawback to their creditable season's campaign being too much kicking and rowdy ball playing, in the latter of which McGraw was the principal offender. #The Records of the New York and Boston Clubs of 1894.# The New York club's team entered the campaign of 1894 decidedly handicapped. The club had excellent material at command wherewith to make up a strong team; but the manager had great difficulty at first in getting it into team work condition, he being hampered by the interference of the class of scribe managers of League cities who are very confident of their ability to run a club team better, on paper, than the actual manager can on the field. Then, too, a minority of these journalists seem to delight in getting up sensations which lead to discord in the ranks of a team; as they have their pet players on the teams, as well as those they have a special grudge against; moreover, the directors of the club were at times, in the early part of the season, not in accord with the manager in his methods of selecting players, and in appointing them to special positions. Finally the experience of April and May taught the club officials that if much more of the interference racket was continued, the result would be a permanent place in the second division, inasmuch as on May 24th, the club stood no higher than eighth place, with but little likelihood at that time of getting any higher. By June, however, an improved condition of affairs in running the team was manifested; the scribe managers were ignored, the manager was given more control of the team, and by the close of the June campaign the New York club was in the first division, and by the end of July were among the three leaders, where they remained until the end of the race. The club was fortunate in being able to make its team unusually strong in its battery players. The very profitable and liberal investment made by Director Wheeler, in the purchase of the release of Meekin and Farrell, was a potent factor in enabling the club to reach the high position it did, both of these model players, in their respective positions, proving to be a great accession to the strength of the club's team. Another valuable acquisition to their team was that noted college player, young Murphy, he proving to be the most valuable utility man in the club, and an equal of Ward in team-work batting. By the closing month of the campaign the team had been trained up to the point of working together in more harmony, besides doing better team-work in their batting than any previous players of the club had ever before exhibited. Moreover, the team, during 1894, manifested greater rallying power at the finish in a game than ever before, they fully equaling the Bostons in this respect; in fact, this past season they excelled the champions in securing the lead in the latter part of a contest, a very important factor in winning pennants. THE NEW YORK CLUB'S RECORD. The record of the club for 1894 giving the victories and defeats scored, with the total of games played, and the percentage of victories against each club is as follows: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a a B s l t t n u l d r h e t C . c i NEW YORK t B e o i v s h i s i o l o n e b i L n v vs. m s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l e n a n n d h o s i e Totals Totals --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 6 6 5 7 10 34 9 8 11 7 7 12 54 Defeats 6 6 7 5 10 26 3 4 1 5 5 0 18 Games Played 12 12 12 12 12 60 12 12 12 12 12 12 72 Per cent. of Victories .500 .500 .417 .583 .833 .567 .750 .667 .917 .583 .583 1.00 .750 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The above record shows that the "Giants" defeated Brooklyn and Washington in the Eastern series of games, and tied with Boston and Baltimore, they losing to the "Phillies" only. Against the Western clubs they won every series, excelling both Baltimore and Boston in this latter respect, as the Baltimores failed to get the best of the Pittsburghs, and the Bostons were tied with the St. Louis. Then, too, the "Giants" excelled the other two leading clubs in shutting out Louisville in no less than thirteen successive games, one game being thrown out. In addition they took Anson's "Colts" into camp in eleven out of twelve games, and defeated the Washingtons in ten games out of the twelve of the series. The record of the series of games won, lost, tied and unfinished, together with that of the "Chicago" victories and defeats, and the single and double figure games of the New York and Boston clubs is as follows: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a a B s l t t n u l d r h e t C . c i NEW YORK t B e o i v s h i s i o l o n e b i L n v vs. m s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l e n a n n d h o s i e Grand Totals Totals Totals --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 1 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 6 8 Series lost 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Series tied 1 1 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 Series unfinished 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Chicago" victories 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 1 1 0 0 4 5 "Chicago" defeats 0 2 0 1 0 3 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 4 Single figure victories 5 4 2 3 7 21 7 7 8 5 4 7 38 59 Single figure defeats 2 4 4 2 1 13 1 1 0 5 5 0 12 25 Double figure victories 1 2 3 4 3 13 2 1 3 2 3 5 16 29 Double figure defeats 4 2 3 3 1 13 2 3 1 0 0 0 6 19 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The foregoing table shows that the New York club won eight out of the eleven series, they losing but one--that with Philadelphia -and tieing two, one with Baltimore and one with Boston. In "Chicago" games they won five and lost four, and in single figure games they won 59 and lost but 25, while in double figure games they won 29 only and lost but 19. THE BOSTON CLUB'S RECORD. The Boston club, in 1894, after being League pennant winners three years in succession, was obliged to fall back to third place in the past year's pennant race, after a hard fight for first place in the race from April to September, that club standing in first place on April 26th and also on the 29th of August, they varying their position but little during that period. Hitherto, in the races of 1891, '92 and '93, the Bostons were noted for their rallying powers, not only in the latter part of a game, but especially in the closing month of each season. It will be remembered, that in 1892, though they had to succumb to Cleveland in the last part of the divided campaign of that year, they rallied handsomely and easily won the championship in the world's series of that year. This year, however, they went back on their record badly, in failing to attend to the rallying business in the last month of the campaign, the result being that they not only lost the pennant, but had to submit to being forced into third place in the race. The question as to "why this was thusly" is not easy to answer. It may be said, for one thing, that the loss of the valuable services of the veteran Bennett, was one drawback to their success, and the failure of a majority of their pitchers, another; their only really successful "battery" team being Nichols and Ganzel. Then, too, they lost ground in playing, as well as in popularity, by the kicking and noisy coaching profanities of a minority of their team; that kind of "hustling" in a team having become played out as a winning factor in the game in 1894. It must not be forgotten, however, that the Boston club, in 1894, encountered stronger teams in New York and Baltimore than ever before; moreover, they were troubled considerably by the strong opposition of the St. Louis club's team, the only club to score three straight victories from them during the season. That the club had the material to do better than they did, goes without saying; it was a failure in its running that did the business, chiefly. Here is the record of the victories, defeats, games played, and percentage of victories against each club for the past season of 1894: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a N a B s l t t n u l e d r h e t C . c i BOSTON t w e o i v s h i s i l o n e b i L n v vs. m Y p k g l u c o n i o o h l t a r a u a l r r i y o n g g i t l e k a n n d h o s i e Totals Totals --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 8 6 6 6 9 35 9 8 7 6 8 10 48 Defeats 4 6 6 6 3 25 3 4 5 6 4 2 24 Games Played 12 12 12 12 12 60 12 12 12 12 12 12 72 Per cent. of Victories .667 .500 .500 .500 .250 .583 .250 .667 .583 .500 .667 .833 .667 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Bostons, in 1894, took the Baltimore and Washington teams into camp without difficulty, but the best they could do against New York, Philadelphia and Brooklyn, was to tie each series. Against the Western clubs, it will be seen, the only club that troubled them was the St. Louis Browns. Four series tied out of the eleven they played was an unusual record for the ex-champions. In victories, they did better against the West than against the East, by 48 victories to 35; in defeats, however, the result was more even, viz., 25 to 24. The following is the club's record of series won, lost, tied and unfinished, together with the "Chicago" victories and defeats, and the single and double figure victories and defeats scored by the club in 1894: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a N a B s l t t n u l e d r h e t C . c i BOSTON t w e o i v s h i s i l o n e b i L n v vs. m Y p k g l u c o n i o o h l t a r a u a l r r i y o n g g i t l e k a n n d h o s i e Grand Totals Totals Totals --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 1 0 0 0 1 2 1 1 1 0 1 1 5 7 Series lost 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Series tied 0 1 1 1 0 3 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 4 Series unfinished 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Chicago" victories 0 2 0 1 0 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 "Chicago" defeats 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Single figure victories 4 4 4 3 0 15 2 7 2 0 3 5 19 34 Single figure defeats 1 4 1 3 2 11 1 1 1 5 2 1 11 22 Double figure victories 4 2 2 3 9 20 7 1 5 6 5 5 29 49 Double figure defeats 3 2 5 3 1 14 2 3 4 1 2 1 13 27 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The club won but seven of the eleven series played in 1894, though they did not lose a series, no less than four being tied. In "Chicago" games they won but 3, but did not lose a single game by a "shut out." By way of comparison, we give below the records of the same three clubs in 1893, when the three leaders in the race were Boston. Pittsburgh and Cleveland, and the three leaders of the Eastern teams were Boston, Philadelphia and New York, the Baltimores that year being eighth only. Singularly enough, all three clubs did better against their Eastern confreres in 1893 than against the Western clubs. Here are the three club records of 1893 RECORDS OF 1893. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a N a B s l t t n u l e d r h e t C . c i BOSTON t w e o i v s h i s i l o n e b i L n v vs. m Y p k g l u c o n i o o h l t a r a u a l r r i y o n g g i t l e k a n n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 10 8 8 8 7 41 7 4 8 10 6 10 45 Defeats 2 4 4 4 5 19 5 6 3 2 6 2 24 Games played 12 12 12 12 12 60 12 10 11 12 12 12 72 Per cent. of Victories .853 .667 .667 .667 .583 .680 .583 .400 .727 .833 .500 .833 .652 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a a B s l t t n u l d r h e t C . c i NEW YORK t B e o i v s h i s i o l o n e b i L n v vs. m s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l e n a n n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 8 4 7 6 7 32 6 4 5 8 6 7 36 Defeats 4 8 5 6 5 28 6 8 7 4 6 5 36 Games played 12 12 12 12 12 60 12 12 12 12 12 12 72 Per cent. of Victories .667 .333 .583 .500 .583 .533 .500 .333 .417 .667 .500 .417 .500 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L l a C i S i o N a B s l t t n u e d r h e t C . c i BALTIMORE w B e o i v s h i s o l o n e b i L n v vs. Y s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l k n a n n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 4 2 5 10 7 28 8 1 5 9 4 5 32 Defeats 8 10 7 2 5 32 4 11 7 3 8 5 38 Games played 12 12 12 12 12 60 12 12 12 12 12 10 70 Per cent. of Victories .383 .167 .417 .833 .583 .467 .667 .083 .417 .750 .333 .560 .475 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- To show what the new rivals--the New York and Baltimore clubs--did in the two past seasons combined, we give the figures of the double records of 1893 and 1894: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a a B s l t t n u l d r h e t C . c i NEW YORK t B e o i v s h i s i o l o n e b i L n v vs. m s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l e n a n n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 14 10 12 13 17 66 15 12 16 13 15 19 90 Defeats 10 14 12 11 7 51 9 12 8 11 9 5 54 Games played 24 24 24 24 24 120 24 24 24 24 24 24 144 Per cent. of Victories .383 .417 .500 .542 .708 .550 .625 .500 .667 .542 .625 .792 .625 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L l a C i S i o N a B s l t t n u e d r h e t C . c i BALTIMORE w B e o i v s h i s o l o n e b i L n v vs. Y s p k g l u c o n i o t h l t a r a u a l r o i y o n g g i t l k n a n n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 10 6 11 18 18 63 17 7 14 14 18 15 85 Defeats 14 18 11 6 6 55 7 15 10 10 5 7 54 Games played 24 24 22 24 24 118 24 22 24 24 23 22 139 Per cent. of Victories .417 .250 .500 .750 .534 .708 .708 .318 .583 .583 .783 .682 .612 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- In this combined record New York leads Baltimore, the poor season's work of 1893 by the Baltimores more than offsetting the honors they won in 1894. #The Campaigns of the Other Nine Clubs of 1894.# THE PHILADELPHIA CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. At the end of the first day's contests, on April 19th, four clubs were tied for first place as victors, and four others were tied next in order as losers, the third four of the twelve clubs of the League not playing until the 20th of April. At the end of the first week's play in the April campaign the "Phillies" stood fourth in the race, they being headed by Boston, Cleveland and St. Louis, respectively, and followed by Baltimore and Cincinnati, all of which six clubs were in the first division, the Pittsburgh, New York, Louisville, Washington, Brooklyn and Chicago following in order in the second division; the difference in percentage figures between the leader and tail ender being 833 points, as the Chicago team had not then won a single game out of six played, and the Brooklyns but one, while the "Phillies" had won 5 out of 7, they starting off well, Boston, Cleveland and St. Louis having won 5 out of 6 played. By the end of the April campaign the "Phillies" stood in fourth place, being led by St. Louis, Cleveland and Boston, the other first division clubs being Baltimore and Cincinnati. During the May campaign the "Phillies" fluctuated between fifth place on May 9th up to second position on May 16th, finally finishing the May campaign a poor fifth on May 31st, with Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Baltimore and Boston in advance of them, and New York close at their heels. In June the "Phillies" began to do a little better, and by June 18th, they had pulled up to second place, with Baltimore in the van and Boston close behind the "Quakers." Then once more they fell back in the race, the close of the June campaign seeing them in fifth place, and in the rear of Baltimore, Boston, Brooklyn and Pittsburgh, with New York within a few points of them. During July this "up-hill and down-dale" method of racing was continued until July 23d, when they were driven into the ranks of the second division clubs, they occupying seventh place on that date, the end of the July campaign seeing the team in seventh place, with a percentage of victories of .526, Boston, Baltimore, New York, Cleveland, Brooklyn and Pittsburgh being the six first division clubs. During the August campaign the "Phillies" got back into the first division ranks, and on the 21st of that month were in fourth place, which position they retained to the end of that month's campaign. They tried in vain to get higher, but could not do so, and on the last day of the season they stood a bad fourth, the next club above them leading them by 75 points in percentage figures, and by eleven games. The following is the Philadelphia club's record of victories and defeats scored, with the total number of games played, and the percentage of victories against each club, and also the record of the series won, lost, tied and unfinished, together with the "Chicago" victories and defeats, and the single and double figure victories and defeats scored by the club during 1894: THE PHILADELPHIA CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. W P C L B a C i S i o a N B s l t t n u l e r h e t C . c i PHILADELPHIA t w B o i v s h i s i o o n e b i L n v vs. m Y s k g l u c o n i o o t l t a r a u a l r r o y o n g g i t l e k n n n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 4 7 6 7 8 32 5 8 5 5 8 8 39 Defeats 6 5 6 5 4 26 7 4 7 7 2 3 30 Games played 10 12 12 12 12 58 12 12 12 12 10 11 69 Per cent. of Victories .400 .583 .500 .583 .667 .552 .417 .667 .417 .417 .800 .727 .585 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. W P C L B a C i S i o a N B s l t t n u l e r h e t C . c i PHILADELPHIA t w B o i v s h i s i o o n e b i L n v vs. m Y s k g l u c o n i o o t l t a r a u a l r r o y o n g g i t l e k n n n d h o s i e Grand Totals Totals Totals --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 1 0 1 1 3 0 1 0 0 1 1 3 6 Series lost 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 0 3 3 Series tied 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Series unfinished 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 3 "Chicago" victories 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 3 3 "Chicago" defeats 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Single figure victories 2 4 3 3 3 15 3 3 1 2 2 2 13 28 Single figure defeats 2 2 5 5 3 12 2 3 0 3 3 0 10 22 Double figure victories 2 3 3 4 5 17 2 5 4 3 6 6 26 43 Double figure defeats 4 3 1 0 1 8 5 1 7 4 2 3 22 30 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The above table shows that the Philadelphia team in their games with their Eastern opponents had but little difficulty in defeating the Washingtons, besides getting the best of both New York and Brooklyn in the race. But they lost to Baltimore and tied with Boston. With the Western teams they did not do so well, as they only won three out of the six series, they winning easily with Cincinnati by 8 to 2 in won games, while they had but little difficulty with Louisville and Pittsburgh. They lost with Cleveland, Chicago and St. Louis by 5 to 7 each in won games. THE BROOKLYN CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. The Brooklyn club opened the season's campaign on April 19th, and at the close of the first day's play, stood tied with Baltimore, Philadelphia and Pittsburgh for fifth place, they standing as low as eleventh position on April 23d. During the May campaign they made but little headway in the race, as, up to May 22d they had got no higher than seventh place. After that they got into the first division for a few days, but at the end of the May campaign they were tied with New York for sixth place; Pittsburgh, on May 31st, being in the van, with Cleveland and Baltimore second and third, Pittsburgh's percentage figures being .710 at this date; the "Orioles" being followed by Boston and Philadelphia. The Brooklyns began the June campaign by leading New York and taking up a position in the first division, occupying sixth place, next to Boston, then in fifth position. By June 19th they had reached fourth place, and they closed their June campaign in third position, Baltimore leading, with Boston second. During the early part of July the Brooklyns fell back to sixth place, and the "Giants" jumped into third position. On July 31st the Brooklyns stood fifth only, and they began falling lower the first week in August, and on the fourth of that month were back in the second division ranks, and after that date "the subsequent proceedings interested them no more," as far as the three leading positions were concerned. They remained in seventh place up to August 21st when they got back into the first division, and on August 31st they were in fifth place. During September there was a close fight between Cleveland and Brooklyn for that position, but finally the Brooklyns retained it at the finish by the percentage figures of .534 to .527, a lead of but seven points. The Brooklyn team made but a poor record against their Eastern team rivals in 1894, but were more successful against the Western clubs. They won but one series in the East, and that was against the tail-end Washingtons, Baltimore, New York and Philadelphia beating them out in the race, while they tied the Bostons. Against the Western clubs they won in three series; tied with two others, and had the series with Cleveland, but they only won four series out of the eleven. The following tables show the Brooklyn club's record of victories and defeats scored, with the total number of games played and the percentage of victories against each club; also, the record of the series won, lost, tied and unfinished, together with the "Chicago" victories and defeats, and the single and double figure victories and defeats scored by the club during the season of 1894: THE BROOKLYN CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a N a s l t t n u l e d h e t C . c i BROOKLYN t w B e i v s h i s i o l n e b i L n v vs. m Y s p g l u c o n i o o t h t a r a u a l r r o i o n g g i t l e k n a n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 4 5 6 5 9 29 6 7 6 8 6 8 41 Defeats 8 7 6 7 3 31 5 5 6 4 6 4 30 Games Played 12 12 12 12 12 60 11 12 12 12 12 12 71 Per cent. of Victories .388 .417 .500 .452 .750 .483 .545 .583 .500 .667 .509 .667 .577 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a N a s l t t n u l e d h e t C . c i BROOKLYN t w B e i v s h i s i o l n e b i L n v vs. m Y s p g l u c o n i o o t h t a r a u a l r r o i o n g g i t l e k n a n d h o s i e Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 3 4 Series lost 1 1 0 1 0 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 Series tied 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 2 3 Series unfinished 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 "Chicago" victories 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 2 0 0 0 2 3 "Chicago" defeats 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 2 3 Single figure victories 1 2 3 5 3 14 4 3 5 3 1 4 20 34 Single figure defeats 3 3 4 3 1 14 2 2 2 3 3 1 13 27 Double figure victories 3 3 3 0 6 15 2 4 1 5 5 4 21 36 Double figure defeats 5 4 2 4 2 17 3 3 4 1 3 3 18 35 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CLEVELAND CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. The Cleveland club did not begin their opening campaign until April 20th, and then in the ranks of the second division; but they soon, jumped to the front, and by the end of the April campaign they stood a tie for first place with Boston and St. Louis, with the percentage figures of .750 each. They opened the May campaign by pushing Boston out of first place, and they retained the leading position from May 2d to the 28th, they reaching the high percentage of .867 on May 10th--the highest of the season. On Decoration Day Pittsburgh went to the front, with the percentage of .700 to Cleveland's .692, and they retained that position to the close of the May campaign. During June the Clevelands fell off, and by the 21st of that month they had got down to fifth place in the race, and by the end of the June campaign had been driven into the ranks of the second division, they then occupying seventh place with a percentage of .549; Pittsburgh, on June 30th, being the only Western team in the first division. This fact alone showed a one-sided race up to that date. The Clevelands did not get back into the first division until July 17th, and after that they never left it. During August they battled well for third place, but could get no higher than fourth position, where they stood up to August 21st, when they began to fall off, and on August 31st they were down to sixth place. This position they were forced to keep all through September up to the finish of the race. The Cleveland team managed to win two of their series with the Eastern clubs, viz., with Washington and Philadelphia, but were badly whipped by the three leaders; they managed, however, to make a close fight of it with their old antagonists of Brooklyn, the latter winning the series by a single game only. With their Western rivals the Clevelands won every series but one, viz., that with the Pittsburgh club, thereby winning the _championship of the West for_ 1894, as Boston did the championship of the East. Then, too, the Clevelands were the only Western club remaining in the first division at the close of the season; so they had some consolation in the race in excelling their Western rivals, all of whom they beat out in the race, even if they failed to win the pennant or to get among the three leaders in the race. Moreover, they excelled all the Western teams in team work in the field and at the bat, as they did the Brooklyns and Washingtons of the Eastern division. Here is their record: THE CLEVELAND CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a i S i o a N a B s t t n u l e d r h t C . c i CLEVELAND t w B e o i s h i s i o l o n b i L n v vs. m Y s p k g u c o n i o o t h l t r a u a l r r o i y o g g i t l e k n a n n h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 3 3 3 7 5 8 29 4 10 9 8 8 39 Defeats 9 9 9 5 6 4 42 8 2 3 3 3 19 Games Played 12 12 12 12 11 12 71 12 12 12 11 11 58 Per cent. of Victories .250 .250 .250 .583 .455 .667 .408 .333 .883 .750 .727 .727 .672 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a i S i o a N a B s t t n u l e d r h t C . c i CLEVELAND t w B e o i s h i s i o l o n b i L n v vs. m Y s p k g u c o n i o o t h l t r a u a l r r o i y o g g i t l e k n a n n h o s i e Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 1 0 1 2 0 1 1 1 1 4 6 Series lost 1 1 1 0 0 0 3 1 0 0 0 0 1 4 Series tied 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Series unfinished 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 2 3 "Chicago" victories 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 0 0 3 1 1 5 7 "Chicago" defeats 0 1 0 1 0 0 2 1 0 0 0 0 1 3 Single figure victories 1 1 1 2 3 4 12 3 7 7 4 6 27 39 Single figure defeats 6 7 2 3 4 4 26 5 1 1 2 1 10 36 Double figure victories 2 2 2 5 2 4 17 1 3 2 4 2 12 29 Double figure defeats 3 2 7 2 2 0 16 3 1 2 1 2 9 25 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- #The Second Division Clubs.# THE PITTSBURGH CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. The Pittsburgh club opened the April campaign in the ranks of the second division, the end of the month seeing the team in seventh place, three other Western teams leading them on April 30th. During May they got into the first division, and May 21st they were among the three leaders, with Cleveland and Baltimore first and second in the race. At the end of the May campaign they had rallied as well, and had pulled up to first place, with the percentage figures of .710 to Cleveland's .679 and Baltimore's .654, Boston, Philadelphia and New York being the next three. In June, the Pittsburghs fell off in the race, and by the 11th of that month they were down to fifth place, then pulled up again after touching sixth position, and on June 30th stood fourth, they then being headed by Baltimore, Boston and Brooklyn, with Philadelphia and New York in their rear. In July they fell off badly, and on the 20th of that month they had been driven out of the first division. At the end of the July campaign they stood sixth in the race. They got a step higher the early part of August, but the end of that month's campaign saw the club once more in the ranks of the second division, and they struggled in vain to get out of the company of the six tail-enders, the end of the race seeing the club in seventh place with the percentage figures of .500, Cleveland leading them by 27 points. The record of the Pittsburgh club for 1894 giving the victories and defeats scored, with a total of games played and the percentage of victories against each club; also, the record of the series of games won, lost, tied or unfinished, together with that of the "Chicago" victories and defeats, and the single and double figure games scored by the club, is as follows: THE PITTSBURGH CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W C L B l a C S i o a N a B s l t n u l e d r h e C . c i PITTSBURGH t w B e o i v h i s i o l o n e i L n v vs. m Y s p k g l c o n i o o t h l t a a u a l r r o i y o n g i t l e k n a n n d o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 4 4 4 4 5 8 29 8 6 6 7 9 36 Defeats 6 8 8 8 7 4 41 4 6 6 5 3 24 Games played 10 12 12 12 12 12 70 12 12 12 12 12 60 Per cent. of Victories .400 .333 .333 .333 .417 .667 .414 .667 .500 .500 .500 .583 .600 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W C L B l a C S i o a N a B s l t n u l e d r h e C . c i PITTSBURGH t w B e o i v h i s i o l o n e i L n v vs. m Y s p k g l c o n i o o t h l t a a u a l r r o i y o n g i t l e k n a n n d o s i e Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 3 4 Series lost 0 1 1 1 1 0 4 . 0 0 0 0 0 4 Series tied 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 . 1 1 0 0 2 2 Series unfinished 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 . 0 0 0 0 0 1 "Chicago" victories 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 2 2 "Chicago" defeats 0 1 0 1 0 0 2 . 0 0 0 0 2 2 Single figure victories 3 1 1 3 2 3 13 5 3 4 3 7 22 35 Single figure defeats 1 7 7 3 3 0 21 3 2 4 2 3 14 35 Double figure victories 1 3 3 1 3 5 16 3 3 2 4 2 14 30 Double figure defeats 5 1 1 5 4 4 20 1 4 2 3 0 10 20 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The "Pirates," it will be seen, were very unsuccessful against the Eastern teams, the Washingtons being the only club they could win a series from. Against their Western rivals, however, they did not lose a series, defeating Cleveland, Cincinnati and Louisville, and tieing with Chicago and St. Louis. The very club they wanted most to defeat they captured, viz., the Clevelands; that, and the fact that they led the second division clubs being the only consolation they had. THE CHICAGO CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. Never before in the history of the Chicago club had any of its teams ever started a pennant race so badly as did the Chicago "Colts" in 1894. They finished the April campaign with the unenviable record of eight defeats out of nine games played, they then being a bad tail-ender in the race, with the poor percentage figures of .111 only. They remained in the last ditch up to May 10th, by which date they had won but two games out of thirteen played, the result being costly to the club in poor gate receipts. The next day they pushed the Washingtons into the last ditch--their home place for years--and by May 14th had got up to tenth position. But the end of May saw the "Colts" no higher in the race record than eleventh place, just on the ragged edge of the last ditch. By the end of the June campaign they had pulled up a little, they were standing in tenth place on June 30th; there they remained until the last day of the July campaign, when they managed to get into ninth place. During August they rallied for the first time in the race, and by the end of that month's campaign they stood eighth. But they could not get higher in the race, and they had to be content with eighth position at the end of the season, their poor record including that of being the only club of the twelve which had not, at one time or another, occupied a place in the ranks of the first division clubs. It was the worst season's record known in the history of the Chicago club. Here is the club record: THE CHICAGO CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a N a B s l t t n u l e d r h e t . c i CHICAGO t w B e o i v s i s i o l o n e b L n v vs. m Y s p k g l u o n i o o t h l t a r u a l r r o i y o n g i t l e k n a n n d h s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 3 1 5 7 6 7 29 2 6 6 6 8 28 Defeats 9 11 7 5 6 5 43 10 6 6 6 4 32 Games played 12 12 12 12 12 12 60 12 12 12 12 12 60 Per cent. of Victories .250 .083 .417 .583 .500 .583 .403 .375 .500 .500 .500 .667 .467 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i S i o a N a B s l t t n u l e d r h e t . c i CHICAGO t w B e o i v s i s i o l o n e b L n v vs. m Y s p k g l u o n i o o t h l t a r u a l r r o i y o n g i t l e k n a n n d h s i e Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 1 0 1 2 0 0 0 0 1 1 3 Series lost 1 1 1 0 0 0 3 1 0 0 0 0 1 4 Series tied 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 .. 1 1 1 0 3 4 Series unfinished 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Chicago" victories 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Chicago" defeats 0 1 0 0 2 0 3 0 1 0 1 0 2 5 Single figure victories 1 1 1 0 2 1 6 1 2 3 2 6 14 20 Single figure defeats 2 8 2 1 5 4 22 6 3 4 2 3 18 40 Double figure victories 2 1 4 7 4 6 24 1 4 3 4 2 14 38 Double figure defeats 7 3 5 4 1 1 21 4 3 2 4 1 14 35 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Chicago "Colts" won two series against the Eastern teams, viz., those with the Washingtons and the Philadelphias, and they had a tie series with Brooklyn and a close fight with Boston; but the New Yorks whipped them the worst any club had ever before succeeded in doing in a season's series, as the "Giants" won eleven out of twelve games; the Baltimores, too, had an easy task in winning against the "Colts". Against their Western rivals, however, they lost but one series, viz., that with Cleveland; but they only won one series--that with Louisville--they tieing Pittsburgh, St. Louis and Cincinnati. THE ST. LOUIS CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. The St. Louis club opened the April campaign among the leaders, and put up their stock to a premium, by ending the month's record tied with Boston and Cleveland for first place, each with a percentage of .750, the club's special rival--Comiskey's Cincinnati "Reds"--ending the April campaign tied with Baltimore for fifth place. After this April spurt in the race, however, the "Browns" began to fall back in their record during May, and by the 7th of that month were down to sixth position, and on May 14th they had to give way to Cincinnati, they then falling back into the second division ranks; and on the 17th of May they were down to ninth place, and then the best they could do during the last week of the May campaign was to end eighth in the race on May 31st. During June they tried to get back into the first division, but they failed to reach higher than seventh position. During July they got lower down in the ranks of the second division, and they ended that month's campaign as low as tenth place, and they were kept there until the very last day of the season, when two victories over the Washingtons, with a tie game between Cincinnati and Cleveland, enabled the "Browns" to win the consolation prize, viz., leading Cincinnati at the finish, by the percentage figures of .424 to .419, the St. Louis team ending in ninth place and the Cincinnatis in tenth position. The record of the St. Louis club for 1894 giving the victories and defeats scored, with the total of games played and the percentage of victories against each club; also, the record of the series of games won, lost, tied and unfinished, together with that of the "Chicago" victories and defeats and the single and double figure victories and defeats scored by the club, is as follows: THE ST. LOUIS CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i i o a N a B s l t n u l e d r h e t C c i ST .LOUIS t w B e o i v s h i s i o l o n e b i n v vs. m Y s p k g l u c n i o o t h l t a r a a l r r o i y o n g g t l e k n a n n d h o i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 2 5 6 7 4 6 30 3 6 6 5 6 26 Defeats 10 7 6 5 8 6 42 9 6 6 7 6 34 Games played 12 12 12 12 12 12 72 12 12 12 12 12 69 Per cent. of Victories .167 .417 .500 .583 .333 .500 .417 .250 .500 .500 .417 .500 .433 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i i o a N a B s l t n u l e d r h e t C c i ST. LOUIS t w B e o i v s h i s i o l o n e b i n v vs. m Y s p k g l u c n i o o t h l t a r a a l r r o i y o n g g t l e k n a n n d h o i e Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 2 Series lost 1 1 0 0 1 0 3 1 0 0 1 0 2 5 Series tied 0 0 1 0 0 1 2 0 1 1 0 1 3 5 Series unfinished 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Chicago" victories 0 1 0 0 1 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 "Chicago" defeats 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 3 0 0 1 0 4 5 Single figure victories 0 5 5 3 3 2 18 1 4 4 4 4 17 35 Single figure defeats 7 5 0 2 3 3 20 7 4 3 5 6 25 45 Double figure victories 2 0 1 4 1 4 12 2 2 2 1 2 9 21 Double figure defeats 3 2 6 3 5 3 22 2 2 3 2 0 9 31 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The St. Louis "Browns" did well in winning one of their Eastern series--that with Philadelphia--and tieing with Boston and Washington. But the Baltimores gave them a bad whipping, and the Brooklyns and "Phillies" took them into camp easily. Against their Western adversaries, however, they failed to win a single series; but they only lost one--that with Cleveland--as they tied with Pittsburgh, Chicago and Louisville. THE CINCINNATI CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. The Cincinnati club did not begin their opening campaign until April 20th, and during that month's short campaign they occupied third place on April 24th, and retained their position among the leaders to the end of the month. In May, however, they fell back into the ranks of the second division clubs, and remained there until May 16th, when they occupied sixth place in the first division. By the end of that month, however, they had been pushed back to ninth position. There they remained during the whole of the June campaign. During July they improved their position by getting into eighth position, where they stood on July 31st. August's campaign did not improve their standing; on the contrary, they fell back into ninth place, where they stood on August 31st. During September they were almost anchored in that position, but on the very last day of the race they let their old rivals, the "Browns," beat them out, and Comiskey had to finish tenth in the race, and then he said he'd had enough, and he concluded to "go West," where he will remain for 1895. Here is the Cincinnati club's record: THE CINCINNATI CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P L B l a C i o a N a B s l t S u l e d r h e t C t i CINCINNATI t w B e o i v s h . s i o l o n e b i L v vs. m Y s p k g l u c o i o o t h l t a r a u l r r o i y o n g g i l e k n a n n d h o s e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 2 5 4 2 6 7 26 3 5 6 7 7 28 Defeats 10 7 8 8 6 5 44 8 7 6 5 5 31 Games played 12 12 12 10 12 12 70 11 12 12 12 12 59 Per cent. of Victories .167 .417 .338 .200 .500 .583 .371 .273 .417 .500 .583 .588 .475 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P L B l a C i o a N a B s l t S u l e d r h e t C t i CINCINNATI t w B e o i v s h . s i o l o n e b i L v vs. m Y s p k g l u c o i o o t h l t a r a u l r r o i y o n g g i l e k n a n n d h o s e Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 1 2 3 Series lost 1 1 1 1 0 1 5 1 1 0 0 0 2 7 Series tied 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 2 Series unfinished 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 1 2 "Chicago" victories 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 3 4 "Chicago" defeats 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 2 2 Single figure victories 1 5 2 3 3 5 19 2 2 2 5 6 17 36 Single figure defeats 4 4 3 2 1 5 19 4 3 2 4 5 18 37 Double figure victories 1 0 2 1 3 2 9 1 3 4 2 1 11 20 Double figure defeats 6 3 5 6 5 0 25 4 4 4 1 0 13 38 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE WASHINGTON CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. The season of 1894 was made noteworthy in the annals of the Washington club, owing to their being able to pay off their six years' mortgage on the last ditch, and transferred it to the Louisville club. The "Senators" opened the season in a very lively style, inasmuch as they stood a tie for first place at the end of the first day of the campaign, and had the credit of winning their first games with the "Phillies," the New York and Boston clubs. After this dash at the start they settled down among the second division clubs for the season, resigned to everything but the fate of again being tail-enders. Chicago kept them out until May, when the "Senators" fell into their old quarters, the tail-end place, where they remained until August 23d, when, to the great joy of Manager Schmelz, they had a wrestle with Louisville and threw the "Colonels" into the last ditch. Here is their record: THE WASHINGTON CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i P C L B l C i S i o a N a B l t t n u l e d r e t C . c i WASHINGTON t w B e o v s h i s i o l o e b i L n v vs. m Y s p k l u c o n i o o t h l a r a u a l r r o i y n g g i t l e k n a n d h o s i e Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 1 2 3 4 3 13 4 4 5 6 5 8 32 Defeats 11 10 9 8 9 47 8 8 7 6 7 4 40 Games played 12 12 12 12 12 60 12 12 12 12 12 12 72 Per cent. of Victories .083 .167 .250 .333 .250 .217 .333 .333 .417 .500 .147 .667 .444 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS P h i P C L B l C i S i o a N a B l t t n u l e d r e t C . c i WASHINGTON t w B e o v s h i s i o l o e b i L n v vs. m Y s p k l u c o n i o o t h l a r a u a l r r o i y n g g i t l e k n a n d h o s i e Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 Series lost 1 1 1 1 1 5 1 1 1 0 1 0 4 9 Series tied 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 Series unfinished 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Chicago" victories 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Chicago" defeats 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 2 3 Single figure victories 0 1 2 3 1 7 4 0 4 3 5 5 21 28 Single figure defeats 3 7 0 3 3 16 4 3 1 2 5 3 18 34 Double figure victories 1 1 1 1 2 6 0 4 1 3 0 3 11 17 Double figure defeats 8 3 9 5 6 31 4 5 6 4 2 1 22 53 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The "Senators" won but one series in the whole campaign, and that was with the Louisvilles. They managed to tie with the St. Louis "Browns," but all the rest knocked them out--the Baltimores by 11 to 1. THE LOUISVILLE CLUB'S CAMPAIGN. The Louisville club started in the race with better prospects than they had for years past, they being tied for first place on April 20th, but they only remained in the first division a few days, after which they took up their home position among the tail-enders, which they occupied from April 30th to September 30th, never once getting back to the ranks of the first division. Gradually, during the May campaign they worked their way down towards the last ditch, they having a close fight for the ditch with Washington during June. But July saw them rolled into the tail-end position, and there they remained until the ending of the championship campaign. The Louisvilles had the consolation of tieing the the St. Louis "Browns" in their series, and of "Chicagoing" the Boston champions, and also in defeating them in another game by 11 to 1. Here is their record: THE LOUISVILLE CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS. WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C B l a C i i a N a B s l t S n l e d r h e t C t c LOUISVILLE t w B e o i v s h . i i o l o n e b i L n vs. m Y s p k g l u c o n o o t h l t a r a u a r r o i y o n g g i t e k n a n n d h o s i Totals Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Victories 2 0 2 3 4 4 15 3 3 4 6 5 21 Defeats 10 12 10 8 8 8 56 8 9 8 6 7 38 Games played 12 12 12 11 12 12 71 11 12 12 12 12 59 Per cent. of Victories .167 .000 .167 .273 .333 .333 .211 .273 .250 .333 .500 .417 .356 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C B l a C i i a N a B s l t S n l e d r h e t C t c LOUISVILLE t w B e o i v s h . i i o l o n e b i L n vs. m Y s p k g l u c o n o o t h l t a r a u a r r o i y o n g g i t e k n a n n d h o s i Grand Total Total Total --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series won 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Series lost 1 1 1 1 1 1 6 1 1 1 0 1 4 10 Series tied 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 Series unfinished 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 2 "Chicago" victories 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 "Chicago" defeats 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 2 3 Single figure victories 1 0 1 0 1 3 6 1 3 3 6 5 18 24 Single figure defeats 8 8 5 2 4 5 32 6 7 6 4 6 29 61 Double figure victories 1 0 1 3 3 1 9 2 0 1 0 0 3 12 Double figure defeats 2 5 5 6 4 3 25 2 2 2 2 1 9 34 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The nearest the Louisvilles came to a series victory was in their series with the St. Louis club, which they tied; all the others they lost, they being "shut out" by the "Giants," with which club they lost thirteen successive games, one of which was thrown out. The Club Management of 1894. The management of the twelve League clubs in 1894 was, in but few instances, in advance of that of 1893; and in a minority of cases it was worse. The experience of the past season in the management of club teams, points out the indisputable fact that the majority of managers are blind to the folly of condoning drinking offences in the ranks, for one thing, and equally ignorant of the damaging effects, in lessening the reputable patronage of their grounds, of countenancing that phase of "hoodlumism" in teams known as "kicking against the decisions of umpires." Despite of the costly experience of the past five years in the countenancing of drunkards in the League ranks, we see, this season of 1895, club teams including players notorious for their old drunken habits. Why managers cannot perceive the folly of re-engaging such men is a mystery. No matter what their skill at the bat or in the field may be, their drinking habits, with the demoralizing effect on the teams at large which follows, more than offset the advantage of their alleged ability in the field. Despite this obvious fact, however, club officials--either presidents, directors or managers--still blunder on in having these drunkards on their teams, even after condoning their offences time and again, on the promise of reform, which in no single instance has ever taken place that I am aware of. But surpassing this folly, is that of engaging ugly and vicious tempered players for their teams, who are simply demoralizing agents in any team on which they are engaged. These ill-tempered fellows are not only death to necessary discipline, but they are sure to find occasions to form cliques in a team, which war against the best interests of the club at large, and are obnoxious in the extreme to the pennant winning rule of _playing for the side_, a rule as important to the success of a club team in a pennant race, as the reserve rule is to the life of the professional club business at large. Bad management of clubs involves a variety of blunders, not only in the running of the team without regard to business principles--sadly neglected by a majority of the League clubs in 1894--but especially in the making up of teams in the spring months, in which one blunder is conspicuous, viz., that of selecting players for each team without regard to their ability to play in _harmony together_, but solely by the records made in the unreliable table of averages of the past season, in which everything in the way of scoring figures tends to aid the mere record player and throws obstacles in the way of team work players' records. Another managerial blunder is shown in the gathering together of a long list of signed players, with the view of selecting a strong team of a dozen players from the crowd for the serious work of the campaign. For instance, in the makeup of many of the League teams of 1894, the blunder of getting together six or eight pitchers and occupying the whole of the early part of the season's campaign in experiments with them was positive folly. It has never paid in a single instance. It was, in fact, death to the success of at least four League teams last season, Cincinnati in particular. Many of last year's team managers failed to realize the important fact that in testing the merits of pitchers in the spring season they need to be given a fair trial, and not dismiss them after the hasty judgment of their ability of a few games of trial. Pitchers need to be thoroughly tested before they are released, after engagement, and this testing process cannot at the shortest be done in less than a month's trial. No pitcher can do his best while in doubt all the while as to the result of a single day's play on his engagement. Five pitchers are amply sufficient to begin a season with, and at most three catchers. But one of the greatest and most costly blunders in team management made in 1894 was that of encouraging "hoodlumism" by the countenancing of blackguard kicking, in defiance of the laws of the game, which presidents and directors, as well as managers and captains, were alike guilty of to a more or less extent. The rules of the game positively prohibit any player of a nine on the field from disputing any decision of the umpire except the captain, and he only in certain exceptional cases, and yet not only did captains of teams allow this rule to be violated in every game of the season, but they were openly countenanced in it by not only their managers, but in many cases by club presidents and directors. Under such circumstances is it any wonder that the season of 1894 stands on record as being marked by more disgraceful kicking, rowdy play, blackguard language and brutal play than that of any season since the League was organized? And all this was the result of a neglect of business principles in club management, and in the blunders in managing teams committed by incompetent managers and captains--an arraignment of the National League which we hope never to have to record again. THE MONTHLY CAMPAIGNS. THE APRIL CAMPAIGN. The short April campaign of 1894 began on April 19th, on which date eight of the twelve clubs opened the season; New York losing at Baltimore, Brooklyn at Boston, Philadelphia at Washington, and Pittsburgh at St. Louis, rain preventing the games scheduled for Louisville and Cincinnati. On the 20th Chicago opened at Cincinnati with a defeat, as did Cleveland at Louisville. By the end of the month's campaign, on April 30th, the games played left the Boston, Cleveland and St. Louis clubs tied for first place in the month's record, with Philadelphia fourth, Baltimore fifth, and Pittsburgh sixth the second division clubs being headed by Cincinnati--tied with Pittsburgh for sixth place--and followed by Louisville, New York and Brooklyn tied for ninth position, Washington and Chicago, the latter club being a bad tail-ender with a record of eight defeats out of nine games played. Here is the complete record of the thirteen days' campaign of the opening month of the season, fifty victories and as many defeats having been recorded: THE APRIL RECORD. -------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t -------------------------------------------------- Boston 6 2 8 .750 Cincinnati 4 4 8 .500 Cleveland 6 2 8 .750 Louisville 4 5 9 .444 St. Louis 6 2 8 .750 New York 3 5 8 .375 Philadelphia 6 3 9 .667 Brooklyn 3 5 8 .375 Baltimore 5 3 8 .625 Washington 2 7 9 .174 Pittsburgh 4 4 8 .500 Chicago 1 8 9 .111 -------------------------------------------------- It had been confidently expected that Boston would be in the lead and Cleveland not far off; but that St. Louis should be tied with both for the lead was a surprise. Philadelphia was in its anticipated place, but Baltimore was lower than the club officials had looked for, as also New York, while the fact that the tail-ender of 1893 led the Chicago "Colts" of 1894 was a disagreeable ending of the month's play for the Chicago cranks. THE MAY CAMPAIGN. The May campaign changed the relative positions of the twelve clubs materially. By May 31st, Pittsburgh had pulled up to the leading position, having won 18 out of 23 games; and while Cleveland had held its position fairly well, Baltimore had done better than Boston, and New York had won more games than Brooklyn. Chicago, too, had rallied, while St. Louis had fallen off badly, as also Cincinnati and Louisville; the Washingtons winning but 4 games out of 23, that club ending the second month's campaign a bad tail-ender in the figures of May. Here is the record for May: THE MAY RECORD. -------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t -------------------------------------------------------- Pittsburgh 18 5 28 .783 Brooklyn 12 11 23 .522 Cleveland 13 7 20 .684 Chicago 9 12 21 .429 Baltimore 12 6 18 .667 St. Louis 9 16 25 .360 Boston 14 8 22 .636 Cincinnati 7 13 20 .350 Philadelphia 12 7 19 .632 Louisville 6 14 20 .300 New York 13 11 24 .542 Washington 4 19 23 .174 -------------------------------------------------------- The monthly record differs in its percentage figures from the pennant race record, as the latter gives the totals of the games played from April 19th, while the former gives the totals of each month's games only. A hundred and twenty-nine games, resulting in victories, were played in May, with, of course, the same number of defeats. Seven of the twelve clubs won more games than they lost. THE JUNE CAMPAIGN. The June campaign opened with Cleveland in the van in pennant race percentages, the other clubs in the first division being the Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston and Brooklyn clubs in order; New York leading the second division, followed by St. Louis, Cincinnati, Louisville, Chicago and Washington; the leader in the race having a percentage of .690, and the tail-ender .212, a difference in percentage figures of 478 points, showing a poorly contested race thus far. Only two Western clubs by this time remained in the first division, viz., Cleveland and Pittsburgh; New York and Washington being the two Eastern clubs in the second division. Baltimore overtook and passed Cleveland in the first week of the June campaign, and closed the month in the lead. Boston, too, rallied and pulled up in the race from fifth place on June 4th to second position by June 11th, and remained there to the end of the month. Brooklyn also took a jump from sixth place on June 18th to third position on June 29th; New York not getting out of the second division until the last of the month. In the meantime the two Western teams of Cleveland and Pittsburgh began to lose ground, and by the 21st of June they occupied fifth and sixth positions in the race, Cleveland leading their rivals of Pittsburgh by 13 points. On the same date Philadelphia was in third place, but the "Phillies" fell off to fifth position by the end of the month. In victories won during June Brooklyn led with 18 games won out of 23 played, Baltimore being second with 20 victories and 6 defeats, and Boston third with 18 games won to 8 lost. On June 8th Washington had pushed Louisville into the last ditch, and also led Chicago; but the "Colts" got ahead of the "Senators" by the end of the month. On June 30th Baltimore held the lead in the pennant race with the percentage figures of .712 to Louisville's .255, a difference of 457 points, only one Western club being in the first division at the end of the month. Here is the record of the June campaign, showing which club led in won games during the month. THE JUNE RECORD. -------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t -------------------------------------------------------- Brooklyn 18 5 28 .789 Philadelphia 11 12 23 .478 Baltimore 20 6 26 .769 Cleveland 9 13 22 .409 Boston 18 8 26 .692 St. Louis 10 15 25 .406 New York 15 8 23 .686 Washington 9 15 24 .375 Pittsburgh 13 13 26 .500 Chicago 8 17 25 .320 Cincinnati 12 13 25 .480 Louisville 4 22 26 .154 -------------------------------------------------------- It will be seen that out of the twelve clubs but four won more games than they lost, the Louisvilles ending the month's play with a record of but 4 games won out of 26 played, the poorest record of any single month of the season. THE JULY CAMPAIGN. The July campaign opened with the Baltimore and Boston clubs as apparent fixtures for the two leading positions, the "Orioles" leading the champions on July 5th by seven points only, viz., .679 to .672. On the 2d of July New York was sixth and Brooklyn third in the race. By July 5th, however, the "Giants" had jumped into third place, and Brooklyn had fallen back to sixth position. On the same date Baltimore, Boston and New York occupied the three leading positions, and though three more months of the season still remained, the other nine clubs were even then virtually out of the race, the only other point of interest left in the championship contest being that of the fight for the last three places in the first division, Pittsburgh being at that time the only Western club out of the second division. Of course, such a one-sided condition of things in the pennant race led to a falling off in the interest in the championship contests, especially out West, where the clubs of that section lost patronage greatly, four of the six Western clubs being virtually out of the race as early as May, as far as winning the pennant was concerned. During July there were only two points of interest in the race outside of the fight for first place between the three leaders, viz., the struggle between the Brooklyn and Philadelphia clubs for fourth place in the race, and that between the Cleveland and Pittsburgh clubs to retain a place in the first division. Cleveland lost its position in the first division the first week in July, Pittsburgh on July 2d being in fourth place. By the 6th of that month the "Phillies" had overtaken them, and by the 9th the Pittsburghs were down to sixth place, the Clevelands then heading the second division. The "Pirates" then rallied and got ahead of Brooklyn, the latter being driven into the second division by July 17th, Cleveland rallying and getting among the six leaders again by the 18th of July, after which date they remained in that division to the close of the season, A feature of the July campaign among the six tail-end clubs was the close fight between Washington and Louisville on the edge of the last ditch. First one club would cross the goal line and make a touch-down--as the foot ball men have it--and then the other, Louisville being in eleventh place at the end of the month, while the "Senators" rolled about in the last ditch. When the July campaign ended Boston was in the van with the percentage figures of .659, Baltimore being second with .618, and New York third with .613. It looked at that time pretty sure for Boston. Here is the record of the month's play, showing which club won the most games during July: THE JULY RECORD. -------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t -------------------------------------------------------- New York 18 7 25 .720 Philadelphia 12 14 26 .462 Boston 16 9 25 .640 Baltimore 10 14 24 .417 Cleveland 18 11 29 .621 Pittsburgh 10 16 26 .385 Chicago 16 10 26 .615 St. Louis 10 17 27 .370 Cincinnati 16 11 27 .593 Brooklyn 9 16 25 .360 Louisville 13 15 28 .464 Washington 8 16 24 .331 -------------------------------------------------------- But five clubs out of the twelve won more games than they lost during the July campaign, but there was a little improvement shown in the difference of percentage points between the leader and tail-ender, the figures being .363. The Baltimores made the poorest record in July for a month's campaign of any they made during the season; while New York made the best show of any one of their four months' campaigns up to the close of July. Chicago also made their best monthly record in July, likewise Cincinnati and Louisville. THE AUGUST CAMPAIGN. Baltimore rallied in fine style in August, that club winning 22 out of 29 games that month, while New York won 20 out of 28; but Boston won only 15 out of 25, Philadelphia pulling up with 19 out of 29. Chicago also won a majority of their August games, these being the only clubs of the twelve which won more games during the month than they lost. When the August campaign opened the first division clubs included Boston, Baltimore, New York, Cleveland, Pittsburgh and Brooklyn, the "Phillies" being in the second division; but the latter soon took Brooklyn's place and sent them to seventh place in the race. But before the first week of the month had ended, Brooklyn replaced Pittsburgh in the first division. The "Pirates," however rallied and drove their Eastern opponents back again; Brooklyn ending the month in sixth place, and after that the "Pirates" remained at the head of the second division to the finish. The 31st of August saw the first division clubs fixed for the season, as far as first and sixth places in the race were concerned, the interesting point in the month's campaign being the struggle between the New York and Boston clubs for second place and that between Brooklyn and Philadelphia for fourth position. There was but one Western club in the first division at the end of August, the other five staying in the second division to the finish, a result that was ruinous to the financial interests of the Western clubs, and to a large extent to the clubs of the East, all of which clubs played to "small houses" out West, especially at Louisville, the cranks of "Breckinridgeville" being disgusted with their local club team during the last three months of the season. Here is the record of the August campaign, showing each club's victories and defeats for August; THE AUGUST RECORD. ----------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t ----------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore 22 7 29 .759 Washington 13 14 27 .481 New York 20 8 28 .714 St. Louis 9 13 22 .409 Philadelphia 19 10 29 .655 Cleveland 9 15 24 .375 Boston 15 10 25 .600 Pittsburgh 8 16 24 .333 Chicago 15 12 27 .556 Cincinnati 7 19 26 .269 Brooklyn 14 14 28 .500 Louisville 5 18 23 .217 ----------------------------------------------------------- It will be seen that August was a bad month for the Boston champions, while it was the very reverse for the Chicago "Colts," the latter making their best monthly record in August. The difference in percentage points between the leader and the tail-ender at the close of the August campaign was 355 points, the best of the season to that date. Still the figures showed a comparatively poor race, several of the minor league races being more evenly contested. Cleveland and Pittsburgh were behind Washington in percentage of victories during the August campaign, the latter making their best monthly record in August, thereby escaping their old place in the last ditch. THE SEPTEMBER CAMPAIGN. Baltimore virtually had the pennant in their hands the first week of the September campaign, the only point of interest in the race left at that time being the struggle for second place between New York and Boston; all of the other clubs had long been practically out of the race, a result which involved considerable loss for the majority of the twelve League clubs. This state of things in the major league pennant race is the result of the selfish policy of a minority in trying to monopolize the cream of the playing element in the League ranks without regard to the saving clause of the League organization, the principle of "_One for all and all for one_," the very essence of the plan of running the League on true business principles. During September the Brooklyn club tried their best to oust the "Phillies" out of fourth place, while the Clevelands worked hard to take Brooklyn's position in fifth place, but both clubs failed in their projects. Up to September 6th the "Giants" tried in vain to send the Bostons down to third place, but it was not until the 7th of September that they were able to oust the champions out of second place in the race, and when they did so they kept them out to the finish, the champions failing to rally after they had lost the position. It was a close fight, however, as on September 10th New York led Boston in percentage of victories by only 3 points, viz., .655 to .652, Baltimore leading at that date with .684. By September 19th, however, the Bostons had got down to .631, and New York's figures were .667, with "the country safe." Boston's lowest score in percentage figures for the month was reached on September 25th, when they touched .623. By that time the places in the first division were all settled, and all of those in the second division also, except Cincinnati and St. Louis. On September 29th Cincinnati led St. Louis by the percentage figures of .424 to .415, but two victories by St. Louis over Washington, against a drawn game by Cincinnati with Cleveland on the 30th, gave St. Louis the lead by .424 to .419, and Comiskey's "Reds" had to finish in tenth position, beaten in the race by Von der Abe's "Browns," a galling fact for the Cincinnati cranks. Here is the month's record of victories and defeats in September: THE SEPTEMBER RECORD. -------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t -------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore 20 3 23 .870 Philadelphia 13 12 25 .520 New York 20 6 26 .769 St. Louis 11 13 24 .458 Boston 14 11 25 .560 Cincinnati 10 16 26 .385 Cleveland 13 11 24 .542 Chicago 9 17 26 .346 Brooklyn 14 12 26 .538 Washington 8 16 24 .333 Pittsburgh 12 11 23 .522 Louisville 5 21 26 .192 -------------------------------------------------------- The appended summary shows the progress of each club from the opening to the close of the season, as also in what month each club made its best and worst record during the championship campaign: SUMMARY OF VICTORIES AND DEFEATS. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- T S h e e p A t F A u e i p J J g m n r M u u u b i i a n l s e s l y e y t r h Clubs. W. L. W. L. W. L. W. L. W. L. W. L. W. L. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore 5 3 12 6 20 6 10 14 22 7 20 3 89 39 New York 3 5 13 11 15 8 18 7 20 8 20 6 88 44 Boston 6 2 14 8 18 8 16 9 15 10 14 11 83 49 Philadelphia 6 3 12 7 11 12 12 14 19 10 13 12 71 56 Brooklyn 3 5 12 11 18 5 9 16 14 14 14 12 70 61 Cleveland 6 2 13 7 9 13 18 11 9 15 13 11 68 61 Pittsburgh 4 4 18 5 13 13 10 16 8 16 12 11 65 65 Chicago 1 8 9 12 8 17 16 10 15 12 9 17 57 75 St. Louis 6 2 9 16 10 15 10 17 9 13 11 13 56 76 Cincinnati 4 4 7 13 12 13 16 11 7 19 10 16 54 75 Washington 2 7 4 19 9 15 8 16 13 14 8 16 45 87 Louisville 4 5 6 14 4 22 13 15 5 18 5 21 36 94 Totals 50 50 129 129 147 147 156 156 156 156 149 149 782 782 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- MONTHLY RECORD OF PERCENTAGE. The following table shows the monthly record of percentage of victories in the campaign from April to September. ---------------------------------------------- 1894. S e p A t A u e p J J g m r M u u u b i a n l s e Clubs. l y e y t r --------------------------------------------- Baltimore .625 .654 .712 .618 .657 .695 New York .375 .500 .564 .613 .639 .667 Boston .750 .645 .667 .659 .645 .629 Philadelphia .667 .643 .569 .526 .562 .559 Brooklyn .375 .500 .623 .545 .533 .534 Cleveland .750 .679 .549 .575 .529 .527 Pittsburgh .500 .710 .614 .531 .491 .500 Chicago .111 .333 .327 .430 .458 .432 St. Louis .750 .455 .431 .412 .411 .421 Cincinnati .500 .393 .434 .488 .434 .419 Washington .222 .188 .281 .296 .343 .341 Louisville .444 .345 .255 .325 .302 .277 --------------------------------------------- It will be seen that in percentage figures of each month's play, Boston, Cleveland and St. Louis were tied in April. In May, Pittsburgh, Cleveland and Baltimore led. In June, Baltimore, Boston and Brooklyn were in the van. In July, the three leaders were Boston, Baltimore and New York. In August, also, the same three were nearest the goal, and September saw Baltimore carrying off the pennant, followed by New York and Boston. THE CAMPAIGN RECORD OF 1894. We introduce in the GUIDE for 1895 a new and important record, which shows, at a glance almost, the total score of each championship game _won_, _lost_ and _drawn_ from April 19th to September 30th, inclusive, and also gives the names of the pitchers who were credited with pitching in a victory, or charged with pitching in a defeat. The record of each month's campaign, too, is given, with the position in the pennant race each of the twelve clubs occupied at the close of each month's campaign of the six comprising the championship season. This record in full will be found to be the most complete table of the statistics of the League season yet published in the GUIDE series, and especially valuable as a reference record. THE APRIL RECORD. The League championship season of 1894 began on April 19th and ended on September 30th, the April campaign opening at Boston, Baltimore, Washington and St. Louis on the 19th, at Cincinnati and Louisville on the 20th, and at Philadelphia and Brooklyn on the 21st, while the opening games at New York, Pittsburgh and Chicago were not played until the 24th, 25th and 28th of April respectively, and not at Cleveland until May 3d. Fifty games were played in April, the twelve clubs of the two divisions of the League being engaged in playing their respective home-and-home series. Here is the complete record of the April campaign, showing the pitchers of each side and the total score of each contest of the month: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date Contesting Clubs. City. Pitchers. Score. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- April 19 Boston vs. Brooklyn Boston Stivetts Kennedy 13-2 19 Baltimore vs. New York Baltimore McMahon Rusie 8-3 19 Washington vs. Philadelphi Washington Esper Weyhing 4-2 19 St. Louis vs. Pittsburgh St. Louis Breitenstein Killen 11-3 20 Baltimore vs. New York Baltimore Mullane Clark 12-6 20 Philadelphia vs. Washi'g'n Washington Taylor Stephens 9-8 20 Cincinnati vs. Chicago Cincinnati Parrott Hutchinson 10-6 20 Louisville vs. Cleveland Louisville Menafee Young 10-3 21 Boston vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Nichols Stein 3-0 21 Baltimore vs. New York Baltimore Inks Westervelt 4-3 21 Philadelphia vs. Washi'g'n Philadelphia Carsey Esper 10-2 21 Cincinnati vs. Chicago Cincinnati Chamberlain Abbey 8-0 21 Cleveland vs. Louisville Louisville Cuppy Hemming 5-1 21 Pittsburgh vs. St. Louis St. Louis Gumbert Gleason 7-2 22 Cincinnati vs. Chicago Cincinnati Dwyer McGill 5-4 22 Cleveland vs. Louisville Louisville Clarkson Kilroy 3-2 23 Boston vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Lovett Daub 7-4 23 Philadelphia vs. Washi'g'n Washington Weyhing Stockdale 8-4 23 St. Louis vs. Pittsburgh St. Louis Breitenstein Ehret 4-3 24 Baltimore vs. Boston Baltimore McMahon Stivetts 15-3 24 Washington vs. New York Washington Petty Rusie 6-3 24 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Carsey Korwan 22-5 24 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Young Parrott 1-0 24 Louisville vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Menafee Nicol 7-3 24 St. Louis vs. Chicago Chicago A. Clarkson McGill 9-5 25 New York vs. Washington Washington German Maul 14-5 25 Brooklyn vs. Philadelphia Brooklyn Stein Taylor 8-2 25 Boston vs. Baltimore Baltimore Nichols Mullane 6-3 25 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Cuppy Chamberlain 12-6 25 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Louisville Gumbert Hemming 2-1 25 St. Louis vs. Chicago Chicago Hawley Hutchinson 13-3 26 New York vs. Washington Washington Meekin Stockdale 7-5 26 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Weyhing Sharrott 13-3 26 Boston vs. Baltimore Baltimore Staley Brown 13-7 26 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Clarkson Cross 12-4 26 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Louisville Killen Kilroy 3-1 26 St. Louis vs. Chicago Chicago Gleason Abbey 10-4 27 No games scheduled ----------- ---- 28 New York vs. Baltimore New York Rusie McMahon 9-6 28 Brooklyn vs. Washington Washington Stein Petty 10-9 28 Philadelphia vs. Boston Philadelphia Carsey Stivetts 14-3 28 St. Louis vs. Cleveland St. Louis Breitenstein Young 7-1 28 Cincinnati vs. Pittsburgh Cincinnati Parrott Terry 10-5 28 Chicago vs. Louisville Louisville McGill Menafee 2-1 29 Cleveland vs. St Louis St. Louis Cuppy A. Clarkson 5-2 29 Louisville vs. Chicago Louisville Hemming McGill 8-3 30 Baltimore vs. New York New York Mullane German 10-6 30 Brooklyn vs. Washington Washington Gastright Mercer 15-10 30 Boston vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Nichols Weyhing[1] 6-5 30 Pittsburgh vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Nicol Chamberlain 15-6 30 Louisville vs. Chicago Louisville Stratton McGill 8-2 [Footnote 1: Ten innings.] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The record showing the total victories and defeats scored by each of the twelve clubs during the April campaign is as follows. The names are given in the order of the percentage of victories scored in the pennant race: APRIL PENNANT RACE RECORD. ------------------------------------------------------- V V i P i P c D e c D e t e P r t e P r o f l o f l r e a c r e a c i a y e i a y e e t e n e t e n CLUBS s s d t CLUBS s s d t ------------------------------------------------------ Boston 6 2 8 .750 Cincinnati 4 4 8 .500 Cleveland 6 2 8 .750 Louisville 4 5 9 .444 St. Louis 6 2 8 .750 New York 3 5 8 .375 Philadelphia 6 3 9 .667 Brooklyn 3 5 8 .375 Baltimore 5 3 8 .625 Washington 2 7 9 .222 Pittsburgh 4 4 8 .500 Chicago 1 8 9 .111 Fifty games were played from April 19th to April 30th, inclusive. None were drawn or forfeited. ------------------------------------------------------ The first month of the championship campaign, short as it was, was marked by the largest attendance for the month of April known in the history of the League, an aggregate of 188,509 people patronizing the twenty-five games played in the East and 82,719 for the twenty-five played in the West. The largest aggregate attendance on a single day was 45,332 on April 21st, on which date 40,324 people patronized the three games played at Brooklyn, Philadelphia and Baltimore, and 5,008 the three games played at Cincinnati, St. Louis and Louisville. Though three Western clubs occupied positions in the first division--Cleveland and St. Louis tieing Boston for first place--the attendance in the West, as will be seen above, did not compare with that at the three games in the East, the terribly hard times out West greatly affecting everything in the amusement line in the Western League club cities. Boston, Cleveland and St. Louis started off well in the pennant race in April, these three clubs ending the April campaign tied for first place; with the "Phillies" a good fourth, Baltimore fifth, and Pittsburgh and Cincinnati tied for sixth position, Louisville being eighth, with New York and Brooklyn tied for ninth place, and Washington on the edge of the last ditch, the Chicago "Colts" being last on the list, they having won but one game out of nine played during the opening month of the season. During April the clubs of the two sections took part in their first home-and-home series, this series of games lasting into May. THE MAY CAMPAIGN RECORD. The following is the complete record of the campaign of May, which proved to be a very interesting one: THE MAY RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date. Contesting Clubs. City. Pitchers. Score. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- May 1 New York vs. Baltimore New York Meekin McMahon 7-4 " 1 Brooklyn vs. Washington Washington Sharrott Stephens[3] 2-1 " 1 Boston vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Lovett Carsey 7-3 " 1 Pittsburgh vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Killen Parrott 7-6 " 1 Cleveland vs. St. Louis St. Louis Clarkson Gleason 7-0 " 2 Washington vs. Boston Washington Maul Stivetts 6-4 " 2 Baltimore vs. Brooklyn Baltimore Brown Stein 8-2 " 2 Philadelphia vs. New York New York Taylor Rusie 7-5 " 3 Boston vs. Washington Washington Nichols Esper 10-8 " 3 Philadelphia vs. New York New York Weyh'g Westervelt 7-4 " 3 Baltimore vs. Brookyln Baltimore Mullane Gastright 8-3 " 3 Pittsburgh vs. St. Louis Pittsburgh Gumbert Breit'nst'n 6-2 " 3 Cleveland vs. Louisville Cleveland Young Menafee 7-2 " 4 Boston vs. Washington Washington Stivetts Stephens 15-5 " 4 New York vs. Philadelphia New York Rusie Haddock 6-4 " 4 Baltimore vs. Brooklyn Baltimore McMahon Sharrott 12-8 " 4 Cleveland vs. Louisville Cleveland Cuppy Hemming 8-4 " 4 Pittsburgh vs. St. Louis Pittsburgh Nicol A. Clarkson 10-9 " 4 Chicago vs. Cincinnati Chicago McGill Dwyer 6-3 " 5 New York vs. Boston New York Westervelt Lovett 5-2 " 5 Brooklyn vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Daub Carsey 4-3 " 5 Baltimore vs. Washington Washington Brown Mercer 9-2 " 5 Pittsburgh vs. St. Louis St. Louis Killen Hawley 6-5 " 6 Cincinnati vs. Chicago Chicago Chamberlain Camp 6-6 " 7 Boston vs. New York New York Nichols Rusie 1-0 " 7 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Philadelphia Weyhing Gastright 7-5 " 7 Baltimore vs. Washington Washington Mullane Maul 17-0 " 7 Cincinnati vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Parrott Gumbert 17-6 " 7 St. Louis vs. Louisville Louisville Breitenst'n Stratton 8-6 " 7 Cleveland vs. Chicago Cleveland Young McGill 7-1 " 8 New York vs. Boston New York Meekin Stivetts 16-7 " 8 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Philadelphia Haddock Daub 18-5 " 8 Baltimore vs. Washington Baltimore Inks Petty 11-5 " 8 Cleveland vs. Chicago Cleveland Cuppy Camp 18-3 " 8 St. Louis vs. Louisville Louisville Hawley Menafee 5-4 " 8 Pittsburgh vs. Cincinnati Pittsburgh Ehret Dwyer 6-5 " 9 Brooklyn vs. Boston Brooklyn Kennedy Lovett 7-3 " 9 Baltimore vs. Washington Washington McMahon Stockdale 12-6 " 9 Pittsburgh vs. Cincinnati Pittsburgh Gumbert Chambl'n 11-3 " 9 Cleveland vs. Chicago Cleveland Clarkson McGill 4-1 " 9 Louisville vs. St. Louis Louisville Hemming Gleason 6-3 " 10 New York vs. Washington New York Rusie Mercer 6-2 " 10 Boston vs. Brooklyn Boston Nichols Stein 7-1 " 10 Philadelphia vs. Baltimore Baltimore Taylor Mullane 9-3 " 10 Cleveland vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Young Killen 2-1 " 10 Cincinnati vs. St. Louis Cincinnati Parrott Hawley 18-9 " 11 New York vs. Washington Washington Westervelt Petty 5-4 " 11 Philadelphia vs. Baltimore Baltimore Carsey Horner 12-7 " 11 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Pittsburgh Ehret Cuppy 7-6 " 11 Chicago vs. Louisville Chicago Griffith Stratton 4-2 " 12 New York vs. Washington New York Meekin Stockdale 5-2 " 12 Brooklyn vs. Boston Boston Kennedy Stivetts 8-2 " 12 Baltimore vs. Philadelphia Baltimore Brown Callahan 8-3 " 12 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Pittsburgh Killen Clarkson 8-5 " 12 Cincinnati vs. St. Louis Cincinnati Parrott Breitenstein 5-0 " 12 Chicago vs. Louisville Chicago Hutchinson Hemming 6-5 " 13 Chicago vs. Louisville Chicago McGill Kilroy 14-12 " 13 Cincinnati vs. St. Louis Cincinnati Dwyer Gleason 7-3 " 14 Philadelphia vs. New York Philadelphia Carsey Rusie[2] 5-4 " 14 Brooklyn vs. Washington Brooklyn Gastright Mercer 14-7 " 14 Baltimore vs. Boston Boston McMahon Nichols 16-5 " 14 Pittsburgh vs. Chicago Pittsburgh Gumbert Abbey 6-3 " 14 Cincinnati vs. Louisville Cincinnati Parrott Whitrock 12-7 " 14 Cleveland vs. St. Louis Cleveland Young Breitenstein 7-3 " 15 Baltimore vs. Boston Boston Stopped by fire(3in) 3-3 " 15 Philadelphia vs. New York Philadelphia Taylor Westervelt 10-4 " 15 Brooklyn vs. Washington Brooklyn Stein Petty 16-7 " 15 Cleveland vs. St. Louis Cleveland Cuppy A. Clarkson 7-0 " 15 Chicago vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Griffith Ehret 6-2 " 16 Boston vs. Baltimore Boston Lovett Mullane 10-8 " 16 Philadelphia vs. New York Philadelphia Haddock Meekin 10-1 " 16 Brooklyn vs. Washington Brooklyn Daub Mercer[1] 3-2 " 16 Pittsburgh vs. Chicago Pittsburgh Killen McGill 2-0 " 16 Cleveland vs. St. Louis Cleveland Clarkson Gleason 5-0 " 16 Louisville vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Hemming Dwyer 9-7 " 17 New York vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Rusie Kennedy 6-4 " 17 Boston vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Nichols Carsey 4-3 " 17 Baltimore vs. Washington Baltimore Hawke Petty 10-2 " 18 Brooklyn vs. New York New York Stein German 16-7 " 18 Philadelphia vs. Boston Philadelphia Taylor Stivetts[1] 5-4 " 19 New York vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Meekin Daub[1] 3-3 " 19 Philadelphia vs. Boston Philadelphia Haddock Staley 8-7 " 19 Baltimore vs. Washington Baltimore McMahon Mercer 7-5 " 19 St. Louis vs. Cincinnati St. Louis Breitenstein Parrott 5-2 " 19 Cleveland vs. Chicago Chicago Young Griffith 9-5 " 20 St. Louis vs. Cincinnati St. Louis Hawley Chamberlain[1] 4-3 " 20 Cincinnati vs. St. Louis St. Louis Dwyer A. Clarkson 7-1 " 21 Boston vs. New York Boston Nichols Westervelt 3-0 " 21 Pittsburgh vs. Chicago Chicago Killen McGill 11-10 " 21 Cincinnati vs. Cleveland Cleveland Parrott Young 2-1 " 22 Boston vs. New York Boston Lovett Rusie 3-2 " 22 Chicago vs. Pittsburgh Chicago Griffith Ehret 7-6 " 22 St. Louis vs. Louisville St. Louis Gleason Kilroy 6-4 " 23 New York vs. Boston Boston Meekin Staley 12-4 " 23 Brooklyn vs. Baltimore Baltimore Kennedy Mullane 5-1 " 23 Pittsburgh vs. Chicago Chicago Gumbert Hutchinson[3] 10-9 " 23 Louisville vs. St. Louis St. Louis Hemming Hawley 4-3 " 24 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Cleveland Ehret Young 6-5 " 24 Louisville vs. Cincinnati Louisville Menafee Parrott 6-0 " 24 Chicago vs. St. Louis Chicago Hutchinson Breit'st'n 3-1 " 25 New York vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Rusie Kennedy 12-6 " 25 Boston vs. Washington Boston Nichols Maul 10-2 " 25 Cleveland vs. Pittsburgh Cleveland Clarkson Killen 5-2 " 26 New York vs. Brooklyn New York Meekin Stein 8-7 " 26 Boston vs. Washington Boston Lovett Mercer 10-8 " 26 Baltimore vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Inks Taylor 5-5 " 26 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Cleveland Ehret Cuppy[3] 12-3 " 26 St. Louis vs. Chicago Chicago Breitenstein Griffith 9-8 " 26 Louisville vs. Cincinnati Louisville Knell Parrott 5-2 " 27 St. Louis vs. Chicago St. Louis Hawley McGill 3-2 " 27 Louisville vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Hemming Dwyer 6-5 " 28 Boston vs. Washington Boston Staley Petty 18-12 " 28 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Pittsburgh Gumbert Menafee 4-2 " 28 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Pittsburgh Killen Stratton 11-6 " 29 New York vs. Cleveland New York Meekin Young 2-0 " 29 Philadelphia vs. Chicago Philadelphia Taylor Hutchinson 14-7 " 29 Washington vs. Louisville Washington Mercer Hemming 12-2 " 29 St. Louis vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Breit'stein Kennedy 9-8 " 29 Pittsburgh vs. Baltimore Pittsburgh Ehret McMahon 3-2 " 30 New York vs. Cleveland New York Rusie Cuppy 2-1 " 30 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis Brooklyn Stein A. Clarkson 6-2 " 30 Washington vs. Louisville Washington Petty Knell 7-3 " 30 Boston vs. Cincinnati Boston Lovett Parrott 13-10 " 30 Chicago vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia McGill Haddock 12-4 " 30 Boston vs. Cincinnati Boston Nichols Chamberlain 20-11 " 30 Washington vs. Louisville Washington Maul Kilroy 14-9 " 30 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis Brooklyn Daub Hawley 5-2 " 30 Chicago vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Griffith Weyhing 12-6 " 30 Cleveland vs. New York New York Clarkson German[2] 3-2 " 31 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Baltimore Mullane Dwyer 7-1 " 31 Brooklyn vs. Chicago Brooklyn Kennedy Terry 5-3 " 31 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Washington Killen Esper 15-4 " 31 St. Louis vs. New York New York Breit'stein West'velt 6-2 [Footnote 1: Ten innings.] [Footnote 2: Eleven innings.] [Footnote 3: Forfeited.] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- During the May campaign the first home-and-home series was completed, and the first West vs. East series commenced. The record showing the relative positions of the twelve clubs up to the close of the May campaign, as also the number of games won and lost by each club during May, is as follows: THE MAY PENNANT RACE RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t -------------------------------------------------------------- Pittsburgh 22 9 31 .710 Brooklyn 15 15 30 .500 Cleveland 19 9 28 .679 St. Louis 15 18 33 .455 Baltimore 17 9 26 .651 Cincinnati 11 17 28 .393 Boston 20 11 31 .645 Louisville 10 19 29 .345 Philadelphia 18 10 28 .643 Chicago 10 20 30 .333 New York 16 16 32 .500 Washington 6 26 32 .188 Three games were drawn during May; one was forfeited; one protested; and one stopped by fire. -------------------------------------------------------------- During May the Pittsburghs pulled up to the head of the first division, with the percentage figures of .710, Cleveland being second with .679, and Baltimore third with .654; Boston, Philadelphia and New York following in order--Brooklyn being tied with New York for sixth place. Baltimore had pulled up ahead of Boston, while Philadelphia fell off, as did St. Louis and Cincinnati, both of the latter clubs retiring to the second division, while Washington allowed the April tail-enders to push them into the last ditch, and it was not until August 23d that they got out of it. THE JUNE CAMPAIGN RECORD. The month's record of the June campaign shows that several important changes were made in the relative positions of the majority of the twelve clubs in the race, the record being as follows: THE JUNE RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date. Contesting Clubs. City. Pitchers. Score. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- June 1 Washington vs. Pittsburgh Washington Mercer Gumbert 10-5 " 1 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Baltimore Hawke Chambl'n 9-8 " 1 Brooklyn vs. Chicago Brooklyn Gastright Griffith 5-0 " 1 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Philadelphia Taylor Menafee[3] 10-3 " 1 Cleveland vs. Boston Boston Young Stivetts 22-8 " 1 St. Louis vs. New York New York A. Clarkson Rusie 5-1 " 2 St. Louis vs. New York New York Hawley Meekin 2-2 " 2 Boston vs. Cleveland Boston Nichols Clarkson 11-10 " 2 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Philadelphia Weyhing Hemming 11-0 " 2 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Baltimore McMahon Parrott 13-6 " 2 Washington vs. Pittsburgh Washington Maul Ehret 11-6 " 2 Brooklyn vs. Chicago Brooklyn Stein Abbey 1-0 " 3 No games scheduled " 4 Cincinnati vs. New York New York Dwyer German 8-4 " 4 Pittsburgh vs. Boston Boston Killen Staley 7-4 " 4 St. Louis vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Breitenstein Taylor 3-2 " 4 Washington vs. Cleveland Washington Petty Cuppy 8-5 " 4 Baltimore vs. Chicago Baltimore Hawke McGill 12-4 " 4 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Brooklyn Daub Knell 18-4 " 5 New York vs. Cincinnati New York Meekin Chamberl'n 10-6 " 5 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Brooklyn Kennedy Menafee 5-4 " 5 Boston vs. Pittsburgh Boston Nichols Gumbert 7-3 " 5 Baltimore vs. Chicago Baltimore McMahon Hutchinson[1] 8-5 " 5 Cleveland vs. Washington Washington Young Mercer 9-6 " 5 St. Louis vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Hawley Weyhing 7-3 " 6 Pittsburgh vs. Boston Boston Colcolough Lampe 27-11 " 7 Pittsburgh vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Gumbert Gastright 13-13 " 7 New York vs. Chicago New York Westervelt Terry 8-7 " 7 Philadelphia vs. Cleveland Philadelphia Taylor Clarkson 6-0 " 7 Boston vs. St. Louis Boston Nichols Breitenstein 18-7 " 7 Washington vs. Cincinnati Washington Maul Parrott 8-8 " 7 Baltimore vs. Louisville Baltimore Inks Hemming 7-4 " 8 New York vs. Chicago New York Rusie McGill 3-0 " 8 Brooklyn vs. Pittsburgh Brooklyn Kennedy Ehret 2-1 " 8 Boston vs. St. Louis Boston Stivetts A.Clarkson 12-6 " 8 Baltimore vs. Louisville Baltimore Hawke Stratton 14-2 " 8 Washington vs. Cincinnati Washington Esper Dwyer 9-6 " 8 Cleveland vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Young Weyhing 4-1 " 9 Boston vs. St. Louis Boston Nichols Breitenstein 12-8 " 9 Philadelphia vs. Cleveland Philadelphia Taylor Fischer 9-1 " 9 Baltimore vs. Louisville Baltimore McMahon Menafee 7-5 " 9 Brooklyn vs. Pittsburgh Brooklyn Daub Killen 14-5 " 9 Cincinnati vs. Washington Washington Chamberlain Petty 8-3 " 9 Chicago vs. New York New York Hutchinson Meekin 10-9 " 10 No games scheduled. " 11 New York vs. Louisville New York Rusie Hemming 8-3 " 11 Boston vs. Chicago Boston Stivetts Terry 15-14 " 11 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh Philadelphia Weyhing Killen 7-4 " 11 Brooklyn vs. Cincinnati Brooklyn Stein Dwyer 12-11 " 11 St. Louis vs. Washington Washington A. Clarkson Maul[2] 3-2 " 11 Cleveland vs. Baltimore Baltimore Young Brown 9-7 " 12 New York vs. Louisville New York Meekin Knell 4-1 " 12 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh Philadelphia Taylor Ehret 17-1 " 12 Boston vs. Chicago Boston Nichols McGill 12-9 " 12 Washington vs. St. Louis Washington Mercer Breitenstein 4-3 " 12 Cincinnati vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Chamberlain Gastright 5-3 " 13 New York vs. Louisville New York Rusie Hemming 7-5 " 13 Brooklyn vs. Cincinnati Brooklyn Daub Parrott 11-5 " 13 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Baltimore McMahon Clarkson 9-2 " 13 Washington vs. St. Louis Washington Esper Gleason 12-3 " 13 Chicago vs. Boston Chicago Griffith Lovett 6-2 " 13 Pittsburgh vs. Philadelphia Pittsburgh Nicol Carsey 8-6 " 14 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Philadelphia Weyhing Dwyer 5-2 " 14 Boston vs. Louisville Boston Staley Knell 9-6 " 14 Baltimore vs. St. Louis Baltimore Mullane Br'tenst'n[2] 7-6 " 14 Cleveland vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Young Kennedy 5-4 " 14 Pittsburgh vs. New York New York Killen Clark 10-4 " 14 Chicago vs. Washington Washington McGill Sullivan[2] 12-11 " 15 New York vs. Pittsburgh New York Meekin Gumbert 9-2 " 15 Brooklyn vs. Cleveland Brooklyn Stein Lyster 9-8 " 15 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Philadelphia Callahan Chamberlain 21-8 " 15 Baltimore vs. St. Louis Baltimore Hawke A. Clarkson 17-3 " 15 Washington vs. Chicago Washington Maul Abbey 6-4 " 15 Boston vs. Louisville Boston Stivetts Hemming 15-10 " 16 New York vs. Pittsburgh New York Rusie Ehret 8-5 " 16 Brooklyn vs. Cleveland Brooklyn Kennedy Fischer 11-7 " 16 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Philadelphia Carsey Pfann 19-9 " 16 Baltimore vs. St. Louis Baltimore McMahon Breitenstein 12-5 " 16 Boston vs. Louisville Boston Lovett Stratton 16-10 " 16 Chicago vs. Washington Chicago Griffith Esper 11-5 " 17 St. Louis vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati A.Clarkson Tannehill 9-6 " 18 Philadelphia vs. New York New York Weyhing Meekin 4-1 " 18 Brooklyn vs. Washington Washington Stein Mercer 10-6 " 18 Boston vs. Baltimore Boston Stivetts Mullane 24-7 " 18 Baltimore vs. Boston Boston McMahon Nichols 9-7 " 18 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Pittsburgh Colcolough Knell 9-8 " 18 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Pittsburgh Killen Menafee 11-1 " 18 Cleveland vs. Chicago Cleveland Young McGill 11-3 " 18 Cincinnati vs. St. Louis St. Louis Dwyer Breitenstein 8-4 " 19 Brooklyn vs. Washington Washington Kennedy Maul 11-9 " 19 Baltimore vs. Boston Boston Hawke Staley 13-8 " 19 Chicago vs. Cleveland Cleveland Terry Knaus 5-2 " 19 Louisville vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Hemming Easton 9-4 " 19 Cincinnati vs. St. Louis St. Louis Chamb'lain Hawley 3-2 " 20 New York vs. Philadelphia New York Clark Carsey 6-4 " 20 New York vs. Philadelphia New York Rusie Callahan 14-6 " 20 Boston vs. Baltimore Boston Stivetts McMahon 13-12 " 20 Washington vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Esper Daub 16-12 " 20 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Pittsburgh Gumbert Menafee 7-6 " 20 Cleveland vs. Chicago Cleveland Clarkson Griffith 7-3 " 20 St. Louis vs. Cincinnati St. Louis Breitenstein Blank 4-2 " 21 Brooklyn vs. New York Brooklyn Kennedy Germar 16-1 " 21 Boston vs. Washington Boston Nichols Mau 10-7 " 21 Baltimore vs. Philadelphia Baltimore Mullane Weyhing 9-5 " 21 Chicago vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Terry Ehrel 10-7 " 21 Louisville vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Knell Dwyer 5-4 " 22 Brooklyn vs. New York New York Stein Rusie 7-0 " 22 Baltimore vs. Philadelphia Baltimore Inks Burris 18-14 " 22 Washington vs. Boston Washington Mercer Staley 26-12 " 22 Pittsburgh vs. Chicago Pittsburgh Killen Griffith 11-4 " 22 Cleveland vs. St. Louis St. Louis Young A. Clarkson 6-3 " 23 New York vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Meekin Kennedy 10-8 " 23 Boston vs. Washington Washington Stivetts Esper 12-5 " 23 Baltimore vs. Philadelphia Baltimore McMahon Lukens 18-11 " 23 St. Louis vs. Cleveland St. Louis Breitenst'n Griffith 14-8 " 23 Pittsburgh vs. Chicago Pittsburgh Colcol'gh Hutchinson 9-4 " 23 Cincinnati vs. Louisville Cincinnati Chamberlain Stratt'n 5-1 " 23 Cincinnati vs. Louisville Cincinnati Tannehill Menafee 8-8 " 24 Cincinnati vs. Louisville Louisville Dwyer Hemming 7-5 " 24 St. Louis vs. Cleveland St. Louis Hawley Clarkson 14-10 " 24 Baltimore vs. Chicago Chicago Hawke Terry 11-10 " 25 St. Louis vs. New York St. Louis A.Clarkson Rusie 3-2 " 25 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Pittsburgh Killen Esper 6-1 " 25 Chicago vs. Baltimore Chicago Hutchinson Mullane 15-8 " 25 Boston vs. Louisville Louisville Nichols Knell 9-1 " 26 New York vs. St. Louis St. Louis Meekin Breitenstein 4-3 " 26 Baltimore vs. Chicago Chicago McMahon McGill 14-6 " 26 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Pittsburgh Ehret Sullivan 6-5 " 27 New York vs. St. Louis St. Louis Westervelt Hawley 11-0 " 27 Brooklyn vs. Cleveland Cleveland Stein Young 10-7 " 27 Brooklyn vs. Cleveland Cleveland Daub Clarkson 5-2 " 27 Boston vs. Louisville Louisville Stivetts Menafee 13-3 " 27 Chicago vs. Baltimore Chicago Griffith Hawke 13-4 " 27 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Pittsburgh Gumbert Mercer 11-4 " 27 Cincinnati vs.Philadelphia Cincinnati Parrott Weyhing 7-3 " 28 New York vs. Chicago Chicago Rusie Terry 6-5 " 28 Brooklyn vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Kennedy Killen 11-7 " 28 Boston vs. St. Louis St. Louis Nichols A.Clarkson[1] 12-11 " 28 Cleveland vs. Baltimore Cleveland Cuppy Mullane 18-11 " 28 Louisville vs. Philadelphia Louisville Hemming Carsey[1] 11-9 " 28 Cincinnati vs. Washington Cincinnati Chamberlain Maul 6-4 " 29 New York vs. Chicago Chicago Meekin Hutchinson 14-8 " 29 Brooklyn vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Stein Ehret 7-5 " 29 Boston vs. St. Louis St. Louis Staley Breitenstein 13-4 " 29 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Cleveland McMahon Griffith 9-6 " 29 Louisville vs. Philadelphia Louisville Knell Lukens 12-5 " 29 Cincinnati vs. Washington Cincinnati Dwyer Sullivan 6-4 " 30 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Cleveland Inks Young 5-3 " 30 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Louisville Weyhing Menafee 13-6 " 30 Pittsburgh vs. Brooklyn Pittsburgh Gumbert Kennedy 10-6 " 30 Cincinnati vs. Washington Cincinnati Parrott Mercer 12-0 " 30 St. Louis vs. Boston St. Louis A. Clarkson Lovett 10-9 [Footnote 1: Ten innings.] [Footnote 2: Eleven innings.] [Footnote 3: Forfeited.] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE JUNE PENNANT RACE RECORD. ------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t ------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore 37 15 52 .712 Cleveland 28 23 51 .549 Boston 38 19 57 .667 Cincinnati 23 30 53 .434 Brooklyn 33 20 53 .623 St. Louis 25 33 58 .431 Pittsburgh 35 22 57 .614 Chicago 18 37 55 .327 Philadelphia 29 22 51 .569 Washington 16 41 57 .281 New York 31 24 55 .564 Louisville 14 41 55 .255 No games were drawn, forfeited or protested. ------------------------------------------------------- The Baltimore club retained the leading position in the race at the close of the June campaign with the percentage figures of .712, the tail-end club's percentage figures being .255, a difference in percentage points of .457, thereby showing a poorly contested race even at that early period of the season. Boston was in second position, with Brooklyn third, this month's figures being the culmination of the Brooklyn team's success. Pittsburgh was fourth, that being the only Western club in the first division, although so early in the race, the "Phillies" and the "Giants" being respectively fifth and sixth. Cleveland headed the second division at the close of the month, followed by Cincinnati, St. Louis, Chicago and Washington, Louisville being still occupants of the last ditch. THE JULY CAMPAIGN RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date. Contesting Clubs. City. Pitchers. Score. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- July 1 Cincinnati vs. Brooklyn Cincinnati Chamberlain Daub 9-7 " 1 Louisville vs. Baltimore Louisville Hemming Hawke 6-0 " 1 Washington vs. St. Louis St. Louis Esper Breitenstein 4-2 " 1 Cleveland vs. Chicago Chicago Cuppy Griffith 10-9 " 2 New York vs. Cleveland Cleveland Rusie Griffith 6-4 " 2 Boston vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Nichols Ehret 7-2 " 2 Philadelphia vs. Chicago Chicago Carsey Stratton 17-15 " 3 No games scheduled. " 4 New York vs. Cleveland Cleveland Meekin Cuppy 4-3 " 4 New York vs. Cleveland. Chicago. Weyhing McGill 12-11 " 4 Baltimore vs. Louisville. Louisville McMahon Knell 3-2 " 4 Louisville vs. Baltimore. Louisville Hemming Inks 11-1 " 4 Washington vs. St. Louis. St. Louis. Sullivan Hawley 10-5 " 4 St. Louis vs. Washington. St. Louis. A.Clarkson Mercer 15-8 " 5 New York vs. Louisville. Louisville. Westervelt Menafee 4-3 " 5 Boston vs. Cleveland. Cleveland. Staley Clarkson 22-7 " 5 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh. Carsey Colcolough 4-3 " 5 St. Louis vs. Brooklyn. St. Louis. Hawley Daub 13-12 " 5 Cincinnati vs. Baltimore. Cincinnati. Dwyer Hawke 20-6 " 5 Chicago vs. Washington. Chicago. Stratton Maul 13-10 " 6 New York vs. Louisville. Louisville. Rusie Hemming 10-6 " 6 Boston vs. Cleveland. Boston. Stivetts Cuppy 19-6 " 6 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh. Haddock Killen 13-7 " 7 New York vs. Louisville. Louisville. Meekin Knell 14-6 " 7 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis. St. Louis. Kennedy Breitenst'n 10-5 " 7 Boston vs. Cleveland. Cleveland. Nichols Young 16-10 " 7 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh. Weyhing Ehret 12-0 " 7 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati. Cincinnati. Inks Parrott 11-2 " 7 Chicago vs. Washington Chicago Abbey Sullivan 9-7 " 8 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis. St. Louis. Stein A.Clarkson 12-5 " 8 Washington vs. Chicago. Chicago. Esper Griffith 9-8 " 8 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati. Cincinnati. McMahon Chamberlain 14-4 " 9 New York vs. Cincinnati. Cincinnati. Rusie Parrott 13-8 " 9 Philadelphia vs. St. Louis. St. Louis. Callahan Hawley 11-10 " 9 Baltimore vs. Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh. Brown Killen 14-10 " 9 Louisville vs. Brooklyn. Louisville. Wadsw'th Kennedy 20-8 " 9 Chicago vs. Boston. Chicago. Stratton Staley 18-11 " 9 Cleveland vs. Washington. Cleveland. Cuppy Esper 16-15 " 10 Cincinnati vs. New York. Cincinnati. Dwyer Meekin 7-3 " 10 Louisville vs. Brooklyn. Louisville. Menafee Daub 13-7 " 10 Pittsburgh vs. Baltimore. Pittsburgh. Ehret McMahon 19-9 " 10 Cleveland vs. Washington. Cleveland. Young Esper 23-4 " 10 St. Louis vs. Philadelphia. St. Louis. Breitenst'n Haddock 17-8 " 10 Boston vs. Chicago. Chicago. Stivetts McGill 12-3 " 11 Cincinnati vs. New York. Cincinnati. Parrott Westervelt 6-5 " 11 Louisville vs. Brooklyn. Louisville. Hemming Stein 7-3 " 11 Pittsburgh vs. Baltimore. Pittsburgh. Gumbert Inks 8-6 " 11 Chicago vs. Boston. Chicago. Griffith Nichols 13-1 " 11 Cleveland vs. Washington. Cleveland. Griffith Mercer[1] 15-10 " 11 St. Louis vs. Philadelphia. St. Louis. A.Clarkson Weyhing 13-12 " 12 New York vs. Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh. Rusie Killen 9-6 " 12 Boston vs. Cincinnati. Cincinnati. Stivetts Dwyer 6-4 " 12 Chicago vs. Brooklyn. Chicago. Stratton Kennedy 11-6 " 12 Louisville vs. Washington. Louisville. Knell Sullivan 7-5 " 12 Cleveland vs. Philadelphia. Cleveland. Cuppy Carsey 20-10 " 13 Pittsburgh vs. New York. Pittsburgh. Ehret Westervelt 10-4 " 13 St. Louis vs. Baltimore. St. Louis. Breitenstein Hawke 11-10 " 13 Cincinnati vs. Philadelphia Cleveland Young Callahan 16-8 " 13 Boston vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Staley Parrott 22-7 " 14 New York vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Meekin Gumbert 9-5 " 14 Baltimore vs. St. Louis St. Louis Inks Hawley 7-3 " 14 Brooklyn vs. Chicago Chicago Stein Abbey[1] 8-8 " 14 Cincinnati vs. Boston Cincinnati Cross Nichols 14-12 " 14 Cleveland vs. Philadelphia Cleveland Griffith Weyhing 14-7 " 14 Louisville vs. Washington Louisville Wadsworth Esper 5-3 " 15 Chicago vs. Brooklyn Chicago Terry Gastright 10-7 " 15 Baltimore vs. St. Louis St. Louis McMahon A.Cl'kson[2] 9-8 " 15 Louisville vs. Washington Louisville Menafee Mercer 11-8 " 15 Cincinnati vs. Cleveland Cincinnati Dwyer Cuppy 17-8 " 16 Philadelphia vs. Boston Philadelphia Harper Stivitts 9-2 " 16 St. Louis vs. Pittsburgh St. Louis Br't'nst'n Colcol'gh 11-7 " 16 Louisville vs. Chicago Chicago Hemming Griffith 11-10 " 16 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Young Parrott 9-1 " 17 New York vs. Washington New York Rusie Maul 7-2 " 17 Philadelphia vs. Boston Philadelphia Taylor Staley[4] 12-2 " 17 Baltimore vs. Brooklyn Baltimore Gleason Kennedy 13-4 " 17 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Griffin Flynn 16-7 " 17 Pittsburgh vs. St. Louis St. Louis Ehret Mason 5-4 " 17 Chicago vs. Louisville Chicago Stratton Knell 8-5 " 18 New York vs. Washington New York Meekin Mercer 5-4 " 18 Boston vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Nichols Weyhing 6-5 " 18 Baltimore vs. Brooklyn Baltimore Hawke Underwood 6-2 " 18 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Young Chamberlain 9-4 " 18 St. Louis vs. Pittsburgh St. Louis Hawley Gumbert 3-2 " 18 Chicago vs. Louisville Chicago Terry Wadsworth 8-4 " 19 New York vs. Washington New York German Sullivan 13-12 " 19 Brooklyn vs. Baltimore Baltimore Stein Inks 10-8 " 19 Cincinnati vs. Pittsburgh Cincinnati Dwyer Colcolough 8-6 " 19 St. Louis vs. Chicago St. Louis Breitenstein Abbey 7-1 " 20 Boston vs. New York Boston Stivetts Rusie 12-1 " 20 Brooklyn vs. Philadelphia Brooklyn Kennedy Taylor 8-2 " 20 Baltimore vs. Washington Washington Hawke Petty 12-8 " 20 Cincinnati vs. Pittsburgh Cincinnati Chamberlain Ehret 7-6 " 20 Louisville vs. Cleveland Louisville Menafee Mullane 7-4 " 21 Boston vs. New York Boston Nichols Meekin 14-3 " 21 Brooklyn vs. Philadelphia Brooklyn Underwood Herper 8-7 " 21 Washington vs. Baltimore Baltimore Maul Gleason 14-3 " 21 Chicago vs. St. Louis St. Louis Stratton Hawley[1]16-11 " 21 Cleveland vs. Louisville Louisville Cuppy Hemming 2-0 " 21 Cleveland vs. Louisvile Louisville Young Knell 9-1 " 21 Cincinnati vs. Pittsburgh Cincinnati Cross Gumbert 12-4 " 22 Cincinnati vs. Louisville Louisville Dwyer Wadsworth 4-0 " 22 Chicago vs. St. Louis St. Louis Griffith A.Clarkson 11-9 " 23 Boston vs. New York Boston Staley German 9-5 " 23 Brooklyn vs. Philadelphia Brooklyn Stein Taylor 7-3 " 23 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Weyhing Daub 12-4 " 23 Cincinnati vs. Louisville Louisville Chamberlain Menafee 9-8 " 23 Pittsburgh vs. Chicago Chicago Killen Stratton 14-6 " 24 New York vs. Baltimore New York Rusie McMahon 1-0 " 24 Cleveland vs. St. Louis Cleveland Mullane Breitenst'n 12-9 " 24 Cleveland vs. St. Louis Cleveland Cuppy Hawley 4-2 " 24 Cincinnati vs. Louisville Louisville Parrott Hemming 4-3 " 24 Chicago vs. Pittsburgh Chicago Hutchinson Ehret 18-11 " 25 New York vs. Baltimore New York Meekin Gleason 7-2 " 25 Brooklyn vs. Boston Boston Kennedy Stivetts 8-7 " 25 Boston vs. Brooklyn Boston Nichols Underwood 12-6 " 25 Washington vs. Philadelphia Washington Mercer Fanning 16-6 " 25 Philadelphia vs. Washington Washington Carsey Sullivan 9-6 " 25 Cleveland vs. St. Louis Cleveland Young Breitenstein 12-3 " 25 Chicago vs. Pittsburgh Chicago Griffith Colcolough 24-6 " 26 New York vs. Baltimore New York German Hawke 16-4 " 26 Brooklyn vs. Boston Boston Stein Staley 15-9 " 26 Washington vs. Philadelphia Washington Maul Taylor 5-4 " 26 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Cleveland Ehret Mullane 9-3 " 27 Philadelphia vs. New York Philadelphia Harper Rusle 13-5 " 27 Washington vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Mercer Kennedy 8-2 " 27 Boston vs. Baltimore Baltimore Stivetts McMahon 7-4 " 27 Cleveland vs. Pittsburgh Cleveland Cuppy Nicol 9-6 " 27 Cincinnati vs. Chicago Cincinnati Dwyer Stratton 14-12 " 27 St. Louis vs. Louisville St. Louis Hawley Wadsworth 6-4 " 28 New York vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Meekin Carsey[3] 12-11 " 28 Brooklyn vs. Washington Brooklyn Underwood Sullivan 9-5 " 28 Boston vs. Baltimore Baltimore Staley Gleason 8-4 " 28 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Cleveland Ehret Young 8-0 " 28 Cincinnati vs. Chicago Cincinnati Cross Griffith 19-13 " 28 Louisville vs. St. Louis St. Louis Hemming Mason 8-4 " 29 St. Louis vs. Louisville St. Louis Breitenst'n Menafee 13-2 " 29 Louisville vs. St. Louis St. Louis Knell Hawley 9-2 " 29 Chicago vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Griffith Parrott 16-9 " 30 New York vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia German Taylor 13-7 " 30 Washington vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Maul Daub 10-6 " 30 Boston vs. Baltimore Baltimore Stivetts Hawke 5-2 " 30 Pittsburgh vs. Cincinnati Pittsburgh Gumbert Cross 8-6 " 30 Cleveland vs. Louisville Cleveland Cuppy Wadsworth 14-5 " 30 Chicago vs. St. Louis Chicago Stratton Hawley 8-4 " 31 New York vs. Boston New York Rusie Nichols 4-3 " 31 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Philadelphia Harper Kennedy 13-6 " 31 Baltimore vs. Washington Baltimore McMahon Mercer 11-3 " 31 Chicago vs. St. Louis Chicago Hutchinson Breitenst'n 8-1 " 31 Cleveland vs. Louisville Cleveland Mullane Hemming[2] 12-10 " 31 Louisville vs. Cleveland Cleveland Menafee Young 12-4 " 31 Pittsburgh vs. Cincinnati Pittsburgh Nicol Dwyer[2] 11-10 [Footnote 1: Ten Innings] [Footnote 2: Eleven innings.] [Footnote 3: Thirteen innings.] [Footnote 4: Forfeited.] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Only one game was drawn in July. THE JULY PENNANT RACE RECORD. ------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t ------------------------------------------------------- Boston 54 28 82 .659 Philadelphia 40 36 76 .526 Baltimore 47 29 76 .618 Cincinnati 39 41 80 .488 New York 49 31 80 .613 Chicago 34 45 79 .430 Cleveland 46 34 80 .575 St. Louis 35 60 85 .412 Brooklyn 42 35 77 .545 Louisville 27 56 83 .325 Pittsburgh 43 38 81 .531 Washington 24 57 81 .296 ------------------------------------------------------- By the end of July the Boston club had ousted Baltimore out of first place, and the calculation now was that Boston would ultimately win. New York had pulled up to third place this month, and from this time out these three clubs monopolized the three leading positions in the race, no other club from now on being regarded as in the race, as far as the winning of the pennant was concerned. On the 31st of July two Western clubs occupied positions in the first division--Cleveland being fourth and Pittsburgh sixth--the Brooklyn club leading the "Pirates" by a few points only. The "Phillies" had been forced back into the second division, and Louisville had pushed the Washingtons into the last ditch, the difference in percentage points between the Boston and Washington clubs--the leader and tail-ender--being 355 points. Now came the trying month of August, and with it came the customary falling off in patronage, largely due to the one-sided character of the pennant race, the chief interest in the contest for the championship now lying in the struggle for the lead between Baltimore, New York, and Boston, the "Bean Eaters" still leading at the end of July, followed by Baltimore and New York. [Illustration: Brooklyn Base Ball Club, '94.] [Illustration: Cleveland Base Ball Club, '94.] [Illustration: Pittsburgh Base Ball Club, '94.] [Illustration: A.C. Anson, Chicago Base Ball Club. The only "Colt" Who Had a picture Taken.] THE AUGUST CAMPAIGN RECORD The following is the record of the August campaign, which led to a material change in the relative positions of the twelve clubs by the close of the month: THE AUGUST RECORD --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date. Contesting Clubs. City. Pitchers. Score. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Aug. 1 New York vs. Boston New York Meekin Staley[2] 5-4 " 1 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Philadelphia Carsey Stein 6-5 " 1 Baltimore vs. Washington Washington Gleason Stein 6-4 " 1 Baltimore vs. Washington Washington Inks Stockdale 11-4 " 1 Chicago vs. St. Louis Chicago McGill Hawley 26-8 " 1 Pittsburgh vs. Cincinnati Pittsburgh Colcolugh Parrot 15-5 " 2 Boston vs. New York New York Nichols German 13-13 " 2 Philadelphia vs. Brooklyn Philadelphia Fanning Underwood 9-8 " 2 Baltimore vs. Washington Baltimore Hawke Maul 10-9 " 2 St. Louis vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Breitenstein Ehret 7-4 " 2 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cleveland Cuppy Chamberlain 9-4 " 2 Chicago vs. Louisville Louisville Hutchinson Knell 4-3 " 3 New York vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Westervelt Daub 17-3 " 3 Brooklyn vs. New York Brooklyn Kennedy Clarke 7-6 " 3 Philadelphia vs. Baltimore Philadelphia Taylor Esper 14-4 " 3 Baltimore vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia McMahon Weyhing 16-3 " 3 Washington vs. Boston Boston Mercer Nichols 8-4 " 3 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cleveland Young Cross 11-5 " 3 St. Louis vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Hawley Gumbert[2] 8-6 " 3 Louisville vs. Chicago Louisville Forfeited; no game 9-0 " 4 New York vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Rusie Stein 16-8 " 4 New York vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Meekin Stein 9-* " 4 Boston vs. Washington Boston Stivetts Sullivan 11-5 " 4 Baltimore vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Gleason Carsey 19-12 " 4 Pittsburgh vs. St. Louis Pittsburgh Colcol'h Br'tenst'n 11-5 " 4 Cincinnati vs. Cleveland Cleveland Parrott Cuppy 8-5 " 4 Chicago vs. Louisville Louisville Griffith Hemming 10-4 " 5 Chicago vs. Cincinnati Chicago Griffith Dwyer 8-1 " 5 Lousiville vs. St. Louis Lousiville Wadsworth A.Clarkson 5-2 " 6 Brooklyn vs. New York New York Kennedy Westervelt 21-8 " 6 Boston vs. Washington Boston Staley Maul 15-7 " 6 Chicago vs. Cincinnati Chicago Stratton Cross 12-9 " 6 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Pittsburgh Eghret Young 11-6 " 6 Louisville vs. St. Louis Louisville Menafee Hawley 3-1 " 7 New York vs. Washington Washington Rusie Mercer 16-8 " 7 Baltimore vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn McMahon Daub 26-5 " 7 Brooklyn vs. Baltimore Brooklyn Stein Inks 18-8 " 7 Boston vs. Philadelphia Boston Nichols Carsey 19-8 " 7 Cleveland vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Cuppy Colcolough 10-9 " 7 Chicago vs. Cincinnati Chicago Hutchinson Fischer[1]13-11 " 7 St. Louis vs. Louisville Louisville Breitenstein Knell 11-2 " 8 Washington vs. New York Washington Sullivan Meekin 12-10 " 8 Baltimore vs. Broooklyn Brooklyn Gleason Kennedy 4-1 " 8 Baltimore vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Esper Summerville 13-5 " 8 Philadelphia vs. Boston Boston Harper Staley 18-10 " 8 Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland Pittsburgh Ehret Perry 10-3 " 8 Cincinnati vs. Chicago Chicago Dwyer McGill 14-11 " 9 New York vs. Washington Washington Meekin Maul 7-3 " 9 Brooklyn vs. Baltimore Brooklyn Stein Hawke 11-7 " 9 Boston vs. Philadelphia Boston Hodson Taylor 11-2 " 9 Louisville vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Hemming Gumbert 5-4 " 9 Chicago vs. Cincinnati Chicago Dwyer McGill 14-11 " 10 Baltimore vs. New York Baltimore Gleason Rusie 12-9 " 10 Boston vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Nichols Kennedy 12-6 " 10 Washington vs. Philadelphia Washington Mercer Carsey 4-1 " 10 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Pittsburgh Ehret Wadsworth 9-6 " 10 Cleveland vs. Chicago Chicago Young Hutchinson 2-1 " 11 Baltimore vs. New York Baltimore McMahon Westervelt 20-1 " 11 Boston vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Lucis Stivetts 11-10 " 11 Philadelphia vs. Washington Philadelphia Taylor Sullivan 10-7 " 11 Philadelphia vs. Washington Philadelphia Weyhing Maul 16-4 " 11 Pittsburgh vs. Louisville Pittsburgh Gumbert Menafee 3-2 " 11 Cleveland vs. Chicago Chicago Cuppy Stratton 11-9 " 11 Cincinnati vs. St. Louis Cincinnati Fischer Hawley 7-6 " 12 Chicago vs. Cleveland Chicago Griffith Petty 16-5 " 12 St. Louis vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Breitenstein Parrott 12-5 " 13 New York vs. Baltimore Baltimore Meekin Hawke 5-1 " 13 Brooklyn vs. Boston Brooklyn Stein Hodson 13-5 " 13 Chicago vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Hutchinson Ehret 17-14 " 14 New York vs. St. Louis New York Rusie A.Clarkson 5-4 " 14 Boston vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Nichols Gumbert 22-5 " 14 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Baltimore Gleason Dwyer[1] 6-5 " 14 Chicago vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Stratton Kennedy 5-1 THE AUGUST RECORD--_Continued._ --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date. Contesting Clubs. City. Pitchers. Score. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Aug 14 Cleveland vs. Washington Washington Young Mercer[1] 1-0 " 14 Louisville vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Knell Carsey 13-7 " 15 St. Louis vs. New York New York Breitenstein German 4-3 " 15 Brooklyn vs. Chicago Brooklyn Daub Hutchinson 9-5 " 15 Boston vs. Pittsburgh Boston Stivetts Ehret[2] 6-5 " 15 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Philadelphia Taylor Hemming 14-4 " 15 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Baltimore McMahon Fischer 8-2 " 15 Washington vs. Cleveland Washington Stockdale Cuppy 7-6 " 16 New York vs. St. Louis New York Meekin Hawley 13-3 " 16 Boston vs. Pittsburgh Boston Staley Menafee 6-4 " 16 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Baltimore Hawke Parrott 15-6 " 16 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Philadelphia Weyhing Nicol 17-8 " 16 Washington vs. Cleveland Washington Maul Young 6-2 " 16 Chicago vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Griffith Lucid 3-1 " 17 New York vs. St. Louis New York Rusie A.Clarkson 7-6 " 17 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Philadelphia Carsey Wadsworth 29-4 " 17 Cleveland vs. Washington Washington Cuppy Mercer 9-8 " 18 Chicago vs. New York New York Stratton German 6-4 " 18 Chicago vs. New York New York Terry Meekin[1] 5-5 " 18 St. Louis vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Breitenstein Stein 4-0 " 18 Cincinnati vs. Boston Boston Dwyer Nichols 19-6 " 18 Baltimore vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Gleason Ehret 17-2 " 18 Philadelphia vs. Cleveland Philadelphia Taylor Sullivan 11-6 " 18 Washington vs. Louisville Washington Stockdale Hemming 6-4 " 19 No Games Scheduled " 20 New York vs. Chicago New York Rusie Griffith 11-3 " 20 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis St. Louis Kennedy A.Clarkson 20-4 " 20 Philadelphia vs. Cleveland Philadelphia Harper Young 16-1 " 20 Washington vs. Louisville Washington Maul Knell 8-7 " 20 Pittsburgh vs. Baltimore Baltimore Menafee Esper 7-5 " 21 New York vs. Chicago New York German Hutchinson 13-11 " 21 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis Brooklyn Lucid Breitenstein 20-11 " 21 Boston vs. Cincinnati Boston Staley Fischer 18-3 " 21 Boston vs. Cincinnati Boston Nichols Parrott 28-8 " 21 Baltimore vs. Pittsburgh Baltimore Hawke Gumbert 17-11 " 21 Philadelphia vs. Cleveland Philadelphia Carsey Cuppy 12-6 " 21 Washington vs. Louisville Washington Mercer Wadsworth 15-9 " 22 New York vs. Chicago New York Meekin Hutchinson 8-5 " 22 Boston vs. Cincinnati Boston Nichols Fournier 8-7 " 22 Philadelphia vs. Baltimore Philadelphia Taylor Inks 3-2 " 23 New York vs. Louisville New York Rusie Hemming 8-4 " 23 Boston vs. Cleveland Boston Stivetts Young 12-10 " 23 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh Philadelphia Harper Menafee 9-4 " 23 Washington vs. Chicago Washington Stockdale Terry 14-3 " 23 St. Louis vs. Baltimore Baltimore Hawley Gleason 10-6 " 23 Cincinnati vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Dwyer Stein 13-2 " 24 New York vs. Louisville New York German Knell 20-4 " 24 Brooklyn vs. Cincinnati Brooklyn Kennedy Fischer 15-9 " 24 Baltimore vs. St. Louis Baltimore McMahon Breitenst'n 5-2 " 24 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh Philadelphia Carsey Ehret 14-7 " 24 Boston vs. Cleveland Boston Hodson Cuppy 14-4 " 24 Cleveland vs. Boston Boston Cuppy Staley 10-8 " 24 Chicago vs. Washington Washington Griffith Mercer 10-5 " 25 New York vs. Louisville New York Meekin Nicol 18-6 " 25 New York vs. Louisville New York Rusie Wadsworth 5-1 " 25 Brooklyn vs. Cincinnati Brooklyn Daub Dwyer 5-3 " 25 Baltimore vs. St. Louis Baltimore Hawke A.Clarkson 4-3 " 25 Boston vs. Cleveland Boston Hodson Sullivan 8-3 " 25 Philadelphia vs. Pittsburgh Philadelphia Taylor Gumbert 13-6 " 25 Washington vs. Chicago Washington Mercer Stratton 9-4 " 26 No game scheduled " 27 Cincinnati vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Whitrock Fanning 19-9 " 27 Cincinnati vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Fournier Harper 9-8 " 27 Baltimore vs. Chicago Baltimore Gleason Hutchinson 12-3 " 28 New York vs. Cleveland Cleveland Rusie Young 5-1 " 28 Brooklyn vs. Pittsburgh Brooklyn Kennedy Menafee 8-2 " 28 Philadelphia vs. Chicago Philadelphia Taylor Terry 16-6 " 28 Baltimore vs. Louisville Baltimore McMahon Hemming 8-2 " 28 Washington vs. Cincinnati Washington Maul Dwyer 9-7 " 28 St. Louis vs. Boston Boston Hawley Nichols 9-5 " 29 New York vs. Cleveland New York Meekin Cuppy 6-4 " 29 Brooklyn vs. Pittsburgh Brooklyn Stein Ehret 11-7 " 29 Baltimore vs. Louisville Baltimore Hawke Wadsworth 8-6 " 29 Boston vs. St. Louis Boston Stivetts A.Clarkson 14-4 " 29 Washington vs. Cincinnati Washington Mercer Fournier 9-5 " 29 Chicago vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Griffith Carsey 13-6 " 30 Cleveland vs. New York New York Sullivan Clarke 13-4 " 30 St. Louis vs. Boston Boston Hawley Hodson 7-3 " 30 Chicago vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Hutchinson Harper 15-11 " 30 Baltimore vs. Louisville Baltimore Gleason Knell 9-8 " 30 Brooklyn vs. Pittsburgh Brooklyn Kennedy Gumbert 19-11 " 30 Pittsburgh vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Menafee Daub 9-1 " 30 Washington vs. Cincinnati Washington Stockdale Fischer 8-6 " 31 New York vs. Boston New York Rusie Nichols 5-1 " 31 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Baltimore Esper Young 5-1 " 31 Philadelphia vs. Washington Philadelphia Taylor Maul 10-8 " 31 Philadelphia vs. Washington Philadelphia Weyhing Wynne 11-5 [Footnote 1: Ten innings] [Footnote 2: Eleven innings] Two games were drawn in August. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore, Boston and New York led the first division clubs in the pennant race up to August 31st, with the respective percentage figures of .657, .645 and .639, followed by Philadelphia with .562, Brooklyn with .533 and Cleveland with .529, only one Western club being left in the first division, something hitherto unprecedented in League pennant races. Pittsburgh led the second division clubs with the percentage figures of .491 only, that club having fallen off badly in August, with Chicago a good second, followed by Cincinnati, St. Louis, Washington and Louisville, the "Senators" having driven the "Colonels" into the last ditch, the Louisville figures being .302. Here is the pennant race record up to the close of the August campaign: AUGUST RECORD. ----------------------------------------------------------------- P P P e P e l r l r L a c L a c W o y e W o y e o s e n o s e n Clubs. n t d t Clubs. n t d t ----------------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore 69 36 105 .657 Pittsburgh 52 54 106 .491 Boston 69 38 107 .645 Chicago 49 58 107 .458 New York 69 39 108 .639 Cincinnati 46 60 106 .434 Philadelphia 59 46 105 .562 St. Louis 44 63 107 .411 Brooklyn 56 49 105 .533 Washington 37 71 108 .343 Cleveland 55 49 104 .529 Louisville 32 74 106 .302 ----------------------------------------------------------------- By the close of the August campaign the Baltimore club had regained the position in the van, and afterward they were not headed. Then began an exciting struggle between the Boston champions and the "Giants" for second place, but it was not until September 6th that the "Giants" led the "Champions," and then only by the percentage figures of .652 to .646. Baltimore leading at that date with but .676, so it will be seen that the fight between those three was nip and tuck after the end of August. At that time the "Phillies," the Brooklyns and the Clevelands were struggling equally hard for fourth place, the "Phillies" leading, with Brooklyn fifth and Cleveland sixth. By this time Washington had comfortably buried the Louisvilles in the last ditch, and no resurrection followed. THE SEPTEMBER CAMPAIGN RECORD. The feature of the last monthly campaign of the championship season was the fight for second place between Boston and New York. When the campaign began Baltimore led with the percentage figures of .667, and it was an exceedingly close fight between the "Champions" and "Giants," the former leading the latter by the percentage figures of .645 to .643 on September 3d. The "Phillies," Brooklyns and Clevelands were the next three in the first division, all three being in the five hundreds in percentage points. Here is the month's record: THE SEPTEMBER RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date. Contesting Clubs. City. Pitchers. Score. