CHARLES E.VAN LOAN
 
 I/J 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 EDWIN CORLE 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 JEAN CORLE
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 CHARLES E. VAN LOAN
 
 BY CHARLES E. VAN LOAN 
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 FORE! 
 
 OLD MAN CURRY 
 
 BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES E. VAN LOAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "OLD MAN CURRY," "FORE!" ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW XSJr YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1913-14-16, by The Cards Publishing Company 
 
 Copyright, 1915, by The Ridgway Company 
 
 Copyright, 1913-14, by Street & Smith Corporation 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 ELLIS WILLIAM JONES
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES . . . .11 
 
 PIUTE vs. PIUTE .40 
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY .73 
 
 THE SQUIRREL 103 
 
 I U 137 
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 168 
 
 His OWN STUFF .205 
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 239 
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND Two ERRORS 274 
 
 MISTER CONLEY . . 312 
 
 vil
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 ;< ^ T"OU LL never guess who s here," said 
 |j "Lefty" Lucas to his bosom com 
 panion, Sam Whelan. "Not in a thou 
 sand years." 
 
 "Oh, well," remarked Sam, with a prodigious 
 yawn, "if that s the way it is, you tell me right 
 off the reel and look at all the time we save! 
 Who is the gentle stranger, anyhow?" 
 
 " Gentle stranger is good," said Lefty. 
 "It s old Four-eyed Fowler!" 
 
 "You don t believe me!" ejaculated Sam. 
 "Why, I thought that old coot was married to 
 his Chicago job!" 
 
 "He s got a divorce, or a change of venue, or 
 something," said Lucas. "Or maybe the squir 
 rels got next to him, and began following him 
 around, and he had to leave. He landed in 
 Chris MulvihilPs old job on the Banner, and 
 he s down here to grind out the usual spring- 
 training bunk. As if we ain t got enough crazy 
 people with this ball club a ready!" Lefty 
 spoke with bitterness, spitting out the words 
 one by one. "There s Cordell, and Hackett, 
 and Ante Angarola, and Bugs Nieswanger 
 
 [11]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 four as crazy ball players as ever got onto 
 the same pay roll, but four ain t enough evi 
 dently, so we have to go and draw a nutty re 
 porter to stiffen the hand and make it a cinch ! 
 They never will quit calling us the Daffydils 
 now!" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know about that," said Whelan 
 soothingly. "I can t see where you get any 
 license to call old Fowler crazy. These old-time 
 baseball reporters are the best of the bunch, 
 if you ask me. They ain t near so likely to be 
 home fans like the younger fellows; and then, 
 old Four-eyes writes as smooth an account of 
 a ball game as you could wish to see." 
 
 "Uh huh, and Angarola is as smooth a third 
 baseman as you could wish to see," grunted 
 Lefty, "but he s crazy just the same, ain t he? 
 I never said that Fowler couldn t write up a 
 game to the queen s taste. Dog-gone him, he 
 ought to know how; he s been reporting base 
 ball ever since Eobert E. Lee surrendered!" 
 
 "I expect," said Sam slowly, "the old boy 
 panned you once or twice, and you ve never 
 forgotten it!" 
 
 "Never panned me in his life!" sputtered 
 Lucas. "That crack just shows what a natural 
 bone you are, Sam! Pers nally I ain t got a 
 thing against him grand old guy, and all that, 
 but me, I draw the line at any white man who 
 goes tearing around the country with his vest 
 pockets full of lizards, and things like that. 
 Sure! That s his hobby, lizards! Doc McGin- 
 ness tells me the old boy honestly thinks he s 
 
 [12]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 going to write a book about em some day. A 
 book on lizards! Now, Sam, you know that 
 ain t natural; he s crazy, I tell you!" 
 
 "I don t see it," argued Sam stubbornly. 
 "People write books about everything these 
 days. There s no reason why lizards can t 
 have a book written about em." 
 
 "You make me sick!" said Lefty hotly. 
 "You re just taking Fowler s end for the sake 
 of the argument. I tell you, Sam, it ain t safe 
 to have a nut like him with a ball club, because 
 you can t ever tell what he ll be springing next. 
 Look what he did a few seasons ago when he 
 was on the road with the Benedicts! Carried 
 four white mice all the way from Boston to 
 St. Looey ! He said he was educating em to do 
 tricks, but one night the boys had a Dutch 
 lunch in the Pullman, and the mice smelt the 
 cheese, and horned out of the box where Fowler 
 kept em, to go looking for it. A couple of em 
 wandered into Mrs. Henshaw s berth by mis 
 take, and she like to had a conniption fit. Mace 
 chucked the mice out into the vestibule, and the 
 chances are they stepped off the train. Any 
 way, they never turned up, and old Four-eyes 
 was sore as a pig about it. Mice are bad 
 enough, Sam, but lizards are worse, and the 
 way the old boy is going, he s likely to switch 
 to snakes at any time. What can you do with 
 a fellow like that?" 
 
