by Zane Grey
“Aw, you’re gittin’ too exclusive since thet hoodoo lamp was fixed; too handsome, by far,” said Ziegler.
“Go wan, Molly!”
“You make me sick!”
“Willie-off-the-yacht!”
Meade was the next player upon whom Chase fixed his flashing eyes. The first-baseman evidently enjoyed the situation, for he sneered and took a couple of steps in Chase’s direction. He looked mean.
“Throwin’ a bluff, eh? Well, you can’t bluff me. You’re a pie-faced tow-head, that’s what you are. Been shuttin’ your eyes an’ gettin’ a few lucky hits—then swell up. See! Mama’s little baby boy! Too nice to smoke a cigar or take a drink, eh? But you mush the girls, you lalligager! Boat-ridin’, eh? I know the girl, all right. She’s one of your dyin’-duck-in-a-thunder-storm kind. She’s—”
Chase struck out with all his strength. Meade crashed down into a corner, rolled over, twisted his body, but could not rise. Chase stood over him a moment, then turned ’round to encounter Benny. As usual, the second-baseman was partially drunk, and being a friend of Meade’s, he leered threateningly at Chase and raised his arm. Chase promptly slapped him. Benny staggered, lost his balance, and tumbled over a chair. Then he set up a howl. Cas ran to him and helped him to his feet and held on to him.
“Cas, lemme—go. I ben hit,” howled Benny.
“No, you haven’t. But you will git hit in a minute if you don’t look out,” said Cas.
At that moment Mac came into the dressing-room. Some of the boys were helping Meade to rise, and once up he presented a sorry spectacle. His lip was puffed out and bloody. Benny was now in tears, and crying he had no “frens.”
“What’s all this—a scrap?” questioned Mac. Chase briefly told him the circumstances and concluded in this wise.
“Stood it as long as I could. And I want to say right here—if anybody gets after me again, he’ll be sorry!”
“Sure, it was about time you broke out,” growled Mac. “Meade, you got what was comin’ to you, an’ from the looks of your mug, you got it good. You can take thet uniform off. I’m sorry to turn you down, but business is business. You don’t fit in with Findlay. I think you might get on with Wheeling, for they like your work down there. You’ve overdrawn, but let it go at thet.”
“An’ say, Meade, take a tip from me,” chirped in Mittie-Maru. “You’re a crack fielder an’ a fair sticker, an’ you know the game. But you’re a knocker. Get wise! Get wise!”
Meade lost no time in getting out of his suit. To the other players, his release was but an incident in baseball experience; they all said a good word to him as he was passing out, and then straightway forgot him. Cas was remonstrating with Benny. It appeared Benny could not get over the idea that he must fight Chase.
“But, Benny, you’ll get all beat up,” protested Cas. “Because if you lick Chase, which isn’t likely, I’ll have to lick you myself.”
This put an entirely different light on the subject. Benny began to cry again, and said, “Everybody but me hash frens.”
“Cut it out! You’re half full, I tell you. Brace up, or Mac will be letting you go, too. I’m your friend. So’s Chase. Here, Chase, shake hands with Benny. He thinks you’ve got it in for him.”
Chase readily offered his hand, which Benny grasped and worked as if it were a pump-handle. He seemed as anxious to be friends as he had been to fight.
“Benny,” said Mac, “you’re shaky today. I want you to cut this boozin’ out. Mind, I’ll let you go if you don’t. Now, take a little sleep before the game.”
Ford, the local player whom Mac was training, now came in for a talk from the manager.
“Here, Ford, an’ you, Chase. It won’t hurt you to listen. Ford, most of the balls thrown in any game go to first-base, an’ you must always be there. Practise gettin’ back to the base fast. The farther you can play off the base an’ still get back, the better you’ll be. Play deep when there’s no one on the bases. Let the pitcher cover the base sometimes when you’re fieldin’ a hard chance, an’ snap the ball to him underhand. With a runner on first, keep your eye peeled on the hitter. If he bunts down the first-base line, you dig for the ball an peg it to second, an’ then hustle back to your base. A fast man gets in double-plays thet way. Think sharp, throw quick! Now, on handlin’ low throws, if you practise so you can pick up any kind of a bad throw, you will save many a game, an’ you will steady up the other infielders. Nothin’ helps a fielder so much as to know he can cut loose an’ thet you’ll get any kind of a throw. You’ve got a long reach, so don’t leave the base in reachin’ for wild throws till you have to. Keep both feet before the base, so as to be able to touch it with either foot. An’ reach toward the ball as far as you can. The sooner you catch it, the sooner the runner is out. Got thet?”