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sept 1 New York vs. Cincinnati New York German Whitrock 8-6 " 1 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Brooklyn Stein Hemming 6-5 " 1 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Brooklyn Kennedy Wadsworth 20-7 " 1 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Baltimore Gleason Cuppy 5-2 " 1 Philadelphia vs. St. Louis Philadelphia Carsey Hawley 19-9 " 1 Washington vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Mercer Menafee 11-4 " 1 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Pittsburgh Ehret Mercer 15-6 " 1 Chicago vs. Boston Chicago Terry Stivetts 15-6 " 1 Cincinnati vs. New York New York Dwyer Meekin 8-6 " 1 St. Louis vs. Philadelphia Philadelphia Breitenst'n Fanning 8-6 " 2 No games scheduled " 3 New York vs. Cincinnati New York Meekin Fournier 16-2 " 3 New York vs. Cincinnati New York Rusie Dwyer 6-4 " 3 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Brooklyn Lucid Knell 6-4 " 3 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Brooklyn Daub Inks 9-3 " 3 Boston vs. Chicago Boston Staley Griffith 5-4 " 3 Boston vs. Chicago Boston Nichols Hutchinson 11-4 " 3 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Baltimore Esper Sullivan 13-2 " 3 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Baltimore Hawke Young 10-3 " 3 Philadelphia vs. St. Louis Philadelphia Weyhing Breitenst'n 8-1 " 3 Philadelphia vs. St. Louis Philadelphia Jones Hawley 6-4 " 3 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Pittsburgh Gumbert Maul 22-1 " 4 New York vs. Pittsburgh New York Meekin Menafee 14-13 " 4 Cleveland vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Cuppy Stein 8-0 " 4 Boston vs. Louisville Boston Stivetts Knell 20-11 " 4 Baltimore vs. Chicago Baltimore Hemming Terry 9-3 " 4 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Philadelphia Taylor Whitrock 6-2 " 4 St. Louis vs. Washington Washington Breitenst'n Haddock 10-7 " 5 New York vs. Pittsburgh New York Rusie Ehret 4-0 " 5 Brooklyn vs. Cleveland Brooklyn Kennedy Young 2-1 " 5 Boston vs. Louisville Boston Nichols Wadsworth 7-6 " 5 Baltimore vs. Chicago Baltimore Gleason Hutchinson 12-3 " 5 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Philadelphia Carsey Dwyer 15-6 " 5 Washington vs. St. Louis Washington St'kdale A.Cl'kson[1] 7-4 " 6 New York vs. Pittsburgh New York Meekin Gumbert 6-5 " 6 Baltimore vs. Chicago Baltimore Hawke Griffith 14-6 " 6 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Philadelphia Weyhing Fischer 14-7 " 6 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Philadelphia Taylor Whitrock 16-2 " 6 Washington vs. St. Louis Washington Mercer Breitenstein 12-2 " 6 Cleveland vs. Brooklyn Brooklyn Sullivan Lucid 13-2 " 6 Louisville vs. Boston Boston Inks Staley 15-10 " 7 No games scheduled " 8 Boston vs. Chicago Chicago Nichols Hutchinson 3-1 " 8 Baltimore vs. Louisville Louisville Gleason Knell 6-3 " 8 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis St. Louis Stein Hawley 6-1 " 8 Pittsburgh vs. Philadelphia Pittsburgh Menafee Weyhing 13-7 " 8 Cincinnati vs. Washington Cincinnati Dwyer Haddock 14-9 " 9 St. Louis vs. Brooklyn St. Louis Br'tsenst'n Kennedy 7-5 " 9 Brooklyn vs. St. Louis St. Louis Kennedy Hawley 11-7 " 9 Baltimore vs. Louisville Louisville Hemming Wadsworth 9-4 " 9 Cleveland vs. Chicago Chicago Cuppy McGill 9-5 " 9 Cincinnati vs. Washington Cincinnati Whitrock Mercer 4-1 " 9 Cincinnati vs. Washington Cincinnati Fisher Stockdale 7-6 " 10 New York vs. Cleveland Cleveland Rusie Sullivan 13-4 " 10 Boston vs. Chicago Chicago Stivetts Terry 25-8 " 10 Baltimore vs. Louisville Louisville Esper Inks 15-6 " 11 Cleveland vs. New York Cleveland Young Meekin 13-3 " 11 New York vs. Cleveland Cleveland Meekin Cuppy 9-1 " 11 Chicago vs. Boston Chicago Hutchinson Staley 17-2 " 11 Pittsburgh vs. Philadelphia Pittsburgh Colcolough Taylor 9-7 " 11 Pittsburgh vs. Philadelphia Pittsburgh Ehret Johnson 9-8 " 12 Brooklyn vs. Chicago Chicago Stein McGill 12-8 " 12 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Louisville Carsey Knell 5-3 " 12 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Gleason Dwyer 16-2 " 12 Cleveland vs. Boston Cleveland Sullivan Stivetts 9-8 " 12 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Pittsburgh Gumbert Haddock 9-6 " 13 New York vs. St. Louis St. Louis Rusie Hawley 7-3 " 13 Brooklyn vs. Chicago Chicago Kennedy Hutchinson 8-3 " 13 Boston vs Cleveland Cleveland Nichols Cuppy 11-4 " 13 Philadelphia vs. Louisville Louisville Weyhing Wadsworth 5-2 " 13 Washington vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Mercer Menafee 11-6 " 14 St. Louis vs. New York St. Louis A.Clarkson Meekin 1-0 " 15 New York vs. St. Louis St. Louis Rusie Breitenstein 7-2 " 15 Boston vs. Cleveland Cleveland Stivetts Wallace 7-2 " 15 Chicago vs. Brooklyn Chicago Hutchinson Lucid 10-3 " 15 Pittsburgh vs. Washington Pittsburgh Gumbert Stockdale 11-6 " 16 Baltimore vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Gleason Dwyer 14-3 " 16 Cincinnati vs. Baltimore Cincinnati Parrott Hawke 4-3 " 16 Washington vs. Louisville Louisville Mercer Inks 7-6 " 16 Chicago vs. Brooklyn Chicago Griffith Stein 13-5 " 17 New York vs. Chicago Chicago Meekin Hutchinson 5-2 " 17 Baltimore vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Hemming Menafee 10-2 " 17 Baltimore vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Esper Ehret 4-1 " 17 Cleveland vs. Brooklyn Cleveland Sullivan Kennedy 12-6 " 17 St. Louis vs Boston St. Louis Hawley Nichols 6-5 " 17 Louisville vs. Washington Louisville Knell Haddock 7-6 " 18 New York vs. Chicago Chicago Rusie Terry 4-3 " 18 New York vs Chicago Chicago Meekin Griffith 9-6 " 18 Cleveland vs. Brooklyn Cleveland Young Daub 9-3 " 18 Brooklyn vs. Cleveland Cleveland Lucid Cuppy 7-1 " 18 Baltimore vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Gleason Colcolough 15-8 " 18 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Taylor Fischer 10-4 " 18 Washington vs. Louisville Louisville Mercer Wadsworth 9-4 " 18 St. Louis vs. Boston St. Louis Br'tenst'n Stivetts 5-1 " 19 New York vs. Chicago Chicago Meekin Hutchinson 4-3 " 19 Philadelphia vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Carsey Whitrock 12-11 " 19 Cincinnati vs. Philadelphia Cincinnati Parrott Weyhing 8-3 " 19 St. Louis vs. Boston St. Louis Hawley Stivetts 5-4 " 20 Pittsburgh vs. New York Pittsburgh Menafee Rusie 10-3 " 20 Boston vs. Louisville Louisville Nichols Inks 4-3 " 20 Cleveland vs. Washington Cleveland Wallace Boyd 14-8 " 20 Chicago vs. Philadelphia Chicago Abbey Johnson 20-4 " 21 New York vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Meekin Ehret[2] 4-4 " 21 Boston vs. Louisville Louisville Staley Knell 13-6 " 21 Baltimore vs. St. Louis St. Louis Hemming Breitestein 8-4 " 21 Washington vs. Cleveland Cleveland Mullarky Young 4-3 " 21 Chicago vs. Philadelphia Chicago Hutchinson Taylor 11-5 " 22 New York vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Rusie Colcolough 6-2 " 22 Pittsburgh vs. New York Pittsburgh Ehret German 4-1 " 22 Brooklyn vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Stein Fischer 11-6 " 22 Philadelphia vs. Chicago Chicago Carsey Abbey 9-6 " 22 Baltimore vs. St. Louis St. Louis Esper Hawley 6-4 " 22 Boston vs. Louisville Louisville Stivetts Wadsworth 3-2 " 22 Louisville vs. Boston Louisville Inks 6-4 " 22 Cleveland vs. Washington Cleveland Sullivan Anderson 6-5 " 23 Brooklyn vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Kennedy Whitrock 10-9 " 23 Cincinnati vs. Brooklyn Cincinnati Parrott Daub 3-2 " 23 Washington vs. Chicago Chicago Mullarky Terry 6-5 " 23 Chicago vs. Washington Chicago Griffith Boyd 11-5 " 23 Baltimore vs. St. Louis St. Louis Esper Breitenstein 10-4 " 24 New York vs. Louisville Louisville Meekin Knell 8-7 " 24 Boston vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Stivetts Fischer 7-4 " 24 Cleveland vs. Baltimore Cleveland Cuppy Gleason 12-7 " 24 Pittsburgh vs. Brooklyn Pittsburgh Menafee Stein 10-4 " 24 Chicago vs. Washington Chicago Hutchinson Stockdle 17-5 " 24 Philadelphia vs. St. Louis St. Louis Johnson A.Clarkson 21-1 " 25 New York vs. Louisville Louisville Rusie Wadsworth 15-3 " 25 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Cleveland Esper Young 14-9 " 25 Cincinnati vs. Boston Cincinnati Parrott Nichols 9-7 " 25 Cincinnati vs. Boston Cincinnati Whitrock Hodson 5-1 " 25 St. Louis vs. Philadelphia St. Louis Hawley Figgemeir 14-7 " 25 Pittsburgh vs. Brooklyn Pittsburgh Jordan Kennedy 10-7 " 26 New York vs. Louisville Louisville Meekin Inks 9-5 " 26 Baltimore vs. Cleveland Cleveland Hemming Cuppy 7-6 " 26 Pittsburgh vs. Brooklyn Pittsburgh Colcolo'h Kennedy 9-8 " 26 St. Louis vs. Philadelphia St. Louis Breitestein Johnson 12-6 " 27 New York vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Clark Fischer 11-4 " 27 Boston vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Stivetts Ehret 8-1 " 27 Cleveland vs. Philadelphia Cleveland Young Weyhing 26-4 " 28 New York vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati German Whitrock 9-8 " 28 Pittsburgh vs. Boston Pittsburgh Gumbert Nichols 15-9 " 28 Cleveland vs. Philadelphia Cleveland Wallace Carsey 8-6 " 29 Cincinnati vs. New York Cincinnati Parrott Meekin 7-6 " 29 St. Louis vs. Washington St. Louis Hawley Anderson 6-4 " 29 Chicago vs. Baltimore Chicago Hutchinson Gleason 5-4 " 29 Cleveland vs. Philadelphia Cleveland Sullivan Taylor 11-3 " 29 Boston vs. Pittsburgh Pittsburgh Hodson Menafee 6-5 " 29 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Louisville Stein Knell 11-4 " 30 Baltimore vs. Chicago Chicago Esper Terry 20-9 " 30 Louisville vs. Brooklyn Louisville Wadsworth Daub 10-8 " 30 Brooklyn vs. Louisville Louisville Stein Inks 12-4 " 30 St. Louis vs. Washington St. Louis Br'tenst'n Mullarky 14-2 " 30 St. Louis vs. Washington St. Louis Hawley Boyd 10-4 " 30 Cleveland vs. Cincinnati Cincinnati Cuppy Dwyer 16-16 [Footnote 1: Protested.] [Footnote 2: Forfeited.] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE PITCHING OF 1894. The pitching of 1894 in the National League arena was in advance of that of 1893, but it has yet to reach the point of perfect work in the box. Somehow or other, managers of teams cannot get it out of their heads that great speed is the principal factor of success in pitching, when the fact is that speed is but an aid to success, secondary in value to that of strategic skill in delivering the ball to the bat. The experience of the past season in connection with the limit of speed in pitching presents some valuable suggestions which team managers will do well to bear in mind this year. Some years ago, the swift pitching--which had then about reached the highest point of speed--proved to be so costly in its wear and fear upon the catchers that clubs had to engage a corps of reserve catchers, in order to go through a season's campaign with any degree of success. Afterward, however, the introduction of the protective "mitts" led to some relief being afforded the catchers who had been called upon to face the swift pitching of the "cyclone" pitchers of the period. The seasons of 1893 and 1894 were marked by some exhibitions of swift pitching unequaled in the annals of the game, and yet it was not effective in placing the team which held the cyclone pitchers in the lead. If the speed of the ball is too great for catchers to handle, even with the protection the breast pads, masks and the padded gloves of the period afford, why then it is worse than useless. It was skilful, strategic pitching which helped to win the pennant in 1894, and not "cyclone" pitching. Speed is all very well as an important accessory, but without the best of catching to support it, and thorough command of the ball to give it full effect, it is more costly than otherwise. The Pitching Percentages for 1894. THE CHAMPION BALTIMORE CLUB'S RECORD. The complete record of the pitching percentages of victories pitched in, shows that Baltimore's full season's team of pitchers had a general percentage of victories pitched in of .695 by the eight pitchers who occupied the box during the season's campaign. This record excelled the percentage figures of New York's team of five pitchers by 31 points, and that of Boston's seven pitchers by 66 points, the respective percentage figures being, .695, .664 and .629. These figures show the relative strength of the three battery teams, as far as the record of percentage can show them. A better criterion of pitching skill would be, of course, at command, were the scoring rules giving the data of runs earned off the pitching revised properly; but as they were not in 1894, we have to take the next best data at command, that being the percentage of victories pitched in. Taking the records of the first three pitchers named in the Baltimore "battery" team record, as a whole, we do not hesitate to award to McMahon the position of leading pitcher of the club for 1894. Brown led McMahon in percentage of victories against the five Eastern teams, but the former was last on the list against the six Western teams, McMahon's percentage figures against the Western batsmen being .812 against Brown's .500. Against the Eastern teams Brown's figures were .750 to McMahon's .706. But McMahon pitched in 17 games against the Eastern batsmen, to Brown's 4 games only, and that fact counts to McMahon's advantage. Esper stood second in percentage figures against the Western batsmen with the percentage of .889 in 9 games to McMahon's .812 in 16 games. Gleason stood third against the Eastern teams with .625 to McMahon's .706; but against the West, Gleason was fourth, with the percentage of .769 to McMahon's .812. Hawke did service against the West with .688 to .556 against the East. Inks and Mullane stood even at .667 against the West, but Inks led Mullane by .511 to .500 against the East, Horner only pitched in one game. Here is a full record of the eight pitchers of the Baltimore team of 1894, showing what each pitcher did against the Eastern and Western batsmen separately, in victories and defeats against each club, and in percentage of victories pitched in against the batsmen of each section. It is a valuable record, if only in its showing what each pitcher did in the way of victories, against each club of each division. THE BALTIMORE CLUB'S RECORD. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L l a C i i o W N a B s l t S n u o e d r h P e t C t c i P BALTIMORE n w B e o i e v s h . i s e / o l o n T r e b i L n v T r vs. L Y s p k g o c l u c o n i o c o o t h l t t e a r a u a l t e s r o i y o a n n g g i t l a n Pitchers t k n a n n l t Pitchers d h o s i e l t ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Brown W 0 0 1 1 1 3 .750 Hemming 1 1 1 1 0 1 5 1.000 L 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 McMahon W 2 3 2 2 3 12 .706 Esper 3 1 1 2 0 1 8 .889 L 3 2 0 0 0 5 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 Gleason W 1 0 1 2 1 5 .625 McMahon 2 0 2 3 3 3 13 .811 L 1 1 0 0 1 3 1 2 0 0 0 0 3 Inks W 1 0 1 0 2 4 .571 Gleason 1 2 2 3 0 2 10 .769 L 0 0 1 2 0 3 1 0 1 0 1 0 3 Hawke W 0 1 0 1 3 5 .556 Hawke 1 1 3 2 2 2 11 .688 L 2 1 0 1 0 4 0 0 1 1 2 1 5 Mullane W 2 0 1 1 1 5 .500 Inks 1 0 0 1 1 1 4 .667 L 0 3 1 1 0 5 0 1 0 0 0 1 2 Esper W 0 0 0 1 0 1 .500 Mullane 0 0 0 1 1 0 2 .667 L 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 Horner W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 Brown 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 .500 L 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- It will be seen by the above table that, while Brown did not pitch in a single victory against the two clubs standing next to Baltimore in the race, McMahon pitched in five victories; and yet Brown's percentage figures exceeded McMahon's by .750 to .706 against the five clubs as a whole, owing to McMahon's pitching in five defeats, against Brown's single defeats against the New York and Boston batsmen. Hemming's record is A No. 1, as far as he pitched, but he did not pitch in a single game against the Eastern teams, to the extent of a full record of innings pitched in. Here is the record for the whole season, showing the total percentage: THE BALTIMORE PITCHERS' FULL RECORD. ----------------------------------------------------------- Per cent. of Pitchers. Victories. Defeats. Games Pitched. Victories. ----------------------------------------------------------- Hemming 5 0 5 1.000 Esper 9 2 11 .818 McMahon 25 8 33 .758 Gleason 15 6 21 .714 Brown 4 2 6 .667 Hawke 16 9 25 .640 Inks 8 5 13 .615 Mullane 7 6 13 .538 Horner 0 1 1 .000 ----------------------------------------------------------- These tables include all victories and defeats of the season, whether counted or thrown out. It will be seen that only three pitchers pitched in a majority of the games played. THE NEW YORK CLUB'S PITCHING RECORD. The New York club, in 1894, went through the season's campaign with the fewest pitchers in their team of any of the twelve clubs. Moreover, their "battery" teams of the season, as a whole, surpassed those of any of the club's previous batteries since the club was organized. Led by Meekin and Farrell--the champion "battery" of 1894--followed by pitchers Rusie, Westervelt, German and Clarke, with catchers Wilson and Doyle, the club presented battery strength sufficient to have carried the team to the goal, but for sundry drawbacks they met with during the early part of the championship campaign, especially during April and May. And handicapped as they were, they managed to close the season in second place, after brilliant rallying work during the last three months of the campaign, when their pitchers were well backed up by better team-work than they had at command up to July. In giving the record of the work done by the club pitchers, we have deemed it essential to divide the tables up into sections, showing the work done in the box against both the Eastern and Western teams separately, as well as the table showing the aggregate figures of the individual percentages of victories pitched in. Thus it will be seen in the appended table, that while Meekin's pitching was more successful against the batsmen of the Eastern teams, Rusie excelled Meekin in downing the batsmen of the Western teams, by a percentage of victories of .889 against .778 for Meekin. But it should be remembered that in pitching against the batsmen of the three leading teams in the race opposed to them, Meekin pitched in 7 victories out of 11 games, while Rusie only pitched in 6 victories out of 14 games. Against the three most successful of the Western teams, too, Meekin pitched in 13 victories against Rusie's 12. Taking the season's figures as a whole, Meekin led Rusie by the percentage figures of .783 to .735, quite a difference in favor of Meekin. German led Westervelt against the Eastern teams, but the latter led against the Western batsmen, and also had the best percentage figures, in the aggregate of the season, by .498 to German's .471; Clark being in the last ditch in all three tables. Westervelt was a new man in the field compared to German, but he is very likely to excel his last year's record in 1895. The best individual records in victories pitched in by the two leaders, were Rusie's 6 to 0 against Louisville, and Meekin's 3 to 0 against Baltimore. German's best was 2 to 0 against Washington, and Westervelt's was 1 to 0 against Baltimore; Clarke's best being 1 to 0 against Philadelphia. Here are the records of the pitchers of the team against the five Eastern and the six Western teams for 1894: THE SECTIONAL RECORDS. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P h i W P C L B l a C i i o W a a B s l t S n u o l d r h P e t C t c i P NEW YORK n t B e o i e v s h . i s e / i o l o n T r e b i L n v T r vs. L m s p k g o c l u c o n i o c o o t h l t t e a r a u a l t e s r o i y o a n n g g i t l a n Pitchers t e n a n n l t Pitchers d h o s i e l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meekin W 3 3 1 3 4 14 .778 Russie 4 4 4 4 2 6 24 .889 L 0 1 2 0 1 4 0 1 0 2 0 0 3 Rusie W 2 2 2 3 3 12 .545 Meekin 4 4 5 2 2 5 22 .783 L 2 3 3 1 1 10 1 0 1 1 3 0 6 German W 1 0 1 0 2 4 .500 Westervelt 1 0 1 1 0 1 4 .571 L 1 1 0 2 0 4 0 1 0 1 1 0 3 Westervelt W 0 1 0 1 1 3 .333 German 0 0 1 0 2 1 4 .471 L 2 1 2 1 0 6 1 1 1 1 1 0 5 Clarke W 0 0 1 0 0 1 .333 Clarke 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 .333 L 1 0 0 1 0 2 1 1 0 0 0 0 2 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE SUMMARY. The summary giving the full totals of the season's record entire is appended: ------------------------------------------------------------ Games Per cent. of PITCHERS Victories Defeats Pitched Victories ------------------------------------------------------------ Meekin 36 10 46 .783 Rusie 36 13 49 .735 Westervelt 7 9 16 .498 German 8 9 17 .471 Clarke 2 4 6 .333 ------------------------------------------------------------ THE BOSTON CLUB'S PITCHING RECORD. While the Boston team of 1893 went through the season of that year with virtually but four pitchers to do their box work--Quarles and Coyle pitching in but three games in 1893--the batteries of the club for 1894 included seven pitchers, two of the seven each pitching in but single games, Nichols, Stivetts and Staley doing the brunt of the work of the past season. Nichols did his best work against the five Eastern teams, he being most effective against Philadelphia and Brooklyn, neither of which clubs won a game with him in the box against them. He also took both Cleveland and Louisville into camp without their being able to win a single game off his pitching, the only team to strike even figures in games against his pitching being the Cincinnatis--3 to 3, Baltimore winning 2 out of 3 with Nichols opposed to them, and New York 2 out of 5, St. Louis also getting the same figures. Beyond question, Nichols led the Boston pitching record of 1894, he ranking in strategic skill with the best in the League. Stivetts excelled even Nichols against the Western batsmen by a percentage of .763 to Nichols' .692; but against the stronger Eastern teams Nichols led Stivetts by the percentage figures of .756 to .417, an advantage more than off-setting the Western figures of the two pitchers. Lovett and Hodson both excelled Stivetts against the Eastern teams, by .714 and .500, respectively, against Stivetts' .417; but against the Western teams, Stivetts led by .763 to Hodson's .600 and Lovett's .500. Staley was very ineffective against the batsmen of both sections. Lampe pitched in but one game, and that one a defeat by Pittsburgh; Stephens pitching, too, in but one game but it was a victory over Washington. Here are the sectional records for the season, together with the column giving the totals of the season: THE SECTIONAL RECORDS. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W P C L r a B l a C i i o a n W a N a B s l t S n u n d o l e d r h P e t C t c i P d P BOSTON n t w e o i e v s h . i s e e / i l o n T r e b i L n v T r T r vs. L m Y p k g o c l u c o n i o c o c o o o h l t t e a r a u a l t e t e s r r i y o a n n g g i t l a n a n Pitchers t e k a n n l t d h o s i e l t l t ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Stephens W 0 0 0 0 1 1 1.000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.000 1 1.000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Nichols W 1 3 4 4 3 15 .756 3 3 3 3 3 3 18 .692 33 .717 L 2 2 0 0 1 5 0 2 1 2 3 0 8 12 Stivetts W 4 1 0 1 2 8 .471 3 3 3 2 2 4 18 .763 26 .650 L 1 1 3 3 1 9 2 0 1 2 0 0 5 14 Lovett W 1 1 1 1 1 5 .714 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 .500 7 .636 L 0 1 0 1 0 2 0 0 1 1 0 0 2 4 Hodson W 0 0 1 0 0 1 .500 2 1 0 0 0 0 3 .600 4 .571 L 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 2 3 Staley W 2 1 0 0 2 5 .385 1 1 1 1 2 2 8 .371 13 .481 L 1 2 3 1 1 8 1 1 2 0 0 2 6 14 Lampe W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .006 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE PHILADELPHIA CLUB'S PITCHING RECORD. Under the Philadelphia club's management of 1893 but three pitchers were in the box in over 20 games each; and but two others in 10 games and over, seven pitchers being employed during that season. In 1894, the blunder was committed of experimenting with no less than _thirteen_ pitchers with the result of finding it difficult to reach fourth place at the end of the race; while the club, after being in second place in April, fell down to the second division in July. But for this error of judgment, the team might have ended among the three leaders. Of those who pitched in over 10 games, Taylor took a decided lead by a total percentage of .706 to Weyhing's .548 and Carsey's .533. Of those who pitched in less than 10 games and over 5, Harper led with .667 to Haddock's .571. None of the other pitchers reached average figures--.500--except Jones, who only pitched in one game, which he won against St. Louis, while four of the thirteen did not pitch in a single victory. Experimenting with thirteen pitchers was a costly mistake in the management, and should not be repeated. It is bad enough to try too many changes in the _in_ and _out_ field teams, but worse in battery-team-experiments of this kind. Harper led in percentage of victories with .800 against the Eastern club batsmen, while Taylor led against those of the West with .728. The failures of the season were Fanning, Callahan, Johnson, Turner, Burns, Figgemeir and Lukens, the former being the only pitcher of the seven who pitched in a single victory against the Eastern batsmen. Here is the record in full: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. G G r W P C L r a B a C i i o a n W a N B s l t S n u n d o l e r h P e t C t c i P d P PHILADELPHIA n t w B o i e v s h . i s e e / i o o n T r e b i L n v T r T r vs. L m Y s k g o c l u c o n i o c o c o o o t l t t e a r a u a l t e t e s r r o y o a n n g g i t l a n a n Pitchers t e k n n n l t d h o s i e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jones W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1.000 1 1.000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Taylor W 3 2 2 0 3 10 .625 4 2 2 0 3 3 14 .778 24 .706 L 0 1 1 3 1 6 1 1 1 1 0 0 4 10 Harper W 0 1 2 1 0 4 .800 1 1 0 0 0 0 2 .500 6 .667 L 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 2 3 Haddock W 0 1 1 1 0 3 .750 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 .333 4 .571 L 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 2 3 Weyhing W 0 2 0 3 3 8 .615 0 2 1 1 2 3 9 .500 17 .548 L 2 0 2 0 1 5 3 1 1 2 2 0 9 14 Carsey W 1 1 1 2 2 7 .467 0 2 2 1 2 2 9 .600 16 .533 L 1 2 3 1 1 8 2 1 1 0 0 2 6 14 Callahan W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 1 1 0 2 .667 2 .400 L 1 1 0 0 0 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 3 Fanning W 0 0 0 1 0 1 .500 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 1 .250 L 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 2 3 Johnson W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 .250 1 .250 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 3 3 Turner W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 Burns W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1* 1 Figgemeir W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 Lukens W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 [Footnote *: Should add up to 0. [Proofreader]] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE BROOKLYN CLUB'S PITCHING RECORD. The Brooklyn club experimented with nine pitchers in 1894, of which but three were able to exceed the average in percentage of victories. Of the three, Stein took the lead with the total percentage figures of .650 against Kennedy's .545, Daub being third with but .406 to his credit, all the others pitching in less than 10 games. No less than four of the nine failed to pitch in a single victory. Lucid did good work in the few games he pitched in, his victory over Boston being noteworthy. But he pitched in as many defeats against the Western teams as he did in victories. Four of the nine were worthless for skilful, strategic pitching. Here is the club's total record in full: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W P C L r a B l a C i i o a n W a N a s l t S n u n d o l e d h P e t C t c i P d P BROOKLYN n t w B e i e v s h . i s e e / i o l n T r e b i L n v T r T r vs. L m Y s p g o c l u c o n i o c o c o o o t h t t e a r a u a l t e t e s r r o i o a n n g g i t l a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n l t d h o s i e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Stein W 3 2 2 2 3 12 .632 2 2 2 3 2 3 14 .667 26 .650 L 1 3 2 1 0 7 1 1 1 1 2 1 7 14 Lucid W 0 0 1 0 0 1 1.000 1 0 0 1 0 1 3 .500 4 .571 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 2 0 0 0 3 3 Kennedy W 1 3 3 1 1 9 .500 2 4 2 3 2 2 15 .577 24 .545 L 2 3 2 1 1 9 2 3 2 2 1 1 11 20 Gastright W 0 0 0 0 2 2 .500 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 .333 3 .429 L 1 0 0 1 0 2 0 0 1 0 1 0 2 4 Daub W 0 0 0 1 1 2 .222 1 1 1 1 2 2 8 .500 10 .406 L 1 1 1 2 2 7 2 1 0 1 2 2 8 15 Underwood W 0 0 0 1 1 2 .400 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 2 .400 L 1 0 1 1 0 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 G. Sharrott W 0 0 0 0 1 1 .333 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 1 .333 L 1 0 0 1 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 Sommerville W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Korwan W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CLEVELAND CLUB'S PITCHING RECORD. The Cleveland club's management made as great a mistake in 1894 as that of the Philadelphia club in experimenting with too many pitchers. They tried but six pitchers in 1892, when they won the championship of the second half of the divided season of that year, and in 1893 put eight in the box. But last year they engaged no less than thirteen pitchers to experiment with, and from third place in 1893 with eight pitchers, they ended in sixth position in 1894 with thirteen. Of those who pitched in over 20 games, Cuppy led with the percentage figures of .568, Young being second with .543. Of those who pitched in over 10 games and less than 20, Sullivan led with .600, followed by John Clarkson with .533. Of those who pitched in less than 10 games, but one reached average figures in percentage, Menafee pitching in only one game, a victory over Brooklyn, and Mullane in but 3, of which 2 were victories over St. Louis and Louisville. Cuppy did fine box work against the five Western clubs opposed to him, but he was excelled by Young against the Eastern batsmen. Five of the thirteen failed to pitch in a single victory. Here is the record in full: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W P C L r a B l a i i o a n W a N a B s t S n u n d o l e d r h P t C t c i P d P CLEVELAND n t w B e o i e s h . i s e e / i o l o n T r b i L n v T r T r vs. L m Y s p k g o c u c o n i o c o c o o o t h l t t e r a u a l t e t e s r r o i y o a n g g i t l a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n n l t h o s i e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Menafee W 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1.000 0 0 1 0 0 1 .000 1 1.000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 1[*] 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Mullane W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 1 0 1 2 .667 2 .667 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 Sullivan W 0 1 1 1 2 1 6 .600 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 6 .600 L 1 1 1 1 0 0 4 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Cuppy W 2 0 1 1 1 2 7 .368 2 3 3 2 4 14 .778 21 .568 L 2 4 3 0 1 2 12 2 0 0 2 0 4 16 Young W 1 1 1 3 2 3 11 .440 1 4 3 4 2 14 .667 25 .543 L 4 3 2 1 2 2 14 3 0 1 1 2 7 21 J. Clarkson W 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 .167 1 2 2 1 1 7 .778 8 .533 L 1 0 2 1 1 0 5 1 0 1 0 0 2 7 Wallace W 0 0 0 1 0 1 2 .667 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 2 .500 L 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 Griffith W 0 0 0 1 0 1 2 .500 0 0 0 1 0 1 .500 2 .500 L 1 1 0 0 0 0 2 0 0 0 1 0 1 2 Lyster W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Whitrock W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Knauss W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 Fischer W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 1 1 0 2 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 Petty W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 2 2 [Footnote *: Total should be 0. [Proofreader]] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE PITTSBURGH CLUB'S PITCHING RECORD. Of the nine pitchers employed by the Pittsburgh club in 1894 only three pitched in 20 games and over, and of this trio Killen led in percentage figures with .583, against Gumbert's .563 and Ehret's .389. The latter's blunders, outside of his actual box work, damaged him in his field support and in loss of local favor, otherwise he would have probably led in the season's record against the Eastern clubs. Gumbert led Killen by .471 to .364 in percentage figures, Killen being the most effective against the Western teams. Of those who pitched in 10 games and less than 20, Colcolough did the best work, with average percentage figures against the batsmen of both sections, with an even .500 in percentage figures against both, Menafee being second against both with .333 each. Of those who pitched in 5 games and less than 10, Nicol took the lead with the total figures of .667. Terry was a failure in Pittsburgh, but did well in Chicago. Easton was the last ditch pitcher, not winning a game. Ehret's record against Cleveland was the best of the season--not a single lost game out of the series he pitched in. Jordan won his single game. Here is the record: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W C L r a B l a C i o a n W a N a B s l S n u n d o l e d r h P e C t c i P d P PITTSBURGH n t w B e o i e v h . i s e e / i o l o n T r e i L n v T r T r vs. L m Y s p k g o c l c o n i o c o c o o o t h l t t e a a u a l t e t e s r r o i y o a n n g i t l a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n n l t d o s i e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jordan W 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1.000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 1 1.000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Nicol W 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1.000 0 0 1 2 0 3 .600 4 .667 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 2 2 Killen W 0 1 1 0 0 2 4 .364 1 4 1 1 3 10 .769 14 .583 L 1 1 1 2 2 0 7 2 0 1 0 0 3 10 Gumbert W 1 0 1 1 1 4 8 .471 0 2 2 2 4 10 .667 18 .563 L 1 3 2 1 1 1 9 0 0 2 2 1 5 14 Colcolough W 0 0 1 1 1 0 3 .500 0 1 1 1 1 4 .500 7 .500 L 1 1 0 1 0 0 3 1 1 1 1 0 4 7 Ehret W 2 2 1 1 0 2 8 .364 7 0 1 1 1 10 .556 18 .389 L 2 2 3 3 3 1 14 0 5 2 1 0 8 22 Menafee W 1 1 0 0 2 0 4 .333 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 4 .333 L 1 1 2 1 1 2 8 0 0 0 0 0 0 8 Terry W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 Easton W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CHICAGO CLUB'S RECORD. The Chicago club, in 1894, placed only seven pitchers in the box, of which but three pitched in 20 games and over, and but two in not less than 10 games and not less than 20. Of the three former, Griffith led with a percentage of victories pitched in of .645 to Stratton's .643 and Hutchinson's .471, McGill being fourth with but .240. Of those who pitched in not less than 5 games, besides the above pitchers, Abbey led with .333, Terry's figures being .294, the Eastern batsmen punishing him badly. Camp pitched in but one game, and that a defeat. Here is the club record of the pitching: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W P C L r a B l a C i i o a n W a N a B s l t S n u n d o l e d r h P e t t c i P d P CHICAGO n t w B e o i e v s . i s e e / i o l o n T r e b L n v T r T r vs. L m Y s p k g o c l u o n i o c o c o o o t h l t t e a r u a l t e t e s r r o i y o a n n g i t l a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n n l t d h s i e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Griffith W 1 0 2 2 2 3 10 .625 1 3 1 3 2 10 .667 20 .645 L 1 2 1 0 1 1 6 2 1 0 1 1 5 11 Stratton W 0 1 1 0 2 1 5 .714 0 0 2 1 1 4 .571 9 .643 L 0 0 0 1 0 1 2 1 1 0 1 0 3 5 Hutchinson W 2 1 1 2 1 2 9 .409 0 2 2 1 2 7 .583 16 .471 L 3 5 2 1 2 0 13 1 2 1 1 0 5 18 Abbey W 0 0 0 1 0 1 2 .333 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 2 .333 L 0 0 0 1 1 1 3 0 1 2 1 0 1 4 Terry W 0 0 1 0 1 0 2 .143 1 1 0 0 1 3 1.000 5 .294 L 3 3 2 1 1 2 12 0 0 0 0 0 0 12 McGill W 0 0 0 2 0 0 2 .222 0 0 1 1 2 4 .250 6 .240 L 2 1 2 1 1 0 7 4 2 2 2 2 12 19 Camp W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE ST. LOUIS CLUB'S RECORD. The St. Louis club tried seven pitchers in 1894, and but one reached the percentage average of .500 and over, and that one was Breitenstein, who had .519; Hawley being second with .419, and A. Clarkson third with .360, Gleason making but little effort in the St. Louis box, though he did better in that of Baltimore, his percentage being but .250 in the St. Louis team. Clark, Sullivan and Mason were failures, not one of them pitching in a single victory. Here is the record: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W P C L r a B l a C i i o a n W a N a B s l t n u n d o l e d r h P e t C c i P d P ST. LOUIS n t w B e o i e v s h i s e e / i o l o n T r e b i n v T r T r vs. L m Y s p k g o c l u c n i o c o c o o o t h l t t e a r a a l t e t e s r r o i y o a n n g g t l a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n n l t d h o i e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Breitenstein W 1 2 1 4 3 2 13 .448 2 4 2 3 3 14 .609 27 .519 L 5 2 8 1 2 3 16 3 2 2 2 0 9 25 Hawley W 1 0 4 2 1 2 10 .417 1 2 2 1 2 8 .421 18 .419 L 2 3 3 3 3 0 14 1 1 3 3 3 11 25 A. Clarkson W 0 3 1 1 0 2 7 .438 0 0 1 1 0 2 .222 9 .360 L 3 2 0 0 3 1 9 3 1 1 1 1 7 16 Gleason W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 1 0 1 2 .286 2 .250 L 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 1 0 1 1 5 6 Clark W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Sullivan W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Clark W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 2 2 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE CINCINNATI CLUB'S RECORD. It may be said of the Cincinnati club's management in 1894, that in the multiplicity of pitchers there is much danger, or words to that effect. Twelve pitchers were tried (including one who pitched in two innings) with a field support of no less than eleven players, exclusive of the pitchers who took part at times in both infield and outfield positions, together with four catchers, an aggregate of 27 _players_ to occupy but _nine_ positions in the game. Could blundering management go further? Under such circumstances is it any wonder that team-work was impossible, while cliques of disappointed players still further weakened the nine in nearly every game, the ultimate result being ninth place in the race, with the added discredit of being beaten out in the race by their old rivals, the St. Louis "Browns." But three of the twelve pitchers took part in 20 games and over, and but one in 10 games and less than 20, and three out of the twelve failed to win a single game. Parrott did the most effective work against the Eastern batsmen, and he and Dwyer were tied against the Western batsmen, but two of the twelve pitching in more victories than defeats. The experience of the Cincinnati "battery" teams should teach managers a lesson for 1895 in indulging in experiments with too many pitchers. Here is the record: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W P L r a B l a C i o a n W a N a B s l t S u n d o l e d r h P e t C t i P d P CINCINNATI n t w B e o i e v s h . s e e / i o l o n T r e b i L v T r T r vs. L m Y s p k g o c l u c o i o c o c o o o t h l t t e a r a u l t e t e s r r o i y o a n n g g i l a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n n l t d h o s e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tannehill W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 1 1 1 .500 1 .500 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 Dwyer W 1 3 1 0 1 2 8 .400 1 1 3 3 2 10 .588 18 .486 L 4 1 1 2 2 2 12 0 2 2 0 3 7 19 Parrott W 1 2 1 2 2 2 9 .500 2 2 1 2 2 9 .474 18 .486 L 3 1 3 0 1 1 9 2 2 2 2 2 10 19 Chamberlain W 0 0 0 0 3 2 5 .500 0 1 1 1 2 5 .455 10 .476 L 2 1 1 1 0 0 5 3 2 0 1 0 6 11 Cross W 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1.000 0 1 1 0 0 2 .333 3 .429 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 1 1 0 0 4 4 Whitrock W 0 0 1 1 0 1 3 .375 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 3 .375 L 0 2 0 2 1 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 5 Fournier W 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 .250 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 1 .250 L 0 1 1 0 0 1 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 Fischer W 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 .100 0 0 0 1 0 1 .500 2 .167 L 1 1 2 2 2 1 9 0 0 1 0 0 1 10 Blank W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 Flynn W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 1 1[*] Pfann W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 [Footnote *: Grand Total should be 2. [Proofreader]] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE WASHINGTON CLUB'S RECORD. The Washington club was weakened in the same manner as the Cincinnati club, by experimenting with too many pitchers, they using a round dozen in the box during their campaign in 1894. Of the twelve, but one exceeded the percentage average of .500. Of those who pitched in 20 games and over there were but two, Maul leading with .423, and Mercer following with .410. Of those who pitched in 10 games and under 20, Esper led Stockdale and Petty, by .400 to .357 and .273, respectively. Sullivan was a bad failure, as he only pitched in 2 victories out of 12 games. No less than five of the twelve pitchers failed to pitch in a single victory, not even against the Western teams. Under such circumstances the wonder is that Washington escaped the last ditch. Here is the record: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i P C L r a B l C i i o a n W a N a B l t S n u n d o l e d r P e t C t c i P d P WASHINGTON n t w B e o e v s h . i s e e / i o l o T r e b i L n v T r T r vs. L m Y s p k o c l u c o n i o c o c o o o t h l t e a r a u a l t e t e s r r o i y a n n g g i t l a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n l t d h o s i e l t l t --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mullarsky W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 1 0 1 0 0 0 2 .667 2 .667 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 Maul W 1 0 1 1 1 4 .267 1 1 1 0 2 2 7 .636 11 .423 L 2 3 3 2 1 11 0 1 1 1 1 0 4 15 Mercer W 0 0 2 2 1 5 .294 0 3 1 2 1 4 11 .500 16 .410 L 4 3 1 0 4 12 4 2 1 1 2 1 11 23 Esper W 0 0 0 1 1 2 .400 0 0 1 2 1 0 4 .400 6 .400 L 0 0 2 1 0 3 2 2 2 0 0 1 6 9 Stockdale W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 1 0 1 1 1 1 5 .625 5 .357 L 2 2 0 1 0 5 0 1 1 0 1 0 3 9 Petty W 0 1 0 0 0 1 .125 1 0 0 0 0 1 2 .667 3 .273 L 3 1 1 0 2 7 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 8 Sullivan W 0 1 0 0 0 1 .167 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 .167 2 .167 L 0 1 1 2 1 5 0 1 2 0 1 1 5 10 Wynne W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Anderson W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 2 2 Stephens W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 1 1 1 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 Boyd W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 0 3 3 Haddock W 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 1 4 4 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE LOUISVILLE CLUB'S RECORD. The Louisville club had nine pitchers in position during 1894, of which but four pitched in 20 games and over, and but one in 10 games and less than 20, Knell pitching in less than 20 games, with the percentage of .241, and Stratton in less than 10, with .143, the latter doing far better afterwards in the Chicago team. Hemming's .355 was the best record, Menafee being second with .348, both pitching in over twenty games. Hemming's percentage in the Louisville team was but .355, which, compared with his record of 1.000 in the Baltimore team, made his total percentage .615, showing quite a difference between his support in the Louisvilles and that in the Baltimores. Hemming, Menafee and Inks were the most successful against the strong teams of the Eastern division. Whitrock, Sullivan and Kilroy were unsuccessful opponents. Here is the record: -------------------------------------------------------------------------- EASTERN CLUBS WESTERN CLUBS. P G h G r i W P C r a B l a C i i a n W a N a B s l t S n n d o l e d r h P e t C t c P d P LOUISVILLE n t w B e o i e v s h . i e e / i o l o n T r e b i L n T r T r vs. L m Y s p k g o c l u c o n o c o c o o o t h l t t e a r a u a t e t e s r r o i y o a n n g g i t a n a n Pitchers t e k n a n n l t d h o s i l t l t -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hemming W 2 0 0 1 1 0 4 .250 0 2 2 3 0 7 .429 11 .355 L 2 4 1 2 1 2 12 3 1 2 0 2 8 20 Menafee W 0 0 0 0 1 1 2 .286 3 1 0 1 1 6 .375 8 .348 L 1 1 1 1 1 0 5 1 4 1 2 2 10 15 Inks W 0 0 2 0 0 0 2 .250 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 2 .250 L 1 1 1 0 2 1 6 0 0 0 0 0 0 6 Knell W 0 0 0 2 0 2 4 .190 0 0 0 1 2 3 .375 7 .241 L 3 4 4 1 3 2 17 1 1 2 1 0 5 22 Wadsworth W 0 0 0 0 2 1 3 .200 0 0 0 1 0 1 .167 4 .190 L 2 2 2 2 2 2 12 1 1 1 1 1 5 17 Stratton W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 1 0 0 1 .167 1 .143 L 1 0 1 0 0 0 2 0 1 1 1 1 4 6 Whitrock W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 Sullivan W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 Kilroy W 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 0 0 0 0 0 .000 0 .000 L 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 1 1 1 0 4 5 -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Interesting Pitching Records. No pitching records under the scoring rules of 1894 admitted of any data being made up from which a true criterion of the skill of the pitchers could be arrived at; nor can there be until the rules give the figures of "innings pitched in" and base hits made off each inning each pitcher pitched in. There is scarcely a game in which two pitchers do not enter the box to pitch, at least in one or two innings; but the scoring rules do not give the figures of innings pitched in, or how many base hits were made off each pitcher, and the result is that the total base hits scored in the game cannot be divided up between the pitchers correctly. A pitcher goes into the box at the outset of the game, and in one or two innings he is badly punished. Then a substitute follows him, and in the succeeding innings not a third of the base hits made off the first pitcher are recorded against the substitute, and yet not a record to show this is to be had off the data the scoring rules admit of. Here is the pitching score which should be used in the summary of each game: [_Copy of Yale-Princeton score of June 16, 1894_.] PITCHING SCORE. --------------------------------------------------------- CARTER. BRADLEY. ALTMAN. Innings pitched in by 9 6 2 Base hits off 9 5 7 Runs earned off 3 2 3 Bases on balls by 4 2 1 Wild pitches by 0 1 1 Hit batsmen by 0 1 1 Struck out by 8 3 0 --------------------------------------------------------- Umpire--Emslie. Time of game--2 hours 5 minutes. Not an official record, giving the data of work done in the box by the League pitchers, furnishes any correct figures by which to judge the good or bad work done in the box each season. We give below a series of records which give a somewhat better idea of each pitcher's box work than the official averages can give under the pitching rules in vogue up to 1895. The first table gives a full, but not complete, record of the League pitching of 1894 by those pitchers whose percentage of victories pitched in are not less than .500. Those whose record was under .500 and not less than .400 included the following: Inks, .478; Stratton, .476; German, .471; Maul, .470; Hutchinson, .467; Parrott, .459; Ehret, .436; Daub, .423; Mercer, .421; Hawley, .413, and Westervelt, .412. Of those whose percentages were under .400 and not less than .300 were the following: Stockdale, .375; Menafee, .351; Sullivan, .348; J. Clarkson, .308. These were followed by McGill, .291; Terry, 278; Knell, .200, and Wadsworth, .190. The official pitching averages, from which these figures are taken, give no record of the pitchers who pitched in less than 15 games during 1894, and those who pitched in 10 games and less than 15 included pitchers having better percentages than some of those recorded above. Here is a record taken from the figures of the official tables, which presents data from which a pretty fair estimate of a pitcher's ability can be arrived at; though it is, of course, not a really correct criterion of his box work, as it does not contain the record of the runs earned off his pitching solely by base hits, which cannot be obtained under the existing scoring rules: --------------------------------------------------------------------- P B e a r s c e e G n h a t i m t B S e o s a a s f s c S o e r t R P V P f s S i o u i i i f t f l n t c t o r i e s c t c P n u c n F A B A h o h i c e S i v a v e r e t B k B c e e t e d i d c a H a o l r t r e h l O i s r d a i a i s I i l u t e e i g n g n n n s t s s d n e g e PITCHERS. CLUBS. . . g . . . . . g . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- Meekin New York 47 .790 253 147 127 1 4 26 .798 .281 McMahon Baltimore 34 .735 269 109 55 8 1 17 .869 .286 Rusie New York 49 .734 253 189 204 2 4 20 .867 .275 Taylor Philadelphia 33 .719 381 85 79 0 3 21 .796 .331 Nichols Boston 45 .711 291 108 98 2 1 40 .856 .282 Stivetts Boston 39 .692 306 100 73 3 4 56 .813 .336 Hawke Baltimore 23 .652 311 58 50 5 2 12 .887 .301 Stein Brooklyn 42 .619 280 162 72 4 3 31 .785 .260 Gumbert Pittsburgh 31 .600 320 73 60 1 1 18 .909 .303 Gleason Baltimore 29 .586 312 59 39 4 1 24 .841 .342 Killen Pittsburgh 24 .583 303 83 57 1 1 14 .909 .256 Cuppy Cleveland 37 .583 298 119 63 1 4 28 .916 .253 Carsey Philadelphia 31 .580 314 95 40 1 3 31 .831 .277 Breitenstein St. Louis 49 .551 280 162 138 9 3 27 .902 .229 Weyhing Philadelphia 33 .545 324 101 79 7 1 9 .845 .168 Kennedy Brooklyn 42 .545 302 134 101 0 5 22 .771 .300 Colcolough Pittsburgh 15 .533 354 59 19 1 1 19 .844 .214 Young Cleveland 47 .532 293 100 100 0 4 24 .902 .213 Chamberlain Cincinnati 19 .526 309 78 57 3 1 10 .729 .304 Staley Boston 25 .520 344 55 29 2 0 12 .744 .238 Esper Baltimore 26 .500 339 59 36 0 0 16 .929 .239 Dwyer Cincinnati 39 .500 317 97 49 0 0 32 .902 .269 Hemming Baltimore 40 .500 295 140 75 0 2 23 .893 .256 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Here are the records, showing the batting and fielding averages of the nine pitchers who excelled in each record: --------------------------------------------------------------------- F A B A i v a v G e e G t e a l r a t r m d a m i a e i g e n g s n e s g e PITCHERS CLUBS . g . PITCHERS CLUBS . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1. Stratton Chicago 21 .931 1. Stratton Chicago 33 .350 2. Esper Baltimore 26 .929 2. Nicol Louisville 28 .348 3. Cuppy Cleveland 37 .916 3. Mullane Cleveland 18 .343 4. Gumbert Pittsburgh 31 .909 4. Gleason Baltimore 31 .341 5. Killen Pittsburgh 24 .909 5. Inks Baltimore 24 .337 6. Menafee Pittsburgh 37 .904 6. Stivetts Boston 57 .336 7. Dwyer Cincinnati 39 .902 7. Taylor Philadelphia 34 .331 8. Young Cleveland 47 .902 8. Parrott Cincinnati 59 .329 9. Breitenstein St. Louis 49 .902 9. Terry Chicago 25 .325 --------------------------------------------------------------------- According to the above figures Stratton was the best fielding pitcher, and Breitenstein the poorest; Stratton also excelling in base hit averages, while in that record Terry was the tail-ender. The nine pitchers who excelled in total stolen bases were as follows: --------------------------------------------------------------------- PITCHERS. CLUBS. Games. Stolen Bases. --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1. Parrott Cincinnati 59 5 2. Stivetts Boston 57 4 3. Terry Chicago 25 3 4. Stratton Chicago 33 3 5. Taylor Philadelphia 34 3 6. Mullane Cleveland 18 2 7. Nicol Louisville 28 2 8. Inks Baltimore 24 1 9. Gleason Baltimore 31 1 --------------------------------------------------------------------- In the foregoing two tables pitchers are included who did not reach a percentage of victories pitched in of .500; the list of these including Inks, Stratton, German, Hutchinson, Mullane, Parrott, Maul, Ehret, Daub, Mercer, Hawley and Westervelt, whose percentage figures were less than .500 and not lower than .400. Of those whose percentage figures did not reach .400 and were not lower than .300, were Stockdale, Menafee, Sullivan and A. Clarkson; while those who were less than .300 and not lower than .200, were McGill, Terry and Knell; Wadsworth being the tail-ender in percentage figures with .190. The above tables present quite an interesting pitching problem, the puzzle being to find out which of the above pitchers did the best work in the box in every respect, not only in pitching, but by his batting, fielding and base running. In percentage of victories pitched in, Meekin took the lead. In the number of batsmen struck out, Rusie excelled. In fewest bases on balls, Staley had the lowest figures. In base hit averages, Stivetts led; while in total sacrifice hits, Breitenstein bore off the palm. In total runs scored, Stivetts had the largest total. In stolen bases, Kennedy was the most successful, and yet he only stole 5 in 42 games. Now the problem is, Which pitcher did the best average work in his position? and we leave that for our readers to solve. It is alleged that the reason pitchers do so little in stealing bases is that they are too fatigued in their pitching in each inning to do much in the active work of base running, both duties trying a player's nerves considerably. For this reason it would be a good plan, in the order of batting, to have a sure hitter follow each pitcher, so as to help bat him round. Hints to the Pitchers of 1895. We are glad to record the fact that scientific pitching is advancing in the League arena. Its progress, hitherto, has been slow and only step by step, but it is making headway, and during 1894 the science of strategic pitching made greater progress than ever before. The effective blow given to "cyclone" pitching by the new pitching rules, which went into effect in 1893, while it did not materially affect the strategic class of pitchers--some of whom the new rules actually benefited--obliged the class of pitchers who depend solely upon their dangerous speed for success, to adopt strategic tactics to a more or less extent; and this is why a few of the old "cyclone" pitchers--as they are called--succeeded better than they anticipated under the change made in the rules in 1893, which had placed them farther from the batsman than in 1892. It may be said, in connection with the pitching of 1894, that one thing noticeable in the "box" work of that season was that the brainy class of men in the position began to pay more attention to the advice of the theorists of the game than before; and thereby they learned to realize the fact that _strategic skill, and that equally important attribute, thorough control of temper_, together with the avoidance of the senseless _kicking habit_ in vogue, had more to do with success in their position than they had previously been aware. Those of the pitching fraternity who read up on the subject of skill in pitching, were told that the primary elements of strategic work in the "box" included: "First, to deceive the eye of the batsman in regard to the character of the delivery of the ball, as to its being fast or slow. Second, to deceive his judgment in reference to the direction of the ball when pitched to him, as to its being high or low, or where he wants it. Third, to watch the batsman closely so as to know just when he is temporarily 'out of form' for making a good hit; and Fourth, to tempt him with a ball which will be likely to go high from his bat to the outfield and be caught." Then again they were told that "another very effective point in strategic pitching, is a thoroughly disguised change of pace in delivery. This is difficult of attainment, and as a general rule it can only be played with effect on the careless class of batsmen. Let it be borne in mind that the pitcher who cannot control his temper is as unfit for his position as is a quick-tempered billiard player to excel as a winner in professional contests. Quick temper is the mortal foe of cool judgment, and it plays the mischief with that nervy condition so necessary in the development of skilful strategy. The pitcher must of necessity be subject to annoyances well calculated to try a man's temper, especially when his best efforts in pitching are rendered useless by the blunders of incompetent fielders, but under such trying circumstances his triumph is all the greater if he can pluck victory out of the fire of such opposition, _by the thorough control of his temper_." This is something only a minority of League pitchers did in 1894. SUMMARY RECORD. The leading pitcher of each of the twelve clubs against the six clubs of each section, in percentage of victories pitched in, by those who occupied the box in 10 games and over, is given in the following table: --------------------------------------------------------------------- BALTIMORE. AGAINST THE EASTERN CLUBS. AGAINST THE WESTERN CLUBS Percent. of Percent. of Pitchers. Victories. Pitchers. Victories --------------------------------------------------------------------- McMahon .706 McMahon .811 NEW YORK. Meelin .778 Rusie .889 BOSTON. Nichols .756 Stivetts .763 PHILADELPHIA. Taylor .625 Taylor .778 BROOKLYN. Stein .692 Stein .650 CLEVELAND. Sullivan .600 Cuppy .778 PITTSBURGH. Gumbert .471 Killen .769 CHICAGO. Griffith .625 Griffith .667 ST. LOUIS. Breitenstein .448 Breitenstein .609 CINCINNATI. Parrott .500 Dwyer .588 WASHINGTON. Mercer .294 Maul .636 LOUISVILLE. Hemming .250 Hemming .429 --------------------------------------------------------------------- It will be seen that Rusie leads all the pitchers against the Western teams and Meekin all against the Eastern teams, Rusie having the highest individual percentage of victories against a single section. There can be no really reliable criterion of a pitcher's skill, as judged by the data of his averages, until the figures of runs earned off the pitching solely by base hits, and not by base hits and stolen bases, and the errors they lead to combined, as is the case under the defective scoring rules in existence in 1894. To call a run scored by a combination of base hits and stolen bases is unjust to the pitcher, while judging his pitching by the percentage of victories pitched is only less faulty; but the latter is the better criterion of skill than that of earned runs, as calculated on the basis of the rules of 1894. THE OFFICIAL AVERAGES FOR 1894. The official averages for 1894, as prepared by Secretary Young, of the National League, from data furnished him under the regulation scoring rules of each year, have always been more or less defective as far as affording a reliable criterion of play in each department of the game was concerned, and necessarily so, owing to the faulty scoring rules in existence up to 1895. The batting averages are more than useless, as they fail to show the only reliable criterion of play there is, and that is, _the percentage of runners forwarded around the bases by base hits._ The pitching averages are similarly useless, as they fail to give the correct data for judging the percentage of runs earned off the pitching on the basis of runs scored by base hits, and by nothing else; the figures of earned runs, under the present defective rules, including runs earned by a combination of base hits and stolen bases, together with such fielding errors as base stealing leads to, a class of errors aside from regular fielding errors. Glancing at the record of the so-called leading batsmen since 1888, we find that the data on which the averages are made out grew more defective each year up to 1893, when they were improved a little. Below will be found the several headings of the season's averages, together with the name of the so-called leading batsman of each year, during the past seven years, beginning with 1888 and ending with 1894. SEASON OF 1888. ------------------------------ Rank. 1 NAME. Anson CLUB. Chicago Games Played. 134 Times at Bat. 515 Runs Scored. 101 Ave. Per Game. 0.75 First Base Hits. 177 Percentage. .343 Total Bases. 52 Ave. Per Game. 1.88 Bases Stolen. 28 Ave. Per Game. 0.20 ------------------------------ SEASON OF 1889. ------------------------------ Rank. 1 NAME. Brouthers CLUB. Boston Games. 126 Per cent. of Base Hits. .373 Stolen Bases. 22 Sacrifice Hits. 31 No. of Runs. 105 ------------------------------ SEASON OF 1890. ------------------------------ Rank. 1 NAME. Glasscock CLUB. New York Position. S. S. Games. 124 P. c. base hits to times at bat. .336 ------------------------------ SEASON OF 1891. ------------------------------ Rank. 1 NAME. Hamilton CLUB. Philadelphia Games Played. 133 Runs Scored. 42 Per cent. .338 ------------------------------ SEASON OF 1892. ------------------------------ Rank. 1 NAME. Childs CLUB. Cleveland Games Played. 144 Times at Bat. 552 Runs Scored. 135 Base Hits. 185 Per cent. .335 Total Bases. 233 Sacrifice Hits. 14 Stolen Bases. 31 ------------------------------ SEASON OF 1893. ------------------------------ Rank. 1 NAME. Stenzel CLUB. Pittsburgh Games Played. 51 Times at Bat. 198 Runs Scored. 56 Base Hits. 81 Per cent. .409 Total Bases. 113 Sacrifice Hits. 12 Stolen Bases. 13 ------------------------------ SEASON OF 1894. ------------------------------ Rank. 1 NAME. Duffy CLUB. Boston Games Played. 124 Times at Bat. 539 Runs Scored. 160 Base Hits. 236 Per cent. .438 Total Bases. 372 Sacrifice Hits. 10 Stolen Bases. 49 ------------------------------ Every record of the above tables is made up to encourage the mere record batsman, the team-worker at the bat having no show given him whatever, as there is not a figure in the averages--with the probable exception of the "sacrifice hit" column--to show his percentage of runners forwarded by his base hits, this being the sole criterion of effective batting. What is wanted is a record made up in this form: BATSMAN. CLUB. Games. Per cent. per Game Runners Forwarded by Base Hits. Per cent. of Base Hits to Times at Bat. Per cent. of Sacrifice Hits per Game. Per cent. of Runs per Game. Per cent. of Bases Taken on Balls. Per cent. of Outs on Strikes. Per cent. of Chances Given for Catches. The above record shows how the batsman excelled in forwarding runners by his hits, together with his percentage of base hits, sacrifice hits, runs scored, percentage of times he gave chances for outs on catches--a record which shows the batsman's weakness in batting--percentage of outs on strikes, and of the times he took his base on balls. The figures showing total bases is only of more advantage to record batsmen than to team-workers at the bat, and if left out would cause the "fungo" hitting class of batsmen to strive to do more teamwork at the bat than they do now. Another column might be added showing the percentage of runners forwarded by extra base hits. As regards the pitching averages they are equally unreliable in affording a criterion of excellence of play in the box. How is it possible to tell how effective a pitcher is by the figures of earned runs as recorded under the scoring rules in vogue up to 1895? A batsman, for instance, gets to first base by a fly ball which dropped between two fielders running to catch the ball, a so-called base hit is scored--the hit really giving an easy chance for a catch. This is followed by two steals, sending the runner to third, and a single base hit sends him home, and by the combined play an earned run off the pitching is unjustly earned. Another instance of this kind is shown when the first batsman is given a life by a dropped fly ball; the second is given another life by a muffed ball from an infield hit, and the third man at the bat is given a life by a wild throw to first base; after which three batsmen make safe hits, and before the side is put out, three runs are scored as earned, though the side should have been put out had the pitcher's field support been up to even ordinary mark, the fact being that not a single run was really earned off the pitching, yet three earned runs are scored against the pitcher under the scoring rules "up to date." Other instances of the uselessness of the existing method of making out the League averages could be readily cited, but these amply suffice, we think. One thing against improvement in the scoring rules is: first, the fact that the magnates have the power to revise the amendments made by the Committee on Rules. Another is the failure, as a rule, to appoint that committee so as to secure an efficient working committee. But even when this is done their good work is knocked in the head by the majority vote of the magnates at the spring meeting. The vote should be made unanimous in changing any rule favorably reported by the Committee. Here are the complete official averages for 1894, as prepared by Secretary Young, after revision of averages published last fall: Batting Record OF PLAYERS WHO HAVE TAKEN PART IN FIFTEEN OR MORE CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES--SEASON OF 1894. --------------------------------------------------------------------- P e A r G t B a R a c m B u s e T S S e a n e n . . . s t s s t B H B NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- Duffy Boston 124 539 160 236 .438 372 10 49 Turner Philadelphia 77 347 94 147 .423 187 8 12 Thompson Philadelphia 102 458 115 185 .403 314 8 29 Delehanty Philadelphia 114 497 149 199 .400 283 5 29 Hamilton Philadelphia 131 559 196 223 .398 289 7 99 Anson Chicago 83 347 87 137 .394 188 7 17 Kelley Baltimore 129 509 167 199 .391 304 19 45 Cross Philadelphia 120 543 128 211 .388 290 16 28 Tenny Boston 24 80 21 31 .387 43 2 7 Holliday Cincinnati 122 519 125 199 .383 297 4 39 Brodie Baltimore 129 574 132 212 .369 269 24 50 Doyle New York 105 425 94 157 .369 216 4 48 Keeler Baltimore 128 593 164 218 .367 305 16 30 Griffin Brooklyn 106 405 123 148 .365 209 5 48 Childs Cleveland 117 476 144 174 .365 227 4 20 Grady Philadelphia 50 187 45 68 .363 100 2 3 Dahlen Chicago 121 508 150 184 .362 289 10 49 Ryan Chicago 108 481 133 173 .359 233 8 12 Burns Brooklyn 126 513 107 184 .358 261 9 29 Burkett Cleveland 124 518 134 185 .357 267 10 32 McKean Cleveland 130 561 115 199 .354 281 11 32 Smith Pittsburgh 125 497 129 175 .352 267 10 37 Stenzel Pittsburgh 131 523 148 184 .351 303 5 60 Earle Brooklyn and Louisville 33 114 23 40 .350 47 4 5 Stratton Chicago and Louisville 33 134 39 47 .350 77 0 8 McCarthy Boston 126 536 118 187 .349 266 9 40 Nicol Louisville 28 112 12 39 .348 53 1 2 Robinson Baltimore 106 420 71 146 .348 182 11 13 Davis New York 124 492 124 170 .345 267 9 37 --------------------------------------------------------------------- P e A r G t B a R a c m B u s e T S S e a n e n . . . s t s s t B H B NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- Brouthers Baltimore 123 528 137 182 .344 287 18 40 Joyce Washington 98 357 103 124 .344 230 5 23 Beckley Pittsburgh 132 534 122 184 .344 284 22 20 Clements Philadelphia 47 172 26 59 .343 85 3 04 Mullane Baltimore and Cleveland 18 67 3 23 .343 27 1 2 Gleason Baltimore and St. Louis 31 111 24 38 .342 55 4 1 Miller St. Louis 125 480 93 164 .341 223 8 20 Lowe Boston 133 615 585 210 .341 323 9 25 McGraw Baltimore 123 515 115 175 .340 221 14 77 Daly Brooklyn 123 494 135 167 .338 237 4 53 Inks Baltimore and Louisville 24 89 12 27 .337 30 1 1 Sullivan Washington & Philadelphia 93 374 72 126 .337 166 7 15 Connaughton Boston 38 166 38 56 .337 76 1 2 Bannon Boston 127 496 130 167 .336 257 6 42 Stivetts Boston 57 244 56 82 .336 133 3 4 Treadway Brooklyn 122 482 124 162 .336 254 12 29 Sugden Pittsburgh 39 141 24 47 .333 70 6 3 VanHaltren New York 139 531 110 177 .333 231 13 44 Jennings Baltimore 128 505 136 168 .332 246 18 36 Taylor Philadelphia 34 145 21 48 .331 63 0 3 Wilmot Chicago 135 606 137 201 .331 294 14 76 LaChance Brooklyn 65 258 47 85 .329 129 3 25 Wilson New York 45 179 37 59 .329 77 2 9 Parrott Cincinnati 59 228 50 75 .329 126 1 5 Tucker Boston 122 503 112 165 .328 212 2 19 Hallman Philadelphia 119 519 111 170 .327 207 22 27 Hassamer Washington 116 493 106 161 .326 243 10 15 Lange Chicago 112 447 87 145 .324 119 4 71 Long Boston 103 475 136 154 .324 240 8 25 Terry Chicago 25 96 19 31 .323 39 0 3 Hutchinson Chicago 34 133 28 43 .323 64 2 1 McPhee Cincinnati 128 481 113 154 .320 230 6 31 Shock Brooklyn 63 237 46 76 .320 94 8 18 O'Connor Cleveland 80 324 67 105 .320 146 4 13 Abbey Washington 129 521 95 166 .318 243 13 30 Kittredge Chicago 50 167 36 53 .317 65 5 2 Twineham St. Louis 31 127 22 40 .314 50 1 2 Connor New York and St. Louis 121 462 93 145 .313 253 6 15 Latham Cincinnati 130 532 132 167 .313 233 11 62 Hoy Cincinnati 128 506 118 158 .312 241 11 30 Hartman Pittsburgh 49 186 41 58 .311 82 8 12 Lyons Pittsburgh 72 254 51 79 .311 113 11 17 Foutz Brooklyn 73 296 41 92 .310 126 8 16 Decker Chicago 89 391 76 121 .309 177 2 22 Vaughn Cincinnati 67 275 48 85 .309 145 2 6 Selbach Washington 96 372 70 115 .309 188 3 23 Stockdale Washington 19 75 9 23 .306 25 1 2 Donovan Pittsburgh 133 575 146 176 .306 230 26 51 Reitz Baltimore 109 450 86 138 .306 226 7 18 Ely St. Louis 127 508 85 155 .305 237 13 23 O. Tebeau Cleveland 119 501 79 153 .305 200 9 27 McGuire Washington 102 427 67 130 .304 176 4 11 --------------------------------------------------------------------- P e A r G t B a R a c m B u s e T S S e a n e n . . . s t s s t B H B NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- Chamberlain Cincinnati 20 69 10 21 .304 36 3 1 Ward Washington 89 343 85 104 .303 130 5 36 Gumbert Pittsburgh 33 112 18 34 .303 52 1 1 Corcoran Brooklyn 129 573 124 173 .302 251 10 33 Irwin Chicago 130 503 85 152 .302 220 4 34 Bierbauer Pittsburgh 131 527 88 159 .301 217 20 20 Anderson Brooklyn 16 63 13 19 .301 29 1 7 Bonner Baltimore 27 113 26 34 .301 46 2 11 Hawke Baltimore 25 93 12 28 .301 37 5 2 German New York 19 60 8 18 .300 19 2 1 Merritt Boston and Cincinnati 66 243 38 73 .300 100 1 5 Shindle Brooklyn 117 476 96 143 .300 201 17 18 Kennedy Brooklyn 42 160 22 48 .300 61 6 5 Burke New York 138 575 124 172 .299 225 10 47 Cooley St. Louis 52 207 35 62 .299 71 6 8 Kinslow Brooklyn 61 221 38 66 .298 91 2 6 McAleer Cleveland 64 251 36 75 .298 99 5 17 Pfeffer Louisville 104 420 66 125 .297 182 15 33 Flaherty Louisville 38 149 15 44 .295 55 1 2 Dungan Louisville and Chicago 18 71 11 20 .295 23 1 3 Mercer Washington 43 163 29 48 .294 61 1 10 Nash Boston 132 510 132 150 .294 212 3 19 Canavan Cincinnati 100 362 81 106 .293 201 5 15 Lake Louisville 16 41 8 12 .292 18 0 2 Cartwright Washington 132 509 86 149 .292 238 3 35 Boyle Philadelphia 116 512 103 150 .291 203 18 22 Grimm Louisville 107 413 65 120 .290 182 8 14 Smith Louisville 39 135 27 39 .288 56 1 13 Blake Cleveland 73 300 51 86 .286 113 10 1 McMahon Baltimore 34 129 17 37 .286 46 8 1 Shugart Pittsburgh 133 533 103 152 .285 236 13 23 Knell Louisville 31 119 10 34 .285 47 1 2 Zimmer Cleveland 88 340 55 97 .285 141 2 15 Fuller New York 95 378 82 107 .283 138 0 34 Glasscock Pittsburgh 86 332 47 94 .283 123 13 20 Nichols Boston 45 170 40 48 .282 64 2 1 Tiernan New York 112 429 87 121 .282 184 6 26 Farrell New York 112 404 50 114 .282 175 3 10 Meekin New York 48 174 26 49 .281 80 1 4 Ganzel Boston 65 266 52 74 .278 98 4 1 Carsey Philadelphia 32 126 31 35 .277 40 1 3 Rusie New York 49 185 20 51 .275 74 2 4 Shiebeck Pittsburgh & Washington 75 294 69 81 .275 102 1 19 Clark Louisville 76 316 55 87 .275 132 1 24 Peitz St. Louis 100 364 62 100 .274 159 7 17 Quinn St. Louis 106 411 58 113 .274 142 13 26 Denny Louisville 60 222 26 61 .274 87 6 10 Hawley St. Louis 48 161 16 44 .273 68 5 1 Reilly Philadelphia 36 132 21 37 .272 42 1 6 O'Rourke Louisville & St. Louis 80 316 60 86 .272 106 6 11 McGarr Cleveland 127 522 94 142 .272 185 5 34 Murphy New York 73 284 65 77 .271 89 2 25 --------------------------------------------------------------------- P e A r G t B a R a c m B u s e T S S e a n e n . . . s t s s t B H B NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- Ryan Boston 49 203 39 55 .271 87 1 4 Virtue Cleveland 23 85 15 23 .270 80 2 1 Clarke Baltimore 27 100 18 27 .270 40 3 1 Dwyer Cincinnati 49 171 32 46 .269 72 0 0 Schriver Chicago 94 356 56 96 .269 123 5 9 Dailey Brooklyn 65 230 39 62 .269 89 6 4 Murphy Cincinnati 76 265 42 71 .268 89 6 5 Dowd St. Louis 123 524 92 141 .267 185 9 34 McCarthy Cincinnati 40 168 29 45 .267 60 4 3 Smith Cincinnati 128 492 73 131 .266 207 3 12 G. Tebeau Washington and Cleveland 105 398 77 106 .266 147 11 34 Twitchell Louisville 51 211 28 56 .265 86 9 9 Comiskey Cincinnati 59 230 26 61 .265 73 4 9 Hogan St. Louis 29 103 11 27 .262 37 3 7 Ward New York 136 552 99 145 .262 168 20 41 Stein Brooklyn 41 142 31 37 .260 59 4 3 Mack Pittsburgh 63 229 32 59 .257 70 14 9 Killen Pittsburgh 24 82 14 21 .256 26 1 1 Hemming Louisville and Baltimore 38 152 23 39 .256 67 0 2 Richardson Louisville 116 427 50 109 .255 134 4 11 Ewing Cleveland 53 212 32 54 .255 82 2 19 Allen Philadelphia 40 154 27 39 .253 60 3 5 Cuppy Cleveland 41 134 28 34 .253 47 1 4 Buckley St. Louis & Philadelphia 67 251 24 64 .251 87 18 0 Brown Louisville 130 542 123 136 .251 213 14 74 Weaver Louisville & Pittsburgh 90 355 35 89 .250 119 12 9 Frank St. Louis 80 321 53 89 .246 130 12 12 Parrott Chicago 126 532 83 130 .244 175 9 34 Griffith Chicago 41 139 29 34 .244 44 0 6 Wadsworth Louisville 23 74 9 18 .243 25 1 0 Esper Washington and Baltimore 25 96 16 23 .239 35 0 0 Staley Boston 25 88 12 21 .238 31 2 0 Wittrock Cincinnati 18 64 8 15 .234 17 0 0 Gilbert Brooklyn and Louisville 34 133 14 31 .233 39 1 3 Maul Washington 35 120 23 28 .233 42 1 1 Radford Washington 93 330 61 77 .233 101 6 26 Breitenstein St. Louis 53 179 27 41 .229 53 9 3 McGill Chicago 23 83 11 19 .229 24 1 1 Sullivan Washington and Cleveland 26 101 10 23 .228 33 0 0 Daub Brooklyn 28 97 13 22 .226 26 4 1 Dugdale Washington 33 129 15 28 .217 38 0 6 Colcolough Pittsburgh 19 70 10 15 .214 21 1 1 Young Cleveland 48 183 24 40 .213 61 0 4 Motz Cincinnati 18 68 8 14 .205 19 0 1 Clarkson Cleveland 16 54 7 11 .204 14 4 0 Menafee Louisville & Pittsburgh 37 125 12 25 .200 31 10 4 Lutenburg Louisville 70 255 44 49 .192 66 3 10 Clarkson St. Louis 26 85 11 16 .188 16 0 1 Ehret Pittsburgh 41 133 6 23 .172 30 10 0 Weyhing Philadelphia 33 119 9 20 .168 26 7 1 Westervelt New York 18 59 9 9 .152 11 2 1 --------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: Cincinnati Base Ball Club, '94.] [Illustration: St. Louis Base Ball Club, '94.] [Illustration: Washington Base Ball Club, '94.] [Illustration: The League's Leading Players, 1894.] Fielding Record, 1894. ------------------------ FIRST BASEMEN. --------------------------------------------------------------------- P u A C P t s E h e G s r T a r a O i r o n c m u s o t c e e t t r a e n s s s s l s t RANK. NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Motz Cincinnati 18 185 18 1 204 .995 2 Anson Chicago 83 748 45 9 802 .988 3 Tucker Boston 122 1114 70 19 1203 .984 4 O. Tebeau Cleveland 107 1025 47 18 1090 .983 5 Boyle Philadelphia 116 983 64 20 1067 .981 6 Vaughn Cincinnati 19 186 11 4 201 .980 Cartright Washington 132 1227 72 36 1335 .980 7 Foutz Brooklyn 73 659 36 15 710 .979 8 Beckley Pittsburgh 132 1236 82 31 1349 .977 La Chance Brooklyn 56 503 13 12 528 .977 9 Connor New York and St. Louis 120 1084 81 28 1193 .976 Decker Chicago 48 433 16 11 460 .976 10 Lutenburg Louisville 68 595 34 16 645 .975 Brouthers Baltimore 123 1180 65 31 1276 .975 11 Comiskey Cincinnati 59 558 26 16 600 .973 O'Rourke Louisville, Wash., St. L. 30 270 22 8 300 .973 12 Doyle New York 99 987 60 33 1080 .969 McCarthy Cincinnati 15 146 13 5 164 .969 13 G. Tebeau Washington, Cleveland 16 161 2 9 172 .948 --------------------------------------------------------------------- SECOND BASEMEN. --------------------------------------------------------------------- P u A C P t s E h e G s r T a r a O i r o n c m u s o t c e e t t r a e n s s s s l s t RANK. NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Reitz Baltimore 100 252 344 21 627 .966 2 Quinn St. Louis 106 344 342 33 719 .954 3 McPhee Cincinnati 128 391 449 53 893 .940 4 Pfeffer Louisville 89 264 283 35 582 .939 5 Bierbauer Pittsburgh 131 308 462 52 822 .936 6 Hallman Philadelphia 119 314 342 47 703 .933 7 Lowe Boston 132 354 411 57 822 .930 8 Parrott Chicago 125 291 384 52 727 .928 9 Childs Cleveland 117 308 380 56 744 .924 10 Ward New York 136 332 455 67 854 .921 11 Grimm Louisville 24 59 75 12 146 .918 12 Ward Washington 79 175 237 40 452 .911 13 Bonner Baltimore 24 57 54 10 121 .909 14 Daly Brooklyn 128 320 358 74 752 .901 15 Radford Washington 21 62 60 14 136 .897 16 Miller St. Louis 18 31 49 11 91 .879 --------------------------------------------------------------------- THIRD BASEMEN. --------------------------------------------------------------------- P u A C P t s E h e G s r T a r a O i r o n c m u s o t c e e t t r a e n s s s s l s t RANK. NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Nash Boston 132 199 271 34 504 .932 2 McGarr Cleveland 127 171 246 35 452 .922 3 Cross Philadelphia 100 177 240 40 457 .91* 4 Davis New York 124 154 251 40 445 .916 5 Dahlen Chicago 55 95 127 23 245 .906 6 Lyons Pittsburgh 72 120 158 30 308 .902 7 Peitz St. Louis 43 61 69 15 145 .896 8 McGarr Baltimore 117 130 246 44 420 .895 9 Shindle Brooklyn 117 190 232 50 472 .894 10 Reilly Philadelphia 27 35 55 12 102 .882 11 Flaherty Louisville 38 43 75 16 134 .880 12 Hartman Pittsburgh 49 65 96 23 184 .875 13 Hassamer Washington 30 64 79 21 164 .872 14 Latham Cincinnati 129 163 256 64 483 .867 15 Denny Louisville 60 84 124 32 240 .866 16 Joyce Washington 98 151 184 52 387 .865 17 Miller St. Louis 52 71 97 33 201 .835 18 Irwin Chicago 68 90 125 43 258 .833 19 Gilbert Brooklyn and Louisville 31 56 61 24 141 .829 20 O'Rourke Louisville, Wash., St.L. 21 30 39 15 84 .821 --------------------------------------------------------------------- SHORT STOPS. --------------------------------------------------------------------- P u A C P t s E h e G s r T a r a O i r o n c m u s o t c e e t t r a e n s s s s l s t RANK. NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Glasscock Pittsburgh 86 195 300 35 530 .934 2 Jennings Baltimore 128 307 497 62 866 .928 3 Richardson Louisville 107 236 363 50 649 .923 4 Smith Cincinnati 128 234 523 72 829 .913 4 Corcoran Brooklyn 129 282 446 69 797 .913 5 McKean Cleveland 130 278 401 66 745 .911 6 Allen Philadelphia 40 93 130 23 246 .907 7 Connaughton Boston 32 60 105 18 183 .901 8 Ely St. Louis 127 279 444 82 805 .898 9 Dahlen Chicago 66 191 257 52 500 .896 10 Long Boston 99 223 371 71 665 .893 11 Sullivan Washington and Phila. 83 199 232 52 483 .892 11 Irwin Chicago 62 122 219 41 382 .892 12 Murphy New York 48 112 148 34 294 .884 13 Shiebeck Pittsburgh and Wash. 62 130 230 48 408 .882 14 Fuller New York 91 211 309 71 591 .879 15 Pfeffer Louisville 15 30 63 13 106 .877 16 Radford Washington 47 127 184 53 364 .851 17 Selbach Washington 18 52 52 23 127 .818 --------------------------------------------------------------------- OUTFIELDERS --------------------------------------------------------------------- P u A C P t s E h e G s r T a r a O i r o n c m u s o t c e e t t r a e n s s s s l s t RANK. NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Dungan Louisville and Chicago 18 30 3 1 34 .970 2 Griffin Brooklyn 106 298 13 12 323 .963 3 Hamilton Philadelphia 131 363 16 15 394 .961 3 Thompson Philadelphia 102 163 11 7 181 .961 4 Weaver Louisville and Pitts. 35 59 8 3 70 .957 5 McAleer Cleveland 64 173 10 9 192 .953 6 Kelley Baltimore 129 274 19 15 308 .951 7 Brodie Baltimore 129 311 11 19 341 .944 8 Shock Brooklyn 34 89 11 6 106 .943 9 Burns Brooklyn 126 212 16 14 242 .942 10 Hogan St. Louis 29 43 5 3 51 .941 11 Blake Cleveland 73 122 17 9 148 .939 11 O'Connor Cleveland 31 85 8 6 99 .939 12 Delehanty Philadelphia 85 224 21 16 261 .938 13 Smith Pittsburgh 125 271 18 20 309 .935 14 Tiernan New York 112 170 11 13 194 .933 15 Donovan Pittsburgh 133 267 24 21 312 .932 16 Dowd St. Louis 115 201 16 16 233 .931 17 Keeler Baltimore 127 220 27 19 266 .928 18 Radford Washington 22 30 8 3 41 .927 19 Ewing Cleveland 52 91 7 8 106 .924 19 Selbach Washington 76 153 7 13 173 .924 20 Duffy Boston 123 313 23 28 364 .923 21 Burke New York 138 269 16 23 308 .922 22 Stenzel Pittsburgh 131 317 22 30 369 .918 22 Canavan Cincinnati 94 191 10 18 219 .918 23 Holliday Cincinnati 121 247 26 25 298 .916 24 Brown Louisville 130 327 23 33 383 .914 24 McCarthy Cincinnati 25 46 7 5 58 .914 25 Burkett Cleveland 124 242 18 24 284 .912 26 VanHaltren New York 139 309 28 33 370 .911 26 Shugart St. Louis 119 276 23 27 326 .911 27 Abbey Washington 129 341 26 36 403 .910 27 Hassamer Washington 68 102 10 11 123 .910 28 Turner Philadelphia 77 143 7 15 165 .909 29 McCarthy Boston 124 286 30 32 348 .908 30 Smith Louisville 39 64 2 7 73 .904 30 Ryan Chicago 108 222 23 26 271 .904 31 Lange Chicago 110 278 30 33 341 .903 32 Twitchell Louisville 51 104 14 13 131 .900 33 Hoy Cincinnati 128 322 27 41 390 .895 34 Treadway Brooklyn 122 274 20 36 330 .891 35 Clark Louisville 76 166 14 23 203 .886 36 Frank St. Louis 77 159 11 23 193 .880 37 G. Tebeau Wash'n and Cleveland 87 182 8 26 216 .879 38 Murphy New York 20 32 3 5 40 .875 38 Virtue Cleveland 20 38 4 6 48 .875 39 Bannon Boston 127 243 42 41 326 .874 40 Wilmont Chicago 135 262 17 46 325 .858 41 O'Rourke Louisville, Wash., St.L. 18 34 2 6 42 .857 42 Decker Chicago 30 55 9 11 75 .853 43 Cooley St. Louis 38 73 1 14 88 .840 44 Nicol Louisville 26 33 3 7 43 .837 45 Anderson Brooklyn 15 21 0 6 27 .777 --------------------------------------------------------------------- CATCHERS' AVERAGES. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ P P T u A a o C P t s E s t h e G s r s B a a r a O i r e a l n c m u s o d l c e e t t r l e n s s s s s s t RANK. NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Zimmer Cleveland 88 285 107 16 13 421 .931 2 Clements Philadelphia 47 182 38 11 7 238 .924 3 Buckley Philadelphia, St. Louis 66 249 72 18 12 351 .914 3 Robinson Baltimore 106 364 96 24 19 503 .914 4 Mack Pittsburgh 63 274 59 22 15 370 .900 5 Merritt Boston, Pitts., Cinn 61 177 72 16 13 278 .895 6 Schriver Chicago 86 294 93 34 13 434 .891 7 Grimm Louisville 75 262 104 29 16 411 .890 8 Miller St. Louis 39 138 36 12 10 196 .887 Murphy Cincinnati 74 197 69 29 5 300 .887 Farrell New York 103 470 138 41 36 685 .887 9 Kittredge Chicago 50 209 40 20 13 282 .883 10 Vaughn Cincinnati 41 155 43 19 8 225 .880 Dailey Brooklyn 58 217 62 21 17 317 .880 11 Ganzel Boston 55 188 57 24 10 279 .878 12 Sugden Pittsburgh 30 104 28 12 7 151 .874 13 Earle Brooklyn and Lousiville 31 89 42 6 13 150 .873 14 Twineham St. Louis 31 147 35 9 18 209 .870 15 O'Connor Cleveland 42 160 37 12 20 229 .860 16 McGuire Washington 102 288 116 39 28 471 .857 17 Clarke Baltimore 22 86 21 10 8 125 .856 Ryan Boston 49 166 49 18 18 251 .856 18 Peitz St. Louis 38 153 52 13 11 229 .851 19 Tenny Boston 18 55 18 11 3 87 .839 20 Wilson New York 32 119 22 20 9 170 .829 21 Weaver Louisville and Pitts. 30 88 27 11 15 141 .815 22 Kinslow Brooklyn 61 114 47 19 23 203 .793 23 Grady Philadelphia 38 101 30 21 20 172 .761 24 Dugdale Washington 30 75 38 20 10 143 .720 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ PITCHERS' RECORD, IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER--1894. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Heading abbreviations used in this table: G Games Played %W Percent games won excluding tie games RS Runs scored average per game RE Runs earned, average per game %BH Percent of base hits off pitcher BoB Bases given on balls SO No. struck out %FC Percent fielding chances accepted -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pitcher. Club. G %W RS RE %BH BoB SO %FC -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Breitenst'n St. Louis 49 .551 6.32 3.06 .280 162 138 .902 Colcolough Pittsburgh 15 .533 9.13 4.87 .354 59 19 .844 Cuppy Cleveland 37 .583 7.13 3.24 .298 119 63 .916 Carsey Philadelphia 31 .580 7.93 3.84 .314 95 40 .831 Clarkson St. Louis 26 .308 8.11 4.19 .318 102 42 .794 Chamberlain Cincinnati 19 .526 7.45 3.70 .309 78 57 .729 Dwyer Cincinnati 39 .500 7.3 4.13 .317 97 47 .902 Daub Brooklyn 26 .423 7.89 3.70 .306 71 33 .694 Esper Wash. and Balti. 26 .500 8.3 4.88 .339 59 36 .929 Ehret Pittsburgh 41 .436 7.05 4.17 .306 111 91 .808 Gumbert Pittsburgh 31 .600 7.23 4.87 .326 73 60 .909 Griffith Chicago 32 .656 6.46 3.59 .300 79 67 .901 German New York 17 .471 7.82 3.53 .288 48 15 .842 Gleason St.L. and Balti. 29 .586 6.00 3.45 .312 59 39 .841 Hemming Louis. and Balti. 40 .500 6.02 2.85 .295 140 75 .893 Hawke Baltimore 23 .562 7.17 4.08 .311 58 50 .887 Hutchinson Chicago 30 .467 7.47 3.33 .314 125 60 .716 Hawley St. Louis 47 .413 7.04 3.72 .303 121 117 .708 Inks Balti. and Louis. 24 .478 7.96 4.04 .337 75 37 .846 Killen Pittsburgh 24 .583 6.25 3.87 .303 83 57 .909 Knell Louisville 30 .200 8.46 3.60 .329 97 65 .693 Kennedy Brooklyn 42 .545 7.55 4.21 .302 134 101 .771 Menafee Louis. and Pitts. 37 .351 6.59 3.67 .309 85 78 .904 Mercer Washington 38 .421 7.18 4.09 .303 105 57 .852 Meekin New York 47 .790 4.91 2.38 .253 147 127 .798 Maul Washington 24 .458 8.08 4.08 .307 60 31 .785 Mullane Balt. and Cleve. 17 .470 8.17 4.17 .297 80 44 .740 McMahon Baltimore 34 .735 5.51 3.00 .269 109 55 .869 McGill Chicago 24 .291 8.12 3.83 .321 98 55 .846 Nichols Boston 46 .711 6.78 3.56 .291 108 98 .856 Parrott Cincinnati 37 .459 7.24 3.94 .307 120 61 .824 Rusie New York 49 .734 4.73 2.12 .253 189 204 .867 Stratton Louis. & Chicago 21 .476 9.43 5.24 .366 52 29 .931 Stockdale Washington 16 .375 7.60 3.60 .353 39 8 .825 Stivetts Boston 39 .692 7.49 3.43 .306 100 73 .913 Stein Brooklyn 42 .619 6.26 3.05 .280 162 72 .785 Staley Boston 25 .520 8.88 5.72 .344 55 29 .744 Sullivan Wash. and Cleve. 23 .348 8.26 3.74 .320 97 28 .714 Terry Chicago 19 .278 9.73 4.00 .334 91 43 .782 Taylor Philadelphia 33 .719 5.30 2.76 .281 85 79 .796 Weyhing Philadelphia 33 .545 6.72 3.49 .324 101 79 .845 Wadsworth Louisville 21 .190 9.38 4.66 .360 97 58 .703 Westervelt New York 18 .412 7.39 3.83 .297 62 28 .654 Young Cleveland 47 .532 5.83 3.17 .293 100 100 .902 Tie games--Cuppy, 1; Dwyer, 1; Daub, 1; Ehret, 1; Gumbert, 1; Hawley, 1; Inks, 1; Meekin, 4; Nichols, 1; Stein, 1; Terry, 1; Taylor 1; Westervelt,1. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Batting of 1894. THE TEAM-WORK AT THE BAT. It goes to the credit of the leading teams in the pennant race of 1894 that the first three clubs did better team-work at the bat, and more of it, than any previous trio of the kind known in the annals of the League. In fact, competent managers and captains of teams have learned in recent years, by costly experiment, that one of the most potent factors in winning pennants is the method of handling the ash known as good _team-work at the bat_ the very essence of which is devoting all the batsmen's efforts to _forwarding runners by base hits_, and not by each player's going to the bat simply to build up a high record of base hits without regard to forwarding runners on bases. Suppose the first baseman in a game to take his position at the bat makes a two or three-bagger at the outset. Of course the object of the batsman who succeeds him would be to send the runner home the best way he can, either by a base hit or a sacrifice hit. In striving to do this, the very worst plan, is to try solely for a home run hit, as it only succeeds once in thirty or forty times, and not that against skilful, strategic pitching. Time and again were batsmen, last season, left on third base after opening the innings with a three-bagger, owing to the stupid work of the succeeding batsmen in trying to "line 'em out for a homer," instead of doing real team-work at the bat. Of course, good "sacrifice hitting" is part and parcel of team-work at the bat, but this kind of hitting was not done to any special extent last season by a majority of the League batsmen. SACRIFICE HITTING. There is one thing about the point of play in batting known, as "sacrifice hitting" which is not as thoroughly understood as it should be. A majority of batsmen seem to be of the impression that when they are called upon to forward a base runner by a "sacrifice hit," all they have to do is to go to the bat and have themselves put out, so that the base runner at first base may be able to reach second base on the play which puts the batsmen out. This is a very erroneous idea of the true intent of a sacrifice hit. No skilful batsmen ever goes to the bat purposely to hit the ball so as to have himself put out; that would be a very silly move. On the contrary, he takes his bat in hand every time, with the primary object of _making a base hit_ if he possibly can; but in trying for this strongest point in batting, he proposes, to make the desired hit in such a way that if he fails to make the base hit he will at least hit the ball in that direction in the field which will oblige the fielders to throw him out at first base. With this object in view he will always strive for a safe hit to _right field_, especially by means of a hard "bounder" in that direction, so as to force the second baseman to run to right short to field the ball, in which case the runner at first base will be able to steal to second on the hit in nine cases out of ten. Another good effort for a sacrifice hit is to _bunt_ the ball so that it may roll towards third base, out of reach of the baseman or pitcher. A third sacrifice hit is that of a long high ball to the outfield, which admits of a chance for a catch, but so far out in the field that the runner will have an opportunity to steal a base on the catch. This latter point won't work, of course, when two men are out; moreover, it should be the last point aimed at. A great deal of bosh has been written--mostly by the admirers of "fungo" hitting--about sacrifice hitting being something that should not be in the game, just as these fungo-hitting-advocates try to write down _bunt_ hitting--the most difficult place hit known to the game. This class of writers think that the very acme of batting skill is the home run hit, a hit which any muscular novice in batting on amateur fields can accomplish without difficulty, and where more home runs are made in a single season than in two seasons by the best managed professional teams. The effort to make home runs leads to more chances for catches by outfielders in one game than there are home runs made in fifty. The exhaustion which follows a home run hit, with its sprinting run of 120 yards at full speed, is entirely lost sight of by the class of patrons of the game who favor home runs. One season, a few years ago, the tail-end team of the League excelled all its rivals in scoring home runs, while the pennant-winning team took the honors and the prize solely on account of its excellence in team-work at the bat. The mere record of the best averages in scoring base hits in batting seems to be regarded by the majority of "cranks" in base ball as the only sound criterion of good batting. This is one of the fallacies of the game, as such a record is unreliable. The only true criterion of good batting is the record which shows the players who excel in the batting which forwards runners; and this record the existing scoring rules, up to 1895, did not admit of, the champion batsman being regarded as the one who excels in his base-hit average, without regard to the runners his base hits forwarded. For instance, one batsman in a game will make three three-baggers, and forward but a single runner by his three hits, while another batsman by a single base hit, a good "bunt" hit and a telling "sacrifice hit," will forward _four runners_; and yet by the existing scoring rules the record batsman carries off all the honors in the score, and the team-worker at the bat does not get the slightest credit for the effective batting he has done. SACRIFICE HIT RECORD. The following is the record of the players in the League teams of 1894 who led in sacrifice hits last season. The names are given in the order of bases stolen, as recorded in the official average tables made up by Mr. Young. The percentage figures would, of course, materially change the order. ----------------------------------------------- Sacrifice PLAYERS. CLUBS. Games. Hits. ----------------------------------------------- Donovan Pittsburgh 129 24 Brodie Baltimore 129 24 Beckley Pittsburgh 132 22 Bierbauer Pittsburgh 131 20 Ward New York 136 20 Kelley Baltimore 129 19 Buckley Philadelphia 67 18 Boyle Philadelphia 116 18 Brouthers Baltimore 123 18 Jennings Baltimore 128 18 Shindle Brooklyn 117 17 Cross Philadelphia 120 16 Keeler Baltimore 128 16 Pfeffer Louisville 104 15 Mack Pittsburgh 63 14 McGraw Baltimore 123 14 Brown Louisville 130 14 Wilmot Chicago 135 14 Shugart St. Louis 33 13 Glasscock Pittsburgh 86 13 Quinn St. Louis 106 13 Ely St. Louis 127 13 Abbey Washington 129 13 Van Haltren New York 139 13 Frank St. Louis 80 12 Weaver Pittsburgh 90 12 Tredway Brooklyn 122 12 Lyons Pittsburgh 72 11 G. Tebeau Cleveland 105 11 Robinson Baltimore 106 11 Hay Cincinnati 128 11 Latham Cincinnati 130 11 McKean Cleveland 130 11 Menafee Pittsburgh 37 10 Ehret Pittsburgh 41 10 Blake Cleveland 73 10 Hassamer Washington 116 10 Dahlen Chicago 121 10 Duffy Boston 124 10 Burkett Cleveland 124 10 E. Smith Pittsburgh 125 10 Corcoran Brooklyn 129 10 Burke New York 138 10 ---------------------------------------------- According to the above table Pittsburgh led with a total of 146 sacrifice hits, Baltimore being next with 120, followed by Philadelphia with 52, New York 43, Cleveland 42, Brooklyn 39, St. Louis 38, Louisville 29, Chicago 24, Washington 23, Cincinnati 22 and Boston 10. A record connected with the batting of each season is that showing the number of victories and defeats, marked by single and double figure scores. This data shows, to a considerable extent, how the pitching stands in relation to the batting, as to whether the one or the other dominates too much in the efforts of the rulemakers to equal the powers of attack and defence. If the pitching has the best of it than we have a predominance of the undesirable class of pitchers' games, in which the minority of the fielders only bear the brunt of the contest. On the other hand, if the batting rules the roost, then we have too much of the old slugging style of play, in which the outfielders are mostly brought into play, and but little chance to see skilful base running or splendid infielding is afforded. Here are some records which show what was done in 1894 in this respect: The three leading teams in the pennant race of 1894 scored a total of 198 single figure games to 194 double figure games. The record in detail being as follows: SINGLE FIGURE. ------------------------------------------- Baltimore single figure victories 40 Baltimore single figure defeats 18 New York single figure victories 59 New York single figure defeats 25 Boston single figure victories 34 Boston single figure defeats 22 --- Totals 198 ------------------------------------------- DOUBLE FIGURE. ------------------------------------------- Baltimore double figure victories 49 Baltimore double figure defeats 21 New York double figure victories 29 New York double figure defeats 19 Boston double figure victories 49 Boston double figure defeats 27 --- Totals 194 ------------------------------------------- This record includes games counted out or forfeited. The full record of the twelve clubs in single and double figure victories and defeats in 1894 is appended. RECORD OF SINGLE AND DOUBLE FIGURE GAMES. --------------------------------------------------------------------- SINGLE FIGURE. DOUBLE FIGURE. CLUBS. Victories. Defeats. Totals. Victories. Defeats. Totals. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore 40 18 58 49 21 70 New York 59 25 84 29 19 48 Boston 34 22 56 49 27 76 Philadelphia 28 22 50 43 30 73 Brooklyn 34 27 61 36 35 71 Cleveland 39 36 75 29 25 54 Pittsburgh 35 35 70 30 20 50 Chicago 20 40 60 38 35 73 St. Louis 35 45 80 21 31 52 Cincinnati 36 37 73 20 38 58 Washington 28 34 62 17 53 70 Louisville 24 61 85 12 34 46 Totals 412 402 814 373 368 741 --------------------------------------------------------------------- It will be seen that the Boston club, which was third in the race, is first in scoring the most total double figures in their contests, the "Phillies" being second and the Chicagos third. In total single figure scores New York takes a decided lead, while the Louisville club is second and St. Louis third. In single figure victories, however, New York is first, Baltimore second and Cleveland third; while in double figure victories Baltimore and Boston are tied and Philadelphia is third. The totals of 814 single figure games against 741 double figure contests shows that the pitching is not yet overpowered by the batting, though the use of the big mitts in infield work had much to do with the scoring of single figure games. As far as these records show, it would appear that the New York team really did the best batting of the season. The Batting Averages. We give below a record, taken from the official averages of the League, giving the batting figure, which shows the base hit percentage and the total sacrifice hits of those who have played in a majority of the scheduled games of the season of 1894, the limit being not less than 70 games. The names of the clubs are given in pennant-race order, beginning with Baltimore and ending with Louisville. The record is not of much account, except in the showing of the comparative base hit and sacrifice hit batting, the larger total of the latter giving the palm in case of a tie in the base hit averages. It also shows, as far as sacrifice hit figures can show, which batsman did the best team-work batting. But the one thing wanting in the record of batting averages is the data showing the runners forwarded by base hits, and until the scoring rules give such data there can be no correct data useful as a criterion of skilful batting. Another record needed in the score summary of each game is that of the number of chances given for catches off the bat, thus showing the carelessness of the batting in the averaged number of chances for catches offered off the bat. Here, is the record above referred to: An Analysis of the Batting Averages. -------------------------------------- BALTIMORE CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Kelly 129 .391 19 Brodie 129 .369 24 Keeler 128 .367 16 Robinson 106 .348 11 Brouthers 123 .344 18 McGraw 123 .340 14 Jennings 128 .332 18 Reitz 109 .306 7 ----------------------------------------------------- NEW YORK CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Doyle 105 .369 4 Davis 124 .345 9 Van Haltren 139 .333 13 Burke 138 .299 10 Fuller 95 .282 0 Tiernan 112 .282 6 Farrell 112 .282 3 Murphy 73 .271 2 Ward 136 .262 20 ----------------------------------------------------- BOSTON CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Duffy 124 .438 10 McCarthy 126 .349 9 Lowe 133 .341 9 Bannon 127 .336 6 Tucker 122 .328 2 Long 103 .324 8 Nash 132 .294 3 ----------------------------------------------------- PHILADELPHIA CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Turner 77 .423 8 Thompson 102 .403 8 Delahanty 114 .400 5 Hamilton 131 .398 7 Cross 128 .388 16 Hallman 119 .327 22 Boyle 116 .291 18 ----------------------------------------------------- BROOKLYN CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Griffin 106 .365 5 Burns 126 .358 9 Daly 123 .338 4 Treadway 122 .336 12 Foutz 73 .310 8 Corcoran 129 .302 10 Shindle 117 .300 17 ----------------------------------------------------- CLEVELAND CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Childs 117 .365 4 Burkett 124 .357 10 McKean 130 .354 11 O'Connor 80 .330 4 O. Tebeau 119 .305 9 Blake 73 .286 10 Zimmer 88 .285 2 McGarr 127 .272 5 G. Tebeau 105 .266 11 ----------------------------------------------------- PITTSBURGH CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- E. Smith 125 .352 10 Stenzel 131 .351 5 Beckley 132 .344 22 Lyons 72 .311 11 Donovan 133 .306 26 Bierbauer 131 .301 20 Shugart 133 .285 13 Glasscock 86 .283 13 Shiebeck 75 .275 1 Weaver 90 .250 12 ----------------------------------------------------- CHICAGO CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Anson 83 .394 7 Dahlen 121 .362 10 Ryan 108 .359 8 Wilmot 105 .331 14 Lange 112 .324 4 Decker 89 .310 2 Irwin 130 .302 4 Schriver 94 .269 5 Parrott 126 .244 9 ----------------------------------------------------- ST. LOUIS CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Miller 125 .341 8 Ely 127 .305 13 Peitz 100 .274 7 Quinn 106 .274 13 Dowd 123 .267 9 Frank 80 .246 12 ----------------------------------------------------- CINCINNATI CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Holliday 122 .383 4 McPhee 128 .320 6 Latham 130 .313 11 Hoy 128 .312 11 Canavan 100 .293 5 Murphy 76 .268 6 G. Smith 128 .266 3 ----------------------------------------------------- WASHINGTON CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Joyce 98 .344 5 Hassamer 116 .326 10 Abbey 129 .318 13 Selbach 96 .309 3 McGuire 102 .304 4 F. Ward 89 .303 5 Cartwright 132 .292 3 Radford 93 .233 1 ----------------------------------------------------- LOUISVILLE CLUB. ----------------------------------------------------- Percent. of Sacrifice BATSMEN. Games. Base Hits. Hits. ----------------------------------------------------- Pfeffer 104 .297 15 Grimm 107 .290 8 Clark 76 .275 1 Richardson 116 .255 4 Brown 130 .251 14 Lutenburg 70 .192 3 ----------------------------------------------------- The record of the twelve clubs in the League pennant race of 1894 in the total number of sacrifice hits is as follows: ---------------------------------------------------------------- Sacrifice BATSMEN. CLUBS. Games. Hits. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Donovan Pittsburgh 133 26 Brodie Baltimore 129 24 Cross Philadelphia 128 16 Pfeffer Louisville 104 15 Wilmot Chicago 135 14 Quinn St. Louis 106 13 Abbey Washington 129 13 Van Haltren New York 139 13 Tredway Brooklyn 122 12 Hoy Cincinnati 128 11 G. Tebeau Cleveland 105 11 Duffy Boston 124 10 --------------------------------------------------------------------- The first nine in base hit averages were as follows: --------------------------------------------------------------------- Percent, of Sacrifice BATSMEN. CLUBS. Games. Base Hits. Hits. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Duffy Boston 124 .438 10 Turner Philadelphia 77 .423 8 Thompson Philadelphia 102 .403 8 Delahanty Philadelphia 114 .400 5 Hamilton Philadelphia 131 .398 7 Anson Chicago 88 .394 7 Kelly Baltimore 129 .391 19 Cross Philadelphia 128 .388 6 Holliday Cincinnati 122 .383 4 --------------------------------------------------------------------- BASE RUNNING. It should be borne in mind by the rulemakers of the League, and especially by the magnates who pass upon the work done by the Rules Committee, that base running has come to be as much of an art in the game as is skilful, strategic pitching or team-work in batting. Especially has skill in stealing bases become a potent factor in winning games, and year after year is it increasing in popular favor as one of the most attractive features of the game. Every manager of the period should realize the important fact, that, however strong his team may be in its "battery" department, or in the excellence of the field support given the pitchers, it is lacking in one essential element of strength if it be not up to the mark in base stealing by its players. Effective pitching and sharp fielding are, of course, very necessary to success in winning games, as also skilful batting, especially of the strategic kind. While it is a difficult task to get to first base safely in the face of a steady and effective fire from the opposing "battery," backed up by good support from the field, it is still more difficult when the first base is safely reached to secure the other bases by good base stealing. The fact is, a greater degree of intelligence is required in the player who would excel in base running than is needed either in fielding or in batting. Any soft-brained heavy-weight can occasionally hit a ball for a home run, but it requires a shrewd, intelligent player, with his wits about him, to make a successful base runner. Indeed, base running is the most difficult work a player has to do in the game. To cover infield positions properly, a degree of intelligence in the player is required, which the majority do not as a general rule possess; but to excel in base running such mental qualifications are required as only a small minority are found to possess. Presence of mind, prompt action on the spur of the moment; quickness of perception, and coolness and nerve are among the requisites of a successful base runner. Players habitually accustomed to hesitate to do this, that or the other, in attending to the varied points of a game, can never become good base runners. There is so little time allowed to judge of the situation that prompt action becomes a necessity with the base runner. He must "hurry up" all the time. Then, too, he must be daring in taking risks, while at the same time avoiding recklessness in his running. Due consideration had not been given by the League magnates, up to 1895, to the importance of having more definite rules governing the base running in the game, the rules applicable to balks in pitching, as affecting the base running, having been at no time as clear and definite as they should be; nor have the existing rules bearing upon base running been strictly observed by the majority of the umpires each year; especially was this the case in 1892, when the observance of the balk rule was very lax indeed. The difficulty in framing a proper rule for the purpose is, to properly define the difference between a palpable _fielding_ error, which enables a base to be run on the error, and an error plainly induced by the very effort made to steal a base. No base can be credited to a base runner as having been stolen which is the result of a dropped fly ball, a wild throw to a base player, or a palpable muff in fielding a batted ball. But in view of the difficulties surrounding base stealing, it is not going out of the way to credit a base as stolen when the effort of the runner, in taking ground and getting a start to steal, leads to a passed ball, a failure to throw to a base quick enough, or a failure on the part of a base player to put the ball on the runner quick enough. Of course these are, to a certain extent, errors on the part of the fielders, but they are not of the class of _palpable errors_ as wild throws, dropped fly balls, and failures to pick up batted balls, or to hold well thrown balls, are. The other errors are consequent upon the effort on the part of the runner to steal a base, and as such should be included as part and parcel of a credited stolen base. #The Base Running of 1894.# The base running records of the past three years, under the rules of the great major league, present a very interesting set of tables, whereby one can judge of the good work done in this direction pretty fairly. Below we give the full record of each season in stolen bases from 1892 to 1894, inclusive, showing the totals of stolen bases by each club each season, together with the aggregate of stolen bases for the three years. We give the names of the twelve clubs in the order in which they lead in stolen bases at the end of the three years of base running. Here is the full record in question: RECORD OF TOTAL STOLEN BASES FOR 1892, 1893 AND 1894. --------------------------------------------------- CLUBS. 1892. 1893. 1894. TOTALS. --------------------------------------------------- 1. New York 281 401 294 976 2. Brooklyn 408 247 266 921 3. Baltimore 197 261 320 778 4. Chicago 216 237 324 777 5. Cleveland 288 242 228 758 6. Boston 337 174 230 741 7. Pittsburgh 211 245 247 703 8. Philadelphia 217 174 266 657 9. Cincinnati 241 204 205 650 10. Washington 250 142 209 601 11. Louisville 228 174 198 600 12. St. Louis 196 196 150 542 --------------------------------------------------- Totals 3070 2697 2937 8704 --------------------------------------------------- It will be seen by the above record that the best base running, in the aggregate of the three years' play, was made in 1892, the three leading clubs in stolen bases that year being Brooklyn, Boston and Cleveland. In 1893 the three leaders in base running were New York, Baltimore and Brooklyn, and the three leaders of the past season were Chicago, Baltimore and Brooklyn, Philadelphia being tied with Brooklyn. The tail-end clubs in stolen base records during the three years were St. Louis in 1892, Washington in 1893 and St. Louis in 1894. In the aggregate of the three years, New York stands first, Brooklyn second and Baltimore third, St. Louis being a bad tail-ender in these total figures. It is a noteworthy fact that when Brooklyn led in base running Ward was captain, while when New York led the next year, Ward was captain, too, New York jumping from .281 in 1892, when Ward was in Brooklyn, to .401 in 1893, when he went to the New York club, Brooklyn that year falling off from .408 to .247. Baltimore, too, made a big jump in base running after Hanlon became manager, the jump being from .197 in 1892 to .320 in 1894. The highest totals of stolen bases in any one year was in 1892, there being quite a falling off in 1893; while in 1894 a considerable improvement was shown, the average for the three years being 2,901 for the twelve clubs. Last season the Baltimore club's team, under Hanlon's control, excelled all the other Eastern teams in stealing bases, Philadelphia being second, New York third and Boston fourth in this respect, the Baltimore's quartette of leading base stealers scoring a total of 212 bases to Philadelphia's 185, New York's 180 and Boston's 156. The three teams of the Western clubs which excelled in base running last season were Chicago, with a total of 324; Pittsburgh, with 247, and Cleveland, with 228. Had the umpires properly interpreted the balk rules in 1894, probably the total of stolen bases for that year would have got up among the twelve hundreds at least. This year they should be made to do it. THE STOLEN BASE RECORD OF 1894. The record of stolen bases for 1894, showing the best nine base stealers of each club is as appended. The names of clubs are given in pennant race order, and of players in the order of percentage of stolen bases per game. THE RECORD OF THE FIRST DIVISION CLUBS. ---------------------------------------- BALTIMORE ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- McGraw 123 77 .636 Bonner 27 11 .407 Brodie 129 50 .388 Kelley 129 45 .350 Brouthers 126 40 .317 Jennings 128 36 .281 Keeler 128 30 .235 Reitz 109 18 .165 Robinson 106 9 .123 Totals 1005 820 .318 ---------------------------------------- NEW YORK ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Doyle 105 48 .457 Fuller 95 34 .358 Burke 138 47 .340 Van Halt'n 139 44 .315 Ward 136 41 .306 Davis 124 37 .298 Tiernan 112 24 .214 German 19 4 .211 Wilson 45 9 .200 Totals 1006 294 .292 ---------------------------------------- BOSTON ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Duffy 124 49 .395 Bannon 127 42 .331 McCarthy 126 40 .317 Tierney 24 7 .292 Long 103 25 .243 Lowe 133 25 .188 Tucker 122 19 .156 Nash 132 19 .144 Stivetts . 57 4 .070 Totals 948 230 .253 ---------------------------------------- PHILADELPHIA. ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Hamilton 131 99 .756 Thompson 102 29 .284 Delahanty 104 29 .279 Cross 120 28 .233 Hallman 119 26 .218 Boyle 116 22 .190 Reilly 36 6 .167 Sullivan 93 15 .161 Turner 77 12 .157 Totals 898 266 .296 ---------------------------------------- BROOKLYN. ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Griffin 106 48 .453 Daly 123 53 .431 LaChance 65 25 .385 Shock 63 18 .286 Corcoran 129 33 .256 Burns 126 29 .230 Foutz 73 16 .219 Treadway 122 26 .213 Shindle 117 18 .154 Totals 924 266 .288 ---------------------------------------- CLEVELAND. ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Ewing 53 19 .385 G. Tebeau 105 34 .324 McGarr 127 34 .269 McAleer 64 17 .266 Burkett 124 32 .258 McKean 130 32 .246 Childs 117 20 .171 O'Connor 80 13 .163 O. Tebeau 109 27 .155 Totals 909 228 .251 ---------------------------------------- It will be seen that the Baltimore club's nine excel the other five clubs in the percentage of stolen bases, Philadelphia being second and New York third; the other three following in order in percentage figures as follows: Brooklyn, Boston and Cleveland. In total stolen bases by the individual player, Hamilton leads with 99--the champion stolen-base record of the season--McGraw being second and Duffy third, followed by Griffin, Doyle and Ewing. THE SECOND DIVISION LEADERS. ---------------------------- PITTSBURGH. ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Stenzel 131 60 .450 Hartman 44 17 .386 E. Smith 125 37 .296 Shiebeck 75 19 .244 Donovan 131 31 .236 Glasscock 86 20 .233 Shugart 133 23 .172 Bierbaur 131 20 .153 Beckley 132 20 .152 Totals 987 247 .250 ---------------------------------------- CHICAGO. ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Lange 112 71 .634 Wilmot 135 76 .563 Dableu 121 49 .415 Parrott 126 34 .370 Irwin 130 34 .262 Decker 89 22 .247 Anson 83 17 .205 Ryan 108 12 .111 Schriver 94 9 .096 Totals 998 324 .325 ---------------------------------------- ST. LOUIS. ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Dowd 123 34 .276 Hogan 29 7 .248 Ely 127 23 .181 Pietz 100 17 .170 Miller 125 20 .160 Cooley 52 8 .154 Quinn 106 26 .151 Frank 80 12 .150 Breitenstein 53 3 .057 Totals 795 150 .189 ---------------------------------------- CINCINNATI ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Latham 130 62 .477 Holliday 122 39 .320 McPhee 128 31 .242 Hay 128 30 .235 M. Murphy 76 5 .192 Canavan 160 15 .150 Vaughn 67 6 .097 G. Smith 128 12 .094 Merritt 66 5 .079 Totals 945 205 .217 ---------------------------------------- WASHINGTON ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Ward 89 36 .401 Cartwright 132 35 .269 Radford 106 26 .245 Seebach 96 23 .240 Joyce 98 23 .235 Mercer 43 10 .233 Abbey 129 30 .233 Hassamer 116 15 .129 McGuire 102 11 .108 Totals 911 209 .229 ---------------------------------------- LOUISVILLE ---------------------------------------- Players. Games. Stolen Per cent. of Bases. Stolen Bases. ---------------------------------------- Brown 130 74 .569 Smith 39 13 .333 Pfeffer 104 33 .317 Clark 76 24 .316 Twitchell 51 9 .176 Denny 60 10 .167 Lutenberg 70 10 .143 Grim 107 14 .131 Richardson 116 11 .095 Totals 753 198 .263 ---------------------------------------- It will be seen that the leaders of the six second division clubs aggregated a total of 337 bases, of which Brown is credited with 74, Lange with 71, and Latham with 62. In percentages, however, Lange led with .634, Brown being second with .569, and Latham third with .477, Stenzel, Ward (of Washington) and Dowd following in order. In total percentages, the Chicago nine led "by a large majority," Louisville being second and Pittsburgh third, Washington beating both Cincinnati and St. Louis, the latter club making a very poor show in base running figures in 1894. THE LEADING BASE STEALERS OF EACH CLUB. The following record shows the leader of each club in percentage of stolen bases, the names being given in the order of percentage figures: --------------------------------------------------- Total Per cent. Stolen of Stolen Players. Clubs. Games. Bases. Bases. --------------------------------------------------- Hamilton Philadelphia 131 99 .756 McGraw Baltimore 123 77 .636 Lange Chicago 112 71 .626 Brown Louisville 130 74 .569 Latham Cincinnati 130 62 .477 Doyle New York 105 48 .457 Griffin Brooklyn 106 48 .453 Stenzel Pittsburgh 131 60 .450 Duffy Boston 124 49 .395 Ewing Cleveland 53 19 .385 F. Ward Washington 89 36 .306 Dowd St. Louis 123 34 .276 --------------------------------------------------- The record of the base runners of the twelve League clubs who have a record of 10 stolen bases and less than 20 each for 1894 is as follows: --------------------------------------------------- PLAYERS. CLUBS. Games. Stolen Bases. --------------------------------------------------- 1. Ewing Cleveland 53 19 2. Shiebeck Pittsburgh 75 19 3. Tucker Boston 122 19 4. Nash Boston 132 19 5. Shock Brooklyn 63 18 6. Reitz Baltimore 109 18 7. Shindle Brooklyn 117 18 8. McAleer Cleveland 64 17 9. Lyons Pittsburgh 72 17 10. Anson Chicago 83 17 11. Pietz St. Louis 100 17 12. Foutz Brooklyn 73 16 13. Zimmer Cleveland 88 15 14. Sullivan Philadelphia. 93 15 15. Canavan Cincinnati 100 15 16. Hassamer Washington 116 15 17. Grimm Louisville 107 14 18. Smith Louisville 39 13 19. O'Connor Cleveland 80 13 20. Robinson Baltimore 106 13 21. Hartman Pittsburgh 49 12 22. Frank St. Louis 80 12 23. Turner Philadelphia. 