 "Well," said Sam thoughtfully, "you can 
 lay off of him, for one thing." 
 
 "Huh!" snorted Lefty, with wrath. "You 
 [13]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 don t need to think that I m going to bother 
 him. I believe in letting a nut alone, every time, 
 but if it was up to me, I d step out now and 
 pull the box for the padded wagon. What old 
 Fowler needs is a nice big sunny room, with 
 bars on the windows, and sand on the floor, 
 where he can get in and skate around on his 
 hands and knees with those lizards to his 
 heart s content. He don t belong with a ball 
 club, Sam. He ought to be out in that ward 
 where the old men play with paper dolls and 
 things!" 
 
 " Pshaw!" said Whelan. "I wouldn t be as 
 narrow as you for a farm! You ve got no tol 
 eration, that s what ails you. If you d lived 
 a few hundred years ago, you d have been out 
 there burning people at the stake because they 
 didn t happen to think the same as you about 
 things. Suppose old Four-eyes is pretty strong 
 for lizards! Chances are, that s the way he 
 amuses himself. You carry around half a dozen 
 old decks of cards to play that Canfield soli 
 taire with, and probably, if you asked Fowler 
 what he thought about it, he d say Canfield was 
 a crazy game. Every fellow to his own taste, 
 Lefty. I can t say that I m stuck on lizards 
 myself. I let em have all the room they 
 seem to need, and always did, but my not 
 liking em doesn t make me sane any more 
 than having em around him makes Fowler 
 crazy." 
 
 "That s right," sneered Lucas; "keep on 
 kidding yourself, Sam. I m saying that I can 
 
 [14]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 see trouble ahead t-r-o-u-b-l-e. Just you stick 
 around here until Angarola, and Nieswanger, 
 and the rest of those lunatics get a slant at 
 Fowler, and watch the doings around this 
 joint. You know what the same bunch did last 
 year around here, and you know that this 
 spring-training stuff seems to bring out all the 
 deviltry in that outfit. It s a cinch they ll pick 
 Four-eyes. He s new to the club, he s kind of 
 different from an ordinary newspaper man, and 
 Angarola 11 just about figure that Fowler was 
 sent down here to keep him amused. I wouldn t 
 be that old boy, not for a thousand bones and 
 that s more money than I ever saw, except 
 through a wire netting. Cheese it! Here he 
 comes!" 
 
 Lucas and Whelan, members of the pitching 
 staff of a big-league ball club lately christened 
 the Daffydils, were sitting on the front steps of 
 a winter-tourist hotel in that portion of Amer 
 ica oftenest referred to as "the great South 
 west," arguing while they waited the welcome 
 bang of the dinner gong. 
 
 The figure which silenced their discussion ad 
 vanced upon the pitchers, and surely there was 
 nothing in the appearance of J. Horace Fowler 
 in the flesh to give weight to the Lucas theory 
 of dangerous irresponsibility. On the con 
 trary, most people, giving J. Horace a cursory 
 inspection, would vote him quite harmless and 
 entirely responsible. 
 
 There were only three things about Fowler 
 which might have attracted attention first, his 
 
 [15]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 neckwear ; second, his eyeglasses, and third, his 
 wrinkles. 
 
 No one ever knew why old Four-eyes affected 
 the black choker stock of 1830 see portraits of 
 Andrew Jackson, Edgar Allan Poe, et al. and, 
 perhaps, it might even be argued that a man s 
 neckwear is his own business. 
 
 Next in point of importance were the glasses 
 round in shape, rather larger than a silver 
 dollar, and rimmed with thick circles of tortoise 
 shell. With his glasses on, J. Horace might 
 have posed as the original of Mr. F. Opper s 
 "Common People." 
 
 Now we come to the wrinkles. 
 
 "Y* see," said one of Fowler s baseball 
 friends, in attempting to explain the old gen 
 tleman s shrivelled appearance, Four-eyes 
 was born with the skin of a big man, under 
 stand? But he didn t make good, and his hide 
 just nachelly had to shrink to fit him. There s 
 only one thing in the world more wrinkled 
 than he is and that s an elephant s hind 
 leg." 
 