“Now, Chase, a word with you. Thet was a weird game you put up yestiddy. Mind wasn’t on the game. See! You was countin’ your money, or somethin’ like. Mebbe this talk about your bein’ spooney has somethin’ in it. Anyway, you brace! Mind, you’re the keystone of the diamond. If you fall down—smash! You’ve got to play second an’ third as well as short. You’ve got to think before the play comes off. You’ve got to take many balls on the run. The particular thing yestiddy was your failure to catch the signals between Hicks an’ Benny. Twice you’d have saved runs if you’d caught the signal. Now, today, when Hicks signs Benny thet he’s goin’ to try to catch the runner off second, you back up the play. Got thet?”
Mac then turned to the others of his team. “Say, Indians, I’m goin’ to pitch Poke today, an’ I want you all to get up an’ dust.”
“Wha-at?” roared Castorious, with his underlip protruding. “I’m going to work today.”
“Cas, you can’t pitch all the games. I want to save you. There’s the mornin’ game on the Fourth with Kenton. We have to go over to Kenton for thet, an’ we want to win it. We come back here for the afternoon game, an’ I think Speer’s good for it. What’s agin’ tryin’ Poke today?”
“He’s crazy.”
“Don’t put the Rube in.”
“He’s wilder than a Texas steer.”
These and sundry other remarks expressed the players’ opinion as to Mac’s new find.
“Well, he goes in, all right,” returned Mac. “An’ say, you fellars listen to this. Don’t any of you lay down. We want thet pennant. The directors have promised us a banquet, a purse, an’ a benefit game if we land the flag. Got thet?”
A chorus of exclamations greeted Mac’s news.
“An’ say, Beekman has put up an extra hundred for the leadin’ hitter. Got thet?”
Another howl from the players answered him.
“An’ say, King has put up an extra hundred for the leadin’ fielder. Got thet?”
This time there was a louder howl.
“An’ say, Guggenheimer & Co. have put up an extra hundred for the leadin’ pitcher. Got thet?”
Cas began to dance and sing. “Do-diddle-de-dum-dum-do-diddle-de. Oh! I don’t know. I guess maybe I haven’t that extra hundred in my inside pocket right now.”
“An’ say, if we land the buntin’ this season, we’ll all have to get new trunks to carry away the suits an’ hats an’ shoes thet’s promised. Got thet?”
Cas, Benny, Enoch, and the others formed a ring around Poke and danced in Indian fashion.
“Hey! You rail-splitter, if you lose today we’ll kill you!”
“Sonny, get them hayseeds out of your eyes!”
“Listen to this, fellows,” yelled Cas, breaking up the ring.
“Reuben, Reuben, we’ve been thinking
That we’ll put the kibosh on you.
If today you don’t put ’em over,
And cut the plate right in two.”
Chase found himself joining lustily in the song. There was a scene of wild excitement, which for no apparent reason centred about poor bewildered Poke. The boys sang and yelled at him and slapped him on the back till they were all out of breath.
“Rube, you’re on.”
“Git in the game, now, you long, lanky, scared-lookin’ beanpole!”
On the way out, Chase, dazed at himself, not understanding why he had joined in the unanimous attack on Poke, slipped up to him and whispered, “Don’t mind it. We mean well. Keep your nerve and pitch hard.”
* * * *
The bleachers showed a disposition to resent Mac’s choice in such an important game, and were not slow in voicing their feelings.
“Mac, where did you get it?”
“Lock the gate! Lock the gate!”
“Get some straw for the calves of its legs!”
“Help! Help! Help! Help!”
“Well! Well! Well!”
Poke showed his nervousness when he faced the first Toledo batter, and he was wild. He drove the batter back from the plate, and then gave him his base on balls. The bleachers broke out in a roar. But the Findlay players then showed one of the beautiful features of baseball, a thing that makes the game what it is.