77 12 24. Ryan Chicago 108 12 25. G. Smith Cincinnati 128 12 26. Bonner Baltimore 27 11 27. McGuire Washington 102 11 28. Richardson Louisville 116 11 29. Mercer Washington 43 10 30. Denny Louisville 70 10 31. Lutenberg Louisville 70 10 32. O'Rourke St. Louis 80 10 33. Farrell New York 112 10 --------------------------------------------------- Those who did not steal a single base were pitchers Esper, Dwyer, J. Clarkson, Ehret, Staley, Whitrock, McGill, Wadsworth and catcher Buckley. THE FIELDING OF 1894. Season after season finds the fielding in base ball better attended to than any other department of the game; and it is fortunate for the business end of professional ball playing that it is so, as skilful fielding is decidedly the most attractive feature of our national game. Next to fielding comes base running, and lastly batting. The reason that so much more skill is shown in the fielding department than in that of batting, is due to the fact that more attention is giving to fielding than to batting. Regular training in team-work batting is practically unknown in the professional arena; while practice in fielding is given every attention. No game is played now-a-days without an hour being devoted to preliminary practice in fielding, while efficient batting is unknown except in the college arena, the professionals ignoring team-work batting practice in nearly every club. Hence the superiority fielding has attained over the batting. Go on any amateur field and watch a game in progress, and you can readily see the inferiority in fielding exhibited in comparison with that shown on the professional fields. It is not so in the batting, however. The reason is that amateurs have not the time to devote to the practice required to excel in fielding; but they can bat out three-baggers and home-runs as easily as the record batsmen do in the professional fields; it is different, however, in the case of doing team-work at the bat, owing to their not having time for the necessary practice. Some splendid fielding was done in 1894, but as a whole it was not superior to that of 1893, or even to that of 1892. One reason for this was the introduction of the catcher's "big mitt" in the infield work--something that should not have been allowed. It was due to this fact that the batting scores were not larger the past season than they were in 1893, the big mitt on the hands of infielders enabling them to stop hard hit "bounders" and "daisy cutters" which, but for the use of the mitts, would have been clean earned base hits. This gave the infielders an opportunity to materially lessen the base hit record. By a mistaken calculation, the pitchers were charged with doing less effective work, single figure games being in a majority last season. In contrast to the attractions of fine fielding, the average batting of the period is decidedly behindhand. What sight on a ball field is prettier to the good judge of the fine points of the game, than to see a hard hit "bounder" well stopped and accurately thrown from back of third base over to first base in time to cut off a rapid runner? or to see a splendidly judged fly ball held after a long run; or a hot "liner" caught on the jump by an infielder; or a beautiful triple play made from the infield; or a good double play from a neat catch, followed by a fine, long throw-in from the outfield? All these attractive features of sharp fielding all can enjoy and appreciate. But in the batting department too little team-work at the bat--that is, skilful scientific handling of the bat in the form of _place_ hitting, to forward runners--is done to gratify good judges, the mere novices regarding over-the-fence hits for a home run as the very acme of "splendid batting," though they are invariably chance hits, and only made off poor pitching as a rule. Then, too, how the "groundlings," as Hamlet called them, enjoy "fungo" hitting, that is high balls hit in the air flying to the outfield, this style of hitting giving fifty chances for catches to every single home run. Time and again will one hear a "bleacher" remark, "I don't care if the ball was caught, it was a good hit," as if any hit could be a good one which gave an easy chance for a catch. When a "fungo" hitter takes his bat in hand all he thinks of is to "line 'em out, Tommy," in response to the calls from the "bleaching boards;" and when the ball goes up in the air to outfield a shout bursts forth from the crowd, only to be suddenly stopped as the ball is easily caught at deep outfield by an outfielder placed there purposely for the catch by the pitcher's skilful pitching for catches. Contrast this method of batting to that of place hitting which yields a safe tap to short outfield, ensuring an earned base; or the skilful "bunt" hit made at a time when the fielders are expecting a "line-'em-out" hit; or a sacrifice hit, following a good effort for a base hit to right field, which should mark all attempts to forward runners, especially when on third base. Of course there are skilful outfield hits made in team-work, but they are confined to hot, low liners, giving no chance for a catch, or hard hit "daisy cutters," which yield two or three bases; but every ball hit in the air to outfield shows weak batting, and this style of hitting it is which gives so many chances for catches in a game. It will be readily seen how inferior the "bleaching-board" style of batting is to team-work at the bat, and how much more attractive fielding is in contrast to the popular "fungo" hitting method, of which there was altogether too much in the League ranks last season to make the batting compare with the fielding, as an attractive feature of the game. Single Figure Games. There is a great difference between first-class single figure games, marked by batting against skilful, strategic pitching, backed up by splendid in and outfield support, and the class of contests known as "pitchers' games." The former are contests in which runners reaching second and even third base by good hits are cut off from scoring runs by superior pitching and fielding, and this class of games comprises the model contests of each season. On the other hand, the "pitchers' games," which yield single figure scores, are tedious and wearisome to the best judges of the game, from the fact that the brunt of the work falls on the "battery" team and one or two infielders, all the attractions of base running and of sharp fielding being sacrificed at the cost of seeing batsman after batsman retired on called strikes, arising from the intimidating speed of the pitching, this requiring the batsman to devote his whole energies to defending himself from the severe and often fatal injuries following his being hit by the pitched ball. Fortunately, the change in the distance between the pitcher and batsman has decreased the opportunity for this class of unattractive games. But it will not do to go over to the other side and by too much weakening of the box work give the "line-'em-out" class of "fungo" hitters a chance to revel in over-the-fence hits, and give the batsman undue preponderance in the effort to equalize the powers of the attack and defense in the game. Single figure games should outnumber double figure contests to make the game attractive for the scientific play exhibited, but not in the line of being the result of "cyclone" pitching. The Umpiring of 1894. The umpiring of 1894, despite of the new rules adopted early in the year governing the position, was no improvement over that of 1893; in fact, in several instances it was worse. The explicitly worded rule, prohibiting umpires from allowing any player, except the captain, to dispute a single decision of the umpire, was allowed to be openly violated by nearly every umpire on the staff. Then, too, as a rule, they, the majority, lacked the nerve and the courage of their convictions too much to keep in check the blackguardism displayed by a small minority of the players of the League teams of 1894; some of the umpires also displayed a degree of temper at times which sadly marred their judgment. That they all endeavored to do their duty impartially, goes without saying, but no umpire is fit for his position who cannot _thoroughly control his temper_. There was one instance shown of the folly of condoning the offence of drinking, which should not have been allowed; a drunken umpire is worse than a drunken player, for no one will respect his decisions. None such should be allowed on the League staff under any circumstances; moreover, no umpire connected with the low-lived prize-fighting business should be allowed on the League staff, no matter what his ability may be in other respects. When it becomes a necessity to have to engage pugilists as umpires to control hoodlum players, then will professional ball playing cease to be worthy of public patronage. One great drawback to the successful umpiring which was expected to follow the revision of the rules made in March, 1894, was the countenancing of the abuse of umpires by the magnates of the clubs themselves. When presidents and directors of clubs fail to rebuke the faults of their club managers in allowing incompetent or hot-headed captains to set their players bad examples in this respect, they have no right to find fault with the poor umpiring which follows. In the recent past, the rule on the League ball fields--and minor leagues copy all that the major league does--has been that, from the time the umpire takes up his position behind the bat, from the beginning to the end of a game, he finds both the contesting teams regarding him as a common enemy, the losing side invariably blaming him as the primary cause of their losing the game. Then, too, in addition to the contesting teams as his foes, there are the majority of the crowd of spectators to be added to the list, the rougher element of the assemblage, the latter of whom regard the umpire as an especial target for abuse in every instance in which the home team is defeated. Last on the list of the umpire's opponents are the betting class of reporters, who take delight in pitching into him whenever his decisions--no matter how impartially he acts--go against their pet club or the one they bet on. It is a fact not to be disputed, that those of the crowd of spectators at a ball game, who are so ready to condemn umpires for alleged partiality in their work, or for a supposed lack of judgment in rendering their decisions, never give a moment's thought to the difficulties of the position he occupies, or to the arduous nature of the work he is called upon to perform. There he stands, close behind the catcher and batsman, where he is required to judge whether the swiftly-thrown ball from the pitcher, with its erratic "curves" and "shoots," darts in over the home base, or within the legal range of the bat. The startling fact is never considered that several umpires have been killed outright while occupying this dangerous position. Neither does any one reflect for a moment that the umpire occupies this perilous position while regarded as a common enemy by both of the contesting teams, and as a legitimate object for insulting abuse from the partisan portion of the crowd of spectators. In fact, the umpire stands there as the one defenseless man against thousands of pitiless foes. The wonder is that half the umpires in the arena are as successful in the discharge of their arduous duties as they are, and the still greater wonder is that any self-respecting man can be induced to occupy a position which is becoming year after year more objectionable. There can be no successful umpiring accomplished in the position, no matter how perfect the code of rules governing the umpiring may apparently be, as long as that nuisance of the ball field, the professional "kicker," is allowed to have his way. In view of the express rules which are in the code, prohibiting the disputing of a single decision made by the umpire, it is astonishing that the umpires themselves, not to mention club managers and field captains, are so derelict in their duty in not enforcing the letter of the law of the code in this respect. Let the magnates remember, when they say to each other this year--as they did at the close of the season of 1894--that "this hoodlumism in professional ball playing must be stopped," that _it is themselves who are to blame_ for the blackguardism exhibited in the League arena in 1894. It is the failure of presidents and directors of League clubs to do their duty which is the real cause of such umpiring as we had in 1894. Club managers of teams, as a rule, do what they know the club presidents or directors quietly approve of or countenance, hence the latitude given to the hoodlum tactics of the rough element in each team. Don't blame umpires from meekly following the example club presidents and directors afford their team managers and captains. Editorial Comments ON THE OCCURRENCES, EVENTS AND NOTEWORTHY INCIDENTS OF 1894 IN THE BASE BALL ARENA. Here is a list of the rules governing the movements of the pitcher, in delivering the ball to the bat, which we saw violated repeatedly during 1894, without any protests from any of the umpires who acted in the games we reported. First-- Not a pitcher had his foot in contact with the rubber plate last season, all of them invariably placing their back foot a few inches in front of the plate. Not one pitcher in ten, after feigning to throw to a base, resumed his position, as required by the rule, after making the feint. Not one in ten held the ball "firmly in front of his body," as the rule requires. Not one in ten faced the batsman, as required by Rule 30. As for the balk rule it was as openly violated last season almost as it was in 1893. Time and again was Section 29, Rule 32, violated as was Section 3 all the time, as not one had his foot in position as the rule requires, and yet not an umpire fined a single pitcher for the violation of the rules in question, that we saw. What the pitching rules should be made to foster is, first--_thorough command of the ball_, with the consequent accuracy of aim in delivery; secondly--the substitution of _skilful strategy_ in delivery in the place of mere intimidating speed; thirdly--the avoidance of the wear and tear of an extremely swift delivery of the ball; fourthly--the prevention of obstacles to successful base running, in the way of allowing too many balk movements in preventing stolen bases. These desirable objects were almost impossible of attainment under the badly-worded rules in existence in 1894. In regard to the wearing of the catcher's "big mitt" by infielders in 1894, it is worthy of note that that first-class utility man of the Philadelphia team, "Lave" Cross, while wearing a catcher's mitt as third baseman--a large one at that, too--used it to such advantage that it was next to impossible for a ball hit to his position to get by him. At times it was simply laughable to see him stop ground hits. To wear such gloves is making a travesty of skilful infield work in stopping hard hit, bounding or ground balls. But with the speedy batting of the hard ball now in use, the stopping of hard hit balls in the infield becomes dangerous to the fingers without the aid of small gloves. But no such glove as the catcher's mitt should be allowed to be used save by the catchers or first basemen. In this position the "mitt" in question is a necessity in view of the great speed of the pitcher's delivery and the extremely wild, swift throwing from the field positions to first base. It should be borne in mind that in the days when gloves were not worn, when the pitching was far less swift than now, even then broken and split fingers marked nearly every contest, and behind the bat four catchers were needed where one or two will now suffice. A Washington scribe, in commenting on Manager Schmelz's work in 1894, said: "Schmelz is a base ball man from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, and we have been taught to believe here that when he says he will do a thing he comes pretty near fulfilling his prediction. If the team gets a fairly good start at the beginning of this season he is just as like as not to let several teams chase him under the wire in September next. A lack of team-work and a most deplorable weakness at short, second and third throughout the past season lost the team many a game." To this latter list may be added, incompetent captaining of the team by the noted kicker, Joyce. The Boston correspondent of the St. Louis Sporting News, in one of his letters of last winter, sent the following interesting account of an interview had between Manager Selee, of the Bostons, and a business man he met on a train last October. The B.M. asked the manager "whether ball-players, as a class, were a disreputable set of men, who made a practice of spending their money foolishly, and of saying and doing things on the ball field that were decidedly objectionable; also if, in consequence, the interest in the game had not to a very large degree been on the wane for a number of years past? He said he had read in the papers of a number of acts that had led him to believe that such was the case, and that, while formerly he had been an attendant at the games, that latterly he had lost his desire in that respect, though he still had an interest in all that is published about the game and the ball-players." Mr. Selee at once attempted to show the gentleman where his opinion was at fault, and an interesting conversation was carried on until the train reached Boston, the gentleman severely criticising the players and the Boston manager defending them. The correspondent, in commenting on this, wrote as follows: "This incident opens anew a topic that has created considerable discussion for several years, and which was brought most forcibly to the public eye by a number of cases that occurred during the season of 1894, namely: Has the rough, rowdy, disreputable, hoodlum element increased or decreased in the professional arena in the past five or ten years?" Further on he adds: "Any intelligent, unprejudiced student of the game cannot but reach the conclusion that in recent years the excessive drinkers, the foul-mouthed talkers, in short, the worst element in the professional ranks, has been gradually weeded out, until the evil has been reduced to almost a minimum, while the intelligence, manliness and exemplary habits of the players have increased correspondingly; where, even five years ago, a ball team could be found where a majority of its players were of the drinking, gambling, disreputable class, to-day can be seen the results of a great and gratifying reform in the personnel of the teams, brought about largely by the efforts of the management, who have had their eyes opened to the trend of public opinion, and have gradually gotten rid of this unpopular element, and secured in their places players of a far different plane of morals." Judging from reports of contests in the League arena in 1894, the reformation above referred to has been far too slow in its progress for the good of the game. Witness the novelty in League annals of men fighting each other or striking umpires on the field, the use of vile language in abuse of umpires, and the many instances of "dirty" ball playing recorded against the majority of the League club teams of the past season. "The time was," says the same writer, "when a ball player's skill was the primary recommendation for an engagement, his moral qualifications being of a secondary consideration. To-day, however, while playing skill is, of course, one of the leading qualities that an applicant for honors on the diamond field must possess, it does not fill the whole bill by any means. His habits, his influence among his fellow players, his general reputation with the public, are also taken into consideration more than before, and if he can pass muster in all these respects he is eligible for engagement in all well managed teams." In commenting on the existing situation of the professional branch of our grand national game, Mr. Wm. H. Bell, the Kansas correspondent of the St. Louis Sporting News, says: "The growth and development of our national game as been wonderful. Its success has been unparalleled in the world's history of athletic sports, and stands to-day a living monument to the courage, energy and perseverance of the American people. When we pause a moment in our contemplation of the brilliant future of our game and turn a glance back over the past, and try to realize that less than one generation has lived since the birth of base ball, and our fathers guided its first feeble steps, even we Americans, familiar with progress unequaled in the history of the world, are forced to marvel at the rapid growth of this athletic sport." Further on, on the same topic, Mr. Bell says very truly: "While base ball has advanced with great strides, its growth has been normal and healthy. Its success is not the result of a boom, giving it a fictitious value, its prosperity is not as an inflated balloon that will collapse when torn by the knife of adversity. It is but a creation of man, and while its life has been one of unequaled prosperity it has suffered, as do all things of this earth. One factor has ever been potent in its success and that is honesty. The honesty of the game has always been its motto, and though often assailed has still remained intact. This, alone, has gained for baseball a foothold in the hearts of the American people that nothing can dislodge. Americans are known the world over as lovers of fair and honest sport, and to base ball they have given their unswerving allegiance." Here is a merited compliment to the National League from the same able pen: "Our national game was never so firmly established in the hearts of the people as at the present time. It is safe in the hands of true and tried men, who are devoting their lives to its success. It is dominated and controlled by that grand old organization, the National League, which for twenty years has been the great exponent of the game, and has done more to advance the game than any other factor. The League has, during its life, stood on one platform, "honesty and purity in base ball," and has always retained the confidence and respect of the people. It has elevated the game until to-day base ball stands on a firm foundation of popular approval unequaled by any other athletic sport. While the game has advanced with marvelous rapidity it has experienced short periods of depression and stagnation during its career of thirty years. It has had enemies who have sought to pervert it for their own uses. It has been all but torn asunder by civil war. But each time it has bravely met the issue and in the end triumphed. It is just now recovering from the effects of a civil war which all but destroyed it. The rapidity with which it has recovered has been wonderful and is to me a greater proof of prosperity and success than any success that could come to it while enjoying a long period of peace." We regret not having space to quote more at length from Mr. Bell's very able article published in the Sporting News of January 12th last. * * * * * The Following Paragraph, Published In The New York Clipper Of February 5, 1895, Tells A Quiet Little Story Well Worthy Of Record In The Guide: "A.G. Spalding, Of The Chicago Club, Was Asked How So Much Stock Of The New York Club Came To Be Owned By Outside Parties, And He Said: 'well, I Will Tell You. During The Troublous Brotherhood Times Of 1890, Along In July, I Think, I Was Suddenly Summoned To New York. I Went Direct To Mr. Abell's House, By Request, Entirely Oblivious Of The Object Of The Sudden Call, And There Met Soden Of Boston, Reach Of Philadelphia, Byrne Of Brooklyn, Brush Of Indianapolis, And One Or Two Others. There We Received The Pleasant Information From John B. Day That The New York Club Was Financially At The End Of Its Rope, And Must Have Immediate Assistance. Imagine Our Surprise When We Were Told That The Club Must Have $80,000 At Once To Carry It Through The Season, Or The New York Club Must Give Up Its End Of The Fight. When We Had Collected Our Senses Sufficiently To Speak, It Was The General Opinion That If The New York Club Failed At That Stage Of The Game, The Fight With The Brotherhood Was Lost, And The Future Of The Old National League Was, To Say The Least, Uncertain; So It Was Finally Decided That We Must Save The New York Club At All Hazards, And Before We Separated That Night I Agreed To Provide $20,000, Soden And Brush Came Forward With Similar Amounts, And The Balance Was Taken By Reach, Abell And One Or Two Others, As I Remember. It Was Pretty Costly, But That Prompt Act Saved The National League, And, By Saving It, The Future Of Professional Base Ball In This Country Was, In My Opinion, Also Saved. This Will Explain How I First Became Interested In The New York Club, And, As A Result, Find Myself Criticised For Ever Being Permitted To Hold Any Of The Stock. Of This $20,000 Stock Alloted To Chicago, Anson Took And Paid Cash For $5,000, Another Chicago Gentleman Took $5,000, My Brother Walter $5,000 And Myself $5,000. Afterward I Sold Or Practically Gave My Stock To My Brother, And I Think He Picked Up Some More While He Was A Director Of The Club. That Brotherhood Fight Was A Great Fight, And One That Will Probably Never Be Duplicated. The Real Inside History Of That Struggle, And Its Final Settlement, Was Never Written, But If It Ever Is, It Will Prove Quite Interesting, As Well As Quite A Surprise To The Base Ball Men Of That Day. But Why Talk In This Strain Any Longer. You Know I Am Out Of Active Base Ball, And These Reminiscences Simply Emphasize The Fact That I Ought To Be Out Of It, For I Am Getting Too Old.'" What A Commentary On The Selfish Greed Of The Overpaid Star Players Of The "Out-For-The-Stuff" Class Of The Professional Fraternity Mr. Spalding's Account Of One Costly Result Of The Players' Revolt Of 1890 The Above Story Presents. It Also Tells The True Story Of How The Above-Named Magnates Of The Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia, Brooklyn And Indianapolis Clubs Of 1890 Came To Be Financially Interested In The New York Club, Not For Profit, But To Save The Disruption Of The League. * * * * * The veteran Comiskey thus explains the difference in one special respect, between a seasoned player and a _colt_--and he is one who ought to know, you know. He said, in an interview: "No one appreciates the superiority of hustling, aggressive youngsters over the old standbys of the diamond more than I do. A seasoned player, as a rule, develops into a mechanical player who is always watching his averages and keeping tab on himself. While he may be too loyal to shirk, he will not take a chance which he is not compelled to. Especially is this true in running bases. How many of these old players will slide or go into a bag when they are blocked off? Very few. On the other hand, a young player appreciates that he has to make a reputation, while the old player, who has one to protect, is in the business for a livelihood and nothing else. Popular applause has lost its favor for him, and, while it is not unwelcome, it does not stimulate him to renewed exertions as it did when he began his career. It is entirely different with the man who is trying to establish himself in the major league. An ambitious young player thinks that the game depends upon him, and is dead sure that every crank agrees with him. Give him a good send-off in the papers, or let his manager commend him for a creditable piece of work, and he will break his neck in his efforts to deserve another installment to-morrow. The public demands snappy ball, and the young players are the only ones who can serve up that article." In his remarks, Comiskey furthermore said: "The good effect of a manager's or captain's praise of a 'colt' is surprising. Both of these officials of the League clubs, almost without exception, are apt to be silent as the grave when a player makes a good point or a fine stop or catch; but the moment he fails to make an almost impossible play then comes the ill-natured snarl or the rutty growl. Harry Wright stands out alone as the only manager or captain to encourage a player with praise." * * * * * A Philadelphia scribe, in commenting on the rowdy ball playing of 1894 in the League ranks, says: "We could fill pages with evidence of the rowdyism indulged in by the majority of the League teams during the season of 1894, and that, too, if we were only to confine ourselves to the local reports of the season at Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and half a dozen other cities." As the Cleveland Leader had it, in commenting upon one of the Baltimore-Cleveland games: "I say it with reluctance--for I have always admired Ned Hanlon's pluck--that the national game never received so severe a set-back as it did during the last Baltimore series here. The effort to spike players, the constant flow of profanity and vulgarity, the incessant and idiotic abuse of an umpire, all combined to make the Baltimore club--that local people have been led to believe was made of a crowd of earnest, honest players--thoroughly despised and detested. In ten years' experience in scoring games in Cleveland I have never heard such a torrent of vulgarity, profanity and brutal, senseless abuse heaped upon an umpire as Lynch stood from the Baltimore players upon the field here." Similar charges against visiting teams were made by the Pittsburgh people against the Cleveland team; by the Philadelphia scribes against the Bostons, etc. In fact, proof, and plenty of it, was easily attainable from the reports from every League city during 1894, to a more or less extent. The question apropos to this comment is, "What are you going to do about it" in 1895, Messrs. Magnates? * * * * * John Rowe, the veteran player, who was one of the "Big Four," transferred from the Buffalo club to the Detroit club, in the fall of 1885, is a firm believer in Southern trips during the preliminary season, to get the players in condition for a championship season. In speaking on that subject, he said: "The year the Detroits won the National League pennant we went South, and before the regular season opened that team had played over 40 games. In consequence we were in the acme of condition, and some of the teams nearly lost their breath when they tackled us for the first time. The men could hit like fiends, and field fast and perfect. There were no cases of 'charley horse' in our team, and as for 'glass arms,' they were not included in our outfit. It is a great thing, I tell you, and the managers who take their men into a warm climate are doing a sensible act. According to my idea the plan is to first practice until the players become limbered up, say for a week or so, before attempting to play a game. Then get in as many games as possible, without overdoing it, until the regular schedule begins, In the exhibition games the experiments can be tried out, and the men will gradually learn to play together, which means much to a club. Of course, there is more or less luck in base ball, but at the same time luck can't win alone all the time. Team-work and an agreeable manager count a long ways toward winning a pennant." We would add to the last line, that the absence of drinking and hoodlumism in the ranks is equally a necessity. * * * * * In the arena of minor leagues, in professional baseball, outside of the sectional leagues, like those of the Western, Eastern, Southern, New England and other like leagues, there is no class of minor leagues which is so much fostered as individual State leagues. Trio or duo State leagues should be avoided except in very exceptional cases. In the organization of the various minor leagues in existence, one special point has been too much neglected, and that is the importance of making the league's pennant race specially attractive by the attractive character of the honors to be won. Sectional leagues, made up of well-arranged circuits, present as good attractions in their championship honors at stake as that of the great major league, and next to these come the pennant races of State leagues. But what special object, in this respect, is there to strike for in the championships of trio or duo State leagues? None whatever. They are mere gate-money organizations, lacking all of the attractive features of sectional and State league pennant races. State leagues also possess the advantage of not interfering with the interests of the sectional leagues which include State clubs. Take any State in which professional base ball flourishes, and in the State there will be found two classes of professional clubs, viz., the one strong class, which exist in the larger cities of the State, and the weaker class which represents the smaller towns. The sectional leagues, of course, seek to attach the former to their circuits, leaving the latter eligible for State league circuits. * * * * * For many years past columns of space in papers making base ball a specialty have been occupied with long arrays of figures giving the averages of the players in the batting and fielding departments of the game. To such an extent has this feature of the annual statistics of the game been carried that the records based upon these averages have come to be regarded by the players as the primary object in view during each season's work in the field. As a result of this system those club directors and managers who have never fully examined into the merits of the subject, and who are not, therefore, aware of the fact that, as criterions of the most skilful play in each department, these averages are comparatively useless, have been led into the costly error of making their selections for their teams each season upon the basis of the figures of the players' averages, and hence the customary announcement made at the beginning of each season that "our team has the best batting average of the season." It is about time that the fallacy of this average business should be shown up in its true light and that the existing system of making out averages should be so changed as to make it some sort of a test of a player's skill in his home position, which it certainly is not now. The worst of this average business as it prevails now is that it is a powerful incentive for every player to make "playing for a record" his principal object in his season's work, and that all-important duty, "playing for the side," a matter of secondary consideration. * * * * * The cranks' title of "Giants," given years ago to the New York club's team, has become a misnomer. The team most entitled to it in 1894 was that of the Chicago club, no other club team making such a show of heavyweight players last season as did Anson's real "Giants," as will be seen by the appended record. Look at the figures of their biggest men: -------------------------------------------- Height Weight Feet Inches lbs. -------------------------------------------- Schriver, catcher 5 10 185 Camp, pitcher 6 160 Anson, first base 6 1 202 L. Camp, second base 6 165 Parrott, third base 5 11 160 Clayton, short stop 6 1 180 Decker, left field 6 1 180 Lange, centre field 6 1 180 Dungan, right field 5 11 180 ---- ------ ---- Average 6 173 -------------------------------------------- How does Murphy, Fuller, Burke, Ward _et al_ stand in weight and size compared to the above "Giants"? * * * * * Here is something worthy of note by club managers who begin to get their teams together each spring, which we clipped from the St. Louis Sporting News of last December. The editor of the News said: "The player that is on the upward path is the man for success. He is playing for something far more than the salary he gets. He is looking forward to a place in the foremost ranks of the nation's ball players. Consequently he proves to be a hard worker at all times. He tries to land his club in the top notch, and his record, for the part he took, stands out as a recommendation to all the world. On the other hand, the older player, who has made his record and is going down again, has lost all his ambition. He can put no life into the club, his ginger has been expended in the days gone by, and the people look upon him as a back number. He sticks to the profession generally for a livelihood. He wants to play so as to hold his place, but he has lost the powers that he once had, and cannot do what he would like to accomplish. The old-timers had better get a hump on themselves this year, else will the youngsters drive them out of the business." * * * * * The well-known base ball writer, Mr. Pringle, was right when he said: "It is useless to get new rules until existing ones have been rigidly enforced and tested." It is an undeniable fact that the umpires of 1894, almost without exception, failed to properly enforce the rules governing the umpire's duties. In this regard Mr. Pringle said: "The rules relating to the duties of umpires are all right. They have power to stop all rowdy conduct on the field, but the trouble has been the lack of nerve on the part of umpires to enforce the rules." This, and the fact that the presidents and directors of clubs who governed the managers and captains of teams, were largely to blame in the matter for not backing up the umpires as they should have done. The latter have arduous duties enough to discharge as it is without their finding obstacles in their way in the partisan actions of club officials who control club managers and captains. When this class supports the umpires against the club teams it will be time enough to lay the whole onus of hoodlumism in the ranks on the umpires--not until then. * * * * * A Philadelphia scribe hits the nail on the head when, in commenting on the existing abuses of kicking and dirty ball playing in the League arena, he says: "If the club owners would take the initiative in enforcing decorum upon their players, upon pain of fine or suspension, instead of shifting the burden and onus upon the umpire, the problem of order at ball games would be solved at once. But the majority of magnates and managers, while openly, hypocritically, deploring dirty ball playing, secretly wink at it and rather enjoy it, especially if their particular club secures advantages from it. The players all know this, and so do the umpires; hence the former presume upon it, while the latter weaken in their intent and desire to strictly enforce the rules. When the duty of preserving order on the field and decorum among the players is devolved upon the clubs, who represent direct authority, power and responsibility, instead of irresponsible umpires, then, and not till then will the evils complained of cease, or at least be mitigated." Al Wright, the base ball editor of the New York Clipper, in its issue of February 15, 1895, had this noteworthy paragraph in its columns: "Frank C. Bancroft, the business manager of the Cincinnati club, in speaking about the equalization of the players of the major league teams, said: 'I am not a firm believer in the prevalent practice of selling the best men in a weak or tail-end team to one of the leading clubs, and register a vigorous kick against it. My plan is that the National League shall pass a rule forbidding the sale of a player from a club in the second division, to a club in the first division. I think this would, in a measure, prevent some of the hustling to dispose of a clever man for the sake of the cash that is in the trade. There is certainly some good arguments in the idea, and not one against it. The clubs of the second division have been too willing to dispose of their best men for a decent cash consideration, and the damage that has been done to the game is incalculable.'" A young Brooklyn writer, in commenting on the threatened war on the reserve rule which Messrs. Richter, Pfeffer, Buckenberger and Barnie were active in promoting, said: "Since the National League and American Association amalgamated at Indianapolis in 1892 the League has not been a glorious success." The reply to this is a statement of fact which contradicts the above assertion very flatly. The reorganized National League started its new career in the spring of 1892 with an indebtedness, resulting from the base ball war of 1891, of over $150,000. At the close of the season of 1892 it had partially redeemed its heavy indebtedness, and by the close of the season of 1893 it had paid the debt off in full, and it closed the season of 1894 with a majority of its clubs having a surplus in their treasuries, and that, too, despite the hardest kind of times of financial depression. If this is not a glorious success, pray what is? A Pittsburgh scribe, in commenting on the dead failure of the scheme to organize a new American Association, one object of which was to levy war upon the now permanently established rule of the National Agreement clubs, very pointedly said last winter that "such a scheme would be folly of the maddest kind. There is not a good reason, theoretical or practical, sentimental or otherwise, in support of it. The success of base ball, to a very great extent, depends on public sentiment, and we have seen what a base ball war did to that sentiment four years ago. There is one solid basis for all base ball organizations, and that is the reserve rule. The proposed organization ignores this fundamental and necessary principle, and consequently can only be compared to that foolish man who built a house on sand." During the decade of the eighties the League's code of rules had this special clause in it: "Any player who shall be in any way interested in any bet or wager on the game in which he takes part, either as a player, umpire, or scorer, shall be suspended from legal service as a member of any professional Association club for the season during which he shall have violated this rule." The question is, Why was this important and much-needed rule taken from the code? No player can play ball as he should do who is personally interested in any bet on the content he is engaged in; that is a fact too true to be contradicted. Independent of this fact, too. Experience has plainly shown that the step of betting on a game he plays in is but a short one from accepting bribes to lose a game. The rule should long ago have been replaced in the code. The Cleveland Leader says: "The patrons of the game have begun to realize the true inwardness of scientific batting, as shown in the securing of single bases by well-timed place hits, safe taps of swiftly-pitched balls to short outfield, and skilful efforts in sacrifice hitting and bunting, every such hit forwarding a run or sending a run in. Of course, to occupants of the bleaching boards, as a rule, the great attraction is the long hit for a home run, which is made at the cost of a 120-yards sprint, and at the loss of all chances for skilful fielding. But to the best judges of scientific batting the safe tap of the swiftly pitched ball, the well-judged bunt or the effort to make a safe hit to right field, which, if it fails, at least yields a sacrifice hit, is far more attractive than the old rut of slugging for home runs and making fungo hits to the outfielders." There is something to fight for in the winning of a State league's championship honors, while there is little or nothing at stake in a trio or duo State league. Suppose each State had a four or six club circuit, and at the close of its season, each August or September, what a paying series of October games could be arranged in the Southern section of the country in October for a grand championship series for the prize of leading all the State leagues of the country for the honors of the champion pennant of State league organizations? By all means let State leagues be organized, until every State in the Union--North, South, East and West--has its representative State league. The fickle nature of base ball "rooters" was conspicuously shown at the Polo Grounds in 1894. At the end of the June campaign, when the New York "Giants" stood sixth in the race, Ward's stock among the local "cranks" and "rooters," stood below par; at the close of the July campaign, however, that same stock was at a premium; and yet it was the same John M. Ward at the head of the "Giants." In May there were "none so poor to do him reverence." In August, John was carried off the field a hero. Of such are the "cranks" and "rooters." A Toronto paper says: "Spalding Brothers will present to the champion club of all regularly organized base ball leagues, junior or senior, in Canada, a valuable flag, 11x28, pennant shaped, made of serviceable white bunting, red lettered, and valued at $20. The flags will be forwarded, duty free, immediately after the season closes. Each league must consist of four or more clubs, and each club must play not less than 12 championship games." This is a good plan to encourage the game on foreign soil. It has worked well in England and Australia, too. Among the magnates of the League who could be seen at nearly all of the home games of the twelve clubs during the past season were the Boston triumvirate, Messrs. Soden, Conant and Billings; the irrepressible Charley Byrne, of Brooklyn; the handsome Vonderhorst, of Baltimore; the smiling Eddie Talcott, of New York; the noted "Philadelphia lawyer" Rogers, of Philadelphia; the "Boss Manager" Von der Ahe, of St. Louis; the energetic Kerr, of Pittsburgh, and Al Spalding's successor, President Hart, of Chicago. The Louisville team was a strong one as regards its individual players. But it lacked harmony in its ranks and suffered from cliques. With two ex-captains in its team, besides the one who ran it, but little else could be expected. Ambitious ex-captains are obstacles in the way of successful management of a team. One regular captain should be the rule, with an acknowledged lieutenant--a pair like Comiskey and Latham, who worked the old St. Louis "Browns" up to being four-time winners of pennant honors. It is a noteworthy fact that Anson has been manager and captain of the Chicago club's teams since 1877, and from that year to this he has taken his team to the goal of the championship five years of the six the club won the pennant, A.G. Spalding being the manager in 1876, the first year the club won the honors. Fifteen successive years of management in one club beats the League's records in that respect. [Illustration: P. T. POWERS, President Eastern League.] [Illustration: Yale Team, '94.][Illustration: Harvard Team, '94.] [Illustration: University of Pennsylvania Team, '94.] [Illustration: Princeton Team, '94.] #EASTERN LEAGUE SCHEDULE.# ------------------------------------------------------------------- Clubs. At Toronto. At Buffalo. At Rochester. ------------------------------------------------------------------- ................ May 29, 30, 30 June 6, 7, 8 Toronto ................ June 17, 18, 19 July 6, 8 ................ July 15, 16 Aug. 14, 15, 16 ------------------------------------------------------------------- May 24, 24 ................ June 1, 3, 4 Buffalo May 31, July 1,2 ................ July 9, 10 Sept. 11, 12, 14 ................ Aug 17, 19, 20 -------------------------------------------------------------------- June 10, 11, 12 June 13, 14, 15 ................ Rochester July 12, 13 July 4, 4 ................ Aug. 24, 26, 27 Aug 21, 22, 23 ................ ------------------------------------------------------------------- June 13, 14, 15 June 10, 11, 12 May 29, 30, 30 Syracuse July 9, 10 July 12, 13 July 1, 2 Aug. 21, 22, 23 Aug 24, 26, 27 Sept. 10, 11, 15 ------------------------------------------------------------------- Wilkes- May 16, 17, 18 May 13, 14, 15 May 23, 25, 27 Barre July 26, 27 July 24, 25 July 20, 22 Sept. 3, 4, 5 Sept. 6, 7, 9 Aug 28, 29, 30 ------------------------------------------------------------------- May 13, 14, 15 May 16, 17, 18 May 20, 21, 22 Scranton July 24, 25 July 26, 27 July 18, 19 Aug. 31, Sep. 2,2 Aug. 28, 29, 30 Sept. 6, 7, 9 ------------------------------------------------------------------- Spring- May 20, 21, 22 May 23, 25, 27 May 13, 14, 15 field July 20, 22 July 18, 19 July 26, 27 Aug. 28, 29, 30 Aug. 31, Sep.2, 2 Sept. 3, 4, 5 ------------------------------------------------------------------- Provi- May 23, 25, 27 May 20, 21, 22 May 16, 17, 18 dence July 18, 19 July 20, 22 July 24, 25 Sept. 6, 7, 9 Sept. 3, 4, 5 A'g 31, Sep. 2, 2 ------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------- Clubs. At Syracuse. At Wilkes-Barre. At Scranton. ------------------------------------------------------------------- June 1, 3, 4 May 6, 7, 8 May 9, 10, 11 Toronto July 4, 4 June 21, 22 June 24, 25 Aug. 17, 19, 20 Aug. 10, 12, 13 Aug. 7, 8, 9 ------------------------------------------------------------------- June 6, 7, 8 May 9, 10, 11 May 6, 7, 8 Buffalo July 6, 8 June 24, 25 June 21, 22 Aug. 14, 15, 16 Aug 7, 8, 9 Aug 10, 12, 13 ------------------------------------------------------------------- June 17, 18, 19 Apr. 29, 30, May 1 May 2, 3, 4 Rochester July 15, 16 June 28, 29 June 26, 27 Sept. 12, 13, 14 July 30, 31 Ag. 1 Aug 2, 3, 5 ------------------------------------------------------------------- ................ May 2, 3, 4 Apr. 29, 30, May 1 Syracuse ................ June 26, 27 June 28, 29 ................ Aug 2, 3, 5 July 30, 31 Ag. 1 ------------------------------------------------------------------- Wilkes- May 20, 21, 22 ................ July 1, 3, 4 Barre July 18, 19 ................ July 4, 4 Aug. 31, Sep. 2,2 ................ Aug 14, 15, 16 ------------------------------------------------------------------- May 23, 25, 27 May 29, 30, 30 ................ Scranton July 20, 22 July 1, 2 ................ Sept. 3, 4, 5 Aug. 17, 19, 20 ................ ------------------------------------------------------------------- Spring- May 16, 17, 18 June 6, 7, 8 June 10, 11, 12 field July 24, 25 July 15, 16 July 12, 13 Sept. 6, 7, 9 Sept. 13, 14, 15 Sept. 10, 11, 12 ------------------------------------------------------------------- Provi- May 13, 14, 15 June 10, 11, 12 June 6, 7, 8 dence July 26, 27 July 12, 13 July 15, 16 Aug. 28, 29, 30 Sept. 10, 11, 12 Sept. 13, 14, 15 ------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------ Clubs. At Springfield. At Providence. ------------------------------------------------ Apr 29, 30, May 1 May 2, 3, 4 Toronto June 28, 29 June 26, 27 Aug. 2, 3, 5 July. 30, 31 Ag.1 ------------------------------------------------ May 2, 3, 4 Ap. 29, 30, May 1 Buffalo June 26, 27 June 28, 29 July. 30, 31 Ag.1 Aug. 2, 3, 5 ------------------------------------------------ May 9, 10, 11 May 6, 7, 8 Rochester June 24, 25 June 21, 22 Aug 10, 12, 13 Aug 7, 8, 9 ------------------------------------------------ May 6, 7, 8 May 9, 10, 11 Syracuse June 21, 22 June 24, 25 Aug 7, 8, 9 Aug 10, 12, 13 ------------------------------------------------ Wilkes- June 17, 18 19 June 13, 14, 15 Barre July 6, 8 July 9, 10 Aug. 21, 22, 23 Aug. 24, 26, 27 ------------------------------------------------ June 13, 14, 15 June 17, 18 19 Scranton July 9, 10 July 6, 8 Aug. 24, 26, 27 Aug. 21, 22, 23 ------------------------------------------------ Spring- ................ May 29, 30, 30 field ................ July 4, 4 ................ Aug. 17, 18, 20 ------------------------------------------------ Provi- June 1, 3, 4 ................ dence July 1, 2 ................ Aug. 14, 15, 16 ................ ------------------------------------------------ #THE EASTERN LEAGUE.# The cities composing the Eastern League circuit are Toronto, Canada; Buffalo, N.Y.; Rochester, N.Y.; Syracuse, N.Y.; Providence, R.I.; Springfield, Mass.; Scranton,, Pa., and Wilkes-Barre, Pa. The officers are; P.T. Powers, President, Secretary and Treasurer; headquarters, A.G. Spalding & Bros., 126 Nassau St., New York. Board of Directors: James Franklin, Buffalo; George N. Kuntzsch, Syracuse; William H. Draper, Providence, and E.F. Bogert, Wilkes-Barre. The base ball magnates of the Eastern League held their annual schedule meeting at the Fifth Avenue Hotel March 13th. These delegates were present: President P.T. Powers, James Franklin and Charles H. Morton, Buffalo ; E.A. Johnson and John M. Battey, Providence; Charles F. Leimgruber and J.C. Chapman, Rochester; William Barnie, Scranton; I.E. Sanborn and Thomas E. Burns, Springfield; George N. Kuntzsch, Syracuse; William Stark and Charles Maddock, Toronto; E.F. Bogert, L.W. Long and Dan Shannon, Wilkes-Barre. The League has a great staff of umpires for this season, as will be seen from the following list appointed at the meeting: Tim C. Hurst, of Ashland, Pa.; Herman Doescher, of Binghamton; John H. Gaffney, of Worcester, and Charles N. Snyder, of Washington. It was voted to increase the staff to five, and President Powers will sign another umpire. He will also keep a number of reserve men in readiness to fill in as substitutes in place of local men, as formerly. The constitution was subjected to a few minor changes, the most important being the change of date for the payment of the guarantee to finish the season ($250 per club) from May 1st to April 15th. John Depinet, of Erie, and Lawrence T. Fassett, of Albany, were elected honorary members of the League, with all privileges of games, etc. The Eastern League adopted the Spalding League Ball as the Official Ball for 1895, and it will be used in all League games. #The Eastern League Averages.# THE RECORDS MADE BY EACH PLAYER IN BATTING AND FIELDING ACCORDING TO OFFICIAL FIGURES--THE AVERAGES OF THE CLUBS. Sheehan of Springfield leads the entire batting list with the fat percentage of .416. Patchen of Scranton was second with .392, and Mulvey of Allentown-Yonkers was third, .391. All three of these are ahead of Drauby's record, .379, which led the Eastern League the previous year. Rudderham led the pitchers in fielding his position. The club averages are significant. They show that the Providence champions turned up third in batting, and led the list in fielding. Thus they deserved to win, for the Springfields, second in batting, are third in fielding, tied with Troy; and Buffalo, first in batting, comes sixth in fielding. Scranton and Yonkers see-saw on the tail end. Wilkes-Barre is below the centre of the heap in both fielding and batting. In fact, the sum up of club averages in stick work and field work indicates that the clubs finished about as they deserved. The figures will give opportunity for a couple of hours study. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 2 s n t d P A e G t B B r a R a a c m B u s s e e a n e e n s t s s s t NO. NAME. CLUB. . . . . . . --------------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Sheehan Springfield 32 144 31 60 2 .415 2 Parchen Scranton 32 135 15 53 5 .392 3 Mulvey Yonkers 22 92 13 36 2 .391 4 Kelley Yonkers 15 61 11 23 2 .377 5 P. Sweeney Yonkers 21 86 21 33 3 .372 6 Knight Wilkes-Barre and Providence 113 493 108 183 34 .371 7 Bassett Providence 109 484 125 178 32 .367 8 Smith Buffalo 24 96 14 35 3 .364 Rafter Binghamton and Syracuse 43 184 31 67 14 .364 10 Minnehan Syracuse 115 504 95 182 11 .361 11 O'Brien Binghamton 15 61 9 22 0 .360 12 Griffin Buffalo and Syracuse 106 465 103 167 14 .359 13 Raymond Binghamton 22 92 23 33 4 .358 14 Vickery Buffalo and Springfield 54 199 47 70 8 .356 15 Shearon Erie 103 145 108 158 23 .355 16 Dowse Binghamton, Buffalo, and 88 355 76 126 5 .354 Troy 17 Power Binghamton and Syracuse 79 328 72 116 15 .353 18 Collins Buffalo 125 562 126 198 18 .352 19 Drauby Buffalo 97 436 126 153 12 .350 20 Shannon Wilkes-Barre 77 347 77 121 21 .348 21 Nadeau Springfield 110 469 128 162 30 .345 22 Field Erie 109 436 71 150 16 .344 Sweeney Binghamton 27 116 21 40 0 .344 24 Campfield Wilkes-Barre 29 94 20 32 1 .340 Dixon Providence 80 320 58 109 33 .340 26 Rogers Providence 112 492 97 167 37 .339 27 Lytle Wilkes-Barre and Binghamton 101 479 115 162 39 .338 Carr Binghamton 15 71 13 24 2 .338 29 Weddige Buffalo 21 86 19 29 1 .337 Wood Yonkers 22 86 21 29 2 .337 31 Lynch Springfield 110 469 127 158 44 .336 Kilroy Syracuse 30 98 22 33 8 .336 Clymer Buffalo 121 523 97 176 36 .336 34 Lyons Providence 108 511 131 171 37 .334 Johnson Troy and Scranton 111 463 221 155 14 .334 Bottenus Springfield 110 440 111 147 22 .334 Betts Wilkes-Barre 107 463 114 155 21 .334 38 Gillen Wilkes-Barre 106 417 89 139 17 .333 Nicholson Erie 105 453 115 151 71 .333 40 Lewee Buffalo 71 262 56 87 3 .332 41 Breckenridge Troy and Springfield 113 440 98 146 11 .331 Lally Erie 108 458 78 152 8 .331 43 O'Brien Buffalo 60 276 77 91 14 .329 Payne Syracuse and Binghamton 52 197 37 65 5 .329 45 Cahill Scranton and Troy 91 402 73 132 26 .328 46 Scheffler Troy and Springfield 111 459 138 150 29 .326 47 Friel Binghamton, Scranton, & 60 251 58 81 17 .322 Springfield Pickett Troy 71 304 54 98 12 .322 Hoffer Buffalo 76 282 63 91 5 .322 50 Lezotte Wilkes-Barre 78 336 73 108 8 .321 51 Shannon Springfield 109 493 115 158 15 .320 52 Gore Binghamton 48 191 46 61 5 .319 53 Boyd Buffalo 82 339 76 105 10 .318 54 Berger Erie 67 255 50 80 3 .313 " Urquhart Buffalo 101 402 80 126 7 .313 56 Bausewein Syracuse 44 146 8 45 4 .308 " Demont Buffalo, Bingh'ton & Scranton 36 146 31 45 4 .308 " Burns Springfield 36 146 27 45 7 .308 59 Daly Buffalo 82 336 82 103 7 .306 60 Hoover Syracuse and Scranton 83 344 74 105 21 .305 61 Warner Wilkes-Barre 97 387 71 118 17 .304 62 Barnett Binghamton and Syracuse 42 132 23 40 2 .303 " Hanrahan Binghamton and Syracuse 54 221 36 67 4 .303 64 J. Hess Wilkes-Barre and Scranton 78 348 72 105 8 .301 65 T. Hess Syracuse 98 381 64 114 6 .299 66 Gunson Erie 64 261 40 78 2 .298 67 Whitehead Binghamton and Scranton 30 131 28 39 8 .297 68 Welch Syracuse 108 422 111 125 81 .296 " Eagan Syracuse 111 435 97 129 30 .296 70 Cross Syracuse 69 247 62 73 34 .295 " Duryea Binghamton and Yonkers 53 190 24 56 6 .295 " Heine Binghamton and Buffalo 50 203 35 60 8 .295 73 Simon Troy and Syracuse 114 485 123 143 22 .294 " Faatz Syracuse 25 102 15 30 0 .294 75 Donnelly Troy and Springfield 83 361 91 104 15 .288 " Wilson Syracuse 27 104 18 30 1 .288 " Pettit Providence and Wilkes-Barre 78 368 65 106 12 .288 78 Conley Syracuse 62 247 30 71 9 .287 " Brown Wilkes-Barre 54 233 28 67 2 .287 80 Keenan Wilkes-Barre 47 175 24 50 1 .286 81 Gruber Troy and Springfield 45 151 33 40 0 .284 82 Stearns Wilkes-Barre and Buffalo 76 307 76 37 14 .283 " Lehane Scranton and Springfield 99 386 67 110 5 .283 84 Stricker Providence 108 436 88 123 52 .282 " Cooney Providence 98 422 68 119 28 .282 86 Delaney Binghamton and Scranton 51 188 35 53 6 .281 87 Mack Binghamton 66 272 62 76 10 .278 88 Van Dyke Erie 108 434 66 120 36 .276 89 Leahy Springfield 101 423 96 116 30 .274 90 Bott Buffalo 18 66 11 13 2 .272 91 Healy Erie 37 137 21 37 0 .270 92 McGinness Erie 27 89 11 24 1 .269 93 Smith Erie 108 432 102 115 19 .266 94 Murray Providence 109 430 80 112 68 .260 95 Murphy Troy 29 116 11 30 1 .258 " Johnson Buffalo 51 213 31 55 13 .258 97 Rogers Scranton 21 82 10 21 1 .256 98 Kuehne Erie 106 427 64 109 13 .255 99 McCauley Providence 53 197 33 50 27 .253 100 Phelan Scranton 26 103 20 26 8 .252 101 Wise Yonkers 20 80 14 20 7 .250 " Dolan Binghamton and Springfield 25 84 12 21 0 .250 103 Egan Providence 35 105 25 26 9 .247 104 McMahon Wilkes-Barre 99 393 43 97 4 .246 105 Lovett Providence 16 62 7 15 0 .241 106 Donovan Scranton, Troy and Yonkers 34 121 12 29 4 .289 107 Sullivan Providence 40 155 23 37 10 .238 108 Smith Troy and Scranton 108 421 67 97 1 .230 108 Coughlin Springfield 49 178 26 41 1 .230 110 Messitt Springfield 82 112 20 25 2 .228 111 Meekin Troy and Wilkes-Barre 39 135 28 30 4 .222 112 Fisher Buffalo 17 60 5 18 3 .216 112 W. Sweeney Yonkers 20 74 7 16 2 .216 114 Costello Yonkers 22 86 9 18 1 .209 115 Marshall Binghamton 17 62 10 19 0 .206 116 Quarles Wilkes-Barre and Scranton 35 127 16 26 2 .204 117 Blackburn Wilkes-Barre and Scranton 18 66 9 13 0 .196 118 Kilroy Yonkers 17 64 10 12 4 .187 119 Connors Binghamton 19 75 12 14 1 .186 120 Lang Binghamton 16 59 19 11 7 .183 121 Herndon Erie 47 189 21 29 1 .182 122 Lohbeck Binghamton 42 160 20 29 7 .181 123 Phillips Troy 15 59 8 10 1 .169 124 Rudderham Providence 30 105 7 17 2 .161 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- PITCHERS' FIELDING AVERAGES. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- P A P u s E e G t s r r a i r c m O s o e e u t r n s t s s t No. Name. Club. . . . . . ---------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Rudderham Providence 30 9 46 1 .982 2 Lovett Providence 16 7 38 1 .975 3 Bausewein Syracuse 41 14 60 3 .960 4 Sullivan Providence 39 8 72 4 .952 5 Campfield Wilkes-Barre 29 8 49 3 .949 6 Hoffer Buffalo 57 39 92 8 .942 6 Vickery Buffalo and Springfield 52 26 122 9 .942 6 Bott Buffalo 18 3 46 3 .942 9 Keenan Wilkes-Barre 38 29 64 6 .939 10 McGinnis Erie 27 6 52 4 .935 11 Gruber Troy and Springfield 45 7 77 7 .931 12 Duryea Binghamton and Yonkers 40 36 65 9 .918 13 Blackburn Scranton and Wilkes-Barre 17 8 25 3 .916 14 Coughlin Springfield 45 19 79 9 .915 15 Meekin Troy and Wilkes-Barre 39 29 63 9 .910 16 Donovan Troy, Scranton and Yonkers 34 14 55 7 .907 17 Fisher Buffalo 17 6 23 3 .906 18 Fagan Providence 20 9 65 8 .902 19 Herndon Erie 46 23 61 10 .896 20 Marshall Binghamton 13 3 23 3 .896 21 Quarles Wilkes-Barre and Scranton 33 13 64 9 .895 22 Dolan Binghamton and Springfield 25 4 34 5 .886 23 Healy Erie 34 14 63 16 .885 24 Delaney Binghamton and Scranton 50 21 80 12 .884 25 Kilroy Syracuse 27 20 56 10 .883 26 Barnett Binghamton and Syracuse 42 4 86 12 .852 27 Payne Syracuse and Binghamton 18 9 19 10 .736 --------------------------------------------------------------------- CATCHERS' AVERAGES. -------------------------------------------------------------------- P A P u s E e G t s r r a i r c m O s o e e u t r n s t s s t No. Name. Club. . . . . . -------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Lohbeck Binghamton 42 138 30 6 .965 2 Gunson Erie 54 157 46 8 .962 3 Berger Erie 58 180 45 9 .961 4 Dixon Providence 63 241 48 12 .960 5 Cahill Troy and Scranton 51 161 51 11 .950 6 Urquhart Buffalo 83 321 74 22 .947 7 Warner Wilkes-Barre 97 317 71 22 .946 8 Wilson Syracuse 20 71 26 6 .941 9 Leahy Springfield 95 321 76 25 .940 10 Murphy Troy 24 83 10 6 .939 11 Hess Syracuse 89 253 54 22 .933 12 McCauley Providence 53 136 47 23 .913 13 Boyd Buffalo 61 226 37 28 .903 14 Rafter Binghamton and Syracuse 43 128 40 20 .893 15 Patchen Scranton 32 114 20 17 .887 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- SHORT STOP AVERAGES. -------------------------------------------------------------------- P A P u s E e G t s r r a i r c m O s o e e u t r n s t s s t No. Name. Club. . . . . . -------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Demont Binghamton and Buffalo 29 68 117 23 .898 1 Shannon Springfield 109 245 454 90 .898 3 Cooney Providence 98 148 331 55 .897 4 Smith Erie 106 205 429 75 .894 5 W. Sweeney Yonkers 20 40 78 14 .893 6 Lewee Buffalo 71 146 269 50 .892 6 Smith Troy and Scranton 108 139 332 57 .892 8 Cross Syracuse 69 172 275 60 .881 9 Hanrahan Syracuse and Binghamton 54 65 166 35 .870 10 McMahon Wilkes-Barre 99 218 402 98 .863 11 Johnson Buffalo 49 70 144 39 .845 12 Lang Binghamton 16 20 52 14 .837 13 Heine Binghamton and Buffalo 35 75 103 35 .835 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- FIRST BASE AVERAGES. -------------------------------------------------------------------- P A P u s E e G t s r r a i r c m O s o e e u t r n s t s s t No. Name. Club. . . . . . -------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Brown Wilkes-Barre 54 578 30 10 .983 2 Breckenridge Troy and Springfield 113 1133 37 22 .981 2 Field Erie 109 1092 56 22 .981 2 Kelly Yonkers 12 96 11 2 .981 5 Lehane Springfield and Scranton 98 938 64 20 .980 6 Rogers Providence 109 970 42 25 .975 7 Power Binghamton and Syracuse 79 728 37 20 .974 8 Drauby Buffalo 46 455 21 14 .971 8 Faatz Syracuse 25 235 4 7 .971 10 Conley Syracuse 62 569 15 19 .968 11 Stearns Buffalo and Wilkes-Barre 76 774 24 30 .945 12 Sweeney Binghamton 23 215 9 15 .937 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- SECOND BASE AVERAGES. -------------------------------------------------------------------- P A P u s E e G t s r r a i r c m O s o e e u t r n s t s s t No. Name. Club. . . . . . -------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Stricker Providence 108 341 308 30 .955 2 Wise Yonkers 20 76 79 8 .950 3 Lynch Springfield 20 70 59 7 .948 3 Pickett Troy 71 241 197 24 .948 5 Eagan Syracuse 111 364 362 40 .947 6 Clymer Buffalo 54 159 171 21 .940 7 Nicholson Erie 105 321 300 42 .937 8 Cahill Troy and Scranton 28 75 78 11 .932 9 Burns Springfield 36 104 82 14 .930 10 O'Brien Buffalo 60 192 162 28 .926 10 Mack Binghamton 66 185 206 31 .926 12 Smith Buffalo 13 36 31 7 .905 13 Shannon Wilkes-Barre 77 168 221 41 .904 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THIRD BASE AVERAGES. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- P A P u s E e G t s r r a i r c m O s o e e u t r n s t s s t No. Name. Club. . . . . . ----------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Bassett Providence 109 183 290 46 .911 2 Kuehne Erie 106 154 265 41 .910 3 Minnehan Syracuse 111 165 251 45 .902 4 Donnelly Troy and Springfield 83 123 207 36 .901 5 Whitehead Binghamton and Scranton 30 43 61 13 .888 6 Smith Troy 16 14 41 7 .887 6 Lynch Springfield 87 203 223 54 .887 8 Dowse Buffalo, Troy and Binghamton 67 97 146 36 .870 9 Mulvey Yonkers 22 35 44 12 .858 10 Gillen Wilkes-Barre 106 127 216 67 .836 11 O'Brien Binghamton 15 20 15 9 .818 12 Phelan Scranton 29 19 31 12 .806 13 Raymond Binghamton 22 24 42 17 .795 14 Weddige Buffalo 14 16 20 11 .765 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- FIELDERS' AVERAGES. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- P A P u s E e G t s r r a i r c m O s o e e u t r n s t s s t No. Name. Club. . . . . . ----------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Clymer Buffalo 61 152 11 4 .976 2 Drauby Buffalo 37 67 5 5 .960 2 Welch Syracuse 108 225 19 10 .960 4 Lyons Providence 108 294 27 14 .956 4 Gore Binghamton 48 99 10 5 .956 6 Simon Syracuse and Troy 114 265 15 13 .955 7 Scheffler Troy and Springfield 112 175 23 12 .942 8 Hoffer Buffalo 19 45 3 3 .941 9 Collins Buffalo 125 299 34 21 .940 10 Wood Yonkers 22 42 3 3 .937 11 Griffin Buffalo and Syracuse 106 178 13 13 .936 12 Lally Erie 108 239 17 18 .934 13 Knight Wilkes-Barre and Providence 113 307 13 24 .930 14 Van Dyke Erie 108 219 23 20 .923 15 Johnson Troy and Scranton 111 312 24 31 .915 16 Betts Wilkes-Barre 107 302 23 31 .912 17 Shearon Erie 103 163 21 18 .910 18 Payne Binghamton and Syracuse 47 58 9 7 .905 19 Bottenus Springfield 110 267 6 31 .898 20 Daly Buffalo 82 137 17 18 .895 21 Murray Providence 108 144 26 21 .890 22 Lezotte Wilkes-Barre 63 112 7 15 .888 22 Carr Binghamton 15 32 2 4 .888 24 Connors Binghamton 19 37 2 5 .886 25 Hess Wilkes-Barre and Scranton 74 136 8 20 .878 26 Nadeau Springfield 85 187 17 30 .871 27 Lytle Wilkes-Barre and Binghamton 87 196 34 36 .864 28 Hoover Syracuse and Scranton 83 152 12 27 .858 29 Friel Spr'gf'ld, Binham'n, Scranton 60 96 5 11 .857 30 Pettit Providence and Wilkes-Barre 57 98 5 12 .830 31 Rogers Scranton 18 32 2 7 .829 32 P. Sweeney Yonkers 17 34 4 8 .825 33 Costello Yonkers 13 28 2 7 .810 34 Sheehan Springfield 32 36 6 7 .728 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- CLUB BATTING AVERAGES. ----------------------------------------------- A B S P t a t e s o B r B R e H l a C a u i e s e t n t n e n s s s s t No. CLUB. . . . . . ----------------------------------------------- 1 Buffalo 4630 1022 1500 154 .323 2 Springfield 4004 942 1268 184 .316 3 Providence 4210 842 1306 365 .310 4 Syracuse 4092 814 1260 186 .307 5 Binghamton 3018 585 919 128 .304 6 Wilkesbarre 3949 773 1196 136 .302 6 Erie 4018 751 1214 194 .302 8 Troy 2775 588 821 97 .295 9 Scranton 1269 200 372 154 .293 10 Yonkers 735 118 220 28 .288 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- CLUB FIELDING AVERAGES. ------------------------------------------------------------- P P A e u s E r t s r i r C O s o e u t r n t s s t No. CLUB. . . . . ------------------------------------------------------------- 1 Providence 2825 1357 257 .942 2 Erie 2776 1399 281 .936 3 Troy 1968 940 194 .934 3 Springfield 2779 1286 285 .934 5 Syracuse 2754 1380 310 .930 6 Buffalo 3011 1442 369 .923 7 Wilkes-Barre 2457 1191 354 .918 8 Binghamton 1916 967 276 .916 9 Yonkers 410 263 68 .902 10 Scranton 794 357 138 .892 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- #The Presidents of the National League.# This is the twentieth year of the existence of the National League, and in all that time but four members of the League have occupied the presidential chair, viz., Morgan G. Bulkeley, ex-Governor of Connecticut; the last W.A. Hulbert; A.G. Mills, the leading spirit of the great New York Athletic Club, and N.E. Young, the present highly-esteemed and worthy President of the League. Mr. Bulkeley served during 1876; Mr. Hulbert from 1876 to his death in 1882; Mr. Mills from that date up to 1884, when business requirements led to his resignation, and Mr. Young since then. From the organization of the National League in 1876 to the day of his death, Mr. Hulbert was the great moving spirit in the reforms in the government of the professional clubs of the country, which marked the period from 1876 to the eighties. It was his influence, largely, which led to the war upon the "crookedness" which marked the early years of professional base ball history, in which pool gambling was the potent factor. It took years of cohesive and even arbitrary legislation to eliminate the poison of the pool rooms from the professional system, but success was finally achieved, and to the late President Hulbert and his able coadjutors in the League does the credit of this success belong. During the League regime, under President Mills, the great union safety compact, known as the National Agreement, sprang into existence, and its author--Mr. Mills--at this day has reason to be proud of the good work he did for professional ball playing, and for the benefit of the game at large, in the perfecting of this bond of union between the reputable clubs of the professional fraternity. The wisdom of the measure, as a protection against the abuses of "revolving" and "contract breaking," has been very strikingly shown by court decisions which oblige professional clubs to depend entirely upon base ball law, and not the common law, for the preservation of their club rights in contracting with players for their services on the field. Since Mr. Mills left the League arena he has done most efficient service in conserving the best interests of the New York Athletic Club and those of the clubs of the Amateur Athletic Union at large. The great master of League records, and the whilom Secretary of the League since its organization, Mr. Young, is known throughout the entire base ball world, alike for the integrity of his character, the geniality of his disposition and the marked industry and persevering application which has characterized the discharge of his onerous official duties. It is well known that "Old Nick" is frequently alluded to in daily life as the arch-fiend of the world; but the Old Nick of the base ball arena presents a character the very opposite in every respect of his devilish namesake--the one being the spirit of evil, and the other the spirit of honor and good nature. Long may he live to honor the position and uphold the reformation in the base ball world which his predecessors so creditably originated and supported. Mr. Young is a native of Amsterdam, N.Y. He was but a mere boy at the outbreak of the war between the States, but he was game to the core and among the first from his home country to enlist in the Union service. Just before the war he appeared as an athletic young fellow with muscles that would have done credit to one as large again as he was. He was looked on as the best cricket player in the section of the country in which he lived, playing frequently on elevens which had besides himself George and Harry Wright as members. You should hear Nick relate anecdotes of his career as a cricketer. At the close of the war Mr. Young made Washington his residence, and securing a position in the Second Auditor's Department, being an excellent accountant, he has occupied his position through several administrations. From cricket he became interested in the national game of base ball, and eventually, in connection with Mr. A.G. Mills, he started the old Olympic club of Washington, and then it was that he took the field again. In 1871 he was elected Secretary of the old "National Association of Base Ball Players"--not of clubs, but of players--and in 1884, he succeeded Mr. Mills as President of the National League, which organization succeeded the National Association, which had become rotten. [Illustration: CORRECT DIAGRAM OF A BALL FIELD. NOTE. For Specifications see Rules from No. 2 to No. 13.] * * * * * THE PLAYING RULES OF PROFESSIONAL BASE * BALL * CLUBS As adopted by the National League and American Association of Professional Base Ball Clubs. THE BALL GROUND. RULE 1. The Ground must be an inclosed field, sufficient in size to enable each player to play in his position as required by these Rules. RULE 2. To lay off the lines governing the positions and play off the Game known as _Base Ball_, proceed as follows: From a point, A, within the grounds, project a right line out into the field, and at a point, B, 154 feet from point A, lay off lines BC and BD at right angles to the line AB; then with B as centre and 63.63945 feet as radius, describe arcs cutting the lines BA at F and BC at G; BD at H ; and BE at I. Draw lines FG, GE, EH and HF, and said lines will be the containing lines of the Diamond or Infield. THE CATCHER'S LINES. RULE 3. With F as centre and 90 feet radius, an arc cutting line FA at L, and draw lines LM and LO at right angles to FA; and continue same out from FA not less than 90 feet. THE FOUL LINE. RULE 4. From the intersection point, F, continue the straight lines FG and FH until they intersect with the lines LM and LI, and then from the points G and H in the opposite direction until they reach the boundary lines of the grounds. THE PLAYERS' LINES. RULE 5. With F as centre and 50 feet radius, describe arcs cutting lines FO and EM at P and Q, then with F as centre again and 75 feet radius describe arcs cutting FG and FH at R and S; then from the points P Q R and S draw lines at right angles to the lines FO, FM, FG, and FH, and continue same until they intersect at the points T W and W. THE CAPTAIN AND COACHERS' LINE. RULE 6. With R and S as centres and 15 feet radius, describe arcs cutting lines RW and ST at X and Y, and from the points X and Y draw lines parallel with lines FH and FG, and continue same out to the boundary lines of the ground. THE THREE FOOT LINE. RULE 7. With F as centre and 45 feet radius, describe an arc cutting line FG at 1, and from 1 out to the distance of 3 feet draw a line at right angles to FG, and marked point 2; then from point 2, draw a line parallel with the line FG to a point 3 feet beyond the point G, and marked 3; then from the point 3 draw a line at right angles to line 2, 3, back to and intersecting with line FG, and from thence back along line GF to point 1. THE PITCHER'S PLATE. RULE 8. With point F as centre and 60.5 feet as radius, describe an arc cutting the line FB at a point 4, and draw a line 5, 6, passing through point 4 and extending 12 inches on either side of line FB; then with line 5, 6, as a side, describe a parallelogram 24 inches by 6 inches. THE BASES. RULE 9. Within the angle F, describe a square the sides of which shall be 12 inches, two of its sides lying upon the lines FG and FH, and within the angles G and H describe squares the side of which shall be 15 inches, the two outer sides of said square lying upon the lines FG and GI and FH and HI, and at the angle E describe a square whose side shall be 15 inches and so described that its sides shall be parallel with GI and IH and its centre immediately over the angular point E. THE BATSMAN'S LINE. RULE 10. On either side of the line AFB describe two parallelograms 6 feet long and 4 feet wide (marked 8 and 9), their length being parallel with the line AFB, their distance apart being 6 inches, added to each end of the length of the diagonal of the square within the angle F, and the centre of their length being upon said diagonal. RULE 11. The Home Base at F and the Pitcher's Plate at 4 must be of whitened rubber and so fixed in the ground as to be even with the surface. RULE 12. The First Base at G, the Second Base at E, and the Third Base at H, must be of white canvas bags, filled with soft material, and securely fastened in their positions described in Rule 9. RULE 13. The lines described in Rules 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 10 must be marked with lime, chalk, or other suitable material, so as to be distinctly seen by the Umpire. THE BALL. RULE 14. The Ball.[A] [Footnote A: The Spalding League Ball has been adopted by the National League for the past sixteen years, and is used in all League contests. For junior clubs (clubs composed of boys under 16 years of age) we recommend them to use the Spalding Boys' League Ball, and that games played by junior clubs with this ball will count as legal games the same as if played with the Official League Ball.] SECTION 1. Must not weigh less than five nor more than five and one-quarter ounces avoirdupois, and measure not less than nine nor more than nine and one-quarter inches in circumference. The Spalding League Ball, or the Reach American Association Ball, must be used in all games played under these rules. SECTION. 2. For each championship game two balls shall be furnished by the Home Club to the Umpire for use. When the ball in play is batted to foul ground, out of sight of the Umpire, the other ball shall be immediately brought into play. As often as one of the two in use shall be lost a new one must be substituted, so that the Umpire shall at all times after the game begins have two balls for use. The moment the Umpire delivers an alternate ball to the pitcher it comes into play, and shall not be exchanged until it, in turn, passes out of sight to foul ground. SECTION. 3. In all games the ball or balls played with shall be furnished by the Home Club, and the last ball in play becomes the property of the winning club. Each ball to be used in championship games shall be examined, measured and weighed by the Secretary of the Association, inclosed in a paper box and sealed with the seal of the Secretary, which seal shall not be broken except by the Umpire in the presence of the Captains of the two contesting nines after play has been called. SECTION. 4. Should the ball become out of shape, or cut or ripped so as to expose the interior, or in any way so injured as to be, in the opinion of the Umpire, unfit for fair use, he shall, upon appeal by either Captain, at once put the alternate ball into play and call for a new one. THE BAT. RULE 15. The Bat. Must be made entirely of hard wood, except that the handle may be wound with twine, or a granulated substance applied, not to exceed eighteen inches from the end. It must be round, not exceed two and three-quarter inches in diameter in the thickest part, and must not exceed forty-two inches in length. THE PLAYERS AND THEIR POSITIONS. RULE 16. The players of each club in a game shall be nine in number, one of whom shall act as Captain, and in no case shall less than nine men be allowed to play on each side. RULE 17. The players' positions shall be such as may be assigned them by their Captain, except that the pitcher must take the position as defined in Rules 8 and 29. RULE 18. Players in uniform shall not be permitted to occupy seats among the spectators. RULE 19. SECTION 1. Every club shall adopt uniforms for its players, but no player shall attach anything to the sole or heel of his shoes other than the ordinary base ball shoe plate. SECTION. 2. The catcher and first baseman are permitted to wear a glove or mitt of any size, shape or weight. All other players are restricted to the use of a glove or mitt weighing not over ten ounces, and measuring in circumference around the palm of the hand not over fourteen inches. PLAYERS' BENCHES. RULE 20. The Players' Benches must be furnished by the Home Club, and placed upon a portion of the ground outside of, and not nearer than twenty-five feet to, the players' lines. One such bench must be for the exclusive use of the visiting club, and one for the exclusive use of the home club, and the players of the competing teams shall be required to occupy their respective benches while not engaged in active play. THE GAME. RULE 21. SECTION 1. Every Championship game must be commenced not later than two hours before sunset. SECTION. 2. A Game shall consist of nine innings to each contesting nine, except that (a) If the side first at bat scores less runs in nine innings than the other side has scored in eight innings, the game shall then terminate. (b) If the side last at bat in the ninth innings scores the winning run before the third man is out, the game shall terminate. A TIE GAME. RULE 22. If the score be a tie at the end of nine innings, play shall be continued until one side has scored more runs than the other in an equal number of innings, provided that if the side last at bat scores the winning run before the third man is out the game shall terminate. A DRAWN GAME. RULE 23. A Drawn Game shall be declared by the Umpire when he terminates a game on account of darkness or rain, after five equal innings have been played, if the score at the time is equal on the last even innings played; but (exception) if the side that went second to bat is then at the bat, and has scored the same number of runs as the other side, the Umpire shall declare the game drawn without regard to the score of the last equal innings. A CALLED GAME. RULE 24. If the Umpire calls "Game" on account of darkness or rain at any time after five innings have been completed, the score shall be that of the last equal innings played, unless the side second at bat shall have scored one or more runs than the side first at bat, in which case the score of the game shall be the total number of runs made. A FORFEITED GAME. RULE 25. A forfeited game shall be declared by the Umpire in favor of the club not in fault, at the request of such club, in the following cases: SECTION 1. If the nine of a club fail to appear upon a field, or being upon the field, fail to begin the game within five minutes after the Umpire has called "Play," at the hour appointed for the beginning of the game, unless such delay in appearing or in commencing the game be unavoidable. SECTION. 2. If, after the game has begun, one side refuses or fails to continue playing, unless such game has been suspended or terminated by the Umpire. SECTION. 3. If, after play has been suspended by the Umpire, one side fails to resume playing within _one minute_ after the Umpire has called "Play." SECTION. 4. If a team resorts to dilatory practice to delay the game. SECTION. 5. If, in the opinion of the Umpire, any one of these rules is willfully violated. SECTION. 6. If, after ordering the removal of a player as authorized by Rule 59, Sec. 5, said order is not obeyed within one minute. SECTION. 7. In case the Umpire declares a game forfeited, he shall transmit a written notice thereof to the President of the Association within twenty-four hours thereafter. NO GAME. RULE 26. "No Game" shall be declared by the Umpire if he shall terminate play on account of rain or darkness, before five innings on each side are completed, except in a case when the game is called, and the club second at bat shall have more runs at the end of its fourth innings than the club first at bat has made in its five innings, then the Umpire shall award the game to the club having made the greatest number of runs, and it shall be a game and be so counted in the Championship record. SUBSTITUTES. RULE 27. SECTION 1. In every championship game each team shall be required to have present on the field, in uniform, one or more substitute players. SECTION. 2. Any such player may be substituted at any time by either club, but no player thereby retired shall thereafter participate in the game. SECTION. 3. The Base Runner shall not have a substitute run for him except by consent of the Captains of the contesting teams. CHOICE OF INNINGS--CONDITION OF GROUND. RULE 28. The choice of innings shall be given to the Captain of the Home Club, who shall also be the sole judge of the fitness of the ground for beginning a game after rain. THE PITCHER'S POSITION. RULE 29. The Pitcher shall take his position facing the Batsman with both feet square on the ground, and in front of the Pitcher's plate, but in the act of delivering the ball one foot must be in contact with the pitcher's plate, defined in Rule 8. He shall not raise either foot, unless in the act of delivering the ball, nor make more than one step in such delivery. He shall hold the ball, before the delivery, fairly in front of his body, and in sight of the Umpire. When the Pitcher feigns to throw the ball to a base he must resume the above position and pause momentarily before delivering the ball to the bat. THE DELIVERY OF THE BALL--FAIR AND UNFAIR BALLS. RULE 30. A Fair Ball is a ball delivered by the Pitcher while standing in his position, and facing the Batsman, the ball so delivered to pass over the Home Base, not lower than the Batsman's knee, nor higher than his shoulder. RULE 31. An Unfair Ball is a ball delivered by the Pitcher, as in Rule 30, except that the ball does not pass over the Home Base, or does pass over the Home Base above the Batsman's shoulder or below the knee. BALKING. RULE 32. A Balk shall be: SECTION 1. Any motion made by the Pitcher to deliver the ball to the bat without delivering it. SECTION. 2. The holding of the ball by the Pitcher so long as to delay the game unnecessarily. SECTION. 3. Any motion in delivering the ball to the bat by the Pitcher while not in the position defined in Rule 29. DEAD BALLS. RULE 33. A Dead Ball is a ball delivered to the bat by the Pitcher that touches any part of the Batsman's person or clothing while standing in his position without being struck at; or any part of the Umpire's person or clothing, while on foul ground, without first passing the Catcher. RULE 34. In case of a Foul Strike, Foul Hit ball not legally caught out, Dead Ball, or Base Runner put out for being struck by a fair hit ball, the ball shall not be considered in play until it is held by the Pitcher standing in his position, and the Umpire shall have called play. BLOCK BALLS. RULE 35. SECTION 1. A Block is a batted or thrown ball that is touched, stopped or handled by any person not engaged in the game. SECTION. 2. Whenever a Block occurs the Umpire shall declare it, and Base Runners may run the bases without being put out until the ball has been returned to and held by the pitcher standing in his position. SECTION. 3. In the case of a Block, if the person not engaged in the game should retain possession of the ball, or throw or kick it beyond the reach of the Fielders, the Umpire should call "Time," and require each Base Runner to stop at the last base touched by him until the ball be returned to the pitcher standing in his position, and the Umpire shall have called play. THE BATSMAN'S POSITION--ORDER OF BATTING. RULE 36. The Batsmen must take their positions within the Batsmen's Lines, as defined in Rule 10, in the order in which they are named in the batting order, which batting order must be submitted by the Captains of the opposing teams to the Umpire before the game, and this batting order must be followed except in the case of a substitute player, in which case the substitute must take the place of the original player in the batting order. After the first inning the first striker in each inning shall be the batsman whose name follows that of the last man who has completed his turn--time at bat--in the preceding inning. RULE 37. SECTION 1. When their side goes to the bat the players must immediately return to the players' bench, as defined in Rule 20, and remain there until the side is put out, except when batsmen or base runners; provided, that the Captain and one assistant only may occupy the space between the Players' Lines and the Captain's Lines, to coach base runners. SECTION. 2. No player of the side "at bat," except when batsman, shall occupy any portion of the space within the Catcher's Lines, as defined in Rule 3. The triangular space behind the Home Base is reserved for the exclusive use of Umpire, Catcher and Batsman, and the Umpire must prohibit any player of the side "at bat" from crossing the same at any time while the ball is in the hands of, or passing between the Pitcher and Catcher, while standing in their positions. SECTION. 3. The players of the side "at bat" must occupy the portion of the field allotted them, but must speedily vacate any portion thereof that may be in the way of the ball, or any Fielder attempting to catch or field it. THE BATTING RULES. RULE 38. A Fair Hit is a ball batted by the Batsman, standing in his position, that first touches any part of the person of a player or umpire or falls within the foul lines, that (whether it first touches Foul or Fair Ground) bounds or rolls within the Foul Lines, between Home and First, or Home and Third Bases, without interference by a player. RULE 39. A Foul Hit is a ball batted by the Batsman, standing in his position, that first touches the ground, any part of the person of a player, or any object behind either of the Foul Lines, or that strikes the person of such Batsman, while standing in his position, or batted by the Batsman, standing in his position, that (whether it first touches Foul or Fair Ground) bounds or rolls outside the Foul Lines, between Home and First or Home and Third Bases, without interference by a player: _Provided_, that a Foul Hit ball not rising above the Batsman's head, and caught by the Catcher playing within ten feet of the Home Base, shall be termed a Foul Tip. RULE 40. A bunt hit is a deliberate attempt on the part of the Batsman to hit a ball slowly within the infield so that it cannot be fielded by any infielder in time to retire the batsman. BALLS BATTED OUTSIDE THE GROUNDS. RULE 41. When a batted ball passes outside the grounds, the Umpire shall decide it Fair should it disappear within, or Foul should it disappear outside of, the range of the Foul Lines, and Rules 38 and 39 are to be construed accordingly. RULE 42. A Fair batted ball that goes over the fence shall entitle the batsman to a home run, except that should it go over the fence at a less distance than two hundred and thirty-five feet from the Home Base, when he shall be entitled to two bases only, and a distinctive line shall be marked on the fence at this point. STRIKES. RULE 43. A strike is: SECTION 1. A ball struck at by the Batsman without its touching his bat; or SECTION. 2. A Fair Ball legally delivered by the Pitcher, but not struck at by the Batsman. SECTION. 3. Any obvious attempt to make a Foul Hit. SECTION. 4. A Foul Hit, other than a Foul Tip, made by the Batsman while attempting a bunt hit, as defined in Rule 40, that falls or rolls upon foul ground between Home Base and First Base or Home Base and Third Base. SECTION. 5. A ball struck at, if the ball touches any part of the Batsman's person. SECTION. 6. A ball tipped by the Batsman and caught by the catcher within the 10-foot lines. RULE 44. A Foul Strike is a ball batted by the Batsman when any part of his person is upon ground outside the lines of the Batsman's position. THE BATSMAN IS OUT. RULE 45. The Batsman is out: SECTION 1. If he fails to take his position at the bat in his order of batting, unless the error be discovered and the proper Batsman takes his position before a time "at bat" recorded; and in such case the balls and strikes called must be counted in the time "at bat" of the proper Batsman, and only the proper Batsman shall be declared out: _Provided_, this rule shall not take effect unless _the out_ is declared before the ball is delivered to the succeeding Batsman, and no runs shall be scored or bases run, and further, no outs shall be counted other than that of the proper Batsman. SECTION. 2. If he fails to take his position within one minute after the Umpire has called for the Batsman. SECTION. 3. If he makes a Foul Hit other than a Foul Tip, as defined in Rule 39, and the ball be momentarily held by a Fielder before touching the ground, provided it be not caught in a Fielder's hat or cap, or touch some object other than a Fielder, before being caught. SECTION. 4. If he makes a Foul Strike. SECTION. 5. If he attempts to hinder the Catcher from fielding or throwing the ball by stepping outside the lines of his position, or otherwise obstructing or interfering with the player. SECTION. 6. If, while the First Base be occupied by a base runner, three strikes be called on him by the Umpire, except when two men are already out. SECTION. 7. If, after two strikes have been called, the Batsman obviously attempts to make a foul hit, as in Rule 43, Section 3. SECTION. 8. If, while attempting a third strike, the ball touches any part of the Batsman's person, in which case base runners occupying bases shall return, as prescribed in Rule 49, Section 5. SECTION. 9. If he hits a fly ball that can be handled by an infielder while first and second bases are occupied, or first, second and third, with only one out. SECTION. 10. If the third strike is called in accordance with Section 4, Rule 43, in such case the Umpire shall, as soon as the ball is hit, declare infield or outfield hit. BASE RUNNING RULES. WHEN THE BATSMAN BECOMES A BASE RUNNER. RULE 46. The Batsman becomes a Base Runner: SECTION 1. Instantly after he makes a Fair Hit. SECTION. 2. Instantly after four balls have been called by the Umpire. SECTION. 3. Instantly after three strikes have been decided by the Umpire. SECTION. 4. If, while he be a Batsman, without making any attempt to strike, his person--excepting hands or forearm, which makes it a dead ball--or clothing be hit by a ball from the Pitcher; unless, in the opinion of the Umpire, he intentionally permits himself to be so hit. SECTION. 5. Instantly after an illegal delivery of a ball by the Pitcher. BASES TO BE TOUCHED. RULE 47. The Base Runner must touch each base in regular order, viz., First, Second, Third and Home Bases, and when obliged to return (except on a foul hit) must retouch the base or bases in reverse order. He shall only be considered as holding a base after touching it, and shall then be entitled to hold such base until he has legally touched the next base in order, or has been legally forced to vacate it for a succeeding Base Runner. ENTITLED TO BASES. RULE 48. The Base Runner shall be entitled, without being put out, to take the base in the following cases: SECTION 1. If, while he was Batsman, the Umpire called four balls. SECTION. 2. If the Umpire awards a succeeding batsman a base on four balls, or for being hit with a pitched ball, or in case of an illegal delivery--as in Rule 46, Section 5--and the Base Runner is thereby forced to vacate the base held by him. SECTION. 3. If the Umpire calls a "balk." SECTION. 4. If a ball, delivered by the Pitcher, pass the Catcher and touch the Umpire, or any fence or building within ninety feet of the Home Base. SECTION. 5. If, upon a fair hit, the ball strikes the person or clothing of the Umpire on fair ground. SECTION. 6. If he be prevented from making a base by the obstruction of an adversary. SECTION. 7. If the Fielder stop or catch a batted ball with his hat or any part of his dress. RETURNING TO BASES. RULE 49. The Base Runner shall return to his base, and shall be entitled to so return without being put out: SECTION 1. If the Umpire declares a Foul Tip (as defined in Rule 39), or any other Foul Hit not legally caught by a fielder. SECTION. 2. If the Umpire declares a Foul Strike. SECTION. 3. If the Umpire declares a Dead Ball, unless it be also the fourth Unfair Ball and he be thereby forced to take the next base, as provided in Rule 48, Section 2. SECTION. 4. If the person or clothing of the Umpire interferes with the Catcher, or he is struck by a ball thrown by the Catcher to intercept a Base Runner. SECTION. 5. The Base Runner shall return to his base, if, while attempting a strike, the ball touches any part of the Batsman's person. WHEN BASE RUNNERS ARE OUT. RULE 50. The Base Runner is out: SECTION 1. If, after three strikes have been declared against him while Batsman, and the Catcher fail to catch the third strike ball, he plainly attempts to hinder the Catcher from fielding the ball. SECTION. 2. If, having made a Fair Hit while Batsman, such fair hit ball be momentarily held by a Fielder, before touching the ground, or any object other than a Fielder: _Provided_, it be not, caught in a Fielder's hat or cap. SECTION. 3. If, when the Umpire has declared three strikes on him, while Batsman, the third strike ball be momentarily held by a Fielder before touching the ground: _Provided_, it be not caught in a Fielder's hat or cap, or touch some object other than a Fielder, before being caught. SECTION. 4. If, after Three Strikes or a Fair Hit, he be touched with the ball in the hand of a Fielder _before_ he shall have touched First Base. SECTION. 5. If, after Three Strikes or a Fair Hit, the ball be securely held by a Fielder, while touching First Base with any part of his person, _before_ such Base Runner touches First Base. SECTION. 6. If, in running the last half of the distance from Home Base to First Base, while the ball is being fielded to First Base, he runs outside the three-foot lines, as defined in Rule 7, unless to avoid a Fielder attempting to field a Batted Ball. SECTION. 7. If, in running from First to Second Base, from Second to Third Base, or from Third to Home Base, he runs more than three feet from a direct line between such bases, to avoid being touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder; but in case a Fielder be occupying the Base Runner's proper path, in attempting to field a batted ball, then the Base Runner shall run out of the path, and behind said Fielder, and shall not be declared out for so doing. SECTION. 8. If he fails to avoid a Fielder attempting to field a batted ball, in the manner described in Sections 6 and 7 of this Rule; or if he in any way obstructs a Fielder attempting to field a batted ball, or intentionally interferes with a thrown ball: _Provided_, that if two or more Fielders attempt to field a batted ball, and the Base Runner comes in contact with one or more of them, the Umpire shall determine which Fielder is entitled to the benefit of this rule, and shall not decide the Base Runner out for coming in contact with any other fielder. SECTION. 9. If, at any time while the ball is in play, he be touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder, unless some part of his person is touching a base he is entitled to occupy: _Provided_, the ball be held by the Fielder after touching him; but (exception as to First Base), in running to First Base he may overrun said base, without being put out for being off said base, after first touching it, provided he returns at once and retouches the base, after which he may be put out as at any other base. If, in overrunning First Base, he also attempts to run to Second Base, or, after passing the base he turns to his left from the foul line, he shall forfeit such exemption from being put out. SECTION. 10. If, when a Fair or Foul Hit ball (other than a foul tip as referred to in Rule 39) is legally caught by a Fielder, such ball is legally held by a Fielder on the base occupied by the Base Runner when such ball was struck (or the Base Runner be touches with the ball in the hands of a Fielder), before he retouches said base after such Fair or Foul Hit ball was so caught: _Provided_, that the Base Runner shall not be out in such case, if, after the ball was legally caught as above, it be delivered to the bat by the Pitcher before the Fielder holds it on said base, or touches the Base Runner with it; but if the Base Runner in attempting to reach a base, detaches it before being touched or forced out, he shall be declared safe. SECTION. 11. If, when a Batsman becomes a Base Runner, the First Base, or the First and Second Bases, or the First, Second and Third Bases, be occupied, any Base Runner so occupying a base shall cease to be entitled to hold it, until any following Base Runner is put out, and may be put out at the next base or by being touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder in the same manner as in running to First Base, at any time before any following Base Runner is put out. SECTION. 12. If a Fair Hit ball strike him _before touching the Fielder_, and in such case no base shall be run unless forced by the Batsman becoming a base runner, and no run shall be scored; or any other Base Runner put out. SECTION. 13. If, when running to a base or forced to return to a base, he fail to touch the intervening base or bases, if any, in the order prescribed in Rule 47, he may be put out at the base he fails to touch, or being touched by the ball in the hands of a Fielder, in the same manner as in running to First Base; _Provided_, that the Base Runner shall not be out in such case if the ball be delivered to the bat by the Pitcher before the Fielder holds it on said base or touches the Base Runner with it. SECTION. 14. If, when the Umpire calls "Play," after any suspension of a game, he fails to return to and touch the base he occupied when "Time" was called before touching the next base: _Provided_, the Base Runner shall not be out in such case if the ball be delivered to the bat by the Pitcher before the Fielder holds it on said base or touches the Base Runner with it. WHEN BATSMAN OR BASE RUNNER IS OUT. RULE 51. The Umpire shall declare the Batsman or Base Runner out, without waiting for an appeal for such decision, in all cases where such player is put out in accordance with these rules, except as provided in Rule 50, Sections 10 and 14. COACHING RULES. RULE 52. The coachers shall be restricted to coaching the Base Runner only, and shall not be allowed to address any remarks except to the Base Runner, and then only in words of necessary direction; and shall not use language which will in any manner refer to or reflect upon a player of the opposing club, the Umpire or the spectators, and not more than two coachers, who may be one player participating in the game and, any other player under contract to it, in the uniform of either club, shall be allowed at any one time. To enforce the above, the Captain of the opposite side may call the attention of the Umpire to the offence, and upon a repetition of the same, the offending player shall be debarred from further participation in the game and shall leave the playing field forthwith. THE SCORING OF RUNS. RULE 53. One run shall be scored every time a Base Runner, after having legally touched the first three bases, shall touch the Home Base before three men are put out by (exception). If the third man is forced out, or is put out before reaching First Base, a run shall not be scored. THE UMPIRE. RULE 54. The Umpire shall not be changed during the progress of a game, except for reason of illness or injury. HIS POWERS AND JURISDICTION. RULE 55. SECTION 1. The Umpire is master of the Field from the commencement to the termination of the game, and is entitled to the respect of the spectators, and any person offering any insult or indignity to him must be promptly ejected from the grounds. SECTION. 2. He must be invariably addressed by the players as Mr. Umpire; and he must compel the players to observe the provisions of all the Playing Rules, and he is hereby invested with authority to order any player to do or omit to do any act as he may deem necessary, to give force and effect to any and all such provisions. SPECIAL DUTIES. RULE 56. The Umpire's duties shall be as follows: SECTION 1. The Umpire is the sole and absolute judge of play. In no instance shall any person, except the Captain of the competing teams, be allowed to address him or question his decisions, and they can only question him on an interpretation of the Rules. No Manager or any other officer of either club shall be permitted to go on the field or address the Umpire, under a penalty of a forfeiture of a game. SECTION. 2. Before the commencement of a Game, the Umpire shall see that the rules governing all the materials of the Game are strictly observed. He shall ask the Captain of the Home Club whether there are any special ground rules to be enforced, and if there are, he shall see that they are duly enforced, provided they do not conflict with any of these rules. SECTION. 3. The Umpire must keep the contesting nines playing constantly from the commencement of the game to its termination, allowing such delays only as are rendered unavoidable by accident, injury or rain. He must, until the completion of the game, require the players of each side to promptly take their positions in the field as soon as the third man is put out, and must require the first striker of the opposite side to be in his position at the bat as soon as the fielders are in their places. SECTION. 4. The Umpire shall count and call every "Unfair Ball" delivered by the Pitcher, and every "Dead Ball," if also an unfair ball, as a "Ball," and he shall count and call every "Strike." Neither a "Ball" nor a "Strike" shall be counted or called until the ball has passed the Home Base. He shall also declare every "Dead Ball," "Block," "Foul Hit," "Foul Strike," and "Balk," "Infield" or "Outfield Hit," as prescribed in Rule 45, Section 9. CALLING "PLAY" AND "TIME." RULE 57. The Umpire must call "Play" promptly at the hour designated by the Home Club, and on the call of "Play" the game must immediately begin. When he calls "Time" play shall be suspended until he calls "Play" again, and during the interim no player shall be put out, base be run or run be scored. The Umpire shall suspend play only for an accident to himself or a player (but in case of accident to a Fielder "Time" shall not be called until the ball be returned to and held by the Pitcher, standing in his position), or in case rain falls so heavily that the spectators are compelled, by the severity of the storm, to seek shelter, in which case he shall note the time of suspension, and should such rain continue to fall thirty minutes thereafter, he shall terminate the game; or to enforce order in case of annoyance from spectators. RULE 58. The Umpire is only allowed, by the Rules, to call "Time" in case of an accident to himself or a player, a "Block" as referred to in Rule 35, Section 3, or in case of rain, as defined by the rule. INFLICTING FINES. RULE 59. The Umpire is empowered to inflict lines of not less than $25.00, nor more than $100.00, for the first offence, on players during the progress of a game, as follows: SECTION 1. For vulgar, indecent or other improper conduct or language. SECTION. 2. For the Captain or Coacher willfully failing to remain within the legal bounds of his position, except upon an appeal by the captain from the Umpire's decision upon a misinterpretation of the rules. SECTION. 3. For the disobedience by a player of any other of his orders, or for any other violation of these rules. SECTION. 4. Immediately upon notification by the Umpire that a fine has been imposed upon any Manager, Captain or player, the Secretary shall forthwith notify the person so fined, and also the club of which he is a member, and in the event of the failure of the person so fined to pay to the Secretary the amount of said fine within five days of notice, he shall be debarred from participation in any championship game until such fine is paid. SECTION. 5. The Umpire may remove a player from the playing field for a violation of Section 1 of this rule, in addition to a fine, but under no circumstances shall he remove a player for a violation of Section 2 of this Rule, unless upon a repetition of the offence prescribed therein. FIELD RULES. RULE 66. No club shall allow open betting or pool-selling upon its ground, nor in any building owned or occupied by it. RULE 61. No person shall be allowed upon any part of the field during the progress of the game in addition to the players in uniform, the Manager on each side and the Umpire; except such officers of the law as may be present in uniform, and such officials of the Home Club as may be necessary to preserve the peace. RULE 62. No Umpire, Manager, Captain or player shall address the spectators during the progress of a game, except in case of necessary explanation. RULE 63. Every Club shall furnish sufficient police force upon its own grounds to preserve order, and in the event of a crowd entering the field during the progress of a game, and interfering with the play in any manner, the Visiting Club may refuse to play further until the field be cleared. If the ground be not cleared within fifteen minutes thereafter, the Visiting Club may claim, and shall be entitled to, the game by a score of nine runs to none (no matter what number of innings have been played). GENERAL DEFINITIONS. RULE 64. "Play" is the order of the Umpire to begin the game, or to resume play after its suspension. RULE 65. "Time" is the order of the Umpire to suspend play. Such suspension must not extend beyond the day of the game. RULE 66. "Game" is the announcement by the Umpire that the game is terminated. RULE 67. An "Inning" is the term at bat of the nine players representing a Club in a game, and is completed when three of such players have been put out, as provided in these rules. RULE 68. A "Time at Bat" is the term at bat of a Batsman. It begins when he takes his position, and continues until he is put out or becomes a base runner; except when, because of being hit by a pitched ball, or in case of an illegal delivery by the Pitcher, or in case of a sacrifice hit purposely made to the infield which, not being a base hit, advances a base runner without resulting in a put out, except to the Batsman, as in Rule 45. RULE 69. "Legal" or "Legally" signifies as required by these Rules. SCORING. RULE 70. In order to promote uniformity in scoring championship games the following instructions, suggestions and definitions are made for the benefit of scorers, and they are required to make all scores in accordance therewith. BATTING. SECTION 1. The first item in the tabulated score, after the player's name and position, shall be the number of times he has been at bat during game. The time or times when the player has been sent to base by being hit by a pitched ball, by the Pitcher's illegal delivery, or by a base on balls, shall not be included in this column. SECTION. 2. In the second column should be set down the runs made by each player. SECTION. 3. In the third column should be placed the first base hits made by each player. A base hit should be scored in the following cases: When the ball from the bat strikes the ground within the foul lines, and out of reach of the Fielders. When a hit ball is partially or wholly stopped by a Fielder in motion, but such player cannot recover himself in time to handle the ball before the striker reaches First Base. When a hit ball is hit so sharply to an infielder that he cannot handle it in time to put out the Batsman. In case of doubt over this class of hits, score a base hit, and exempt the Fielder from the charge of an error. When a ball is hit so slowly toward a Fielder that he cannot handle it in time to put out the Batsman. That in all cases where a Base Runner is retired by being hit by a batted ball, the Batsman should be credited with a base hit. When a batted ball hits the person or clothing of the Umpire, as defined in Rule 48, Section 5. SECTION. 4. In the fourth column shall be placed Sacrifice Hits, which shall be credited to the Batsman, who, when no one is out, or when but one man is out, advances a Runner a base by a bunt sacrifice hit, which results in putting out the Batsman, or would so result if the ball were handled without error. FIELDING. SECTION. 5. The number of opponents put out by each player shall be set down in the fifth column. Where a Batsman is given out by the Umpire for a foul strike, or where the Batsman fails to bat in proper order, the put out shall be scored to the Catcher. SECTION. 6. The number of times the player assists shall be set down in the sixth column. An assist should be given to each player who handles the ball in assisting a run out or other play of the kind. An assist should be given to a player who makes a play in time to put a Runner out, even if the player who could complete the play fails, through no fault of the player assisting. And generally an assist should be given to each player who handles or assists in any manner in handling the ball from the time it leaves the bat until it reaches the player who makes the put out, or in case of a thrown ball, to each player who throws or handles it cleanly, and in such a way that a put out results, or would result if no error were made by the receiver. ERRORS. SECTION. 7. An error shall be given in the seventh column for each misplay which allows the striker or base runner to make one or more bases when perfect play would have insured his being put out, except that "wild pitches," "base on balls," bases on the Batsman being struck by a "pitched ball," or in case of illegal pitched balls, balks and passed balls, shall not be included in said column. In scoring errors of batted balls see Section 3 of this Rule. SECTION. 8. Stolen Bases shall be scored as follows: Any attempt to steal a base must go to the credit of the Base Runner, whether the ball is thrown wild or muffed by the fielder, but any manifest error is to be charged to the fielder making the same. If the Base Runner advances another base he shall not be credited with a stolen base, and the fielder allowing the advancement is also to be charged with an error. If the Base Runner makes a start and a battery error is made, the runner secures the credit of a stolen base, and the battery error is scored against the player making it. Should a Base Runner overrun a base and then be put out, he shall receive the credit for the stolen base. If a Base Runner advances a base on a fly out, or gains two bases on a single base hit, or an infield out, or attempted out, he shall be credited with a stolen base, provided there is a possible chance and a palpable attempt made to retire him. EARNED RUNS. SECTION. 9. An earned run shall be scored every time the player reaches the home base unaided by errors before chances have been offered to retire the side. THE SUMMARY. RULE 71. The Summary shall contain: SECTION 1. The number of earned runs made by each side. SECTION. 2. The number of two-base hits made by each player. SECTION. 3. The number of three-base hits made by each player. SECTION. 4. The number of home runs made by each player. SECTION. 5. The number of bases stolen by each player. SECTION. 6. The number of double and triple plays made by each side, and the names of the players assisting in the same. SECTION. 7. The number of men given bases on called balls by each Pitcher. SECTION. 8. The number of men given bases from being hit by pitched balls. SECTION. 9. The number of men struck out. SECTION. 10. The number of passed balls by each Catcher. SECTION. 11. The number of wild pitches by each Pitcher. SECTION. 12. The time of Game. SECTION. 13. The name of the Umpire. INDEX TO RULES AND REGULATIONS. RULE. The Ground, 1 The Field, 2 Catcher's Lines, 3 Foul Lines, 4 Players' Lines, 5 The Captain's and Coachers' Lines, 6 Three-foot Line, 7 Pitcher's Plate, 8 The Bases, 9 Batsman's Lines, 10 The Home Base, 11 First, Second and Third Bases, 12 Lines must be Marked, 13 The Ball, 14 Weight and Size, (1) 14 Number Balls Furnished, (2) 14 Furnished by Home Club, (3) 14 Replaced if Injured, (4) 14 The Bat, 15 Material of (1) 15 Shape of (2) 15 THE PLAYERS AND THEIR POSITIONS. Number of Players in Game, 16 Players' Positions, 17 Players not to Sit with Spectators, 18 Club Uniforms, (1) 19 Gloves, (2) 19 Players' Benches, 20 THE GAME. Time of Championship Game, (1) 21 Number of Innings, (2) 21 Termination of Game, (a) 21 The Winning Run, (b) 21 A Tie Game, 22 A Drawn Game, 23 A Called Game, 24 A Forfeited Game, 25 Failure of the Nine to Appear, (1) 25 Refusal of One Side to Play, (2) 25 Failure to Resume Playing, (3) 25 If a Team Resorts to Dilatory Practice, (4) 25 Wilful Violation, (5) 25 Disobeying Order to Remove Player, (6) 25 Written Notice to President, (7) 25 No Game, 26 Substitutes, 27 RULE. One or more substitute players, (1) 27 Extra Player, (2) 27 Base Runner, (3) 27 Choice of Innings--Condition of Grounds, 28 The Pitcher's Position, 29 Delivery of the Ball--Fair Ball, 30 Unfair Ball, 31 Balking, 32 Motion to Deceive, (1) 32 Delay by Holding, (2) 32 Pitcher Outside of Lines, (3) 32 A Dead Ball, 33 A Foul Strike, 34 Block Balls, 35 Stopped by Person not in Game, (1) 35 Ball Returned, (2) 35 Base Runner must Stop, (3) 35 The Batsman's Position--Order of Batting, 36 Where Players must Remain, (1) 37 Space Reserved for Umpire, (2) 37 Space Allotted Players "at Bat," (3) 37 Batting Rules--Fair Hit, 38 Foul Hit, 39 Bunt Hit, 40 Batted Ball Outside Grounds, 41 A Fair Batted Ball, 42 Strikes, 43 Ball Struck at by Batsman, (1) 43 Fair Ball Delivered by Pitcher, (2) 43 Attempt to Make Foul Hit, (3) 43 Foul Hit while Attempting a Bunt Hit, (4) 43 Ball Struck at after Touching Batsman's Person, (5) 43 Ball Tipped by Batsman, (6) 43 A Foul Strike, 44 The Batsman is Out, 45 Failing to Take Position at Bat in Order, (1) 45 Failure to Take Position within One Minute after being called, (2) 45 If He Makes a Foul Hit, (3) 45 If He Makes a Foul Strike, (4) 45 Attempt to Hinder Catcher, (5) 45 Three Strikes Called by Umpire, (6) 45 Attempt to Make a Foul Hit After Two Strikes have been Called, (7) 45 If Ball Hits Him While Making Third Strike, (8) 45 If He Hits a Fly Ball that can be Handled by Infielder while First Base Occupied with Only One Out, (9) 45 If Third Strike is Called, (10) 45 BASE RUNNING RULES. RULE. The Batsman Becomes a Base Runner, 46 After a Fair Hit, (1) 46 After Four Balls are Called, (2) 46 After Three Strikes are Declared, (3) 46 If Hit by Ball While at Bat, (4) 46 After Illegal Delivery of Ball, (5) 46 Bases to be Touched, 47 Entitled to Bases, 48 If Umpire Call Four Balls, (1) 48 If Umpire Award Succeeding Batsman Base, (2) 48 If Umpire Calls Balk, (3) 48 If Pitcher's Ball Passes Catcher, (4) 48 Ball Strikes Umpire, (5) 48 Prevented from Making Base, (6) 48 Fielder Stops Ball, (7) 48 Returning to Bases, 49 If Foul Tip, (1) 49 If Foul Strike, (2) 49 If Dead Ball, (3) 49 If Person of Umpire Interferes with Catcher, (4) 49 If the Ball Touches the Batsman's Person, (5) 49 Base Runner Out, 50 Attempt to Hinder Catcher from Fielding Ball, (1) 50 If Fielder Hold Fair Hit Ball, (2) 50 Third Strike Ball Held by Fielder, (3) 50 Touched with Ball After Three Strikes, (4) 50 Touching First Base, (5) 50 Running from Home Base to First Base, (6) 50 Running from First to Second Base, (7) 50 Failure to Avoid Fielder, (8) 50 Touched by Ball While in Play, (9) 50 Fair or Foul Hit Caught by Fielder, (10) 50 Batsman Becomes a Base Runner, (11) 50 Touched by Hit Ball Before Touching Fielder, (12) 50 Running to Base, (13) 50 Umpire Calls Play, (14) 50 When Batsman or Base Runner is Out, 51 Coaching Rules, 52 Scoring of Runs, 53 THE UMPIRE. The Umpire 54 When Master of the Field, (1) 55 Must Compel Observance of Playing Rules, (2) 55 Special Duties, 56 Is Sole Judge of Play, (1) 56 Shall See Rules Observed before Commencing Game, (2) 56 RULE. Must Keep Contesting Nines Playing, (3) 56 Must Count and Call Balls, (4) 56 Umpire Must Call Play, 57 Umpire Allowed to Call Time, 58 Umpire is Empowered to Inflict Fines, 59 For Indecent Language, (1) 59 Wilful Failure of Captain to Remain within Bounds, (2) 59 Disobedience of a Player, (3) 59 Shall Notify Captain, (4) 59 Repetition of Offences, (5) 59 FIELD RULES. No Club Shall Allow Open Betting, 60 Who Shall be Allowed in the Field, 61 Audience Shall Not be Addressed, 62 Every Club shall Furnish Police Force, 63 GENERAL DEFINITIONS. Play, 64 Time, 65 Game, 66 An Inning, 67 A Time at Bat, 68 Legal, 69 Scoring, 70 Batting, (1) 70 Runs Made, (2) 70 Base Hits, (3) 70 Sacrifice Hits, (4) 70 Fielding, (5) 70 Assists, (6) 70 Errors, (7) 70 Stolen Bases, (8) 70 Earned Runs, (9) 70 The Summary, 71 Number of Earned Runs, (1) 71 Number of Two Base Hits, (2) 71 Number of Three Base Hits, (3) 71 Number of Home Runs, (4) 71 Number of Stolen Bases, (5) 71 Number of Double and Triple Plays, (6) 71 Bases on Called Balls, (7) 71 Bases From being Hit, (8) 71 Men Struck Out, (9) 71 Passed Balls, (10) 71 Wild Pitches, (11) 71 Time of Game, (12) 71 Name of Umpire, (13) 71 [Illustration: The Famous Red Stockings of 1869.] [Illustration: Rock Island-Moline. Champions of the Western Assn, '94.] [Illustration: Sioux City Base Ball Club. Champs of Western League, '94.] [Illustration: Petersburg Base Ball Club. Champs of Virginia League, '94.] #Rules Appendix.# We have very little to comment upon this year in regard to the amendments made to the playing rules of the game, alike by the special committee appointed to revise them, or by the committee of the whole who do the final work of revision. No improvement in this branch of League legislative work, too, may be looked for until a regular and permanent committee of rules be appointed, with President Young as its continuous chairman, aided by the chief of the umpire staff, Harry Wright, and one member of the League, a member like Mr. Byrne, who has done more since he has been in the League to really improve the game than any other of the several members of the rules committee since 1891. Moreover, the report sent in by this proposed permanent committee of rules should not be changed by the committee of the whole at the spring meetings except by a two-thirds vote. As it is now, the whole business would likely be spoiled by the final revision made by a simple majority vote. The changes made by the committee of 1894, in several instances did not improve the game at all. The amendment made to the bat rule, which removed the restrictions as to size, was absurd. The League did well to throw it out. The gain in the diameter of the bat, though small, will have its effect on the batting. A quarter of an inch is not much, but it will tell. The abolition of the "mitt," except for catchers and first basemen, was a good move, as was the introduction of a penalty for the failure of umpires to prevent "kicking." One change introduces a new experiment, and that is the call of a strike on every foul tip caught on the fly. The calls of strikes will be more numerous than ever, viz., the regular strikes, the strikes on foul bunts and on foul tips. As to the change made in the pitcher's plate, nothing was gained by it. The pitcher will still violate the rule requiring him to have his foot in contact with the rubber plate, as he did last year. He cannot get a firm foothold by placing his foot on the rubber. What was wanted was a hollow, oblong square, 12x36 inches, in which the pitcher could have obtained a good, firm foothold within the box, and not as now, outside of it, as he now has to, to secure a good standpoint for his pivot foot outside of the box. Not a single change was made in the badly-worded scoring rules, and in consequence the same old premium for record batting is offered to every "fungo" hitter in the ranks. Each member of the committee still walks in the same old rut in this respect. One of the best changes was the following: Rule 59 reads now so that players using "vulgar, indecent, or other improper language" shall be fined $25 and $100, instead of $5 and $25. In Rule 59, Section 4 was stricken out and the following substituted: "Upon notification from an umpire that a fine has been imposed upon any manager, captain or player, the secretary shall forthwith notify the person so fined, and also the club of which he is a member, and in the event of the failure of the person so fined to pay the amount within five days, he shall be debarred from participating in any championship game until such fine is paid." The committee still retained that problem in mathematics contained in the first rule, a description of how to lay out a field which would puzzle a Yale quarterback. The change made in Rule 45, Section 1, is a good one. Only the batsman who has failed to bat in his proper turn can be declared out, not those who have batted out of turn in consequence of the former's error. It will now cost a kicker $25 at least, for indulging in his "hustling" tactics. That was a much-needed resolution adopted by the League forbidding any club from paying a single fine inflicted on a player. NATIONAL LEAGUE AND AMERICAN ASSOCIATION SCHEDULE. SEASON OF 1895. --------------------------------------------------------------------- CLUBS. In In In In Boston. Brooklyn. New York. Philadelphia. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Boston July Apr. June 29 3, 4, 4 24, 25, 26 July 1, 2 Sept. Sept. Aug. 23, 24, 25 11, 12, 14 16, 17, 19 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Brooklyn June Apr. July 30, 31 19, 20, 21 18, 20, 22 Aug. 1 Aug. Aug. Sept. 6, 7, 8 2, 5, 17 27, 28, 30 --------------------------------------------------------------------- New York June June 29 May 22, 24, 25 July 1, 2 2, 3, 4 Sept. Aug. Aug. 19, 20, 21 3, 16, 19 13, 14, 15 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Philadelphia June June Apr. 26, 27, 28 22, 24, 25 27, 29, 30 Aug. Aug. Sept. 2, 3, 5 9, 10, 12 16, 17, 18 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore July 30, 31 May July June Aug. 1 1, 2, 4 3, 4, 4 19, 20, 21 Sept. Sept. Sept. Aug. 16, 17, 18 19, 20, 21 27, 28, 30 6, 7, 8 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Washington April 19 June June July May 2, 4 26, 27, 28 19, 20, 21 4, 4 Aug. Aug. Aug. Sept. 9, 10, 12 13, 14, 15 6, 7, 8 14, 19, 20, 21 --------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------- CLUBS. In In In In Baltimore. Washington. Pittsburgh. Cleveland. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Boston Apr. Apr. May May 27, 29, 30 20, 22, 23 23, 24, 25 13, 14, 15 Aug. Sept. July July 13, 14, 15 27, 28, 30 6, 8, 9 25, 26, 27 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Brooklyn Apr. Apr. May May 24, 25, 26 27, 29, 30 6, 7, 8 20, 21, 22 Sept. Sept. July July 11, 12, 14 16, 17, 18 10, 11, 13 18, 19, 20 --------------------------------------------------------------------- New York June July 30, 31 May May 26, 27, 28 Aug. 1 16, 17, 18 23, 24, 25 Aug. Sept. July July 9, 10, 12 23, 24, 25 25, 26, 27 10, 11, 13 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Philadelphia Apr. Apr. May May 18, 20, 22 24, 25, 26 13, 14, 15 16, 17, 18 Sept. July 3 July July 23, 24, 25 Sept. 11, 12 18, 19, 20 6, 8, 9 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore June 24, 25 May May July 1 9, 10, 11 6, 7, 8 Aug. July July 2, 5, 16 22, 23, 24 15, 16, 17 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Washington June 22, 29 May May July 2 20, 21, 22 9, 10, 11 Aug. Sept. July 3, 17, 23 7, 7, 9 22, 23, 24 --------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------- CLUBS. In In In In Cincinnati. Louisville. Chicago. St. Louis. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Boston May May May May 20, 21, 22 16, 17, 18 9, 10, 11 6, 7, 8 July July July July 15, 16, 17 10, 11, 13 18, 19, 20 22, 23, 24 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Brooklyn May May May May 9, 10, 11 23, 25, 26 16, 18, 19 12, 13, 14 July July July July 6, 7, 8 14, 15, 16 21, 22, 23 26, 27, 28 --------------------------------------------------------------------- New York May May May May 6, 7, 8 9, 10, 11 13, 14, 15 20, 21, 22 July July July July 22, 23, 24 18, 19, 20 6, 8, 9 15, 16, 17 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Philadelphia May May May May 23, 24, 25 6, 7, 8 20, 21, 22 9, 10, 11 July July July July 25, 26, 27 22, 23, 24 15, 16, 17 11, 12, 13 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Baltimore May May May May 12, 13, 14 20, 21, 22 23, 25, 26 16, 18, 19 July July July July 18, 20, 21 25, 27, 28 11, 13, 14 6, 7, 8 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Washington May May May May 16, 18, 19 12, 13, 14 6, 7, 8 24, 25, 26 July July July July 10, 13, 14 6, 7, 8 25, 27, 28 19, 20, 21 --------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- CLUBS. In In In In Boston. Brooklyn. New York Philadelphia ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Pittsburgh. Jun 5,6,7 Jun 1,4,10 June 3,8,11 Jun15,17,18 Aug.24,26,27 Aug. 20,22 Aug. 21 Aug. 31 Sept. 5 Sept. 4,6 Sept. 2,3 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Cleveland. Jun 15,17,18 May 30,30 May 28 Jun 8,10,11 Aug.28,29,30 June 13 June 12,14 Aug24,26,27 Aug. 31 Sept.2,2,5 Sept. 4,6 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Cincinnati. June 1,3,4 June 5,7,17 June 6,15,18 May28,30,30 Aug. 31, Aug. 29 Aug. 28,30 Aug20,21,22 Sept. 2,2 Sept. 7,10 Sept. 9 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Louisville. June 8,10,11 June 6,15,18 June 5,7,17 Jun12,13,14 Aug.20,21,22 Aug.26,28,30 Aug. 24,27,29 Sept. 7,7,9 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Chicago. Jun 12,13,14 May 28 May 30,30 June 1,3,4 Sept. 4,5,6 June 8,11 June 10 Aug28,29,30 Sept. 2,2,9 Aug. 31 Sept. 7,10 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- St. Louis. May 28,30,30 Jun 3,12,14 June 1,4,13 June 5,6,7 Sept. 7,9,10 Aug. 21,24,27 Aug. 20,22,26 Sept. 4,5,6 Sept. 2,2 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- CLUBS. In In In In Baltimore. Washington. Pittsburgh Cleveland ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Pittsburgh. June 12,13,14 May 28,30,30 . . . . . July 1,2,3 Aug. 28,29,30 July 16,17 . . . . . Aug. 1,2,3 Aug. 19 . . . . . ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Cleveland. June 1,3,4 June 5,6,7 July 4,4,5 . . . . . Sept. 7,9,10 Aug. 20,21,22 Sept.19,20,21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Cincinnati. June 8,10,11 June 12,13,14 May 1,2,4 Aug. 15,16,17 Aug. 24,26,27 Sept. 4,5,6 Sept.11,12,14 Sept.16,17,18 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Louisville. May 28,30,30 June 1,3,4 June 19,20,22 June 24,25,26 Sept. 4,5,6 Aug. 31 Aug. 8,9,10 Aug. 5,6,7 Sept. 2,3 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chicago. June 5,6,7 June 15,17,18 July 29,30,31 June 27,28,29 Aug. 20,21,22 Aug. 24,26,27 Sept.16,17,18 Sept.23,24,25 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ St. Louis. June 15,17,18 June 8,10,11 June 27,28,29 May 1,2,4 Aug. 31 Aug. 28,29,30 Aug. 5,6,7 Aug. 12,13,14 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CLUBS. In In In In Cincinnati Louisville Chicago St. Louis ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Pittsburgh. Apr. 23,24,25 Apr. 18,19,20 June 24,25,26 Apr 26,27,29 Aug. 12,13,14 Sept.23,25,25 Aug. 15,16,17 Sept. 26,27,28 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Cleveland. Apr. 18,20,21 Apr. 27,28,29 June 20,22,23 April 23,24,25 May 26 Sept.26,28,29 Aug. 8,9,10 Sept. 12,14,15 July 28 Aug. 18 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Cincinnati. . . . . . July 1,2,3 July 4,4,5 June 20, 22,23 . . . . . Aug. 1,3 Aug. 5,6,7 Sept. 23,24,25 . . . . . Sept. 22 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Louisville. June 27,29,30 . . . . . May 2,4,5 July 4,4,5 Aug. 4 . . . . . Sept.12,14,15 Aug. 16,17,18 Sept. 19,21 . . . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chicago. Apr. 27,28,29 Apr. 23,24,25 . . . . . April 18,20,21 Sept.26,28,29 Aug. 11,12,13 . . . . . Sept. 20,21,23 . . . . . . . . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------ St. Louis. May 5 July 29,30,31 June 30 . . . . . June 24,25 Sept.16,17,18 July 1,2 . . . . . Aug. 8,10,11 Aug. 1,3,4 . . . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------ OUR ILLUSTRATIONS. The readers of the OFFICIAL GUIDE will receive with pleasure the innovation of this year, which for the first time, presents to them twenty-one pages of half-tone portraits of all the leading clubs and players of America. Old-timers will appreciate the picture of the famous Red Stockings of '69. Herewith we present a key. The individual players in each group are numbered to correspond with the numbers in the following list: BALTIMORE BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, Ed Hanlon; 2, H.R. Von der Horst; 3, H.H. Von der Horst; 4, W. Brodie; 5, George Hemming; 6, W. Robinson; 7, D. Brouthers; 8, J. McMahon; 9, W. Clark; 10, W. Brown; 11, Charles Esper; 12, J. Kelly; 13, H. Reitz; 14, "Kid" Gleason; 15, F. Bonner; 16, J. McGraw; 17, H. Jennings; 18, W. Keeler; 19, W.V. Hawke. NEW YORK BASE BALL CLUB, '94. (Photograph copyrighted by Prince, New York and Washington.) 1, Park A. Wilson; 2, Charles A. Farrell; 3, George Van Haltren; 4, Roger Connor; 5, Jouett Meekin; 6, Huyler Westervelt; 7, Amos Rusie; 8, W.H. Clark; 9, Lester German; 10, John J. Doyle; 11, John Ward; 12, M. Tiernan; 13, Geo. S. Davis; 14, W.B. Fuller; 15, James Stafford; 16, W.H. Murphy. PHILADELPHIA BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, Callahan; 2, Allen; 3, Delehanty; 4, Boyle; 5, Thompson; 6, Taylor; 7, Hamilton; 8, Reilly; 9, Clements; 10, Weyhing; 11, Hallman; 12, Irwin; 13, Carsey; 14, Haddock; 15, Hartman; 16, Sharrott; 17, Turner; 18, Grady. BROOKLYN BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, G. Tredway; 2, M.G. Griffin; 3, T.P. Burns; 4, P. Gilbert; 5, Wm. Shindle; 6, T.W. Corcoran; 7, T.P. Daly; 8, T.F. Kinslow; 9, D.L. Foutz (Manager); 10, C.F. Dailey; 11, G. Lachance; 13, G. Q. Shoch; 13, William Kennedy; 14, D.W. Daub; 15, G.O. Sharrott; 16, E.F. Stein. CLEVELAND BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, Tebeau; 2, O'Connor; 3, Young; 4, Burkett; 5, Ewing; 6, McAleer; 7, McGarr; 8, Childs; 9, McKean; 10, Dewald; 11, Virtue; 12, Clarkson; 13, Cuppy; 14, Fisher; 15, Zimmer. PITTSBURGH BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, Shiebeck; 2, Bierbauer; 3, Stigden; 4, Mack; 5, Beckley; 6, Smith; 7, Lukens; 8, Lyons; 9, Colcolough; 10, Donovan; 11, Killen; 12, Buckenberger; 13, Ehret; 14, Stenzel; 15, Glasscock; 16, Gumbert; 17, Nicol. CINCINNATI BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, Chas. Comiskey; 2, Frank Dwyer; 3, Elton Chamberlain; 4, Geo. Cross; 5, Thos. Parrott; 6, Morgan Murphy; 7, Harry Vaughn; 8, Frank Motz; 9, John McPhee; 10, Arlie Latham; 11, Geo. Smith; 12, Jas. Holliday; 13, Wm. Hoyt; 14, John McCarthy; 15, Jas. Canavan. ST. LOUIS BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, A.G. Cooley; 3, A. Twineham; 3, T. Dowd; 4, Thomas Hannigan; 5, M.F. Hogan; 6, T. Breitenstein; 7, Harry Staley; 8, Roger Connor; 9, Tom Brown; 10, C.H. Peitz; 11, J.H. McDougal; 12. F. Ely. WASHINGTON BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, Charles Petty; 2, Sam Wise; 3, Joe Mulvey; 4, Wm. Hassamer; 5, W. Black; 6, Charles Esper; 7, Ed Cartwright; 8, Wm. Joyce; 9, Geo. Tebeau; 10, Geo. Stephens; 11, Jas. McGuire; 12, G.H. Schmelz; 13, Otis Stockdale; 14, Jos. Sullivan; 15, Frank Ward; 16, Al Selbach; 17, John Egan, 18, John McMahon; 19, Paul Radford; 20, D.E. Dugdale; 21, W.B. Mercer. SIOUX CITY BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, E. Cunningham; 2, A. Stewart; 3, H. Howe; 4, Chas. Marr; 5, W.F. Hart; 6, F. Parvin; 7, Chas. Jones; 8. W.H. Watkins (Manager); 9, J. Walsh; 10, Geo. H. Hogreiver; 11, F. Genins; 12, A. Twineham; 13, F. Kraus; 14, J. Newell. ROCK ISLAND-MOLINE BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1. Al Mauck; 2, Belden Hill; 3, W.F. Kreig; 4, Paddy Lynch; 5. Wm. Zeis; 6, Harry Sage (Manager); 7, Harry Burrell; 8, J.A. Andrews; 9, Joe Cantillon (Captain); 10, Dan Sweeney. PETERSBURG BASE BALL CLUB, '94. 1, Jno. Farrell; 2, H.F. Keefer; 3, J. McJannes; 4. R. Fender; 5, John Foreman; 6, Mike Trost; 7, Geo. Kelly; 8, R. Stafford; 9, L.W. Smith; 10, Bert Myers; 11, Stewart Sanford; 12, Ed Leach; 13, S.T. Honeycutt. YALE TEAM, '94. 1, J.B. Speer; 2, C.H. George; 3, F. Murphy; 4, F. Rustin; 5, H.M. Keator; 6, A.A. Bigelow; 7, G.B. Case; 8, M.J. Warner; 9, W.F. Carter; 10, J.R. Quinby; 11, T.S. Arbuthnot; 12, F.B. Stephenson; 13, G.O. Redington; 14, E.R. Trudeau; 15, J.C. Greenway. HARVARD TEAM, '94. 1, C.J. Paine; 2, E.W. Ames; 3, J.H. Williams; 4, J. Wiggins; 5, P.W. Whittemore; 6, B. Cook, Jr.; 7, A. Winslow; 8, A.A. Highlands; 9, F.M. Carthy; 10, J. Corbett; 11, R. Paine; 12, R. Stevenson; 13, J.J. Hayes; 14, D.D. Scannell; 15, H. Dickinson; 16, W.J. O'Malley. PRINCETON TEAM, '94. 1. Payne; 2, Bradley; 3, King; 4, Brooks; 5, Trenchard; 6, Otto; 7, Forsythe; 8, Gunster; 9, W.D. Ward; 10, Mackenzie (Captain); 11, P. Ward; 12, Lindsay; 13, Small; 14, Altman; 15, Williams. UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA TEAM, '94. 1, Blair; 2, Brown; 3, Sinclair; 4, Stokes; 5, Dickson; 6, Blakely; 7, Reese; 8, Hollister; 9, Higgins; 10, Mintzner; 11, Coogan; 12, Thomas; 13, Gelbert; 14, Goeckel. THE FAMOUS RED STOCKINGS. 1, Charles Gould, First Base; 2, Charles Sweasey, Second Base; 3, Asa Brainard, Pitcher; 4, Cal McVey, Right Field; 5, Harry Wright, Centre Field (Capt.); 6, George Wright, Short Stop; 7, "Dug" Allison, Catcher; 8, Fred Waterman, Third Base; 9, Andy Leonard, Left Field. #A Compliment to the Editor of The Guide.# At the annual meeting of the National League, held at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, New York, on Nov. 15, 1894, on a motion made by C.H. Byrne, president of the Brooklyn club, Henry Chadwick, the veteran base ball writer, and editor of the League GUIDE since 1881, was, by a unanimous vote, made an honorary member of that body. This honor has been conferred upon but four other persons in the history of the League, namely: A.G. Mills, of New York, ex-President of the League; A.G. Spalding, of Chicago; George W. Howe, of Cleveland, and John B. Day, of New York. In presenting Mr. Chadwick's name Mr. Byrne spoke enthusiastically of the effective work the veteran had done for years in popularizing base ball, and called attention to the fact that Mr. Chadwick was the recognized authority in all matters pertaining to base ball, and to him more than any other individual living is due the credit for the present almost perfect code of rules governing the game. The League subsequently appointed a committee, consisting of President N.E. Young, C.H. Byrne, of Brooklyn, and A.J. Reach, of Philadelphia, to prepare a proper address to Mr. Chadwick, and to have same engrossed and framed for presentation. The result of their official duty was an exceptionally handsome piece of engrossing, set in a gilt frame. A pastel portrait of Mr. Chadwick is in the centre of a decorative scroll on which is the following testimonial: The NATIONAL LEAGUE AND AMERICAN ASSOCIATION of PROFESSIONAL BASE BALL CLUBS OF THE UNITED STATES to HENRY CHADWICK. At a regular annual meeting of the National League and American Association of Professional Base Ball Clubs, held in New York City, November 15, 1894, all twelve clubs being present, MR. HENRY CHADWICK, of Brooklyn, N. Y., was by a unanimous vote elected an HONORARY MEMBER of this body. In conferring this membership this organization pays the highest tribute in its power to one who, during a number of years almost as great as is usually alloted to man to live, has unselfishly devoted his time, his talents and his energies, by voice and pen, to establish BASE BALL as the NATIONAL GAME of America. At all times and in all places he has diligently worked for its DEVELOPMENT, and battled for its INTEGRITY, its HONESTY and the PURITY of its methods. He has been an unflinching foe of those within the ranks who permitted any stigma to attach to it and a gallant defender against any attack from without, touching its good name and fame. Always a devoted friend of the honest ball player, he has been a never-failing advocate of the rights of and the respect due the umpire. His advice and good offices most frequently sought have ever been readily given, and to the benefit and advantage of all. We pay this tribute with pleasure and deference to HENRY CHADWICK, the father of base ball, who now in the full of his years and after a long life of usefulness to his fellow man, still lives to see the fruition of his fondest hopes, and base ball, which he has fostered and upheld, pleaded for and battled for, now established forevermore as our national game. The National League and American Association of Professional Base Ball Clubs, Boston, New York, Brooklyn, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Louisville, St. Louis, Chicago. N.E. YOUNG, C.H. BYRNE, A.J. REACH, *Committee. NEW YORK, November 15, 1894. [Advertisement] This Trade Mark [Illustration: Spalding: Trade Mark] The Standard of Comparison The World Over, and which has stood the test of years, will be stamped in the future, as in the past, on all goods manufactured by us and will guarantee each article, from the cheapest to the highest priced, as the very best that can be produced for the money. But this additional Trade Mark-- [Illustration: The Spalding: Highest Quality] will be placed on the "Highest Quality" goods in their respective line and will be a further guarantee that the article so stamped represents the very highest grade of material, workmanship and finish, and the most perfect in design our past experience enables us to produce. #Our Complete Catalogue of "SPRING AND SUMMER SPORTS" Mailed FREE to any Address.# A. G. SPALDING & BROS., NEW YORK. CHICAGO. PHILADELPHIA. SPALDING'S COMPLETE UNIFORMS. * * * * * [Illustration] Our line of flannels for Base Ball Uniforms consists of five qualities and over forty different patterns. Each grade is kept up to the highest point of excellence, and patterns changed every season; base ball players may be assured that whatever grade of uniform is selected, it will be the very best that can be furnished for the money. On orders for complete sets of uniforms, we make no charge for lettering; on orders for single suits we charge _Five Cents_ per letter. Special measurement blanks, samples of flannel and belt webbing for all the following uniforms furnished on application. No. 0. Uniform, complete, Plain Pants $14.00 No. 1. Uniform, complete, Plain Pants 11.00 No. 2. Uniform, complete, Plain Pants 8.40 No. 3. Uniform, complete, Plain Pants 6.00 No. 4. Uniform, complete, Plain Pants 4.25 No. 5. Uniform, complete. Plain Pants 2.75 On No. 0 Uniform, Padded Pants extra 1.00 On Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4 Uniforms, Padded Pants .75 * * * * * # OUR COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF SPRING and SUMMER SPORTS, HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED, # And Containing Every Requisite for #Athletic Sports#, mailed free to any address. * * * * * A. G. SPALDING & BROS., NEW YORK. CHICAGO. PHILADELPHIA. [Advertisement] ATHLETIC UNIFORMS AND Wearing Apparel for All Sports. SPORTSMEN'S WEAR [Illustration: OUR BROOKLYN FACTORY.] Bicycle Suits, Sweaters, Tennis Suits, Jerseys, Athletic Shoes, Knee Pants, College and Full Tights, Outing Caps, Ladies' & Gentlemens' Belts. In Cotton, Worsted, Silk and Leather. BARNARD'S Celebrated A1 Shooting Coat, Shooting Trousers, Shooting Hats and Caps--Gun Cases, Cartridge Belts, Revolver Holsters. And an Important Line of Leggings. GEO. BARNARD & CO., Sixth Ave. and Pacific St., BROOKLYN, 199-201 Madison St., CHICAGO, ILL. Strictly Manufacturers. SEND FOR OUR ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE. [Advertisement] SPALDING'S CATCHER'S MITTS. Made in Rights and Lefts, and without Throwing Gloves. [Illustration: No. 7/0.] [Illustration: No. 0X.] [Illustration: No. 3.] [Illustration: The Spalding: Highest Quality] Highest Quality Mitt, made of the finest selected leather, heavily padded and laced all around. Each, $7.50 The "Morill" Mitt. Special design, made of finest drab buckskin, heavily padded; a soft, easy fitting mitt. Each, $6.00 No. 5/0. Spalding's League Mitt, finest selected hogskin, laced back and well padded; a strong, durable mitt. Each, $5.00 No. 0X. Spalding's "Decker Patent" Mitt, hand of soft deerskin, back of selected hogskin, laced, and sole leather reinforce on back for additional protection, well made and padded; the original catchers' mitt. Each, $3.50 No. 0. Spalding's Catchers' Mitt, hand of soft tanned deerskin, back-piece selected hogskin, laced back and well padded. Each, $3.00 No. A. Spalding's Amateur Mitt, extra quality leather, heavily padded, lace back. Each, $2.00 No. 3. Spalding's Practice Mitt, hand of grain leather, back of sheepskin, laced all around and well padded. Each, $1.00 * * * * * Boys' Mitts. [Illustration: No. 2.] No. 0XB. Spalding's "Decker Patent" Boys' Mitt, hand-piece of velvet tanned deerskin, back of fine hogskin, sole leather reinforced patent back for extra protection to fingers, laced and heavily padded. Each, $2.00 No. 2. Spalding's Boys' Mitt, tanned buckskin, laced back and nicely padded. Each, $1.50 No. 4. Spalding's Boys' Mitt, front and back grain leather, hand-piece yellow tanned sheepskin, laced back and well padded. Each, 50c. No. 5. Spalding's Boys' Mitt, leather front hand-piece; a strong and durable glove for boys. Each, 25c. * * * * * Our Complete Illustrated Catalogue Mailed Free. A. G. Spalding & Bros., CHICAGO, PHILADELPHIA, NEW YORK. [Advertisement] OUR LATEST NOVELTY [Illustration: _Fastened by Clamp furnished with each machine, but not shown in cut_] THE "BABY" SEWING MACHINE A Perfect Little Machine. CHARGES PREPAID to any Express or Post Office in the United States. It is not a toy, but a perfect little Sewing Machine, and Warranted to do Good Sewing on any material that can be used on the regular sewing machine. It uses the Wilcox & Gibbs No. 2 needle and the regular No. 60 thread. It makes a chain stitch. It has a patent finger protector which absolutely prevents the smallest child from getting its finger under the needle, either by accident or intent. It has a tension screw for regulating the tension. It is simple in construction, cannot get out of order, and the smallest child can successfully work it. It is attached to table, chair or any convenient place by clamp, which is furnished with each machine. It has no attachment of any kind, is intended to do plain sewing only, and is not offered as a substitute for the family sewing machine. It is sent, complete, in a wood box, securely packed, and the machine properly adjusted, with thread, clamp, needles, and everything necessary to begin sewing the minute it is opened up. Simple directions for its operation on each box. Each machine is thoroughly tested before leaving the factory and a sample of its sewing left on the plate. The price, $2.50, must be sent with order, and we will then send it to your nearest Express Office, all charges paid, or to any Post Office in the United States in registered package. Not sent C.O.D. Agents wanted everywhere. Write for terms. Price, $2.50. Charges Prepaid. Our Complete Catalogue contains thousands of the latest and most interesting Novelties as well as all requisites for Athletic Sports and Pastimes. Mailed free on application. PECK & SNYDER, 11 and 13 BEEKMAN ST., P.O. Box 2751. NEW YORK CITY. [Advertisement] Spalding's Base Ball Goods. Spalding's Basemen's Mitts. Made in Rights and Lefts. No. 3X. [The Spalding logo] Base Mitt, finest velvet tanned buckskin, perfectly padded, highest quality. Each, $3.00 [Illustration: No. 4X] No. 4X. Spalding's Basemen's Mitt, soft tanned brown leather, fine felt padding, made in rights and lefts. Each, $2.00 No. 5X. Spalding's Basemen's Mitt, made of special gold tanned leather, well padded, rights and lefts. Each, $1.00 Spalding's Boys' Basemen's Mitt, same as our No. 5X, but smaller sizes. Each, 50c. Spalding's Basemen's Mitt. In Rights and Lefts. [Illustration] No. BX. [The Spalding logo] Basemen's Mitt, finest velvet tanned buckskin, laced edge, perfectly padded, highest quality. Each, $4.00 Spalding's Infielders' Glove. In Rights and Lefts. [Illustration] No. 2X. [The Spalding logo] Infielders' Glove, finest velvet tanned buckskin, perfectly padded, highest quality. Each, $3.00 No. X. Spalding's Amateur Infielders' Glove. Each, $1.50 Spalding's Body Protectors. GRAY'S PATENT. [Illustration] Made of rubber and inflated with air. The only safe and reliable Body Protector. EACH. No. 00. Umpire Body Protector. $10.00 No. 0. League " " 10.00 No. 1. Amateur " " 6.00 No. 2. Boys' " " 5.00 * * * * * Our complete Catalogue of "Spring and Summer Sports," mailed free to any address. * * * * * A. G. SPALDING & BROS., New York. Chicago. Philadelphia. [Advertisement] WE ARE THE ONLY BUILDERS OF THE GENUINE FAMOUS ST. LAWRENCE RIVER SKIFF. AVOID WORTHLESS IMITATIONS. [Illustration] Look for our trade-mark shield, which is placed on every boat of our manufacture. [Illustration] * * * * * Our eight boats, St. Lawrence River Skiffs; rowboats; sailing canoes; paddling canoe; yacht tender and small sail yacht, received HIGHEST POSSIBLE AWARDS AT WORLD'S COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION. * * * * * We build HIGH GRADE Pleasure Craft of all kinds, from Canoe to Steam Launch. * * * * * Our single-hander Sail Boats, of modern built, fin-keel type, are immensely successful cruisers and racers. * * * * * On receipt of application, we will mail to any address our HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED AND DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE. [Illustration] ST. LAWRENCE RIVER SKIFF, CANOE AND STEAM LAUNCH CO., CLAYTON, Jefferson County, N.Y. [Advertisement] SPALDING'S BASE BALL GOODS. Spalding's Club Bat Bags. [Illustration: No. 2] Each. No. 0. League Club Bag, sole leather, for 18 bats $15.00 No. 1, Canvas Club Bag, leather ends, for 24 bats 5.00 No. 2. Canvas Club Bag, leather ends, for 12 bats 4.00 Individual Bags. [Illustration: No. 02.] Each. No. 01. Sole Leather Bag, for two bats $4.00 No. 02. Heavy Canvas Bag, leather reinforce at both ends 1.50 No. 03. Canvas Bag, leather reinforce at one end 1.00 Athletes' Uniform Bag. For carrying Base Ball and other Uniforms, made to roll, and will not wrinkle or soil same, separate compartment for shoes. [Illustration] Each No. 1. Canvas $2.50 No. 2. Leather 3.50 Spalding's Bases. Three Bases to a set. [Illustration] Per Set. No. 0. League Club Bases, extra quality, quilted, with spikes $7.50 No. 1. Best Canvas Bases, not quilted, with spikes 5.00 No. 2. Ordinary Canvas Bases, with spikes 4.00 Home Plates. [Illustration] Each. No. 1. Rubber Home Plate, League regulation, $7.50 complete, with spikes No. 2. Marble Home Plates, best quality 2.00 No. 3. Plate for Pitcher's Box 5.00 Spalding's Indicators. [Illustration] Each. No. O. Umpire Indicators $0.50 No. 1. Scoring Tablets .35 Our Complete Catalogue of "Spring and Summer Sports" Mailed Free to Any Address. A. G. SPALDING & BROS., NEW YORK. CHICAGO. PHILADELPHIA. [Advertisement.] [Illustration: Wright & Ditson advertisement.] Wright & Ditson Send for our complete illustrated catalogue Manufacturers of the famous Campbell racket Publishers of the Official Lawn Tennis Guide for 1895... Price 15 cents Lawn Tennis, Baseball, Athletic Goods Uniforms for all outdoor sports Wright & Ditson's Championship ball Adopted by the United States Lawn Tennis Association, Intercollegiate Lawn Tennis Association, Southern Lawn Tennis Association, Canadian Lawn Tennis Association, and other Associations of the United States and Canada. Retail, 344 Washington St., Boston, Mass. Wholesale, 95 Pearl St., Boston, Mass. [Advertisement.] SPALDING'S ATHLETIC LIBRARY. _Published Monthly. Each Number Complete. Devoted to all kinds of Sports._ No. 1. LIFE AND BATTLES OF JAMES J. CORBETT. No. 2. INDIAN CLUBS AND DUMB BELLS. By J.H. DOUGHERTY, Amateur Champion of America. No. 3. BOWLING. By A.E. VOGELL. Containing instructions How to Bowl, How to Score, How to Handicap. No. 4. BOXING. This book is, without doubt, the most valuable manual of its kind ever published. It is fully illustrated. No. 5. GYMNASTICS. By ROBERT STOLL, N.Y.A.C., America's Champion on the Flying Rings since 1885. No. 6. LAWN TENNIS. By O.S. CAMPBELL. No. 7. BASE BALL. By WALTER CAMP. No. 8. GOLF. By J. STUART BALFOUR. No. 9. ATHLETES' GUIDE. Articles on Training, Sprinting, Throwing Weights, Walking, etc., and Rules for Government of Athletic Games. No. 10. CROQUET. Official Rules of the Game as adopted by the National Croquet Association. No. 11. SPALDING'S OFFICIAL FOOT BALL GUIDE AND REFEREE'S BOOK. Revised by WALTER CAMP. No. 12. GAELIC AND ASSOCIATION FOOT BALL. Complete Methods and Rules of each Game. No. 13. HANDBALL. How to Play It. Rules and Definitions, Regulation Court and its construction, with other interesting matter. NO. 14. CURLING, HOCKEY AND POLO. Rules governing each game, and other valuable information. No. 15A. INDOOR BASE BALL GUIDE. Complete Illustrations for Playing, with Description of Game. No. 16. SKATING. History of Skating, from earliest appearance to the present day, to which is added a list of the most authentic records. No. 17. BASKET BALL, Latest Revised Rules, with diagrams showing position of players, etc. No. 18. FENCING. Complete Manual of Foil and Sabre, according to the methods of the best modern school. No. 19. SPALDING'S OFFICIAL BASE BALL GUIDE FOR 1894. Complete hand-book of the National Game of Base Ball. No. 20. CRICKET GUIDE. By GEO. WRIGHT. Fully Illustrated. No. 21. ROWING. By E.J. GIANNINI, Champion Amateur Oarsman. Fully illustrated. No. 22. CROQUET. As adopted by the National Croquet Ass'n. Ill'd. No. 23. CANOEING. By C. BOWYER VAUX. No. 24. OFFICIAL FOOT BALL GUIDE FOR 1894. Edited by WALTER CAMP. Contains revised rules, portraits of leading players, etc. No. 25. SWIMMING. By WALTER G. DOUGLAS. Illustrated. No. 26. HOW TO PLAY FOOT BALL. By WALTER CAMP. Ill'd. No. 27. COLLEGE ATHLETICS. By M.C. MURPHY. No. 28. ATHLETIC ALMANAC. By JAMES E. SULLIVAN. No. 29. EXERCISING WITH PULLEY WEIGHTS. H.S. ANDERSON No. 30. HOW TO PLAY LACROSSE. By W.H. CORBETT. EACH COPY, 10 CENTS. AMERICAN SPORTS PUBLISHING COMPANY, 241 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. [Advertisement] #REACH'S BASE BALL GOODS.# The #Reach American Association Ball# is the best made and #guaranteed# to give satisfaction. [Illustration] The #Reach Special Catchers' Mitts# used by all #League Catchers#, made in either #Buckskin# or #Calfskin#, with #Patent Lacing and Deep Pocket#. [Illustration] #PRICE, $7.50 EACH.# #OTHER GRADES DOWN TO 25c. EACH.# We also make the famous #Irwin# line of #Catchers'# Mitts and #Fielders'# Gloves. A.J. REACH CO., Tulip and Palmer Sts., PHILADELPHIA, PA. [Advertisement] CHAMPION JAMES J. CORBETT USED THE "Corbett" (TRADE MARK) Boxing Gloves Manufactured by A.J. REACH CO., Tulip and Palmer Streets, Philadelphia, Pa., In his Fight with MITCHELL At Jacksonville, Jan. 25, 1894. The REACH Is on the Wrist [Illustration] Trade Mark of every Glove. An Exact Duplicate of the Gloves used by CORBETT will be sent upon Receipt of Price. Per Set, $7.50. If you cannot get them in your city, address A.J. REACH CO., Tulip and Palmer Sts., Philadelphia, Pa. [Advertisement] _A. H. SPINK, Editor. C. C. SPINK, Business Manager._ THE SPORTING NEWS, OF ST. LOUIS. The Base Ball Paper of the World. _A Specimen Copy of the Sporting Hews will be Mailed to Anyone Sending Us His Address._ A magnificent photo-engraved picture of the New York and Baltimore Base Ball Clubs will be promptly forwarded on receipt of #$2.00# for one year's subscription to THE SPORTING NEWS. Either of these pictures will be given to anyone sending us #$1.00# for a six months' subscription to THE SPORTING NEWS. THE SPORTING NEWS is the official organ of all minor leagues and the friend of the ball player. Advertisements inserted free for all players wanting positions, and managers desiring talent. Those interested in base ball should not fail to get a copy of this paper. THE SPORTING NEWS, BROADWAY AND OLIVE ST., ST. LOUIS, MO. [Advertisement] TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN!! 1. ART OF CURVE PITCHING. 3. ART OF ZIGZAG CURVE PITCHING. 2. ART OF BATTING. 4. ART OF BASE RUNNING. These four books _ought_ to be read by every ball player in America. Although written for amateurs they are highly recommended by professionals. You can get more information from them in two hours of careful study than you can get from field practice in #Two Years#, and for a very little money, too. They are plain, practical, and _scientific_, and at their low price no player can _afford_ to be without them. Nearly 40,000 copies sold to date. Price, by mail, 15 cents each--the four _at one time_ for 50 cents. _Special discounts_ to clubs on receipt of stamp. A _premium_ worth 50 cents given _free_ to every _tenth_ purchaser and _also_ to _everyone_ who orders the four books at one time. Order the four and get twice the value of your money. _Read on!_ THE MAGIC BASE BALL CURVER!! As a result of careful study and experiment I have perfected a mechanical device that will enable any intelligent amateur pitcher, with a very little practice, to discount the best professional in existence in the matter of curves. It is neatly constructed on _scientific_ principles and is a marvel of simplicity. It is so small that no one will notice it and the batsmen will wonder where those #Awful# curves come from. The pitcher who uses one of these "Curvers" has the opposing team completely at his mercy. It is worth $10 to any pitcher, but I will send it, postpaid, to any address, on receipt of 25 cents in _cash_ or 30 cents in _stamps_. Send for one _without delay_. Write plainly. Wrap coin in paper. For any of the above, address, EDWARD J. PRINDLE, Torrington, Conn. N. B.--Order all goods direct from me if you desire to get a premium. _Don't forget it_. PRACTICAL BALL PLAYING. By ARTHUR IRWIN. Without a doubt the most practical book ever written which illustrates and tells distinctly how any one can become an expert ball player. Especially adapted for College Players, Amateurs and Semi-professionals. It describes the proper way to field, hints to batteries, how to become a good catcher, how to play first base, second base, and third base, also a special chapter for fielders. The articles in relation to batting, both individual and team, are the best ever written. The book contains many accurate illustrations, showing what positions to assume when at the bat, when in the field and in the pitcher's box. Probably no man in America is more qualified to write on this subject than Arthur Irwin of the Philadelphia League Club and Coacher of the University of Pennsylvania. 12 Full Page Illustrations. Spalding's Athletic Library No. 32. PRICE 10 CENTS. A.G. SPALDING & BROS., NEW YORK, CHICAGO, PHILADELPHIA, 126-130 Nassau St. 147-149 Wabash Ave. 1216 Chestnut Street. [Advertisement] #Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway.# * * * * * Steam Heated and Electric Lighted Vestibuled Trains between Chicago, St. Paul and Minneapolis. Electric Lighted and Steam Heated Vestibuled Trains between Chicago, Council Bluffs and Omaha. Finest Dining Cars in the world. Free Reclining Chair Cars between Chicago and Omaha. Fast Mail Line between Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Minneapolis. Transcontinental Route between Chicago, Council Bluffs and Omaha, or St. Paul. 5,700 miles of road in Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, South and North Dakota. Everything First-Class. First-Class People Patronize First-Class Lines. Ticket Agents everywhere sell Tickets over the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul Railway. [Advertisement] Spalding's Supporters and Bandages. FOR ALL ATHLETIC SPORTS. Supporters. [Illustration: MORTON'S] EACH. No. 1. Morton's Supporter $ .35 No. 2. Rheim's Supporter .50 No. 3. Dare's Supporter 1.00 No. 100. Wrist Supporter .25 No. 200. Wrist Supporter .50 No. H. Ankle Supporter Pair, 1.25 No. 1. Stocking Supporter " .50 No. 2. Stocking Supporter " .35 Elastic Bandages. [Illustration: SHOULDER CAP.] [Illustration: WRIST PIECE.] [Illustration: ANKLE.] SHOULDER CAP. EACH. No. 1. Cotton $3.50 No. 1A. Silk. 5.00 ELBOW PIECE. No. 2. Cotton. 1.50 No. 2A. Silk. 2.00 ARM PIECE. No. 3. Cotton. 1.50 No. 3A. Silk. 2.00 KNEE CAP. No. 4. Cotton. 1.50 No. 4A. Silk. 2.00 ANKLE PIECE. No. 5. Cotton. 1.50 No. 5A. Silk. 2.00 WRIST PIECE. No. 6. Cotton. .75 No. 6A. Silk. 1.00 Suspensories. CHICAGO SUSPENSORIES. No. 70. Non-Elastic Bands. $ .25 No. 71. Elastic Buttock Bands. .50 No. 72. Full Elastic Bands. .75 No. 731/2. Elastic Bands, silk sack. 1.00 No. 75. Elastic Bands, satin top piece. 1.25 No. 76. Silk Elastic Bands, satin trimmings. 2.00 OLD POINT COMFORT. No. 2. Elastic Bands, adjusting buckles. $1.00 No. 3. Elastic Bands, silk sack and trimmings. 1.50 No. 4. Silk Elastic Bands, satin trimmings, fine silk sack. 2.00 Send for our complete Catalogue of "Spring and Summer Sports," handsomely illustrated, and the most comprehensive Catalogue ever issued. Mailed free. A. G. SPALDING & BROS., New York. Chicago. Philadelphia. [Advertisement] [Illustration] THE THROUGH CAR ROUTE BETWEEN CHICAGO AND ST. PAUL, MINNEAPOLIS, DULUTH, ASHLAND, COUNCIL BLUFFS, OMAHA, SIOUX CITY, DENVER, OGDEN, PORTLAND and SAN FRANCISCO. Reaches the Best Hunting and Fishing Grounds of the West and Northwest. ALL AGENTS SELL TICKETS VIA THE CHICAGO AND NORTH-WESTERN RY. CITY TICKET OFFICE: 208 CLARK STREET, CHICAGO. W. H. NEWMAN, J. M. WHITMAN, W. B. KNISKERN, 3d Vice-Pres. Gen'l Manager. Gen. Pass. and Tickit Agt. [Advertisement] SPALDING'S UNIFORM GOODS. BASE BALL BELTS. Worsted Web Belts. 2-1/2 inches wide. [Illustration: No. 00.] [Illustration: No. 2.] [Illustration: No. 4.] EACH. No. 00. Special League Belt. $0.50 No. 2. Worsted Web, double leather covered buckle. .50 No. 47. Worsted Web, single leather covered buckle. .50 Cotton Web Belts. 2-1/2 inches wide. No. 23. Double strap, nickel buckle. .25 No. 4. Single strap, leather mounted, plain buckles. .15 Base Ball Stockings. [Illustration: 0. 3/0. 3.] PAIR. No. 00. Heavy, ribbed, linen sole. $1.25 No. 3/0. Extra Heavy, plain or striped. 1.50 No. 1. All Wool, heavy. 1.00 No. 2. All Wool, medium. .75 No. 3. Wool, ordinary weight. .50 No. 4. 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No. #O# quality Pants, #$5.00 $6.00# No. #1# " " #3.75 4.50# No. #2# " " #2.75 3.50# No. #3# " " #2.00 2.75# No. #4# " " #1.35 2.00# [Illustration: Padded pants.] #Base Ball Caps.# Chicago, College, Eton, Skull, Jockey and Boston Styles. Each. No. #O# quality, best quality. #$1.00# No. #1# quality, lighter flannel, #.75# No. #2# quality, good flannel, #.65# No. #3# quality, ordinary flannel, #.50# No. #4# quality, light flannel, #.40# [Illustration: Chicago Style.] * * * * * #Score Books--Pocket Sizes.# No. #1.# Paper Cover, 7 games, Each, #10c.# No. #2.# Board Cover, 22 games, " #25c.# No. #3.# Board Cover, 46 games, " #50c.# #Club Sizes.# No. #4.# Board Cover, 30 games, Each, #$1.00# No. #5.# Cloth Cover, 60 games, " #1.75# No. #6.# Cloth Cover, 90 games, " #2.50# No. #7.# Cloth Cover, 120 games, " #3.00# Score Cards, per doz., #25c.# Our Catalogue of Spring and Summer Sports and Athletic Uniforms, mailed free to any address. #A. G. SPALDING & BROS., NEW YORK. CHICAGO. PHILADELPHIA.# [Advertisement] _Hunting_ DEER BEARS WILD TURKEYS PRAIRIE CHICKENS DUCKS #Fishing# BLACK BASS MOUNTAIN TROUT RED SNAPPER SPANISH MACKEREL #Health# SEASHORE AT SANDIEGO GULF AT GALVESTON MOUNTAINS--COLORADO PLAINS OF KANSAS All on the #Santa Fé Route# _Greatest Railroad in the World_ For Descriptive Pamphlets, address G.T. NICHOLSON, G.P.A. Monadnock Building, CHICAGO, ILL. I can tell you of some places not known to most sportsmen [Advertisement.] [Illustration: #SPALDING'S TRADE MARK BASE BALLS.# * * * * * The #Spalding League Ball#, adopted by the National League and American Association of Professional Base Ball Clubs. Warranted to last a full game without ripping or losing its elasticity or shape. EACH. No. #1#. Official League Ball, $1.50 No. #0#. Double Seam Ball, 1.50 No. #1B#. Boys' League Ball, 1.00 No. #2#. Professional Ball, 1.00 No. #3#. Amateur Ball, .75 No. #5#. King of the Diamond, .50 No. #2B#. Boys' Professional, .50 No. #7#. Boys' Favorite Ball, .25 NO. #7B#. League Junior Ball, .25 No. #11#. Bouncer Ball, .25 No. #6#. Victor Ball, .20 No. #14#. Boys' Amateur Ball, .15 (All of the above in separate box and sealed.) No. #8#. Eureka Ball, .10 No. #9B#. Boys' Lively Ball, .10 No. #13#. Rocket Ball, .05 No. #15#. Dandy Ball, .05 No. #16#. Boss, 4-piece Ball, .05 (The above not in separate box.) * * * * * #OUR COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF Spring and Summer Sports, Athletic and Uniform Goods.# The most complete catalogue of its kind ever issued and mailed free to any address. * * * * * #A.G. SPALDING & BROS., New York. Chicago. Philadelphia.#] [Advertisement] The Spalding Base Ball Bats HIGHEST QUALITY * * * * * These bats are finished in the natural wood, and of the most carefully selected timber. Made in three models, "A," "B" and "C," and in lengths, 33, 34 and 35 inches, thus giving sufficient variety in the lengths, weights and balance to suit the tastes of all players. 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[Advertisement.] [Illustration: THE OFFICIAL SPALDING LEAGUE BALL ADOPTED BY THE NEW National League & American Association FOR 1895 The SPALDING OFFICIAL LEAGUE BALL has been the adopted Ball of the National League for the past eighteen years, and has again been adopted by the new National League and American Association for 1895 a tribute to the excellent qualities of the Spalding League Ball. Each Ball is carefully wrapped in tin foil. Packed in a box and securely sealed, and is fully warranted to stand the test, of a full game without ripping nor losing its elasticity or shape. PRICE, PER DOZEN, $15.00. SINGLE BALL, $1.50.] 
19652	----	http://www.lawsonsprogress.com Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 19652-h.htm or 19652-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/6/0/19652/19652-h/19652-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/6/0/19652/19652-h.zip) A BALL PLAYER'S CAREER Being the PERSONAL EXPERIENCES AND REMINISCENCES of ADRIAN C. ANSON Late Manager and Captain of the Chicago Base Ball Club 1900 To My Father Henry Anson of Marshalltown, Iowa, to whose early training and sound advice I owe my fame CONTENTS CHAP. I.--MY BIRTHPLACE AND ANCESTRY. II.--DAYS AT MARSHALLTOWN III.--SOME FACTS ABOUT THE NATIONAL GAME IV.--FURTHER FACTS AND FIGURES V.--THE GAME AT MARSHALLTOWN VI.--My EXPERIENCE AT ROCKFORD VII.--WITH THE ATHLETICS OF PHILADELPHIA VIII.--SOME MINOR DIVERSIONS IX.--WE BALL PLAYERS Go ABROAD X.--THE ARGONAUTS OF 1874 XI.--I WIN ONE PRIZE AND OTHERS FOLLOW XII.--WITH THE NATIONAL LEAGUE XIII.--FROM FOURTH PLACE TO THE CHAMPIONSHIP XIV.--THE CHAMPIONS OF THE EARLY '80S XV.--WE FALL DOWN AND RISE AGAIN XVI.--BALL PLAYERS EACH AND EVERY ONE XVII.--WHILE FORTUNE FROWNS AND SMILES XVIII.--FROM CHICAGO TO DENVER XIX.--FROM DENVER TO SAN FRANCISCO XX.--TWO WEEKS IN CALIFORNIA XXI.--WE VISIT THE HAWAIIAN ISLANDS XXII.--FROM HONOLULU TO AUSTRALIA XXIII.--WITH OUR FRIENDS IN THE ANTIPODES XXIV.--BALL PLAYING AND SIGHT-SEEING IN AUSTRALIA XXV.--AFLOAT ON THE INDIAN SEA XXVI.--FROM CEYLON TO EGYPT XXVII.--IN THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMIDS XXVIII.--THE BLUE SKIES OF ITALY XXIX.--OUR VISIT TO LA BELLE FRANCE XXX.--THROUGH ENGLAND, SCOTLAND AND IRELAND XXXI.--"HOME, SWEET HOME" XXXII.--THE REVOLT OF THE BROTHERHOOD XXXIII.--MY LAST YEARS ON THE BALL FIELD XXXIV.--IF THIS BE TREASON, MAKE THE MOST OF IT XXXV.--HOW MY WINTERS WERE SPENT XXXVI.--WITH THE KNIGHTS OF THE CUE XXXVII.--NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPING XXXVIII.--L'ENVOI CHAPTER I. MY BIRTHPLACE AND ANCESTRY. The town of Marshalltown, the county seat of Marshall County, in the great State of Iowa, is now a handsome and flourishing place of some thirteen or fourteen thousand inhabitants. I have not had time recently to take the census myself, and so I cannot be expected to certify exactly as to how many men, women and children are contained within the corporate limits. At the time that I first appeared upon the scene, however, the town was in a decidedly embryonic state, and outside of some half-dozen white families that had squatted there it boasted of no inhabitants save Indians of the Pottawattamie tribe, whose wigwams, or tepees, were scattered here and there upon the prairie and along the banks of the river that then, as now, was not navigable for anything much larger than a flat-bottomed scow. The first log cabin that was erected in Marshalltown was built by my father, Henry Anson, who is still living, a hale and hearty old man, whose only trouble seems to be, according to his own story, that he is getting too fleshy, and that he finds it more difficult to get about than he used to. He and his father, Warren Anson, his grandfather, Jonathan Anson, and his great-grandfather, Silas Anson, were all born in Dutchess County, New York, and were direct descendants of one of two brothers, who came to this country from England some time in the seventeenth century. They traced their lineage back to William Anson, Esq., of Lincoln's Inn, an eminent barrister in the reign of James I, who purchased the Mansion of Shuzsborough, in the county of Stafford, and, even farther back, to Lord Anson, a high Admiral of the English navy, who was one of the first of that daring band of sailors who circumnavigated the globe and helped to lay the foundation of England's present greatness. I have said that we were direct descendants of one of two brothers. The other of the original Ansons I am not so proud of, and for this reason: He retained the family name until the Revolutionary war broke out, when he sided with the King and became known as a Tory. Then, not wishing to bear the same name as his, brother, who had espoused the cause of the Colonists, he changed his name to Austin, and some of his descendants my father has met on more than one occasion in his travels. My mother's maiden name was Jeanette Rice, and she, like my father, was of English descent, so you can see how little Swedish blood there is in my veins, in spite of the nickname of "the Swede" that was often applied to me during my ball-playing career, and which was, I fancy, given me more because of my light hair and ruddy complexion than because of any Swedish characteristics that I possessed. Early in life my father emigrated from New York State into the wilds of Michigan, and later, after he was married, and while he was but nineteen years of age, and his wife two years his junior, he started out to find a home in the West, traveling in one of the old-fashioned prairie schooners drawn by horses and making his first stop of any account on the banks of the Cedar River in Iowa. This was in the high-water days of 1851, and as the river overflowed its banks and the waters kept rising higher and higher my father concluded that it was hardly a desirable place near which to locate a home, and hitching up his team he saddled a horse and swam the stream, going on to the westward. He finally homesteaded a tract of land on the site of the present town of Marshalltown, which he laid out, and to which he gave the name that it now bears. This, for a time, was known as "Marshall," it being named after the town of Marshall in Michigan, but when a post-office was applied for it was discovered that there was already a post-office of that same name in the State, and so the word "town" was added, and Marshalltown it became, the names of Anson, Ansontown and Ansonville having all been thought of and rejected. Had the name of "Ansonia" occurred at that time to my father's mind, however, I do not think that either Marshall or Marshalltown would have been its title on the map. It was not so very long after the completion of my father's log cabin, which stood on what is now Marshall-town's main street, that I, the first white child that was born there, came into the world, the exact date of my advent being April 17th, 1852. My brother Sturges Ransome, who is two years my senior, was born at the old home in Michigan, and I had still another brother Melville who died while I was yet a small boy, so at the time of which I write there were three babies in the house, all of them boys, and I the youngest and most troublesome of the lot. The first real grief that came into my life was the death of my mother, which occurred when I was but seven years old. I remember her now as a large, fine-looking woman, who weighed something over two hundred pounds, and she stood about five feet ten-and-a-half inches in height. This is about all the recollection that I have of her. If the statements made by my father and by other of our relatives are to be relied upon, and I see no reason why they should not be, I was a natural-born kicker from the very outset of my career, and of very little account in the world, being bent upon making trouble for others. I had no particularly bad traits that I am aware of, only that I was possessed of an instinctive dislike both to study and work, and I shirked them whenever opportunity offered. I had a penchant, too, for getting into scrapes, and it was indeed a happy time for my relatives when a whole day passed without my being up to some mischief. Some of my father's people had arrived on the scene before my mother's death, and, attracting other settlers to the scene, Marshalltown, or Marshall as it was then called, was making rapid strides in growth and importance. The Pottawattomies, always friendly to the whites, were particularly fond of my father and I often remember seeing both the bucks and the squaws at our cabin, though I fancy that they were not so fond of us boys as they might have been, for we used to tease and bother them at every opportunity. Johnny Green was their chief, and Johnny, in spite of his looks, was a pretty decent sort of a fellow, though he was as fond of fire-water as any of them and as Iowa was not a prohibition State in those early days he managed now and then to get hold of a little. "The fights that he fought and the rows that he made" were as a rule confined to his own people. Speaking of the Indians, I remember one little occurrence in which I was concerned during those early days that impressed itself upon my memory in a very vivid fashion, and even now I am disposed to regard it as no laughing matter, although my father entertains a contrary opinion, but then my father was not in my position, and that, ofttimes, makes all the difference in the world. The Pottawattamies were to have a war dance at the little town of Marietta, some six or seven miles up the river, and of course we boys were determined to be on hand and take part in the festivities. There were some twelve or fifteen of us in the party and we enjoyed the show immensely, as was but natural. Had we all been content to look on and then go home peacefully there would have been no trouble, but what boys would act in such unboyish fashion? Not the boys of Marshalltown, at any rate. It was just our luck to run up against two drunken Indians riding on a single pony, and someone in the party, I don't know who, hit the pony and started him, to bucking. Angrier Indians were never seen. With a whoop and a yell that went ringing across the prairies they started after us, and how we did leg it! How far some of the others ran I have no means of knowing but I know that I ran every foot of the way back to Marshalltown, nor did I stop until I was safe, as I thought, in my father's house. My troubles did not end there, however, for along in the darkest hours of the night I started from sleep and saw those two Indians, one standing at the head and one at the foot of the bed, and each of them armed with a tomahawk. That they had come to kill me I was certain, and that they would succeed in doing so seemed to me equally sure. I tried to scream but I could not. I was as powerless as a baby. I finally managed to move and as I did so I saw them vanish through the open doorway and disappear in the darkness. There was no sleep for me that night, as you may imagine. I fancied that the entire Pottawattomie tribe had gathered about the house and that they would never be content until they had both killed and scalped me. I just lay there and shivered until the dawn came, and I do not think there was a happier boy in the country than I when the morning finally broke and I convinced myself by the evidence of my own eye-sight that there was not so much as even a single Indian about. As soon as it was possible I told my father about my two unwelcome visitors, but the old man only laughed and declared that I had been dreaming. It was just possible that I had, but I do not believe it. I saw those two Indians as they stood at the head and foot of my bed just as plainly as I ever saw a base-ball, and I have had my eye on the ball a good many times since I first began to play the game. I saw both their painted faces and the tomahawks that they held in their sinewy hands. More than that, I heard them as well as saw them when they went out. That is the reason why I insist that I was not dreaming. I deny the allegation and defy the alligator! There were two Indians in my room that night. What they were there for I don't know, and at this late day I don't care, but they were there, and I know it. I shall insist that they were there to my dying day, and they were there! CHAPTER II. BOYHOOD DAYS AND MEMORIES. What's in a name? Not much, to be sure, in many of them, but in mine a good deal, for I represent two Michigan towns and two Roman Emperors, Adrian and Constantine. My father had evidently not outgrown his liking for Michigan when I came into the world, and as he was familiar with both Adrian and Constantine and had many friends in both places he concluded to keep them fresh in his memory by naming me after them. I don't think he gave much consideration to the noble old Romans at that time. In fact, I am inclined to believe that he did not think of them at all, but nevertheless Adrian Constantine I was christened, and it was as Adrian Constantine Anson that my name was first entered upon the roll of the little school at Marshalltown. I was then in my "smart" years, and what I didn't know about books would have filled a very large library, and I hadn't the slightest desire to know any more. In my youthful mind book-knowledge cut but a small, a very small, figure, and the school house itself was as bad if not worse than the county jail. The idea of my being cooped up between four walls when the sunbeams were dancing among the leaves outside and the bees were humming among the blossoms, seemed to me the acme of cruelty, and every day that I spent bending over a desk represented to my mind just so many wasted hours and opportunities. I longed through all the weary hours to be running out barefoot on the prairies; to be playing soak-ball, bull pen or two old cat, on one of the vacant lots, or else to be splashing about like a big Newfoundland dog in the cool waters of Lynn Creek. About that time my father had considerable business to attend to in Chicago and was absent from home for days and weeks at a time. You know the old adage, "When the cat's away," etc.? Well, mouse-like, that was the time in which I played my hardest. I played hookey day after day, and though I was often punished for doing so it had but little effect. Run away from school I would, and run away from school I did until even the old man became disgusted with the idea of trying to make a scholar of me. Sport of any kind, and particularly sport of an outdoor variety, had for me more attractions than the best book that was ever published. The game of base-ball was then in its infancy and while it was being played to some extent to the eastward of us the craze had not as yet reached Marshalltown. It arrived there later and it struck the town with both feet, too, when it did come. "Soak Ball" was at this time my favorite sport. It was a game in which the batter was put out while running the bases by being hit with the ball; hence the name. The ball used was a comparatively soft one, yet hard enough to hurt when hurled by a powerful arm, as many of the old-timers as well as myself can testify. It was a good exercise, however, for arms, legs and eyes, and many of the ball players who acquired fame in the early seventies can lay the fact that they did so to the experience and training that this rough game gave to them. So disgusted did my father finally become with the progress of my education at Marshalltown that he determined upon sending me to the State University at Iowa City. I was unable to pass the examination there the first time that I tried it, but later I succeeded and the old man fondly imagined that I was at last on the high road to wealth, at least so far as book-knowledge would carry me. But, alas, for his hopes in that direction! I was not a whit better as a student at Iowa City than I had been at home. I was as wild as a mustang and as tough as a pine knot, and the scrapes that I managed to get into were too numerous to mention. The State University finally became too small to hold me and the University of Notre Dame in Indiana, then noted as being one of the strictest schools in the country, was selected as being the proper place for "breaking me into harness," providing that the said "breaking in" performance could be successfully accomplished anywhere. To Notre Dame I went and if I acquired any honors in the way of scholarships during the brief time that I was there I have never heard of them. Foot-ball, base-ball and fancy skating engrossed the most of my attention, and in all of these branches of sport I attained at least a college reputation. As a fancy skater I excelled, and there were few boys of my age anywhere in the country that could beat me in that line. The base-ball team that represented Notre Dame at that time was the Juanitas, and of this organization I was a member, playing second base. The bright particular star of this club was my brother Sturgis, who played the center field position. Had he remained in the business he would certainly have made his mark in the profession, but unfortunately he strained his arm one day while playing and was obliged to quit the diamond. He is now a successful business man in the old town and properly thankful that a fate that then seemed most unkind kept him from becoming a professional ball player. Looking back over my youthful experiences I marvel that I have ever lived to relate them, and that I did not receive at least a hundred thrashings for every one that was given me. I know now that I fully deserved all that I received, and more, too. My father was certainly in those days a most patient man. I have recorded the fact elsewhere that I was as averse to work as I was to study, and I had a way of avoiding it at times that was peculiarly my own. While I was still a boy in Marshalltown and before I had graduated (?) from either the State University or the college of Notre Dame, my father kept a hotel known as the Anson House. The old gentleman was at that tune the possessor of a silver watch, and to own that watch was the height of my ambition. Time and again I begged him to give it to me, but he had turned a deaf ear to my importunities. In the back yard of the hotel one day when I had been begging him for the gift harder than usual, there stood a huge pile of wood that needed splitting, and looking at this he remarked, that I could earn the watch if I chose by doing the task. He was about to take a journey at the time and I asked him if he really meant it. He replied that he did, and started away. I don't think he had any more idea of my doing the task than he had of my flying. I had some ideas of my own on the subject, however, and he was scarcely out of sight before I began to put them into execution. The larder of the hotel was well stocked, and cookies and doughnuts were as good a currency as gold and silver among boys of my acquaintance. This being the case it dawned upon my mind that I could sublet the contract, a plan than I was not long in putting into practice. Many hands make quick work, and it was not long before I had a little army of boys at work demolishing that wood pile. The chunks that were too big and hard to split we placed on the bottom, then placed the split wood over them. The task was accomplished long before the old gentleman's return, and when on the night of his arrival I took him out and showed him that such was the case he looked a bit astonished. He handed over the watch, though, and for some days afterwards as I strutted about town with it in my pocket I fancied it was as big as the town clock and wondered that everybody that I met in my travels did not stop to ask me the time of day. It was some time afterwards that my father discovered that the job had been shirked by me, and paid for with the cakes and cookies taken from his own larder, but it was then too late to say anything and I guess, if the truth were known, he chuckled to himself over the manner in which lie had been outwitted. The old gentleman seldom became very angry with me, no matter what sort of a scrape I might have gotten into, and the only time that he really gave me a good dressing down that I remember was when I had traded during his absence from home his prize gun for a Llewellyn setter. When he returned and found what I had done he was as mad as a hornet, but quieted down after I had told him that he had better go hunting with her before making so much fuss. This he did and was so pleased with the dog's behavior that he forgave me for the trick that I had played him. That the dog was worth more than the gun, the sequel proved. A man by the name of Dwight who lived down in the bottoms had given his boy instructions to kill a black-and-tan dog if he found it in the vicinity of his sheep. The lad, who did not know one dog from another, killed the setter and then the old gentleman boiled over again. He demanded pay for the dog, which was refused. Then he sued, and a jury awarded him damages to the amount of two hundred dollars, all of which goes to prove that I was even then a pretty good judge of dogs, although I had not been blessed with a bench show experience. I may state right here that my father and I were more like a couple of chums at school together than like father and son. We fished together, shot together, played ball together, poker together and I regret to say that we fought together. In the early days I got rather the worst of these arguments, but later on I managed to hold my own and sometimes to get even a shade the better of it. The old gentleman was an athlete of no mean ability. He was a crack shot, a good ball player and a man that could play a game of billiards that in those days was regarded as something wonderful for an amateur. My love of sport, therefore, came to me naturally. I inherited it, and if I have excelled in any particular branch it is because of my father's teachings. He was a square sport, and one that had no use for anything that savored of crookedness. There was nothing whatever of the Puritan in his makeup, and from my early youth he allowed me to participate in any sort of game that took my fancy. He had no idea at that time of my ever becoming a professional. Neither had I. There were but few professional sports outside of the gamblers, and even these few led a most precarious existence. I was quite an expert at billiards long before I was ever heard of as a ball player. There was a billiard table in the old Anson House and it was upon that that I practiced when I was scarcely large enough to handle a cue. It was rather a primitive piece of furniture, but it answered the purpose for which it had been designed. It was one of the old six pocket affairs, with a bass-wood bed instead of slate, and the balls sometimes went wabbling over it very much the same fashion as eggs would roll if pushed about on a kitchen table with a broomstick. In spite of having to use such poor tools I soon became quite proficient at the game and many a poor drummer was taken into camp by the long, gawky country lad at Marshalltown, whose backers were always looking about for a chance to make some easy money. Next to base-ball, billiards was at that time my favorite sport and there was not an hour in the day that I was not willing to leave anything that I might be engaged upon to take a hand in either one of these games. When it came to weeding a garden or hoeing a field of corn I was not to be relied upon, but at laying out a ball, ground I was a whole team. The public square at Marshalltown, the land for which had been donated, by my father, struck me as being an ideal place to play ball in. There were too many trees growing there, however, to make it available for the purpose. I had made up my mind to turn it into a ball ground in spite of this, and shouldering an ax one fine morning I started in. How long it took me to accomplish the purpose I had in view I have forgotten, but I know that I succeeded finely in getting the timber all out of the way. It was hard work, but you see the base-ball fever was on me and that treeless park for many a long day after was a spot hat I took great pride in. At the present time it is shaded by stately elms, while, almost in the center of its velvet lawn, flanked by cannon, stands a handsome stone courthouse that is the pride of Marshall County. Then it was ankle deep in meadow grass and surrounded by a low picket fence over which the ball was often batted, both by members of the home team and by their visitors from abroad. Many a broken window in Main Street the Anson family were responsible for in those days, but as all the owners of stores on that thoroughfare in the immediate vicinity of the grounds were base-ball enthusiasts, broken windows counted for but little so long as Marshalltown carried off the honors. CHAPTER III. SOME FACTS ABOUT THE NATIONAL GAME. Just at what particular time the base-ball fever became epidemic in Marshalltown it is difficult to say, for the reason that, unfortunately, all of the records of the game there, together with the trophies accumulated, were destroyed by a fire that swept the place in 1897, and that also destroyed all of the files of the newspapers then published there. The fever had been raging in the East many years previous to that time, however, and had gradually worked its way over the mountains and across the broad prairies until the sport had obtained a foothold in every little village and hamlet in the land. Before entering further on my experience it may be well to give here and now a brief history of the game and its origin. When and where the game first made its appearance is a matter of great uncertainty, but the general opinion of the historians seems to be that by some mysterious process of evolution it developed from the boys' game of more than a century ago, then known as "one old cat," in which there was a pitcher, a catcher, and a batter. John M. Ward, a famous base-ball player in his day, and now a prosperous lawyer in the city of Brooklyn, and the late Professor Proctor, carried on a controversy through the columns of the New York newspapers in 1888, the latter claiming that base-ball was taken from the old English game of "rounders," while Ward argued that base-ball was evolved from the boys' game, as above stated, and was distinctly an American game, he plainly proving that it had no connection whatever with "rounders." The game of base-ball probably owed its name to the fact that bases were used in making its runs, and were one of its prominent features. There seems to be no doubt that the game was played in the United States as early at least as the beginning of the present century, for Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes declared a few years ago that base-ball was one of the sports of his college days, and the autocrat of the breakfast table graduated at Harvard in 1829. Along in 1842 a number of gentlemen, residents of New York City, were in the habit of playing the game as a means of exercise on the vacant lot at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street, where Madison Square Garden now stands. In 1845 they formed themselves into a permanent organization known as the Knickerbocker Club, and drew up the first code of playing rules of the game, which were very simple as compared with the complex rules which govern the game of the present time, and which are certainly changed in such a way as to keep one busy in keeping track of them. The grounds of this parent organization were soon transferred to the Elysian Fields, at Hoboken, N. J., where the Knickerbockers played their first match game on June 19th, 1846, their opponents not being an organized club, but merely a party of gentlemen who played together frequently, and styled themselves the New York Club. The New Yorks won easily in four innings, the game in those days being won by the club first making twenty-one runs on even innings. The Knickerbockers played at Hoboken for many years, passing out of existence only in 1882. In 1853 the Olympic Club of Philadelphia was organized for the purpose of playing town-ball, a game which had some slight resemblance to base-ball. The Olympic Club, however, did not adopt the game of base-ball until 1860, and consequently cannot claim priority over the Knickerbockers, although it was one of the oldest ball-playing organizations in existence, and was disbanded only a few years ago. In New England a game of base-ball known by the distinctive title of "The New England game" was in vogue about fifty years ago. It was played with a small, light ball, which was thrown over-hand to the bat, and was different from the "New York game" as practiced by the Knickerbockers, Gotham, Eagle, and Empire Clubs of that city. The first regularly organized club in Massachusetts playing the present style of base-ball was the Olympic Club of Boston, which was established in 1854, and in the following year participated in the first match game played in that locality, its opponents being the Elm Tree team. The first match games in Philadelphia, San Francisco and Washington were played in 1860. For several years the Knickerbocker Club was alone in the field, but after a while similar clubs began to organize, while in 1857 an association was formed which the following year developed into the National Association. The series of rules prepared by a committee of the principal clubs of New York City governed all games prior to 1857, but on January 22d, 1857, a convention of clubs was held at which a new code of rules was enacted. On March 10th, 1858, delegates from twenty-five clubs of New York and Brooklyn met and organized the National Association of Base-ball Players, which for thirteen successive seasons annually revised the playing rules, and decided all disputes arising in base-ball. The first series of contests for the championship took place during 1858 and 1859. At that time the Elysian Fields, Hoboken, N. J., were the great center of base-ball playing, and here the Knickerbockers, Eagle, Gotham and Empire Clubs of New York City ruled supreme. A rival sprung up, however, in the Atlantic Club of Brooklyn, and its success led to the arrangement of a series of games between selected nines of the New York and Brooklyn Clubs in 1858. In these encounters New York proved victorious, winning the first and third games by the respective scores of 22 to 18, and 29 to 18, while Brooklyn won the second contest by 29 to 8. In October, 1861, another contest took place between the representative nines of New York and Brooklyn for the silver ball presented by the New York Clipper, and Brooklyn easily won by a score of 18 to 6. The Civil war materially affected the progress of the game in 1861, '62 and '63 and but little base-ball was played, many wielders of the bat having laid aside the ash to shoulder the musket. The Atlantic and Eckford Clubs of Brooklyn were the chief contestants for the championship in 1862, the Eckfords then wresting the championship away from the Atlantics, and retaining it also during the succeeding season, when they were credited with an unbroken succession of victories. The champion nine of the Eckford Club in 1863 were Sprague, pitcher; Beach, catcher; Roach, Wood and Duffy on the bases; Devyr, shortstop; and Manolt, Swandell and Josh Snyder in the outfield. The championship reverted back to the Atlantics in 1864, and they held the nominal title until near the close of 1867, their chief competitors being the Athletics of Philadelphia and the Mutuals of New York City. The Athletics held the nominal championship longer than any other club, and also claims the credit of not being defeated in any game played during 1864 and 1865, the feat of going through two successive seasons without a defeat being unprecedented at that time in base-ball history. The Eckfords of Brooklyn, however, went through the season of 1863 without losing a game, and the Cincinnati Reds, under the management of the late Harry Wright, accomplished a similar feat in 1869, the latter at the time meeting all of the best teams in the country, both East and West. The Atlantic's champion nine in 1864 and 1865 were Pratt, pitcher; Pearce, catcher; Stark, Crane and C. Smith, on the bases; Galvin, shortstop; and Chapman, P. O'Brien and S. Smith in the outfield. Frank Norton caught during the latter part of the season and Pearce played shortstop. The Athletics in 1866 played all of the strongest clubs in the country and were only twice defeated, once by the Atlantics of Brooklyn, and once by the Unions of Morrisania. The first game between the Atlantics and Athletics for the championship took place October 1st, 1866, in Philadelphia, the number of people present inside and outside the inclosed grounds being estimated as high as 30,000, it being the largest attendance known at the baseball game up to that time. Inside the inclosure the crowd was immense, and packed so close there was no room for the players to field. An attempt was made, however, to play the game, but one inning was sufficient to show that it was impossible, and after a vain attempt to clear the field both parties reluctantly consented to a postponement. The postponed game was played October 22d, in Philadelphia. The price of tickets was placed at one dollar and upwards, and two thousand people paid the "steep" price of admission, the highest ever charged for mere admission to the grounds, while five or six thousand more witnessed the game from the surrounding embankment. Rain and darkness obliged the umpire to call the game at the end of the second inning, the victory remaining with the Athletics, by the decisive totals of 31 to 12. A dispute about the gate money prevented the playing of the decisive game of the season. The Unions of Morrisiana, by defeating the Atlantics in two out of three games in the latter part of the season of 1867, became entitled to the nominal championship, which during the next two seasons was shifted back and forth between the leading clubs of New York and Brooklyn. The Athletics in 1868, and the Cincinnatis in 1869, had, however, the best records of their respective seasons, and were generally acknowledged as the virtual champions. The Athletics of Philadelphia in 1866 had McBride, pitcher; Dockney, catcher; Berkenstock, Reach and Pike on the bases; Wilkins, shortstop; and Sensenderfer, Fisler and Kleinfelder in the outfield. Their nine presented few changes during the next two seasons, Dockney, Berkenstock and Pike giving way to Radcliff, Cuthbert and Berry in 1867, and Schafer taking Kleinfelder's place in 1868. The Cincinnati nine in 1869 were Brainard, pitcher; Allison, catcher; Gould, Sweasy and Waterman on the bases; George Wright, shortstop, and Leonard, Harry Wright and McVey in the outfield. In 1868 the late Frank Queen, proprietor and editor of the New York Clipper, offered a series of prizes to be contested for by the leading clubs of the country, a gold ball being offered for the champion club, and a gold badge to the player in each position, from catcher to right field, who had the best batting average. The official award gave the majority of the prizes to the Athletic club. McBride, Radcliff, Fisler, Reach and Sensenderfer, having excelled in their respective positions of pitcher, catcher, first base, second base, and center field. Waterman, Hatfield and Johnson, of the Cincinnatis, excelled in the positions of third base, left field and right field, and George Wright of the Unions, of Morrisiania as shortstop. The gold ball was also officially awarded to the Athletics as the emblem of championship for the season of 1868. The Atlantics of Brooklyn were virtually the champions of 1870, being the first club to deprive the Cincinnati Reds of the prestige of invincibility which had marked their career during the preceding season. The inaugural contest between these clubs in 1870 took place June 14th on the Capitoline grounds at Brooklyn, N. Y., the Atlantics then winning by a score of 8 to 7 after an exciting struggle of eleven innings. The return game was played September 2d, in Cincinnati, Ohio, and resulted in a decisive victory for the Reds, by a score of 14 to 3. This necessitated a third or decisive game, which was played in Philadelphia October 6th, and this the Atlantics won by a score of 11 to 7. The Atlantics in that year had Zettlein, pitcher; Ferguson, catcher; Start, Pike and Smith on the bases; Pearce, shortstop, and Chapman, Hall and McDonald on the outfield. The newspapers throughout the country had by this time begun to pay unusual attention to the game, and the craze was spreading like wildfire all over the country, every little country town boasting of its nine, and as these were for the greater part made up of home players, local feeling ran high, and the doings of "our team" furnished the chief subject of conversation at the corner grocery, and wherever else the citizens were wont to congregate. With the advent of the professional player the game in the larger towns took on a new lease of life, but in the smaller places where they could not afford the expense necessary to the keeping of a first-class team it ceased to be the main attraction and interest was centered in the doings of the teams of the larger places. That the professional player improved the game itself goes without saying as being a business with him instead of a pastime, and one upon which his daily bread depended, he went into it with his whole soul, developing its beauties in a way that was impossible to the amateur who could only give to it the time that he could spare after the business hours of the day. This was the situation at the time that I first entered tile base-ball arena, and, looking back, when I come to compare the games of those days with the games of to-day and note the many changes that have taken place, I cannot but marvel at the improvement made and at the interest that the game has everywhere excited. CHAPTER IV. FURTHER FACTS AND FIGURES. The professional player of those early days and the professional player of the present time were totally different personages. When professionalism first crept into the ranks it was generally the custom to import from abroad some player who had made a name for himself, playing some certain position, and furnish him with a business situation so that his services might be called for when needed, and so strong was the local pride taken in the success of the team that business men were not averse to furnishing such a man with a position when they were informed that it would be for the good of the home organization. Prior to the year 1868 the professional was, comparatively speaking, an unknown quantity on the ball field, though it may be set down here as a fact that on more than one occasion previous to that time "the laborer had been found worthy of his hire," even in base-ball, though that matter had been kept a secret as far as possible, even in the home circle. Up to the year mentioned the rules of the National Association had prohibited the employment of any paid player in a club nine, but at that time so strong had the rivalry become between the leading clubs of the principal cities that the practice of compensating players had become more honored in the breach than in the observance and the law was practically a dead letter so far as these clubs were concerned. The growth of the professional class of players, and the consequent inequality in strength between these and the amateur players made a distinction necessary and in 1871 the National Association split up, the professional clubs forming an association of their own. The first series of championship games under a regular official code of rules was then established, and since then the contests for the professional championship have been the events of each season's play. The first convention of delegates from avowedly professional clubs was held March 17th, 1871, in New York City, and a code of rules were then adopted, the principal clause being the one suggested by the Athletic Club of Philadelphia, to the effect that the championship should belong to the club which won the greatest number of games in a series of five with every other contesting club. The professional Association thus organized consisted of the following clubs: Athletics of Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago, Forest Citys of Cleveland, Forest Citys of Rockford, Haymakers of Troy, Kekiongas of Fort Wayne, Mutuals of New York' City, and Olympics of Washington. The Eckford Club of Brooklyn entered the Association about the middle of the season, but its games were not counted. The Kekiongas disbanded in July, but their games were thrown out. That season marked my advent on the diamond as a professional, I being a member of the Forest Citys of Rockford; so it can readily be seen that I was among the first of the men in America who made of base-ball playing a business. The additions to the Association in 1872 were the Atlantic and Eckford of Brooklyn, Baltimore, National of Washington, and Mansfield of Middletown, Conn., the last mentioned, however, disbanding before the close of the championship season. The Forest Citys of Rockford did not enter the arena that year, but I was "still in the ring," having transferred my services to the Athletics of Philadelphia, where I remained until the formation of the National League in 1876. In 1875 the Athletics had a rival in the new Philadelphia club; the Maryland of Baltimore and the Resolute of Elizabeth, N. J., also entering the championship arena. The Forest City of Cleveland and the Eckford of Brooklyn dropped out after 1872, and the two Washington clubs were consolidated. The Chicago club, which had been broken up by the great fire of 1871 and had been out of existence in 1872 and 1873, again entered the Association in 1874, when Hartford was for the first time represented by a professional club. The Washington, Resolute and the Maryland Clubs were not members of the Association in that year. Thirteen professional clubs competed for the championship in 1875, the St. Louis team being the only one of the new entries that did not disband before the season closed. This was the last season of the Professional Association, it being superseded by the National League, an organization which still exists, though it lacks the brains and power that carried it on to success in, its earlier days, this being notably the case in Chicago and New York, where the clubs representing these cities have gone down the toboggan slide with lightning-like rapidity. In this connection the names of the teams winning the Professional Association championships, together with the players composing them are given: 1871. Athletic, McBride, pitcher; Malone, catcher; Fisler, Reach and Meyerle on the bases; Radcliffe, shortstop; Cuthbert, Senserderfer and Heubel in the outfield, and Bechtel and Pratt, substitutes. 1872, Boston, Spalding, pitcher; McVey, catcher; Gould, Barnes and Schafer on the bases; George Wright, shortstop; Leonard, Harry Wright and Rogers, in the outfield; and Birdsall and Ryan, substitutes. 1873. Boston, Spalding, pitcher; Jas. White, catcher; Jas. O'Rourke, Barnes and Schafer on the bases; George Wright, shortstop; Leonard, Harry Wright and Manning in the outfield; and Birdsall and Sweasey, substitutes. Addy took Manning's place in the latter part of the season. 1874. Boston, Spalding, pitcher; McVey, catcher; White, Barnes and Schafer on the bases; George Wright, shortstop; Leonard, Hall and Jas. O'Rourke in the outfield; and Harry Wright and Beal, substitutes. 1875. Boston, Spalding, pitcher; Jas. White, catcher; McVey, Barnes and Schafer on the Bases; George Wright, shortstop; Leonard, Jas. O'Rourke and Manning in the outfield, and Harry Wright and Beal, substitutes. Heifert and Latham each played first base during part of the season. It will thus be seen that the Boston Club held the championship in those early days for four successive seasons, and playing against them as I did I can bear witness to their strength and skill as ball players. Many of the men, who like myself were among the first to enter the professional ranks in those days, have achieved distinction in the business world, the notables among them being A. G. Spalding, now head of the largest sporting goods house in the world, with headquarters in Chicago; George Wright, who is the head of a similar establishment at Boston, and Al Reach, who is engaged in the same line of business at Philadelphia, while others, not so successful, have managed to earn a living outside of the arena, and others still, have crossed "the great divide" leaving behind them little save a memory and a name. In those early days of the game the rules required a straight arm delivery, and the old-time pitchers found it a difficult matter to obtain speed save by means of an underhand throw or jerk of the ball. Creighton, of the Excelsiors of Brooklyn, however, with his unusually swift pitching puzzled nearly all of the opposing teams as early as 1860. Sprague developed great speed, according to the early chroniclers of the game, while with the Eckford Club of the same city in 1863, and Tom Pratt and McBride of the Athletics were also among the first of the old-time pitchers to attain speed in their delivery. About 1865, Martin pitched a slow and deceptive drop ball, it being a style of delivery peculiarly his own, and one I have never seen used by any one else, though Cunningham of Louisville uses it to a certain extent. The greatest change ever made in the National Game was the introduction of what is known as curve pitching, followed as it was several seasons afterwards by the removal of all restrictions on the method of delivering the ball to the batter. Arthur, known under the sobriquet of "Candy," Cummings of Brooklyn is generally conceded to have been the first to introduce curve pitching, which he did about 1867 or 1868. Mount, the pitcher of the Princeton College and Avery of Yale are accredited with using the curve about 1875, but Mathews of the New York Mutuals and Nolan of the Indianapolis team were among the first of the professional pitchers, after Cummings, to become proficient in its use, which was generally adopted in 1877, and to the skill acquired by both of these men in handling of the ball I can testify by personal experience, having had to face them, bat in hand, on more than one occasion. Many people, including prominent scientists, were for a long time loth to believe that a ball could be curved in the air, but they were soon satisfied by practical tests, publicly made, as to the truth of the matter. With the doing away with the restrictions that governed the methods of the pitcher's delivery of the ball and the introduction of the curve the running up of large scores in the game became an impossibility, and the batsman was placed at a decided disadvantage. Reading over the scores of some of those old-time games in the present day one becomes lost in wonder when he thinks of the amount of foot-racing, both around the bases and chasing the ball, that was indulged in by those players of a past generation. Here are some sample performances taken from a history of base-ball, compiled by Al Wright of New York and published in the Clipper Annual of 1891, which go to illustrate the point in question. The largest number of runs ever made by a club in a game was by the Niagara Club of Buffalo, N. Y., June 8th, 1869, when they defeated the Columbias of that city by the remarkable score of 209 to 10, two of the Niagaras scoring twenty-five runs each, and the least number of runs, scored by any one batsman amounted to twenty. Fifty-eight runs were made in the eighth inning and only three hours were occupied in amassing this mammoth total. Just think of it! Such a performance as that in these days would be a sheer impossibility, and that such is the case the base-ball players should be devoutly thankful, and, mind you, this performance was made by an amateur team and not by a team of professionals. One hundred runs and upward have been scored in a game no less than twenty-five times, the Athletics of Philadelphia accomplishing this feat nine times in 1865 and 1866, and altogether being credited with scores of 162, 131, 119, 118, 114, 114, 110, 107, 106, 104, 101, and 101. On October 20th, 1865, the Athletics defeated the Williamsport Club by 101 to 8 in the morning, and the Alerts of Danville, Pa., by 162 to 11 in the afternoon. Al Reach in these two games alone scored thirty-four runs. It strikes me that the ball players of those days earned their salaries even if they did not get them, no matter what other folks may think about it. In 1867, a game was played in which, the losers made 91 runs and the winning club 123, of which 51 were made in the last inning. The Chicagos defeated the Memphis team May 13th, 1870, by a score of 157 to 1, and the Forest City Club of Cleveland four days later beat a local team 132 to 1, only five innings being played. The Forest Citys made in these five innings no fewer than 101 safe hits, with a total of 180 bases, this being an unequalled record. The Unions of Morrisiania were credited with 100 safe hits in a nine-inning game in 1866. The largest score on record by professional clubs was made by the Atlantics of Brooklyn and the Athletics of Philadelphia July 5th, 1869, when the former won by 51 to 48. Fifteen thousand people paid admission to the Capitoline Grounds, Brooklyn, where the game was played, and the Atlantics made six home runs and the Athletics three during its progress. The greatest number of runs in an inning in a first-class game was scored by the Atlantics of Brooklyn in a match with the New York Mutuals, October 16th, 1861, when they scored 26 runs in their third inning. George Wright umpired a game between amateur clubs in Washington, D. C., in 1867, in which the winners made 68 runs in an inning, the largest total ever made. The most one-sided contest between first class clubs was that between the Mutuals and Chicagos June 14th, 1874, when the former won by 38 to 1, the Chicagos making only two safe hits. The greatest number of home runs in any one game was credited to the Athletics of Philadelphia, September 30th, 1865, when they made twenty-five against the National Club of Jersey City, Reach, Kleinfelder and Potter each having five home runs to their credit on this occasion. The same club was credited with nineteen home runs May 9th, 1866, while playing an amateur club at New Castle, Delaware. Harry Wright, while playing with the Cincinnatis against the Holt Club June 22d, 1867, at Newport, Ky., made seven home runs, the largest number ever scored by any individual player in a game, though "Lip" Pike followed closely, he making six home runs, five in succession, for the Athletics against the Alerts, July 16th, 1866, in Philadelphia. These were, as a matter of course, exceptional performances, and ones that would be impossible in these days of great speed and curve pitching, but serve to show that there were ball players, and good ones, even in those days when the National Game was as yet, comparatively speaking, in its infancy, and the National League, of the formation and progress of which I will speak later on as yet unheard of. It must be remembered that, the greater number of these old-time games were not played upon enclosed grounds and that the batter in many cases had no fences to prevent him from lining them out, while the pitcher was so hampered by rules and regulations as to give the batsman every advantage, while now it is the pitcher that enjoys a wide latitude and the batsman who is hampered. It was a much easier matter to hit the old underhand delivery, with its straight ball, and to send the pigskin screaming through the air and over a low picket fence, than to hit the swift curved ball of to-day and lift it over the high board fences that surround the professional grounds, as any old-time player can testify. CHAPTER V. THE GAME AT MARSHALLTOWN. If my memory serves me rightly it was some time in the year 1866 that the Marshalltown Base-Ball Club, of which my father was a prominent member, sprung into existence, and among the men who made up the team at that time were many who have since become prominent in the history not only of Marshalltown but of Marshall County as well, among them being Captain Shaw, Emmett Green, A. B. Cooper, S. R. Anson and the old gentleman himself, it being owing to my father's exertions that Marshalltown acquired the county seat, and he has since served the town as both Mayor and Councilman and seen it grow from a single log cabin to a prosperous city. Prior to the organization of this team base-ball had been played there in a desultory fashion for some time, but with its formation the fever broke out in its most virulent form, and it was not many weeks before the entire town had gone base-ball crazy, the fever seemingly attacking everybody in the place save the baby in arms, which doubtless escaped merely because of its extreme youth and lack of understanding. In the absence of any records relating to those early days it is impossible for me to say just who, the Marshalltown team beat and who it did not, but I do know that long before I became a member of it and while I was still playing with the second nine, which went by the name of the "Stars," the team enjoyed a ball-playing reputation second to none in the State and the doings of "our team" every week occupied a conspicuous place in the columns of the local papers, the editors of which might have been seen enjoying the sport and occupying a front seat on the grass at every game, with note book in hand recording each and every play in long-hand, for the score book which has since made matters so easy for the game's chroniclers had not then been perfected and the club's official scorer kept a record of the tallies made by means of notches cut with his jack-knife in a stick provided for the occasion. Prior to June, 1867, the Marshalltown team had acquired for itself a reputation that extended throughout the length and breadth of the State, and at Waterloo, where a tournament was given, they had beaten everything that came against them. In a tournament given at Belle Plaine in either that year or the next they put in an appearance to contest for a silk flag given by the ladies of that town, but so great was the respect that they inspired that the other visiting clubs refused to play against them unless they were given the odds of six put-outs as against the regular three. This was handicapping with a vengeance, but even at these odds the Marshalltown aggregation was too much for its competitors and the flag was brought home in triumph, where, as may be imagined, a great reception awaited the players, the whole town turning out en masse to do them honor. There was nothing too good for the ball players of those days and they were made much of wherever they chose to go. A card of invitation that recently came into my possession and that illustrates this fact, reads as follows: Empire Base Ball Club. Yourself and lady are cordially invited to attend a Social Party at Lincoln Hall, on Thursday Evening, June 27, 1867, given under the auspices of the Empire Base Ball Club of Waterloo, complimentary to their guests, the Marshalltown B. B. C. While this aggregation of home talent was busily engaged in acquiring fame but not fortune let no one think for a moment that I was overlooking my opportunities, even though I were only a member of the second nine. On the contrary, I was practicing early and late, and if I had any great ambition it was to play in the first nine, and with this end in view I neglected even my meals in order that I might become worthy of the honor. My father was as enthusiastic over the game as I was myself and during the long summer seasons the moment that we had swallowed our supper, or, rather, bolted it, he and I would betake ourselves to the ball grounds, where we would practice until the gathering darkness put a stop to our playing. My brother Sturgis, who was also a member of the team, was not so enthusiastic over base-ball as were my father and myself, and he would finish his supper in a leisurely fashion before following us to the grounds. He was far above the average as a player, however, and excelled both as a thrower and a batsman. I have seen him on more than one occasion throw a ball a distance of from 125 to 130 yards, and in a game that was played at Omaha, Neb., he is credited with making the longest hit ever seen there, the old-timers declaring that he knocked the ball out of sight, which must be true, because nobody was ever able to find it. It was some time after the tournaments at Belle Plaine and Waterloo before I was promoted to the dignity of a first-niner, and then it was due to the solicitation of my father, who declared that I played as good ball as anybody in the team, even if I was "only a kid." If ever there was a proud youngster I was one at that particular time, and I think I justified the old gentleman's good opinion of me by playing fairly good ball, at least many of my friends were good enough to tell me so. With my father playing third base, my brother playing center field and myself playing second base the Anson family was pretty well represented on that old Marshalltown nine, and as the team held the State championship for several years the Anson trio must at least have done their share of the playing. It was while I was away at Notre Dame that misfortune came to Marshalltown. The Des Moines Club challenged for the flag and the home team accepted the defy. The Des Moines organization was then one of the strongest in the State. The game was played at Marshalltown, and to the horror and astonishment of the good people of that town, who had come to look upon their club as invincible, Des Moines won, and when they went back to the State capital they took the emblem of the championship with them. This emblem I determined the town should have back, and immediately upon my return from the Indiana College I organized a nine and challenged for the trophy. That team was made up as follows: Kenny Williams, pitcher; Emmett Green, catcher; A. B. Cooper, A. C. Anson and Henry Anson on the bases; Pete Hoskins, shortstop; Sam Sager, Sturgis Anson and Milton Ellis in the outfield; A. J. Cooper, substitute. We had the best wishes of the town with us when we departed for Des Moines and were accompanied by quite a delegation of the townspeople who were prepared to wager to some extent on our success. The game was played in the presence of a big crowd and when we came back to Marshalltown the flag came with us and there it remained until, with the other trophies that the club had accumulated, it went up in smoke. The night of our return there was "a hot time in the old town," and had there been any keys to the city I am pretty certain that we would have been presented with them. The fame of the Forest City Club of Rockford, one of the first professional clubs to be organized in the West, had been blown across the prairies until it reached Marshalltown, so when they came through Iowa on an exhibition tour after the close of their regular season we arranged for a game with them. They had been winning all along the line by scores that mounted up all the way from 30 to 100 to 1, and while we did not expect to beat them, yet we did expect to give them a better run than they had yet had for their money since the close of the professional season. The announcement of the Rockford Club's visit naturally excited an intense amount of interest all through that section of the country and when the day set for the game arrived the town was crowded with visitors from all parts of the State. Accompanying the Forest Citys was a large delegation of Chicago sporting men, who had come prepared to wager their money that the Marshalltown aggregation would be beaten by a score varying all the way from 8 to 20 to 1, and they found a good many takers among the townspeople who had seen us play and who had a lot of confidence in our ability to hold the visitor's score down to a low figure. Upon the result of the game A. G. Spalding, who was the pitcher for the Forest Citys, alleges that my father wagered a cow, but this the old gentleman indignantly denies, and he further declares that not a single wager of any sort was made by any member of the team. Be this as it may, one thing is certain, and that is that the game was witnessed by one of the largest crowds that had ever gathered around a ball ground in Marshalltown, and we felt that we had every reason to feel elated when at the end of the ninth inning the score stood at 18 to 3 in their favor. So disgusted were the visitors and their followers over the showing that we had made in spite of their best endeavors that they at once proceeded to arrange another game for the next day, cancelling another date ahead in order to do so. Speaking of this second game my father says: "The rules of the game at that time made the playing of a 'Ryan dead ball' compulsory, and this it was the province of the home club to furnish, and this was the sort of a ball that was played with the first day. To bat such a ball as this to any great distance was impossible and our fielders were placed well in for the second game, just as they had been in the first, but we soon discovered that the balls were going far beyond us, and on noting their positions when our turn to bat came we found their fielders placed much further out than on the day before. My first impression was that the great flights taken by the ball were due to the tremendous batting, but later on I became convinced that there was something wrong with the ball, and called for time to investigate the matter. "On questioning our unsophisticated management I discovered that the visitors had generously (?) offered to furnish the ball for the second game, as we had furnished the ball for the first, and had been allowed to do so. We later learned that they had skinned the liveliest kind of a 'Bounding Rock' and re-covered it with a 'Ryan Dead Ball' cover. This enabled them to get ahead at the start, but after we had learned of the deception we held them down so close that they won back but a very small share of the money that they had lost on the game of the day before, though they beat us by a score of 35 to 5. "Let me say right here, too, that the visitors had their own umpire with them, and he was allowed to umpire the game. He let Al Spalding do about as he pleased, and pitch as many balls as he wished without calling them, and once when I was at the bat and he could not induce me to hit at the wild ones that he was sending in he fired a vicious one straight in my direction, when, becoming irritated in my turn, I dropped the bat and walked out in his direction with a view of administering a little proper punishment to the frisky gentleman. He discovered what was coming, however, and meekly crawled back, piteously begging pardon and declaring it all a mistake. There was one result of the game, however, which was that when the Rockford people were organizing a professional nine they wrote to Marshalltown and tried to secure the whole Anson family, and Adrian, who was still only a boy, was allowed to sign with them, I retaining his older brother at home to aid me in my business." I am inclined to think that the old gentleman is mistaken in the substitution of a "Bounding Rock" for a "Ryan Dead Ball" in that game, although I do remember that the stitching was different from anything that we had ever seen before, and it may be that we were fooled as he has stated. If so the trick was certainly a clever one. That same fall Sager and Haskins were engaged by the Rockford team, and I have always thought that it was due to the representations made by them that I was engaged to play with the Forest Citys the following season. I signed with them for a salary of sixty-six dollars a month, which was then considered a fairly good salary for a ball player, and especially one who was only eighteen years old and a green country lad at that. All that winter Sager and I practiced as best we could in the loft of my father's barn and I worked as hard as I knew how in order to become proficient in the ball-playing art. Before saying farewell to Marshalltown and its ball players let me relate a most ludicrous incident that took place there some time before my departure. A feeling of most intense rivalry in the base-ball line existed between Des Moines and Clinton, Iowa, and one time when the former had a match on with the latter I received an offer of fifty dollars from the Clinton team to go on there and play with them in a single game. Now fifty dollars at that time was more money than I had ever had at any one time in my life, and so without consulting any one I determined to accept the offer. I knew that I would be compelled to disguise myself in order to escape recognition either by members of the Des Moines team or by some of the spectators, and this I proceeded to do by dying my hair, staining my skin, etc. I did not think that my own father could recognize me, when I completed my preparations and started to the depot to take the train for Des Moines, but that was where I made a mistake. The old gentleman ran against me on the platform, penetrated my disguise at once and asked me where I was going. I told him, and then he remarked that I should do no such thing, and he started me back home in a hurry. When he got there he gave me a lecture, told me that such a proceeding on my part was not honest and would ruin my reputation. In fact, he made me thoroughly ashamed of myself. The team from Clinton had to get along without my services, but I shall never forget what a time I had in getting the dye out of my hair and the stain from my skin. That fifty dollars that I didn't get bothered me, too, for a long time afterwards. I am glad now, however, that the old gentleman prevented me getting it. Dishonesty does not pay in base-ball any better than it does in any other business, and that I learned the lesson early in life is a part of my good fortune. CHAPTER VI. MY EXPERIENCE AT ROCKFORD. I can remember almost as well as if it were but yesterday my first experience as a ball player at Rockford. It was early in the spring, and so cold that a winter overcoat was comfortable. I had been there but a day or two when I received orders from the management to report one afternoon at the ball grounds for practice. It was a day better fitted for telling stories around a blazing fire than for playing ball, but orders were orders, and I obeyed them. I soon found that it was to test my qualities as a batsman that I had been ordered to report. A bleak March wind blew across the enclosure, and as I doffed my coat and took my stand at the plate I shivered as though suffering from the ague. This was partially from the effects of the cold and partially from the effects of what actors call stage fright, and I do not mind saying right now that the latter had more than the former to do with it. You must remember that I was "a stranger in a strange land," a "kid" both as to years and experience, with a knowledge that my future very largely depended upon the showing that I might make. Facing me was "Cherokee Fisher," one of the swiftest of the old-time underhand pitchers, a man that I had heard a great deal about, but whom I had never before seen, while watching my every move from the stand were the directors of the team, conspicuous among them being Hiram Waldo, whose judgment in base-ball matters was at that time second to no man's in the West, and a man that I have always been proud to call my friend. I can remember now that I had spent some considerable time in selecting a bat and that I was wondering in my own mind whether I should be able to hit the ball or not. Finally Fisher began sending them in with all the speed for which he was noted. I let a couple go by and then I slammed one out in the right field, and with that first hit my confidence came back to me. From that time on I batted Fisher successfully, but the most of my hits were to the right field, owing to the fact that I could not at that time successfully gauge his delivery, which was much swifter than anything that I had ever been up against. In after years a hit to right field was considered "the proper caper," and the man who could line a ball out in that direction at the proper time was looked upon as a most successful batsman. It was to their ability in that line of hitting that the Bostons for many years owed their success in winning the championship, though it took some time for their rivals in the base-ball arena to catch on to that fact. After that time I was informed by Mr. Waldo that I was "all right," and as you may imagine this assurance coming from his lips was a most welcome one, as it meant at that time a great deal to me, a fact that, young as I was, I thoroughly appreciated. The make-up of the Rockford Club that season was as follows: Hastings, catcher; Fisher, pitcher; Fulmer, shortstop; Mack, first base; Addy, second base; Anson, third base; Ham, left fielder; Bird center fielder; and Stires, right fielder; Mayer, substitute. This was a fairly strong organization for those days, and especially so when the fact is taken into consideration that Rockford was but a little country town then and the smallest place in size of any in the country that sup-ported a professional league team, and that the venture was never a paying one is scarcely to be wondered at. To be sure, it was a good base-ball town of its size, but it was not large enough to support an expensive team, and for that reason it dropped out of the arena after the season of 1871 was over, it being unable to hold its players at the salaries that it could then afford to pay. There were several changes in the make-up of the team before the season was over, but the names of the players as I have given them were those whose averages were turned in by the Official Scorer of the league at the end of the season, they having all, with one exception, played in twenty-five games, that exception being Fulmer, who participated in but sixteen. I led the team that season both in batting and fielding, as is shown by the following table, a table by the way that is hardly as complete as the tables of these latter days: Players. Games Avg base hits Avg put out Avg assisted Anson, 3d b 25 1.64 2.27 3.66 Mack, 1st b 25 1.20 11. 