 If you cannot visualise J. Horace, advancing 
 behind his eyeglasses, one more fashion note 
 may help you. There are men who wear soft 
 gaiters with elastic anklets. Horace was one of 
 them. 
 
 Twenty-five years ago he had been pitch 
 forked into the newspaper game, mostly by ac 
 cident, with a dash of contributory negligence 
 thrown in for good measure. Neither the round 
 peg nor the square hole has a vote in the scheme 
 
 [16]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 of things, so, perhaps, it could not have been 
 helped. 
 
 A city editor, who was of the man-eating 
 type, did not know what to do with young Fow 
 ler. This was at the beginning of baseball s 
 popularity in the country; the game was forc 
 ing itself upon the press. 
 
 "You re a college man, eh?" demanded the 
 man-eater. "Know anything about baseball?" 
 
 "N-n-no, sir," stammered Horace; "that is 
 to say, very little, indeed." 
 
 "Good!" shouted the city editor. "You can 
 never learn any younger. See what you can do 
 with baseball ! 
 
 J. Horace accepted this assignment as he 
 would have accepted any other newspaper task. 
 It was clear to his methodical and somewhat 
 academic mind that in order to write under- 
 standingly about this game, he must make it a 
 study. When it came to making a study of a 
 thing, J. Horace was right at home with all the 
 lights lit and blinds up to the limit. 
 
 While other newspapers contented them- 
 with alleged humorous accounts of the game 
 written by men who recognised no need for spe 
 cial knowledge upon the subject, patient, plod 
 ding Horace set about to acquire expert in 
 formation, and before many days his prim, 
 precise, and rather stiff accounts of the league 
 battles of that distant period attracted wido 
 attention in the city. Street sales jumped won 
 derfully; a few hundred enthusiasts took their 
 pens in hand to congratulate the editor upon 
 
 [17]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 the acquisition of a real baseball expert, rather 
 than a reporter who merely thought himself 
 funny without the least notion of what he was 
 funny about. 
 
 The managing editor read all these letters 
 carefully, for he was a wise man, who believed 
 in counting the public pulse. The communica 
 tions from the fans settled Fowler s fate. 
 
 "See here," said the managing editor to sev 
 eral of the "straw bosses," "we ve been mak 
 ing a mistake about this baseball fad. We ve 
 been making fun of the game when what these 
 fellows want is a serious account, handled by 
 an expert the same as we handle billiards or 
 racing. Fowler has caught on big. Take him 
 off everything else, and tell him to cut loose 
 with as much of this baseball stuff as he can 
 write. There s circulation in it!" 
 
 "By golly!" said the city editor, reaching 
 for his slice of the credit, "I guess I knew a 
 good man when I saw him, eh? I had an idea 
 his serious stuff would make a hit!" 
 
 Thus J. Horace Fowler fell a victim to his 
 own lust for exact information and accuracy of 
 detail. He had no love for baseball, or any 
 other form of out-door exercise. His tastes 
 were bookish in the extreme. He found him 
 self in the position of the actor who, having 
 made a pronounced success in a detested part, 
 must continue to play the despised role to the 
 end of his career. 
 
 The young man saw his horizon narrowing, 
 and not without misgivings. Unfortunately for 
 
 [18]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 his ambition, there was in him the traitorous 
 patience which usually goes with a treadmill 
 job patience and the timidity which keeps 
 some human animals forever circling an un 
 ending path, their souls longing for green pas 
 tures outside the dusty ring, but their coward 
 feet dreading the break with an ordered exist 
 ence. 
 
 When his paper began to advertise him as 
 "the well-known baseball expert and author 
 ity," Fowler plucked up courage to enter a 
 faint protest. 
 
 "Oh, I say!" he complained to the city edi 
 tor. "You mustn t do that. Really, you 
 mustn t! I m not an authority. Honestly, I m 
 not!" 
 
 "Sure you re not!" said the man-eater 
 cheerily. "And I m not a city editor, either, 
 but I ve got people conned into thinking I am, 
 and that s what counts. You ll be an expert 
 if we keep on bragging about you for a few 
 weeks, so cheer up!" 
 
 Years afterward J. Horace looked back to 
 that precise point of his development and recog 
 nised that at that instant he should have 
 asserted himself, instead of which he clucked a 
 few times, and backed away from the city edi 
 tor s desk elected for life. In fact, it might 
 almost be said that J. Horace clucked himself 
 into a quarter of a century of mental bond 
 age, and was never able to cluck himself out 
 of it. 
 