Hicks walked toward the pitcher and, handing him the ball, said: “Ease up! Ease up! Pitch fer my mitt! Take more time!” Then from all the players came soft, aggressive encouragement.
“Make ’em hit, sonny,” said Enoch, “Remember there’s seven men back here playin’ with you,”
“Don’t let any more walk, old man,” said Ford.
“There’s a stone wall behind you, Pokie, so put ’em over,” said Benny.
“Let them hit to me,” said Chase. From the outfield came low calls of similar import.
Poke’s heart swelled in his throat, as could be seen by the way he swallowed. He was white and dripping with sweat. His perturbation was so manifest that the Toledo players jeered at him. His situation then was the most important and painful stage in the evolution of a pitcher. Much depended on how he would meet it. He threw the ball toward the next batter, who hit it back at him. Poke made a good stop of the ball, dropped it, recovered it, and then stood helpless. Both runners were safe. The Toledo players yelled; the bleachers roared; Poke’s chance shone a little dimmer.
Again the Findlay players voiced their characteristic inspiriting calls. Poke threw off his cap and again faced a batter.
“Stay with ’em till your hair blows out!” called Enoch.
The batter hit the next ball sharply to Chase. He was on it with a leap, picked it up cleanly, touched second-base on the run, and whipped it to first, making a double play. The runner on second had of course reached third.
“Two down, old man!”
“Play the hitter!”
“Make him hit!”
Toledo’s man drove up a long fly in Thatcher’s direction. As he ran to get under it, the bleachers yelled: “In the well! In the well!” Past experience had taught them what fate to expect of a fly-ball hit to the Dude.
For Findlay, Enoch went out on a foul to the catcher; Thatcher had two strikes called, missed the next, and retired in disgust. Chase, now batting third, worked a base on balls. A passed ball sent him to second. Then Havil hit sharply through short field.
Chase started for third with all his speed. The play was for him to score. When he reached third he was going like the wind. As he circled ’round the base, Budd, the Toledo third-baseman, stuck out his hip. Chase collided with it, went hurtling through the air, and rolled over and over. He felt a severe pain, and the field whirled ’round. He could not make a move before Budd got the ball and touched him out.
Mac and Enoch came running, and the former spoke some hot words to Budd.
“Wot you givin’ us?” said that individual. “Didn’t he run agin’ me? Go soak your head!”
Enoch was bending over Chase. Mittie ran out with a cup of water, and other players surrounded them. “I’m not hurt much, I guess,” said Chase. “I’m only dizzy. Wait a minute. What did he do to me?”
“Call time,” yelled Mac to the umpire. “Chase, I told you to look out for Budd. Thet’s his old trick. He gave you the hip. Stuck out his hip an’ spilled you all over the field. It’s a dirty trick, an’ a bad thing for a fast man to run into. I hope you ain’t hurt. Sure, you did tumble, won’t forget thet in a hurry.”
“Say, Budd, why don’t you ever try that on me?” demanded Cas.
“Bah!” replied Budd, and walked toward the bench.
Chase was considerably shaken up and bruised, but able to go on with the game.
He did not say another word about it, only he made a mental reservation that he would surprise Mr. Budd the next time he rounded third base.
Some snappy fielding saved Poke again in the second inning, and in the third Toledo made a run on a base on balls, a hit, and a fly to the outfield. Then the long pitcher seemed to settle down and lose his nervousness. Thereafter he mowed the Toledo batters down as if they had been cornstalks on his farm. The harder he worked, the swifter he threw, the steadier he became. He was ungainly, he did not know how to pitch, but what speed he had! The fickle bleachers atoned for their derision; the grandstands showed their delight; and the Findlay players, one and all, kept talking to him, lauding him to the skies, and belittling the hitters who faced him.
“Oh! I don’t know! Pretty poor, I guess not!”
“Poke ’em over, Poke!”
“Speed! Oh, no! You can’t see ’em!”
“Grand, Rube, grand!”