0.44 Addy, 2d b 25 1.20 2.72 3.33 Fisher, p 25 1.20 1.16 1.88 Stires, r f 25 1.20 1.27 0.33 Hastings, c 25 1.12 3.33 0.83 Ham, l f 25 1.00 1.50 0.55 Bird, c f 25 1.00 1.66 0.11 Fulmer, s s 16 1.00 2.35 3.57 These averages, in my estimation, are hardly to be relied upon, as changes in the personnel of the team were often made without due notice being given, while the system of scoring was faulty and not near so perfect as at the present writing. This was not the fault of their compiler, however who was obliged to take the figures given him by the club scorer, a man more or less incompetent, as the case might be. Before the regular season began my time at Rockford was mostly spent in practice, so that I was in fairly good shape when the day arrived for me to make my professional debut on the diamond. My first game was played on the home grounds the Rockford team having for its opponent the Forest City Club of Cleveland, Ohio, a fairly strong organization and one that that season finished fourth on the list for championship honors, the Athletics of Philadelphia carrying off the prize. I had looked forward to this game with fear and misgivings, and my feelings were by no means improved when I was informed that owing to the non-arrival of Scott Hastings, the regular catcher, I was expected to fill that responsible position, one to which I was a comparative stranger. There was nothing to do but to make the best of the situation, however, and this I did, though I can truthfully say that for the first five innings I was as nervous as a kitten. We were beaten that day by a score of 12 to 4, and though I had a few passed balls to my credit, yet on the whole I believe that, everything considered, I played a fairly good game; at least I have been told so by those who were in a better position to judge than I was. With that first game my nervousness all passed away, and I settled down to play a steady game, which I did all through the season. As I have said, however, the Rockford team was not a strong one, and of the thirty-two record games in which we engaged we won but thirteen, our winning scores being as follows: May 17th, at Rockford, Rockford 15, Olympics of Washington 12; May 23, at Fort Wayne, Rockford 17, Kekionga 13; June 5th, at Philadelphia, Rockford 11, Athletic 10; June 15th, at Philadelphia, Rockford 10, Athletics 7; July 5th, at Rockford, Rockford 29, Chicago 14; July 31st, at Rockford, Rockford 18, Mutual 5; August 3d, at Rockford, Rockford 4, Kekionga 0 (forfeited); August 7th, at Chicago, Rockford 16, Chicago 7; August 8th, at Chicago, Rockford 12, Cleveland 5; September 1st, at Brooklyn, Rockford 39, Athletics 5; September 2d, at Brooklyn, Rockford 14, Eckford 9; September 5th, at Troy, Rockford 15, Haymakers 5; September 16th, at Cleveland, Rockford 19, Cleveland 12. In the final revision many of these games were thrown out for one reason and another, so that in the official guides for that year the Rockford Club is credited with only six games won and is given the last position in the championship race, several of the games with the Athletics being among those declared forfeited. I learned more of the world that season with the Rockfords than I had ever known before. Prior to that time my travels had been confined to the trips away to school and to some of the towns adjacent to Marshalltown, and outside of these I knew but little. With the Rockford team, however, I traveled all over the East and West and learned more regarding the country I lived in and its wonderful resources than I could have learned by going to school for the half of a lifetime. The Rockford management treated the players in those days very nicely. We traveled in sleeping cars and not in the ordinary day coaches as did many of the players, and though we were obliged to sleep two in a berth we did not look upon this as an especial hardship as would the players of these latter days, many of whom are inclined to grumble because they cannot have the use of a private stateroom on their travels. I made acquaintances, too, in all parts of the country that were invaluable to me in after days, and though I had not finished sowing my wild oats I think the folly of it all had begun to dawn on my mind as I saw player after player disappear from the arena, the majority of them being men who had given promise of being shining lights in the base-ball world. Of the men who played with me at Rockford but few remained in the profession, and these but for a season or two, after which they drifted into other lines of business. Bob Addy, who was one of the best of the lot, was a good, hard hustling player, a good base runner and a hard hitter. He was as honest as the day is long and the last that I heard of him he was living out in Oregon, where he was engaged in running a tin shop. He was an odd sort of a genius and quit the game because he thought he could do better at something else. "Cherokee" Fisher was originally a Philadelphian, but after the disbandment of the Rockford Club he came to Chicago, securing a place in the Fire Department, where he still runs with the machine. He was a good man in his day and ranked high as a pitcher. Charles Fulmer was a fair average player. He, too, drifted out of the game in the early '70s, and the last that I knew of him he was a member of the Board of Aldermen in the Quaker City. Scott Hastings, the regular catcher, was a fair all-around player, but by no means a wonder. After he left Rockford he went to Chicago, where he was employed for a time in a wholesale clothing house. He is now, or was at last accounts, in San Francisco and reported as being worth a comfortable sum of money. The other members of the old team I have lost sight of and whether they are living or dead I cannot say. They were a good-hearted, jovial set of fellows, as a rule, and my association with them was most pleasant, as was also my relations with the Rockford management, who could not have treated me better had I been a native son, and to whom I am indebted for much both in the way of good advice and encouraging words; and let me say right here that nothing does so much good to a young player as a few words of approbation spoken in the right way and at the right time. It braces him up, gives him needed confidence in himself, and goes a long way further toward making him a first-class player than does continual fault-finding. It had been an understood thing, at least so far as the old gentleman was concerned, when he gave his consent to my playing with Rockford for a season, that I should at the end of it return home and resume my studies, but fate ordained otherwise. Several times during the season I was approached by members of the Athletic Club management with offers to play as a member of their team the next season, that of 1872, and they finally offered me the sum of $1,250 per annum for my services. This was much better than I was doing at Rockford, and vet I was reluctant to leave the little Illinois town, where I had made my professional debut, and where I had hosts of friends. When the end of the season came and the Rockford people offered to again sign me et the same old figures I told them frankly of the Philadelphia offer, but at the same time offered to again sign with Rockford, providing that they would raise my salary to $100 per month. The club had not made its expenses and they were not even certain that they would place a professional team in the arena during the next season. This they told me and also that they could not afford to pay the sum I asked for my services, and so without consulting the folks at Marshalltown I appended my name to a Philadelphia contract, and late in the fall bade good-by to Rockford and its ball players, turning my face towards the City of Brotherly Love, where I played ball with the Athletics until the formation of the National League in 1876, and it was not until five years had elapsed that I revisited my old home in Marshalltown, taking a bride with me. CHAPTER VII. WITH THE ATHLETICS OF PHILADELPHIA. The winter of 1871 and 1872 I spent in Philadelphia, where I put in my time practicing in the gymnasium, playing billiards and taking in the sights of a great city. The whirligig of time had in the meantime made a good many changes in the membership of the Professional League, for in spite of the fact that 1871 had been the most prosperous year in the history of base-ball, up to that time, many clubs had fallen by the wayside, their places in the ranks being taken by new-comers, and that several of these were unable to weather the storms of 1872 because of a lack of financial support is now a matter of history. Conspicuous among the absentees when the season opened was the Chicago Club, which had been broken up by the great fire that swept over the Queen of the Inland Seas in October of 1871, and not then reorganized; the Forest City of Rockford, the Kekiongas of Fort Wayne, and several others. At the opening of the regular playing season the League numbered eleven members, as follows: Boston, of Boston, Mass.; Baltimore, of Baltimore, Md.; Mutuals, of New York; Athletics, of Philadelphia; Troy, of Troy, N. Y.; Atlantic, of Brooklyn; Cleveland, of Cleveland, Ohio; Mansfield, of Mansfield, Ohio; Eckford, of Brooklyn; and Olympic and National, both of Washington, D. C. Of these eleven clubs but six finished the season, the others falling out, either because of bad management or a lack of financial support, these six being the Athletic, Baltimore, Boston, Mutual, Atlantic and Eckford teams. The first four of these were regularly salaried clubs, while the two last were co-operative concerns. The make-up of the Athletics that season was as follows: Malone, catcher; McBride, pitcher; Mack, first base; Fisler, second base; Anson, third base; McGeary, shortstop; Cuthbert, left field; Tracey, center field; and Meyerle, right field. Outside of the Bostons this was the strongest team that had yet appeared on the diamond. It was even stronger than the team that represented the Hub in some respects, though not equal to them as a whole, the latter excelling at team work, which then, as now, proved one of the most important factors in winning a championship. That the Athletics were particularly strong at the bat is shown by the fact that six of their players that season figure among the first eleven on the batting list, the Bostons coming next with three, and the Baltimore third. In some of the games that we played that season the fielders had a merry time of it and found at least plenty of exercise in chasing the ball. In the first games that I played with the Athletics, our opponents being the Baltimores, the fielders did not have 'a picnic by any means, the score standing at 34 to 19 at the end of the game, and this in spite of the fact that the ball used was a "dead one." During the entire season and not counting exhibition games we played forty-six games, of which we won thirty and lost sixteen, while the Bostons, who carried off the championship, took part in fifty-nine games, of which they won 38 and lost 11. Figuring in twenty-eight championship games, I finished fourth on the list of batsmen, with forty-seven base-hits to my credit, an average of 1.67 to the game, a performance that I was at that time very proud of and that I am not ashamed of even at this late date. The season of 1873 saw some changes in the make-up of the Athletics, the nine that season being made up as follows: McGeary, catcher; McBride, pitcher; Murnane, first base; Fisler, second base; Fulton, third base; Anson, shortstop; Cuhbert, left field; Reach, center field; Fisler, right field; and McMullen and Sensenderfer, substitutes. This was, if anything, a stronger all-around team than the one of the preceding year, and if it failed to make equally as good a showing it was because the teams that were opposed to it were also of a better calibre. The demand for good ball players had risen, and as is usual in such cases the supply was equal to the demand, just as it would be today under similar circumstances. The opening of the championship season found nine clubs ready to compete for the championship honors, viz.: The Athletics, Atlantics, Baltimore, Boston, Mutual, Maryland, Philadelphia, Resolute and Washington, and five of these beside the Athletics had particularly strong teams, the Maryland, Resolute and Washington teams being the weaklings. During the year the Athletics took part in fifty professional games, of which they won twenty-seven and lost twenty-three, and in fourteen exhibition games, of which they won twelve and lost two, being defeated in the exhibition series twice by their home rivals, the Philadelphias, which numbered among its players several who had helped to make the Athletics famous in former years, among them being Malone and Mack. Between these two nines there was the strongest kind of a rivalry, and as both were popular with the home people great crowds turned out to see the contests between them. One of these contests resulted in a thirteen inning game, the score then standing at 5 to 4 in favor of the Philadelphias, greatly to our disgust, and to the intense joy of our rivals. For the second time since the formation of the Players' League, Boston carried off the championship honors, while we were compelled to content ourselves with the third position, but I still stood forth on the batting list, and that was some consolation, at least to me. The opening of the season of 1874 again saw nine clubs ready to do battle for the championship, but the Maryland and Resolute Clubs were missing from the list and in their places were the re-organized Chicagos and the Hartford aggregation, both of which presented strong teams and teams that, properly managed, might have made much better showing in the pennant race. Still more changes had been made in the make-up of the Athletic team, which in May of that year was composed of the following players: Clapp, catcher; McBride, second base; Sutton, third base; McGeary, shortstop; Gedney, left field; McMullen, center field; and Anson, right field. From the way in which I was changed around from one position to another in those days it can be readily surmised that I was looked upon as a sort of a general-utility man, who could play in one position about as well as in another, which in my humble judgment was a mistake, for in base-ball as in all other trades and professions the old adage holds true that a jack-of-all trades is master of none. The year 1874 will ever be memorable in the history of the game by reason of the fact that base-ball was then introduced to the notice of our English cousins by a trip that was made to the "Tight Little Isle" by the members of the Boston and Athletic Clubs, a trip of which I shall have more to say later, and also by reason of the fact that the game that season enjoyed a veritable boom, clubs of the professional, semi-professional and amateur variety springing up in every direction. The clubs going to make up the Professional League were admittedly stronger than ever before, and to take the pennant from Boston was the avowed ambition not only of the Athletics but of every team that was to contest against the "Hub" aggregation. The effort was, however, as futile as those of the two preceding years had been, and for the third successive season the teams from the modern Athens carried off the prize, not because they were the better ball players, but for the reason that better discipline was preserved among them and they were better managed in every way than were any of their opponents. For the second time we were compelled to content ourselves with the third place in the race, the second going to the Mutuals of New York, that being the first time since the Professional League was organized that they had climbed so high up the ladder. The Philadelphias fell from the second to the fourth place and the Chicago "White Stockings," of whom great things had been expected, finished on the fifth rung of the ladder. Of the fifty-two record games that were counted as championship contests and that were played by the Athletics, we won thirty-one and lost twenty-one, while of the sixty games in which the Bostons figured they won forty-three and lost but seventeen, a wonderful showing when the playing strength of the clubs pitted against them is taken into consideration. Among the batsmen that season I stood eighth on the list, the lowest position that I had occupied since I broke into the ranks of the professional players. When the season of 1875 opened I little realized that it was to be the last year that I should wear an Athletic uniform, and yet such proved to be the case. While playing with them my salary had been raised each successive season, until I was now drawing $1,800 a year, and the limit had not yet been reached, as I was to find out later, although at the time I left Philadelphia for Chicago I would, for personal reasons that will appear later, have preferred to remain with the Athletics at a considerable less salary than I was afterward paid. This, too, was destined to be the last year of the Professional League, the National League taking its place, and as a result a general shifting about among the players took place in 1876, many of the old-time ball tossers being at that time lost in the shuffle. The year 1875 saw no less than thirteen clubs enter the championship arena, Philadelphia being represented by no less than three, while St. Louis, a new-comer, furnished two aspirants for the honors, the full list being as follows: Boston, Athletic, Hartford, St. Louis, Philadelphia, Chicago, Mutual, New Haven, St. Louis Reds, Washington, Centennial, Atlantic and Western, the latter organization representing the far Western city of Keokuk. The series consisted of ten games, six to be played as the legal quota, and at the close of the season but seven of the thirteen original championship seekers had fulfilled the conditions, three of the clubs having been disbanded when the season was but about half over. Again and for the fourth time the Boston aggregation carried off the honors, with a record unsurpassed up to that time, as out of seventy-nine games played they won seventy-one and lost but eight, while the Athletics, who finished in the second place, played seventy-three games in all, losing twenty and winning fifty-three. That three of the clubs that started in the race should have dropped out as they did is not to be wondered at, and why one of them at least was ever allowed to enter is a mystery. Looked at from a purely geographical standpoint, the Keokuk Club, known as the Western, was doomed to failure from the very start. It was too far away from the center of the base-ball interests and the expense of reaching it too great to warrant the Eastern clubs in making the trip, and the city itself was too small to turn out a paying crowd, while the other two local clubs found the field already too well covered and succumbed to local opposition. Small scores in 1875 were the rule and not the exception. The sharp fielding and the restrictions placed on the batter, which had grown closer with each passing season, made the running up of such big scores as marked the game in the early days impossible, while the many close contests that took place added greatly to the popularity of what was now fully recognized as distinctively the National Game of America. It was not all smooth sailing for the promoters of the game, even at this time. In the many poolrooms then existing throughout the country and especially in the larger cities great sums of money were wagered on the result of the various contests, and as a result "crookedness" on the part of various players was being charged, and though these charges were vigorously denied by those interested the denials carried but little weight in view of the in-and-out performances of the teams in which they were engaged. There was a lack of discipline, too, among the players, and it was the necessity for prompt action in stamping out the evils then existing that caused the birth of the new National League and the death of the old organization. There are "crooks" in all professions, but I venture the assertion right here that the "crooks" in base-ball have indeed been few and far between. Once detected, they have been summarily dismissed from the ranks, and with the brand of dishonesty stamped upon them they have been forced to earn a living in some other way. It has long been a maxim among the followers of racing that "a crooked jockey" is always "broke," and this same saying holds good regarding the crooked ball players. I might mention the names of several players who were summarily dismissed from the league ranks because of crookedness and who have since that time managed to eke out a miserable existence by hanging about poolrooms and bucket-shops, but what good would it do? They have learned their lesson and the lesson has indeed been a bitter one. It must be remembered, however, that the charges against these men were proven. They were not dismissed because of idle hearsay, but because of absolute and convincing proof. The breath of scandal has assailed more than one ball player without any good and convincing reason, and will doubtless do so again, just as it has assailed private reputations of men in other walks of life. The breath of truth has blown these scandals aside, however, and to-day the professional ball player stands as high in the estimation of his fellow men, providing that he conducts himself as a gentleman and not as a loafer, as does the professional man in other walks of life. CHAPTER VIII. SOME MINOR DIVERSIONS. Philadelphia is a good city to live in, at least I found it so, and had I had my own way I presume that I should still be a resident of the city that William Penn founded instead of a citizen of Chicago, while had I had my own way when I left Marshalltown to go into a world I knew but little about I might never have lived in Philadelphia at all. At that time I was more than anxious to come to Chicago and did my best to secure a position with the Chicago Club, of which Tom Foley, the veteran billiard-room keeper, was then the manager. As he has since informed me, he was looking at that time for ball players with a reputation, and not for players who had a reputation yet to make, as was the case with me, and so he turned my application down with the result that I began my professional career in Rockford instead of in Chicago, as I had wished to do. "It is an ill wind that blows nobody good," however, and for the Providence that took me to Rockford and afterward to the "City of Brotherly Love," I am at this late day truly thankful, however displeased I may have been at that time. I have often consoled myself since then with the reflection that had I come to Chicago to start my career in 1871, that career might have come to a sudden end right there and then, and all of my hopes for the future might have gone up in smoke, for the big fire that blotted out the city scattered the members of the Chicago Base Ball club far and wide and left many of them stranded, for the me being at least, on the sands of adversity. Shakespeare has said, "There is a Providence that shapes our ends rough hew them as we will," and it seems to me that the immortal Bard of Avon must have had my case in mind when he wrote that line, for I can see but little to complain about thus far in the treatment accorded me by Providence, though I am willing to admit that there was some pretty rough hewing to do before I was knocked into any shape at all. When I began playing ball at Rockford I was just at that age when, in my estimation, I knew a heap more than did the old man, and that idea had not been entirely knocked out of my head when I arrived in Philadelphia. The outdoor life that I had led when a youngster, the constant exercise that I had indulged in, together with the self-evident truth that the Lord had blessed me with a constitution that a young bull might envy, had all conspired to make me a young giant in strength, and as a result I was as full of animal spirits as is an unbroken thoroughbred colt, and as impatient of restraint. Good advice was, to a greater or less extent, thrown away upon me, and if I had any trouble it rolled off from my broad shoulders as water from a duck's back and left not a trace behind. In the language of the old song, I was, "Good for any game at night, my boys," or day, either, for that matter, and the pranks that I played and the scrapes that I got into were, some of them, not of a very creditable nature, though they were due more to exuberation than to any innate love of wrong-doing. In any contest that required strength and skill I was always ready to take a hand, and in these contests I was able to hold my own as a rule, though now and then I got the worst of it, as was the case when I entered the throwing match at the Union Grounds in Brooklyn in October, 1872. The entries were Hatfield and Boyd, of the Mutuals; George Wright and Leonard, of the Bostons, and Fisler and myself, representing the Athletics. The ball was thrown from a rope stretched between two stakes driven into the ground one hundred and ten yards from the home-plate. Each competitor was allowed three throws, and the rules governing the contest required that the ball be dropped within two large bags placed on a line with the home-plate and about sixty feet apart. Hatfield led us all in each of his three trials, and on the last one he beat his own record of 132 yards made at Cincinnati in 1868 by clearing 133 yards 1 foot and 7 1/2 inches. Leonard came next with 119 yards 1 foot 10 inches, Wright third with 117 yards 1 foot 1 inch, Boyd fourth with 115 yards 1 foot 7 inches, Fisler fifth with 112 yards 6 inches, while your humble servant brought up the tail end of the procession with a throw of 110 yards and 6 inches, not a bad performance in itself, but lacking a long ways of being good enough to get the money with. Among the famous characters of which the Quaker City boasted in those days was Prof. William McLean, or "Billy" McLean, as he was generally called, an ex-prize fighter and a boxing teacher whose reputation for skill with the padded mitts was second to no man's in the country. To take boxing lessons from a professional who really knew something touching the "noble art of self-defense," as the followers of ring sports would say, was something that I had never had an opportunity of doing before, and it is hardly to be wondered at that I availed myself of the chance before I had been there a very long time. I towered over McLean like a mountain over a mole hill, and I remember well that the first time that I faced him I thought what an easy matter it would be for me to knock his reputation into a cocked hat, and that before a man could say "Jack Robinson." In a very few moments, however, I had changed my opinion. I had fancied that I was a pretty good sort of a man myself with or without the gloves, but long before the end of that first lesson I had come to the conclusion that my education in that line, as well as others, had been neglected, and that I still had considerable to learn. McLean went around me very much as a cooper goes around a barrel, hitting me wherever and whenever he pleased, and the worst of the matter was that I could not hit him at all. It was not until after he had convinced me just how little I knew that he began to teach me, beginning with the rudiments of the art. I proved to be an apt pupil and soon became quite proficient at the game, in fact so good was I that I sometimes fancied that I could lick a whole army of wildcats, this being especially the case when the beer was in and the wit was out, for be it beer or wine, the effect is generally the same, a fact that I had not yet learned, though it dawned on me long before I left Philadelphia, and I quit it for good and all, to which fact I attribute the success that I have since met with both in the sporting and the business world. It was in 1875 and during my last season with the Athletics, if I remember rightly, that I became involved in a saloon row, that, to say the least of it, was not to my credit, and that I have been ashamed of ever since. We had been out to the grounds practicing until nearly nightfall and on the way home we stepped into a German saloon on the corner for the purpose of refreshing the inner man and washing the dust out of our throats. In some way the conversation turned on the doings of various fighters and I expressed myself pretty freely concerning their merits and demerits, for having taken boxing lessons, I was naturally anxious to set myself up as an authority on matters pugilistic. Just as we were in the midst of the argument a fresh policeman happened along and "chipped into the game" with the remark that if there was any fighting to be done he would himself take a hand in it. That was my chance. For what had I taken boxing lessons unless I could at least do a policeman? "Come on!" I yelled and then I smashed him. He was not the only policeman on the beat, however. There were others--in fact, several of them, and they clubbed me good and plenty, finally leading me away with the nippers on. Arriving at the police station, and a pretty tough-looking object I was, as you may imagine, I immediately sent for the President of the club, who, as good luck would have it, was also a Police Commissioner. When he put in an appearance he looked at me in astonishment and then asked me what I had been doing. I told him that I hadn't been doing anything, but that I had tried to do the whole police force, and with very poor success. I was released on honor that night and the next morning appeared before Alderman Buck, who listened to both sides of the story, and then let me go, thinking by my appearance, doubtless, that I had already been punished enough. After court had adjourned we all adjourned on my motion to the nearest saloon, where we had several rounds of drink and then--well, then I started in to celebrate a victory that was, after all, a good deal more like a defeat. While thus engaged I was unfortunate enough to run up against the young lady that I had already determined to make Mrs. Anson, and not being in the best of condition, she naturally enough did not like it, but as Rudyard Kipling says--that is another story. That experience ended the wild-oats business for me, however, and although the crop that I had sown was, comparatively speaking, a small one, yet it was more than sufficient for all my needs, and I now regret at times that I was foolish enough to sow any at all. The only other row that I ever had of any consequence took place on a street car one day when I was going out to the ball grounds, a game between the Athletics and Chicagos being scheduled for decision. The most intense rivalry existed at that time between these two organizations and the feeling among their partisans ran high. A gentleman on the car--at least he was dressed like a gentleman--asked me what I thought in regard to the relative strength of the two organizations. At that time I had some $1,500 invested in club stock and naturally my feelings leaned toward the club of which I was a member, still I realized that they were pretty evenly matched, and I so stated. He then remarked in sneering tones, "Oh, I don't know. I guess they play to win or lose as will best suit their own pockets." I informed him that if he meant to insinuate that either one of them would throw a game, he was a liar. He gave me the lie in return and then I smashed him, and I am not ashamed to say that I would do it again under the same circumstances. I have heard just such remarks as that made even in this late day, remarks that are as unjust to the players as they are uncalled for by the circumstances. Lots of men seem 'to forget that the element of luck enters largely into base-ball just as it does into any other business, and that things may happen during a contest that cannot be foreseen either by the club management or by the field captain. An unlucky stumble on the part of a base runner or a dancing sunbeam that gets into a fielder's eyes at some critical time in the play may cost a game; indeed, it has on more than one occasion, and yet to the man who simply judges the game by the reports that may read in the papers the thing has apparently a "fishy" look, for the reason that neither the sunbeam nor the stumble receives mention. If every sport and business man in this world were as crooked as some folks would have us to believe, this would indeed be a poor world to live in, and I for one would be perfectly willing to be out of it. The real truth of the matter is that the crooks in any line are few and far between. That being the case it's a pretty fair old sort of a world, and I for one am glad that I am still in it, and very much in it at that. CHAPTER IX. WE BALL PLAYERS GO ABROAD. The first trip that was ever made across the big pond by American ball players and to which brief reference was made in an earlier chapter, took place in the summer of 1874. London was, as a matter of course, our first objective point, and I considered myself lucky indeed in being a member of one of the organizations that was to attempt to teach our English cousins the beauties of America's National Game. The two clubs selected to make the trip were the Bostons, then champions, and the Athletics, and the players who were to represent them, together with their positions, are given below: BOSTON POSITIONS ATHLETIC Catcher John E. Clapp A. G. Spalding Pitcher Jas. D. McBride Jas. O'Rourke First base West D. Fisler Ross C. Barnes Second base Jos. Battin Harry Schafer Third base Ezra B. Sutton Geo. Wright Shortstop M. E. McGeary A.J. Leonard Left field Albert W. Gedney Cal C. McVey Right field A. C. Anson Harry Wright Center field Jas. F. McMullen Geo. W. Hall Substitute Al J. Reach Thos. H. Beals Substitute J. P. Sensenderfer Sam Wright, Jr. Substitute Tim Murnane James White of the Boston team declined to go at the last moment, his place being taken by Kent of the Harvard College team while Al Reach was kept from making the trip by business engagements. Alfred H. Wright of the "New York Clipper" and Philadelphia "Sunday Mercury," and H. S. Kempton of the "Boston Herald" both accompanied us and scored the base-ball games that were played on the trip, while the first-named officiated in the same capacity when the game was cricket. In addition to these men, both clubs were accompanied by large parties of friends who were anxious to see what sort of a reception would be accorded to us by our British cousins, who had never yet witnessed a base-ball game, their nearest approach to it having been to look on at a game of "rounders." The entire cabin of the steamship Ohio had been engaged for ourselves and our friends, and on July 16th a great crowd assembled at the wharf to see us off and to wish us God-speed on our journey. The trip across was fortunately a pleasant one and as we were a jolly party the time passed all too quickly, the seductive game of draw poker and other amusements of a kindred sort helping us to forget that the old gentleman with the scythe and hourglass was still busily engaged in making his daily rounds. It was my first sea voyage, and to say that I enjoyed it would be to state but the simple truth. The element of poetry was left largely out of my make-up and so I did not go into ecstasies over the foam-crested waves as did several of the party, but I was as fond of watching for the flying fish that now and then skimmed the waves and for the porpoises that often put in an appearance as any of the rest of the party. If I speculated at all as to the immensity of the rolling deep by which we were surrounded, it was because I wished that I might be able to devise some plan for bottling it up and sending it out West to the old gentleman to be used for irrigating purposes. That such an amount of water should have been, allowed to go to waste was to me a matter for wonderment. I was looking at the practical side of the matter, and not at the poetical. July 27th we arrived at Liverpool and as the majority of us had grown tired of the monotony of sea life we were glad enough once more to set foot on solid land. With fourteen games of ball to be played and seven games of cricket we had but little time to devote to sight-seeing, though you may be sure that we utilized the days and nights that we had off for that purpose. There was considerable curiosity on the part of our British cousins to see what the American Game was like and as a result we were greeted by large crowds wherever we went. We were treated with the greatest kindness both by press and public and words of praise for our skill both at batting and fielding were to be heard on all sides. Exhibition games between the two clubs were played at Liverpool, Manchester, London, Sheffield and Dublin, the Boston Club winning eight games and the Athletics six. When it came to playing cricket we proved to be something of a surprise party. In these games we played eighteen men against eleven and defeated with ease such, crack, organizations as the Marylebone, Prince's, and Surrey Clubs in London, the Sheffield Club at Sheffield; the Manchester Club in Manchester and the All-Ireland Club in Dublin, while the game with the Richmond Club was drawn on account of rain, we having the best of it at that time. While I was, comparatively speaking, a novice in this game, at which the Wrights were experts, they having enjoyed a reputation as first-class cricketers in America for years, yet I managed to make the highest score of all in our game with the All-Ireland Eleven, and to hold my own fairly well in the other cricket games that were played. It is impossible for me to speak too highly of the treatment that was accorded to us on this trip both in England and Ireland, where peer and peasant both combined to make our visit a pleasant one. We were entertained in royal style wherever we went and apparently there was nothing too good for us. Lords and ladies were largely in evidence among the spectators wherever we played and among our own countrymen residing in the British metropolis we were the lions of the day. The contrast between the crowds in attendance at our games there and those that greeted us at home attracted my attention most forcibly. An English crowd is at all times quiet and sedate as compared with a crowd in our own country. They are slower to grasp a situation and to seize upon the fine points of a play. This, so far as base-ball was concerned, was only to be expected, the game being a strange one, but the same fact was true when it came to their own National game, that of cricket. There was an apparent listlessness, too, in their playing that would have provoked a storm of cat-calls and other cries of derision from the occupants of the bleaching boards at home. It was our skill at fielding more than at batting that attracted the attention of the Britishers and that brought out their applause. Our work in that line was a revelation to them, and that it was the direct cause of a great improvement afterwards in their own game there can be no reason to doubt. Between sight-seeing and base-ball and cricket playing the thirty days allotted to our visit passed all too quickly and when the time came for us to start on our homeward journey there was not one of the party but what would gladly have remained for a longer period of time in "Merry England," had such a thing been possible. It was a goodly company of friends that assembled at the dock in Queenstown to wish us a pleasant voyage on August 27th, which was just one month to a day from the date of our arrival, and we were soon homeward bound on board of the steamship Abbotsford. The voyage back was anything but a pleasant one and more than half the party were down at one time and another from the effects of seasickness. Old Neptune had evidently made up his mind to show us both sides of his character and he shook us about on that return voyage very much as though we were but small particles of shot in a rattle-box. We arrived at Philadelphia Sept. 9, where we were the recipients of a most enthusiastic ovation, in which brass bands and a banquet played a most important part, and after the buffeting about that we had received from the waves of old ocean we were glad indeed that the voyage was over. The impression that base-ball made upon the lovers of sport in England can be best illustrated by the following quotations taken from the columns of the London Field, then, as now, one of the leading sporting papers of that country: "Base-ball is a scientific game, more difficult than many who are in the habit of judging hastily from the outward semblance can possibly imagine. It is in fact the cricket of the American continent, considerably altered since its first origin, as has been cricket, by the yearly recourse to the improvements necessitated by the experience of each season. In the cricket field there is at times a wearisome monotony that is entirely unknown to baseball. To watch it played is most interesting, as the attention is concentrated but for a short time and not allowed to succumb to undue pressure of prolonged suspense. The broad principles of base-ball are not by any means difficult of comprehension. The theory of the game is not unlike that of 'Rounders,' in that bases have to be run; but the details are in every way different. "To play base-ball requires judgment, courage; presence of mind and the possession of much the same qualities as at cricket. To see it played by experts will astonish those who only know it by written descriptions, for it is a fast game, full of change and excitement and not in the least degree wearisome. To see the best players field even is a sight that ought to do a cricketer's heart good; the agility, dash and accuracy of tossing and catching possessed by the Americans being wonderful." This, coming at that time from a paper of the "Field's" high standing was praise, indeed, but the fact remains that the game itself, in spite of all the efforts made to introduce it, has never become popular in England, for the reason perhaps that it possesses too many elements of dash and danger and requires too much of an effort to play it. Commenting after our return to this country upon this tour and its results, Henry Chadwick, the oldest writer on base-ball in this country and an acknowledged authority on the game, said: "The visit of the American base-hall players to England and the success they met there, not only in popularizing the American National Game but in their matches at cricket with the leading Cricket Clubs of England, did more for the best interests of base-ball than anything that has occurred since the first tour through the country of the noted Excelsior Club of Brooklyn in 1860. In the first place, the visit in question has resulted in setting at rest forever the much debated question as to whether we had a National Game or not, the English press with rare unanimity candidly acknowledging that the 'new game of base-ball' is unquestionably the American National Game. Secondly, the splendid display of fielding exhibited by the American ball players has opened the eyes of English cricketers to the important fact that in their efforts to equalize the attack and defense in their national game of cricket, in which they have looked only to certain modifications of the rules governing bowling and batting, they have entirely ignored the important element of the game, viz., fielding; and that this element is so important is a fact that has been duly proved by the brilliant success of the American base-ball players in cricket, a game in which the majority of them were mere novices, and yet by their ability as fielders in keeping down their adversaries' scores they fully demonstrated that skill in fielding is as great an element of success in cricketing as bowling and batting, if it be not greater, and also that the principles of saving runs by sharp fielding is as sound as that of making runs by skillful batting. But, moreover, they have shown by this self-same fielding skill that the game of base-ball is a better school for fielding than cricket, the peculiarity of the play in the former game requiring a prompter return of the ball from the outfield, swifter and more accurate throwing, and surer catching than the ordinary practice of cricket would seem to need. "Another result of the tour has been to show our English cousins the great contrast between the character and habits of our American base-ball professionals and those of the English professional cricketers, taking them as a class. One of the London players warmly complimented the American players on their fine physique as athletes and especially commented on their abstemious habits in contrast, as the paper stated 'with our beer-drinking English professional cricketers.' In fact, the visit of the baseball players has opened old John Bull's eyes to the fact that we are not as neglectful of athletic sports as he thought we were, for one thing, and in our American baseball representatives we presented a corps of fielders the equal of which in brilliancy of play England has never seen even among the most expert of her best trained cricketers. So much for our National Game of base-ball as a school for fielding in cricket. We sent these ball players out to show England how we played ball, but with no idea of their being able to accomplish much at cricket; but to our most agreeable surprise they defeated every club that they played with at that game, and Bell's Life does the American team the justice to say that an eleven could no doubt be selected from the American ball players that would trouble some of the best of our elevens to defeat. "The telegrams from England in every instance referred to the games played as between twenty-two Americans and eleven English, but when the regular reports were secured by mail it was found that it was eighteen against twelve, quite a difference as regards the odds against side. The first dispatch also referred to the 'weak team presented against the Americans,' but the score when received showed that the eighteen had against them in the first match six of the crack team which came over here in 1872, together with two professionals and four of the strongest of the Marylebone Club. Englishmen did not dream that the base-ball novices could make such a good showing in the game, and knowing nothing of their ability as fielders they thought it would be an easy task to defeat even double their own number, the defeat of the celebrated Surrey and Prince's Club twelves in one inning, and of the strong teams of Sheffield, Manchester and Dublin by large scores, opened their eyes to their mistake, and very naturally they began to hold the game that could yield such players in great respect. "Worthy of praise as the success of our base-ball representatives in England is, the fact of their admirable deportment and gentlemanly conduct on and off the field, is one which commends itself even more to the praise of our home people. That they were invited to so many high places and held intercourse with so many of the best people fully shows that their behavior was commendable in the extreme. Considering therefore the brilliant success of the tour and the credit done the American name by these base-ball representatives, it was proper that their reception on their reappearance in our midst should be commensurate with their high salaries, for in every respect did they do credit to themselves and our American game of `base-ball.'" CHAPTER X. THE ARGONAUTS OF 1874. The players that made the first trip abroad in the interest of the National Game may well be styled the Argonauts of Base-ball, and though they brought back with them but little of the golden fleece, the trip being financially a failure, their memory is one that should always be kept green in the hearts of the game's lovers, if for no other reason than because they were the first to show our British cousins what the American athlete could do when it came both to inventing and playing a game of his own. That they failed to make the game a popular one abroad was no fault of theirs, the fault lying, if anywhere, in the deep-rooted prejudice of the English people against anything that savored of newness and Americanism, and in the love that they had for their own national game of cricket, a game that had been played by them for generations. I doubt if a better body of men, with the exception of your humble servant, who was too young at the game to have been taken into account, could have been selected at that time to illustrate the beauties of the National game in a foreign clime. They were ball players, every one of them, and though new stars have risen and set since then, the stars of thirty years ago still live in the memory both of those who accompanied them on the trip and those who but knew of them through the annals of the game as published in the daily press and in the guide books. Harry Wright, the captain of the Boston Reds, was even then the oldest ball player among the Argonauts, he having played the game for twenty years, being a member of the old Knickerbockers when many of his companions had not as yet attained the dignity of their first pair of pants. He was noted, too, as a cricketer of no mean ability, having succeeded his father as the professional of the famous St. George Club long before he was ever heard of in connection with the National Game. As an exponent of the National Game he first became noted as the captain of the celebrated Red Stocking Club of Cincinnati, a nine that went through the season of 1869, playing games from Maine to California without a single defeat. As captain and manager of a ball team Mr. Wright had few equals, and no superiors, as his subsequent history in connection with the Boston and Philadelphia Clubs will prove. He was a believer in kind words and governed his players more by precept and example than by any set of rules that he laid down for their guidance. As a player at the time of this trip he was still in his prime and could hold his own with any of the younger men in the outfit, while his knowledge of the English game proved almost invaluable to us. Harry Wright died in 1895, and when he passed away I lost a steadfast friend, and the base-ball world a man that was an honor in every way to the profession. A.G. Spalding was at that time justly regarded as being one of the very best pitchers in the profession, and from the time that he first appeared in a Boston uniform until the time that he left the club and cast his fortunes with the Chicagos he was a great favorite with both press and public. As Harry Chadwick once wrote of him, "In judgment, command of the ball, pluck, endurance, and nerve in his position he had no superior." He could disguise a change of pace in such a manner as to deceive the most expert batsman, while as a scientific hitter himself he had few superiors. He had brains and used them, and this made him a success not only as a ball player but as a business man. As a manufacturer and dealer, Mr. Spalding has acquired a world-wide reputation, and it is safe to say that none glory in his success more than do his old associates on the ball field. James O'Rourke, or "Jim," as we all called him, was a splendid ball player and especially excelled in playing behind the bat and in the outfield, which position he played for many years. A sure catch, an active fielder, a good thrower, and a fine batsman, O'Rourke was always to be relied upon. Born of Irish parentage, he hailed from the Nutmeg State and was when I last heard of him in business at Bridgeport, Conn., and reported as doing well. He was a quiet, gentlemanly young fellow, blessed with a goodly share of Irish wit, and a rich vocabulary of jawbreaking words. Ross Barnes, who held down the second bag, was one of the best ball players that ever wore a shoe, and I would like to have nine men just like him right now under my management. He was an all-around man, and I do not know of a single man on the diamond at the present time that I regard as his superior. He was a Rockford product, but after his ball playing days were over he drifted to Chicago and was at the last time I saw him circulating around on the open Board of Trade. "Harry" Schafer was a good, all-around player, but I have seen men that could play third base a good deal better than he could. Sometimes his work was of a brilliant character, while at others it was but mediocre. He was a native of Pennsylvania and his usually smiling face and unfailing fund of good nature served to make him a general favorite wherever he went. George Wright, a brother of the lamented Harry, was another splendid all-around ball player, and one that up to the time that he injured his leg had no equal in his position, that of shortstop. He was one of the swiftest and most accurate of throwers, and could pull down a ball that would have gone over the head of almost any other man in the business, bounding into the air for it like a rubber ball. As a cricketer he ranked among the best in the country. Retiring from the ball field, he became a dealer in sporting goods at Boston, Mass., where he still is, and where he is reported to have "struck it rich." Andrew J. Leonard, a product of the Emerald Isle, was brought up in New Jersey, and excelled as an outfielder, being a splendid judge of high balls, a sure catch, and a swift and accurate long-distance thrower. He was a good batsman and a splendid base runner, and was nearly as good a player on the infield as in the out. He is at present in Newark, N. J., where he is engaged in business and reported as fairly successful. Cal C. McVey, the heavy-weight of the team, came like myself from the broad prairies of Iowa, and was built about as I am, on good, broad Western lines. He was a fairly good outfielder, but excelled either as a catcher or baseman. He was conscientious and a hard worker, but his strongest point was his batting, and as a wielder of the ash he had at that time few superiors. He is somewhere in California at the present writing, and has money enough in his pocket to pay for at least a lodging and breakfast, and does not have to worry as to where his dinner is to come from. Young Kent, the Harvard College man, who took Jim White's place on the trip, was a tall, rangy fellow and a good amateur ball player. He never joined the professional ranks, but since his graduation has written several books, and made himself quite a reputation in literary circles. John E. Clapp, the regular catcher of the Athletics, was a cool, quiet, plucky fellow, and one of the best catchers at that time the profession could boast of. He hailed originally from New York, I believe, and while in England surprised the cricketers by his fine catching, no ball being too hot for him to handle. Unless I am greatly mistaken, he is now a member of the Ithaca, N. Y., police force, and an honored member of the blue-coat and brass-button brigade. James Dickson McBride, who was better known the country over as "Dick" McBride, was at that time the most experienced man in his position that the country could boast of, he having been the regular pitcher of the Athletics since 1860. He had speed in a marked degree, plenty of pluck and endurance and a thorough command of the ball. He was a man of brains, who always played to win, and to his hard work and general knowledge of the fine points of the game the Athletics owed much of their success. "Dick" was a good cricketer, too, that being his game prior to his appearance on the diamond. He hailed from the Quaker City, where he still resides, having a good position in the postoffice. West D. Fisler was a fine, all-around ball player, remarkable for his coolness and nerve. He was a very quiet sort of fellow and one of the last men that you would pick out for a really great player. He could play any position on the team, was thoroughly honest and always played the best he knew how. He is still living in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, and though not rich in this world's goods, has still enough to live on. Joe Batten was the youngest member of the Athletic team and at that time quite a promising young player. He did not last long with the Athletics, however, and after playing on one or two other league teams he dropped out sight. He was a bricklayer by trade, and the last time I heard of him he was in St. Louis working at his trade. Ezra B. Sutton then ranked as one of the best third-base players in the country. He was one of the most accurate throwers that I ever saw; a splendid fielder and a good batter, though not a particularly heavy one. When he finally quit the game he settled down in business at Rochester, where he was still living the last I heard of him. A good man was Sutton, and one that would compare very favorably with the best in his line at the present day. M. H. McGeary was a Pennsylvanian by birth, though not a Dutchman, as his name goes to prove. He was not only an effective and active shortstop but a good change catcher as well, being noted for his handling of sharp fly tips while in the latter position. He was in Philadelphia when last heard from, and doing fairly well. Albert W. Gedney was the postoffice clerk of the New York State Senate at the time of our trip, and was one of the best of left fielders, being an excellent judge of high balls and a sure catch, especially in taking balls on the run. He is now a prosperous mill owner near New York City and does not have to worry as to where the next meal is coming from. James McMullen, who played the center field, was an active and effective man in that position. He was also a fairly good left-handed pitcher, and a rattling good batsman, who excelled in fair-foul hitting. McMullen was an all-around good fellow, and when he died in 1881 he left a host of friends to mourn his loss. J. P. Sensenderfer accompanied the club as, a substitute, as did Timothy Murnane, and both were good, all-around ball players, and are both still in the land of the living and doing more than well, Philadelphia being the abiding place of the former, while the last named is the sporting editor of the "Boston Globe." I take particular pride in calling the attention of the public to the fact that but one player of all those making the trip went wrong in the after years, that one being George W. Hall, who accompanied the Bostons as a substitute and who in company with A. H. Nichols, James H. Craver and James A. Devlin was expelled by the Louisville Club in 1877 for crooked playing, they having sold out to the gamblers. That there should have been but one black sheep among so many, in my estimation speaks well for the integrity of ball players as a class and for the Argonauts of 1874 in particular. That the great majority of these men have also made a success in other lines of business since they retired from the profession is also an argument in favor of teaching the young athletic sports. A successful athlete must be the possessor of courage, pluck and good habits, and these three attributes combined will make a successful business man no matter what that particular line of business may be. For the companions of that, my first trip across the Atlantic, who are still in the land of the living I have still a warm place in my heart. I have both slept and eaten with them, and if we have disagreed in some particulars it was an honest disagreement. Whenever the information comes to me that some one of them is doing particularly well, I am honestly glad of it, and I have faith enough in human nature to believe that they have the same feeling so far as I am concerned. For the two that are dead I have naught but kind words and pleasant memories. They were my friends while living, and dead I still cherish their memory. To me they are not dead, only sleeping. CHAPTER XI. I WIN ONE PRIZE AND OTHERS FOLLOW. If it is true, as some people allege, that marriage is a lottery, then all I have to say regarding it is that I drew the capital prize and consequently may well be regarded as a lucky man, for truer, fonder, and more sensible wife than I have, or a happier home cannot be found even though you search the wide world over. It was in Philadelphia that I wooed and won her, and I was by no means the only contestant that was in the field for her heart and hand. There were others, and one in particular that was far better looking and much more of a lady's man than myself, but when he found that I had a pull at the weights he retired, though not without a struggle, and left me in undisputed possession of the field. Just why I happened to be the successful suitor is now, and always has been, to me a mystery. I have asked Mrs. Anson to explain, but somehow I can get very little satisfaction. I was by no means a model man in the early days of my courtship, as my experiences detailed elsewhere go to prove, but I was an honest and faithful wooer, as my wife can testify, and that perhaps had as much to do with the successful termination of my suit as anything. I had been used to having everything that I wanted from my babyhood up, and after I had once made up my mind that I wanted my wife, which I did very early in our acquaintance, I laid siege to her heart with all the artifices that I could command. I am sometimes inclined to believe that I fell in love with her, at least part way, the very first time that I met her, else why should I remember her so vividly? Her name was Virginia M. Fiegal, and she was one of a family of two, and the only daughter, her father being John Fiegal, a hotel and restaurant man in the Quaker City. The first time that I ever saw her was at a ball given by the National Guards in Philadelphia, and though she was then but a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of some twelve or thirteen summers, and still in short dresses, she attracted my attention. Just how she was dressed on that occasion I could not tell you to save my life, nor do I think I could have done so an hour after the ball was over, but for all that the memory of her sweet face and girlish ways lingered with me long after the strains of music had died away and the ball-room was given over to the flitting shadows. Some months, or weeks, perhaps, I have really forgotten which, drifted by before I saw her again, and then it was at a club ball, and this time I paid her considerable attention, in fact, I liked her better than any girl that I had yet met and was not afraid to show it, although I could not then muster up the necessary courage to go on boldly about my wooing. In fact, I left a great deal to chance, and chance in this case treated me very kindly. Some time later, when the summer days were long, I met her again in company with a Miss Cobb, later the wife of Johnnie McMullen, the base-ball pitcher, at Fairmount Park, and that was the day of my undoing. After a pleasant time I accompanied her home to luncheon at her invitation, and that I had lost my heart long before the door of her house was reached I am now certain. Once inside the door I asked her rather abruptly if her father or mother was at home, and I fancied she looked rather relieved when she found out that the only reason that I had asked her was that I wanted to smoke a cigar, and not to loot the house of its valuables. Prior to that time I had circulated among the ladies but little, my whole mind having been concentrated on base-ball and billiard playing, and the particular fit of my coat or the fashion of my trousers caused me but little concern. From that afternoon on, however, things were different, and I am afraid that I spent more time before the mirror than was really necessary. I also began to hunt up excuses of various kinds for visiting the house of the Fiegals, and some of these were of the flimsiest character. I fancied then that I was deceiving the entire family, but I know now that I was deceiving only myself. I was not the only ball player that laid siege to Miss Virginia's heart in those days. There was another, the handsome and debonair Charlie Snyder, who was a great favorite with the girls wherever he went. I became jealous very early in the game of Charlie's attentions to the young lady that I had determined upon making Mrs. Anson. It was rather annoying to have him dropping in when I had planned to have her all to myself for an evening, and still more annoying to find him snugly ensconced in the parlor when I myself put in an appearance on the scene. So unbearable did this become that I finally informed him that I would stand no more trespassing on my stamping grounds, and advised him to keep away. But to this he paid but little attention and it was not until my sweetheart herself, at my request, gave him his conge that he refrained from longer calling at the house. It was the old story of "two is company, three is none," and I was greatly relieved when he abandoned the field. I was now the fair Virginia's steady company, and long before I came to Chicago we understood each other so well that I ceased to worry about any of the callers at her home and began to dream of the time when I should have one of my own in which she should be the presiding genius of the hearth-stone. She was not in favor of my coming to Chicago, and had it been possible for me to remain with honor in Philadelphia I should have done so, but that being impossible I left for the great metropolis of the West, promising to return for her providing her father would give his consent to our marriage as soon as possible. I think one of the first things almost that I did after arriving in Chicago was to write the daddy of my sweetheart asking for her hand. I had been a little afraid to do so when at close range, but the farther away I went the bolder I became, for I knew that whatever his answer might be I was certainly out of any personal danger. The old gentleman's answer was, however, a favorable one, and so after my first season's play in Chicago was over I returned to Philadelphia and there was united to the woman of my choice, and I am frank to confess that I was more nervous when I faced the minister on that occasion that I ever was when, bat in hand, I stood before the swiftest pitcher in the league. The first little visitor that came to us was a baby girl that we called Grace, who was born October 6, 1877. That seems a long time ago now. The baby Grace has grown to womanhood's estate and is the happy wife of Walter H. Clough, and the proud mother of Anson McNeal Clough, who was born May 7, 1899, and who will be taught to call me "grandpa" as soon as his baby lips can lisp the words. Adrian Hulbert Anson was our next baby. He was born Sept. 4, 1882, and died four days afterward, that being the first grief that we had known since our marriage. Another daughter, Adele, crept into our hearts and household April 24th, 1884, and is still with us. Adrian C. Anson Jr. came into the world on September 4th, 1887, and died on the eighteenth day of January following. He lived the longest of all of my boys and his death was the cause of great grief both to his mother and myself. The storks brought me another daughter, my little Dorothy, on August 13th, 1889, and she, thank God, is still engaged in making sunshine for us all. John Henry Anson was born on May 3d, 1892, but four days later the angel of Death again stopped at my threshold and when he departed he bore a baby boy in his arms, whither I know not, but to a better world that this I feel certain, and one to which his baby brothers had journeyed before him. Virginia Jeanette arrived November 22d, 1899, and has already learned to kick at the umpire when her meals are not furnished as promptly as she has reason to think they should be. She is a strong, healthy baby, and bids fair to remain with us for some years to come. Before returning again to the ball field, on which the greater portion of my life has been spent, I wish to record the fact that all that I have and all that I have earned in the way both of money and reputation in later years I owe not to myself, but to Mrs. Anson. She has been to me a helpmeet in the truest and best sense of the word, rejoicing with me in the days of my success and sympathizing with me in the days of my adversity. It was owing to her good counsel that I braced up in the days when she was my sweetheart, and it was to please her that I have staid braced up ever since, and am consequently still strong in mind and limb and as healthy a specimen of an athlete as you can find in a year's travel, albeit a little too heavy to run the bases still and play the game of ball that I used to play. I have never found it necessary when I have lost $250 on a horse race or a match of any kind to go home and inform Mrs. Anson that owing to my bad judgment I had lost $2.50, but on the contrary I have made it a point to tell her the truth at all times, so that she knows just as well how I stand to-day as I do myself. She and I are not only husband and wife in the truest sense of the word, but we are boon companions as well, and I always enjoy myself better on a trip when Mrs. Anson accompanies me that I do if I am alone. I am as proud of my daughters as any man can well be and my only desire is that they shall all be as good as their mother and make the husbands of their choice as good and true wives. At the present writing the only one of my birds that has left its parent nest and started out to build a home of its own is in Baltimore, where her husband, as fine a fellow as any man could wish to have for a son-in-law, is at present engaged in superintending the putting up of an office building contracted for the George H. Fuller Co., of Chicago, in whose employ he is. CHAPTER XII. WITH THE NATIONAL LEAGUE. It was some time in the fall of 1875 and while the National League was still in embryo that I first made the acquaintance of William A. Hulbert, who afterwards became famous as the founder of that organization and the man whose rugged honesty and clear-headed counsels made of base-ball the National Game in the truest and broadest sense of the word. At that time Mr. Hulbert was the President of the Chicago Base-Ball Club, and in company with A. G. Spalding he came to Philadelphia for the purpose of getting my signature to a contract to play in the Western metropolis. It was the ambition of the Chicago management to get together a championship team, and with that object in view they had already signed the big-four who had helped so many times to win the pennant for Boston, viz.: Cal McVey, first base; James White, catcher; Ross Barnes, second base; and A. G. Spalding, pitcher, and the latter, who was to captain the Chicago team, had suggested my engagement as third baseman. I finally agreed to play with the team at a salary of $2,000, or $200 more than I was then getting with the Athletics. I well remember Mr. Hulbert's appearance at that time. He stood in the neighborhood of six feet, and weighed close to 215 pounds. He had a stern expression of countenance and impressed one right from the start as being a self-reliant business man of great natural ability, and such he turned out to be. He was good-hearted and of a convivial nature when business hours were over, but as honest as the day was long, and would tolerate nothing that savored of crookedness in any shape or form. As an executive he had but few equals and no superiors. He was quick to grasp a situation and when once he had made up his mind to do a thing it took the very best sort of an argument to dissuade him. During the winter of 1875-6 the National League sprang into being, the Hon. Morgan G. Bulkeley of Hartford, who was afterwards elected Governor of Connecticut, being its first President, he being succeeded by Mr. Hulbert the following year. The clubs composing the league were as follows: Athletics of Philadelphia, Bostons of Boston, Hartfords of Hartford, Chicagos of Chicago, St. Louis of St. Louis, Louisville of Louisville, Ky., Mutuals of New York, and Cincinnati of Cincinnati, Ohio. When I came to consult with the future Mrs. Anson in regard to my proposed change of base she not unnaturally objected to my going so far from home, for I had learned to regard Philadelphia as my home by that time. I naturally thought it would be an easy matter for me to get my release from Chicago, and being naturally anxious to please her I made two trips to Chicago that winter for the purpose, and finally did what no ball player ever did before--offered $1,000 to be released from my promise. It was no go, however, as both Messrs. Hulbert and Spalding had made up their minds that I should play on their team, and both of them knew me well enough to know that I would keep my word at all hazards, no matter what my personal likes or dislikes in the matter might be. The last few months of my stay in Philadelphia passed all too quickly, and a short time before the opening of the regular season found me in the Garden City ready to don a Chicago uniform and do the very best I could to help win the pennant for the latest city of my adoption. The constitution of the new league provided for an entrance fee of $100 per club, and also provided that no city of less than 75,000 inhabitants could become a member. It also provided that each city should be represented by one club only, this prohibiting the danger of local opposition, such as the Professional Players' Association had suffered from in Philadelphia, St. Louis and other cities. Other reforms were the adoption of a player's contract, which enabled the clubs to keep their players and prevented them from being hired away by rival organizations. This was the first step toward the reserve rule that followed later. It also provided for the expelling of players who were guilty of breaking their contracts or of dishonesty, and such players were to be debarred forever afterwards from playing on the league teams. Gambling and liquor selling on club grounds were prohibited and players interested in a bet on the result of games or purchasing a pool ticket were liable to expulsion. The make-up of the Chicago team in full for the National League's initial season was as follows; A. G. Spalding, pitcher, captain and manager; James White, catcher; A. C. Anson, third base; Ross Barnes, second base; Cal A. McVey, first base; J. P. Peters, shortstop; J. W. Glenn, left field; Paul A. Hines, center field; Robert Addy, right field; and J. F. Cone, Oscar Bielaski, and F. H. Andrus, substitutes. All through the season of 1876 the most intense rivalry existed between the Chicago and Boston Clubs. The management of the latter organization, smarting under the fact that the "big four" had been hired away from them by the Western Metropolis, had gotten together as strong a team as was possible under the circumstances, the list including Harry Wright, manager; J. E. Borden ("Josephs"), T. H. Murnane, F. L. Beals, H. C. Schafer, A. J. Leonard, J. H. O'Rourke, J. F. Manning, F. T. Whitney, George Wright, John F. Morrill, Lewis Brown, T. McGinley, and W. R. Parks. Our strongest opponents, however, proved to be the Hartford Club, of which Robert Ferguson was captain and manager, and which numbered among its players Allison, Cummings, Bond, Mills, Burdock, Cary, York, Remsen, Cassidy, Higham, and Harbidge. As I have said before, it was anything to beat Chicago, so far as the Bostons were concerned, but this feat they were unable to accomplish until the very tail end of the season, and after we had beaten them in nine straight games. The first game that we played on the Boston grounds that season I remember well, because of the enormous crowd that turned out to witness the contest. The advent of the "Big Four" in a new uniform was of course the attraction, and long before the hour set for calling the game had arrived the people were wending their way in steady streams toward the scene of action. Every kind of a conveyance that could be used was pressed into service, from the lumbering stage coach that had been retired from active service, to the coach-and-four of the millionaire. Street cars were jammed to suffocation, and even seats in an express wagon were sold at a premium. It was Decoration Day, and therefore a holiday, and it seemed to me as if all Boston had determined to be present on that occasion. By hundreds and thousands they kept coming, and finally it was found necessary to close the gates in order to keep room enough in the grounds to play the game on. With the gates closed the crowd began to swarm over the fences, and the special policemen employed there had their hands more than full of trouble. The "Big Four" were given a great ovation when they put in an appearance, and of course the whole team shared in the honors that were showered upon them. The game that followed was, as might have been expected, played under difficulties, but thanks to the excellent pitching of Spalding and the fine support given him by the entire team we won by a score of 5 to 1, and the Hubbites were sorer than ever over the "Big Four's" defection. Our other victories over the Boston aggregation that season were as follows: June 1st, at Boston, Chicago 9, Boston 3; June 3d, at the same place, Chicago 8, Boston 4; July 11th, at Chicago, Chicago 18, Boston 7; July 12th, at the same place, Chicago 11, Boston 3; and July 15th, again, Chicago 15, Boston 0; September 15th, at Boston, Chicago 9, Boston 3; September 16th, Chicago 7, Boston 2; and September 22d, at Chicago, Chicago 12, Boston 10. September 23d we met Boston for the last time during the season, and, anxious as we were to make our victories over them ten straight, that being the number of games called for by the schedule, we failed to do so, being beaten by a score of 10 to 9. I think that Harry Wright was happier that day when O'Rourke crossed the home plate and scored the winning run than he would have been had somebody made him a present of a house and lot, so anxious was he to win at least one game from Chicago during the season. Both the Athletics and Mutuals failed to play out their scheduled games in the West that fall, and as a result they were expelled at the annual meeting of the League held in Cleveland the December following, leaving but six clubs to contest for championship honors in 1877. That first year of the League was not a success when viewed from a financial standpoint, as not a single one of the clubs that composed it made any money, even the Chicagos, who carried off the pennant, quitting loser. The men who had organized it were by no means discouraged, however, and that they finally reaped the reward of their pluck and perseverance is now a matter of history. In the fall I again signed with Chicago, as did Spalding, McVey, Barnes, Peters, Andrus, and Glenn of the old team, while Jim White returned to his first love, the Bostons. The new-corners on the team were Bradley, who had pitched for the St. Louis Club the year before, and who was accounted as being one of the best in the business, and H. W. Smith a change catcher and outfielder. This was a year of disaster as far as Chicago was concerned, and we brought up the tail end of the pennant race, the whip going to Boston, which won 31 games and lost 17, while Louisville stood second on the list with 28 games won and 20 lost, to its credit, Hartford being third, St. Louis fourth, and Chicago fifth, the Cincinnatis having failed to weather the financial storm, being expelled from the League because of non-payment of dues. There would doubtless have been a different tale to tell in regard to the championship of 1877 had it not been for the crookedness of some of the Louisville players. The team on paper prior to the opening of the season was justly regarded as one of the strongest that had ever been gotten together, and going off with a rush in the early part of the year its success seemed to be almost assured. By the middle of the season the team had obtained so great a lead that the race seemed to be all over but the shouting. In those days poolrooms were a much greater evil than they are at the present time, and the betting on baseball was hot and heavy. The Louisville having such a lead were favorites at long odds. When the club started on its last Eastern trip they had some twelve games to play, out of which they had less than half to win in order to land the pennant. On this trip enough games were thrown to give Boston the pennant, and when the directors of the Louisville Club came to sift matters down they had but little difficulty in finding out the guilty parties, who were A. C. Nichols, William H. Craver, George Hall and James A. Devlin. How much money this quartette netted by its crooked work is not known to this day, but it has been proven that Devlin secured but a beggarly $100 as his share, as once the others had him in their power they could compel him to do just whatever they pleased under threats of exposure. These four players were promptly expelled for selling games by the Louisville Club, whose action was later ratified by the League, and though they made application time after time in later years to be reinstated, their applications were denied and they passed out of sight and out of hearing as far as the base-ball world was concerned. They were all of them good ball players, better than the average, and Devlin, a really great pitcher, undoubtedly had a brilliant future before him. The inability to stand temptation, however, caused his downfall and left him but little better than a wreck on the shores of time. The year, taken as a whole, has been generally set down as being the darkest in the history of the League. As in the preceding year, all the clubs lost money and the outlook seemed indeed a dark one. The darkest hour comes just before the dawn, however, and the following year saw a change for the better in base-ball prospects. CHAPTER XIII. FROM FOURTH PLACE TO THE CHAMPIONSHIP. The year 1878 saw but six clubs in the league race, there being the Boston, Cincinnati, Providence, Chicago, Indianapolis and Milwaukee clubs, and they finished in the order named, the Hub's representatives winning by a margin of four games from their nearest competitor. The early part of the year saw the Cincinnatis in the lead, with Chicago well up toward the front, and it looked for a time as though the honors of the season might be carried off by the Western clubs. The Cincinnati Club went into the air during the summer, however, and surrendered the first place to Boston, the latter team playing finely together, and though it rallied strongly afterward it found itself unable to overtake the leaders. The Chicago team was not a strong one that season and minor ailments and accidents made it still weaker than it would otherwise have been. A. G. Spalding having retired from active ball playing, had gone into the sporting goods business, and Robert Ferguson had been selected to take his place as manager and captain of the team, which was made up as follows: Robert Ferguson, shortstop and captain; Anson, left field; Start, first base; Cassidy, right field; Remsen, center field; Hankinson, third base; McClellan, second base; Frank Larkin, pitcher; Harbidge, catcher; Hallman and Reis, substitutes. There were several weak spots in this team and it was not long before the fact became evident. Ferguson himself, while a fair shortstop, was by no means a top-notcher, and neither was he a really good manager, he not having the necessary control over the men that he had under him. Harbridge was not even a fair catcher; in fact, according to my estimate, he was a poor one. He was a left-handed thrower and made awkward work getting a ball to the bases. Joe Start was a good ball player, indeed, a first-class man. He was always to be depended upon, worked hard, was a sure catch, a good fielder and a first-class wielder of the ash. He was known far and wide as "Old Reliable" and his reputation was in every way above reproach, both on and off the field. McClellan, who played the second base, I first saw play at St. Paul in 1876. He was a nice fielder, but only a moderate batsman. Taking him all around, however, he was better than the average, but not to be compared with some of the men who afterwards played in that position. Cassidy, the right fielder, was only an average player, and Hankinson, who played third base and change pitcher, was never in the first class. Larkin, who had pitched the year before for the Hartford Club, was a rattling good man and a really first-class pitcher, who would have won more games than he did had he met with the support that he should have had. Remsen was a fine fielder and a fast base-runner, but his weak point was in hitting. He was a good thrower, too, though I beat him in a match at Hartford by covering 127 yards and 4 inches, a performance that surprised some people who had wagered their money on his success. During the greater part of that year I was troubled with a frog felon on my right hand that nearly incapacitated me from playing altogether. It was absolute torture to me to catch, but I managed to worry along with it in some sort of fashion, though unable to do myself justice, and for that reason I stood lower on the list of averages than I might otherwise have done. A felon is a mighty unpleasant thing to have at the best, and a man deserves some credit for playing ball at all that is afflicted in that way. When the season ended none of the clubs had made any money, but the game was growing steadily in public favor, and it was evident to even the most superficial observer that there was "a good time coming." The following year, 1879, saw a great many changes both in League memberships and in the personnel of its players. At the annual meeting held in Cleveland December 4, 1878, the Indianapolis Club resigned its membership and the circuit was filled by the admission of clubs from Cleveland, Buffalo and Syracuse. The Milwaukee Club afterward failing to come to time the Troy, N. Y., Club was taken in to fill the vacancy. George Wright, one of the greatest players of the day, and the man to whom Boston owed much of its success in winning the pennant, deserted Boston for Providence, taking O'Rourke with him, and after the hardest sort of a fight with Boston, Chicago and Buffalo he succeeded in winning the pennant with that organization, he having the services of John M. Ward and "Bobby" Matthews as pitchers, Lewis J. Brown as catcher; Joe Start, M. H. McGeary and W. L. Hague on the bases; with "Tommy" Stark, Paul Hines and James O'Rourke in the field. Emil Grace and John Farrell replaced Brown and Hague toward the close of the season. It was a great year of changes all around and the League teams taken as a whole were stronger than they had ever been before. Among the pitchers outside of these I have already mentioned were such stars as McCormick, "Jimmy" Galyin, Bradley and Will White, all of whom are famous as twirlers in base-ball history. The Chicago team was that season the strongest that the "Windy City" had yet put in the field. To succeed Ferguson, who had gone elsewhere, I was selected as captain and manager, a position that I have always had reason to believe came to me through the influence of Mr. Hulbert, and that I retained for many a year, through both good and evil report, finding it but a thankless job at best. The make-up of the team in full was as follows: Larkin, pitcher; Flint, catcher; Anson, first base; Quest, second base; Hankinson, pitcher and third base; Peters, stortstop; Dalrymple, Gore, Remsen and George Schaffer in the field, with Williamson alternating with Hankinson at third base. Quest, Flint, Williamson and George Schaffer all came from the Indianapolis team of the year before, and Dalrymple, who afterward became a great favorite with Chicago "fans," from the Milwaukees. Geo. C. Gore was a newcomer in the League ranks, he hailing from New Bedford, but he soon made for himself a name, being a first-class fielder and a batsman that was away above the average, as is shown by his record made in after years. It was my first season as a first baseman, though T had played the position at odd times before, and that it suited me is shown by the fact that I led the League with a fielding average of .974 and stood first among the batsmen with .407, which was the largest percentage ever made up to that time. Flint that season stood first in the list of catchers, and Quest led the second basemen. It was some time during the close of the season that an unfortunate accident happened to Larkin, and one that caused his retirement from the diamond for some time afterward. A line ball from my bat struck him on the head, and as a result, it was at least so stated, he had to be sent to an asylum, where he remained for some time, though I believe that he afterwards fully recovered from the effects of the injury. It was during this year also that the first reserve rule was adopted, it being in the shape of a signed agreement by the terms of which each League club was permitted to reserve five men for the following season, an agreement that I have always looked upon as being one of the best things that could have happened, for the reason that it enabled all of the clubs interested to reserve at least the nucleus of a strong team as a foundation upon which to build. The season of 1880 I have always looked upon as a red letter one in my history, and for good reasons, as that year the Chicago team under my management brought the pennant to Chicago, and this in spite of the fact that the teams it had to, encounter were made up of first-class material in nearly every case. The Chicago team of that season outclassed all of its competitors, it being made up as follows: Corcoran and Goldsmith, pitchers; Flint, catcher; Anson, first base; Quest, second base; Williamson, third base; Burns, shortstop; Dalrymple, Gore and Kelly in the field, and L. T. Beals, substitute. Unlike the majority of the clubs the Chicago Club did not have to depend upon the services of one first-class pitcher, but had two, both of whom were "cracker-jacks," and were therefore able to play them on alternate days instead of breaking them down or laming them by continued and arduous services. In catchers, too, the club was especially fortunate, as Flint, who ranked as one of the best of his day, had an efficient ally in Mike Kelly, who could fill the breach when necessary. This was an especially strong team, too, at the bat, as is shown by the records, Gore leading the League with an average of .365, with myself second with .338, Dalrymple third with .332, Burns fifth with .309. In fielding Williamson led the third basemen with an average of .893, while the fewest hits of the year were made off Corcoran's pitching. Among the first basemen I held second place with a percentage of .977. Sullivan of the Worcester team being first with .982 to his credit. The Chicago Club that year made a little money, but it was the only one of the lot that did, the others losing, that is, some of them, more because of bad management than for any other reason. In consequence of an agreement in regard to the sale of liquors in club grounds the Cincinnati Club that season forfeited its membership, and at the annual meeting of the League held in New York December 8th, 1880, the Detroit Club was elected to the vacant place. The team that had represented Chicago in 1880 was good enough for me, and also good enough for the club directors, and that we were able to hold the players was a matter for self-congratulation. The only new man on the list in 1881 was Andrew Pearcy, who took T. L. Beal's place as substitute, and who cut but little figure, as he was called upon to play but seldom. That the Chicago Club again won the pennant in 1881 was due to two reasons. First, its strength as a batting organization, and in this respect it was undoubtedly the superior of all its rivals, and, secondly, the superb team work, the entire team playing together as one man and having but one object in view, and that the landing of the championship. Record playing was entirely lost sight of by the members of the club, and sacrifice hitting was indulged in whenever a point could be made by so doing. The race throughout the season for everything except the last place was a close and exciting one, and up to the very last week the result was in doubt, so close together were the four leaders. When the season finally closed, however, we had 56 games won and 28 games lost to our credit, against 47 games won and 37 games lost by the Providence Club, which finished in the second place. Buffalo came third with 45 games won and 38 games lost, and Detroit fourth with 41 games won and 43 lost; Troy being fifth, Boston sixth, Cleveland seventh and Worcester eighth on the list. In batting that season I again led the list with an average of .399 and stood at the head of the first basemen with .975 to my credit. When the season came to a close the majority of the League clubs had made money and base-ball was more popular than ever with the public, who had learned to look upon it as a square sport, and one over which the gamblers had no control whatever. The grounds occupied by the Chicago Club at that time were the most accessible of any in the country, being situated on the lake front near the foot of Randolph street, and within five minutes' walk from any part of the business district. The only fault that could be found with them were that they were too small, both for the crowds that thronged them when an important game was being played, and because of the fact that the fences interfered too often with the performance of the League's star batsmen. With such a team as the champions then boasted of what was the use of making any changes? No use whatever, and so the season of 1882 found the same old "White-Stocking" team in the field, the only new player that had been signed being Hugh Nichols, who came from Rockford, and who was signed as an outfielder. There was no change either in the clubs that went to make up the League, each and every one of which was bent on wresting the championship from the Garden City, and with that object in view every other club in the league had been strengthened as far as was possible. The attempt was a vain one, however, although the race from the start to the finish was a hot one, and one that kept the lovers of base-ball on tenter hooks until the season was over, while the betting in the poolrooms throughout the country was hot and heavy, and be it said right here, to the credit of the ball players, there was not the slightest suspicion or whisper of crookedness in connection with the games. The rivalry was most intense, and as a result the crowds that greeted the players everywhere were both large and enthusiastic, this being especially the case on the home grounds, where, owing to our long-continued success, we were naturally great favorites. The majority of the clubs in the League that season made money and to all appearances an era of prosperity, so far as the National Game was concerned, had begun. The close of the season again saw the Chicago Club in the lead, they having won 55 games and lost 29, while Providence stood second on the list with 52 games won and 32 games lost to its credit. Buffalo stood third, Boston fourth, Cleveland fifth, Detroit sixth, Troy seventh, while Worcester, as in the preceding year, brought up the tail end of the procession. Brouthers of the Buffalo Club headed the batting list with a percentage of .369, while I came next with .367, and that I had had my eye on the ball throughout the season is a fact that the opposing pitchers could bear witness to. Prior to the beginning of the season, the exact date being April 10, 1882, President Hulbert, the founder of the League, and one of the best friends that I had ever had either inside or outside of the profession, passed away, leaving a void in base-ball circles that was indeed hard to fill. It has often been a matter of sincere regret, both to myself and others, that he could not have lived to witness the fruition of all his hopes. Arbitrary and severe though he may have been at times, yet the fact remains that he was the best friend that the ball players had ever had. Appreciating the possibilities of the game as a moneymaker, when rightly conducted, he bent his energy toward rescuing it from the hands of gamblers, into which it seemed about to fall, and place it where it belonged, at the head of all of American outdoor sports. Many and many a time since than have I missed his cool-headed judgment, his cheering words and his sound advice, and I have no hesitation in saying to-day that to him the ball players owe even now a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. CHAPTER XIV. THE CHAMPIONS OF THE EARLY EIGHTIES. The team that brought the pennant back to Chicago in the early '80s was a rattling good organization of ball players, as the "fans" who remember them can testify, and while they were the cracks of that time, and perhaps as strong a team as the League had seen up to that date, yet they were not as strong either as a team or as individual ball players as the team that represented Chicago several years afterward. The secret of the club's success in those days lay in its team work, and in the fact that a goodly portion of the time was spent in studying and developing the fine points of the game, which long practice made them fairly perfect in. There were one or two weak spots in its make-up, but so well did it perform as a whole that these weak spots were quite apt to be lost sight of when the time for summing up the result of the season's play had arrived. In its pitching department the team was particularly strong at that time as compared with some other of the League clubs. Larry Corcoran, upon whose skill great reliance was placed, was at that time in the zenith of his glory as a twirler. He came, if my memory serves me rightly, from somewhere in the neighborhood of Buffalo. He was a very little fellow, with an unusual amount of speed, and the endurance of an Indian pony. As a batter he was only fair, but as a fielder in his position he was remarkable, being as quick as a cat and as plucky as they made them. A sort of an all-around sport was Larry, and a boxer of no mean ability. I remember a set-to that he had one night in the old club house with Hugh Nichols, in which he all but knocked Hughy out, greatly to that gentleman's surprise, as he had fancied up to that time that he was Corcoran's master in the art of self-defense. After his release by the Chicago Club he drifted back East, where he pitched for a time in some of the minor leagues. Later on he was given another trial by the Chicagos, but his work proved unsatisfactory, he having outlived the days of his usefulness in the pitching line. After that he again went East, where he died several years ago. Fred Goldsmith, the other pitcher, was a great big, over-grown, good-natured boy, who was always just a-going to do things that he never did. He, too, came from the East, and was, I believe, pitching for the Tecumseh, Canada, Club when he signed with us. He was the possessor of a great slow ball and was always cool and good-natured. As a batsman he was only fair, and as a fielder decidedly careless. When it came to backing up a player "Goldy" was never to be relied upon, and after the play was over and he was asked why he had not done so, he would reply: "Oh, I'd a-bin thar ef I'd bin needed." But in spite of this the fact remains that he was rarely on hand when he was needed, and many an overthrown ball found its way into the field that would have been stopped had he been backing up the basemen in the way that he should have done. I remember seeing him in a game at Troy, N. Y., once when pitching for Chicago, when he was a sight to behold. He was playing and the rain was coming down in torrents while the grounds were deep in mud and water. Hatless, without shoes and stockings and with his breeches roiled clear up to his thigh, as if he were preparing to ford the Hudson river, "Goldy" was working like a Trojan, and I am not over sure but that he was one at that time. His arm was gone when he left us, and if he played ball any afterward, it was only in desultory fashion. He tended bar in different places for a time, but finally settled down to the business of market gardening near Detroit, where, from all that I can learn, he is making a good living. Frank S. Flint, "Old Silver," originally hailed from St. Louis, where he first came into notice as the back stop of an amateur team. He came to us direct from the Indianapolis Club, where he had been engaged in catching the delivery of "the only Nolan," who was at that time one of the most celebrated of the League pitchers. He was a fine ballplayer, a good, hard worker, but a weak batter, batting being his weakest point. He was generally reliable, and that in spite of the fact that he was a hard drinker, the love of liquor being his besetting weakness. A pluckier man never stood behind a bat, there never coming a ball his way that was too hard for him to handle, or at least to attempt to. In "Old Silver's" day the catcher's glove had not come into use, and all of his work was done with hands that were unprotected. Those hands of his were a sight to behold, and if there is a worse pair to-day in the United States, or a pair that are as bad, I should certainly like to have a look at them. His fingers were bent and twisted out of all shape and looked more like the knotted and gnarled branches of a scrub oak than anything else that I can think of. Long before the gloves now used by catchers were invented I had a buckskin mitt made at Spalding's that I thought would fill a long-felt want, and this I finally persuaded "Old Silver" to try. He tried it for about half of an inning, then threw it down, declaring it was no good, and went on in the old way. After his playing days in Chicago were over he went into the saloon business and died a short time afterwards of consumption. His wife died in California a little time after him with the same disease, which she had contracted while nursing him. Prior to her departure from Chicago and when she had been informed by a physician that her days were numbered, she sent for me, and after telling me that she had "roasted" me in the papers all her life, begged my forgiveness, saying that she had found out her mistake. This, of course, was granted. Mrs. Keene and my wife saw that she had every comfort, and Mr. Keene, Mr. Spalding and myself furnished the money that took her to the Golden State, where she lived but a short time after her arrival. Joe Quest, who played the second base, was another player who came to us from the Indianapolis team, but prior to that time he had been playing around New Castle, Pa. Joe was a good, reliable, steady fellow, but a weak batsman. He was a conscientious player, however, and one that could always be depended upon to play the best ball that he was capable of. His strongest point was trapping an infield fly, and in this particular line he was something of a wonder. Joe played on several teams after leaving Chicago, and with varying success. Of late years he has been employed in the City Hall at Chicago, where he holds a good position. Ed Wiliamson was another player who came to us from Indianapolis, where he had already made for himself quite a reputation. He, too, hailed originally from some-where around New Castle, and was playing in Pittsburg the first time that I ever saw him. My wife knew him long before I knew him, however. He was then a member of an amateur club in Philadelphia, for which she acted as a sort of treasurer, taking care of the money that they raised to buy balls with, etc. Ed was, in my opinion, the greatest all-around ballplayer the country ever saw. He was better than an average batsman and one of the few that knew how to wait for a ball and get the one that he wanted before striking. He was a good third baseman, a good catcher and a man who could pitch more than fairly well, too, when the necessity for his doing so arose. Taking him all in all, I question if we shall ever see his like on a ball field again. He was injured some years later while the Chicago Club was making a trip around the world, and was never the same fellow afterward. After his retirement from the diamond he ran a saloon in company with Jimmy Woods, another ball-player, on Dearborn street, Chicago, which was a popular resort for the lovers of sports. He died of dropsy at Hot Springs, Arkansas, leaving a wife, but no children. Williamson was one of the most popular of the many players that the Chicago Club has had. A big, good-natured and good-hearted fellow, he numbered his friends by the hundreds, and his early death was regretted by all who knew him. Thomas E. Burns was playing with the Albany, N. Y., Club, who were then the champions of the New York State League when I signed him to play with Chicago. He was a fair average batter, but was hardly fast enough to be considered a really good shortstop. He was a fair base-runner, using excellent judgment in that respect, and a first-class slider, going into the bases head first when compelled to make a slide for them, instead of feet first, like the majority of the players of that day and generation; in fact, he was more of a diver than a slider, and he generally managed to get there. After his release by Chicago he went to Pittsburg, where I had secured him a five-year contract as manager at a handsome salary, and where he had some trouble that resulted in the club's breaking the agreement and in the bringing of a lawsuit, which he won. He then took charge of the Springfield, Mass., Club, a member of the New England League, Springfield being not far from his old home at New Britain. Two years ago he took my place as manager of the Chicago Club, and that he has not made a success of it is due to certain causes that will be explained later on. Abner Dalrymple was brought into the Chicago fold from Milwaukee, where he had been playing. He was only an ordinary fielder, and a fair base runner, but excelled as a batsman. I have said that he was a fair fielder, and in that respect perhaps I am rating him too high, as his poor fielding cost us several games that in my estimation we should have won. Dalrymple was a queer proposition, and for years a very steady player. He was never known to spend a cent in those days, and was so close that he would wait for somebody else to buy a newspaper and then borrow it in order to see what was going on. Later on he broke loose, however, and when he did he became one of the sportiest of sports, blowing his money as if he had found it and setting a hot pace for his followers. He finally settled down again, however, and now holds a good railroad position in the Northwest, where he is living with his family. His was about the quickest case of "loosening up from extreme tightness" that I have ever run across. George F. Gore, who played the center field, came here from New Bedford, Mass., being brought out by Mr. Hulbert, who was in charge of the club at the time he came to us. He was an all-around ball player of the first class, a hard hitter and a fine thrower and fielder, and had it not been for his bad habits he might have still been playing ball to-day. Women and wine brought about his downfall, however, and the last time that I saw him in New York he was broken down, both in heart and pocket, and willing to work at anything that would yield him the bare necessities of life. Mike Kelly, who afterwards became famous in baseball annals as the $10,000 beauty, came to Chicago from Cincinnati, and soon became a general favorite. He was a whole-souled, genial fellow, with a host of friends, and but one enemy, that one being himself. Time and time again I have heard him say that he would never be broke, and he died at just the right time to prevent such a contretemps from occurring. Money slipped through Mike's fingers as water slips through the meshes of a fisherman's net, and he was as fond of whisky as any representative of the Emerald Isle, but just the same he was a great ball player and one that became greater than he then was before ceasing to wear a Chicago uniform. He was as good a batter as anybody, and a great thrower, both from the catcher's position and from the field, more men being thrown out by him than by any other man that could be named. He was a good fielder when not bowled up, but when he was he sometimes failed to judge a fly ball correctly, though he would generally manage to get pretty close in under it. In such cases he would remark with a comical leer: "By Gad, I made it hit me gloves, anyhow." After his return to Boston he played good ball for a time, but his bad habits soon caused his downfall, just as they had caused the downfall of many good players before him, for it may be set down as an axiom that baseball and booze will not mix any better than will oil and water. The last time that I ever saw him was at an Eastern hotel barroom, and during the brief space of time that we conversed together he threw in enough whisky to put an ordinary man under the table. After leaving Boston the "only Mike" had charge of Al Johnson's team at Altoona, Pa., but whisky had become at this time his master, and he made a failure of the managerial business. Not being able to control himself it is hardly to be wondered at that he failed when it came to the business of controlling others. He died some years ago in New Jersey, a victim to fast living, and a warning to all ball players. Had he been possessed of good habits instead of bad there is no telling to what heights Kelly might have climbed, for a better fellow in some respects never wore a base-ball uniform. Tommy Beale was a nice, gentlemanly little chap, who had played at one time with the Boston Club. He was never a howling success as a ball player and after being released by Chicago he umpired for a while and then drifted down to Florida, where he had an orange grove and was doing well until, one night, "there came a frost, a killing frost," that not only destroyed his orange grove but that burst him up in business as well. Since that unfortunate event happened, I have lost sight of him, and where he is now, or what he is doing, I know not. Hugh Nichols was a little fellow who came from Rockford, Illinois. He was never a star player, but was a fair and showy player, lacking in stamina. He was only a fair batsman, and after his release by Chicago he played for a time in some of the other League teams, principally Cincinnati. He then managed the Rockford team in the Illinois State League, after which he settled down as a billiard-room keeper, in which business he is still engaged. CHAPTER XV. WE FALL DOWN AND CLIMB AGAIN. At the annual meeting of the League held in Providence R. I., December 6th, 1882, the Worcester and Troy Clubs resigned their membership, neither of them being cities of sufficient size to support a team as expensive as one good enough to have a chance for championship honors in such company must of necessity be, and New York and Philadelphia were elected to fill the vacancies. At the same time A. G. Mills was elected to fill the vacancy in the League Presidency caused by the death of Mr. Hulbert. The League Circuit in 1883 again consisted of eight cities, while the number of games necessary to constitute a series had been increased from twelve to fourteen. The only change in the personnel of the Chicagos was the substitution of Fred Pfeffer for Joe Quest at second base. The fight between Chicago and Boston, Providence and Cleveland was veritably a battle of the giants, and as a result excitement throughout the country ran high and big crowds everywhere were the rule. The Boston team, with M. Hines and Hackett as catchers, Buffington and Whitney, pitchers; Morrill, first base; Burdock, second base; Sutton, third base; Wise, shortstop; Horning, left field; Smith, center field; Radford, right field; and Brown, substitute, proved to be a trifle the strongest, they carrying off the pennant with a total of 63 games won and 35 lost, while Chicago came next on the list with 59 games won and 39 lost. Providence, which stood third, won 58 games and lost 40, while Cleveland, which came fourth, had 55 games won and 42 games lost to its credit. Buffalo, New York, Detroit and Philadelphia followed in the order named. Brouthers of the Buffalo team again stood first on the list of batsmen with a percentage of .371, while your humble servant had fallen down to the twelfth place on the list, my percentage being .307. The event of the season, or of the year perhaps, I should say, was the adoption of a document then known as the tripartite agreement, now known as the National Agreement, which was formulated by A. G. Mills, John B. Day and A. H. Soden, representing the League; O. P. Caylor, William Barnier and Lewis Simmons, representing the American Association, and Elias Mather of the Grand Rapids, Michigan, Club, acting for the Northwestern League. This document, among other things, provided that no contract should be made for the services of any player for a longer period than seven months, beginning April 1st and terminating October 31st, and that no contract for their services should be made prior to October 20th of the year on which such services terminated. It also provided that on the 10th day of October of each year the Secretary of each Association should transmit to the Secretary of each other Association a reserve list of players, not exceeding fourteen in number, then under contract with each of its several club members, and of such players reserved on any prior annual reserve list, who had refused to contract with said club's members, and of all other eligible players, and such players, together with all other thereafter to be regularly contracted with by such club members, are and shall be eligible to contract with any other club members of either association party hereto. The object of this was to prevent what was then at that time a growing evil, the stealing of players by one club from another, and that it was successful in that respect there can be no denying. The reserve clause was not popular with many of the players, however, and it was this that later on led to the Brotherhood revolt and a general shaking up in base-ball circles. Such had been the boom in base-ball in 1883, and so promising did the outlook seem from a monetary standpoint for a similar boom in 1884 that Henry V. Lucas, of St. Louis, evidently believing that there was millions in it, organized and took hold of the short-lived Union Association, the failure of which wrecked him in both purse and spirit. This Association was organized at Pittsburg in September, 1883, and was launched with a great flourish of trumpets, the cities agreed upon for the circuit being Washington, St. Louis, Altoona, Pa., Boston, Baltimore, Cincinnati, Philadelphia and Chicago. Of the fifty League players, who, it had been given out, would break their contracts and join them, not a baker's dozen showed up when the time came. Only five of the original clubs played out their schedules, these being the St. Louis, Cincinnati, Boston, Baltimore and Nationals of Washington, they finishing in the order named, Boston and Baltimore being tied for the third place. The Union Association season opened on April 17th. Within six weeks of that time the Altoona Club gave up the fight, being succeeded by Kansas City. The Keystone Club of Philadelphia lasted until August, and was then succeeded by the Wilmington, Del., Club, which had been persuaded to desert the Eastern League by Mr. Lucas. In September they, too, passed it up and Milwaukee took the vacant place, they lasting but a short time. The Chicago Union Association Club, a weak sister at the best, played along to almost empty benches until August, when it gave up the fight and transferred its team to Pittsburg, but that city refused to support it and it finally gave up the ghost about the middle of September. In the meantime the League, which had expelled the deserting players, was having a most exciting and prosperous season, though the majority of clubs had signed many more players than they had any use for, the object being to keep them away from the Union Association. For the Chicago Club that season no less than nineteen players were signed, some of whom were seldom called upon to play. The regulars, that is, the men who were depended upon to do the playing, were Corcoran, Goldsmith and Clarkson, pitchers; Flint and Kelly, catchers; Anson, first base; Pfeffer, second base; Williamson, third base; Burns, shortstop; Dalrymple, Gore, Kelly and Sunday in the outfield. In some way or other we got started off with the wrong foot first, as the horsemen would, say, and the end of May found us in the fifth place, Boston and Providence being the leaders, and at the end of June we had not improved our position. From that time on the Providence Club played great ball, the wonderful endurance of Pitcher Radbourne being one of the features of the season, and though we rallied in September and October, winning every game that we played in the last-named month, the best that we could do was to beat New York for the fourth place, each club winning 62 games and losing 50. The championship record showed 84 games won and 28 lost for the Providence Club, 73 games won and 38 lost for Boston, and 64 games won and 47 lost for Buffalo, while Philadelphia, Cleveland and Detroit brought up the rear. In the matter of averages James O'Rourke again led the list, with a percentage of .350 to his credit. The position that the club occupied at the close of that season was not satisfactory to me, as I felt that it should have been better, but there was no use crying over spilt milk, the only thing to do being to try it again. At the close of the season Corcoran, whose pitching days were about over, was released, as was also Goldsmith, whose work had not been of the first class, and Clarkson and McCormick, the latter having played with the Cleveland team the year before, were relied upon to puzzle the opposing batsmen, the other members of the team being Flint, Kelly, Anson, Pfeffer, Williamson, Burns, Dalrymple, Gore and Sunday. O. P. Beard, C. Marr, E. E. Sutcliffe and Joe Brown were all given a trial, but released early in the season. The St. Louis Club, of which Mr. Lucas was the President, was taken in in order to fill the vacancy caused by the withdrawal of Cleveland, and this act on the part of the League so incensed President Mills that he resigned, the three offices of President, Secretary and Treasurer being combined in Nicholas E. Young, who is still at the head of the League affairs, with headquarters at the National Capital. The records of 1885 show that there were really but two clubs in the race from start to finish, these representing the rival clubs of New York and Chicago, and as between them it was nip and tuck almost to the last minute. At the end of the month of May the New York team was in the lead, they having won 17 out of the 21 games they had played that month, while Chicago, which stood second, had only won 14 out of the 20 games that it played. The month of June saw a change in the program, however, Chicago winning 21 games out of the 23 played that month, while New York only won 15 out of the 20 that it took part in. During the month of July it looked like anybody's race as between the two leaders, each winning 18 games, though Chicago sustained but six defeats as against seven for the representatives of the Eastern metropolis. In the succeeding month New York had a shade the better of it, they winning 18 out of 21 games played, while Chicago won only 15 out of 19. In September it was again our turn, however, and we won 17 games out of 20, New York having to be content with 13 out of 19. The last of September and the first of October saw the pennant "cinched," so far as we were concerned. The New Yorks finished the season with four games at Chicago and three of these they needed in order to win the championship. They had already won nine out of the twelve games that they had played with us during the season, and looked upon the result here as a foregone conclusion. They reckoned without their host, however, on this occasion, as we won three straight games from them, the scores being 7 to 4, 2 to 1, and 8 to 3 respectively. Our totals for the season showed 87 games won and 25 lost, as against 85 games won and 27 lost for the Giants. Philadelphia came third with 56 games won and 54 lost, while Providence occupied the fourth place with 53 games won and 57 lost. Boston, Detroit, Buffalo and St. Louis finished as named. There were a good many funny stories told about those closing games between New York and Chicago. The admirers of the Giants came on to witness the games in force, and so certain were they that their pets would win that they wagered their money on the result in the most reckless fashion. Even the newspaper men who accompanied them on the trip caught the contagion. P. J. Donohue, of the New York "World," since deceased, was one of the most reckless of these. He could see nothing in the race but New York, and no sooner had he struck the town than he began to hunt for someone who would take the Chicago end of the deal. About nine o'clock the night before the playing of the first game he appeared in the "Inter Ocean" office and announced that he was looking for somebody who thought Chicago could win, as he wished to wager $100 on the result. He was accommodated by the sporting editor of that paper. The next night after the Giants had lost P. J. again appeared on the scene and announced his readiness to double up on the result of the second game. He was accommodated again, and again. New York was the loser. Still a third time did P. J. appear with an offer to double up the whole thing on the result of the next game. This looked like a bad bet for the local man, but local pride induced him to make the wager. For the third time the Giants went down before the White Stockings, and that night P. J. was missing, but a day or two afterwards he turned up quite crestfallen, and had a draft on New York cashed in order that he might get back home again. Mr. Donohue was not the only man who went broke on the result, however. There was not a man on the delegation that accompanied the Giants that did not lose, and lose heavily on the games, which went a long ways toward illustrating the glorious uncertainties of base-ball. The season of 1886 saw another change in the National League circuit, Buffalo and Providence dropping out of the fight. The vacant places were taken by Kansas City and Washington. The Detroit Club, thanks to a deal engineered by Fred Stearns, was greatly strengthened by securing the quartette of players from the Buffalo Club known as the "Big Four," these being White, Rowe, Richardson and Brouthers, which made them a most formidable candidate for championship honors, and which, indeed, they might have won had it not been for the Philadelphia Club, of which Harry Wright was the manager. Commenting on the League season for that year Spalding's Official Guide for 1887 says: "The past season of 1886 proved to be a very profitable one to a majority of the eight League clubs, those of Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Detroit all finding it a successful season financially, while Chicago profited by bearing off the honors of the League championship for the sixth time during the eleven years' existence of the National League. "The clubs of St. Louis, Kansas City and Washington, however, failed to realize expectations, all three being on the wrong side of the column in profit and loss, As hitherto, good and bad management of the club teams had a great deal to do with the results of the season's campaign, financially and otherwise. "A feature of the season's championship contest was the telling work done by the Philadelphia Club. This club closed their first season in the League as the tail end of the eight clubs which entered the list that year, the eight including Cleveland, Providence and Buffalo. In 1884 Philadelphia closed the season as sixth. In 1885 they finished third and in October of 1886 they held third place, but finally had to close a close fourth, after giving Detroit and Chicago a terrible shaking up. In fact, the championship games in Philadelphia, the latter part of September and first week in October, were among the most noteworthy of the season, for from the 22d of September to the close of the season in October the club in games with Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, Kansas City and Washington won 13, lost 3 and had two draws. "The struggle for the pennant after the May contest lay entirely between the Chicago, Detroit, New York and Philadelphia Clubs, the other four having no show from the very outset. "A notable incident of the campaign was the fact that in the closing month it lay entirely in the hands of the Philadelphia Club to decide whether' the pennant was to go to Detroit or Chicago. "When Chicago left Philadelphia for Boston the last of September all Detroit was in a fever of excitement at the prospect of their club's success. The only question of interest was, 'Would they go through Philadelphia safely?' It was only when Harry Wright's pony League team captured the Detroits twice out of four games, one being drawn, that Chicago felt relief from anxiety as to the ultimate outcome of the pennant race. It was a gallant struggle by Philadelphia, and it made the close of the campaign season one of the most exciting on record. "The League schedule had been raised that season from sixteen to eighteen games, nine to be played on the grounds of each club, and of these only twenty-four remained unplayed at the close of the season, fifteen of which were drawn with the score a tie." This was one of the hardest seasons that I had ever gone through, and when it was over I felt that we were lucky, indeed, to have captured the pennant for the third successive time. The champion team of that year showed but little change in make-up from that of the preceding year, Clarkson, McCormick and John Flynn being the pitchers; Kelly, Flint and Moolie, catchers; Anson, first base; Pfeffer, second base; Burns, third base; Williamson, shortstop; Dalrymple, left field; Ryan and Gore, center field; and Sunday, right field. It was a close race that season between, Mike Kelly and myself for the batting honors of the League, and Michael beat me out by a narrow margin at the finish, his percentage being .388 as against .371, while Brouthers came third on the list with .370. That was the last season that the championship pennant was flown in Chicago up to the present writing, and looking back at it now it seems to me an awful long time ago. CHAPTER XVI. BALL-PLAYERS EACH AND EVERY ONE. The team that brought the pennant back to Chicago in the years 1885 and 1886 was, in my estimation, not only the strongest team that I ever had under my management but, taken all in all, one of the strongest teams that has ever been gotten together in the history of the League, the position of left field, which was still being played by Dalrymple being its only weak spot. The fact, however, that "Dal" was a terrific batter made up for a great many of his shortcomings in tile field, which would scarcely have been overlooked so easily had it not been for his ability as a wielder of the ash. In its pitching department it was second in strength to none of its competitors and behind the bat were Flint and Kelly, both of whom were widely and favorably known. The outfield was, to say the least, equal to that of any of the other League clubs, and the infield admittedly the strongest in the country. This was the infield that became famous as "Chicago's stone wall," that name being given to it for the reasons that the only way that a ball could be gotten through it was to bat it so high that it was out of reach. The members of that famous infield were Williamson, Pfeffer, Burns and myself, and so long had we played together and so steadily had we practiced that there was scarcely a play made that we were not in readiness to meet. We had a system of signals that was almost perfect, and the moment that a ball was hit and we had noted its direction we knew just what to look for. We were up to all the tricks of the game, and better than all else we had the greatest confidence in each other. I had shifted the positions of Williamson and Burns and the former was now playing shortstop and the latter third base. At third base Burns was as good as the best of them, he excelling at the blocking game, which he carried on in a style that was particularly his own and which was calculated to make a base-runner considerable trouble. At short Williamson was right in his element and in spite of his size he could cover as much ground in that position as any man that I have ever seen. While his throwing was of the rifle-shot order, it was yet easy to catch, as it seemed to come light to your hands, and this was also true of the balls thrown by Pfeffer and Burns, both of whom were very accurate in that line. Of the merits of Williamson and Burns as ball players I have already spoken in another chapter. Fred Pfeffer, who came from Louisville, Ky., was a ball-player from the ground up, and as good a second baseman as there was in the profession, the only thing that I ever found to criticize in his play being a tendency to pose for the benefit of the occupants of the grand stand. He was a brilliant player, however, and as good a man in this position according to my estimate as any that ever held down the second bag. He was a high-salaried player and one that earned every cent that he received, being a hard worker and always to be relied upon. He was a neat dresser, and while not a teetotaler, never drank any more than he knew how to take care of. As a thrower, fielder and base runner he was in the first class, while as a batsman he was only fair. Later on he became tangled up in the Brotherhood business, in which he lost considerable of the money that he had laid by for a rainy day. It was some time after the Brotherhood revolt, in which Fred had been one of the prime movers, and a brief history of which is recorded elsewhere, that he was taken back into the fold. He was anxious to play again in Chicago, and I gave him the chance. His health was, however, bad at that time and he was unable to do himself justice and to play the ball that when a well man he was capable of. I hung on to him as long as I could, but when the papers began to howl long and loud about his shortcomings I was finally forced to release him. It was his, health that put him out of the business and nothing else, and had it not been for that drawback he might still be playing ball. At the present writing he is engaged in the poolroom and bookmaking line at Chicago and making a living, to say the least of it. John Clarkson was a really great pitcher, in fact, the best that Chicago ever had, and that is saying a great deal, as Chicago has had some of the very best in the profession since the game first became popular within its suburbs. He was the possessor of a remarkable drop curve and fast overhand lifting speed, while his change of pace was most deceiving. He was peculiar in some things, however, and in order to get his best work you had to keep spurring him along, otherwise he was apt to let up, this being especially the case when the club was ahead and he saw what he thought was a chance to save himself. As a fielder he was very fair, and as, a batsman above the average, so far as strength went, though not always to be depended upon as certain to land upon the ball. His home was down at Ocean Spray, near Boston, but he came to us from Grand Rapids, Michigan. He was released to the Bostons in the spring of 1888 for the sum of $10,000, and played with that team for several years. He is now in the cigar business in Michigan and is, I ant glad to learn, successful. Pitchers of Clarkson's sort are few and far between, as club managers of these latter days can testify. Jim McCormick, who was Clarkson's alternate in the box, was also one of the best men in his line that ever sent a ball whizzing across the plate. He was a great big fellow with a florid complexion and blue eyes, and was utterly devoid of fear, nothing that came in his direction being too hot for him to handle. He was a remarkable fielder and a good batsman for a pitcher, men who play that position being poor wielders of the ash, as a rule, for the reason, as I have always thought, that they paid more attention to the art of deceiving the batsman that are opposed to them than they do to developing their own batting powers. The most of McCormick's hits landed in the right field, owing to the fact that he swung late at the ball. He came to Chicago from Cleveland, Ohio, but prior to that had pitched in Columbus, Ohio. He was going back when he joined us, but for all that he pitched a lot of good ball and won many a good game, thanks both to himself and also to the good support that he received. After he left us he drifted down to Paterson, N. J., which seems to be a sort of Mecca for broken-down ball players, and became identified with the racing business, owning and training for a time quite a string of his own and horses that won for him quite a considerable sum, of money. He is now running a saloon in that New Jersey town, and is fairly well-to-do. John Flynn, who was the third pitcher in the string, came to Chicago from Boston and was another good man in the twirling line. He had a wonderful drop ball, good command of the sphere and great speed. He was also a good batter for a pitcher, and a fast fielder. His arm gave out while he was with us, however, and besides that he got into fast company and, attempting to keep up the clip with his so-called friends, found the pace much too rapid for him and fell by the wayside. John was a good fellow, and with good habits, and had his arm held out, he might have made his mark in the profession, but the good habits he lacked and the arm was not strong enough to bear the strain, so he dropped out of the business, and what has become of him I know not, though I think he is in Boston. Moolie, who had been signed to relieve Kelly and Flint behind the bat and to handle the delivery of Flynn, was never much of a factor in the game, he not being strong enough to stand the strain. He was let out early for that reason and never developed into a player of any note. He is somewhere in New England at the present time, but just where and what engaged at I am unable to state. James T. Ryan was at that time and is now a good ball player. His home was in Clinton, Mass., and he came to us from the Holy Cross College, in which team he had been playing. He was a mere boy when he first signed with Chicago but promised well, and though for a time he did not come up to the expectations that I had formed regarding him, I kept him on the team. His greatest fault was that he would not run out on a base hit, but on the contrary would walk to his base. This I would not stand, and so I fined him repeatedly, but these fines did little good, especially after the advent of James C. Hart, who refused to endorse them and supported Ryan in his insubordination, in regard to which I shall have more to say later. Ryan was a good hitter, not an overly fast base runner, and a good judge of a fly ball. He was also an accurate left-handed thrower. He could never cover as much ground as people thought, and though he ranked with Lange as a batsman, he was not in the same class with that player either as a base runner or a fielder, the Californian in the two latter respects being able to race all around him. Ryan at the present writing is still a member of the Chicago team, and, though by no means as good a player as he was some years ago, is quite likely to remain there as long as Mr. Hart continues at the head of affairs. William A. Sunday, or "Billy," as we all called him in those days, was born in Ames, Iowa, and was as good a boy as ever lived, being conscientious in a marked degree, hardworking, good-natured and obliging. At the time that I first ran across him he was driving an undertaker's wagon in Marshalltown, though it was not because of his skill in handling the ribbons that he attracted my attention. There was a fireman's tournament going on at the time of my visit, in which Sunday was taking part, and it was the speed that he showed on that occasion that opened my eyes to his possibilities in the base-ball playing line. He was, in my opinion, the fastest man afterwards on his feet in the profession, and one who could run the bases like a scared deer. The first thirteen times that he went to the bat after he began playing with the Chicagos he was struck out, but I was confident that he would yet make a ball player and hung onto him, cheering him up as best I could whenever he became discouraged. As a baserunner his judgment was at times faulty and he was altogether too daring, taking extreme chances because of the tremendous turn of speed that he possessed. He was a good fielder and a strong and accurate thrower, his weak point lying in his batting. The ball that he threw was a hard one to catch, however, it landing in the hands like a chunk of lead. Since "Bill" retired from the diamond he has become noted as an evangelist, and I am told by those who should know that he is a brilliant speaker and a great success in that line. May luck be with him wherever lie may go! I have said that Sunday threw a remarkably hard ball to catch, and this was true, but I have noted the same peculiarity in regard to other players that I have met. How to explain the reason for this is a difficult matter. He was not as swift a thrower as either Williamson, Burns or Pfeffer, all of whom sent the ball across the field with the speed of a bullet and with the accuracy of first-class marksmen. In spite of the extreme speed with which they came into the hand, however, they seemed to sort of lift themselves as they came and so landed lightly, while Sunday's balls, on the contrary, seemed to gain in weight as they sailed through the air and were heavy and soggy when they struck the hands. This is a strange but true fact, and one that, perhaps some scientists can explain. I confess that I cannot, nor have I ever been able to find anybody that could do so to my satisfaction. Of the members of this old team the most famous in the history of Chicago as a base-ball city, three are dead, Flint, Williamson and Kelly, while the others are scattered far and wide, Ryan being the only one of them that is still playing. Over the graves of three of them the grass has now been growing for many a year, and yet I can see them as plainly now as in the golden days of the summers long ago, when, greeted by the cheers of an admiring multitude, we all played ball together. If it were possible for the dead to come back to us, how I should like once more to marshall the members of that championship team of 1884, '85 and '86 together and march with them once more across the field while the cheers of the crowd rang in our ears. But that I can never do. The past is dead, and there is no such thing as resurrecting it, however much we may wish to do so. I cannot close this chapter without mentioning little Willie Hahn, our mascot in those days, and, a mascot of whom we were exceedingly proud. Not more than four or five years ago his parents lived in a three-story house not far front the old Congress street grounds. The first time that I ever saw him he came on the grounds arrayed in a miniature Chicago uniform, and so cunning was he that we at once adopted him as our "mascot," giving him the freedom of the grounds, and he was always on hand when the club was at home, being quite a feature, and one that pleased the lady patrons of the game immensely. I had lost sight of him for years, but one day a fine, manly-looking fellow walked into my billiard-room and introduced himself as the mascot of those other days. I was glad to see him and also glad to learn that he has a good position and is getting on in the world. CHAPTER XVII. WHILE FORTUNE FROWNS AND SMILES. Should I omit to mention herein the two series of games that the Chicagos played with the St. Louis Browns, champions of the American Association, in 1885 and 1886, somebody would probably rise to remark that I was in hopes that the public had forgotten all about them. Such is not the case, however. The games in both cases were played after the regular season was over and after the players had in reality passed out of my control, and for that reason were not as amenable to the regular discipline as when the games for the League championship were going on. The St. Louis Browns was a strong organization, a very strong one, and when we met them in a series of games for what was styled at the time the world's championship, in the fall of 1885, they would have been able, in my estimation, to have given any and all of the League clubs a race for the money. In the series of games, one of which was played at Chicago, three in St. Louis, one at Pittsburg, and two at Cincinnati, we broke even, each winning three games, the odd one being a tie, and as a result the sum of $1,000, which had been placed in the office of the "Mirror of American Sports," of which T. Z. Cowles, of Chicago, was the editor, to be given to the winning team, was equally divided between the two teams. At the close of the season of 1886 the St. Louis team, having again won the championship of the American Association, another series of games was arranged and a provision was made that the gate money, which hitherto had been equally divided between the two clubs, should all go to the winner. The series consisted of six games, three of which were played in Chicago and three in St. Louis. The first and third of these games we won by scores of 6 to 0 and 11 to 4, but the second, fourth, fifth and sixth we lost, the scores standing 12 to 0, 8 to 5, 10 to 3 and 4 to 3 respectively, and as a result we had nothing but our labor for our pains. We were beaten, and fairly beaten, but had some of the players taken as good care of themselves prior to these games as they were in the habit of doing when the League season was in full swim, I am inclined to believe that there might have been a different tale to tell. There was a general shaking up all along the line before the season of 1887 opened. The Kansas City and St. Louis clubs, neither of which had been able to make any money, dropped out, their places being taken by Pittsburg and Indianapolis. The sensation of the year was the sale of Mike Kelly to the Boston Club by the Chicago management for the sum of $10,000, the largest sum up to that time that had ever been paid for a ball player, and Mike himself benefited by the transaction, as he received a salary nearly double that which he was paid when he wore a Chicago uniform. The Chicago team for that season consisted of Mark Baldwin, Clarkson and Van Haltren, pitchers; Daly, Flint, Darling and Hardie, catchers; Anson, Pfeffer, Burns and Tebeau, basemen; M. Sullivan, Ryan, Pettit, Van Haltren and Darling, fielders. Pyle, Sprague and Corcoran, pitchers, and Craig, a catcher, played in a few games, and but a few only. The season, taken as a whole, was one of the most successful in the history of the League up to that time, both from a financial and a playing standpoint. The result of the pennant race was a great disappointment to the Boston Club management, who, having acquired the services of "the greatest player in the country," that being the way they advertised Kelly, evidently thought that all they had to do was to reach out their hands for the championship emblem and take it. "One swallow does not make a summer," however, nor one ball player a whole team, as the Boston Club found out to its cost, the best that it could do being to finish in the fifth place. The campaign of 1887 opened on April 28th, the New York and Philadelphia Clubs leading off in the East and Detroit and Indianapolis Clubs in the West. At the end of the first month's play Detroit was in the lead, with Boston a good second, New York third, Philadelphia fourth and Chicago fifth. The team under my control began a fight for one of the leading positions in June, and when the end of that month came they were a close fourth, Detroit, Boston and New York leading them, while Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Washington and Indianapolis followed in the order named. The boys were playing good ball at this stage of the game and our chances for the pennant had a decidedly rosy look. During the month of July we climbed steadily toward the top of the ladder, and at the end of that month we were in second place, and within striking distance of Detroit, that team being still the leader, while Boston had fallen back to the third and New York to fourth place. These positions were maintained until the last week of August, when the Chicago and Detroit teams were tied in the matter of games won. At this time it was still anybody's race so far as the two leaders were concerned. The middle of September saw a change in the condition of affairs, however, Detroit having secured a winning lead, and from that time on all of the interest centered in the contest for second place between Chicago, Philadelphia and New York. By the end of September New York was out of the fight so far as second place was concerned, the battle for which had narrowed down to Chicago and Philadelphia, which finally went to the latter after a hard struggle. The Detroits that season won 79 games and lost 45, the Philadelphias won 75 games and lost 48, the Chicagos won 71 games and lost so, Boston, Pittsburg, Washington and Indianapolis finishing in the order named. The champions of that year also succeeded in doing what we had failed to accomplish, that is, they beat the St. Louis Browns by one game in the series for the world's championship that was played after the close of the regular League season. In the matter of the batting averages for that year I stood second on the list, with a percentage of .421, having taken part in 122 games, while Maul, of the Pittsburg team, who led the list with .450, had only taken part in sixteen games, these figures including bases on balls as base hits. The League circuit for 1888 remained the same as in 1887, and all of the clubs made money with the exception of Detroit, Washington and Indianapolis, and their losses were small. The attendance at the games everywhere was something enormous, and the race between the four leaders a hot one from start to finish. Early in the spring the Chicago club management pocketed another check for $10,000 for the release of a player, the one to join the Hub forces this time being John Clarkson, a man who had often pitched the Chicago Club to victory, and a player that I personally regretted to part with. With the assistance of this really great pitcher the Boston management hoped to get even for their disappointment of the preceding season and once more fly the pennant over their home grounds, to which it had for some years been a stranger. With Clarkson and Kelly out of the way we were looked upon prior to the opening of the season as a rather soft mark by the other League clubs, but that they reckoned without their host is shown by the records. We were in it, and very much in it, from start to finish, finishing in the second place, the championship going to New York, the team from the Eastern metropolis winning 84 games and losing 47, while Chicago won 77 games and lost 58, Philadelphia came third on the list with 69 games won and 61 lost, and Boston fourth with 70 games won and 63 lost, Detroit, Pittsburg, Indianapolis and Washington following in the order named. The Chicago team that season consisted of Baldwin, Tener, Krock and Van Haltren, pitchers; Daly, Flint, Farrell and Darling, catchers; Anson, Pfeffer and Burns on the bases; Williamson, shortstop, and Sullivan, Ryan, Pettit and Duffy in the outfield. Among the men signed, and who were given a trial, were Hoover, Sprague, Brynon, Clark, Maine and Gumbert. In the matter of batting averages I again led the League with .343, Beckley of Pittsburg being second with .342, a difference in my favor of only a single point. A long time before this season was over I became interested financially in a proposed trip to be made by the Chicago Club and a picked team, to be called the All-Americans, to Australia and New Zealand, A. G. Spalding, Leigh S. Lynch and one or two others being associated in the venture. The management of this trip and the details thereof were left entirely in the hands of Messrs. Spalding and Lynch, the latter-named gentleman having been associated with A. M. Palmer in the management of the Union Square Theater at New York, and having passed some time in Australia in connection with the theatrical business, had a wide acquaintance there. When the subject was first broached, it is safe to assert that there was not a man connected with the enterprise that had any idea that the journey would be lengthened out to a trip around the world, but such proved to be the case. In February of 1888 Mr. Lynch departed for Australia in order to make the necessary arrangements there for the appearance of the tourists. Posters of the most attractive description were gotten ready for the trip, and long before the season was over the fact that we were going became known to every one in the land who took any interest in base-ball whatever, the proposed trip even then exciting a large amount of interest. Mr. Lynch, who had returned, had awakened considerable interest among the Australians, and long before the actual start was made the prospects, both from a sight-seeing and money-making standpoint seemed to be most alluring. One would naturally have thought that with such a chance to travel in strange lands before them, every ball player in America would have been more than anxious to make the trip, but such was not the case, greatly to my astonishment, and to the astonishment of Mr. Spalding, upon whose shoulders devolved the duty of selecting the players who should represent the National Game in the Antipodes. Ten players of the Chicago team signed to go at once, these being Ned Williamson, Tom Burns, Tom Daly, Mark Baldwin, Jimmy Ryan, Fred Pfeffer, John Tener, Mark Sullivan, Bob Pettit and myself, but the getting together of the All-American team was quite a difficult matter. Many of the players who had at first signed to go backed out at almost the last moment, among them being Mike Kelly of the Bostons and Mike Tiernan of the New Yorks. The following team to represent All-America was finally gotten together: John M. Ward, shortstop and captain; Healy and Crane, pitchers; Earle, catcher; Carroll, Manning and Wood on the bases, and Fogerty, Hanlon and T. Brown in the outfield. George Wright accompanied the party to coach the two teams in their cricket matches. One of the pleasantest incidents of the year 1888 that I can recall to mind occurred during our last trip to Washington. Frank Lawler, who was them a member of Congress from Chicago, and who was as big-hearted and wholesouled a fellow as ever stood in shoe leather (he is dead now, more's the pity), learned of our projected trip and procured for us an audience with President Cleveland at the White House, where we met with a most cordial reception, and I think I am violating no confidence when I say that had we been at home when the election took place in November following, he would have received the vote of every man in the team, though I am afraid this would not have affected the result to any appreciable extent. When I was introduced to him as the captain and manager of the Chicago Club he shook hands with me in a most cordial fashion and remarked that he had often heard of me, a fact that did not seem so strange to me as it might have done some seventeen years earlier, when my name had never been printed in anything besides the Marshalltown papers. The impression that I gained of President Cleveland at that time was that he was a level-headed, forceful business man, a genial companion, and a man that having once made up his mind to do a thing would carry out his intentions just as long as he believed, that he was right in doing. For each and every member of the team he had a cheerful word and a hearty grip, and when we finally took our departure he wished us a pleasant trip and a successful one. I had made up my mind to take Mrs. Anson with me, and so, as soon as the playing season was over, we began making the necessary preparations for our departure. These did not take long, however. The afternoon of October 10th the Chicago and All-American teams played a farewell game in the presence of 3,000 people on the League grounds at Chicago, which was won by the Chicagos by a score of 11 to 6, and that night we were off for what proved to be the first trip around the world ever made by American ball players, a trip that will ever live in base-ball annals and in the memories of those who were so fortunate as to make it. CHAPTER XVIII. FROM CHICAGO TO DENVER. It was a jolly party that assembled in the Union Depot on the night of October 20th, 1888, and the ball players were by no means the center of attraction, as there were others there to whom even the ball players took off their hats, and these were the ladies, as Mrs. Ed. Williamson, the wife of the famous ball player, and Mrs. H. I. Spalding, the stately and white-haired mother of Mr. Spalding, as well as my own blue-eyed wife, had determined upon making the trip that few people have the opportunity of making under circumstances of such a favorable nature. In addition to these outsiders, so far as ball playing was concerned, were President Spalding, of the Chicago Club; Harry Simpson, of the Newark, N. J., team, who acted as Mr. Spalding's assistant; Newton McMillan, the correspondent of the New York "Sun;" Mr. Goodfriend, of the Chicago "Inter Ocean;" Harry Palmer, correspondent of the Philadelphia "Sporting Times" and New York "Herald," and James A. Hart, then of the Milwaukee Club, but now of Chicago. The Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad had provided for our accommodation two handsomely furnished cars, a dining and a sleeping car, and in these we were soon perfectly at home. It was just seven o'clock when the train pulled out for St. Paul, that being our first objective point, with the cheers and good wishes of the host of friends that had assembled at the depot to see us off still ringing in our ears. We had dinner that night in the dining car shortly after leaving Chicago, and long before the meal was over the tourists had become a veritable happy family. As we sailed along through the gathering darkness over bridges and culverts and by stations that seemed like phantoms in the dim light the song of the rail became monotonous in our ears, and we turned for recreation to that solace of the traveler, cards, with which every one in the party seemed well provided. It was not long before the rolling of the chips made the sleeper resemble a gambling hall more than anything else, and the cheering and enthusiastic crowds that greeted us at every stopping place received but a small share of our attention at our hands. As the ladies in the party had given the boys permission to smoke where and when they pleased, the blue veil that hung over the various tables was soon thick enough to cut with a knife. A mandolin and guitar in the party added to our enjoyment, and it was not until the midnight hour had come and gone that we sought our couches. When we arrived at St. Paul on Sunday morning we found a large crowd at the depot to greet us. A game had been scheduled for that afternoon, St. Paul being in those days a wide-open town, and Sunday the one great day in the week so far as base-ball was concerned. "The frost was on the pumpkins" and the air so chilly that a winter overcoat would have felt much more comfortable than a base-ball uniform. Nevertheless it would not do to disappoint the people, 2,000 of whom had assembled at the grounds to see us play. In the absence of Mike Kelly, who had faithfully promised Mr. Spalding that he would join us at Denver, and didn't, Frank Flint, "Old Silver," who had been prevailed upon to accompany the party as far as Denver, was sent in to catch for the All-Americans, and as Kelly's name was on the score card it was some time before the crowd discovered that it was "Old Silver" and not the "Ten Thousand Dollar Beauty" that was doing the catching. Flint's batting was not up to the Kelly standard, however, and they soon tumbled to the fact that Flint was an impostor. At the end of the sixth inning, and with the score standing at 9 to 3 in favor of the Chicagos, the game was called in order that the Chicago Club might play a game with the St. Pauls, then under the management of John S. Barnes. This game attracted far more interest than the preceding one, owing to the local color that it assumed, and the crowd waxed decidedly enthusiastic when the game was called at the end of the seventh inning on account of darkness, with the score standing at 8 to 5 in St. Paul's favor. So elated was Manager Barnes over the victory of his pets that he at once challenged me for another game with the Chicagos, to be played at Minneapolis the following day, a challenge that I accepted without the least hesitation. The special cars in which we journeyed were run down to Minneapolis the next morning, where we had a royal reception, in which a parade in a dozen landaus drawn by horses with nodding plumes of old gold and new gold blankets, and headed by a band of twenty-one pieces, led by a drum-major resplendent in scarlet and gold, was not the least of the attractions. In spite of the fact that the day was even colder than the one that we had encountered at St. Paul, some 2,000 people assembled to witness the game. Van Haltren pitched an excellent game for the All-Americans on this occasion, while Tener was freely hit and badly supported, the result being that we were beaten by a score of 6 to 3, but four innings being played. Then followed the game that the crowd was most anxious to see, that being the one between the Chicagos and St. Pauls. For the St. Pauls Tuckerman pitched and Billy Earle caught, while I sent in Mark Baldwin to do the twirling for the Chicagos. It was a pretty game, and as neither side scored for four innings the excitement ran high. In the fifth inning the St. Pauls were again retired with a goose egg and Pfeffer crossed the home plate with a winning run for the Chicagos. It was a great game for the St. Paul Club to play, and Manager Barnes had a right to be proud of the showing they had made, as he certainly must have been. There was but little time for sight-seeing left when the game was over, and at seven o'clock that evening we were on the road for Cedar Rapids, Iowa, which was to be our next stopping point. The great majority of us retired early, but the sleep that we got was scarcely worth talking about, as Tom Daly, whose propensity for practical jokes was unbounded, kept the car in a roar of laughter. No one was exempt that could be reached, and as a result there was no sleep for any of us. At Cedar Rapids, where we arrived Tuesday morning, we were the recipients of quite an ovation, and our cars, which had been switched on a side-track near the Union Depot, attracted as much attention as though they contained a whole menagerie instead of a few traveling ball players. Special trains were run in from adjacent towns, and long before the hour set for the game the town was crowded with visitors. The day was a beautiful one and the crowd that assembled at the grounds would have done credit to a League city, the attendance numbering 4,500. A crowd like that deserved to see a good game, and that is what they were treated to, the score being a tie in the fifth inning and again in the eighth, it then standing at five each. In the ninth inning Ryan crossed the plate with the winning run for Chicago, and the crowd cheered themselves hoarse over the result, though they would doubtless have cheered just as long and hard had the All-American team been the victors. At 6:30 that evening we left Cedar Rapids for Des Moines, arriving at the State capital the next morning. Thus far all of our traveling had been done in the darkness, but as there was nothing to be seen save the rolling prairies, that I had been familiar with as a. boy, this occasioned no regret so far as I was concerned. At Des Moines some 2,000 people turned out to witness the game, which proved to be close and exciting. At the request of some of the citizens Hutchinson and Sugie, of the Des Moines Club, were allowed to fill the points for the All-Americans, Baldwin and Ryan doing the pitching for Chicago. The local men proved to be decidedly good in their line, and as a result the score at the end of the ninth inning stood at 3 to 2 in favor of the All-Americans. On across the prairies, where the ripened corn stood in stacks, the train sped to Omaha, where we arrived the morning of October 25th, and we were met with another great reception. Here Clarence Duval turned up, and thereby hangs a story. Clarence was a little darkey that I had met some time before while in Philadelphia, a singer and dancer of no mean ability, and a little coon whose skill in handling the baton would have put to the blush many a bandmaster of national reputation. I had togged him out in a suit of navy blue with brass buttons, at my own expense, and had engaged him as a mascot. He was an ungrateful little rascal, however, and deserted me for Mlle. Jarbeau, the actress, at New York, stage life evidently holding out more attractions for him than a life on the diamond. Tom Burns smuggled him into the carriage that day, tatterdemalion that he was, and when we reached the grounds he ordered us to dress ranks with all the assurance in the world, and, taking his place in front of the players as the band struck up a march, he gave such an exhibition as made the real drum major turn green with envy, while the crowd burst into a roar of laughter and cheered him to the echo. When, later in the day, I asked him where he had come from, he replied that Miss Jarbeau had given him his release that morning. I told him that he was on the black list and that we had no use for deserters in our business. "Spec's you's a' right, Cap'n," he replied and then he added, with a woe-begone expression of countenance that would have brought tears of pity to the eyes of a mule: "I'se done had a mighty ha'd time of et since I left all you uns." I told him that he looked like it, but that he had deserved it all, and that we were done with him, and this nearly broke his heart. When I got back to the car I found the little "coon" there, and ordered him out, but the boys interceded for him, raised a purse, in which I chipped in my share, of course, and I finally consented that he should accompany us as far as San Francisco, and farther, provided that he behaved himself. The little coon did not prove to be much of a mascot for Chicago that afternoon, as the All-Americans dropped to Ryan's slow left-handed delivery after the fifth inning, he having been a puzzle to them up to that time, and pounded him all over the field, they finally winning by a score of 12 to 2. The heavy batting pleased the Omaha people, however, and they cheered the All-Americans again and again. That night we were off for Hastings, Neb., where we were scheduled to play the next day. Arriving there Clarence Duval was taken out, given a bath, against which he fought with tooth and nail, arrayed in a light checked traveling suit with a hat to match, new underwear and linen, patent leather shoes and a cane. When he marched onto the field that afternoon he was the observed of all observers, and attracted so much attention from President Spalding, who had been absent on a trip to Kansas City, and who had returned just in time to see his performance, that it was at once decided to take him to Australia. The contract that he was made to sign was an ironclad one, and one that carried such horrible penalties with it in case of desertion that it was enough to scare the little darkey almost to death. When I looked him over that night on the train I told him that I should not be in the least surprised were he again to desert us at San Francisco, and especially if Miss Jarbeau should run across him. "Den dat's jest 'case you doan' know me," he retorted; "I specs dat if dat 'ooman sees me now," and here he looked himself over admiringly, "she's jes' say to me, 'My gracious, Clarence, whar you been? Come right along wid me, my boy, an' doan' let me lose sight ob you no more.' I know she'd just say dat." "What would you say then?" I asked. "What I say? Why, I jes' say, 'Go on, white 'ooman, don't know you now, an' I nebber did know you. No, sir, Mr. Anson, I'se done wid actresses de rest ob my nat-rel life, you heah me." To my astonishment he kept his word, remaining with us all through the trip and returning with us to Chicago. Outside of his dancing and his power of mimicry he was, however, a "no account nigger," and more than once did I wish that he had been left behind. Just before the game at Hastings began a section of the grand stand, some twenty feet in height, gave way, but as no one was killed, and as there were 3,000 people present, many of whom had come from the surrounding towns to witness the game, the accident was soon lost sight of. The game resulted in a victory for Chicago by a score of 8 to 4. Baldwin pitched for the Chicagos and Van Haltren for the All-American team. On our way from Hastings to Denver that night we met the train from St. Louis at Oxford, Neb., and were joined by Capt. John Ward and Ed Crane of the New York team; Capt. Manning of the Kansas Citys had joined us at Hastings, and when Billy Earle of St. Paul, who had been telegraphed for, met us at Denver, the party was complete, Hengle, Long and Flint leaving us at that point to return to Chicago. The early morning of the 27th found us speeding over the plains some fifty miles east of Denver. As we looked out of the car windows while at breakfast that morning we caught glimpses of the snow-capped mountains in the distance, and so near did they seem to be in the rarefied atmosphere that they seemed not more than six or seven miles away, consequently we were much surprised when informed by the conductor that they were forty-eight miles distant. I have since been told the story of a sleeping-car conductor who had been running into Denver for some time, and who sat in the dining-room at Brown's Palace Hotel one morning looking over toward the foothills, remarked to the steward that the next time he came there he intended to take a little run over there before breakfast. Asked how far he thought it was he replied, some two or three miles, and was astonished when informed that they were twenty-two miles distant. We found Denver a really beautiful city and both my wife and myself were astonished by the handsome buildings that were to be seen on every side and by the unmistakable signs of prosperity that surrounded us. The parade to the grounds that afternoon was a showy one and we were greeted by great crowds all along the line. The game was witnessed by 7,500 people, who recognized every player the moment he appeared. The field was a bad one, and this, combined with the rarefied atmosphere, to which the players were not accustomed, caused both teams to put up a decidedly poor game, as is shown by the score, which stood at 16 to 12 in favor of the Chicagos. The next day, however, in the presence of 6,000 people, the players more than redeemed themselves, John Ward making his first appearance with the All-Americans, and playing the position of shortstop in a masterly fashion. The fielding on both sides was superb, and it was not until two extra innings had been played that the victory finally remained with the All-Americans, the score standing at 9 to 8. The feature of the game and the play that captured the crowd was Hanlon's magnificent running catch of Sullivan's long fly, which brought the crowd to its feet and resulted in a storm of cheers that did not cease until that player had raised his cap to the grand stand in recognition of the ovation. Our two days' stay in Denver was made decidedly pleasant, and we saw as much of the city as possible, although not as much as we should have liked to have seen had we had more time at our disposal. CHAPTER XIX. FROM DENVER TO SAN FRANCISCO. Colorado Springs, the fashionable watering place of all Colorado, was to be our next stopping place. Leaving Denver on the night of October 27th, we were obliged to change from the broad-gauge cars in which we had been traveling, into narrow-gauge cars, in which we journeyed as far as Ogden, and they seemed for a time cramped and uncomfortable as compared with the "Q." outfit. We soon became used to them, however, and managed to enjoy ourselves as thoroughly as though we had no end of room in which to turn around and stretch ourselves. I have neglected to say that the old gentleman, or "Pa" Anson, as the boys soon began to call him in order to distinguish him from myself, had joined us at starting, and the fact that accommodations for poker parties were rather cramped, gave him a chance to grumble, that he was not slow to take advantage of. He soon became a great favorite with all the party and as base-ball and poker had always been his favorite amusements, he found himself for at least once in his life in his natural element, it being one of his theories of life that he would rather play poker and lose right along than not to play at all. He found no difficulty in that crowd in getting up a poker party at any time, and was consequently happy, though whether he won or lost, and how much, I cannot say. There was a large crowd at the Denver depot to see us off, and we left the Colorado metropolis with many regrets, so pleasant had been our visit there. The day was just breaking when we arrived at Colorado Springs the next morning, and save for a few early risers, the depot was deserted. At the depot awaiting our arrival were carriages and saddle horses, which had been telegraphed for from Denver in order that we might enjoy a flying visit to Manitou and the Garden of the Gods before playing the afternoon game. There was a general scramble at the depot for a choice of steeds, the park wagons, three in number, having been reserved for the use of the ladies and such members of the party whose education in the riding line had been neglected. I was not as quick as I might have been and had the comfort of Mrs. Anson to look after beside; as a result there fell to my lot a cross-eyed sorrel that had evidently spent the greater part of his life in chasing cattle among the mountains, and that true to his natural proclivities gave me no end of trouble before the morning was over. The sun was just turning the top of Pike's Peak, some eighteen miles distant, into a nugget of gold, when we left the depot, but so plainly could we see the crevices that seamed its massive sides that it looked not to be more than five miles distant. To our right rose the peaks of sandstone that form the gateway to the Garden of the Gods, and below us ran the narrow roadway through the valley like a belt of silver. Manitou, six miles distant, was reached without accident, and here we stopped to have breakfast at the Cliff House, and to drink of the clear waters of the Silver Springs that have become justly famous the world over. Breakfast over we resumed our ride, turning off into a little valley a mile below the hotel that formed the rear entrance to the Garden of the Gods. The sandstone formation here was of the most peculiar character and the ladies of the party went into ecstasy over "Punch and Judy," "The Balanced Rock," "The Mushroom Rock," "The Duck," "The Frog," "The Lady of the Garden," and the "Kissing Camels." The great sandstone rocks that form the gateway come in for their share of admiration and I think we could still have found something to look at and admire had we remained there for a month instead of for the brief time that was at our disposal. That one morning's experience did more to convince me than anything else that there is no use for the American to travel in search of scenery, as he has some of the grandest in the world right here in his own country. After admiring the many remarkable things that were to be seen there we made on through the gateway down the valley and then to the summit of the hill, some two miles in height. Here we debouched on to a little plateau, from which we obtained a magnificent view of Pike's Peak crowned with its eternal snows; Cheyenne Mountains, looking dark and sullen by contrast, and the ranges of the Rocky Mountains that upraised themselves twenty-five miles away, and yet seemed but a few miles distant. That cross-eyed sorrel of mine had persisted in taking me off on a cattle herding exhibition not long after we had left the Springs, and at Manitou I had turned him over to the tender mercies of Bob Pettit, who had more experience in that line than I had, and in whose hands he proved to be a most tractable animal--in fact, quite the pick of the bunch, which goes to show that things are not always what they seem, horses and gold bricks being a good deal alike in this respect. Mark Baldwin's mustang proved to be a finished waltzer, and after the saddle-girth had been broken and Mark had been deposited at full length in the roadway, he turned his animal over to Sullivan, who soon managed to become his master. It was a morning filled with trials and tribulations, but we finally turned up at Colorado Springs with no bones broken, and so considered that we were in luck. The Denver and Rio Grande people had promised to hold the train an hour for our accommodation, but greatly to our surprise word came to us right in the middle of the game that we had but fifteen minutes in which to catch the train, and so we were obliged to cut the game short and make tracks for the depot. The exhibition that we put up in the presence of that crowd of 1,200 people at Colorado Springs was a miserable one, the rarefied air being more to blame for it than anything else, and when we stopped play at the end of the sixth inning with the score at 16 to 9 in our favor I could hardly blame the crowd for jeering at us. At this point Jim Hart came very near to being left behind, he having stopped at the ground to adjust the matter of finances, and had he not made a sort of John Gilpin ride of it he might even now be browsing on the side of a Colorado mountain, and if he were, base-ball would have been none the loser. I am very much afraid that the residents of Colorado Springs have not to this day a very high opinion of the Australian base-ball tourists, but if they are any sorer than I was after my experience with that cross-eyed sorrel, then I am sorry for them. The trip through the Grand Canon of the Arkansas that we entered just as the sun was going down, was a never-to-be-forgotten experience, we viewing it from an observation car that had been attached to the rear of the train. Through great walls of rock that towered far above the rails the train plunged, twisting and turning like some gigantic snake in its death agony. Into the Royal Gorge we swung over a suspended bridge that spanned a mountain torrent, and that seemed scarcely stronger than a spider's web, past great masses of rock that were piled about in the greatest confusion, and that must have been the result of some great upheaval of which no records have ever come down to us. We stopped for supper at the little mountain station of Solida, and then with the train divided into two sections steamed away for Marshall Pass, the huge rocks around us looking like grim battlements as they loomed up in the gathering darkness. Up and still up we climbed, the train running at times over chasms that seemed bottomless, upon slender bridges and then darting through narrow openings in the rocks that were but just wide enough for the train to pass. Reaching the summit of the pass, 10,858 feet above the sea level, we jumped from the coaches as the train came to a standstill and found ourselves standing knee-deep in the snow. In the brief space of six hours we had passed from a land of sunshine to a land of snow and ice, and the transition for a time seemed to bewilder us. We had now climbed the back bone of the continent and in a few minutes afterward we were racing down its other side, past the Black Canon of the Gunnison, that we could see but dimly in the darkness, we thundered, and it was long after midnight when, weary with sight-seeing and the unusual fatigue of the day, we retired to our berths. Breakfasting the next morning at Green River, we soon afterwards entered the mountains of Utah, that seemed more like hills of mud than anything else after viewing the wonders of the Rockies. On the night of October 30th we reached Salt Lake City, the stronghold of the Mormon faith, and one of the handsomest and cleanest cities that the far West can boast of. That morning we took in the tabernacle, the Great Salt Lake and other sights of the town, returning to the Walker House in time for dinner. The ball ground there was a fairly good one, and we started to play our first game in the presence of 2,500 people. In the first half of the fifth inning it started to rain, and how it did rain! The water did not come down in drops, but in bucketfuls. The game, which was called at the end of the fourth inning resulted in a victory for the All-Americans, they winning by a score of 9 to 3. All night long the rain fell, and as it was anything but pleasant under foot, we were content, that is, most of us, to remain within the friendly shelter of the hotels. The grounds next day were still in bad shape, and long before the game was over we were covered with mud from head to heels. The game was a good one so far as the All-Americans were concerned, but a bad one on the part of the Chicago players, the game going against us by a score of 10 to 3. That we could not have had pleasant weather and seen more of Salt Lake City and its environs is a matter of regret with us to this day. The evening of November 1st found us aboard the cars and off for 'Frisco, the Paris of America. Arriving at Ogden at midnight, we found two special sleepers awaiting us, and were soon once more en route. The next day time hung somewhat heavy on our hands and the view from the car window soon became monotonous. Dreary wastes of sage brush greeted us on every hand, walled in by the mountains that, bare of verdure, raised their heads above the horizon some thirty miles away. To the pioneers who crossed those arid wastes in search of the new El Dorado, belongs all honor and praise, but how they ever managed to live and to reach the promised land is indeed a mystery. The morning of November 3d found us away up among the mountains of the Sierra Nevada range, and here the scenery was a magnificent description, the great peaks being clothed almost to their very summits in robes of evergreen. Down toward the valleys clad in their suits of emerald green we rolled, the mountains giving away to hills and the hills to valleys as the day drew on, until we finally reached Sacramento, where we stopped for breakfast. Here we found just such a crowd to greet us as had met the train at Denver, the base-ball enthusiasts, who had been notified of our coming, having turned out in full force. Leaving Sacramento we passed through a most prosperous country dotted with orchards and vineyards as far as the eye could reach until we finally came to a standstill at the little station of Suison, thirty miles from San Francisco. Here we were met by Mr. Hart, who, in company with Frank Lincoln, the humorist, and Fred Carroll, had gone on ahead of us to 'Frisco from Salt Lake City, and who had come out to meet us accompanied by a party of Pacific Coast base-ball managers, railroad men and representatives of the San Francisco press. A telegram from E. J. Baldwin, better known by his soubriquet of "Lucky Baldwin," had been received by Mr. Spalding during the day, welcoming us to the city and to the Baldwin Hotel, and apprising us that carriages would be found in waiting for us at the foot of Market street. Landing from the ferry boats that carried us across the bay from Oakland, we found the carriages and proceeded at once to the Baldwin Hotel, where comfortable quarters had been provided for us. I had been notified by Mr. Hart while on the steamer, as were a half a dozen other members of the party, to get into a dress suit as soon as possible, and this I did with the help of Mrs. Anson, shortly after our arrival at the hotel. At 6 o'clock the invited members were escorted by members of the San Francisco Press and the California Base-ball League to Marchand's, one of the leading restaurants of the city, where we found a dainty little supper awaiting us, to which I for one at least did full justice. After supper we attended a performance of "The Corsair" at the Baldwin Theater, two proscenium boxes having been reserved for the members of the two teams, all of whom were in full dress, and it seemed to me as if we were attracting fully as much attention, if not more, than were the actors. There was a big Republican parade the night that we arrived there and the streets in the neighborhood of the hotel were literally jammed with people, while the cheering and the noise that continued long after the bells had proclaimed the hour of midnight made sleep an impossibility. Tired as we were, it was not until the "wee sma' hours" had begun to grow longer that Mrs. Anson and I retired, and even then the noise that floated up to our ears from the crowds below kept us awake for some time, and that night in my dreams I still fancied that I was on the train and that I could hear the surging of the rails beneath me. Glad, indeed, was I the next morning to wake and find that I was once more on solid ground. CHAPTER XX. TWO WEEKS IN CALIFORNIA. We were booked for a stay of two weeks in San Francisco, and that two weeks proved to be one continual round of pleasure for every member of the party. The appearance of the city itself was somewhat of a disappointment to me, and I soon grew somewhat tired of climbing up hill only to climb down again. The really fine buildings, too, were few and far between, the majority of them being low wooden structures that looked like veritable fire-traps. They are built of redwood, however, and this, according to the natives, is hard to burn. The fact that the towns had not burned down yet would seem to bear out the truth of their assertion, though the Baldwin Hotel was built of the same material, and that went up in flames a little over a year ago in such a hurry that some of the people who were stopping there thought themselves lucky to get off with the loss of their wardrobes and baggage, while others who were not so lucky never got out at all. The natural surroundings of the city are, however, decidedly handsome, and I doubt if there is a handsomer sight anywhere than San Francisco Bay, a bay in which all of the navies of the world could ride at anchor and still have plenty of room for the merchant vessels to come and go. The shores of this bay are lined with beautiful little suburban towns that are within easy reach by boat and sail from San Francisco, and it is in these towns that a large proportion of the people doing business in the city reside. The people are most hospitable and at the time of our visit the base-ball foes and cranks, both in the same category, were as thick as were the roses, and roses in California greet you at every turn, not the hot-house roses of the East, that are devoid of all perfume, but roses that are rich with fragrance and that grow in great clusters, clambering about the doorways of the rich and poor alike, drooping over the gateways and making bright the hedges. Flowers were to be seen everywhere, and their cheapness at the time of our visit was both the wonder and delight of the ladies. The day after our arrival, November 4th, dawned bright and beautiful, but the haggard faces and the sleep-laden eyes of the tourists when they assembled at a late hour in the Baldwin Hotel rotunda boded ill for a good exhibition of the art of playing base-ball that we were to give that day. My forebodings in this respect proved true. The Haight grounds were crowded, 10,500 people paying admission to see the game, and great crowds lined the streets and greeted us with cheers as we drove in carriages to the scene of action. The practice work on both sides prior to the opening of the game was of a most encouraging character, but as for the game itself--well, the least said the better. Tired out with travel and the late hours of the night before, we were in no condition to do ourselves justice. We were over-anxious, too, to put up a great game, and this also told against us. Baldwin who pitched for us had no control of the ball, and the stone wall infield of the Chicagos, which included yours truly, was way off and could not field a little bit. The score, All-American 14 and Chicago 4, tells the story of the game. That the crowd was disappointed was easy to see. They were good-natured about it, however, and it is safe to say that they did not feel half so badly as we did. Our reputation was at stake and theirs was not. That was the difference. Two days afterward the All-Americans played the Greenwood and Morans on the same grounds, and the 3,000 people who had assembled to witness the game saw the All-Americans get a most disgraceful trouncing at the hands of the local team, the score at the end of the game standing at 12 to 2. It was my misfortune to umpire this game, and I have often been accused since of having given the All-Americans the worst of the decision. It is always the privilege of the losers to kick at the umpire, however, and I have even been known to indulge in a gentle remonstrance myself when I thought the circumstances were justifiable. The truth of the matter is that it was the old story of late hours and a lack of condition, Crane being unsteady and the support accorded him not up to the standard, while the local club played a good game throughout, getting their hits in where they were needed and playing a really strong game in the field. Before another crowd of 4,000 people, on November 6th, the All-Americans played the Pioneers, another local organization, and though Healy pitched a good game for the visitors they were beaten this time by a score of 9 to 4. Ward did not take part in the game on this occasion, he having taken a day off to shoot quail, and the defeat was largely chargeable to the costly errors divided up among Hanlon, Crane, Manning, Von Haltren, Wood and Fogarty. In the meantime I had taken the Chicago team to Stockton, where on the same grounds as the All-Americans and Pioneers played we stacked up against the Stockton Club, then one of the strongest organizations in the Golden State. The 4,000 people assembled at the grounds there saw on that occasion as pretty a game as they could wish to see, the fielding on both sides being of the prettiest sort, and the work of the opposing pitchers, Tener for Chicago and Daly for Stockton, of the most effective character. At the end of the ninth inning the score was tied at 2 each, and the darkness coming on we were obliged to let it go at that, the people of Stockton being well pleased with the exhibition that they had been treated to by both teams, and especially jubilant over the fact that their own boys had been able to tie a nine of our calibre. The next day the Stockton team came down to San Francisco to measure strength with the All-Americans, Baker and Albright being their battery on this occasion, as opposed to Crane and Earle. The All-Americans, smarting under their two defeats at the hands of the local team, simply wiped up the ground with the Stockton boys on this occasion, pounding Baker all over the field and running up a score of 16 as against a single for their opponents. The showing made by the visitors on that occasion opened the eyes of the Californian ball-players and from that time on both the Pioneers and the Stocktons fought shy of both the visiting teams. On the afternoon of November 10th we, and by that I mean the Chicago team, played the Haverlys before 5,000 spectators and defeated them after a pretty contest by a score of 6 to 1, Baldwin pitching an excellent game for the Chicagos, and Incell, who was at that time the idol of the Pacific Coast, a good game for the local team, though his support was weak. The following day 6,000 people passed through the gates at the Haight street grounds to witness the second game between Chicago and All-American teams, and though this was marred by poor work here and there, the fielding was of such a brilliant character, especially the work of Chicago's stone wall, as to work the enthusiasm of the crowd up to the highest pitch. Tener and Von Haltren did the twirling on this occasion for Chicago and All-Americans respectively, and both of them were at their best. The All-Americans showed strongest at the bat, however, and as a result we were beaten by a score of 9 to 6. During the next week the team made a flying trip to Los Angeles, where two games were played, we being white-washed in the first one and beaten by a score of 7 to 4 in the second. This ended our ball-playing in California, for though it had been the intention to play a farewell game prior to our sailing for Australia, a steady rain that set in made this impossible. When we were not playing ball we were either sightseeing in the neighborhood of San Francisco or else being entertained by some of the numerous friends that we made during our stay in "the glorious climate of California," the first supper at Marchand's being followed by a host of others, and dinner parties, banquets and theater parties were so thickly sandwiched in that it was a matter of wonderment that we were ever able to run the bases at all. There was scarcely a single place of interest accessible to the city that we did not visit, from the Cliff House, which is one of the most popular resorts that Sari Francisco boasts of, its spacious grounds and verandas being thronged with people on Sundays and holidays, to the Chinese quarter, a portion of the city that no visitor to the Golden State should miss seeing, even if he has to make a journey of one hundred miles to do so. The Chinese quarter of San Francisco is a city in itself, and one in which the contrasts between wealth and poverty is even more marked than it ever was in the Seven Dials of London. The stores of the well-to-do Chinese merchants are filled with the richest of silks, the rarest of teas and the most artistic of bric-a-brac, the carvings in ivory and fancy lacquer work being especially noticeable, but close to them in the narrow streets are the abodes of vice and squalor, and squalor of the sort that reeks in the nostrils and leaves a bad taste for hours afterward in the mouths of the sight-seer. At the time of our visit both the opium dens and the gambling houses were running in full blast, and this in spite of the spasmodic efforts made by the police to close them. John Chinaman is a natural born gambler, and to obtain admission to one of his resorts is a more difficult matter than it would be for an ordinary man to obtain an audience with the Queen of England. He does his gambling behind walls of steel plate and behind doors that, banged shut as they are at the slightest sign of danger, would have to be battered down with sledges or blown open with dynamite before one could gain admission, and by that time the inmates would have all escaped and nothing would be left behind to show the nature of the business carried on. Crime runs rampant in this section of the town, and when a Chinaman is murdered, in nine cases out of ten the slayer escapes punishment at the hands of the law, though he may have it meted out to him in some horrible form at the hands of the dead man's friends and relatives. To go through the Chinese quarters by daylight is a sight well worth seeing, but to go through there with a guide after the night's dark shadows have fallen, is more than that. It is a revelation. These guides are licensed by the city, and are under the protection of the police. They are as well known to the Chinamen as they are to the officers of the law, and the visitor is always safe in following wherever they may lead. The tenement houses in the poorer sections of any great city are a disgrace to modern civilization, but a Chinese tenement house is as much worse than any of these as can be imagined. In one section of the Chinese quarter at San Francisco is a four-story building above ground, with a double basement below, one being under the other, and with an open court extending from the lower basement clear to the roof. In this building, which is jocularly styled by the guides, "The Palace Hotel of the Chinese quarter," and in which a hundred Americans would find difficulty in existing, over a thousand Chinamen live, sleep and eat, all of the cooking being done on a couple of giant ranges in the basement, which is divided up into shops, opium dens and sleeping quarters. In these shops are some clever artisans in brass and ivory, and the locks that are turned out by hand by some of these brass-workers, and made to a great extent on the same principles as the celebrated locks made in this country by the Yale Company, are marvels of workmanship in all of their parts, the joints being as neatly filled in as though turned out by the latest improved machinery, the wonder of it all being that the principles upon which they were made have been known to the Chinese for thousands of years, the Yale locks being apparently nothing but a slight improvement on the original John Chinaman ideas. In the opium dens one sees nothing but squalor and misery. A visit to one of them is a visit to them all, and one visit is generally enough to disgust the seeker after strange sensation, the acrid smell of the smoke and the noisome stench of the close rooms being almost unbearable. The Joss Houses, in which are hideous idols before which tapers and incense are constantly burning, and the Chinese theaters, with their never-ending performances, are all strange sights in their way, and sights that are well worth the taking in. The Chinese quarter is a blot on the fair name of San Francisco, however, and leaving it one wonders how and why it has ever been allowed to grow into its present huge proportions. The memories of these after-dark trips still linger with me even now, like the shadow of some dark dream, and yet I am glad that I made them, if only for the purpose of seeing how the other half of the world manages to exist. In company with Tom Daly, Bob Pettit, Harry Palmer and others of the party I enjoyed several horseback rides through the residence and suburban portions of the city, where I found much to wonder at and admire. During our stay President Spalding, Captain Ward, Captain Hanlon, Mr. and Mrs. Ed Williamson, Messrs. McMillan and Palmer, and Mrs. Anson and myself were handsomely entertained at Oakland by Mr. Waller Wallace, of the California "Spirit of the Times," a paper now defunct, and the glimpses of the bay and city that we caught at that time made the day a most pleasant one, to say nothing of the hospitality that greeted us on every hand. Messrs. Spalding, Ward, McMillan, Palmer and myself were also handsomely entertained by the Press Club, and also by the Merchants' Club of San Francisco, an organization that numbered among its members at that time many of the leading business men of San Francisco and vicinity. The day of our departure for Australia had been finally fixed for November 18th, and the evening before Spalding, as a recognition of the kindness with which we had been treated during our stay, gave a farewell banquet to the members of the California League and the San Francisco Press Club at the Baldwin Hotel, covers being laid for seventy-five guests, among them being several men of prominence in the social and business world of the Pacific Coast. The menu card for that occasion, which is circular in form and represents a base-ball cover, now lies before me, the idea originating in the fertile brain of Frank Lincoln. Under the heading of "score-card," on the inside, is the magic injunction, "Play Ball," with which the majority of us who sat at the table were so familiar, and among the courses, "Eastern oysters on the home run," "Green turtle a la Kangaroo," "Petit pate a la Spalding," "Stewed Terrapin, a la Ward," "Frisco Turkey a la Foul," together with other dishes, all of which had some allusion either to base-ball or to our contemplated Australian trip. After we had played ball, the debris cleared away and the cigars lighted, there followed a succession of impromptu speech-making, the toasts and those who replied being as follows: "Early Californian Ball-players," Judge Hunt of the Superior Court; "The National League Champions, the New York Base-ball Club," ex-Senator James F. Grady, of New York; "The San Francisco Press," W. N. Hart, of the San Francisco Press Club; "The Good Ship Alameda," Capt. Henry G. Morse; "A G. Spalding and the Australian Trip," Samuel F. Short-ride; "The Chicago Nine," yours truly; "The All-Americans," Capt. John M. Ward; "The 'Base-ball' Cricketers," George Wright. In closing Spalding thanked the press and the base-ball people of the coast for the magnificent reception that we had received, and for all the kindness which had been showered upon us since our arrival, after which we bade farewell to those of our friends that we should not see again before our departure. That night all was bustle and confusion about, the hotel. With an ocean journey of 7,000 miles before us there was much to be done, and it was again late before we retired to dream of the King of the Cannibal Islands and the Land of the Kangaroo. Eleven years have rolled away since that trip to San Francisco was made and many of the friends that we then met with and that helped to entertain us so royally have passed over the Great Divide that separate the known from the unknown, but their memory still lingers with us and will as long as life shall last. There was not a minute of the time that was spent on the coast that I did not enjoy myself. I found the Californians a warm-hearted, genial and impulsive people, in whose make-up and habits of life there still live the characteristics of those early pioneers who settled there in: "The days of old, the days of gold, The days of '49." and to whom money came easily and went the same way. CHAPTER XXI. WE VISIT THE HAWAIIAN ISLANDS. "We sail the ocean blue, Our saucy ship's a beauty. We're sailors good and true, And attentive to our duty." So sang the jolly mariners on the good ship Pinafore, and so might have sung the members of the Chicago and All-American base-ball teams as they sailed out through the Golden Gate and into the blue waters of the Pacific on the afternoon of November 18, 1888. Only at that time we were not in the least sure as to whether the Alameda was a beauty or not, pleasant as she looked to the eye, and we had a very reasonable doubt in our minds as to whether we were sailors "good and true." There was a long ocean voyage before us, and the few of us that were inclined to sing refrained from doing so lest it might be thought that, like the boy in the wood, we were making a great noise in order to keep our courage up. We were one day late in leaving San Francisco, it having been originally planned to leave here on Saturday, November 17th, and this delay of one day served to cut short our visit at Honolulu. The morning of our departure had dawned gray and sullen and rainy, but toward noon the clouds broke away and by two o'clock in the afternoon, the hour set for our departure, the day had become a fairly pleasant one. At the wharf in San Francisco, a great crowd had assembled to wish us bon voyage, conspicuous among them being my paternal ancestor, who would have liked well enough to make the entire trip, and who would doubtless have done so could he have spared the necessary time from his business at Marshalltown. Here, too, we bade farewell to Jim Hart, Van Haltren and others of the party who had accompanied us on our trip across the country, and who were now either going to return to their homes or spend the winter in San Francisco. Hardly had we left the narrow entrance to the harbor, known as the Golden Gate, and entered the deep blue waters of the Pacific before a heavy fog came down upon the surface of the deep, shutting out from our gaze the land that we were fast leaving, and that we were not again destined to see for many months. The steamer was now rising and falling on the long swells of the Pacific Ocean, but so gently as to be scarcely perceptible, except to those who were predisposed to seasickness, and to whom the prospects of a long voyage were anything but pleasant. I am a fairly good sailor myself, and, though I have been seasick at times, this swell that we now encountered bothered me not in the least. Some ten miles from the harbor entrance, the steamer stopped to let the pilot off, and with his departure the last link that bound us to America was broken. Our party on board the steamer numbered thirty-five people, and besides these there were some twenty-five other passengers, among them being Prof. Wm. Miller, the wrestler, whose name and fame are well known to athletes the world over, and who in company with his wife was bound for Australia. Sir Jas. Willoughby, an effeminate-looking Englishman of the dude variety, whose weakness for cigarettes and champagne soon became known to us, and who was doing a bit of a tour for his own pleasure; Major General Strange, of the English army, a tall, awkward-looking man, with eagle eyes, gray beard and a bronzed complexion, who had for years been quartered in India, and who had taken part in the Sepoy rebellion, some of the incidents of which he was never tired of relating; Frank Marion, his pretty wife and bright-eyed baby, the parents being a pair of light comedians, whose home was in the United States and who were going to Australia for the purpose of filling an engagement at Sidney, and to whose ability as musicians and skill in handling the guitar and banjo we were indebted for a great deal of pleasure before reaching our destination; Colonel J. M. House and a Mr. Turner, both from Chicago, where they did business at the stock yards, and who were hale and hearty fellows, a little beyond the meridian of life, and who were making the Australian trip for the purpose of business and pleasure; and last but not least Prof. Bartholomew, an aeronaut, who hailed from the wilds of Michigan and talked in a peculiar dialect of his own, and who joined our party for exhibition purposes at San Francisco, and proved to be a constant source of amusement to us all. We could not have had a more delightful trip than the one from San Francisco to Honolulu had the weather been made expressly to our order, the sea being at all times so smooth that one might almost have made the entire trip in a racing shell, and that without shipping water enough 'to do any damage. It was blue above and blue below, the sky being without a cloud and the water without so much as even a gentle ripple, save at the bow of the boat where the water parted to let us through, and at the stern, where it was churned into masses of foam by the revolving screw of the steamer. But if the days were beautiful the nights were simply grand, and the ladies were to be found on deck until a late hour watching the reflections of the moon and the stars upon the water and enjoying the balmy salt breezes that came pure and fresh from the caves of old Ocean. The second afternoon out of San Francisco the passengers were suddenly startled by the clanging of a bell and the mad rush on deck of a lot of half-clad seamen, who seemed to come from all sorts of unexpected places, and who, springing to the top of the cabins and boiler rooms began quickly to unreel long lines of hose and attach them to the ship hydrants, while a score or more of sailors stood by the life buoys and the long lines of water buckets that lined the deck. That the ship was on fire was the thought that naturally came to the minds of many of us, and it is not to be wondered at that pale cheeks were here and there to be seen, for I can conceive of nothing in my mind that could be more horrible than a fire at sea. The alarm proved a false one, however, it being simply the daily fire practice of the ship's crew, in which we afterwards took considerable interest. In spite of the fact that we were steaming along the beaten paths of navigation it was not until our fifth day that we encountered another ship, and then it was about eleven o'clock at night, and after the majority of the passengers had "sought the seclusion that a cabin grants," to again quote from Pinafore. Suddenly, as we plowed the waters, the scene was brilliantly illuminated by a powerful calcium light on top of the wheel-house, and by its glare we saw not far distant a steamer that we afterward ascertained to be the one bound from Honolulu to San Francisco. She had left San Francisco for the islands before the Presidential election had taken place, and as the Hawaiian Islands were not connected by cable with the United States, its passengers were ignorant of the result. It had been arranged, however, that a single rocket was to be sent up from the Alameda in case of Harrison's election, and two in case of, his defeat. As Harrison had been elected only a single rocket from our steamer cleft the blue, leaving behind it a trail of fiery sparks, and this was answered by a shower of rockets from the "Australia," that being the name of the sister ship that we had met, after which her lights grew dimmer and dimmer until they were finally lost to sight below the horizon. With music, cards and games of chance of every kind and variety the days and nights passed pleasantly enough on board ship, and if there was anything that we had not bet upon before the ship arrived at Honolulu it was simply because it had been overlooked in some careless manner by the tourists. When it came to making up a poker party the old gentleman was greatly missed, as "Pa Anson" had never been found wanting when there was a card party on hand and a chance to wager his chips. Before leaving San Francisco Mr. Spalding had met the Liverpool, England, agent of the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad, a Mr. S. A. Perry, and as a result of a long conversation it was agreed upon that the latter should visit such European cities as the tourists might desire to play ball in, and cable the result of his investigations to Australia. III case he found the indications were favorable to our doing a good business in Great Britain, where we were again desirous of giving exhibitions, it had been about decided by Mr. Spalding and myself that we should continue on around the world instead of returning directly home from Australia, as we had first intended. The possibility of a change in our plans we had, however, kept to ourselves, the newspaper correspondents only being taken into our confidence. The matter was allowed to leak out, however, during the voyage to Honolulu and the proposed trip was greeted with great enthusiasm by the ball players, who looked forward to it with the most pleasant anticipations, and who talked of but little else until the details were finally agreed upon at Melbourne and the proposed trip became a reality instead of a mere "castle in the air." The details of this trip had already been made public in the United States the week after our departure from San Francisco, so that the people at home were aware of what might occur even before the ball players themselves had had a chance to realize that they were to become globetrotters. Owing to the fact that we had left San Francisco a day late we were a day late in arriving at the capital of the Hawaiian Islands, where we had been scheduled to play a game on Saturday, November 24th, but where, owing to an unfortunate combination of circumstances, we were fated not to play at all in spite of the fact that every preparation for our doing so had been made and that King and court were more than anxious to see the American athletes in action. The nightfall of Saturday found us still plowing the blue waters of the Pacific 150 miles from the islands, and as we sat on deck in the moonlight we could picture in fancy the despair of our advance agent, Mr. Simpson, who had gone on ahead of us from San Francisco and who was still in ignorance of the cause of our detention. It was just as the day began to break on the morning of Sunday, November 25th, that the cry of "Land ho!" from the lookout on the bridge echoed over the steamer's decks, and it was but a few minutes afterward when the members of our party had assembled next the rail to gaze at what was then but a faint blur upon the distant horizon. An hour later the green verdure of the islands and the rugged peaks of the mountains that loomed up against the rosy tint of the changing sky were plainly discernible, as were the white buildings of the city of Honolulu and the little fleet of shipping that was anchored in its bays. The sight was a beautiful one, and one upon which we gazed with delight as the steamer sailed in past Diamond Head and slowed down in the still waters of the bay upon whose shores Honolulu is located. Nearing the shore we were met by a ship's boat containing Mr. Geoffrey, the steamship company's resident agent; Harry Simpson, our advance guard; Mr. F. M. Whitney and Mr. Geo. N. Smith, the latter a cousin of Mr. Spalding, then residing in Honolulu, together with a party of natives bearing baskets that were filled with wreaths of flowers called "Leis," with which they proceeded to decorate each member of our party as a token of welcome and good will. As the steamer cables were made fast and we were drawn slowly to our berth at the dock we looked down from our perch on the rail at a crowd of fully 2,000 people that assembled there to bid us welcome, the King's band, "The Royal Hawaiian," with dark complexions and uniforms of white duck, occupying a conspicuous place and playing for our benefit such familiar tunes as "The Star Spangled Banner," "Yankee-.Doodle," and "The Girl I Left Behind Me," each and every one of them bringing out an answering cheer from the Alameda's passengers. The morning was a bright and beautiful one and the mountains touched with the gold: of the sunrise, the plantations lying green and quiet along the shores, and the rapidly-growing crowd upon the dock, all combined to make the picture beautiful, and one that will never be forgotten. The officers of the U. S. Cruiser "Alert," which lay not far distant, had given us a hearty cheer as we passed, while the cheers that greeted us from the dock were almost incessant and told us in an unmistakable manner that we were indeed welcome to the "Paradise of the Pacific." Looking down from the steamer deck one saw people of almost every clime, the dark complexioned, straight-haired and intelligent-looking natives being in the majority, their white suits and dark faces adding greatly to the color of the scene. Pretty girls, too, were very much in evidence, and the eyes of many of our party strayed in their direction, especially those of the unmarried men, which variety composed the majority of our party. Business in Honolulu the day before had been entirely suspended in expectation of our arrival, and great was the disappointment when the day passed without the steamer being sighted. It was then thought that we would not put in an appearance before Monday, and so, when the word went around on Sunday morning that the "Alameda" was coming in, the entire city was taken by surprise and everything was bustle and confusion. King Kalakuau had set up a great portion of the night awaiting our coming, and so disappointed was he when we failed to put in an appearance that he accumulated an uncomfortable load, and this he was engaged in sleeping off when he was awakened by his courtiers and informed of our arrival. Shortly after we had shaken hands with the members of the reception committee and the steamer had been made fast to the dock we entered the carriages that had been provided for us and were driven to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, passing by the palace of King Kalakuau on the way. The streets were in themselves a novelty, being lined by stately palms, cocoanuts and bananas, laden with fruits and nuts, while there were flowers everywhere. The hotel, which stood in the center of beautifully laid out grounds, seemed like some palatial residence, and we were no sooner seated in the spacious dining-room, with its open windows extending from floor to ceiling, than the Royal Band began a concert in the music-stand beneath the windows. This band was certainly a magnificent one, and one that has but few equals in the world, or had at that time, it being then under the leadership of Bandmaster Berger, a musician of the first class. At breakfast that morning we were served for the first time with the native dish of "Poi," a pink-colored mush that, to be appreciated, must be eaten in the native manner, the people to the manner born plunging a forefinger into the dish, giving it a peculiar twist that causes it to cling, and then depositing it between the lips, where the "Poi" remains and the finger is again ready to seek the dish. In eating in such a fashion Frank Flint would have had away the best of it, and, as it was, I noticed both then and afterward that men like Williamson, Ward and others, who boasted of a base-ball finger, managed to get away with something more than their share of the delicacy. On the balconies after breakfast we again listened to the sweet strains of the "Aloha Oe," the welcome song of the native Islanders, with which we had been greeted on our arrival at the docks. As we stood on the balconies taking in the beautiful sights by which we were surrounded, we were informed that his majesty, "the King of the Cannibal Islands," as some members of the party irreverently referred to him, would be pleased to receive us at eleven o'clock at the palace. An invitation from a King is equivalent to a command, and so we at once made ready for the reception. When the appointed hour arrived Clarence Duval, clad in the full regalia of a drum major, took his place at the head of the Royal Band, which had formed in front of the hotel, and behind the music, headed by United States Minister Morrill and Mr. Spalding, were the members of the two teams in double file, the ladies following in carriages. In this order the procession marched to the palace, where the King and his cabinet were awaiting our arrival. The grounds surrounding the palace were beautiful, indeed, and as we reached the massive portico at the entrance the band formed on one side as, with hats off, we filed up the steps, being met on the landing by members of the King's Cabinet, and by attendants, who directed us to the blue room, where we deposited our hats and canes. We were then requested to follow Minister Morrill, who took Mr. Spalding's arm and led the way across a great hall hung with pictures of the Island's dead-and-gone rulers, and into the throne room, the latter an imposing apartment large enough for several hundred couples to dance in, where the King, arrayed in citizen's clothes, stood before his throne with a Gentleman of Honor in court costume on either side. Minister Morrill introduced Mr. Spalding to the King, and he in turn introduced the other members of our party as they filed in by him, be bowing to each of the party as the name was mentioned. After the reception was over we wrote our names on the court register, and then, after being shown through the palace, were escorted back to the hotel by the band. King Kalakuau was by no means a bad-looking fellow, being tall and somewhat portly, with the usual dark complexion, dark eyes and white teeth, which were plainly visible when he smiled, that distinguished all of the Kanaka race. Somehow, and for no apparent reason, there came to my mind as I looked at him the lines of that old song: "Hokey, pokey, winky wum, How do you like your murphys done? Sometimes hot and sometimes cold, King of the Cannibal Islands," and I tried hard to fancy what might have happened had we landed on those same islands several centuries before. Sunday amusements of all kinds being prohibited by an old Hawaiian law, a relic of the old missionary days, made an exhibition by the members of the two teams an impossibility, although the members of the Reception Committee, backed by many of the native Islanders, petitioned that we should do so, offering to bear any and all of the expenses incurred by us should any trouble be forthcoming. Couriers bearing petitions to the same effect were also sent around the city, and soon over a thousand names to these had been obtained. The risk was too great a one to be taken, however, as in case anything did happen we were almost certain to miss our boat and be detained in Honolulu for a longer period of time than we could afford to spend there. Our refusal to defy the law and play ball anyhow was a great disappointment both to the American contingent and to the natives, they having been looking forward to the game for weeks with most pleasant anticipations. They took their disappointment good-naturedly, however, and proceeded to make our stay among them as pleasant as possible. The most of our time was devoted to sight-seeing, some of the party going in one direction and some in the other. In company with several others, Mrs. Anson and myself drove out to the Pali, viewing the magnificent scenery to be found there from the plateau, where, according to the tales of the natives, it rains every day in the year between certain hours. I was not there long enough to swear to the truth of the story, but as it rained the one day that we were on hand I am willing to assume that it rained the other three hundred and sixty-four, and let it go at that. We then drove through many of the city's most beautiful avenues, past the Royal mausoleum, where sleep the former Kings and Queens of Hawaii, from Kamehameha to the Princess Like Like, who was the last of those that had been interred there at the time of our visit. The parks and roadways of Honolulu are of rare beauty, and many of the principal residences and public buildings of a kind that would do credit to any country in the world. At the residence of the Hon. A. S. Claghorn, where we stopped for a few minutes, we were introduced to the Princess Kaiulani, a really beautiful Hawaiian girl, and one who was the possessor of rare accomplishments and of a most winning manner. We also paid a visit to the residence of one Hon. John H. Cummins, one of the Hawaiian sugar kings, where we were entertained in a most handsome manner. The time spent in driving around passed all too quickly, and, reaching the hotel, we began to prepare for the grand Luau, or native feast, that was to be given in our honor by King Kalakuau and Messrs. Samuel Parker, John Ena and George Beckley, and which proved to be one of the most novel and delightful features of our trip. This feast was given in the Queen's grounds, in the center of which was placed her private residence. As we drove past the King's palace and through an avenue lined by towering palms and came unexpectedly upon the brilliantly illuminated-grounds, with their magnificent groves of banana, date, cocoanut, royal palms and other trees and plants of a tropical nature, the scene was a never to be forgotten one. The spacious enclosure was literally ablaze with light. Japanese lanterns of all colors, flaming torches of oil gleaming close together among the foliage. As the uniformed officers at the gates made way for us we entered the grounds. Minister Morrill, Mr. Spalding, Capt. Morse of the "Alameda," and the ladies leading the way and walking toward a great tree near the center of the grounds, beneath which stood the King, the Hon. John Cummins, and the members of the King's Cabinet. At the birth of each member of the Royal family, according to custom, a tree was planted upon royal ground, and as this tree flourishes or decays it is supposed to foreshadow the future of the child for whom it was planted. King Kalakuau on this occasion stood beneath his own birth-tree, planted some, fifty years before, which at that time gave no indication of the fate that a few years later was to overtake him in a strange land. Greeting each of his guests cordially he bade all make ourselves thoroughly at home, a thing that we proceeded at once to do without further ceremony, wandering about the grounds and seeing whatever was to be seen. An hour after our arrival the King, offering his arm to Mrs. Spalding, led the way toward the grove where the banquet was to be served, he being followed by H. R. H. Lilino Kalani, the King's sister, Prince Kawanonakoa, Mr. Spalding, Capt. Morse and the rest of the party. The tables were laid upon blocks elevated not more than six inches from the ground, in the shape of a letter U, and upon each side lay long strips of matting, upon which we sat cross-legged, like Turks, while shapely Kanaka girls in flowing robes of white stood over us moving fans of gorgeous colors. Poi was given to us in huge calabashes, while upon the big platters that were set before us and incased in the long, coarse-fibred leaves in which they had been baked, were portions of beef, pork, veal, fish, chickens and other viands usual to a banquet in our own land. Bands of native boys with stringed instruments played continuously' during the feast, making music of a peculiar character, that rose and fell as the busy hum of conversation and mingled with the joyous laughter of the men and maidens that were gathered about the table. At last silence was requested, and as the noise died away the King's Attorney General, speaking for his majesty, expressed the pleasure that the Hawaiian ruler felt in entertaining such a representative body of Americans in his own islands. To this speech President Spalding responded in well-chosen words, thanking both the King and the residents of Honolulu for the hospitality shown us, after which, at the King's request, Lincoln entertained the guests with his satire on after-dinner speeches, his "A B C" orations, and his mixing of a soda cocktail, all of which provoked roars of laughter. After the banquet the King and the members of his court and family held a levee beneath his birth-tree, where, just before nine o'clock, we all filed by to bid him farewell, Clarence Duval having danced for him in the meantime to the patting of hands by Burns, Pfeffer, Ryan and Williamson, a performance that amused his majesty greatly, a tea-dollar gold piece being the reward that he gave to the little coon for his performance. At the outskirts of the grounds we paused to give three cheers for King Kalakuau, three more for our Honolulu friends, and three more for the ladies, after which we were driven to the hotel and thence to-the steamer, which was to sail at ten o'clock. At the dock another great crowd had assembled to see us off, and as we swung out to sea there came to our ears the sweet strains of the "Aloha" song, from the members of the Royal Band, growing fainter and fainter as the distance between the steamer and the shore increased, until at last it died away altogether as we rounded the headlands, and it was heard no more. CHAPTER XXII. FROM HONOLULU TO AUSTRALIA. The majority of our party, and among them Mrs. Anson and myself, remained upon the deck that evening chatting of the many beautiful things that we had seen and gazing in the direction of the fast-vanishing islands until they were at last lost to sight behind the mystic veil of the moonlight, and then we sought our stateroom to dream of the wonderful sights that were yet to come. There was now an ocean trip of 3,900 miles before us, before we should set foot on shore at New Zealand, and with never a stop between save a brief wait for the mail at the Samoan Islands. We were all pretty fair sailors by this time, having become used to the motion of the vessel, and so the long voyage had for us no terror, though we could not help but hope that the sea would remain as smooth as it had been up to that time, and that we should encounter no storms before reaching our destination. How to keep the members of the two teams in anything like good condition for playing had been a problem with me for several days and one that I had spent some time in studying over during the first week of our voyage. The boys were all getting restless for lack of active exercise, and it was plain to me that something would have tot, be done or they would be in no condition when Australia was reached to do themselves or the country that, they represented justice. "See here, George," I said to Wright the afternoon after we had left Honolulu, as we were sitting beside the steamer rail and looking across the blue expanse of waters, "this sort of a life will never do for American ballplayers who expect to exploit the beauties of the game in foreign lands. We shall be as stiff as old women and as fat as a lot of aldermen by the time we reach Australia unless we take exercise of some kind during the voyage. Can't we manage to get some cricket practice in some way?" George thought we could do so, and a little later we held an interview with Capt. Morse, who was one of the best fellows that I ever sailed with. The result was on the following morning half a dozen sailors were set to work to roof over and wall in with canvas the rear end of the quarter deck promenade, upon the larboard side of the ship, which being done prevented the balls from going into the sea. This, when completed, gave us an enclosed cricket alley of about forty feet long, eight feet wide and ten feet high. The wickets were set in the extreme edge of this alley, the bowler facing the opening of the tent, twenty feet beyond it, so he had plenty of room to swing his arm and ample distance in which to break the ball in spite of the smooth decks and the rolling of the ship. A fifty-foot stretch of cocoa matting that Mr. Wright had thoughtfully provided gave a surface upon which to bowl almost as goad as genuine turf, and each day from that time on until the voyage was over several hours were put in by the boys at practice, the exercise proving to be just what was needed, the members of both teams, thanks to this, reaching Australia in good playing condition. After our cricket alley had been built the time did not hang as heavily on our hands as before, and between practice at the English national game, cards, music, conversation and reading, the days glided by both swiftly and pleasantly. The weather became very warm soon after we left Honolulu and many of the boys preferred sleeping, in the steamer chairs upon the deck rather than in the close staterooms that had been allotted to them. The decks at this time presented some queer sights, and the practical jokers in the party managed to extract a lot of fun at the expense of the sleepers. At 5:30 in the morning the slumberers were awakened by the sailors who started in to wash down the decks, when they would retire to their staterooms, doff their pajamas and return en natural to the vicinity to the smoker, where there were two perforated nozzles, and get their salt water baths. A sponge-off in fresh water followed and then a cup of black coffee and a soda cracker that was provided by the steward, and that stayed their stomachs until the welcome sound of the gong called us to breakfast. We crossed the Equator some time between 1 and 2 o'clock on the morning of December 1st, and the occasion was celebrated by a musicale in the cabin under the supervision of Frank Lincoln, during the progress of which everybody who could help entertain in the least was pressed into service. A thrilling account of his own experiences during the Sepoy mutiny in India and his adventures during the celebrated siege of Lucknow, told by Gen. Strange, proved most interesting. Later on at the bow of the ship the whole party assembled and whiled the time away with song and story until Capt. Morse came himself to inform us that we had crossed the line and were now safe on the Southern Seas. I did not see the line nor did I even feel the bottom of the steamer scrape it as she went over, but it may be that owing to the darkness and the music I noticed neither of these things. Early in the morning of December 2d it began blowing hard and by the time the noon hour had arrived the steamer was rolling about like a bass-wood log in a mountain torrent. There were some familiar faces missing from the tables at meal time that day and the stewards who waited upon those whose stomachs were still in eating order worked under difficulties, it being always a question of where they would bring up when they entered the cabin door. All that day: It was rough, mighty rough, But the boys they stood by, And they ran on a bluff On the grub on the sly, while the sick ones that lay in their staterooms were hoping and praying they'd die. That night there was no comfort to be had on deck, which was wet and slippery, so a mock trial was held in the cabin that afforded considerable amusement, General Strange acting as the presiding judge and Sir James Willoughby as the prisoner at the bar. Charges had been preferred to the effect that Sir James was not a peer of the realm as he had represented himself, and that he was carrying concealed weapons in violation of the ship's law. John Ward acted as counsel for the defendant, Col. House as prosecuting attorney, and Jimmy Forgarty as court crier. The witnesses were all sworn not to tell the truth, and anything but the truth, and as a result there were such whoppers told as would have made the original Annanias turn green with envy. Thanks to the eloquence of John Ward, however, Sir James was acquitted with all honor, but that trial was one of the most amusing incidents of the voyage. The spell of heavy weather lasted but a few hours, after which time the wind died away, the waves calmed down and the sun shone as brilliantly as ever. On the night of December 30th and while the weather still left much to be desired, we sighted the Northernmost Island of the Samoan group, which are famous by reason of the destruction of a fleet of United States cruisers anchored in one of the harbors by a tornado, a native insurrection that threatened to bring about war between the United States and Germany, and as the home and burial place of Robert Louis Stevenson, the famous writer. Ed Crane and several others of the party and myself were sitting on deck and under the shelter of an awning watching for a glimpse of the land that we all knew was not far away, when a little after 11 o'clock we ran suddenly under the lee of a mountainous ridge of land that loomed up like a huge shadow in the uncertain light, and almost immediately found ourselves in smooth water. Walking toward the bow of the boat we reached there just as a green signal light was flashed from the bridge. Before us lay the land, and as we watched, a light twinkled on the shore nearly five miles away in answer to our signal. Slowly we steamed toward it, the signal lights flashing their messages at short intervals through the darkness until we reached the harbor, where we lay about half a mile from the land until a sloop and a dory reached us with the mail and passengers for Auckland. Of both the land and the natives we had but a glimpse, one of the latter, a red-headed and stalwart specimen of his race, clambering to the steamer's deck in order to get a receipt for the mail and a glassful of gin, both of which were given him by the purser. The former he stowed away somewhere in his scanty clothing and the latter he gulped down as though it were water, after which he swung himself over the rail and disappeared from sight in the darkness. A few moments later we had left Samoan Islands behind us and were again tossing on the foam-topped waves. Samoa was left not far behind, however, when the weather turned colder and before many hours had passed we were all glad to change our clothing of a tropical weight for garments that were much heavier, and to seek comfortable places in the cabin at night rather than the open deck. Even the cricket practice had begun to get monotonous, and we were all looking forward with pleasure to the time when we might once more feel the solid land beneath our feet. It was with feelings of delight therefore that we heard early on the morning of December 9th that we were within sight of our destination and that we should be on shore, barring accident, by the noon hour. Standing on deck long before it was time for breakfast, we feasted our eyes on the green hills that were in plain sight, and then fell to wondering what sort of a welcome awaited us in the New Zealand seaport that we were rapidly nearing. While at the breakfast table that morning Capt. Morse was presented by Gen. Strange, on behalf of the passengers, with a purse of $200 as a testimonial to his skill, kindness and uniform courtesy. The big Captain was taken by surprise, but he acknowledged the gift in a brief and manly speech that brought out a round of applause from the listeners. The harbor at Auckland is reached by means of a winding passage walled in by hills of volcanic origin, and the bay itself is second only to that of Sydney in beauty, the sides of the high hills that wall it in being dotted here and there by pretty residences of white stone, surrounded by broad porticos and handsomely arranged grounds. The town was as quiet as a country funeral and this we marveled at until we were informed that we had lost a day from our calendar and that instead of being Saturday as we had thought, it was Sunday. Leigh Lynch, who had been detained at Sydney, had sent his cousin, Will Lynch, to meet us and as the steamer was made fast to the dock he came on board with a bouquet of flowers for the different members of the party. Several newspaper men, who followed him shortly afterward, expressed their regret that we had not arrived the day before, as then we could have played to some eight or ten thousand people. We had expected to remain in Auckland but a few hours and were therefore agreeably surprised when Capt. Morse informed us that the Alameda would remain there to coal until 5 o'clock the next afternoon. After a good dinner at the Imperial Hotel, Mrs. Anson and myself, accompanied by others of the party, drove about Auckland and its environs and though a drizzling rain was falling we found much to admire and to wonder at in the vicinity of that New Zealand seaport. Soon after sundown the skies cleared and that evening we enjoyed ourselves in strolling about the streets, being determined to make the most of the short time on shore that was allotted to us. The next day dawned bright and beautiful, and, after paying a visit to the City Hall, where we received a warm welcome from Mayor Devore, we proceeded to get into our base-ball uniforms and prepare for the game that was to take place that afternoon. During the noon hour the local band came marching down the principal street to the dock, and shortly afterward it started at the head of a procession of carriages containing the ball players and two tally-hos containing the passengers of the Alameda, who attended the game as our guests. The enclosure in which we played that day was as handsome as any that we saw in New Zealand, the grounds being as level as a billiard table and the turf as smooth and soft as velvet. The game was one that was remarkable on both sides for its heavy batting, the ball rolling away over the smooth surface of the outfield in a way that almost broke the hearts of the fielders and at the same time gave them more exercise than they had had for weeks. The 4,500 people that witnessed the contest waxed enthusiastic over the heavy batting of the visitors from the "States" and also over the splendid fielding. Baldwin was in the box for us in this game and pitched great ball, Crane doing the twirling for the All-Americas. The Chicago: proved to be the winners and the score, 22 to 13, shows the cannonading done on both sides. This was a good game for both teams to play when the fact is taken into consideration that the players still had their sea legs on and simply shows the good condition that the cricket practice on board the ship had kept them in. When the "Alameda" left the dock at Auckland that afternoon, a crowd of at least 2,000 people had assembled to see us off. With Sydney 1,243 miles distant we still had quite a voyage before us. That night we skirted the coast until after the darkness had fallen and watched the green hills that seemed to rise abruptly from the water's edge. When the morning came and we once more sought the deck there was no land in sight and nothing to be seen save the watery waste of the ocean that stretched away to the horizon on every side. We had a rough voyage from Auckland and were glad enough when, on the afternoon of December 14th, we sighted the Australian coast. At five o'clock that evening, after a hearty dinner, we again assembled on the deck to watch the headlands that grew each moment more and more distinct, and' soon afterward a tugboat came to meet us, bringing the pilot and Manager Leigh Lynch, the latter notifying us as soon as he could gain the deck of the great reception that was awaiting us at Sydney. The harbor at Syndey is a delight to the eye, and as we steamed through the Heads with the white-winged gulls circling around our masts and the dolphins playing about our bow, we drank in the beautiful sight with greedy eyes. Several steamers laden with gentlemen and ladies, and with bands of music playing our national airs, steamed down the harbor to meet us, and long ere we reached the quay we were surrounded by a fleet of small craft gaily decked in colors and carrying crowds of cheering and kerchief-waving people. Our national colors were to be seen everywhere, even the lighthouse on the point being draped from top to bottom in clouds of red, white and blue bunting. The Stars and Stripes greeted the eye on every hand, and, let me say right here, that there is no place where the flag of our country appears so handsome to the eyes of an American as when it greets him in some foreign harbor. The storm of cheers that greeted us from the throats of the enthusiastic Sydneyites we answered as best we could, and the strain upon our vocal organs was something terrific. Viewed from the steamer's deck the city of Sydney and the beautiful harbor, surrounded by the high hills and bold headlands, presented a most entrancing picture. Clear down to the water's edge extend beautifully-kept private grounds and public parks, and these, with grandly built residences of white stone, with tower-capped walls and turrets that stand among the trees upon the hillside, glistening in the sunshine, made the whole picture seem like a scene from fairyland. At the quay there was another crowd of cheering people, and it was with difficulty that we made our way to the four-horse tally-ho coaches and to the Oxford Hotel, where quarters had been arranged for us. The entrance to the Oxford Hotel, as well as the dining-room, was handsomely decorated in red, white and blue, evergreens and colored lanterns, and, after receiving a brief greeting from U. S. Consul Griffin, we retired to our rooms to prepare for the formal welcome to Australia that was to be given to us that night at the Royal Theater. We were to spend some little time in Australia, and that we had fallen among friends was evident at once from the reception that had been accorded us. It was a relief to know that our voyage was at least over for a time and to feel the solid land once more beneath our feet, though we parted with Capt. Morse with regret, he having endeared himself to us all by the uniform kindness and courtesy that he had shown our party on the long ocean trip. CHAPTER XXIII. WITH OUR FRIENDS IN THE ANTIPODES. That night after the gentlemen of the party had donned their dress suits and the ladies their best bibs and tuckers, we repaired in a body to the Royal Theater, where a large and fashionable audience had assembled to bid us welcome. The theater, presided over at that time by Jimmy Williamson, an American, was handsomely decorated for the occasion with American flags, and as we took our places in the private boxes and in the section of the dress circle reserved for us, we were greeted with round after round of applause. After the closing act of "Struck Oil," in which both Mr. Williamson and his wife appeared, our entire party passed through the box circle to the stage, upon, which we were arranged in a semi-circle facing the audience, which cheered us heartily as the curtain rose. Just as the curtain went up a kid in the gallery, who must have been an American, who at some time in his career had seen me play, and to whom my face and form were familiar, cocked his head over the rail and shouted in tones that could be heard all over the theater, "'Rah for Baby Anson," a salutation that came so unexpectedly that it almost took my breath away and that caused both audience and players to laugh heartily. Mr. Daniel O'Connor, a member of the Australian Parliament, then introduced us to the audience in a brief address that was full of kind allusions to the country that we came from and eulogistic of our fame as ball players, he referring particularly to our pluck in coming so far without any guarantee against financial loss or artistic failure except our own confidence in the beauties of our National Game and in the sport-loving spirit of the Australian people. He tendered us a hearty welcome on behalf of the Colonies, and bespoke for us a generous patronage on behalf of the lovers of square sports, both in Sydney and elsewhere. To this address Mr. Spalding responded for the American ball players in happy fashion, his remarks being greeted with generous applause on the part of the audience, after which we returned to our seats to witness an after-piece illustrating in farcical style the evils of Chinese immigration, and then, returning to the hotel, we were introduced to many of the leading business men of the city, remaining up until a late hour. At eleven o'clock the next morning we again assembled in the office of the Oxford for the purpose of making a formal call upon Mayor Harris at the City Hall, and as we drove through the principal streets to our destination we were greeted all along the line by cheering and enthusiastic crowds. We were received in the Council Chamber of the City Hall by the Mayor, who was dressed in his official robe of purple and ermine, and who escorted us across the hall to his chamber, where an elaborate lunch awaited us, and the champagne corks were soon popping in lively fashion. The Mayor's speech of welcome was what we Americans call a "dandy," and I wish right now that I had a copy of it in order that I might reproduce it for the benefit of my readers. He stated among other things that, while he did not understand the game of baseball thoroughly himself, yet he thought well enough of it to predict that in time Australia would have a league of her own, the professionals of which would be able to hold their own with the professionals of the United States. He then tendered us the freedom of the city during our stay, and bade us make ourselves at home. This address was responded to in our behalf by U. S. Consul Griffin, after which his Honor again arose to remark that so long as America treated Australia with the kindness and consideration that they had in the past, the Australians would do their best to make it pleasant for their American cousins while they were on Australian soil. "My reason for believing that our athletes will emulate your ball players," concluded the Mayor, "are manifold. In the first place, we have adopted your American ideas of trading, and we have managed to scrape up material enough to beat you! best oarsman," here his Honor turned toward Ned Hanlan, the ex-champion sculler, who had quietly entered the room and taken a seat near Mr. Spalding, the reference securing a cheer for the modest little athlete from the members of our party, "and," continued the Mayor, after the applause had subsided, "if all Americans will yield the palm with as good grace as Mr. Hanlan has done, we will entertain as high an opinion of them as we now do of Mr. Hanlan." After responses to the Mayor's address had been made by Messrs. Spalding and Lynch, and a dozen or more toasts proposed and drunk, we gave the Mayor of Sydney three cheers and a tiger and returned to our hotel, feeling certain that if all Australians were like the ones we had met thus far, a good time in Australia was assured to us. We played our first game in Australia that afternoon upon the grounds of the Sydney Cricket Association, and it is but fair to say that we had nothing in the United States at that time, nor have we now, that will compare with them either for beauty or convenience. The playing field, with its covering of green turf, was as level as a floor and was surrounded by sloping lawns that were bright with flowering shrubs, while the club houses were models of their kind. The great annual foot-races at Botany that afternoon, and the horse-races elsewhere proved to be strong rival attractions, but in spite of them, and of the threatening weather, 5,500 people had assembled to see how the American National Game was played. Fortunately the members of bath teams were on their mettle, and the result was a game full of exciting features from start to finish, the pitching of Teller for the Chicagos and Healy for the All-Americas being of the gilt-edged order, while the fielding and base-running of both teams was up to the mark. At the end of the first inning the game was a tie, each team having scored four runs, and it so remained until the ninth inning, when the All-Americas sent a man across the plate and scored the winning run in what proved to be one of the hardest fought games of the entire trip. At the end of the sixth inning there was an interval of fifteen minutes, and during that time we were received at the Association Club House by Lord Carrington, who was at that time Governor of New South Wales, and who gave, us a warm welcome to the Colonies and wished us every success in introducing the game in Australia. After Mr. Spalding had thanked Lord Carrington for his good wishes on behalf of the players, and we had cheered everybody from Lord and Lady Carrington to Queen Victoria, we returned to finish the game, being heartily cheered by the crowds as we again took up our positions on the diamond. That exhibition gave the game quite an impetus in Australia, where it is now quite popular, thanks, I believe, to the visit of the American ball players. The ride back from the grounds was an enjoyable one and after dinner there was a general exodus from the hotel on the part of the tourists, who were determined to see everything that there was to be seen and to let no opportunity in that line escape them. Just how Mrs. Anson and myself passed the evening I have forgotten, but that we passed it pleasantly I am certain, for how could it be otherwise in a place where everyone had combined apparently to make our visit a pleasant one, and where nothing was left undone that could add to our comfort and pleasure. The following day, Sunday, was bright and beautiful, and in parties we drove over the city and its suburbs, going, among other places, to Coogee Bay, the fashionable watering resort of the Sydney people, and a beautiful place, too, it is. Sydney Bay was in itself a sight well worth seeing, when viewed from the surrounding hills, and the "Point," from which a magnificent view is to be obtained, impressed one with its rugged grandeur. Many of the residences of Sydney are extremely handsome and picturesque, and Mrs. Anson and I picked out more than one during the day's outing that we should like to have owned, that is, providing that we could have moved both the house and its surroundings back to Chicago. The next morning the Chicago and All-America teams played their first game of cricket on the Sydney grounds, Messrs. Spalding, Wright, Earl and George Wade doing the greater part of the bowling, and this game resulted in a victory for the All-Americas by a score of 67 to 33. I had been bragging considerably during the trip in regard to my abilities as a cricketer, and was therefore greatly chagrined when I struck at the first ball that was bowled to me and went out on a little pop-up fly to Fogarty. This caused the boys to guy me unmercifully, but I consoled myself with the reflection that they had to guy somebody, and if it were not me then somebody else would have to be the sufferer. That second afternoon we played our second game of ball in Sydney, in the presence of some 3,000 people, the batteries being Baldwin and myself for the Chicagos and Healy and Earl for the All-Americas. It was another pretty exhibition on the part of both teams, the All-Americas finally winning by a score of 7 to 5. We played our first game with the Australian Cricketers the next day, and, though we played seventeen men against their eleven, we were ignominiously beaten, the Americans making 87 runs while the Australians ran their score up to 115, for only six wickets, the game, which had begun at eleven o'clock in the morning, being called at four p.m., to allow of another game of base-ball, which resulted at the end of five innings in another victory for the All-Americas by a score of 6 to 2, both teams being too tired to do themselves justice. The cricket game was the last of its kind that we played in Australia, and I am confident now that had we been as strong in bowling as in fielding we would have beaten the Australians at their own game, though our batting on this occasion was also decidedly on the weak side. That night we attended a banquet tendered us by the citizens of Sydney, at the Town Hall. Two hundred plates were laid in the reception hall of the big building, the columns, dome, and windows of which were almost hidden by the English and American flags with which they were draped. The marble floor was covered with soft carpets and great banks of cut flowers and rare plants were arranged on every side, while at the end of the hall a raised platform had been built upon which a musical and literary entertainment was given after the banquet. That banquet at Sydney was certainly a memorable affair, and one that overshadowed in magnificence all that had gone before. The toasts, which included "The Queen," "The President," "The Governor," "Our Guests," "The Ladies," "The Press," and "The Chairman," were responded to by U. S. Consul Griffin, Daniel O'Connor, M. P., John M. Ward, Leigh Lynch, Newton McMillan, E. G. Allen of the Sydney Star, and others, after which followed a musicale in which some of the best amateur and professional talent in Sydney took part, the cornet solos of Mrs. Leigh Lynch being the bright particular feature of the entertainment. Mrs. Lynch, who was formerly a member of the Berger Family of Bell Ringers, is a most accomplished musician, and one that afterwards helped us to while away many an hour when time would otherwise have hung heavily on our hands. The next afternoon we were to depart for Melbourne, and as we had nothing else to do we spent the greater part of the time in strolling about the streets and in bidding farewell to the many friends that we had made in Sydney. With button-hole badges of the Stars and Stripes and red, white and blue bands on the soft straw hats that we wore, it was an easy matter for the Australians to distinguish us wherever we went. At the Grosvenor Hotel we all assembled about an hour before departure, at the invitation of the Hon. Daniel O'Connor, to bid farewell to himself and to other prominent representatives of New South Wales. Here we were handsomely entertained, and when we left to take our seats in the special train that had been prepared, it was with cheers that fairly shook the rafters. My memories of Sydney are all pleasant ones, and it was with sincere feelings of regret that I left the many friends that I had made while there. The coaches in which we journeyed to Melbourne were built in the English style, with compartments, and are not nearly so comfortable as the sleeping and drawing-room cars to be found in America, and had the old gentleman been with us I am afraid he would have kicked loud and long over the poker playing facilities that they afforded. The road itself is excellently built, however, and the country through which it runs rich, fertile and well wooded. It was a little after nightfall when we got supper at a small way station, after which we proceeded to rest as best we could. At 5:30 in the morning we were routed out on the borders of the Colony to have our baggage examined by the custom house authorities, which caused Mrs. Anson and myself but little annoyance, as we had left all our dynamite at home on the piano. At 6 o'clock we were again on the way and at eleven o'clock that morning we pulled into the station on Spencer street in Melbourne, where quite a crowd was waiting to greet us. The Reception Committee, made up of American residents of Melbourne and members of the Victorian Cricket Association, met us with four-in-hand drags appropriately trimmed with the American colors, and as we entered them and drove up Collins street we felt that we were the observed of all observers. At the Town Hall we were received by Mayor Benjamin and the members of the City Council, and here a crowd of several thousand people had assembled to bid us welcome, which they did in the hearty fashion of the Australian people, who are as warm-hearted and as hospitable a class as any people that I ever met. In the audience hall up stairs, was a great pipe organ, and there we were treated to some beautiful music by the town organist, Mr. David Lee. The rendering of "Home, Sweet Home," carried us back again to the land that we had left, and as the strains of "God Save the Queen" rang through the hall we stood with uncovered heads until the music died away along the lofty corridors. In the Mayor's private room a generous lunch was awaiting us, and among those present to receive us were the Hon. Mr. Choppin, Consul General of the United States at the Melbourne Exposition; Mr. Smyth, Acting Consul; the Hon. J. B. Patterson, D. Gaunson, and Messrs. Smith and Pierce, together with a large delegation of the lovers of outdoor sports, including cricketers and base-ball players. The Mayor's speech of welcome was a plain and hearty one, and was followed by addresses of welcome by the Hon. Mr. Smith, of the Victoria Cricket Association; Acting United States Consul Smyth and Mr. S. P. Lord, the latter being introduced as "an old Colonist, who came from America in 1853," and a "base-bailer." Mr. Spalding followed in a brief speech, expressing our appreciation of the cordial welcome that had been accorded us and hoping that the Victorians would take as kindly to the game itself as they had to its exponents, after which Captain Ward and myself were called upon to say something, which we did to the best of our ability, though I somehow have never managed to acquire fame in the speech-making line, and would rather play ball at any time than make even a few remarks, that is, unless I could talk to an umpire. Brief addresses by Mayor Wardell, Town Clerk Fitzgibbon and Mr. David Scott followed, after which we were driven to the Grand Hotel, where we found most comfortable quarters and a good dinner awaiting us. This hotel was in close proximity to the exposition buildings, the Treasury building, the Parliament building and the Fitzroy Gardens, and was convenient to a great many of the objects and places of interest with which Melbourne abounds. One feature of the hotel, and one that greatly pleased the majority of our tourists, was the fact that a number of pretty colonial girls were employed in nearly every department, they waiting on the table and taking the place of the bellboys, in fact, doing everything except to fill the positions of porter and baggage-smasher. That evening, at the invitation of Manager Musgrove, a partner of Mr. Williamson of the Royal Theater, in Sydney, we occupied a full section of the dress circle in the Princess Theater, where we witnessed a splendid production of "The Princess Ida," by an English company. At the end of the third act we were called out to drink the health of Mr. Musgrove, who informed us that the door of his theater were open to us at all times. It was after midnight when we returned to the hotel, and so tired were we that we were glad to go at once to our rooms without stopping for the customary chat in the office or corridors, knowing that we had yet to make our first appearance as ball players before a Melbourne crowd, and must rest up if we wished to make even a creditable showing. CHAPTER XXIV. BASEBALL PLAYING AND SIGHTSEEING IN AUSTRALIA. We played our first game at Melbourne on Saturday, December 22d, the second day after our arrival from Sydney, and in the presence of one of the largest crowds that ever assembled at the Melbourne Oval, the handsomest of their kind in Australia. The surroundings were of the most beautiful character and the day itself as perfect as any one could have desired for base-ball purposes. The lawn in front of the Club House was thronged with ladies in light attire, and the many-hued sunshades that they carried gave to it the appearance of an animated flower garden. The Club House balconies were crowded and even the roof had been pre-empted by the ladies and their escorts as a coign of vantage from which to view the game. The grand stand was filled to overflowing and the crowd that overflowed from it encircled the field, extending from the grand stand clear around to the Club House grounds. The scene was indeed an inspiring one, and it is not to be wondered that a good exhibition of the beauties of the game were given under such circumstances. The base-running was of the most daring character, the fielding sharp on the part of both teams, and the batting heavy. Baldwin and Crane were both at their best and pitched in superb style, while the exhibition of base-running that was given by some of the boys brought the onlookers fairly to their feet and they cheered themselves hoarse in their excitement. Up to the seventh inning the score was a tie, but we managed to get a man across the plate in the seventh inning, as a result of Burns' three-bagger, and Baldwin' single, and another in the eighth, the result of a single by Sullivan and a long right-field hit for three bases by myself, and that I foolishly tried to make a home run on, being put out at the plate by Brown's magnificent throw from the field. The game finally resulted in a victory for Chicago by a score of 5 to 3, and leaving the field we congratulated ourselves on the fact that both at Sydney and Melbourne we had played first-class ball. Supper parties and banquets were now becoming every-day occurrences with us, and that night we were handsomely entertained by an English actor of note, Mr. Charles Warner, who was at that time touring the colonies, the place selected for the entertainment being the Maison Dore, the swell restaurant of Melbourne. Here we spent a very pleasant evening until it was again time to retire. The next morning, in the big reading room of the hotel, the boys were given some information by Mr. Spalding that I was already acquainted with, viz., that we should continue our trip around the world, returning home by the way of Egypt, the Mediterranean and Continental Europe. In spite of the fact that it was Sunday morning, this announcement was greeted with a burst of applause by the players, many of whom, even in their wildest dreamings, had never thought that such a trip would be possible for them. After giving the players some good advice regarding their habits and physical health, Mr. Spalding stated that he wished to land every member of the party in New York sound and well and with only pleasant recollections of the tour, and that he hoped that all would, co-operate with him to that end. That morning the proposed trip was about the only subject of conversation among the members of the party, and pleasant indeed were the anticipations of one and all concerning it. There was scarcely a spot of interest in or about Melbourne that we did not visit, the weather being delightful, while so constantly were we being entertained that there was scarcely an evening that our dress suits were given a chance to rest. It was the day before Christmas--not the night before--that we played our second game of base-ball in Melbourne, and the crowd, while not so large as that which witnessed the first game, was still of goodly proportions, some 6,000 people passing through the gates. Ryan pitched for the Chicagos and Healy and Crane for the All-Americas on this occasion, and all three of them were pounded in a lively fashion, there being a perfect fusillade of base hits on both sides, and the hard hitting seemed to the liking of the spectators, who cheered every drive to the outfield frantically. In spite of the hard hitting the game was closely contested, the All-Americas finally bearing off the honors by a score of 15 to 13. Following the game Prof. Bartholomew gave his first balloon ascension and parachute drop in Australia, a performance that was new to the Australians, and that they watched with almost breathless interest. Christmas day in Melbourne the