In the eighth inning, when Findlay came in for their bat. Chase ran into the dressing-room and searched for a horseshoe nail that he remembered seeing. He put it in his pocket. There was one man out when he came to the bat, and he determined to get his base. As luck would have it he placed a hot single in right field. As soon as he reached first and stopped he took the horseshoe nail out of his pocket and held it firmly in his left hand, point exposed.
One glance toward the bench gave him the sign. Mac’s score card was in sight, which meant to run on the first ball pitched. Chase watched the Toledo pitcher with hawklike eyes. He got up on his toes and as the pitcher started to swing, Chase started for second base. He heard the crack of a ball as Havil hit it, and he saw it shoot out over short to bound between the running fielders.
He ran as he had never run before, turned second, raced for third, and gripped his horseshoe nail. Budd was leisurely backing into third base trickily, to get there just at the right instant. Chase sped onward, with his eye on that muscular hip. He saw it suddenly, like a gray flash, protrude in his path, and using all his force he swung upward with the horseshoe nail.
Budd sprang spasmodically into the air.
“Aagh!” A hoarse yell escaped him. The crowd in the stands and bleachers did not know what Chase had done, but as he easily scored, while Budd walked Spanish, they divined the triumph of retaliation, and howled with all the might of fair-minded lovers of sport.
But the Findlay players and the Toledo players knew how the little youngster Chase had “got back” at the veteran Budd. It was a play such as every ball player revelled in. It embodied the great spirit of the game. And to a man they broke out and pranced over the field in unbridled joy. For a time, the game was interrupted.
And the best part of the incident was when, after Findlay had won 7 to 3, Budd went into the Findlay dressing-room and said to Chase: “Kid, shake hands. I’ve been lookin’ fer thet fer years.”
CHAPTER XII
POPULARITY
Small boys ushered in the Fourth of July with a bang. The noise began at daybreak, and at nine o’clock when the ball team left for Kenton, it was in full blast. A train-load of happy enthusiasts accompanied the team. Small boys without tickets hid under the seats, with determination in their hearts and hearts in their throats. And the conductor, being a boy himself that morning, with a wager on Findlay, saw nothing.
“Five hundred strong we’re goin’ over,” said Mac, rubbing his hands. “Sure we’ll draw down a big slice of gate-money today.”
“Rotten arrangement, this mornin’ game at Kenton,” growled his players. “Kenton is bad enough on any day
. But the Fourth! Oh, Lord! What they’ll do to us!”
“We can’t win,” continued Cas, pessimistically. “We’ll be dodgin’ giant firecrackers, mark what I say!”
When they bowled into the Kenton grounds and poured out of the bus, an enormous shirt-sleeved crowd roared a welcome that was defiance. Then waiting showers of red firecrackers began to fly, and the scene became a smoke clouded battlefield. Small guns popped incessantly and artillery worked strenuously. When this explosion subsided and the smoke rolled away, the Findlay team stood covered with little red and yellow pieces of paper and sniffing the brimstone in the air.
“Git in an’ scrap today, boys,” cried Enoch, and for once his voice was not soft.
“There’s nothing to it,” said Cas, forgetting his prophecy.
“A short, hard practice now,” added Mac. “Start the dust! Dig ’em up an’ peg ’em! Keep lively an’ noisy!”
Kenton was very different from Wheeling, being one of those baseball towns where the patrons of the game could not see a point, or appreciate a play, or applaud a game unless it was won by their own team. This operated to the poor showing of their team, because when opposing teams visited Kenton they were driven to desperation by the criticism and taunts and atmosphere of an unsportsmanlike crowd, and they fought the games to the last ditch.
Mac particularly warned his players not to question a single decision of the umpire. That official, “Silk” O’Connor, baseballically reported to be as smooth as silk, was to be in the points that day. Silk was the best umpire in the league. But he was not especially beloved in Kenton. He had officiated in too many games lost by one run. And Silk had an irritating habit of adding a caustic comment to some of his rulings, a kind of wit that did not inspire the players to silence. Further, which seemed unreasonable, he never allowed a player to talk back to him.
“Lookout for Silk today, boys,” concluded Mac. “He’s up against it here, same as we are. Don’t expect no close decisions. Don’t even look at him. Jest drive these Kenton pitchers to the woods. Make the game one-sided.”
“Play ball!” called Silk.