weather was terrifically hot and the lightest sort of summer attire even was uncomfortable. It seemed strange to us to think that at home on that same day there was probably snow on the ground and an icy wind blowing. Christmas in a hot country somehow does not seem like Christmas at all, an opinion that was shared by both Mrs. Anson and myself. That afternoon at three o'clock we departed for Adelaide, where we were scheduled to play three games, and this time we were delighted to find that "Mann boudoir cars" had been provided for us instead of English compartment coaches. We missed the ladies on the trip, they having been left at Melbourne because of the heat, as had Ed Crane, with whom the hot weather did not seem to agree. At Ballarat, about four hours' distance from Melbourne, where we were scheduled to play a game on our return, we found 'a reception committee at the depot to meet us, together with a number of ladies. The country through which we journeyed that afternoon was fairly attractive, but thinly settled and literally overrun with that pest of the Australian farmer, the rabbits, which, like good race-horses, seemed to come in all shapes, color and size. The country swarmed with them and for the first time we began to realize what an immense damage they were capable of doing to the growing crops in that section. It was about half-past ten o'clock the next morning when we reached Adelaide, and so hot that a Fourth of July day in St. Louis would have seemed like Arctic weather by comparison. At the depot we found United States Consul Murphy and a committee of citizens in waiting, and were at once driven to the City Hall, where Mayor Shaw made us welcome to the city. The usual spread and speeches followed, after which we were driven to the hotel. That afternoon we played our first game on the Adelaide Oval, which was the equal of either the Sydney or Melbourne grounds, so far as the actual playing grounds were concerned, though far inferior to them in buildings and natural surroundings. Owing to the intense heat and the fact that it was the opening day of the great race meeting at Melbourne there were only about 2,000 people present, and they witnessed a game remarkable for its heavy batting, both Teller and Healy being severely punished. The game went to the credit of the All-Americas by a score of 19 to 14. That night our party occupied the Governor's box in the Royal Theater, where we attracted far more attention than did the play, the house being a crowded one. The next morning we were the guests of Mayor Shaw, who took us for a drive in a big four-horse drag, and this proved a delightful experience to us all, the Sea Beach road, over which we drove, being cool and comfortable. Ten miles out we stopped at the wine yard of Thomas Hardy & Sons, who were at that time the most extensive grape and fruit raisers in Australia. Here we were shown over the immense wine yards and wine cellar, after which we drove to Henley Beach, returning in time for the game that afternoon. At this second game the attendance was somewhat better than the first, and with Baldwin pitching for Chicago and Healy and Ward for All-America, we managed to turn the tables on our conquerors of the day before and win by a score of 12 to 9. The next day was a holiday, and of these the Australians have many, it being the fifty-second anniversary of South Australia's existence as a colony, and as we were to leave in the afternoon we played our farewell game in the morning, play being called at ten o'clock. With Ryan in the box for Chicago and Simpson for All-America we won the easiest sort of a game by a score of II to 4, having Sir William Robinson, Governor of the Colony, for a spectator during the last four innings. After the game he came out on the grounds and shook hands with us all, complimenting us in a nice little speech on the skill that we had shown and expressing his own liking for the game that he had that morning seen for the first time. That afternoon we left for Ballarat, the great gold-mining center of Australia, and at one time famous as the home of the bushrangers who for years terrorized that section of the country. It was six o'clock in the morning when we arrived there, and we were just climbing into the drag that was awaiting us when some one missed Tom Daly. After a search he was found fast asleep in one of the compartments of the car, and being awakened was released by an obliging guard, looking a bit the worse for wear. In the early gray of the dawning we reached Craig's Hotel, where lunch had been arranged for us, after partaking which we were driven to the Botanical Gardens, the roadway winding along the shores of a beautiful lake. The gardens were well worth a visit, and after spending a brief half hour in admiring the flowers and statuary, we were driven back to the hotel for breakfast, stopping on the way for a plunge in the great Ballarat Swimming Aquarium. After breakfast we were driven to the Barton Gold Mines, situated on the edge of the town, going down to a depth of ii,000 feet after we had attired ourselves in overalls, slouch hats and other nondescript disguises. From the mine we were driven to the Town Hall, of West Ballarat, Ballarat being divided into two municipalities, West and East, where we met with the usual Australian welcome at the hands of Mayor Macdonald, thence to East Ballarat, where Mayor Ellsworth did the honors, the latter afterwards accompanying us on a visit to the Ballarat Orphan Asylum, where an invitation was given to the youngsters to the number of 200 to witness the game that afternoon, and that they were all on hand is a certainty. The crowd that attended the game was 4,500 strong, and they saw the All-Americas win a rather easy game by a score of 11 to 7, the boys being too nearly tired out to play good ball. The ascent and fall of Professor Bartholomew was, however, the sensation of the day, the parachute failing to sustain his weight in that high altitude, and as a result he came down with great speed, and, striking a cornice of a building in the business district, was laid up for a month, it being a lucky thing for him that he was not killed outright. At seven o'clock that night we left for Melbourne, arriving there some four hours later in an all but used up condition. The next day, Sunday, our whole party started for a drive of twenty-five miles over the mountains in a big four-horse drag, we being the guests for that day of Mr. J. K. Downer, a wealthy citizen of Melbourne. Through a rolling and well-settled country we bowled along until we reached the foot-hills, that were green and well-wooded, the clear notes of Mrs. Leigh Lynch's cornet every now and then waking the echoes. After three hours' ride we reached Fern Glen, the residence of a Mr. Bruce, a friend of the gentleman whose guests we were, and to whose broad veranda we were soon made welcome. The scenery here was beautiful, the house itself being situated in a rift of the mountains and surrounded by giant trees on every side, the grounds about being possessed of great natural beauty. After enjoying a splendid lunch provided for the occasion at Melbourne, and sent out ahead by wagon, we strolled through the beautiful glen, with its great ferns that arched the pathway, and the roots of which were watered by a little mountain stream. After an extempore entertainment we again climbed to our seats in the drag and were driven back to Melbourne, stopping en route at the stock farm of J. H. Miller, who had gone into the business of breeding American trotters, and who again persisted in wining and dining us before he would let us go. "The Travelers' Rest," "The Golden Swan," "The Bull's Head Inn," and other resorts of a like kind were stopped at on our way back, and it was eleven o'clock at night when we were finally set down at the doors of the Grand Hotel, having spent one of the most enjoyable days since our arrival in Melbourne. A great day's program of sport had been prepared for Monday, the last day of the year, in which cricket, baseball and foot-ball were all to have had an inning. The weather, however, interfered with the base-ball and cricket part of the program. The foot-ball game between the Carleton and St. Kilda foot-ball teams proved to be a most interesting contest, however, and one that we were glad to have the opportunity of witnessing, a heavy shower driving us back to the hotel before we could indulge in either base-ball or cricket. Two games were scheduled for New Year's day, but only one of these was played and that in the morning, the attendance being 2,500, and the Chicagos winning by a score of 14 to 7, Tener pitching for us and Healy for the All-Americas. That same day there were 4,000 people at the races and probably as many more at the various cricket matches and athletic games going on in the city and vicinity, so it can readily be seen that Melbourne was a decidedly sporty place and that we had pretty hard competition to go up against, even for New Year's day. After luncheon at the cricket grounds we were treated to an exhibition of rope-skipping and boomerang throwing by a lot of aborigines that was little short of wonderful, and that must be seen to be appreciated. The natives could make these curved pieces of wood do all kinds of seemingly impossible things, while for us they would simply do nothing, but I expect that with a set of billiard balls several of our party could have made them look as much like monkeys as they did us with their boomerangs. We were booked to sail from Port Melbourne for Ceylon on Monday, June 7th, and Saturday afternoon we played our farewell game in the Victoria capital before a crowd that tested the capacity of the grounds, the gate count showing that 11,000 people had paid their way into the enclosure. The program for the afternoon was a varied one, a two-inning game between the Australian Cricketers and the All-America team being the starter, and in this the American players easily demonstrated their superiority. Next came a game of foot-ball between the Port Melbourne and Carleton teams that was played under a modification of the old Rugby rules, and that proved close and exciting. A four-inning game between Chicago and All-America followed, Baldwin and Daly and Crane and Earle being the batteries, and it is safe to assert that a prettier exhibition of base-running and fielding was never witnessed in Australia than the one given on that occasion. With not a fielding error on either side my boys won by a score of 5 to 0, Pettit finally ending the game with a splendid running catch of Earle's long fly to right field, a performance that the spectators cheered again and again. An exhibition of long distance throwing followed, Crane, Williamson and Pfeffer attempting to beat the Australian record of 126 yards 3 inches, for throwing a five and one-half ounce cricket ball, and this feat Crane accomplished, he sending the ball 128 yards 10 1/2 inches, a performance that the crowd appreciated. At three o'clock on Monday afternoon, having said farewell to all of our friends in Melbourne, we took the train for Port Melbourne, seven miles distant, and were soon assigned to our staterooms on board of the "Salier," which was to begin her voyage the next morning. The scene about the dock where the "Salier" lay that afternoon was an impressive one, the Turks and Hindoos, with their dark skins, red turbans and bright costumes, the circling seabirds with their peculiar cries, and the many craft of various kinds that moved hither and thither over the blue waters, all combining to make a picture that once seen can never be forgotten. We left Australia with many genuine regrets. In the matter of hospitality that country easily stands at the head of the list of all of those that we visited, and if we could have shot a kangaroo or two before our departure and run up against a party of bushrangers, black-bearded and daring, even though they had managed to relieve us of a few of our valuables, we should have been made happy, but alas! the bushrangers, like the bad men of our own glorious West, had been wiped out by the march of civilization, and even the kangaroo had taken to the woods when he heard that we were coming, so we bore our disappointment as best we could, trusting for better luck in case we should ever be so fortunate as to again visit Her Majesty's Australian Colonies. CHAPTER XXV. AFLOAT ON THE INDIAN SEA. The "Salier," which was one of the German Lloyd line of steamers, sailed from Port Melbourne at daybreak on the morning of January 8th, 1889, and before many of us had put in our appearance on deck, although we were awakened long before by the cries of the sailors and the usual noise and bustle that precedes the departure of a steamer from her dock in all parts of the world. Long before we had left Port Melbourne out of sight, however, we had assembled at the rail to wave our last adieus to the many friends who had come down from Melbourne to see us off. The "Salier" was a delightful vessel and one that was most comfortably equipped, as are all of the vessels of this line, and the quarter deck, with its open-windowed smoking and card-rooms, soon became the chosen lounging place of the boys by day and the sleeping place of many of them by night, they preferring to don pajamas anti sleep in the easy steamer chairs rather than to seek the seclusion of the staterooms, which, as a rule, were hot and sultry. Captain Tallenhorst, who commanded the "Salier," was a fine fellow, and both he and his officers were inclined to do pleasant one, and a pleasant one indeed it proved. In the steerage we carried a mixed lot of emigrants from all sections of the world, among them being Chinamen, Hindoos, Turks, Cingalese, Italians and Germans, and to walk through their quarters and listen to the strange languages that they spoke was to get a very good idea of the confusion that must have reigned when the building of the tower of Babel was in progress, and gave us at the same time a chance to study some of the manners and customs of a people that were strange to us. The meals that were served on board the "Salier" were an improvement on those of the "Alameda," though we had found no fault with those given us on the latter, but there was one drawback to our enjoyment of them, however, and that was that the waiters spoke nothing but German, and consequently those of us who were unfamiliar with the language had some difficulty in making ourselves understood, our efforts to make known our wants by the sign language often resulting in ludicrous blunders. Fred Pfeffer was right at home, however, and as a result he managed to get the best there was going, the waiters evidently mistaking him for nothing less than a German Count, judging from the alacrity with which they flew about to execute his orders. We had been out but a few short hours before we began to miss Frank Lincoln, whose never-failing fund of humor had helped to while away many an hour and who had bid us farewell at Melbourne, having decided to remain for some little time in Australia. Among our fellow-passengers in the cabin were a couple of civil engineers from England, who had been making a tour of Australia, and very pleasant companions they proved to be; a Melbourne lady who was taking her two little daughters to Germany to be educated; and last but not least in his own estimation, if not in that of others, a Mr. Theophilus Green, a loud-mouthed, bald-headed, red-faced and portly gentleman of middle age, who, according to his own story, was possessed of unlimited funds, a desire to travel, and an inclination to pass himself off wherever he might happen to be as a representative American, God save the mark! Mr. Green journeyed with our party as far as Suez, and when he left us the long-drawn sigh of relief that went up from all hands was like unto the rushing sound that is caused by the passage of a hurricane over the surface of the waters. Among the second cabin passengers were two stalwart Australians who were bound for Zanzibar, Africa, and who meant to penetrate into the interior of that wild country in search of big game. They were well equipped with firearms, of the most improved designs, and unlimited quantities of ammunition, and had the appearance of men who were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves in any country, no odds how wild and uncivilized it might be. They accompanied us as far as Aden, where they left us, taking with them our best wishes for their success and safe return. The second night after leaving Port Melbourne we stopped at Port Adelaide, a little seaport seven miles distant from Adelaide, where we remained until two o'clock the next afternoon to take on a cargo of Australian wool. This was a hot town, at least to look at, the streets being dusty and devoid of shade trees of any kind, and the buildings of a low and inferior description. We had considerable sport while laying there fishing from the rail of the steamer and watching a big shark that came nosing around the stern of the boat in search of food. After he swam away for some distance some of the boys amused themselves by shooting at him with their revolvers, but if they succeeded in hitting him, of which I have my doubts, his sharkship gave no sign of being in trouble and pursued the even tenor of his way until he was lost to sight. For days after we left Port Adelaide the weather was of the most disagreeable variety, the sky being overcast by clouds of a leaden hue while the huge waves were lashed into foam by the wind, and this, together with a heavy ground swell, gave to the steamer a most uncomfortable motion. This sort of affair was too much for my wife, and also for the other ladies in the party, with the exception of Mrs. Williamson, who proved to be a good sailor, and they remained in their staterooms. I had thought that I, too, was an immune, not having been sick since we left San Francisco, but the motion of the boat proved to be too much even for me, and I was forced to pay common tribute to Neptune that the King of the Seas is wont to exact from most land-lubbers. Tener and Fred Pfeffer were about the only ball players that escaped, and that Pfeffer did so I shall always insist was due to the fact that he could speak German and so got all the good things to eat that he wanted, while the rest of us, not being so fortunate, were obliged to put up with what we could get. Even Daly and Fogarty were obliged to keep quiet for a time, and this was something of a relief to the more sober members of the party. One afternoon after the last-named gentleman had begun to feel a little better he called to a passing waiter and asked for a cheese sandwich. The Dutchman, doubtless thinking that he was doing that irrepressible a favor, brought up a big plate of sauerkraut and steamed bolognas, and the effect of this on the weak stomachs of those who happened to be in that vicinity can be better imagined than described. If John Tener had not happened along and grabbed that waiter by the scruff of the neck and the slack of his pants, hustling him out of sight, there is no telling what might have happened, but I am inclined to think that murder might have been done. After we had left the Australian Bight behind us and entered the Indian Ocean the seas calmed down and, the weather, which prior to that time had been cool and uncomfortable, became warm and pleasant. The ladies were again enabled to join us on deck and with music, cards, books and conversation the time passed pleasantly enough. The steerage passengers were to us a never-ending source of amusement and interest, as we watched them working in their various ways and listened to their strange and incomprehensible gibberish. An old Hindoo one day raffled off a richly-embroidered silk pillow at a shilling a chance, and this, with my usual good luck I won and turned over to Mrs. Anson for safe keeping. The Hindoos and Mohammedans on board would eat nothing that they did not cook themselves, even killed a sheep every few days, when it became necessary, and carrying their own supply of saucepans and other cooking utensils. One of the Hindoos, a merchant of Calcutta, who had been ill from the time that the steamer left Port Adelaide, died when our voyage was about half over. His body was sewn up in a piece of canvas with a bar of lead at the foot and laid away in his bunk. It was in vain that we asked when he was to be buried, as we could get no satisfactory answer to our queries, but the next night, when the starlight lay like a silver mantle on the face of the waters, the steamer stopped for a moment, a splash followed, and the body of the Hindoo sank down into the dark waters, and in a few days the episode had been forgotten. Such is life. Clarence Duval, our colored mascot, had been appreciated on the "Alameda" at his true value, but on the "Salier" for a time the waiters seemed to regard him as an Indian Prince, even going so far as to quarrel as to whom should wait on him. A word from Mr. Spalding whispered in the ear of the captain worked a change in his standing, however, and he was set to work during the meal hours pulling the punka rope which kept the big fans in motion, an occupation that he seemed to regard as being beneath his dignity, though his protests fell on deaf ears. One hot afternoon a mock trial was held in the smoking-room, with Fogarty as the presiding Judge, and then and there a decree was passed to the effect that, "in view of the excessively warm weather and through consideration for the comfort and peace of our entire party, Clarence Duval, our chocolate-colored mascot, must take a bath." Now, if there was any one thing more than another that our mascot detested it was a bath, and the moment that the court's decree was pronounced he fled to the darkest depths of the steerage in hopes of escaping the ordeal, but in vain, for he was dragged out of his hiding place by Pettit, Baldwin and Daly, who, in spite of his cries for mercy, thrust him beneath a salt water shower and held him there until the tank was emptied. A madder little coon than he was when released it would be difficult to find, and arming himself with a base-ball bat he swore that he would kill his tormentors, and might have done so had not a close watch been kept over him until his temper had burned itself out and he had become amenable to reason. The afternoon of January 22d, as we were lounging about the deck, John Ward, glancing up from the pages of a book that he was engaged in reading, happened to catch a glimpse of a sail ahead, and announcing the fact, there was a rush made by all hands to the steamer's rail in order to get a good view of the welcome sight, for a strange sail at sea is always a welcome sight to the voyager. She was under a cloud of canvas and, as we drew near, with the aid of a glass, we made out her name, "San Scofield, Brunswick, Me." A moment later the Stars and Stripes were thrown to the breeze from her masthead and the cheers that went up from our decks could have been heard two miles away. If there were tears in the eyes of some of the members of our party as they saw the old flag gleaming in the sunlight and thought of God's country at that time so far away, the display of emotion did them no discredit. We were all astonished one morning by a performance on the part of our mascot that was not down on the bills, and that might have resulted in his becoming food for the sharks with which the Indian Ocean abounds had he not played in the very best of luck. The performance of Professor Bartholomew had fired the "coon" with a desire to emulate his example, and he had made a wager with one of the boys that, using an umbrella for a parachute, he could jump from the rigging some thirty feet above the deck and land safely on the awning. It was late one afternoon when half a dozen of the party were sitting beneath its shade that a dark shadow passed over them followed by a dull thud on the canvas that made it sag for a foot or more, and a wild scream of terror followed. Climbing up the rope ladder to where they could overlook the awning, the boys found the mascot crawling on his hands and knees toward the rigging and dragging behind him an umbrella in a badly damaged condition. When Fogarty asked him what he was doing, he replied, after a long interval of silence, "Just been a practicin'," after which he informed them that had he landed all right he should have attempted to win his bet the next morning. One experience of this kind was enough for him, however, and though the boys begged him to give them another exhibition of his skill in making the parachute leap, nothing could induce him to do so. "Craps," a game introduced by the mascot, soon became more popular in the card-room than even poker, and the rattle of the bones and the cries of "Come, seben, come eleben, what's de mattah wid you dice," and other kindred remarks natural to the game coming from the lips of the chocolate-colored coon were to be heard at all hours. The nights during this portion of our trip were especially fine, and we enjoyed them immensely sitting on deck until the "wee sma' hours" watching the starlight that turned the surface of the water into a great field of glistening diamonds, and the silvery wake of the ship, that stretched away out into the ocean like a track of moonbeams, growing dimmer and dimmer until it was lost in the darkness that lay beyond. It was just as the sun peeped above the distant horizon on the morning of January 25th that we first caught a glimpse of the shores of Elephant Island, lying just off the coast of Ceylon, and at ten o'clock the shores of the island of Ceylon itself were full in sight. As we drew nearer the narrow-bodied proas, the boats of the natives, paddled by dark-skinned boatmen innocent of clothing came crowding about the steamer in great numbers, while the white-winged gulls hung above the vessel in clouds, darting so near to us at times that we could almost touch them with our hands. Past Point de Galle, with its crumbling walls of white cement, that made them appear as if they had but recently been whitewashed, we steamed until we came in sight of Colombo, and stopped at the entrance of the breakwater to await the arrival of the harbor master. That gentleman was apparently in no very great hurry and the hour and a half that we laid there awaiting his pleasure we spent in looking at the great stone breakwater and the city that lies upon the open coast, the harbor being an artificial and not a natural one. It was after four o'clock when the harbor master's boat, manned by half-clad Cingalese, came alongside, and a short time afterwards we steamed to a place inside the breakwater and dropped our anchors. In an incredibly short space of time the steamer was surrounded by boats of all shapes, sizes and colors, manned by Malays, Cingalese and Hindoos, clad in all the colors of the rainbow, and all talking and yelling at the same time. Four little Cingalese boys, the oldest of which could not have been more than twelve of age, and who paddled a bamboo canoe around with barrel staves, attracted the most of our attention. They could swim and dive like otters, and shillings and sixpences cast into the water they brought up from the bottom, catching it in many instances before it had found a resting place on the sands. "Frow it," they would shout, and scarcely had the shining piece of silver struck the water before they were after it, disappearing from sight and then coming up with the coveted coin secure in their possession. The decks were soon swarming with hotel runners, moneychangers, and tradesmen of various sorts. As yet we were uncertain as to our destination, and depending upon word that was to have been left here by our advance agent, Will Lynch. A drenching rain was falling when Messrs. Spalding and Leigh Lynch went ashore in search of news, and when Mr. Spalding came back an hour later he had heard nothing but had arranged for the accommodation of the party at the Grand Oriental Hotel, and we were soon on our way to the landing place in steam launches provided for the purpose, still uncertain, however, as to whether we were to go on in the "Salier" or not. CHAPTER XXVI. FROM CEYLON TO EGYPT. We landed in Colombo on the steps of a pagoda-like structure containing the Custom House, and passing through found ourselves on a broad avenue that led direct to the Grand Oriental Hotel, said by travelers to be the finest south of the Mediterranean, and in their opinion I can certainly concur, as we found it to be everything that could be desired so far as our limited experience went. The rooms were large and carpetless, with latticed windows and high ceilings and the immense dining-rooms opened on broad stone porticos with massive columns and surrounding galleries, on which were Turkish divans for the comfort of the guests. The dark-skinned native servants, with their picturesque, flowing garments and tortoise-shell combs, gave to the whole an oriental air that up to that time we had read about but never seen. We were fanned by great swinging punkas during the dinner hour, the meal being an excellent one, after which we went out to see the town, the Indian shops under the hotel coming in that night for the largest share of our attention. First, because they were easy to reach, and, second, because of the really handsome stock of articles of Indian manufacture that they contained. Carvings in ebony and ivory, in the most beautiful designs, inlaid work of all descriptions, shawls that a queen might envy, together with embroidered articles of rare beauty, delicate tapestry and quaint and curious figures of all kinds, were for sale there and at prices that were not more than one-third or one-fourth what the same articles could be purchased for at home, though the price that was at first asked for them by these shopkeepers would be at least three or four times what they expected to get. The jinricksha, which answers the same purpose as the hansom cab in Chicago or New York, and which is a much lighter and smaller vehicle, being drawn by a Cingalese who trots along between the shafts as though it were a pleasure instead of a business, is about the only sort of a vehicle known to the natives of Colombo, and a ride in one of them is by no means an unpleasant experience, as you are certain of one thing, and that is that your horse will not shy with you and run away, no matter what strange objects he may encounter. They are so gentle, too, that a lady can drive them and will stand anywhere without hitching. These are great advantages, and yet, after all, I think that I should prefer to hold the ribbons over a good horse, and I am sure that Mrs. Anson is of the same opinion. The jinriksha, with its human motor, must, it struck me the first time that I saw them, be a decided obstacle to courtship, for what young fellow would care to take his best girl out riding behind a horse that could understand everything that was said and done, and tell the groom all about it when he returned to the barn. I shouldn't have liked to do so, when I was courting my wife, and I don't believe that she would have cared to ride after that kind of a horse. Visiting the American Consul that evening Mr. Spalding was informed that on account of the steamship and railroad connections, and also because of the unhealthy condition of Calcutta, it would be impossible for our party to make a tour of India, and therefore that part of the trip was given up, greatly to our regret, as we had looked forward to it with the most pleasant anticipations. This disappointment was general among the members of the party, but as it could not be helped we determined to make the best of it. Arrangements were made that evening, however, to hold the "Salier," which was to have left at daybreak the next morning, until five o'clock in the afternoon, in order that we might play a game of base-ball before our departure. The sun was up but a trifle earlier that we were the next morning, as we, wished to see all of Ceylon and the Cingalese that was possible in the limited time at our disposal. The Hotel balconies in the early morning were fairly given over to the crows, great big birds of a leaden color that circle around you in the most impudent manner and are as hard to get rid of as the beggars, which follow you about the streets in swarms and annoy you with their cries of "bachsheesh, bachsheesh," until you long even for the sight of a policeman to whom you might confide your troubles. Colombo is not a prepossessing city to the eye of the traveler, the buildings being of an ancient style of architecture and built more for comfort than for show, but the market places and bazaars are well worth a visit. There is a beautiful beach drive that extends from the military barracks along the shores of the ocean for miles, and this is the fashionable drive of all Colombo, though it was all but deserted in the early morning hours. The Buddhist temples, and there were several of them in Colombo, we were obliged to inspect from the outside, no admittance to European visitors being the rule, but the strange gods that peered down at us from the walls gave us a very good idea of what might be found inside and served, at least, to take the edge off of our curiosity. An invitation having been tendered us that morning at the office of the U. S. Consul to visit the corvette "Essex," Captain Jewell commanding, then lying in the harbor, we repaired at one o'clock to the wharf, where gigs, manned by the ship's crew, awaited us and we were soon on board, where we were entertained by officers and crew in a handsome manner. The rendering of "America" by Mrs. Leigh Lynch on the cornet brought out an enthusiastic round of applause, while Clarence Duval captured the hearts of the seamen by doing for them a plantation breakdown in his best style. Captain Jewell kindly sent us aboard the "Salier" in the ship's gigs, which waited for us until we had donned our uniforms, and then took us to the shore. The procession out to the Colombo Cricket Grounds, where the game was played, was indeed a novelty, and the crowds of Cingalese that surrounded us as we left the hotel and looked on in open-eyed wonder were by no means the least impressive part of the circus. There were no drags and carriages on this occasion and no gaily-caparisoned horses with nodding plumes, but in their places were heavy-wheeled carts drawn by humpbacked little bullocks and jinrickshas drawn by bare-legged Cingalese. About these swarmed the natives in their rainbow attire, the whole scene being one of the kaleidoscope kind. At the grounds 4,500 people had assembled, the officers and crew of the "Essex" being on hand as well as a crowd of English residents and native Cingalese. We played but five innings, the result being a tie, three runs for each team, a good game under the best of circumstances, and one that apparently pleased everybody, the natives going wild over the batting and making desperate efforts to get out of the way whenever a ball happened to do in their direction. The journey back to the hotel was another circus parade, and one that Barnum, with all his efforts, never was able to equal. From the hotel we went directly to the wharf, where the steam-launch was in waiting, and with a cheer from the crew of the "Essex" in our ears we started for the steamer. As the "Salier" started again on her voyage we climbed into the rigging and lined up along the rail, cheering the crew of the "Essex" until the white forms of the men that lined her rigging were lost to sight. The voyage from Ceylon to Egypt over the Arabian sea and the Gulf of Aden was a most enjoyable one, both sea and sky being deeply, darkly and beautifully blue, with not so much as a cloud or a ripple to mar the beauty of either, and so beautiful were the nights that it was a rare thing for any member of the party to retire until long after the ship's bells had proclaimed the hour of midnight. The second morning after we had left the Island of Ceylon behind us we were all made the victims of a cruel practical joke, of which Lynch and Fogarty were the authors, and for which lynching would hardly have been a sufficient punishment. It was in the early hours of the morning and while we were still "dreaming the happy hours away," that the loud report of a cannon shook the steamer from stem to stern, this being followed by cries of: "Pirates, pirates; my God, boys, the Chinese pirates are upon us!" The report of another gun followed, and then a scene of confusion such as had never before been witnessed outside of a lunatic asylum. Tener, who was the treasurer of the party, grabbed his money-bags and locked himself in his stateroom. Ed Hanlon rushed into the cabin with his trousers in one hand and his valise in the other, and they say that I filled my mouth with Mrs. Anson's diamonds, grabbed a base-ball bat and stood guard at the doorway, ordering my wife to crawl under the bunk, but that statement is a libel and one that I have been waiting for years to deny. I only got up to see what a Chinese pirate looked like, that's all. It was a scared lot of ball players that assembled in the cabin that morning, however, and the cloud of smoke that came rolling down the stairway only tended to make matters worse. Finally we caught sight of Fogarty galloping around the saloon tables and yelling like a Comanche Indian. We began then to suspect that he was at the bottom of the trouble, and when he burst into roars of laughter we were certain of it. It afterwards developed that the "Salier's" guns had been simply firing a salute in honor of the birthday of the German Emperor, and that Fogarty and Lynch had taken advantage of the opportunity to raise the cry of pirates and scare as many of us nearly to death as possible. I would have been willing, myself, that morning to have been one of a party to help hang Fogarty at the yardarm, and some of the victims were so mad that they were not seen to smile for a week. It was during this voyage, too, that Mark Baldwin, the big pitcher of the Chicagos, had an adventure with a big Indian monkey that the engineer of the steamer had purchased in Ceylon that might have proved serious. This monkey was a big, powerful brute, and as ugly-looking a specimen of his family as I ever set my eyes on. He was generally fastened by means of a strap around his waist and a rope some five or six feet long, in the engine-room, but one morning Mark, without the engineer's knowledge, unfastened him and took him on deck. The sight of the ocean and his strange surroundings frightened him badly, and after Mark pulled him about the deck a while he took him down stairs and treated him to beer and pretzels, then brought him back to the deck and gave him some more exercise. Becoming tired of the sport at last Mark took him back to the engine-room. The iron grating around the first cylinder enabled the monkey to get his head on a level with Mark's as he descended the stair and Mr. Monk flew at his throat with a shriek of rage. Mark luckily had his eye on the brute and protected his throat, but fell backwards with the animal on top of him, receiving a painful bite on the leg. The monkey then bounded over to his corner, where he glared at Mark, his grey whiskers standing out stiff with rage. After satisfying himself as to the extent of his injuries, the big pitcher again went for the monk, but the latter jumped from the grating to the piston-rod of the engine, and at every revolution of the screw he would go down into the hold and then come up again, shaking his fist at Mark at every ascent, and chattering like a magpie. This sight was so comical that the big pitcher roared with laughter, and though he laid for a chance to get even with Mr. Monk the rest the voyage the latter was never to be caught napping, and kept himself out of danger. Into the waters of the Arabian Sea, blue as indigo, we steamed on the morning of February 1st, and soon after daybreak the next morning the volcanic group of islands off the African coast were in plain sight from the steamer's deck. Two hours later we passed the great headland of Guardafui, on the northeast corner of Africa, a sentinel of rock that guards the coast and that rises from the waves that are lashed to foam about its base in solitary grandeur. The following afternoon we came in sight of the Arabian coast, some forty miles distant, and later the great rocky bluffs that protect Aden from the gulf winds were plainly discernible. It was nearly supper time when we landed and we had but barely time for a glance through the shops and bazaars, when we were again compelled to board the steamer, which left at nine o'clock for Suez. The next morning the sound of a gong beaten on the steamer's deck aroused us from our slumbers, and inquiring the wherefore we were informed that we were approaching the straits of Bal-el-Mandeb, the entrance to the Red Sea. This brought all of our party on deck to greet the sunrise, and as we passed between the rockbound coast of Arabia on the right and the Island of Perin on the left we could hear the roar of the breakers and discern the yellow and faint light of the beacons that were still burning on the shore. That morning at 10 o'clock we steamed by the white walls and gleaming towers of the City of Mocha, that lay far away on the Arabian coast, looking like some fairy city in the dim distance. The weather as we steamed along over the surface of the Red Sea was not as hot as we had expected to find it, and yet it was plenty warm enough for comfort, and it was with mingled feelings of sorrow and joy that we entered the harbor of Suez on the morning of February 7th and drew slowly toward the little city of the same name that lay at the end of the great canal, the building of which has tended to change the business of the continents. The huge bluffs of the Egyptian coast stood out in bold relief in the clear air of the morning, while from the shores opposite the sands of the great desert stretched away as far as the eye could reach. Among the larger vessels that lay in the harbor were an English troop-ship and an Italian man-of-war, and as we dropped anchor we were at once surrounded by a fleet of smaller craft. After bidding good-by to Captain Talenhorst and his officers, and seeing that our baggage was loaded on the lighters we were transferred to the decks of a little steamer that was to take us to the docks of Suez, some two miles distant. Hardly had we set our feet on the shores of Egypt before we were besieged by swarms of Arabian and Egyptian donkey-boys in loose-fitting robes, black, white and blue, driving before them troops of long-eared donkeys, with gaily-caparisoned and queer-looking saddles and bridles, and mounting to our seats as quickly as possible be trotted off to the railroad station, some four or five miles distant, and took our places in the train that was to bear us to Cairo. Suez, the little that we saw of it, impressed us as being about the dirtiest place on God's green footstool, and the few Europeans that are obliged to live there have my profound sympathy, and deserve it. Through the village, with its dirty streets lined by huts of mud and past little villages of the same squalid character, the train sped. Then across the arid desert region that extends northward from Suez to Ismalia, running parallel with the canal for a distance of thirty-five miles, and leaving the desert we entered the rich valley of the Nile, where the vegetation was most luxuriant. Groves of palm and acacias dotted the fields and flocks of sheep and goats were to be seen along the roadways of the irrigating canals that appeared to overspread the valley like a net. Camels plodding along beneath their heavy burden and water buffalos standing knee-deep in the clover were not uncommon sights at every station, while the train was surrounded by motley crowds of Bedouins, Arabs and Egyptians, the women being veiled to the eyes, a fact for which we probably had reason to be devoutly grateful, if we but knew it, as there was nothing in their shapeless figures to indicate any hidden beauty. Just as dusk we pulled into a little station some twenty miles from Cairo, and here Ryan started a panic among the natives by dressing Clarence Duval up in his drum-major suit of scarlet and gold lace, with a catcher's mask, over his face and a rope fastened around his waist, and turning him loose among the crowd that surrounded the carriages. To the minds of the unsophisticated natives the mascot appeared some gigantic ape that his keeper could with difficulty control, and both men and women fell over each other in their hurry to get out of his way. It was after dark when we arrived at Cairo where, as we alighted from the train, we were beset by an army of Egyptians, and we were obliged to literally fight our way to the carriages that were in waiting and that were to take us to the Hotel d'Orient, where rooms had already been secured for us, and where an excellent dinner was awaiting our arrival. CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMIDS. The Hotel d'Orient, while not as fashionable as Shepard's or the Grand New, was a most comfortable house and set one of the best tables of the many that we encountered on the trip. It faced a big circular open space from which half a score of thoroughfares diverged like the spokes of a wheel, and was accessible from all parts of the city. In the big public garden opposite one of the Khedive's bands was playing at the time of our arrival, and on every hand were to been the open doors of cafes, bazaars, gambling hells and places of amusement, while the jargon of many tongues that surrounded us made confusion worse confounded. We were too tired the first night of our arrival to attempt much in the sight-seeing line, and contented ourselves, with a quiet stroll about the streets radiating from the circle, and a peep into some of the bazaars and gambling houses, gambling, then, as I presume it is at the present time, being conducted on the wide-open plan, and roulette wheels being operated within full view of the crowded streets. There is nothing that is known to any other city in the world that cannot be found in Cairo, and there are representatives of every nation in the world to be found among its denizens. Seen in the gloom of the evening, its towers and minarets showing in the moonlight, its streets pervaded with the dull red glow of the lights that gleam in the adjacent bazaars and cabarets, and with its white-walled buildings towering in the darkness, Cairo looks like a scene from the Arabian Nights, but viewed by daylight the picture is not so entrancing, for the semi-darkness serves to hide from the eye of the traveler the squalor and filth that the sunlight reveals and that is part and parcel of all oriental cities and towns. As no arrangements had been made for a game the day following our arrival, the members of our party were at liberty to suit themselves in the matter of amusement, and the majority of them overworked the patient little donkeys before nightfall. I am in a position to testify that I met many a little animal that afternoon bestrode by a long-legged ball player who looked better able to carry the donkey than the donkey did to carry him, but for all that both boys and donkeys seemed to be enjoying themselves. In company with Mrs. Anson and others of the party the day was spent in sight-seeing, we taking carriages and driving through the Turkish, Moorish, Algerian and Greek quarters of the town and over narrow streets paved with cobblestones and walled in by high buildings, with overhanging balconies, where the warm rays of the sun never penetrated. The rich tapestries and works of art to be found in all of these bazaars were the delight and the despair of the ladies, who would have needed all the wealth of India to have purchased one-half of the beautiful things that they so much admired. We then drove over the bridge that spans the Nile to the Khedive's gardens, the roadway being lined with magnificent equipages of all kinds, for this is the fashionable drive of Cairo and one of the sights of the place, the gorgeous liveries of the coachmen and outriders, the gaily-caparisoned and magnificent horses and the beautiful toilettes of the ladies all combined to make a picture that entranced the senses. One of the Khedive's palaces, and, by the way, he has half a dozen of them in Cairo, is situated at the far end of these gardens, which are finer than any of our parks at home, and their palaces being built in the Egyptian style of architecture, are a delight to the eye. The day passed all too quickly, and when night came and we returned to the hotel, we had not seen half as much as we wished. That evening after dinner, wishing to see how Cairo looked by gaslight, Mrs. Anson and I drove out in search of a theater, which I naturally thought it would be no very difficult matter to find, though which of the many we wished to go to we had not made up our minds. The driver, unfortunately, could not understand a word of English, that being the trouble with half of the beggars one encounters in a strange land, and so as we drove down by the Grand Hotel and French Opera House and came to a palatial-looking building, with brilliantly lighted grounds and colored awnings extending down to the sidewalk, and looking the sort of a place that we were in search of, I stopped the carriage and tried to find out from the driver as best I could what sort of a theater it was. His answer sounded very much like circus, and I thought that it would just about fill the bill that evening, as far as Mrs. Anson and I were concerned. Helping my wife to alight we passed under the awning and by liveried servants that stood in the doorway, the music of many bands coming to our ears and the scent of a perfumed fountain whose spray we could see, to our nostrils. "This is a pretty swell sort of a circus, isn't it?" I said to my wife, who nodded her head in reply. Through the open door we could catch glimpses of large parties of ladies and gentlemen in full dress, but it had never occurred to me that it could be anything but what I had understood the driver to say it was, a circus, and I began to look around for a ticket office in order that I might purchase the necessary pasteboards. At last, running up against a dark-complexioned and distinguished-looking man in full uniform, I asked him if he could tell us where the tickets could be bought. "Tickets! What tickets?" he asked, in very good English, but in a rather surprised tone. "Why, the tickets to the circus here," I answered, nervously, for I began to fear that I had make a mistake. "There is no circus here, my friend," said the stranger, as he turned away his head to hide a smile, "this is my private residence. I am Commander-in-chief of the Egyptian Army, and am simply entertaining a few friends here tonight. I would be much pleased if you would remain and--" "Don't say a word, sir," I replied, feeling cheaper than I had ever felt in my life, "it is my mistake and I hope you will excuse me," and bowing my self out as best I could we drove back to the hotel, where Mrs. Anson, who had been laughing at me all the way back, had of course to tell the story, the result being that I was guyed about my experience "at the circus" for some days and weeks after Cairo had become only a memory. That evening in the office of the hotel the following bulletin was posted: "Base-ball at the Pyramids. The Chicago and All-America teams, comprising the Spalding base-ball party, will please report in the hotel office, in uniform, promptly at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. We shall leave the hotel at that hour, camels having been provided for the All-Americas and donkeys for the Chicago players, with carriages for the balance of the party. The Pyramids will be inspected, the Sphinx visited, and a game played upon the desert near by, beginning at 2 o'clock." The next morning at half-past nine the court of the Hotel d'Orient held what it had never held before, and what in all probability it will never hold again, twenty of the best-known exponents of the National Game that America could boast of having congregated there in uniform and in readiness to play ball in the presence of the countless ages that look down from the summits of the Pyramids and the imprint of whose fingers is seen in the seamed and scarred face of the Sphinx. In front of the hotel lay a dozen long-necked camels, saddled and bridled, and contentedly chewing their cuds, while about them stood as many more of the patient little donkeys that became so familiar to so many of the visitors to the Streets of Cairo during the World's Fair days at Chicago. The dragoman in charge had provided all the donkeys necessary for the occasion, but other donkey boys managed to get mixed up in a general melee, and when the boys had mounted the wrong donkeys and went to get on the right ones a row followed that would have put a Donnybrook Fair melee to shame, the disappointed donkey boys biting and scratching their more fortunate competitors and the policemen laying about them with their bamboo staffs. At last we were all in the saddle, the All-America team being mounted on the camels and the Chicago boys on the donkeys and with the ball players leading the way and the carriages following we moved through the streets of Cairo, past the residence of the American Minister, where we cheered the old flag that floated over his quarters, thence over the bridge of the Nile and down through the Khedive's gardens, the "ships of the desert" lurching along with their loads like vessels in an ocean storm, and the donkeys requiring an amount of coaxing and persuasion that proved to be a severe tax upon the patience of their riders. The road leading to the Pyramids was a beautiful one running beneath an avenue arched with acacias until it reached the lowlands of the river across which it winds until it arrives at the edge of the desert upon which these great monuments of the kings and queens dead and gone for centuries are built. Half way to our destination an interchange of camels and donkeys was made by the members of the two teams, an exchange that, so far as the Chicagos were concerned, was for the worse and not for the better. At two o'clock we arrived at our destination and partook of the lunch that had been prepared for us in the little brick cottage that stood at the foot of old Cheops. After lunch we found ourselves surrounded by a crowd of Bedouins and Arabs numbering some two hundred, who besought us to purchase musty coins and copper images that were said to have been found in the interior of the huge piles of stone that surrounded us, and more persistent beggars than they proved to be it has never been my misfortune to run against. After visiting the big Pyramids and the Sphinx, and having our pictures taken in connection with these wonders of the world, we passed down to the hard sands of the desert, where a diamond had been laid out, and where, in the presence of fully a thousand people, many tourists coming to Cairo having been attracted to the scene by the announcements made that we were to play there, we began the first and only game of ball that the sentinels of the desert ever looked down upon. This game was played under difficulties, as when the ball was thrown or batted into the crowd the Arabs would pounce upon it and examine it as though it were one of the greatest of curiosities, and it was only after a row that we could again get it in our possession. On this occasion Tener and Baldwin both pitched for Chicagos before the five innings were over, and Healy and Crane for the All-Americas. Both sides were exceedingly anxious to win this game, but fortune favored the All-Americas and we were beaten 10 to 6, for which I apologized to the Sphinx on behalf of my team after the game was over. To this she turned a deaf ear and a stony glance was her only answer. After the game we returned to the Pyramids and the Sphinx, looking them over more at our leisure and trying to fathom the mystery of how they were built that has been a puzzle for so many ages. It was seven o'clock in the evening when we returned to Cairo, well satisfied with our sight-seeing experience, but a little disappointed to think that the only ball game that had ever been played in the shadow of the Pyramids had not been placed to the credit of Chicago. There was nothing to do the next day and night but to stroll about Cairo, as the Khedive, before whom we had offered to play, was out at his Nile palace, and to have visited him there and given an exhibition, as he invited us to do, would have taken more time than we had at our disposal. The Mosques of Sultan Hassan and of Mohammed Ali were visited by many of us during the day. They stood upon the highest point of the city, and though the former is fast crumbling to ruins, the latter, which is the place where the Khedive worships, is fairly well preserved. From the citadel, which is garrisoned by English soldiers, we obtained an excellent bird's-eye view of Cairo, the broad surface of the Nile and the Pyramids of Cairo and Sakarah, the latter of which are twenty miles distant. I believe that had we remained in Cairo for a year we could still have found something to interest and amuse us, though I should hardly fancy having to remain there for a life-time, as the manners and customs of the Orient are not to my liking. The line of demarcation between the rich and the poor is too strongly drawn and the beggars much too numerous to suit my fancy, and yet while there both my wife and myself enjoyed ourselves most thoroughly, and the recollections that we now entertain of it are most pleasant. Our departure from Cairo was made on the morning of February 11th. Ismalia, a little city on the banks of the Suez Canal, about half way between Suez and Port Said, being our destination, and here we arrived late in the afternoon, and at five o'clock boarded the little steamer that was to take us to Port Said, where we were to catch the steamer across the Mediterranean, to the little Italian town of Brindisi. CHAPTER XXVIII. UNDER THE BLUE SKIES OF ITALY. The night we left Ismalia and started for Port Said, the port of entrance at the northernmost end of the Suez Canal, was a glorious one, the full moon shining down upon the waters and turning to silver the sands of the vast desert that stretched away to the horizon on either side. This canal through which we had passed had a mean depth of 27 feet and varies from 250 to 350 feet in width, its length from sea to sea being 87 miles. The banks on both sides were barren of verdure and there was but little to be seen save the Canal itself, which is an enduring monument to the brains of Ferdinand de Lesseps. Every now and then our little steamer passed some leviathan of the deep bound for Suez, and the Red Sea, and the music of our mandolins and guitars and of Mrs. Lynch's cornet would bring the passengers on board of, them to the steamer's rail as we sped by them in the moonlight. Shortly after ten o'clock the lights of Port Said came in sight and at half-past ten we were climbing up the sides of the "Stettin," where we found a fine lot of officers and a good dinner awaiting our arrival. An hour later we were on our way across the Mediterranean. The voyage was the roughest we had yet had, and as the majority of the party were so seasick as to be confined to their staterooms, there was very little pleasure to be found, the ship rolling about so that her screw was more than half the time out of the water. The mountains of Crete and Candia, with their snowy caps, were the only signs of land to be seen until we arrived in sight of Brindisi, which we reached twelve hours later than we should have done had it not been for the rough weather that we encountered. Here we received the first mail that we had had since we left home, and as there were letters from our daughters in the bag we were more than happy. At Brindisi we were obliged to remain over night, having missed the day train for Naples, but the storm that that evening swept the coast confined us to the hotel, where the big wood fires that blazed in the grates, both in the office and in our sleeping apartments, made things most comfortable. At nine o'clock the next morning we left for Naples, where we arrived that evening, our journey taking us through the most beautiful and picturesque portion of Southern Italy, a country rich in vineyards, valleys, wooded mountains and beggars, being excelled in the latter respect only by the lands of the Orient. The most of our baggage had already gone on the steamer to Southampton, and so when we got to the shores of the Bay of Naples we had but little for the Custom House Inspectors to inspect. I had my bat bag with me, however, and as I entered the station a funny-looking little old man in gold lace insisted that the bag was above the regulation weight and that I should register it and pay the extra fare. I kicked harder than I had ever kicked to any umpire at home in my life, but to no avail, for I was compelled to settle. As we came within sight of the Bay of Naples we were all on the lookout for Mount Vesuvius, which Fogarty was the first to sight, and to which he called our attention. Green and gray it loomed up in the distance, its summit surrounded by a crimson halo and its crater every few seconds belching out flames and lava. Arriving at the station we were met by Messrs. Spalding and Lynch, who had come on from Brindisi one train in advance of us, and here Martin Sullivan, who had playfully filched the horn of a guard while en route, was taken into custody by half a score of gendarmes. It took the services of three interpreters and some fifteen minutes of time to straighten this affair out, after which we proceeded to the Hotel Vesuve, where we were to put up during our stay in Naples. That night we were too tired for sightseeing and contented ourselves with gazing from the windows at the beautiful Bay of Naples, which lay flashing beneath us in the moonlight. As no arrangements had been made to play a game until the fourth day after our arrival we had ample time for sightseeing, and this we turned to the best account. The view from the balconies of the hotel was in itself a grand one, and one of which we never tired. Vesuvius, with its smoke-crowned summit, was in plain sight, while the view of the bay and the beautiful islands of Capri and Ischia, that lay directly in front of the hotel, presented as pretty and enticing a picture as could be found anywhere. That afternoon we drove all about old Naples, visiting many of the quaint and handsome old cathedrals and palaces, and that night we went to hear "Lucretia Borgia," at the San Carlos, which is one of the most magnificent theaters to be found in all Europe. The next day we spent among the ruins of Pompeii and, though a third of the original city at the time of our visit still lay buried beneath the ashes and lava, we were enabled to obtain a pretty fair idea of what the whole city was like, and of the manners and customs of the unfortunate people who had been overwhelmed by the eruption. Many of the most interesting relics found are now in the National Museum at Naples, among them being the casts of bodies that were taken from the ashes. The museums and cathedrals at Naples are rich in relics and you might spend days in looking at them and still not see half of what is to be shown. My wife and I were both anxious to make the ascent of Vesuvius, but the dangers incurred by some of the other members of the party who had attempted the feat deterred us from making the attempt. Our first game of ball in Naples and the first of our trip on European soil was played in the Campo de Mart, or "Field of Mars," February 19th. We left the hotel in carriages and drove out by the way of the Via Roma to the grounds. The day before United States Consul Camphausen, who treated us all through our stay with the greatest kindness and courtesy, had issued invitations to the various members of the different diplomatic corps in Naples, and also to many of the principal citizens, so that there was a crowd of about 3,000 people on the grounds, and among them quite a sprinkling of foreign diplomats and fashionable people. The game began with Baldwin and Daly and Healy and Earl in the points, but it had hardly gotten under way before the crowd swarmed onto the playing grounds in such a way as to make fielding well-nigh impracticable, and batting dangerous. The police seemed powerless to restrain the people and the bad Italian of A. G. Spalding had, seemingly, no effect, in spite of the coaching given him by Minister Camphausen. Then we tried to clear the field ourselves, and, though we would succeed for a time, it would soon be as bad as ever, the fact that an Italian was laid out senseless by a ball from Carroll's bat not seeming to deter them in the least. For three innings neither side scored, and in the fourth each got a man across the plate, but in the fifth the All-Americas increased their score by seven runs, and the crowd, evidently thinking that the game was over, swarmed across the field like an army of Kansas grasshoppers, and Ward, ordering his men into their positions, claimed the game of Tener, who was umpiring, which the latter gave him by a technical score of 9 to 0, the score books showing 8 to 2. That night was our last in Naples, and by invitation of the American Minister we occupied boxes at the San Carlos Theater, which was packed from pit to dome by the wealth and fashion of Naples. We were to have taken our departure for Rome at 8:30 the next morning, but owing to a mistake that was made by the commissionaire, to whom the getting of the tickets had been left, we were compelled to wait until the afternoon at three, Mr. Spalding and his mother going on without us. Leaving Clarence Duval to watch over the baggage piled up in a corner of the waiting-room we spent the time in driving about the city, and in paying a farewell visit to the Naples Museum, in which is contained some of the finest marbles, bronzes and paintings to be found on the continent, the Farnese Bull and the Farnese Hercules in marble being famous the world over. Three o'clock found us again at the depot and this time the tickets being on hand we boarded the train and were soon whirling along through the rural districts of Italy on our way to: "Rome that sat upon her seven hills And ruled the world." This trip was uneventful, and even the irrepressibles of the party managed to keep out of mischief, the experience of Martin Sullivan having taught them that the Italians did not know how to take a joke. At nine o'clock we reached the Eternal City, our party dividing at the station, the Chicagos going to the Hotel de Alamagne and the All-Americas to the Hotel de Capital, this action being necessary because of the fact that Rome was at that time crammed with tourists and accommodations for such a large party as ours were hard to find. When Messrs. Spalding and Lynch called upon Judge Stallo of Cincinnati the next morning, he then being the American Minister at Rome, they were given the cold shoulder for the first time during the trip, that gentleman declaring that he had never taken the slightest interest in athletics, and that he did not propose to lend the use of his name for mercenary purposes. There being no inclosed grounds in Rome this action of Jude Stallo's was in the nature of a gratuitous insult, and was looked upon as such by the members of our party. Mr. Charles Dougherty, the Secretary of the American Legation at Rome, proved, however, to be an American of a different kind, and one that devoted to us much of his time and attention. Who that has ever been to Rome can ever forget it? I cannot, and I look upon the time that I put in there sightseeing as most pleasantly and profitably spent. The stupendous church of St. Peter's, with its chapels and galleries, being in itself an imposing object lesson. Its glories have already been inadequately described by some of the most famous of literary men, and where they have failed it would be folly for a mere ball player to make the attempt. In St. Peter's we spent almost an entire day, and leaving it we felt that there was still more to be seen. The second day we visited the palace of the Caesars, the Catacombs, the ruins of the Forum, and the Coliseum, within whose tottering walls the mighty athletes of an olden day battled for mastery. We drove far out on the Appian Way, that had at one time echoed the tread of Rome's victorious legions, until we stopped at the tomb of St. Cecelia. The glories of ancient Rome have departed but the ruins of that glory still remain to challenge the wonder and admiration of the traveler. Rome is not composed entirely of massive ruins in these latter days, as some people seem to imagine. On the contrary, it is a city of wealth and magnificence, and if "you do as the Romans do" you are certain to enjoy yourself, for the Romans do about the same things as other people. The Corso, which is the fashionable drive and promenade of the residents, had a great attraction for us all, and between three and five o'clock in the afternoons the scene presented was a brilliant one, it being at that time thronged with handsome equipages and handsomer women, while the shop windows are pictures in themselves. The street itself in a narrow one, being barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other, and yet over its pavements there is a constantly flowing tide of people such as Fifth Avenue in New York, State Street in Chicago, Rotten Row in London, or even the Champs Ely-see in Paris cannot equal. On the afternoon of February 22d, in answer to an invitation extended to the party through President Spalding, by Dr. O'Connell, Director of the American College at Rome, we called at that institution, in a body and were soon chatting with the students, some seventy-five in number, who came from a score of different cities in our own country. They were a fine, manly lot, and just as fond of baseball, which they informed us that they often played, as though they were not studying for the priesthood. Meeting them reminded me of my old school days at Notre Dame, and of the many games that I had taken part in while there when the old gentleman was still busily engaged in trying to make something out of me, and I was just as busily engaged in blocking his little game. After a pleasant chat Clarence Duval gave them an exhibition of dancing and baton swinging that amused them greatly, and then we adjourned to one of the class-rooms, where we listened to brief addresses by Bishop McQuade of Rochester, N. Y., who was then in Rome on a visit; Bishop Payne of Virginia, and Dr. O'Connell, to all of which A. G. responded, after which we took our departure, but not before the students had all promised to witness the game of the next day. This game was played on the private grounds of the Prince Borghese, which are thrown open to the public between the hours of three and five on Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday of each week, and a prettier place for a diamond that the portion of it upon which we played, and which was known as the Piazza de Sienna, could not be imagined. Under the great trees that crowned the grassy terraces about the glade that afternoon assembled a crowd such as few ball players had ever played before, among the notables present being King Humbert of Italy, the Prince of Naples, Prince Borghese and family, Count Ferran, Princess Castel del Fino, Count Gionatti, Senora Crispi, wife of the Prime Minister, and her daughter, Charles Dougherty and ladies, the class of the American College at Rome, members of the various diplomatic corps, tourists and others. We were greeted by three rousing cheers and a tiger from the American College boys and then, after fifteen minutes of fast practice, we began the first professional ball game ever played in Rome, a game that both teams were most anxious to win. Crane and Earle and Tener and Daly were in the points. The game was a remarkable one throughout, the fielding on both sides being gilt-edged, and the score a tie at the end of the second inning, each side having two runs. Double plays, clean hitting and sharp fielding marked the next few innings, and it was not until the seventh inning Burns crossed the plate with the winning run for the Chicagos, the score standing 3 to 2. After this we played an exhibition game of two innings, that was marked by fast work throughout, and were heartily cheered as we lifted our caps and left the grounds. Shortly after the noon hour the next day, which was Sunday, we started for Florence, the day being a cold and cheerless one, arriving there at 8:30 and finding quarters at the Hotel de Europe, not a stone's throw from the right bank of the Arno. It was too chilly for any gas-light trips that evening, and we retired early, but the next morning after an early breakfast we started in to make the most of the little time that we had at our disposal, and before the time set for play that afternoon we had taken flying peeps at the beautiful Cathedral of St. Maria, the home and studio of Michael Angelo, the palace of the Medicis and the Pitti and Uffizi galleries, both of which are rich in paintings, the works of the great masters. We played that afternoon upon the Cascine or racecourse of Florence, in the midst of beautiful surroundings and in the presence of a crowd that was small but select, royalty having several representatives on the grounds. The game was a hotly-contested one throughout, Healy and Carroll and Baldwin and myself being the batteries, and was finally won by the All-Americas, the score standing at 7 to 4 in their favor. It was five o'clock and raining when we left Florence the next morning. We had landed in Italy in a rain storm and we left the land of sunshine and soft skies under the same unpleasant conditions. CHAPTER XXIX. OUR VISIT TO LA BELLE FRANCE. It was some days after we left the beautiful city of Florence, with its wealth of statuary and paintings, before we again donned our uniforms, the lack of grounds upon which we could play being the reason for our enforced idleness. The day we left Florence we crossed over the border and that night found us on French soil, and in the land of the "parlevooers." The ride from Florence to Nice, which latter city was our objective point, was one long dream of delight, the road running for nearly the entire distance along the shores of the Mediterranean and along the edge of high cliffs, at whose rocky bases waves were breaking into spray that, catching the gleam of the sunlight, reflected all the colors of the rainbow. Now and then the train plunged into the darkness of a tunnel, where all was blackness, but as it emerged again the sunlight became all the brighter by comparison. As we passed through Pisa, a few hours out from Florence, we caught excellent view of the famous leaning tower, with the appearance of which every schoolboy has been made familiar by the pictures in his geography. At Genoa the train stopped for luncheon and there Pfeffer's appetite proved to be too much for him, and as he couldn't speak Italian he lingered so long at the table as to get left, coming on in the next train a few hours afterwards, and getting guyed unmercifully regarding his tremendous capacity for storing away food. In the course of the afternoon we passed through the the city of Diana Maria, that four years before had been destroyed by an earthquake, in which some four hundred people were killed or severely injured. It was a desolate enough looking place as viewed from the car windows, the broken walls that seemed ready to tumble at the slightest touch, and the bare rafters all bearing witness to the terrible shaking up that the city had received. Leaving Diana Maria we passed through some beautiful mountain scenery, the little villages that clustered in the valleys looking from our point of view like a collection of birdhouses. It was nearly dark when we reached San Remo, where the late Emperor of Germany had lain during his last illness, and quite so when we left it and entered the station of Vingt Mille, on the French border, and some twenty miles from our destination. Here Crane's monkey was the cause of our getting into trouble, a couple of Italians, who had taken offense at the free-and-easy ways of Fogarty, Crane and Carroll, who occupied the same apartment with them, informing the guard that the New-Yorker had the little animal in his pocket, the fare for which was immediately demanded and refused. At Vingt Mille, after the customs authorities had examined our baggage, and we were about to take the train again, we were stopped and informed that we would not be allowed to proceed until the monkey's fare had been paid. It was some time before we ascertained the real cause of our detention, none of us being able to speak Italian, and when we finally learned the train had gone on without us. Seventeen francs were paid for the monk's ride in Crane's pocket, and we thought the episode settled, but later on the official came back, stating that a mistake had been made and that the monk's fare was nine francs more, but this Crane positively refused to pay until we were again surrounded by a cordon of soldiers, when he "anted up," but most unwillingly. It was an imposition, doubtless, but they had the might on their side and that settled the business. After that the gentleman (?) who had acted as interpreter, doubtless thinking that Americans were "soft marks," put in a claim of twenty francs for services, but this he did not get, though he came very close to receiving the toe of a boot in its stead. After once more getting started we sped past the gambling palaces of Monte Carlo and Monaco, that loomed up close behind us in the darkness, and, arriving at Nice, finally secured quarters in the Interlachen Hotel, the city being crowded with strangers who had come from all parts of the world to view the "Battle of Flowers," that was to take place on the morrow. It rained all that night and all the next day, and as a result the carnival had to be postponed, and the floral decorations presented a somewhat woe-begone and bedraggled appearance. It had been our intention to play a game here, but to our astonishment and the disappointment of several hundred Americans then in Nice, the project had to be abandoned for the reason that there was not a ground or anything that even remotely resembled one, within the city limits. The rain that had caused the postponement of the carnival did not prevent us from leaving the hotel, however, and the entire party put in the day visiting the great gambling halls of Monte Carlo, which are today as famous on this side of the water as they are on the continent, and where the passion for gambling has ruined more people of both sexes than all of the other gambling hells of the world combined. A more beautiful spot than Monte Carlo it would be hard to imagine, the interior of the great gambling hall being handsomer than that of any theater or opera house that we had seen, and furnished in the most gorgeous manner. The work of the landscape gardener can here be seen at its best, no expense having been spared to make the grounds that surrounded the building devoted to games of chance the handsomest in the world. In its great halls one sees every sort and variety of people. Lords and Ladies, Princes and Princesses, Dukes and Duchesses, gamblers and courtesans, all find place at the table where the monotonous voices of the croupiers and the clinking of the little ivory ball are about the only sounds that break the silence. The majority of the members of our party tried their luck at the tables, as does everybody that goes to Monte Carlo, no matter how strongly they may condemn the practice when at home, and some of us were lucky enough to carry off some of the bank's money, Mr. Spalding, Mrs. Anson and myself among the number. There is as much of a fascination in watching the faces of the players around the tables as there is in following the chances of the game, and the regular habitues of the place can be spotted almost at the first glance. One day at Monte Carlo was quite enough for us and we were glad to get back to Nice and out of the way of temptation. The second day after we arrived at Nice the flower festival took place, and luckily the weather was almost perfect. All the morning for a distance of some twenty blocks the Avenue des Anglaise, where the battle of flowers is annually held, the decorators had been busy preparing for the event, and by afternoon decked in flowers and gaily-colored ribbons, bunting and flags, the scene that it presented was a brilliant one. By three o'clock it was crowded with elegant equipages filled with men, women and flowers, the two former pelting each other with blossoms to their heart's content, the spectators in the adjacent windows and on the sidewalks taking part in the mimic war. Conspicuous in the party was the Prince of Wales and his friends, among which were several of our fair countrywomen, the whole party distributing their flowers right and left with reckless-prodigality. The number of handsome women, the splendid street decorations, and the abundance of flowers that were scattered about in lavish profusion made a brilliant picture and one that it is not to be wondered that tourists journey from all parts of the continent to witness. The next morning we were off for Paris, stopping over at Lyons for the night, where there was snow on the ground, the weather being cold and disagreeable, and it was not until Saturday that we arrived in "La Belle Paris," the Mecca of all Americans who have money to spend and who desire to spend it, and the fame of whose magnificent boulevards, parks, palaces, squares and monuments has not extended half as far as has the fame of its Latin Quartier, with its gay student life, its masked balls, with their wild abandon, its theaters made famous by the great Rachael, Sara Bernhardt and others, and its gardens, where high kickers are in their glory. All of these were to be seen and all of these we saw, that is, all of them that we could see in the short week that was allotted to us, it being a week of late hours and wild dissipation so far as my wife and myself were concerned, we rarely retiring until long after the hour of midnight. Our days were spent in driving about the city and its environs, and in viewing the various places of interest that were to be seen, from the magnificent galleries filled with the rarest of paintings and statuary to the dark and gloomy Bastille, while our nights were devoted to the theater and balls, and at both of these we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. In Paris we met a great many members of the American colony from whom we received much courtesy and attention, and to whom I should like to have a chance of returning the many kindnesses that were showered upon us during the time that we remained in the French capital. As a business man the Parisian is not a decided success when viewed from the American standpoint, but as a butterfly in pursuit of pleasure he cannot be beaten. He is polite and courteous at all times, however, but is not to be trusted when making a trade, he having learned to look upon all Americans with money as his natural and legitimate prey, and so is prepared to take the advantage of you and yours whenever the opportunity is given him. It was not until the afternoon of March 8th that we were given a chance to show the Parisians how the National Game of America is played, and then we put up a fairly good exhibition, both teams being more than anxious to win, and playing in a most spirited fashion. This game was played at the Parc Aristotique, situated on the banks of the Seine, just opposite the Exposition Buildings, and within plain sight of the great Eiffel Tower, it being walled in by gardens and big city residences. The game was made memorable by the large number of Americans that were present and by the distinguished people before whom it was played. Among these were General Brugere and Captain Chamin, representing President Carnot of the French Republic, who sent a letter regretting that his official duties prevented him from seeing the game; Mr. and Mrs. William Joy, of the American Legation; Miss McLane, daughter of the American Minister at Paris; Miss Urquhart, a sister of Mrs. James Brown Potter, the actress; Consul General Rathbone, and a host of others prominent in diplomatic, social and theatrical circles. It was in the second inning of the game that the famous "stone wall" infield of the Chicagos was broken up through an injury received by Ed Williamson, from the effects of which he never fully recovered. He had taken his base on balls in the second inning and, was trying to steal second when he tripped and fell, tearing his knee cap on the sharp sand and gravel of which the playing surface was composed. He was taken by his wife, who was among the spectators, to his hotel, and it was thought that a few days of rest would see him all right again, but such did not prove to be the case, as he was still confined to his room in London when we sailed for home, and it was until late in the season of 1889 that he was again able to report for duty. This necessitated Baldwin's going to first while Ryan took Williamson's place at short and weakened our team very materially, as Williamson was always a tower of strength to us. We were very decidedly off, too, in our batting, and it was not until the sixth inning that a home run by Ryan and a two-bagger by Pettit, and a passed ball enabled us to put two men over the plate. These were all the runs we got, however, and at the end of the second inning, when game was called, the score stood at 6 to 2 in All-Americas' favor. How the members of either game were enabled to play as good ball as they did, not only in Paris but in other cities that we visited after the inactivity of steamer life, the late hours, and the continual round of high living that they indulged in, is a mystery, and one that is past my fathoming, and yet the ball that they put up on many of these occasions that I have spoken of was ball of the championship kind and the sort that would have won even in, League company. At half-past eight o'clock we left Paris for our trip across the English Channel, taking the long route from Dieppe to New Haven, and if we all wished ourselves dead and buried a hundred times before reaching the latter Port we can hardly be blamed, as a worse night for making the trip could not well have been chosen. It was one o'clock in the morning when the train from Paris bearing the members of our party arrived at Dieppe, and the wind at that time was blowing a gale. Down the dock in the face of this we marched and aboard the little side-wheel steamer "Normande," where our quarters were much too cramped for comfort. A few minutes later the lines were cast off and the steamer was tossing about like a cork on the face of the waters, now up and now down, and seemingly trying at times to turn a somersault, a feat that luckily for us she did not succeed in accomplishing, else this story might never have been written. There was no doing on deck, even had we been capable of making an effort to do so, which we were not, as we could hear the large waves that swept over the vessel strike the planking with a heavy thud that shook the steamer from stem to stern, and then go rushing away into the scuppers. Up and down, down and up, all night long, and if we had never prayed to be set ashore before we did on that occasion, but as helpless as logs we lay in our staterooms, not much caring whether the next plunge made by the ship was to be the last or not. I had had slight attacks of seasickness before, but on this occasion I was good and seasick, and Mrs. Anson was, if such a thing were possible, even in a worse condition than I was. At about three in the morning we heard the noise of a heavy shock followed by the crashing of timbers and the shouts of sailors that sounded but faintly above the roar of the tempest, and the next morning discovered that a huge wave had carried away the bridge, the lookout fortunately managing to escape being carried away with the wreck. The experience of that awful night is one never to be forgotten, a night that, according to the captain, was the worst that he had ever witnessed during his thirty years of experience, and it was with feelings of great relief that we dropped anchor in the harbor of New Haven the next morning, where the sun shone brightly and the sea was comparatively quiet. We were a pretty seedy-looking lot when we boarded the train for London, where we debarked at the Victoria Station about half-past nine o'clock, still looking much the worse for wear and like a collection of invalids than a party of representative ball players. Getting into carriages we were at once driven through the city to Holburn, where quarters at the First Avenue Hotel had been provided, and where we were only too glad to rest for a time and recover from the awful shaking up that the English Channel had given us; a shaking up that it took Mrs. Anson some time to recover from, as it also did the other ladies of the party. We had expected to play our first game of ball in England on the day of our arrival, but the game had been called off before we got there because of the storm, the grounds being flooded. It was a lucky thing for us that such was the case, as there was not one of the party who could have hit a balloon after the experience of the night before, or who could have gone around the bases at a gait that would have been any faster than a walk. CHAPTER XXX. THROUGH ENGLAND, SCOTLAND AND IRELAND. The first thing that impresses the stranger in London is the immensity of the city, and the great crowds that continually throng the streets night and day, for London never sleeps. The first day after our arrival I noted numerous changes that had taken place in various quarters since my visit of fifteen years before, during which time the city seemed to have grown and spread out in every direction. The hotel where we were quartered was in close proximity to the Strand, one of London's greatest and busiest thoroughfares, and here the crowds were at all times of the most enormous proportions, the absence of street car and the presence of hundreds of hansom cabs and big double-decked tramways running in every direction being especially noticeable. The weather at the time of our visit was cold, foggy and disagreeable, and as a result our sight-seeing experiences were somewhat curtailed and not as pleasant as they might have been. The date of our first appearance on English soil was March 12th, and prior to the game on that occasion we were given a reception and luncheon in the Club House of the Surrey County Cricket Club at Kensington Oval, which is the personal property of the Prince of Wales, and one of the most popular of the many cricket grounds the are to be found within the vicinity of the world's greatest metropolis. The committee appointed to receive the players on this occasion embraced among others the Duke of Beaufort, Earl of Landsborough, Earl of Coventry, Earl of Sheffield, Earl of Chesborough, Lord Oxenbridge, Lord Littleton, Lord Hawke, Sir Reginald Hanson, Bart., Sir W. T. Webster, Attorney General, the Lord Mayor, American Consul General, American Charge d'Affaires, and Dr. W. D. Grace, the world-famous cricket player, with whom I had become well acquainted during the trip of 1874. It had rained that morning and when we left the hotel in drags for the grounds the streets of London were enveloped in a fog so thick that one could almost cut it with a knife, while the prospects of a ball game seemed to the most of us exceedingly dubious. Arriving at the Club House we were presented to the different members of the reception committee, who, in spite of the high-sounding titles that they bore, were a most affable lot of men, and to many of the most prominent club members, all of whom gave us a warm welcome and made us feel thoroughly at home. Lord Oxenbridge, a fine specimen of the English nobility, acted as chairman of the assemblage, and after luncheon proposed the toasts of "The Queen" and "The President of the United States," both of which were drank with enthusiasm. Lord Lewisham then proposed "The American Ball Teams," to which Mr. Spalding responded, this being followed by the health of the chairman, proposed by the Hon. Henry White, United States Charge d'Affaires, after which we made our way through the crowds that thronged the reception rooms and corridors to the dressing rooms, where we donned our uniforms and put ourselves in readiness to play ball. When we marched out on the grounds we were somewhat surprised at the size of the crowd that greeted us, some 8,000 people having assembled to witness the game, and this in spite of the fact that it was still foggy and the grounds soft, black and sticky. To play good ball under such circumstances was all but impossible, and yet I have taken part in lots of championship games at home that were worse played than this one. Healy and Baldwin did the twirling, and both pitched good ball, while the fielding of both teams was nothing short of remarkable when the fact is taken into consideration that a ball fifty feet in the air could not be seen at all. Just at the end of the first half of the third inning we noticed something of a commotion in the vicinity of the Club House and when, in a few moments afterwards, the well-known face of the Prince of Wales appeared at the window, we assembled at the home plate and gave three hearty cheers for His Highness, this action on our parts bringing out a storm, of applause from the stand. At the close of the fifth inning we accompanied Manager Lynch to the Club House at the Prince's request, where we were introduced to the future King of England by President Spalding, he shaking hands with each of us in a most cordial manner, calling many of us by name and chatting with us in a most off-hand and friendly way. As we left he bowed to each of us pleasantly and then took a seat by the window to witness the balance of the game, which resulted at the end of nine innings in a score of 7 to 4 in Chicago's favor. The London papers the next morning devoted a great deal of space to the game, but the majority of the Englishmen who had witnessed it said that they thought cricket its superior, and among them the Prince of Wales, which was hardly to be wondered at, and which confirmed me in the opinion that I had formed on my first visit, viz., that base-ball would never become a popular English sport, an opinion that since then has proved to be correct. Accompanied by the United States Charge d'Affaires the next morning we drove to the Parliament Buildings, where we were admitted and shown through by the Secretary to the Chairman of the House of Commons, an honor rarely accorded to visitors and one that we greatly appreciated. From the great hall where Charles the First and Warren Hastings were tried and which had been badly wrecked by the explosion of a dynamite bomb two years before, we passed into the Crypt and Committee rooms, and thence through the magnificent corridors decorated with paintings, each of which cost thousands of pounds. The House of Lords was next visited, the Woolsack and Queen's Seat, and the seats of the various members being pointed out to us by the Secretary. From the House of Lords we passed into the House of Commons, where Sir William Harcourt was speaking upon "The Treatment of Political Prisoners in Ireland," and where several famous personages were pointed out to us, though much to our regret we missed seeing Mr. Gladstone, who was expected to enter every moment, but who did not appear up to the time of our leaving for Westminster Abbey, where we had just time to glance about us before driving to Lord's Cricket Grounds, where we were to play that afternoon, and where we were greeted by a crowd of 7,000 people. These grounds, which are particularly fine, we found that afternoon in excellent condition and as a result we played a great game and one that evidently pleased the spectators, the batting being heavy, the fielding sharp and quick and the base running fast and brilliant. Errors at the' last moment by Baldwin and myself gave the All-Americas this game, they winning by a single run, the score standing 7 to 6. That evening, at the invitation of Henry Irving, now Sir Henry, and Miss Ellen Terry, we occupied boxes at the Lyceum Theater, being invited back of the scenes between the acts to enjoy a glass of wine and to receive the well wishes of our host and hostess, who still stand at the head of their profession. The day following, which was March 14th, we played upon the Crystal Palace Grounds, which are located at Sydenham, one of the most popular residence districts of the great city and within plain sight of the magnificent Palace of Crystal, that is one of the many famous places of interest with which London abounds. Here another large and enthusiastic crowd of 6,000 people greeted us, and there was more cheering and excitement than we had yet heard since our arrival in England. It was another pretty and close game, in which the All-Americas carried off the honors by a score of 5 to 2, the batting, fielding and base running of both teams being again above the average. At seven o'clock the next morning we left London for Bristol, the home of the famous cricketers, Dr. W. G. and Mr. E. M. Grace, whose exploits in the batting line have made them celebrated in the annals of the English National Game. Our journey to Bristol was a delightful one and when we arrived there at noon we were met by a committee composed of the Duke of Beaufort, Dr. Grace and the officials of the Gloucester County Cricket Club, and driven to the Grand Hotel, where introductions were in order. The Duke of Beaufort was certainly: "A fine old English gentleman," and one who, in spite of his sixty years, was greatly interested in athletic sports. After a good dinner, over which His Grace presided and, after the usual toasts had been proposed and drank, we were driven to the Gloucester Cricket Grounds, which had but just been completed, at a cost of some twelve thousand pounds, and which were as pretty and well-equipped as any grounds in England. The day was a beautiful one and the grounds in splendid condition, but for all that the game lacked the snap and go that had characterized the games in London, the Chicagos winning by a score of 10 to 3. After the game the Chicago team took the field and Ryan and Crane pitched while the Grace brothers and other cricketers tried their hand at batting, but were unable to do anything with the swift delivery of the Americans, and it was not until they had slowed down that they managed to land on the ball, Dr. Grace making the only safe hit of the day. That night found us back in London, where the next afternoon we played our farewell game in the great metropolis on the grounds of the Essex County Club at Layton, before a crowd that numbered 8,000 people, Crane and Earle and Baldwin and Daly being the batteries. This game was full of herd hitting and, though the score, 12 to 6 in favor of Chicago, would not have pleased an American crowd, it tickled the English people immensely, the London press of the next morning declaring it to be the best game that we had yet played in England. A throwing contest had been arranged to take place after the game between Crane and Conner, an Australian cricketer, but the latter backed out at the last moment and Crane merely gave an exhibition, throwing a cricket ball Ito yards and a base ball 120 yards and 5 inches. That evening we were banqueted by stockholders of the Niagara Panorama Company, and among the guests was the Duke of Beaufort, who "dropped in," as he put it, "to spend the evening with this fine lot of fellows from America." When we left London the next morning it was in a special train provided by the London and Northwestern Railway Company, consisting of nine cars, two of which were dining saloons, two smoking and reception cars, and the balance sleepers, each of the latter being made to accommodate from six to eight persons comfortably. The exterior of the train was exceedingly handsome, the body-color being white enamel with trimmings of gold and seal brown and the Royal Arms in gold and scarlet on the carriage doors, while upon each side of the coaches was the inscription in brown letters, "The American Base-Ball Clubs." The interior of the train was equally as handsome, and even royalty itself could not been better provided. Some 500 people were on hand to see us off and we pulled out of London with the cheers of our friends ringing in our ears. The run to Birmingham occupied but three hours, and arriving there we were escorted to the Colonnade Hotel by a delegation from the Warwickshire County Cricket Club, where the usual reception was accorded us. Then, after going to the Queen's Hotel for luncheon, we were driven to the handsomely located and prettily equipped grounds of the club, where, in spite of the threatening weather, 3,000 people had assembled. This game was one that would have delighted an American crowd, game being called at the end of the tenth inning on account of darkness with the score a tie, each team having four runs to its credit, Baldwin and Healy both pitching in fine style. That evening we were the guests of honor at the Prince of Wales Theater, returning after the play was over to our sleeping apartments on the train. At nine o'clock the next morning we left for Sheffield, the great cutlery manufacturing town of England, our route leading through the beautiful hills of Yorkshire. Here we were the guests of the Yorkshire County Cricket Club, and after luncheon at the Royal Victoria were driven to the Bramhall Lane grounds, one of the oldest and most famous of England's many athletic parks, where we were greeted by a crowd that was even larger than' the one before which we had played at Birmingham. It was raining hard when we began play but we kept on for four innings, after which the rain came down so fast and the ground became so muddy that we were compelled to quit. We waited about for an hour in hopes that the rain might cease, but as it did not we finally went back to our quarters. At the invitation of Miss Kate Vaughan we spent the evening at the Royal Theater, where, as usual, we attracted fully as much attention as the play. Snow was falling in great feathery flakes when we left Sheffield the next morning and, started for Bradford, and though we discovered an improvement in the weather when we reached our destination we found the grounds of the Bradford Foot-ball and Cricket Club in a condition that was utterly unfit for base-ball playing purposes. To make matters worse it began to rain while we were getting into our uniforms and a chilly wind swept across the enclosure. Four thousand people braved the inclement weather to see us play, however, and the members' stand presented a funny appearance crowded with ladies in waterproofs and mackintoshes, while the rows of black umbrellas that surrounded the field made it look like a forest of toadstools. It looked like sheer folly to attempt to play under such circumstances, but at the entreaties of the Cricket Club's Secretary, who said that a game of three innings would satisfy the crowd, we started in and we gave a good exhibition, too, but the state of our uniforms after it was over can be better imagined than described. We arrived at Glasgow the next morning in time for breakfast, having been whirled across the borders of Scotland in the night, and when we awoke we found the train surrounded by a crowd of curious sightseers. After luncheon we started for the West of Scotland Cricket Club grounds, wearing overcoats over our uniforms, the air being decidedly chilly. It was fairly good playing weather after we once got warmed up, and the 3,000 spectators saw a good game, lasting seven innings, and also saw the All-Americas win by a score of 8 to 4. Mr. and Mrs. Osmond Tearle were that night playing "King Lear" at the Grand Theater, and entertained us very handsomely. On this trip thus far we had had but little opportunity for sight-seeing save the passing glimpses of scenery that we could obtain from the flying train and in the carriage rides to and from the grounds upon which we played. The next morning found us in Manchester, we having left Glasgow at midnight, and at Manchester, the day being a pleasant one, we had some little opportunity of looking about. What we saw of the town impressed us most favorably, the streets being wide and clean, and the buildings being of a good character. The Old Trafford grounds on which we played that afternoon were beautifully situated and, in point of natural surroundings and equipments, held their own with the best in England. Through the gates 3,500 people passed, and they were treated to a rattling exhibition of "base-ball as she is played," the score being twice tied, and finally won by the All-Americas by a score of 7 to 6, Tener and Healy doing the twirling. That evening we were banqueted at the rooms of the Anglo-French Club by Mr. Raymond Eddy, who was then acting as the European representative of the Chicago house of John V, Farwell & Co., he being assisted in entertaining us by Major Hale, United States Consul at Manchester. This proved to be a most pleasant occasion, and the kindness shown us by both Mr. Eddy and Major Hale still remains a pleasant memory. At seven o'clock the next morning we were at Liverpool, where I met many of the friends that I had made on my previous visit, and where we were to play our last game on English soil. We were driven to the Colice Athletic Grounds that afternoon in a coach with seats for twenty-eight persons, and arriving at the grounds we found a big crowd already inside and a perfect jam at the gates, the big carriage entrance finally giving way and letting in some five hundred or more people before the rush could be stopped by the police. As the paid admissions after the game showed an attendance of 6,500, it is fair to assume that there were at least 7,000 people on the grounds. Five innings of base-ball were played and the score was a tie, each team scoring but three, only one hit being made off Baldwin and four off Crane. A game of "rounders" between a team from the Rounders' Association of Liverpool and an American eleven with Baldwin and Earl as the battery, and with Tener, Wood, Fogarty, Brown, Hanlon, Pfeffer, Manning, Sullivan and myself in the field was played. The bases in this game instead of being bags are iron stakes about three feet high, the ball the size of a tennis ball, and the batting is done with one hand and with a bat that resembles a butter-paddle in shape and size. A base-runner has to be retired by being struck with the ball, and not touched with it, and the batter must run the first time he strikes at the ball, whether he hits it or not. Of course the Rounders' Association team beat us, the score being 16 to 14, but when they came to play us two innings at our game afterwards the score stood at 18 to o in our favor, the crowd standing in a drenching rain to witness the fun. At nine o'clock that night we took the train for Fleetwood, on the shores of the Irish Channel, and at eleven we were on board of the little steamer "Princess of Wales" and bound for Ireland. Unlike our experience in the English Channel, this trip proved to be most delightful and we arrived in Belfast in the pink of condition for anything that might turn up. It was Sunday morning and as we drove up to the Imperial Hotel on Royal Avenue the streets were as quiet as a country church yard. Towards evening, however, Royal Avenue began to take on a gala appearance, conspicuous among the promenaders being the Scotch Highland Troops, whose bright costumes lent color to the scene. About nine o'clock it began to rain again and it was still raining when we retired for the night. The next morning was full of sunshine and showers, but towards noon it cleared up and after luncheon we were off in drags for the North of Ireland Cricket Club Grounds, where we put up another great game and one where a crowd of 3,000 people, among which pretty Irish girls without number were to be seen, were the spectators. At the end of the eighth inning the score stood 8 to 7 in our favor, but in the ninth singles by Wood and Healy and a corking three-bagger to left field by Earle sent two men across the place and gave the victory to All-America by a score of 9 to 8. A banquet at the Club House that evening, over which the Mayor of Belfast presided, kept us out till a late hour, and at an early hour the next morning we were off for Dublin City, "Where the boys are all so gay And the girls are all so pretty," according to the words of an old song. The porter who woke us up that morning must have been a relative of Mr. Dooley, of the Archer road, if one might judge from the rich brogue with which he announced the hour of "'Arf pawst foive, wud he be gittin' oop, sur? It's 'arf pawst foive." Between Belfast and Dublin we passed through a beautiful section of the country, catching now and then among the trees glimpses of old ivy-grown castles and whirling by farms in a high state of cultivation. At Dublin, where we arrived at eleven o'clock, we were met by United States Consul McCaskill and others and driven to Morrison's Hotel. This was a day off and many of the boys who had relatives in Ireland within reaching distance took advantage of the fact to pay them a visit. Mrs. Anson and I spent the day in driving about the city visiting Phoenix Park and other places of interest, and that evening we attended the "Gaiety Theater," where a laughable comedy called "Arabian Nights" was being played. The next day we played our last game in a foreign land, the weather being all that could be desired for the purpose. Prior to the game, however, we called at the Mansion House and were received by the Lord Mayor of Dublin, who gave us a genuine Irish welcome. Our drive to the Landsdown Road Grounds took us through many of the best parts of the city, which is beautiful, and can boast of as many handsome women as any place of its size in the world. The game that we played that afternoon was one of the best of the entire trip, from an American base-ball critic's point of view, though the score was too small to suit a people educated up to the big scores that are generally reached in cricket matches. Baldwin and Crane were both on their mettle and the fielding being of the sharpest kind safe hits were few and far between. Up to the ninth inning Chicago led by two runs, but here Earle's three-bagger, Hanlon's base on balls, Burns' fumble of Brown's hit and Carroll's double settled our chances, the All-Americas winning by a score of 4 to 3. This game made a total of twenty-eight that we had played since leaving San Francisco, of which the All-Americas had won fourteen and the Chicagos eleven, three being a tie, and had it not been for the accident in Paris that deprived us of Williamson's services, I am pretty certain that a majority of the games would have been placed to Chicago's credit. In the evening we left for Cork over the Southern Railway in three handsomely-appointed coaches decorated with American flags and bearing the inscription "Reserved for the American Base-Ball Party." We arrived at two o'clock the next morning, being at once driven to the Victoria Hotel. The same day we visited Blarney Castle, driving out and back in the jaunting cars for which Ireland is famous, and, though I kissed the blarney stone, I found after my return home that I could not argue my beliefs into an umpire any better than before. That night we left the quaint city of Cork behind and, after a beautiful ride of eleven miles by train, found ourselves standing on the docks at Queenstown, where a tender was in waiting to convey us to the White Star steamer that awaited us in the offing. CHAPTER XXXI. "HOME, SWEET HOME." Our voyage back to "God's country," by which term of endearment the American traveling abroad often refers to the United States, was by no means a pleasant one, as we encountered heavy weather from the start, the "Adriatic" running into a storm immediately after leaving Queenstown that lasted for two days and two nights, during which time we made but slow progress, and as a result there were a good many vacant seats at the table when mealtimes came. A storm at sea is always an inspiring sight, and it was a pleasure to those of us who were lucky enough to have our sealegs on to watch the big ship bury her nose in the mountainous waves, scattering the spray in great clouds and then rising again as buoyantly as the proverbial cork. The decks were not a pleasant point of vantage, however, even for the most enthusiastic admirer of nature, as a big wave would now and then break over the forward part of the vessel, drenching everything and everybody within reach and making the decks as slippery as a well-waxed ballroom. I had quit smoking some time before starting on this trip and was therefore deprived of blowing a cloud with which to drive dull care away during the tedious days that followed. Like the rest of the party, too, once started I was impatient to reach home again, and for that reason the slow progress that we made the first few days was not greatly to my liking. The weather moderated at the end of forty-eight hours, and though the waves still wore their night-caps and were too playful to go to bed, they occasioned us but little annoyance and we bowled along over the Atlantic in merry fashion, killing time by spinning yarns, playing poker and taking a turn at the roulette wheel which Fred Carroll had purchased at Nice to remind him of his experience at Monte Carlo. At a very early hour on Saturday morning, April 6, we were off Fire Island, and sunrise found us opposite quarantine. Our base-ball friends in New York, who had been looking for us for three days, had been early apprised that the "Adriatic" had arrived off Sandy Hook, and, boarding the little steamer "Starin" and the tug "George Wood," they came down the bay, two hundred strong, to meet us. With the aid of "a leedle Sherman pand," steam whistles and lusty throats they made noise enough to bring us all on deck in a hurry. As the distance between the vessels grew shorter we could distinguish among others the faces of Marcus Meyer, W. W. Kelly, John W. Russel, Digby Bell, DeWolf Hopper, Col. W. T. Coleman and many others, not least among them being my old father, who had come on from Marshalltown to be among the first to welcome myself and my wife back to America, and who, as soon as the "Starin" was made fast, climbed on deck and gave us both a hug that would have done credit to the muscular energy of a grizzly bear, but who was no happier to see us than we were to see him and to learn that all was well with our dear ones. I'm not sure but the next thing that he did was to propose a game of poker to some of the boys, but if he did not it was simply because there was too much excitement going on. That evening we were the guests of Col. McCaull at Palmer's Theater, where De-Wolf Hopper, Digby Bell and other prominent comic opera stars were playing in "The May Queen." The boxes that we occupied that night were handsomely decorated with flags and bunting, while from the proscenium arch hung an emblem of all nations, a gilt eagle and shield, with crossed bats and a pair of catcher's gloves and a catcher's mask. Every allusion to the trip and to the members of the teams brought out the applause, and by and by the crowd began to call for speeches from Ward and myself, but Ward wouldn't, and I couldn't, and so the comedians on the stage were left to do all of the entertaining. The next day, Sunday, was spent quietly in visiting among our friends, and Monday we played the first game after our return on the Brooklyn grounds. The day was damp and cold and for that reason the crowd was comparatively a small one, there being only 4,000 people on hand to give us a welcome, but these made up in noise what they lacked in numbers and yelled themselves hoarse as we marched onto the grounds. Once again, after a hard-fought contest, we were beaten by a single run, All-America 7, Chicago 6 being the score. At night we were given a banquet at Delmonico's by the New York admirers of the game, and it was a notable gathering of distinguished men that assembled there to do us honor, among them being A. G. Mills, ex-President of the National League, who acted as Chairman, Hon. Chauncey M. Depew, Hon. Daniel Dougherty, Henry E. Howland, W. H. McElroy, U. S. Consul; G. W. Griffin, who was representing the United States at Sydney when we were there; Mayor Chapin, of Brooklyn; Mayor Cleveland, of Jersey City; Erastus Wyman, Samuel L. Clemens ("Mark Twain"), and the Rev. Joseph Twitchell, of Hartford, Conn.; while scattered about the hall at various tables were seated representatives of different college classes, members of the New York Stock Exchange, the president and prominent members of the New York Athletic Club, and other crack athletic organizations of New York and vicinity, while in the gallery the ladies had been seated presumably for the purpose of seeing that we neither ate nor drank too much during the festivities. Mr. Mills in his address reminded his hearers of the occasion that had brought them together and pronounced a glowing eulogy upon the game and its beauties and upon the players that had journeyed around the world to introduce it in foreign climes, and then called upon Mayor Cleveland of New Jersey, whose witty remarks excited constant laughter, and who wound up by welcoming us home in the name of the 20,000 residents of the little city across the river. Mayor Alfred Chapin of Brooklyn followed in a brief and laughter-provoking address, after which Chauncey M. Depew arose amid enthusiastic cheering and spoke as follows: "Representing, as I do, probably more than any other human being, the whole of the American people who were deprived, by a convention that did not understand its duty, of putting me where I belong; and representing, as I do, by birth and opportunity, all the nationalities on the globe, I feel that I have been properly selected to give you the welcome of the world. I am just now arranging and preparing a Centennial oration which I hope may, and fear may not, meet all the possibilities of the 30th of April in presenting the majesty of that which created the government which we boast of and the land and country of which we are proud, but I feel that that oration is of no importance compared with the event of this evening. Washington never saw a base-ball game; Madison wrote the Constitution of the United States, and died without seeing one; Jefferson was the author of the Declaration of Independence, and yet his monument has no tribute of this kind upon it. Hamilton, the most marvelous and creative genius, made constitutions, built up systems and created institutions, and yet never witnessed a base-ball game. I feel as I stand here that all the men that have ever lived and achieved success in this world have died in vain. I am competent to pay that tribute, because I never played a game in my life, and I never saw it but once, and then did not understand it. A philosopher whom I always read with interest, because his abstractions sometimes approach the truth, wrote an article of some acumen several years ago, in which he said that you could mark the march of civilization and rise of liberty and its decadence by the interest which the nations took in pugilism. The nations of the earth which submit to the most grinding of despotisms have no pugilists. The nations of Europe which have never risen in their boasted establishments to a full comprehension of republicanism, have no pugilists. While Ireland and the Irish people, who can never be crushed, who have poetry, song and eloquence that belong to genius, have the most remarkable pugilists. England, which has a literature which is the only classic of to-day, which has an aristocracy and a form of government which is nearly democratic, has remarkable pugilists, and when you reach the seal of culture in America--Boston--you find the prince of pugilists. Now, that philosopher was right in the general principle, but wrong in the game. Civilization is marked, and has been in all ages, by an interest in the manly arts." In conclusion Mr. Depew eulogized the returning tourists and-ended with a brilliant panegyric in favor of the National Game. In responding to the toast, "The Influence of the Manly Sports," the Hon. Daniel Dougherty made a brilliant address in favor of outdoor games, after which President Spalding paid a compliment to the excellent conduct and ball-playing abilities of the two teams, and Captain Ward and myself made the briefest of remarks. Chairman Mills then introduced "Mark Twain," speaking of him as a native of the Sandwich Islands, which brought out the following address: "Though not a native, as intimated by the chairman, I have visited the Sandwich Islands, that peaceful land, that beautiful land, that far-off home of profound repose and soft indolence, and dreamy solitude, where life is one long slumberous Sabbath, the climate one long, delicious summer day, and the good that die experience no change, for they but fall asleep in one heaven and wake up in another. And these boys have played base-ball there; baseball, which is the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century. One cannot realize it, the place and the fact are so incongruous; it is like interrupting a funeral with a circus. Why, there's no legitimate point of contact, no possible kinship between base-ball" and the Sandwich Islands; base-ball is all fact, the Islands are all sentiment. In base-ball you've got to do everything just right, or you don't get there; in the Islands you've got to do everything all wrong, or you can't stay there. You do it wrong to get it right, for if you do it right you get it wrong; there isn't any way to get it right but to do it wrong, and the wronger you do it the righter it is. "The natives illustrate this every day. They never mount a horse from the larboard side, they always mount him from the starboard; on the other hand, they never milk a cow on the starboard side, they always milk her on the larboard; it's why you see so many short people there, they've got their heads kicked off. When they meet on the road they don't turn to the right, they turn to the left. And so, from always doing everything wrong end first, it makes them left-handed and cross-eyed; they are all so. In those Islands, the cats haven't any tails and the snakes haven't any teeth; and, what is still more irregular, the man that loses a game gets the pot. As to dress, the women all wear a single garment, but the men don't. No, the men don't wear anything at all; they hate display; when they wear a smile they think they are overdressed. Speaking of birds, the only bird there that has ornamental feathers has only two, just only enough to squeeze through with, and they are under its wings instead of on top of its head, where, of course, they ought to be to do any good. "The natives' language is soft and liquid and flexible, and in every way efficient and satisfactory till you get mad; then, there you are; there isn't anything in it to swear with. Good judges all say it is the best Sunday language there is; but then all the other six days of the week it just hangs idle on your hands; it isn't any good for business, and you can't work a telephone with it. Many a time the attention of the missionaries has been called to this defect, and they are always promising they are going to fix it; but no, they go fooling along and fooling along, and nothing is done. Speaking of education, everybody there is educated, from the highest to the lowest; in fact, it is the only country in the world where education is actually universal. And yet every now and then you run across instances of ignorance that are simply revolting, simply revolting to the human race. Think of it, there the ten takes the ace. But let us not dwell on such things. They make a person ashamed. Well, the missionaries are always going to fix that, but they put it off, and put it off, and put it off, and so that nation is going to keep on going down, and down, until some day you will see a pair of jacks beat a straight flush. "Well, it is refreshment to the jaded, water to the thirsty, to look upon men who have so lately breathed the soft air of these Isles of the Blest, and had before their eyes the inextinguishable vision of their beauty. No alien land in all the world has any deep, strong charm for me but that one; no other land could so longingly and beseechingly tempt me, sleeping and waking, through half a life-time, as that one has done. Other things leave me, but that abides; other things change, but that remains the same. For me, its balmy airs are always blowing, its summer seas flashing in the sun, the pulsing of its surfbeat is in my ears. I can see its garlanded crags, its leaping cascades, its plumy palms drowsing by the shore, its remote summits floating like islands above the cloud rack. I can hear the spirits of its woodland solitudes, I can hear the splash of its brooks; in my nostrils still lives the breath of the flowers that perished twenty years ago. And these world wanderers that sit before me here have lately looked upon these things, and with eyes of the flesh, not the unsatisfying vision of the spirit. I envy them that." "Mark Twain" may have been better than he was that night, but if so I should like some one to mention the time and place. To be sure he make a mistake in taking it for granted that we had played ball there, but then it was not our fault that we had not: It was all the fault of the horrid blue laws that prevented us from making an honest dollar. Digby Bell and DeWolf Hopper gave recitations in response to the loud demand made for them, and it was not until long after midnight that an adjournment was finally made. The next day we played our second game in Brooklyn before a crowd of 3,500, and gave a rather uninteresting exhibition, the Chicagos taking the lead at the start and holding it to the finish, the All-Americas supporting Crane in a very slipshod manner. That same evening we left for Baltimore, where 6,000 people gave us a hearty welcome when we appeared the next afternoon on the Association grounds. Here we put up a good game, the Chicagos winning by a score of 5 to 2. We arrived in Philadelphia the next morning at eleven o'clock and found a committee composed of the officers of the Philadelphia clubs and representatives of the Philadelphia papers at the depot awaiting our arrival. Entering carriages we were driven down Chestnut Street to the South Side Ferry, where we took the boat for Gloucester and were given a planked-shad dinner at Thompson's. Returning we were driven directly to the grounds of the Athletic Club, where the Athletics and Bostons were playing an exhibition game. When our party filed into the grounds at the end of the third inning play was suspended and as the band played "Home Again" we were given a great ovation. At the conclusion of the game, which we witnessed from a section of the grand stand that had been reserved for us, we went to the Continental Hotel, and then, after we had donned evening dress, we were escorted to the Hotel Bellevue, where we had been tendered a banquet by the Philadelphia "Sporting Life." The banquet hall on this occasion was beautifully decorated, and as we entered the band played, "The Day I Played Base-ball." Frank C. Richter occupied the chairman's seat, others at the same table being A. G. Spalding, Col. A. K. McClure, of the "Philadelphia Times;" Col. M. R. Muckle, of the "Ledger;" John I. Rogers, Harry, Wright, A. G. Reach, Capt. John M. Ward, C. H. Byrne of the Brooklyn Club, President W. M. Smith of the City Council, Thomas Dando, President of the "Sporting Life" company, and myself. There were over three hundred guests in all and it was late before the speechmaking began. After brief welcoming addresses by Chairman Richter, Mr. Dando and President Smith, there were loud calls for Mr. Spalding, who gave a brief outline of our experiences in foreign lands. Captain Ward and myself responded in behalf of our respective teams and I took occasion to pay the boys all a compliment that I thought that they had deserved, because each and every member had behaved himself as a gentleman. Speeches by Colonel Rogers and C. H. Byrne followed, after which came a glowing tribute to the National Game from the lips of Col. McClure, followed by an interesting sketch of the game and its growth in popular favor by Henry Chadwick, who has the history of the game from its first inception down to the present time at his finger-ends. A. J. Reach, Harry Wright, Tim Murnane, Leigh Lynch and the irrepressible Fogarty all took their turn at amusing the party and again it was a late hour, or rather an early one, when we returned to our quarters. The next afternoon we were accorded a reception by Mayor Fitler in his office, who, in shaking hands with the tourists, gave us all the heartiest sort of a welcome. That afternoon we played on the grounds of the Philadelphias, to a crowd of 4,000 people, the weather being threatening. This proved to be a close and exciting contest, Chicago winning by a score of 6 to 4, Tener and Healy both being in fine shape. The next day found us in Boston where we played to 4,000 people, and where the contest proved to be a one-sided affair, a brilliant double play by Duffy, Tener and myself and a quick double play by Manning and Wise being the redeeming features. It was something of a picnic for All-Americas, as they won by a score of 10 to 3. The following evening we started on our trip to Chicago, stopping at Washington en route. Here we were notified of President Harrison's wish to receive the party and, visiting the White House, we were introduced to Benjamin Harrison, whose reception was about as warm as that of an icicle, and who succeeded in making us all feel exceedingly uncomfortable. That afternoon 3,000 people saw us wipe up the ground with the All-Americas, upon whom the President's reception had had a bad effect, as the score, 18 to 6, indicates. The next day we played at Pittsburg to a crowd of the same size, the score being a tie, each team having made three runs at the end of the ninth inning, and the day following at Cleveland 4,500 saw us win by a score of 7 to 4. At Indianapolis the All-Americas took their revenge, however, beating us in the presence of 2,000 people by a score of 9 to 5. Friday noon we left the Hoosier capital for Chicago in a special car over the Monon route, and at Hammond, where we had already gotten into dress suits, we were met by a crowd of Chicagoans, who told us that Chicago was prepared to give us the greatest reception that we had yet had, a fact that proved to be only too true. The crowd at the depot was a howling, yelling mob, and as we entered our carriages and the procession moved up Wabash Avenue and across Harmon Court to Michigan Avenue, amid the bursting of rockets, the glare of calcium lights and Roman candles, we felt that we were indeed at home again. It seemed as if every amateur base-ball club in the city had turned out on this occasion and as they passed us in review the gay uniforms and colored lights made the scene a very pretty one. At the Palmer House the crowd was fully as large as that which had greeted us at the depot, the reception committee embracing Judge H. M. Shepard, Judge H. N. Hibbard, Potter Palmer, John R. Walsh, Frederic Ullman, L. G. Fisher, D. K. Hill, C. L. Willoughby, C. E. Rollins, F. M. Lester, J. B. Kitchen, J. B. Knight, M. A. Fields, Dr. Hathaway, L. M. Hamburger, Louis Manasse and C. F. Gunther. The banquet given in our honor that night was a most elegant affair, among those seated at the speaker's table being Mayor DeWitt C. Cregier, Hon. Carter H. Harrison, Rev. Dr. Thomas, James W. Scott, President of the Chicago Press Club, A. G. Spalding, George W. Driggs and many others. It was after ten o'clock when Mayor Cregier called the banqueters to order and made his speech of welcome, to which Mr. Spalding replied. The Rev. Dr. Thomas responded to the toast of "Base-ball as a National Amusement," and myself to "His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales," but the boys kept up such a constant cheering while I was on my feet that I am afraid that they did not appreciate all the good things that I said in regard to England's future ruler. "The National Value of Athletics" brought out a stirring address from Major Henry Turner, and John M. Ward expressed himself most happily on "The World As I Found It." Ex-Mayor Carter H. Harrison responded to the toast, "My Own Experience," and compared in humorous fashion his own trip around the world with the one that we had just completed. After other toasts responded to by various members of the party, we adjourned. The next afternoon we played the last game of the trip at the West Side Park and were beaten by a score of 22 to 9, the All-Americas falling upon Baldwin and batting him all over the grounds. The next day the tourists went their several ways and so ended a tour such as had never before been planned and that cost me in round figures about $1,500, that being my share of the losses incurred in advertising the sporting goods business of the Spaldings, their business being greatly benefited by the tour, and how they repaid me afterwards--well--that's another story. CHAPTER XXXII. THE REVOLT OF THE BROTHERHOOD. The playing strength of the League teams of 1889 was remarkably even; that is to say, on paper. Detroit had dropped out and Cleveland had taken its place in the ranks, four of the old Detroit players going to Boston, one to Philadelphia, three to Pittsburg, and the balance to Cleveland. The Boston Club had been the greatest gainer by the deal, however, and the majority of the "fans" looked for it to carry off the pennant. Once more the unexpected happened, however, and, though it took the games of the very last day of the season to settle the standing of the first six clubs, the pennant finally went to New York for the second time, they winning 83 games and losing 43, while Boston came next with the same number of games won and 45 lost, and Chicago stood third with 65 games won and 65 lost, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Cleveland, Indianapolis and Washington following in the order named. The Chicago team of that year consisted of Tener, Dwyer, Hutchinson and Gumbert, pitchers; Farrell, Darling, Sommers and Flint, catchers; Pfeffer, Burns, Bastian, Williamson and myself in the infield; and Van Haltren, Ryan and Duffy, outfielders. I was the manager and captain. It was not until late in the season that Williamson recovered sufficiently from the injury that he had received at Paris to join us, and his absence hurt our chances very materially, as the old "stone wall" infield was left in a crippled condition. That fall the Brotherhood Revolt, that robbed the League of many of its best players, took place, and though the reasons for this have been variously stated, yet I am of the opinion that it could be all summed up by the one word, "greed," for that was certainly the corner stone of the entire structure. It has also been said that the plan of the Brotherhood was perfected by the ringleaders therein during the around-the-world trip, and it may be that this is true, but if such was the case the whole affair was kept remarkably quiet, for it was not until away late in the season that I was aware of the intended secession of the players, I then being approached by John M. Ward with a proposal to join them, a proposal that I declined with thanks, giving as my reason that the League had always treated me fairly and honestly up to that time, and that such being the case I could see no reason why I should leave them in an underhand manner. The truth of the matter is, that I felt bound in honor to stand by my friends, even if I sank with them, and at that time the skies did look remarkably dark and it was a question in my mind as to what would be the outcome. The fact that the majority of the League clubs had the season before made a great deal of money excited the cupidity of certain capitalists, and they, finding the players dissatisfied over some minor grievances, incited them to revolt, hoping to use them as catspaws with which to pull the financial chestnuts out of the fire. The Brotherhood was a secret organization, and one that was originally formed by the promoters with the object of protecting the ball players in their rights, and not for the purpose of disrupting the old League and forming a new one in opposition, as it afterwards attempted to do. It first made itself felt in the fall of 1887, when it compelled the League to draw up a new form of contract; in which the rights of the players were better understood than under the form that had previously been used. When the new contract was adopted the full amount of each player's salary could not be written therein, because of the National Agreement, which contained a $2,000 salary limit clause, and as the American Association Clubs would not allow this to be stricken out the players were greatly displeased, they having to sign contracts at $2,000, and make outside contracts for all compensation over that amount that they received. Threats as to what the Brotherhood would do were freely made at that time, but nothing came of them. At the annual meeting in 1888, the Indianapolis, Pittsburg and Washington Clubs demanded of the League a scheme that would limit players' salaries, which had grown to enormous proportions, and the result was that a classification rule, which divided the players into five classes, as follows: Class A, to receive $2,500; Class B, $2,250; Class C, $2,000; Class D, $1,750, and class E, $1,500, it being agreed among the clubs, however, that this classification should not apply to players with whom they then had agreements, or to players with whom they should make agreements, or to whom they felt under moral obligations to do so, previous to December 15th, 1888, and it was also provided that the players then absent on the world's trip should be accorded two weeks after their return in which to arrange matters before they should be subject to classification. We were abroad at that time, but the players at home remonstrated strongly against the classification, claiming that in a few years it would have a tendency to lower the salaries very materially, but the absence of John M. Ward, who was the Brotherhood leader, prevented any official action by the organization. When Mr. Ward reached, home again contracts had been signed and nothing could be done, though it is now known that he favored a strike at that time, but was out-voted by the cooled-headed members of the order. In the meantime the New Yorks had agreed to release the Brotherhood leader to Washington for the sum of $12,000, the largest sum ever offered for the release of a player, but Ward's flat-footed refusal to play in the National Capital team caused the deal to fall through. In the meantime the discontented players had appointed a committee to present their grievances to the League, and President Young appointed a League committee to hear the players, of which committee A. G. Spalding was chairman, but when an immediate hearing was asked for by Mr. Ward, Mr. Spalding declined to meet the Brotherhood players until fall. This, according to the players' story, was the last straw that broke the camel's back, and from that time on they began, but with the greatest secrecy, to arrange their plans for secession. Having ascertained what was going on in the meantime, I used what influence I possessed in trying to dissuade such of my players as was possible from taking what I then regarded as a foolish step, and though I managed to find some of them that would listen to me there were others who would not, Pfeffer, Tener and Williamson being among the number, though they made no move openly looking toward desertion until after the playing season was over. On the fourth day of November, 1899, the Brotherhood met at the Fifth Avenue Hotel and threw off the mask, issuing the following address to the public: "At last the Brotherhood of base-ball players feels at liberty to make known its intentions and defend itself against the aspersions and misrepresentations which for weeks it has been forced to suffer in silence. It is no longer a secret that the players of the League have determined to play next season under different management, but for reasons which will, we think, be understood, it was deemed advisable to make no announcement of this intention until the close of the present season. But now that the struggle for the various pennants is over, and the terms of our contracts expired, there is no longer reason for withholding it. In taking this step we feel that we owe it to the public and to ourselves to explain briefly some of the reasons by which we have been moved. There was a time when the League stood for integrity and fair dealing; to-day it stands for dollars and cents. Once it looked to the elevation of the game and an honest exhibition of the sport. To-day its eyes are upon the turnstile. Men have come into the business for no other motive than to exploit it for every dollar in sight. Measures originally intended for the good of the game have been turned into instruments for wrong. The reserve rule and the provisions of the national agreement gave the managers unlimited power, and they have not hesitated to use this in the most arbitrary and mercenary way. "Players have been bought, sold and exchanged, as though they were sheep, instead of American citizens. Reservation became with them another name for property-rights in the player. By a combination among themselves, stronger than the strongest trusts, they were able to enforce the most arbitrary measures, and the player had either to submit or get out of the profession, in which he had spent years in attaining proficiency. Even the disbandment and retirement of a club did not free the players from the octopus clutch, for they were then peddled around to the highest bidder. "That the players sometimes profited by the sale has nothing to do with the case, but only proves the injustice of the previous restraint. Two years ago we met the League and attempted to remedy some of these evils, but through what had been called League 'diplomacy' we completely failed. Unwilling longer to submit to such treatment, we made a strong effort last spring to reach an understanding with the League. To our application for a hearing they replied 'that the matter was not of sufficient importance to warrant a meeting,' and suggested that it be put off until fall. Our committee replied that the players felt that the League had broken faith with them; that while the results might be of little importance to the managers, they were of great importance to the players; that if the League would not concede what was fair we would adopt other measures to protect ourselves; that if postponed until fall we would be separated and at the mercy of the League, and that, as the only course left us required time and labor to develop, we must therefore insist upon an immediate conference. Then upon their final refusal to meet us, we began organizing for ourselves, and are in shape to go ahead next year under new management and new auspices. We believe it is possible to conduct our National game upon lines which will not infringe upon individual and natural rights. We ask to be judged solely by our work, and believing that the game can be played more fairly and its business conducted more intelligently under a plan which excludes everything arbitrary and un-American, we look forward with confidence to the support of the public and the future of the National game. (Signed) THE NATIONAL BROTHERHOOD OF BALL PLAYERS." The Players' League, as finally organized, embraced the cities of Boston, Brooklyn, New York and Philadelphia, in the East, and Buffalo, Chicago, Cleveland and Pittsburg in the West. According to the articles under which this league was formed its government rested in a central board composed of its president, and two directors, one a player and one a capitalist from each club. Any player who was dissatisfied with his location could apply to the board to be transferred without the payment of anything to the club losing his services. All contracts were to be made for three years and no player could be released until after the first year had expired, and not then if he had kept his agreements and was still able and willing to play good ball. Severe penalties were provided for drunkenness and crookedness, and all profits from ground privileges, such as refreshments, score-cards, cigars, etc., belonged to each individual club. It was also provided that all players were to have the same salaries that they had had in 1889, save such as had been cut down by the classification system, and they were to be paid the same salaries as in 1888, the same to be increased at the option of the club engaging them. This on paper looked to be a great scheme, but what it lacked was business brains in its management, and as a result its career was a short and stormy one, it being war to the knife and the knife to the hilt between the two great rival organizations. After four courts had decided that the players had a right to leave the National League, each of the clubs located in the Players' League signed a compact to play with that organization for ten years. The National League then formed a schedule of playing dates that conflicted with the Players' League all through the season of 1890, this action throwing both clubs and public into confusion, the latter becoming so disgusted over the war of the rival factions as to stay away from the games altogether. At the end of the season the Players' League bought the Cincinnati Club, and as the Pittsburg Club was all but defunct, this left the National League with but six clubs. At the close of the championship season a conference was held and plans agreed upon for ending the war, which had been financially disastrous to both parties. Committees were appointed by both Leagues and by the American Association having this end in view, but the Players' League, at a special meeting added three professional players to its committee, and the National League refused to join in the conference. Secret meetings between the capitalists of the Players' League and the National League were held, with the result that the rival clubs in New York, Pittsburg and Chicago were consolidated, this causing the disruption of the Brotherhood. Looked at from a financial standpoint the contrast between the seasons of 1889 and 1890 was a great one. The year 1889 was the most successful that the League had ever known, and the money fairly poured in at the gate. The year 1890, on the contrary, was one of the most disastrous that the League had ever known, and on many occasions the clubs found themselves playing to almost empty benches. The defection of Tener, Williamson, Ryan, Pfeffer and others left me with a comparatively green team on my hands, when the season of 1890 opened, but long before the season came to a close constant practice had made it one of the best teams in the League, as it proved by finishing in the second place. Few people, however, appreciate the amount of work that was necessary to attain that result. It was hard work and plenty of it, and though some of the players objected to the amount of practice forced upon them, and the strict discipline that was enforced, yet they had to put up with it, as that was the only manner in which the necessary playing strength could be developed. I myself worked just as hard as they did. If we took a three-mile run, I was at their head setting the pace for them. I have never asked the men under my control to do anything that I was not willing to do myself, because it was just as necessary for me to be in good condition as it was for them. The Chicagos of 1890 were made up as follows: Hutchinson, Luby and Stein, pitchers; Nagle and Kittridge, catchers; Anson, first base; Glenalvin, second base; Burns, third base; Cooney, shortstop; Carroll, left field; Andrews, right field; and O'Brien, Earle and Foster substitutes. It will thus be seen that I had but one of the "old reliables" left, that being Burns, who had refused to affiliate with the Brotherhood, and who was to receive his reward later on at the hands of the Chicago Club management. The rest of the team was composed of a lot of half-broken "colts," many of whom were newcomers in the League, and with a reputation yet to make, Hutchinson, Cooney and Wilmot being the pick of the bunch. There was never a time during this season that we were worse than fifth, and on several, occasions we were right up in the front rank. When October arrived we were in the third place, but during the short season that followed we passed Philadelphia and took second position. Brooklyn carried off the pennant with a total of 86 games won and 43 lost, while Chicago had 83 games won and 53 lost, Philadelphia being third with 78 games won and 53 lost, while Cincinnati, Boston, New York, Cleveland and Pittsburg followed in that order. This was an achievement to be proud of, and with the downfall of the Brotherhood and the consolidation of some of the leading clubs I naturally thought that the Chicago team would be strengthened very materially, but such was not the case. I did not even get my old players back, those of them that continued in the profession being scattered far and wide among the other League clubs, while others retired from the arena altogether. As a result it was a constant hustle on my part to secure new players, and I think I may easily say that the hardest years of my managerial experience were those that followed the revolt of the Brotherhood, continuing until my retirement from the Chicago Club at the close of 1897, at which time I was the owner of one hundred and thirty shares of the club's stock, which from the time of Mr. Hart's connection with it has been worthless so far as I am concerned, and simply because... CHAPTER XXXIII. MY LAST YEARS ON THE BALL FIELD. The season of 1891 proved to be almost as disastrous, when viewed from a financial standpoint, as was the seasons of 1890, owing to the war for the possession of good players that broke out between the National League and the American Association, that was caused by a refusal on the part of the last-named organization to stick to the terms of the National Agreement, the result being the boosting of players' salaries away up into fancy figures. This state of affairs proved to be exceedingly costly for all concerned, as really good players were at that time exceedingly scarce and the demand for them, constantly growing. The Chicago team for that season was again to a very great extent an experimental one, made up at the beginning of the season of the following named players: Luby, Gumbert and Hutchinson, pitchers; Schriver and Kittridge, catchers; Anson, first base; Pfeffer, second base; Burns, third base; Dahlen, shortstop; Wilmot, Ryan and Carroll, outfielders; Cooney, substitute. This proved to be a strong organization and one that would have landed the pennant 'had it not been for the fact that the jealousy of the old players in the East engendered by the Brotherhood revolt would not allow a team of youngsters, many of whom were newcomers in the League to carry off the honors, and a conspiracy was entered into whereby New York lost enough games to Boston to give the Beaneaters the pennant and to relegate us at the very last moment into the second place. We had made a whirlwind fight for the honors, however, and though we lost no fault could be laid either at my door or at the doors of the players, as we had the pennant won had it not been for the games that were dropped by the "Giants" to the Boston Club, in order that the honors might not be carried off by a colt team. Hutchinson, upon whom the most of the pitching work devolved, was one of the best in the business. He was a graduate of Yale, a gentleman and a player who used his head as well as his hands when in the box. Gumbert and Luby were both fair, and the latter, had it not been for strong drink, might have made for himself a much greater reputation than he did. Dahlen at short was a tower of strength to the team, being as agile as a cat, a sure catch and an exceptionally strong batter, while the rest of the infield and the entire outfield was away above the average in playing strength. The race in 1891 was one of the closest in the history of the League. Opening the season in the third place we never occupied a lower position, but on the contrary, out of the twenty-four weeks that the season lasted he held the first place in the race for all of fifteen weeks and should have finished at the top of the column had it not been for the reasons already given, and which were largely commented on at the time by lovers of the game throughout the country, and the newspapers from one end of the United States to the other. At the beginning of the closing week of the season's campaign Chicago was in the van by a percentage of victories of .628 to Bostons .615, which was apparently a winning lead and which would have been had not the New York organization made a present of its closing games to the Boston Club for the express purpose of throwing us down and keeping the pennant in the East. As it was, however, we finished head and head with the leaders, New York being third, Philadelphia fourth, Cleveland fifth, Brooklyn sixth, Cincinnati seventh, and Pittsburg eighth. As an excuse for the queer showing made by the "Giants" in these Boston games it has been alleged that the team was in poor condition when it left the metropolis for the Hub to play this closing series, and that its true condition was kept a secret by the management, one writer going so far as to say that Manager Ewing's brother John was at that time disabled by a sprained ankle, while Rusie was suffering from a bruised leg, and also that Whistler had been playing at first base so well that Ewing thought he could afford to give Conner a day or two off, all of which may have been true, though I am free to confess right now that I do not believe it. In February, 1892, the American' Association became a thing of the past, four of its leading clubs joining the National League, which now embraced twelve cities instead of eight, the circuit taking in Boston, Brooklyn, Louisville, Pittsburg, Cleveland, Cincinnati, New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Chicago, St. Louis and Baltimore. The Chicago team for that season consisted of A. Gumbert, Hutchinson, Luby, Miller, Hollister and Meekin, pitchers; Kittridge and Schriver, catchers; Anson, first base; Canavan and Decker, second base; Dahlen and Parrott, third base; Dahlen and Cooney, shortstop; Ryan, Dugan, Wilmot and Decker in the outfield. The majority of these were green players, as compared with the seasoned material of which some of the other League clubs boasted, and it was only by switching them about from one position to another that it was possible to tell where they best fitted. Although I had signed six pitchers at the beginning of the season, there were but three of them that fulfilled my expectations, viz., Gumbert, Hutchinson and Luby, and of these three Hutchinson did the lion's share of the work, pitching in no less than seventy of the one hundred and fifty-six games that we played. The team was not an evenly balanced one, however, and though it boasted of some individuals that were away above the average yet it lacked the ability and practice to play as a team and consequently finished the season in seventh place, Boston again carrying off the pennant with 102 games won and 48 lost, while Cleveland came second with 93 won and 56 lost, Brooklyn being third, Philadelphia fourth, Cincinnati fifth, Pittsburg sixth, Chicago seventh, New York eighth, Louisville ninth, Washington tenth, St. Louis eleventh and Baltimore last. I remember one rather queer incident that occurred during that season, and while we were playing in Boston. Henry E. Dixey, the actor, who was then playing a summer engagement at the "Hub," had driven out to the grounds as usual in his buckboard, with his pet bull terrier "Dago" in the seat beside him. Dixey always retained a seat in his rig and took up his place right back of the left field. Dixie had not been on the ground more than twenty minutes when Dahlen swiped the ball for a three-bagger. It was one of those long, low, hard drives, and sailed about ten feet over the left fielder's head and in a direct line for Dixey. He couldn't have gotten out of the way had he tried, but the fact was that he didn't see it coming, and the first he knew of it was when he heard a sharp yelp at his side and saw poor "Dago" tumbling off his seat between the wheels. The dog was dead when picked up, the ball having broken his neck. Between the yellow buckboard, the dead canine, the frightened horses and Dixey's excitement the whole field was in an uproar and it was fully ten minutes before we could get down to playing again, but Dahlen, the cause of it all, didn't even see the affair and scored on the death of "Dago," his being the only genuine case of making a dog-gone run that has ever come under my observation. Some time during the winter of 1892, I added "big Bill Lange," who has since become one of the stars of the League, and Irwin to my string of fielders, and cast about to strengthen the pitching department of the team as much as possible, Gumbert and Luby having been released. Having this object in view no less than eleven twirlers were signed, of whom all but four proved comparative failures, Hutchinson, McGill and Mauck having to do the greater part of the work in the box, the other eight men, Shaw, Donnelly, Clausen, Abbey, Griffith, McGinnins, Hughey and F. Parrott being called on but occasionally. Of this lot Griffith was the most promising and he afterwards turned out to be a star of the first magnitude. With these exceptions the team was about the same as that of the season before, and that it proved to be as great a disappointment to me as it did to the ball-loving public, I am now free to confess. It was a team of great promises and poor performances, and no one could possibly have felt more disappointed than I did when the end of the season found us in ninth place, the lowest place that Chicago Club had ever occupied in the pennant race since the formation of the League, we having won but 56 games during the season, while we had lost 71, a showing that was bad enough to bring tears to the eyes of an angel, let alone a team manager and captain. The Bostons, whose team work was far and away the best of any of the League clubs, again walked away with the championship, that club winning 127 games and losing 63, while Pittsburg, which came second, won 81 games and lost 48. Cleveland was third with 73 games won and 55 lost, while Philadelphia, New York, Cincinnati, Brooklyn, Baltimore, Chicago, St. Louis, Louisville and Washington finished as named. When the season of 1894 opened I was pretty well satisfied that my team of colts would make a much better showing than they had done during the previous year, but again I was doomed to disappointment. The team, with the exception of the pitching department, which had been very materially strengthened, was about the same as that with which I had taken the field the previous year, and that there was good enough material in it with which to win the pennant I was certain. It managed to fool me, however, and fool me good and hard, as well as several others who thought themselves good judges, and that before the season was half over. We started out with seven pitchers, Griffith, Stratton, Hutchinson, Abbey, Terry, McGill and Camp, The last-named pitched in but a single game, which proved to be quite enough. Our start was a bad one, in fact, the worst that we had ever made. We lost eight out of the first nine games that we played, and the end of May saw but one club between us and the tail end of the procession, that one being Washington. Until the month of August was reached we were never nearer than ninth in the race, but that month we climbed into the eighth position and there we hung until the finish came, leaving the Baltimore, New York and Boston Clubs to fight it out between them, which they did, the first-named carrying off the prize, winning 89 games and losing 39, against 88 won and 44 lost for Boston, after which came Philadelphia, Brooklyn, Cleveland, Pittsburg, Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Washington and Louisville. When the championship season of 1895 opened the Chicago Club had ten pitchers at its command, viz., Griffith, Hutchinson, Thornton, Parker, Friend, Stratton, Terry, McFarland, Dolan and Abbey; three catchers, Kittridge, Donohue and Moran, while I played first base, Stewart second base, Everett third base, Dahlen shortstop and Wilmot, Lange, Ryan and Decker the outfield. There were at least seven good twirlers in the bunch, at the head of which stood Griffith and Hutchinson. Thornton, Parker, Friend, Terry and Stratton were all better than the average when just right, and it was certainly not the fault of the pitchers if the team did not carry off the pennant honors. At late as September 7, and when the club was in the ninth place, predictions were freely made to the effect that the club would not finish in the first division, but this time the croakers proved to be all wrong, for the team made a grand rally in the closing weeks of the season and finished in fourth place, a fact that some of the newspaper critics seemed to have purposely lost sight of at the time of my enforced retirement, that being the same place they stood under Burns' management the first season. The Baltimores again won the championship, they having 87 games won and 46 lost to their credit, as against Cleveland's 84 won and 46 lost, Philadelphia 78 won and 53 lost, and Chicago 72 won and 58 lost, Brooklyn, Boston, Pittsburg, Cincinnati, New York, Washington and Brooklyn following in order. The Chicago team of 1896 was a somewhat mixed affair, change following change in rapid succession. Hutchinson had retired from the game and the pitchers, seven in number, were, Griffith, Thornton, Briggs, Friend, Terry, Parker and McFarland; Kittridge and Donohue as catchers, myself and Decker alternating at first base, Pfeffer and Truby doing the same thing at second, and Everett and McCormick at third. Dahlen played shortstop, and Lange, Everett, Ryan, Decker and Flynn took care of the outfield. The most of the pitching this season devolved upon Griffith and Friend, while Parker and McFarland both proved failures. Neither Pfeffer nor Decker were themselves for a great part of the season, and yet, in spite of all, the team played good ball and finished in the fifth place, the pennant going for the third consecutive time to Baltimore, which won go games and lost 39, while Cleveland came second with 80 games won and 48 lost, Cincinnati third with 77 games won and so lost, Boston fourth with 74 games and 57 lost, and Chicago fifth with 71 games won and 57 lost, Pittsburg, New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Brooklyn, St. Louis and Louisville finishing as named. The team with which I started out in 1897 was certainly good enough to win the pennant with, or at least to finish right up in the front rank, and that it failed to do either of these things can only be explained by the fact that underhanded work looking toward my downfall was indulged in by some of the players, who were aided and abetted by President Hart, he refusing to enforce the fines levied by myself as manager and in that way belittling my authority and making it impossible to enforce the discipline necessary to making the team a success. The ringleader in this business was Jimmy Ryan, between whom and the Club's President the most perfect understanding seemed to exist, and for this underhanded work Ryan was rewarded later by being made the team captain, a position that he was too unpopular with the players to hold, though it is generally thought he was allowed to draw the salary as per the agreement. The Chicago players for that season were Briggs, Callahan, Friend, Griffith and Thompson, pitchers; Kittridge and Donohue, catchers; Decker and myself, first base; Connor, Callahan and Pfeffer, second base; Everett and McCormick, third base; Dahlen, McCormick and Callahan, shortstop; and Lange, Ryan, Decker and Thornton, outfielders. Pfeffer was the only weak spot, he being handicapped by illness, and yet even he might have made a creditable showing had he not been handicapped my some of his associates and most unmercifully criticized by the newspapers, whose unwarrantable attacks have, in many cases, to my certain knowledge, driven good men out of the business. Lack of discipline and insubordination began to show from the start. Fines were remitted in spite of all the protests that I could make, several members of the club being allowed to do about as they pleased. There could be but one result, as a matter of course, and that was poor ball playing. When the April campaign ended we were in the eleventh place. At the end of May we stood tenth. At the end of June we had again dropped back to eleventh. At the end of July we had climbed up to eighth, and at the end of August we were sixth, having then climbed into the first division. When the close of the season came, however, we had dropped back again to the ninth position, the margin between sixth and ninth places being a very small one. The race for the pennant that season between Baltimore and Boston was a close one, the latter club finally carrying off the honors of the season with 93 games won and 39 lost, while Baltimore came second with go games won and 40 lost, and New York third with 83 games won and 48 lost, Cincinnati being fourth, Cleveland fifth, Brooklyn sixth, Washington seventh, Pittsburg eighth, Chicago ninth, Philadelphia tenth, Louisville eleventh and St. Louis twelfth. Late that fall the newspapers began to publish articles to the effect that I was to be released by the Chicago League Ball Club, but as no official notice to that effect had ever been served on me, arid as I was conscious of always having done my duty by the organization in which I was a stockholder, I for some time paid no attention to the matter. From mere rumors, however, these newspaper articles soon began to take on a more definite form and to be coupled with references to my management of the team that were, to say the least, both uncalled for and venomous, but still I heard nothing from headquarters that would lead me to suppose there was any truth in them. On the contrary I was treated with the greatest consideration, Mr. Spalding even going so far as to insist upon my attending the League meeting in my official capacity, where I made trades for players that were afterwards blocked by himself and President Hart, this action making my position a most humiliating one. Still ignorant of the fact that I was to be dropped from the club's rolls, and that without warning after my long and faithful service, at Mr. Spalding's solicitation that spring I accompanied him on a trip to England, and while we were there he advised me not to worry about the club matters or the rumors that I had heard, as the thing would doubtless be all fixed up before our return. I then made a proposition to him that he and I together should buy the Chicago League Ball Club, a proposition that he partially acceded to, though in view of subsequent events I am now certain that such a plan was not in reality entertained by him for a moment. Matters had indeed been "fixed up" on my return, and Tom Burns, my old third-baseman, had been brought on from Springfield, Mass., to manage the team, or, rather, to serve as a figure-head for the Club's President. It was then that I was advised by Mr. Spalding to resign, which I refused to do, preferring to take my medicine like a man, bitter as the dose might be. Mr. Burns that spring took up the reins that had been taken out of my hands, and how well he succeeded with the able (?) assistance of President Hart is now a matter of history. The following table gives my batting and fielding record for the past twenty-three years, and I feel that it is one that I may well be proud of: Years Games %Base hits %Fielding 1875 69 .318 .820 1876 66 .342 .826 1877 67 .335 .868 1878 59 .336 .818 1879 49 .407 .974 1880 84 .338 .977 1881 84 .399 .975 1882 82 .367 .948 1883 98 .307 .964 1884 111 .337 .954 1885 112 .322 .971 1886 125 .371 .949 1887 122 .421 .947 1888 134 .343 .985 1889 134 .341 .982 1890 139 .311 .978 1891 136 .294 .981 1892 147 .274 .971 1893 101 .322 .981 1894 83 .394 .988 1895 122 .338 .990 1896 106 .335 .982 1897 112 .302 .987 CHAPTER XXXIV. IF THIS BE TREASON, MAKE THE MOST OF IT. Experience is a mighty dear teacher. This is a fact that has been generally admitted by the world at large, but one that I have never fully realized until within the last few years, though just how much it has cost me in the matter of dollars-and-cents it is hard to say. It is but natural, I presume, after twenty-two years connection with a corporation for one to have well-defined opinions of certain of its officials, and it is pleasant to record here that prior to the advent of James A. Hart on the scene my relations with the club were most pleasant. Under the watchful eye of Mr. Hurlbut the club flourished, and not only maintained a higher average in the percentage column than it has since enjoyed, but, in contradistinction to the latter day methods of management, it annually returned a large balance on the right side of the ledger, this last feature being by no means the least pleasant of my memories. Now, the query arises, "If the team was so uniformly successful under Mr. Hurlbut, why has it not enjoyed the same measure of success since?" And the answer, short and sweet, can be summed up in one word, "mismanagement." As I have already explained elsewhere my financial relations with Mr. Spalding in regard to the around-the-world trip of the ball players, it is unnecessary for me again to go into that phase of the matter, but there was one little incident connected with that event that has not been told, and that accounts for Mr. Hart's desire to get rid of me as easily and as quietly as possible, even if he had to use underhanded measures in order to do so. When we started off on our trip in 1888 it was found necessary to get someone to check the receipts of the various exhibitions, see that we obtained our share, pay hotel bills, etc., etc., and generally look after the small financial details, and for some reason which I have never been able to understand A. G. Spalding made arrangements with James A. Hart to accompany us as far as San Francisco for that purpose, though the latter had no special qualifications for the work in hand. In fact, up to that time Mr. Hart, who had been connected as manager with Louisville, Boston and Milwaukee Clubs, had been an accredited failure, just as he has been since in Chicago, where the club under his management has steadily gone from bad to worse, such a thing as a dividend never having been heard of since he took the reins. For his services on the trip he was paid a salary and his expenses, but this was seemingly not enough, for prior to our departure for Australia Mr. Spalding came to me with a subscription paper, stating that he was securing subscriptions from the members of our party for the purpose of presenting Mr. Hart with a pair of valuable diamond cuff-buttons. Just why Mr. Hart should be made the recipient of a valuable gift under such circumstances was more than I could fathom, and I not unnaturally entered protests. My protest went unheeded, however, and from this little acorn grew the oak of disagreement between James A. Hart and myself, an oak that has now grown to mammoth proportions. It was while on the same trip around the world that my long term contract made with Mr. Hurlbut expired, and that I signed a new one under somewhat peculiar circumstances. Returning home and while in mid-ocean I was requested by Mr. Spalding, who was President of the Chicago Ball Club, to sign a contract, which was made for ten years at my request, with the club, as manager and captain, and by the terms of this contract it was stipulated that I should receive a certain salary and a contingent fee, amounting to 10 per cent. of the net profits of the club, as shown by the books of that organization, which, in 1890, amounted to little or nothing, owing to the troubles engendered by the Brotherhood revolt and the war between the National League and the American Association, though during a portion of the time I was paid something in excess of my salary, presumably on the supposition that the laborer was worthy of his hire. In 1891, greatly to my astonishment, Mr. Spalding retired from the presidency and James A. Hart was elected to the vacant position. At that time I received a long letter from Mr. Spalding, in which he took particular pains to assure me Mr. Hart was a mere figurehead, who would always be subject to his advice and control, and just so long as he, Mr. Spalding, was connected with the club I should be retained by that organization. In the face of such an assurance as that, and in view of the fact that I had been associated so many years with Mr. Spalding in business, having first come to Chicago at his solicitation, I could see no reason for doubting his word, though subsequent events have shown me differently. While in Philadelphia, after the recent League meeting held in New York, I called on John I. Rogers in reference to securing a contract to manufacture the league ball, and in the course of our conversation the subject of my treatment by the Chicago management came up. He then informed me that while presiding at a banquet given by the Philadelphia Club some two years ago, and at which both Mr. Hart and myself were guests, he had informed Hart that he was going to call on me for a speech. To this Hart had replied that he and I were not on the best of terms and then went on to tell him that when he, Hart, had joined the Chicago Club Spalding had agreed to release me at the end of my contract and place him, Hart, at the head of the Chicago Club. If Mr. Hart told the truth when he made that statement, then Mr. Spalding certainly deceived me, but that is a matter of veracity for them to settle between themselves. In 1893 the Chicago Ball Club was reorganized under the name of the Chicago League Ball Club, and by the terms of an agreement made with Mr. Spalding I was allowed to take a certain number of shares of the stock, in addition to those which I held in the old organization, to be paid for out of my contingent fee, which, by the terms of our agreement, it was guaranteed should be large enough to pay for the same, and which came to me under those conditions. At the same time, having six years more to serve under the terms of the old contract, I was given a new one, which I signed without reading, and which was only for five years instead of six, a discrepancy that I did not discover until I came to read it over at home that same evening to Mrs. Anson, and then, having still the most implicit confidence in Mi. Spalding, I said nothing about it, relying on his promise to protect my interests. In the meantime the grounds now used by the club on the West Side had been purchased, and I presume a payment on them made, and I was informed by Mr. Spalding that I might either swing the deal myself or else sign away my interest, which amounted to a little over one-eighth, but that in case I took the latter course, the club would pay dividends instead of putting the money into real estate. It seemed a little strange to me that I should be asked to swing a deal that A. G. Spalding and John R. Walsh were unable to handle, and being unable myself to do so I signed away my interest, but, alas! those promised dividends are still in the dim and misty distance, and my confidence in A. G. Spalding has dwindled away to nothing, and not unnaturally, as I shall have no difficulty in proving. After I had been released by the club Mr. Spalding still posed as my best friend, and the affection that Damon had for Pythias was not greater than that I bore for him. I had not then learned the full nature of his duplicity, nor was it until some time later that it dawned upon me. In the meantime Mr. Spalding had set on foot a project to give me a money testimonial, and had called a meeting at the Chicago Athletic Club for the purpose of perfecting plans for the same. This I refused to accept for the reason that I was not a pauper, the public owed me nothing, and I believed that I was still capable of making my own living. At that meeting A. H. Pratt, who represented me, read the following letter that I had written for the occasion: To My Friends--The kind offer to raise a large public subscription for me, the first notice of which I received by a chance meeting with Mr. Spalding the afternoon preceding its publication in the daily papers, is an honor and a compliment I duly appreciate. Implying as it does the hearty good will and close fellowship of the originator of the movement, A. G. Spalding, causes me to regard it higher. There are times when one hesitates to receive favors even from friends, and at this hour I deem it both unwise and inexpedient to accept the generosity so considerately offered. A. C. ANSON. This testimonial, had I accepted it, would doubtless have been a great success, as it was endorsed by all of the League magnates, by the press generally, and by the lovers of base-ball all over the country, but to me it appeared to be something too much in the nature of a charity gift for me to accept, and I felt that I should stultify my manhood by so doing, and that I should sacrifice that feeling of independence that I had always possessed. To the many friends who urged it upon me at the time I am still deeply grateful, but I feel that in declining to accept it I did a wise thing, and I am confident that very many of them now agree with me in that opinion. Just at this stage of affairs my plans for the future were apparently a matter of great interest to both press and public, and if the statements made by the former were to be believed, I had more schemes on hand than did a professional promoter, and every one of them with "millions in it." I was to manage this club and manage that club; I was to play here and play there, and, in fact, there was scarcely anything that I was not going to do if the reporters' statements could be depended upon. One of the most senseless of these was the starting of the A. C. Anson Base-Ball College, the prospectus for which was typewritten in the sporting-goods store of A. G. Spalding, and read as follows: Location.--The school will be located on what is known as the A. G. Spalding Tract, covering the blocks bounded by Lincoln, Robey, 143d and 144th streets, upon which Mr. A. G. Spalding will erect suitable structures, fences, stands, dressing-rooms, etc. The site is in the celebrated Calumet region and is easy of access. Membership.--All accepted applicants for membership will be required to submit to a thorough physical examination and go through a regular and systematic course of training, calculated to prepare them for actual participation in base-ball games. Upon entering they will subscribe to the rules and regulations of the institution, which will demand obedience and provide for discipline, abstemious habits, regular hours, proper diet, in fact everything which tends to improve the health and physical condition will be required. They must also pass an examination made by Captain Anson as to their natural aptitude for becoming proficient in the game of base-ball. Instruction.--The course of instruction will consist of physical training by the latest and most approved methods, with the special intention of developing the body and mind, so that the best possible results may be obtained looking to perfection of base-ball playing. Daily instruction will be had in the theory and practice of the game. Engagements.--As soon as students are sufficiently developed and display skill to justify, efforts will be made by the college management to secure lucrative engagements for those who desire to enter the professional field. Arrangements will be made with the various professional and semi-professional clubs throughout the country by which students of the college will come into contact with managers and be enabled to make known their merits. Application for Admittance.--Persons who desire to become students of the college will be required to fill out and sign the regular application blank provided by the college, which must give information regarding the applicant, such as name, place of residence, height, weight, various measurements, past vocation, habits, state of health, etc., etc. Charges.--Accepted students will be required to pay a tuition of $2 per week, at least five weeks tuition to be paid in advance, and must supply their practice uniform. The college will provide all team uniforms for use in games and all materials and utensils necessary for practice. Then followed a showing of financial possibilities that would have done credit to the brains of a Colonel Sellers. It is unnecessary for me to say that this scheme never emanated from me, or that it never received any serious consideration at my hands, the real plan being to create a real-estate boom and enable Mr. Spalding to dispose of some of his holdings, using me as a catspaw with which to pull the chestnuts out of the fire. All this time I was busily engaged in perfecting plans by which I might get possession of the Chicago League Ball Club, in which I already had 130 shares of stock, and finally I succeeded in obtaining an option on the same from A. G. Spalding, a facsimile of which appears on another page. Armed with this document I worked like a Trojan in order to raise the necessary funds, which I certainly should have succeeded in doing had not my plans been thwarted time and again by A. G. Spalding and his agents, and this in spite of the fact that our probable war with Spain made the raising of money a difficult matter. More than once when engaged in the task I was informed by friends that I was simply wasting my time, as the option that I possessed was not worth the paper it was written on, and that there was never any intention on the part of A. G. Spalding and his confreres to let me get possession of the club. It was not until several men who had promised to aid me backed down squarely that I realized that there was an undercurrent at work, and that the option, which it was often denied at that time that I had, had been given to me in bad faith and just for the purpose of letting me down easily, but when once convinced that such was really the case I gave up making any further effort in the matter. Later I accepted a position as manager of the New York Club, being assured that I should have full control of the team, but at the end of a month finding that there were too many cooks to spoil the broth I resigned, accepting only the amount of salary due me for actual services, though offered a sum considerably in excess of the same. This ended my actual connection with National League base-ball, and its mismanagement. In spite of the fact that I have been connected with the Chicago Base-Ball Club for twenty-two years as an active player and for twenty-four years as a stockholder, I have never attended a meeting of that organization until recently, and then Mr. Hart and myself were the only stockholders present. Again, in spite of the fact that my contingent fees were to be paid on the showing made by the books, these books I have never been allowed to see, nor have I ever been able to get any statement as to my standing with the Club, and that in spite of the fact that I have several times made a demand for the same. That being the case, how can I be sure that I have had all that was coming to me, or that I have been honestly dealt with by that organization? In all of my club dealings I trusted implicitly to Mr. Spalding, at whose solicitation I left Philadelphia and came to Chicago, and that I made a mistake in so trusting him I am now confident, as it is a poor plan for any man not to look closely after his own business interests. In regard to my financial dealings with the Club I might be much more explicit, but I feel that it is not a matter of great public interest, and I therefore refrain from doing so, believing that what I have already said will serve to show how I stand and how I feel in the matter. CHAPTER XXXV. HOW MY WINTERS WERE SPENT. How do the members of the base-ball fraternity spend the winter seasons? If I have been asked that question once I have been asked it a thousand times. The public, as a rule, seem to think that because a man is a professional ball player and therefore employed but seven months in the year he must necessarily spend the other five in idleness, and there are doubtless some few ball players that spend their winters in that way, but, be it said to the credit of the craft, there are not many of them. There is no man upon whose hands time hangs so heavily as it does upon the hands of him who has nothing to do, at least that has been my experience, and for that reason I have always managed to busy myself at something during the winter months. Some of the things that I engaged in proved profitable, others did not, but, all-in-all, the winter of 1885 yielded me the best results of my life, for that winter I spent in doing what the old gentleman had wanted me to do years before, viz., in going to school. I had a very good reason for doing this, as you can readily see. During my ball-playing career I had entrusted some money to the old gentleman up in Marshalltown for safe keeping, and while up there on a visit in the fall of 1884, needing some coin, I asked for it. "Figure up how much I owe you, interest and all," was his reply, "and we will have a settlement." Now, the old gentleman might just as well have set me down at the foot of the Rocky Mountains with a wheelbarrow and told me to carry them away to the Atlantic coast on that vehicle, as to have asked me to do an example in interest, and I was too ashamed of my ignorance to allow him to know that such a thing was beyond my powers, so I managed to get around the matter in some way, but I made up my mind then and there that I would at the first opportunity learn at best enough to take care of my own business. That winter I spent with my wife and daughter in Philadelphia, and here I found that she had a brother, Remey A. Fiegel, who was as averse to going to school as ever I had been. By this time I had come to a realizing sense of the power of knowledge, and so I labored with him until he consented to go to night-school, providing that I would send him, which I agreed to do. Pierce's Business College was the place selected, and when I went up there to make the necessary arrangements for his tuition I asked how old a man had to become before he was barred from attending. "Oh!" replied the superintendent, "age is no bar here. We have a great many scholars right now who are a long ways older than you are." "All right! You can just put my name down, too," I replied, and the following Monday evening Remey and I started to go to school together, and this time there was no nonsense about it. That winter I studied faithfully, and, though it was hard work, by the time spring came and we returned to Chicago I had acquired at least a fair knowledge of the rudiments of business and was able to keep my own books, figure my own interest, and, in fact, run my own business. During the greater part of another winter I ran a hand-ball court on Michigan avenue in Chicago, which did not prove to be a. paying venture, one reason, and the paramount one, being that it was too far away from the business center of the town at that time, though now it would have been in the very heart of the business district, while still another reason was that there were not enough hand-ball players in the city to keep the game running. Some time during the latter part of the '80s the old Congress street grounds were converted during the winter season into a skating rink and toboggan slide, and of this I had the management during one whole season, a season that was pecuniarily profitable to the lessees of the grounds, as the weather during the greater part of the winter was severe, the ice in fine condition and the toboggan slide in apple-pie order. Ice skating was that season more popular in Chicago than it had ever been before, and the toboggan craze, which had been brought over here from Canada, at once caught on to the public fancy. As a result the Congress Street Rink was crowded both afternoon and evening, and, strange to relate, the attendance was of the most fashionable sort, the young men and maidens from all parts of the city assembling for the purpose of going down the toboggan slide, which was attended with a great deal more of excitement in those days than was the sport of "shooting the chutes," its summer prototype, which later on became popular. The grounds were handsomely lighted and, thronged as they were in the evening with gaily-attired skaters of both sexes, and toboggan parties arrayed in the picturesque rigs that were the fashion in Montreal, Quebec and other Canadian cities, they made a pretty sight and one that attracted crowds of spectators, some of the skaters being of the kind that would have been styled champions in the days when Frank Swift, Callie Curtis and others were the leading fancy skaters. The next season the same rink was managed by John Brown, the late secretary of the Chicago Base-Ball Club, but unfortunately he was not blessed with "the Anson luck," and the winter being a mild one and the freezes few and far between, he did not make a success of the venture. The toboggan craze was merely one of the fashionable fads of the moment, and now one rarely hears anything at all of the sport. As a bottler of ginger beer I achieved at another time great distinction and there are some men in the country right now who have a very vivid remembrance of the beverage that I was unfortunate enough to put upon the market. My experience as a ginger beer manufacturer was laughable, to say the least of it, though I confess that I did not appreciate the fact at the time as much as did some of my friends and acquaintances. During several of my visits to Canada in search both of players and pleasure I had made the acquaintance of a Mr. William Burrill, who at that time conducted a clothing store at London, Canada, and who had treated both myself and Mrs. Anson with great kindness. This gentleman finally went "down the toboggan slide" in a business way and at last turned up in Chicago with a very little money and a formula for making and bottling ginger beer. He needed, according to his own estimate, about $500 more capital than he was possessed of and wished me to join him in manufacturing it. He was a nice fellow, I was anxious to help him along, and, besides that, viewed from a business standpoint, it looked like a good thing, and as I was never averse to taking a chance when there was a good thing in sight I concluded to join him in the venture. The $500 that I was originally required to invest grew into $1,500, however, before we got the thing on the market, and then the sales started off in lively fashion, and so, not long afterwards, did the ginger beer. There was a flaw in the formula somewhere, just what it was I never have been able to ascertain, but--well, there was something the matter with it. It wouldn't stay corked, that was its worst feature, but would go off at all times of the day and night and in the most unexpected fashion. If the cork would hold, the bottle wouldn't, and as a result there would be an explosion that would sound like the discharge of a small cannon. Sometimes only one bottle out of a dozen would explode, and then again the whole dozen would go off with a sound like that made by a whole regiment firing by platoons. It was by long odds the liveliest ginger-beer that had ever been placed upon the market. There was entirely too much life in it. That was the trouble. Sitting among a lot of fancy glassware on a back bar it looked as innocent of evil as a newborn babe, but, presto change! and a moment afterwards it was its Satanic Majesty on a rampage, and that back bar with its glassware looked as if it had been struck by a Kansas cyclone. Complaints began to pour in to the factory from all kinds and classes of customers, and I began to be afraid to walk the streets for fear that some one would accuse me of having bottled dynamite instead of ginger-beer. I sold a case of it to a friend of mine who kept a noted sporting resort on South Clark street, Chicago. It was harmless enough when I sold it to him. It was young then, and its propensity for mischief had not been fully developed. It developed later. One evening when all was quiet there was an explosion in the cellar. It sounded like the muffled report of a dynamite cartridge. The billiard players dropped their cues and some of them started for the door. A second explosion followed and the coon porters' hair stood fairly on end and their faces became as near like chalk as a black man's can. The proprietor started down cellar to investigate. He had gotten half way down when there came a third explosion. He came back again more hastily than he had gone down, and ordered one of the porters to ascertain the cause of the trouble. The porter was a brave man, and he refused to do it. I did not blame him when I heard of it. In the meantime the rest of the ginger-beer bottles had caught the contagion and the fusillade became fast and furious, and it did not stop until the billiard-room and the last bottle of ginger beer were both empty. After silence had reigned for some time and it had become apparent that danger was all past, my friend the proprietor grew courageous again and, lamp in hand, he visited the cellar to investigate. Where the case of ginger beer had set there was a mass of wreckage. Broken glass was everywhere, while the flooring, ceiling and walls were strained in a hundred different places. As he emerged from the cellar with a look of supreme disgust on his countenance, he was surrounded by an anxious group who asked as one man: "What's the matter down there, Louis?" "It's that ginger beer of Anson's," was the reply. Then there was another explosion, this time one of laughter. "Anson's ginger-beer" was getting a reputation, but it was not exactly the sort of a reputation that I wanted it to have. I was willing to close out the business even at a sacrifice, and this I did. I saved more in proportion of my money than my customers did of the ginger beer I had sold them. This was one consolation. CHAPTER XXXVI. WITH THE KNIGHTS OF THE CUE. There is no more fascinating game in existence at the present day than billiards, and no game that is more popular with gentlemen, and for the reason that it can be played indoors and in all kinds of weather and that it does not require the frame of an athlete nor the training of one 1111 to play it successfully, though it may be set down as a fact that the experts at billiards are few and far between, for the reason that it takes not only natural ability and constant practice to be even a moderately successful billiardist, the real geniuses at the game being born and not made. Since the days of my early boyhood billiards has divided my attentions with base-ball, and what little skill I have attained at the game is due as much to good habits and constant practice as is the success that I achieved on the ball field. The game itself has undergone many and frequent changes since I first began to play in the old hotel at Marshalltown, and with tools of such a primitive character that they would be laughed at in a modern billiard resort. The four-ball game and the old-fashioned six-pocket table have both been relegated into the shadows of obscurity, and the new standard 5x10 table, without pockets, that is a model of the builder's art, has taken the place of the one and three-ball games of various styles, from straight rail to three-cushion caroms of the other. Each and every game that has been played has been an improvement on the style of game that preceded it and each and every style of game has had its own special votaries, some players excelling at one style of billiards and some at another, the players who excelled at all being few and far between. It has been my good fortune to enjoy the acquaintance and friendship of nearly all of the billiard players who have become famous in the annals of the game since I first began ball playing for a livelihood in Rockford, among them being Frank C. Ives, the "Young Napoleon of Billiards," who, like myself, was a ball player before he ever became known as a knight of the cue, and whose early death was so greatly regretted by every lover of the game, both at home and abroad; Jacob Schaefer, "the Wizard of the Cue," who, as a ball-to-ball player, ranks at the head of the profession and who plays any and every game that can be played upon a billiard table with a skill that is akin to genius; George F. Slosson, the "Student," whose persistent application and studious habits have combined to make him one of the greatest prayers of his day and generation; Eugene Carter, "You-know-me," whose stalwart form and ready tongue are as well known in the majority of the European capitals as in the larger cities of our country; Thomas J. Gallagher, "Gray Tom," who is a hard man for any of the second-class experts to tackle; Edward McLaughlin, the little gentleman who first came into prominence at Philadelphia; Frank Maggioli, who has grown gray in the service of billiards, but who still retains his title of Champion of the South; Billy Catton, "the Rock Island Wonder," George Sutton, and many others, with the most of whom I have crossed cues either for money or in a friendly way at some time or other. The first expert of any note that I ever met over a billiard table was Eugene Kimball, of Rochester, N. Y., who, in 1871, was a member of the Forest City Club of Cleveland, Ohio, and who at that time enjoyed a wide reputation as a billiardist as well as a ball player. Kimball, it had been generally conceded, played a strong game of billiards for those days, and on one occasion when the Cleveland Club visited Rockford he and I engaged in a game that attracted considerable attention both on the part of the members of the two teams and of other outside friends and admirers. There were no stakes up if I remember rightly, and I am not just certain as to how the game resulted, though, unless I am very much mistaken, it was in Kimball's favor, but not by such a large margin of points as to make me ashamed of myself. It was while a member of the Athletic Club of Philadelphia that I made my debut as a billiardist in public. I played the game a great deal in those days and had acquired quite a reputation for skill in handling the cue among my fellow ball-players, nearly all of whom could play the game after some fashion, there being seemingly quite an affinity between base-ball and billiards. James Lentz of Trenton, N. J., at that time enjoyed quite a reputation as a billiard expert in the land of sandflies and mosquitoes, and he being in Philadelphia we came together at Nelms' billiard room in a match game, 300 points up, at the old three-ball style of billiards, for stakes of $100 a side, and I beat him by a score of 300 to 252, no account of the averages or high runs being kept for the reason, as I presume, that nobody thought them worth keeping, though enough of the filthy lucre changed hands on the result to keep some of my ball-playing friends in pocket money for some days. That game was played on the fourth day of February, 1875, and it was not until more than ten years afterwards that I again appeared in public as a billiardist. Frank Parker, the ex-champion in the days of the old four-ball game, now dead, was then a resident of Chicago, and his friends thought so well of his abilities at the fourteen-inch balk line game, which up to that time had never been played in public, that they offered to match him against me for stakes of $250 a side, the game to be 500 points up. After some talk back and forth this match was finally made, and March 25th, 1885, we came together in Central Music Hall, Chicago, before a fair-sized crowd, and I won by a score of 500 to 366, averaging in the neighborhood of five, and astonishing both Parker and his friends. Slosson's billiard room on Monroe street, Chicago, was at that time and for several years afterwards the scene of more billiard matches than any similar resort in the United States, it being the headquarters of the bookmaking fraternity as well as the billiardists from all sections of the country, and it is more than probable that larger sums of money changed hands over the result of the games that were played there during the winter of 1885 and 1886 than changed hands in any other hall in the country, the leading billiard rooms of Gotham not excepted. Among the billiardists who were making Chicago their headquarters that winter were Jacob Schaefer, George F. Slosson, Eugene Carter, Thomas F. Gallagher, and William H. Catton, while among the bookmakers that made Slosson's room their lounging place were such well-known knights of the chalk and rubber as Dave Pulsifer, who afterwards owned the famous race horse, Tenny; James H. Murphy, whose pacer, "Star Pointer," was in after years the first horse in harness to beat the two-minute mark; William Riley, who, under the sobriquet of "Silver Bill," is known from one end of the country to the other; Charlie Stiles, for years the trusted lieutenant of Bride and Armstrong, the Grand-Circuit pool sellers; George 'Wheelock, then hailing from St. Louis, but now known as one of the nerviest of New York's betting brigade; Joe Ullman, who then as now was a plunger; Johnny O'Neil, Frank Eckert, and many others, the place also being a favorite resort for the horsemen. Thomas J. Gallagher was that fall in good form and there were several members of the book-making fraternity who stood ready to back him whenever he said the word. I had taken a notion into my head that I could beat him, nor was I alone in the opinion, for my friend, "Bart" White, thought the same way. The result was that I agreed to play him a match 300 points up at the fourteen-inch balk-line game for stakes of $100 a side. We came together on the afternoon of November 23d at Slosson's room, and Gallagher won by seventeen points, after a close and exciting contest, the game standing at 300 to 283 in his favor. Neither my friends nor myself were satisfied with the result of this game, during the progress of which I had met with some hard luck, and which I was certain that I might have played better, and as a result we at once made another match at the same game to be played that night, the stakes this time being increased to $150 a side. The game was played in the presence of quite a crowd of billiard enthusiasts, and again Gallagher won by 309 to 280, but even this defeat did not convince me that he was a better player, and the result was still another match of 400 points up at the same game for stakes of $100 a side. This was played the following evening, and for the third time Gallagher carried off the honors, the totals showing 400 points for him as against only 183 for myself, and by this time I had come to the conclusion that he was a "leetle bit" too speedy for me, and that he could look for somebody else to pay his board-bills. That same fall Wyman McCreary, of St. Louis, then as now recognized as one of the strongest amateur players in the country, dropped into Slosson's room, and the result was that I played him two matches at the fourteen-inch balk-line game, each one being for $50 a side, winning both, the score in the first one being 300 to 164, and in the second 300 to 194, my average in the last being 8 14-17, a performance that was at that time something better than the ordinary. Even as far back as those days there was a craze for angle games, and at three cushions Eugene Carter was especially strong, he having a standing challenge to play any man in the world at that style of billiards. He finally offered to play me so points, his backer to wager $300 to $100 that he could beat me, and this offer I accepted. The story of that game, as told in verse by a Chicago newspaper man under the title of "A Match of Slosson's Room," was as follows: It was some time in the winter, and, if I remember right, There were snowflakes softly falling, through the darkness of the night, When I wandered into Slosson's, where the lights were all ablaze, In the hopes of seeing billiards, for I had the billiard craze. 'Round the table there had gathered all the sporting men in town, Putting money up in handfuls; each was anxious to take down. Some would yell out, "I'll take Anson at the odds of three to one," Then another'd cry, "I've got you," and the betting had begun. 'Twas a match game at three cushions, fifty points up, for a stake, 'Tween the base-ball man and Carter, and it wan't an even break, For the odds were all in money and the playing even up, But the horse that packs the top weight does not always win the cup. Odds in money cut no figure from a betting point of view, As I've found in life quite often, and, I doubt not, so have you. If a man can't win at evens then he cannot win at all, Be the odds they bet against him very large or very small. Carter had the style and finish, but the Captain had the nerve That in base-ball oft had helped him solve a pitcher's meanest curve! And he seemed to know the angles just as well as "You-Know Me." That he wasn't a beginner was as plain as plain could be. 'Round the table stood the bettors, looking on with eager eyes, While first one and then another certain seemed to take the prize. On the wire the clustered buttons sat like sparrows in a row, 'Neath the lights that gleamed and glistened while there outside fell the snow. Carter stood about and chattered just as Carter always will (If you have a talking parrot you can never keep him still) Anson only laughed and listened, saying as he chalked his cue: "Frogs' legs measured up in inches don't tell what the frog can do, "When it comes to jumping, Carter, and the best fish in the brook Finds at last he's met his master when he grabs the angler's hook. Talking does not win at billiards, nor at any other game, When you come to count your buttons, then perhaps you'll think the same." Went the buttons up together, one by one, upon the string, Like two yachts that skim the waters, they were racing wing and wing. Hushed was all the noisy clamor and the room was as still as death, As they stood and watched the players chalk their cues with bated breath. "Even up!" the marker shouted, and the buttons on the line Counted up stood right together--each had stopped at forty-nine. It was Anson's shot--a hard one--as the balls before him lay, And he stopped to count the chances--then he chalked his cue to play. "Call it off; I'll give you fifty," said George Wheelock, sitting near. He had found the stakes for Carter and his voice was low and clear. "Take your stakes down, Captain Anson, and take fifty 'plunks' of mine." With a nod the Cap consented; Carter's backers bought the wine. In that billiard-room of Slosson's, Carter argued half the night, While the snowflakes drifted earthward like a mantle soft and white. And he swore that he'd have won it if it wasn't for a miss That he'd made up in the corner when he'd played to get a "kiss." Now it may be that he would have, but I'm still inclined to believe That he weakened o'er the billiards that he found up Anson's sleeve. For I've noticed that the "sucker," or the chap you're thinking one, Proves the "shark" that gets the money, "doing" 'stead of being "done." The only match that I have engaged in since those days was one that I played last fall with Conklin, a West Side amateur in Chicago, and was at the eighteen-inch balk-line game, 400 points up for stakes of $50 a side, 200 points to be played in my own room and 200 in Clark's resort. The first night in my own room I obtained such a lead as to make the result look like a foregone conclusion, but the next night he came back at me like a cyclone and averaging over seven, a rattling good performance at that style of billiards, he beat me out and did it in such a handsome manner as to challenge my admiration and respect. Since then he has beaten Morningstar, a Boston, Mass., professional in the same easy fashion, and it would not be surprising were he yet to make his mark in the billiard line. I may say right here that I intend to devote more time to billiards in the future than I have in the past, and that I am always willing to match, provided that the game is a fair one, in which I have an even chance, as, unlike some players that I could name, I am not always looking for the best of it. CHAPTER XXXVII. NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPING. The proposed New American Base-Ball Association, of which so much was heard during the fall and winter months of 1899 and 1900, is not dead, as some people fondly hope, but only sleeping. That the National League fears the birth of a new rival has been time and again shown, and in my judgment without good and sufficient reason, for I hold that "competition is the life of trade," and that with a strong and healthy competitor in, the field the rivalry would be of benefit to both organizations. From personal experience I know that the National Game was never in as healthy condition as it was when the League had the old American Association for a rival and when such a thing as syndicate base-ball was unheard of. The Harts, the Friedmans and the Robisons were not then in control, and the rule-or-ruin policy that now prevails had at that time not even been thought of. Base-ball as at present conducted is a gigantic monopoly, intolerant of opposition and run on a grab-all-that-there-is-in-sight policy that is alienating its friends and disgusting the very public that has so long and cheerfully given to it the support that it has withheld from other forms of amusement. It was Abraham Lincoln, I believe, who once remarked that you can fool some of the people all the time but that you cannot fool all the people all the time, and yet it is this latter feat that the League magnates are at the present time trying to perform. That the new Association did not take the field in 1900 was due to an unfortunate combination of circumstances, but that it will do so another season I firmly believe, as many of the men interested in its formation are still enthusiastic over the project and determined to carry it to a successful conclusion. St. Louis may justly be regarded as the birthplace of the newcomer, as it was there that the idea of a new rival to the worn-out old League first originated in the brain of Al Spink, who, like the majority of the game's best friends the country over, had grown sick of syndicate methods and believed that the time had come when a new association, run on strictly business principles, would secure the patronage of the people. Associating with him Chris Von der Ahe, who became famous as "der boss" of the old St. Louis Browns, George Shaefer and others, he at once begun pulling wires looking toward the formation of an organization based on the old American Association lines, one that should do away with many of the evils that now exist. Milwaukee and Detroit capitalists were soon interested in the scheme, and early in October, 1899, an informal meeting was held in Chicago, at which Chas. Havenor, Harry D. Quinn and Alderman O'Brien of Milwaukee; Chris Von der Ahe, George Shaefer and Al Spink, of St. Louis, and Frank Hough, of Philadelphia, were present. This meeting I attended by invitation in company with Walter H. Clough, my son-in-law, and after talking the prospects over I finally agreed to place a team in Chicago to represent the new association, providing that a proper circuit of eight cities could be secured. I was then, as I am now, in favor of invading the cities already occupied by the National League clubs, and leaving the other cities to be occupied by the minor leagues. At this meeting Harry D. Quinn was elected temporary President and Frank Hough temporary Secretary. Quinn proved to be a hustler of the first class and spent both time and money in interesting the capitalists of other cities in the proposed deal. In November matters had progressed so far that a second meeting was held in New York, which was attended by the St. Louis and Milwaukee delegations, and by Secretary Hough of Philadelphia, Thomas Navin of Detroit and representatives from Boston and Providence. Owing to family troubles I was unable to be present, and but little was accomplished. An effort was made, however, to interest Tom O'Rourke and "Dry Dollar" Sullivan in the scheme, and this might have been successful had it not been known that Richard Croker, the Tammany chieftain, was a great friend of President Freedman of the New York League Club, and might be tempted to cut streets through any grounds that were secured. McGraw of Baltimore was also on hand looking over the ground, but he was then still confident that Baltimore would be retained in the League, and therefore was unwilling to cast his fortunes with the new venture. Quinn was nothing daunted, however, and continued to work like a beaver. Hough's promised backing in Philadelphia failed to materialize, and F. A. Richter, of the Philadelphia "Sporting Life," claimed to be able to find both the men and money necessary to put a club in the Quaker City. A lawyer by the name of Elliott, and some friends of his, were first mentioned as the club's backers, but they failed to come to time, and then Mr. Richter trotted out a son-in-law of John Wanamaker, but he failed to materialize with his money. This was the situation at the time that the third meeting was called by Mr. Quinn at Philadelphia, and which was held there just before the holidays. In the meantime I had attended a meeting of the National League in New York, and had gone from there on to Baltimore. While in the latter city I had a long talk with McGraw and all but convinced him that Baltimore was certain to be dropped by the League and that it would be to his best interests to join hands with us in the formation of the new association. Acting on the information I had given him McGraw and his friends at once secured a lease on the National League ball grounds over the head of the League people, and then came on to attend the Philadelphia meeting. Here it was announced that Tommy McCarthy had things fixed all right in Boston and that Providence would leave the Eastern League and join with us. McGraw had now become an enthusiast so far as the new scheme was concerned, but while the way to mend matters looked rosy on the surface, I fancied there were breakers ahead. I was disappointed in the showing made by Philadelphia at the meeting, and had even then grave doubts as to the genuineness of the backing promised there, though Richter, who was even at that time pulling wires in order to be elected Secretary and Treasurer when the final organization was made, asserted positively that he had found the necessary capitalists in the persons of George Regar and a theatrical man by the name of Gilmore. The circuit so far as made up at that time looked like Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis and Milwaukee in the West, and Boston, Baltimore, Philadelphia and some city yet to be determined upon in the East. As the days went on Quinn became more and more confident regarding Philadelphia, and a strong effort was made to get Washington into line, but without success, as the Washington people were certain at that time that the League would consist of ten clubs, and that the Senators would be retained. Louisville in the meantime was clamoring for admission, while Providence had determined to stick to the Eastern League. A meeting to effect a permanent organization was then called. This was to be held at the Great Northern Hotel in Chicago on February 12th, 1899, but as several of the delegates expected had failed to put in an appearance an adjournment to the following day was decided upon. When this meeting was called to order by temporary President Quinn there were present Hecker, Harlan and Spink, of St. Louis; Quinn, Havenor and O'Brien, of Milwaukee; McGraw and Peterson, of Baltimore; Regar and Richter, of Philadelphia, and myself representing Chicago. Tommy McCarthy, of Boston, was said to be somewhere on the road, though Quinn held his proxy, and Col. Whitside of Louisville was on hand to represent the Falls City in case it should be taken into the fold. Numerous telegrams failed to locate Navin of Detroit, and as the Louisville people proved that they had the necessary backing it was finally decided to take them in. Detroit's assurance that everything was lovely there came too late, Navin not returning home until after the meeting was over, while McCarthy of Boston did not materialize until after the meeting had adjourned. A permanent organization was finally effected and officers elected as follows: President, A. C. Anson, Chicago; Secretary-Treasurer, Phil Peterson, Baltimore; Directors, C. S. Havenor, Milwaukee; Geo. D. Shaefer, St. Louis; W. J. Gilmore, Philadelphia; it being left for Boston to name a member of the Board at a later date. Richter had come to the meeting firmly convinced that the office of Secretary-Treasurer was to be his for the asking, and he was decidedly put out when turned down, and was disposed to be decidedly ugly. That he had not gotten over it for some time afterward was shown by the attitude of his paper, which indulged in indiscriminate abuse of every one who failed to agree with him. After the adoption of a constitution and by-laws the meeting finally adjourned, though not until McGraw and Peterson had been appointed a committee to look into the standing of Philadelphia and to select an eighth city in the East, the seven cities making up the circuit at that time being Chicago, St. Louis, Milwaukee and Louisville in the West, and Boston, Baltimore and Philadelphia in the East. It was also decided to open the playing season on April 16, the matter of arranging a schedule being left in my hands. The Philadelphia end of it had a decidedly fishy look to me, even then, and McGraw was by no means as enthusiastic as he had appeared at Philadelphia. McCarthy's failure to appear cast a damper over the crowd, and, in spite of all that had been accomplished, I had grave doubts as to the successful launching of the project. McGraw and Peterson stopped at Philadelphia on their way home and had an interview with W. J. Gilmore that was evidently satisfactory, as the former wired me that Philadelphia was "four-flushing" and that everything was off, after which he fixed up his differences with the League people in Baltimore and prepared to play with the club there another season. The dropping of Baltimore from the list of League cities, just as I had prophesied, followed, after which came the sale of McGraw and others to the St. Louis Club, the terms of which McGraw has refused to ratify, the result being that the snappy little Baltimorean will in all probability not be seen on the ball field in a League uniform. The calling off of the deal was a great disappointment to me at the time, and yet, as things have turned out, I am satisfied that everything happened for the best after all. The recent iron-clad agreement entered into between the American League and National League magnates, by the terms of which a team from the first-named organization is to be placed in Chicago, smacks too strongly of syndicate methods to become popular. In a recent letter from Baltimore McGraw and Peterson both strongly urge the necessity of going on with the new association and getting in readiness to place strong teams in the field at the beginning of the season of 1901, and this is likely to be done. That the time is ripe for such a movement I am confident, as I am also that plenty of good ball players could be found to join its ranks. The methods of the League in late years have not been calculated to make friends either among the ranks of the players or of the public, and both would gladly welcome a rival in the field. It would, however, be a mistake, I think, to start with anything but a strong circuit or to antagonize any of the minor leagues, with whom nothing could be gained by rivalry. If I could have my way in the matter I would place a strong team in every single one of the League cities, taking in Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati and Pittsburg in the West, and New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Baltimore in the East. Such a circuit would, in my estimation, be a paying one from the start, and that is the circuit that I hope to see formed in the future. There is one thing certain, and that is that a rival to the National League will spring up sooner or later, and that without any help from Mr. Richter. CHAPTER XXXVIII. L'ENVOI. With my retirement from the Chicago Club in 1897, my active connection with the game may be said to have ceased and it is more that probable that I shall never again don a uniform. My affection for the game still exists, however, and I am confident that, purged of the many evils that now exist, the game itself will continue to be in the future what it has been in the past, the National Game of the American people. Looking back over my twenty-seven years of active service on the diamond, I feel that I have but little to regret and much to be proud of, and if I failed at times to come us to the expectations of my friends, it was simply because I was heavily handicapped and unable to carry the load. For the gentlemen who have criticized my actions fairly and honestly I have naught but the kindest feelings, and for those who did not and who criticized simply to be in the fashion, or because they were advised to do so by those in authority over them, I have--but perhaps it is as well to "let the dead past bury its dead." The League Guide of 1898 contains an article on my retirement, from the pen of the veteran, Henry Chadwick, that I am particularly proud of, and a portion of which I quote, as follows: "Professional base-ball history records the development of many an original character in the ranks alike of its press-writers, its club magnates, and its most noteworthy players; but it can be safely said that its most unique figure can be found in the person of the League's greatest representative on the field, Adrian Constantine Anson, who today stands forth as one of the most sturdy, fearless and honest exemplars of professional base-ball known to the game. The bright particular attribute of Anson is his sterling integrity, combined with which is his thorough independence. The former was strikingly illustrated at the very outset of his career as a member of the Chicago Club in 1876, when he kept true to his agreement with the club, though under the base-ball law as it then existed the club could not, enforce its contract; and his independence was plainly exhibited in the act of his refusing this year to accept a money testimonial at the hands of his base-ball friends, he preferring to depend upon his existing physical powers for his maintenance rather than upon the proffered financial aid. "In some respects Anson resembles a rough diamond, his brusque manner and impulsive temper needing the keen polish of the refining wheel of the conventional amenities of life to make his inherent worth shine forth in its full brilliancy. Anson, too, reminds one somewhat of that old Western pioneer, Davy Crockett, inasmuch as his practical motto is, 'When you know you're right, go ahead.' This latter trait was conspicuously shown in the year of the players' revolt in 1890, when, almost alone as a minority man, he stood by the National League in its greatest hour of need, in opposition to the desertion of hundreds of his confreres in the League ranks. In these prominent characteristics, we say, Anson stands as the most unique player known in the annals of the professional fraternity." This is indeed praise from Sir Hubert, and I raise my hat in recognition. What I may conclude to do in the future it is hard to say, and if I return again to my first love, base-ball, it will not be as a player, but wherever I may be or whatever I may do I shall still strive to merit the approval and good will of my friends--God bless them! THE END. AMOS RUSIE'S PITCHING. Amos Rusie, who, for several years has probably come nearer being the premier pitcher of the country than any other man, gives some ideas of pitching to the New York Evening Journal. He says: "In delivering a straight, swift ball, when my object is to obtain the utmost speed at my command and to cut the plate, so that an umpire can have no doubt as to its being 'over,' I grasp the ball firmly with the two first fingers, with the thumb not clutching the ball too tightly. It is not my intention to twist or curve the ball at those times, but to catch the batter napping or else to prevent him from 'walking' to first. I take one long preliminary swing to prepare the shoulder muscles for the coming strain, and with my right foot firmly braced on the slab, I lurch forward with a high, straight throw, the weight of my body adding impetus to the ball. "A slow ball when mixed up with great speed, is most effective if the change of pace is so disguised as to fool the batter. It does not do to telegraph your intentions or the ball will go soaring over the bleachers--from off the old 'wagon tongue.' Exactly the same preliminary motions should be gone through with as if to send in your swiftest ball. For this delivery I hold the ball loosely in my hand, holding it with my thumb and little finger. The ball will at times almost seem to hang in the air, and the batter, who is looking for a singing swift one, makes a vicious swipe before the ball gets to him. The change of pace is used mostly when a batter has two strikes and is worked up to the anxious pitch. Nothing pleases a pitcher more than to fool a batter with his 'slows.' "To give an outcurve to the ball I take the same grip with the first two fingers as for the straight ball. The thumb, however, with which the twist which causes the ball to curve is given, is brought up in touch with the ball with a tight grip. Then, with a long, slow preliminary swing I give a slight side motion to my hand with a decided snap to the wrist just at the instant the ball leaves my hand. I endeavor, of course, to hide my right hand as much as possible from the batter, and go through exactly the same motions as for a straight ball. I can get just as much speed with my curve as my straight, which in consequence, has proved my most successful ball. "The drop ball is a most effective one if a pitcher can get control of it. If the ball falls even a half inch from the expected line, the batter is liable to strike over it. In pitching this ball I take a tight hold with the thumb and two forefingers, with the third finger underneath in touch with the sphere. Then with a very high swing and a raise on my toes, I bring the arm down swiftly. The reverse twist is given with the third finger. A great deal of practice is required to acquire control of this puzzling ball, and at times speed is sacrificed in its use." APPENDIX. SOME NEWSPAPER COMMENTS. With the retirement of Captain Anson baseball loses its most dignified and courageous figure--a man who has striven through a number of years to preserve the national game in all its best phases and a man who has fought for decency and gentlemanly conduct on the field, and by whose efforts the club of which he has been typical for a long time has come to be known as one of the most dignified organizations on the National League diamond. His retirement from the leadership of the Colts is received with regret by the devotees of the national game, although opinion is divided as to its advisability. It has long been believed by certain patrons of the game that a change in the management and captaincy of the team was advisable, and that a younger man might make the nine more successful. But whether they are of this opinion or not, the patrons of the game this year will miss the presence of the big first baseman who has come to be typical of the Chicago team. Captain Anson retires with a record of which he may well be proud. He has been a prominent figure in hundreds of games in all of which he has done excellent work. As the head of the Chicago club he has piloted the team through good and bad fortune. During the last few seasons he has not done as well as had been expected at the outset of the season. Internal dissension crept into the ranks of the Colts and the men did not work together. This fact started a sentiment in favor of a change of management. There were disturbing elements which militated against the success of the team, and it was believed by many admirers of the game that a new leader might be able to reconcile the warring factions and get more substantial results out of the aggregation. This was urged as a reason for the retirement of Anson. He had served a longer term than any other base-ball player, and it was believed that he could retire on his record and give way to a younger man who would be able to secure more harmonious work. In this opinion there was no desire to belittle the work of Anson, nor cast any discredit on his management. His work has been such as to win the respect of every sportsman, whatever his opinion of the desirability of the change of management, but with individual players of the first class might not another manager be able to attain better results was the argument. He is to be succeeded by a man who worked with him as a fellow-member at one time of the Chicago team, a man of experience in base-ball affairs, and who it is believed will continue the work which the veteran has done for the best interests of the game. Whether or not he will be able to make the club work together better than Anson and whether he can secure better results from the material he has to work with remains for the coming season to show. But whatever be the future success of the team, it will owe a debt to Captain Anson, for to him is due the credit of being one of the greatest of base-ball generals. He has done a great work for the Chicago team, and can now give way to another, resting on the honors which he has already won and which the base-ball public gladly concede to him.--Chicago Tribune. The former captain-manager of the Chicago base-ball team has just replied to a proposition to offer him a testimonial in such terms as do him infinite honor. Mr. Anson had held his position for many years. He had done the work and discharged the duties of the place faithfully, laboriously, and ably, and he had received for his services a salary which he accepted as sufficient. When it was, thought best to depose him and to employ another captain, he gave way without protest. He had done his best, he had been paid, he had nothing to complain of, and no favors to ask. The proposed testimonial was offered, perhaps, under the impression that he was needy or that his feelings were hurt, and the idea seems to have been that in giving him a benefit they would placate any resentment he might harbor and at the same time proclaim their own generosity. Anson, however, declined to be put in the position of a martyr or a suppliant. He replied: 'I refuse to accept anything in the shape of a gift. The public owes me nothing. I am not old and am no pauper. Besides that, I am by no means out of base-ball.' We think that everybody will applaud Mr. Anson in this attitude. There is no reasonable doubt that the projected benefit would have netted him several thousands of dollars--it is not too much to estimate the result at $10,000. He has long been a favorite with the Chicago base-ball lovers. He enjoys a high reputation for courage, fairness, honorable methods, and professional ability. But he refused the well-meant offer of the Chicago Athletic Association, and we feel sure that all right-minded men will give him their sympathy and approval. He prefers to occupy the position of one who has served his employers zealously and received full consideration for his work, who has no complaint to make and no pity to invoke. He is not superannuated, has not been ill-treated, and is quite able to support himself for the future. It is a manly, modest, self-reliant, and self-respecting position and it raises him infinitely in public estimation.--Washington (D. C.) Post. Our illustrious fellow townsman, Adrian Constantinus Anson, has given to the New York Sun a few reflections concerning the duties of womankind, with a comparative review of the charms of the ladies of Chicago and New York. It is Mr. Anson's deliberate opinion that woman has a most beautiful sphere of action in this pleasant life which is likely to be jeopardized by an association with clubs. Mr. Anson thinks that the average woman cannot attend to her regular knitting and to clubs at the same time, and he facilitates himself that the ladies of his immediate family have been restrained by his influence and his arguments from wasting time in society work that should belong to the needs of the small and sympathetic domestic circle. We congratulate Mr. Anson on the ability he has shown in the presentation of his argument, and we turn with confidence to his discussion of the ladies who have come under his observation. "In Chicago," says Mr. Anson, "the ladies dress very stunningly, just as well as they do here, if I am not mistaken, and they are certainly just as fine looking. I'll admit that the New York men dress a great deal better than those of Chicago." Mr. Anson is right. The Chicago man gives little thought to the morrow, wherewithal he shall be clothed. He has his charms, his graces, his many fine points, but as a fashion plate he is not a success. He is content to know that his wife and his daughters are keeping up the standard of Mr. Anson's expectations, and to feel that in providing them with gorgeous raiment he is contributing his share of the beautiful, the true and the good in the world. We have believed for some time that the shopping ladies on the east side of State street constituted a panorama of feminine loveliness unexcelled, but we are glad to have this opinion corroborated by 40 eminent an authority as Mr. Anson, who has a critical eye for the feminine toilet and has been in New York often enough in a professional capacity to exercise a just and accurate judgment.--Chicago Post. The announced retirement of Adrian Constantine Anson from the management of the Chicago base-ball team marks the end of a career that is without parallel in America. For nearly thirty years Anson has stood among the foremost representatives of the national game, and for half that time. He has been a popular hero whose name was more familiar on the lips of the people than that of any statesman or soldier of his time. Ever since professional base-ball became a feature of American life, he has stood in the front rank of its exponents, and as long as it shall continue to be played his name will be remembered. He reflected credit upon his calling and helped raise it to a plane which made it creditable to him. A certain measure of true glory cannot be denied to such a man. In all his long publicity no charge of dishonorable methods, no rumor of the buying and selling that are too common in athletics was ever laid at his door. He possessed many of the qualities that make leaders of men, and his continued success was due to the same study and application which bring triumph in more highly esteemed fields of activity. Base-ball owes him much, the public owes him something and Chicago owes him more. He is entitled to an honorable discharge.--Detroit Tribune. The passing of Adrian C. Anson from the position of manager and captain of the Chicago League base-ball club is deserving of notice by everybody. While it is not our purpose or custom to comment on athletics, in general, we deem it proper to drop a few thoughts concerning this man and his life. For twenty-six years he has been playing base-ball with prominent clubs throughout the country, twenty-two years of this time being spent with the club which just disposed of his services. Five different times he brought his club out at the close of the season as a pennant winner, a record which has not yet been equaled by any manager. Besides being a bright star in the ball-playing constellation, Anson was an expert at cricket, hand-ball, billiards and shooting. He has ever been temperate in his habits, and his long period of service in this line proves what a man may do by taking care of himself. No better lesson can be taught the young man of to-day than the observance of this man's life. After all, is it not a mistake made by the temperance people that they don't teach the physical as well as the moral effects of intemperance? The name Anson means athletics. Honest, honorable, clean, pure athletics. No man has done more to place outdoor sports above reproach than he has.--Springfield (Ill.) Sun. Captain Anson is going to retire. He has played his last championship game, has piloted his young men through the last season and has made his final forceful appeal to a league umpire. With the honors of unnumbered years thick upon him, with a fame that will endure till the last league ball is batted over the palisades of time, with fortune far beyond the hope of thousands who have howled his praise, "the grand old man" will leave the "profession" Jan. 1, 1898, when his contract with the Chicago team shall expire. There comes a sentiment akin to sorrow in the incident. The man has so truly represented the spirit of sport, he has so honestly and industriously devoted his every energy to its requirements, and he has so persistently abstained from those customs that too often discredit men in his line, that the great public which loves base-ball will regret his departure. Aside from that there is a measure of compensation. We know that young blood and new methods may help the Chicago team to that eminence it won in the old days. This sentiment is entertained by so many patrons of the game that it may be fair to concede them something. One thing is certain. No man living will more cordially wish success to the old White Stocking club than will the man who has shared its joys and its woes, and who voluntarily, even now, yields place to a younger man.--Chicago Inter-Ocean. A few days ago Captain Anson, a representative of the typical American game, declined to accept a public testimonial earned by years of hard work, honesty, uprightness, and faithfulness as a player. Mr. A. G. Spalding guaranteed that the fund would reach $50,000, and from the great flow of telegrams, letters, and offers of contributions that swept down upon the promoter of the testimonial it seemed as though that sum would be exceeded. Anson replied modestly that, while conscious of the high honor conferred in the almost unanimous expression of good will, he could not accept a moneyed tribute. A few years ago Dr. W. G. Grace, the champion cricketer of England, retired from the game, a game typical of England. Headed by the Prince of Wales a great public subscription was raised and more than $40,000 was given the champion. He accepted. The two men occupied the same position toward their games and their countries. The spirit of admiration was unanimous in both countries. Both were athletic heroes. Grace accepted; Anson declined.--Chicago Tribune. The firm of Chicago & Anson expired by its own limitation last night. The partners parted on the best of terms. It is now twenty-two years since they began to do base-ball together, and the record made is an honor to the world of athletics. Long ago, while the dew of youth was still in his locks, the junior partner was known as "Old Anse," much as in army circles the pre-eminence of General Grant won for him the designation of "the old man." Anson first gained distinction as the heaviest batter that had ever gone to the plate. Then, for many seasons, he was captain. He marshaled his forces with the skill of a great commander. He lost many a battle royal, but he never threw a game, and, alike in victory and in defeat, the honor of Chicago was maintained unflecked. May he live long to enjoy the distinction of being "the grand old man" of the diamond field.--Chicago Inter Ocean. Our ancient friend Captain Adrian Anson will find ample scope for his disciplinary talents in dealing with the cherubim whom Mr. Freedman has aggregated into his base-ball club. At various times the Baltimore, the Pittsburgs and the Clevelands have held the championship for all-round blackguardism and "dirty ball," but now New York, like "Eclipse," is first and the rest nowhere. In this connection it is interesting to recall that early in the season several of Mr. Freedman's young men haughtily refused to sign the Brush hoodlum agreement upon the ground that they were "gentlemen" and incapable of using vile language. The Brush rule is valid nevertheless, and the patrons of base-ball will watch with interest to see whether it will be enforced against the umpire baiters and vulgarians lately led by Mr. "Scrappy" Joyce. If Anson is given a free hand he will keep the rowdies in subjection. If he is hampered we venture to predict that Mr. Freedman will soon be hunting another captain. The "old man" will not stand sponsor for hoodlums.--Chicago Chronicle. "I notice," said the Old-Timer, "that a hit was wanted in Louisville yesterday, and that James Ryan (who would quit rather than play with Anson as manager) was at the bat. How many, many times the cranks at the Chicago ball grounds have waited and watched for that same hit, and how often, oh, how often, they have been regaled with that same play--a pop-up to the infield. It is time, long, long ago, that James Ryan was relegated to the bench or the turnstile--for good. Decker is his superior in everything but grumbling."--Chicago Journal. New York, April 2.--A. G. Spalding absolutely denied to-day the truth of the published reports that he had jestingly offered the franchise of the Chicago club to Anson for $150,000, and that while Anson was hustling around trying to raise the money he had no intention whatever of releasing the franchise when it came to a showdown. "The story is absurd," said Mr. Spalding. "In the first place, Anson is not trying to get the franchise. No one has made overtures to me with that end in view. I have set no price on the franchise, because I had not the slightest intention of letting it go."--Chicago Chronicle. Temporarily war rumors must sink into innocuous desuetude and other old things. A matter of more far-reaching importance now claims our attention. We shall continue to hope that Sampson and Dewey and Miles will do their whole duty, but we shall not be able to give our personal attention to the trifles that occupy them until we have received definite information whether or not Anson is really going with the New Yorks.--Chicago Post. As a fielder many have surpassed him, but as a batsman--and batsmen, like poets, are born, not made, and are the kind of players hardest to get--his record has never been excelled. He has not always stood at the head of the list, but always kept up a steady fusillade.--Des Moines Leader. The passing of Anson from the National League removes from the national game its most conspicuous and active spirit. For many years this young old man has been the principal figure in the grandest of outdoor sports and his setting aside by the managers of the team that he made famous will be lamented everywhere.--Detroit Journal. Now it is claimed that Anson hasn't a chance on earth of getting control of the Chicago Club, even if he raises that $150,000 option. It is claimed that the price set by Spalding was one of his little jokes, and Ans took it seriously. People who ought to know say Spalding and Hart would not part with the Chicago Club for $250,000.--Cincinnati Enquirer. O. P. Caylor has this to say: "Anson may be getting old, his step less springy, his joints not so supple as of yore, but his eyes and brain are unimpaired. For all that, he knows more about playing the game than the other men on his team combined. There are at least seven less valuable players than Anson among the Chicago Colts."--New York Herald. Owing to the De Lome incident and the destruction of the Maine the retirement of Colonel Anson from base-ball generalship is not receiving the general attention its importance warrants.--Chicago Herald. The young philanthropist who sent $too to Leiter with which to corner the wheat market would exhibit more genuine patriotism if he would inclose a few thousands to Captain Anson for the purpose of obtaining the Chicago ball team.--Chicago Record. Yesterday was a cold day for base-ball. That grand old man, Captain Adrianapolis Chicago Anson, was umpired out by Father Time, after twenty-two years' signal service at the first base.--Chicago Inter Ocean. When the sporting world finds a better or more manly man than "Old Anse" it will have to advertise for "the best the country affords." He honestly won his honors in a fair field.--Chicago Inter Ocean. There is no reason why Cap'n Anson, now in the full maturity of his powers, may not have a successful career before him as a trainer of horses.--Chicago Tribune. It was worth losing the job for Captain Anson to learn what a royal good fellow he is.--Chicago Record.