 In time baseball became a habit with Fowler, 
 [19]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 binding him closer with each succeeding sea 
 son. Youthful ambition faded, and Fowler ac 
 cepted the inevitable, though there were periods 
 when he cast wistful eyes upon the green mead 
 ows and wondered what he might have been 
 had he not become a baseball expert. 
 
 Players came up, held the limelight for a 
 space, and vanished ; managers were made and 
 broken; the whole personnel of the league 
 changed several times, but old Four-eyes re 
 mained in the beaten track, kicking up the same 
 old dust; quiet, unobtrusive, sometimes a bit 
 prosy in his reminiscent vein, but recognised as 
 a distinct cog in the machine, and, in spite of 
 his early protest, an " expert" of national 
 standing and distinction. Twelve months a 
 year he ground out his baseball column. Noth 
 ing excited him, nothing aroused his enthu 
 siasm. He never tried to drive a ball player out 
 of the league; he seldom "boosted" one, and 
 he never railed at the umpires. He was one of 
 the odd characters developed by the growth of 
 the national pastime, and as such he had his 
 niche and his peculiar value. 
 
 Is it any wonder that such an one, after 
 twenty-five years on the treadmill should have 
 taken up an alien subject for relief from the 
 deadly monotony 1 ? Is it any wonder that he 
 turned to a study of the lower forms of life 
 the Lacertilia, for instance? 
 
 The new addition to the Daffydil menage 
 smiled at the two pitchers as he approached. 
 There was always something human about the 
 
 [20]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 old man s smile a hint of warm blood behind 
 the wrinkles. 
 
 "Well!" said Whelan cordially. "You re 
 with us now, are you? I hope you ll teach some 
 of these young reporters how to write about a 
 ball game without panning everybody, from the 
 manager to the bat boy." 
 
 "Yes," said Fowler, "I ve made a change. 
 It doesn t make so much difference where a 
 man lives, does it?" 
 
 "That s what you think now!" said Lefty 
 abruptly. "You might change your mind. 
 You ve stepped into a continuous vaudeville 
 show with this bunch. A fine lot of lunatics 
 we ve got now." With which rather ambigu 
 ous greeting, Lefty arose and went indoors. 
 Whelan loyally covered his retreat. 
 
 "Pay no attention to Lucas," said the good- 
 hearted Sam. "Lefty s arm is sore this spring, 
 and any time the old soup-bone bothers him, 
 he s a crab for fair. He just wanted to tip 
 it off to you that this is a pretty lively outfit." 
 
 "Um-m-m! So I ve heard. Practical jokers, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 "Well, not so very practical," qualified Sam. 
 "They re more along the line of rough kidders, 
 if you ask me. Some of the stuff they put over 
 is pretty raw." 
 
 "Like the crowd Pop Anson used to have 
 in the old days. Their hearts were all right, 
 but dear, dear! The things they used to do! 
 Well, all work and no play makes Jack a dull 
 boy, you know." 
 
 [21]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 1 Correct-o ! said Whelan. But how about 
 all play and no work? Oh, things will never be 
 dull around here. See here, Fowler, you did 
 me a good turn once when I was just breaking 
 into the league, and I m going to give you a 
 friendly tip. Lock the door of your room when 
 you go out anywhere, and carry the key with 
 you. Do you get me ? 
 
 "I think so," said Fowler, after a short 
 pause. "The official rough-housers are likely 
 to call on me, are they?" 
 
 "Only when you re out," said Sam signifi 
 cantly. "Fixing up a man s room for him is 
 the best thing they do. You ought to seen what 
 they did to Lefty the first night he got here." 
 
 "Thank you, Sam," said old Four-eyes. "A 
 word to the wise, eh? I won t forget. There 
 might be some things in my room that I well, 
 things that I wouldn t like to have disturbed." 
 
 Then Fowler switched the subject to base 
 ball, and shop talk lasted until the gong ham 
 mered out the invitation to dine. 
 
 Joe Pepper drew a plump salary as manager 
 of the Daffydils, and was beginning to doubt 
 that he was worth it. 
 
 It was his second season with the club, and 
 lie was being made to understand that the man 
 ager who tries to be too much of a "good fel 
 low" makes a fatal mistake. A Sunday-school 
 teacher may sometimes be "one of the boys," 
 and his class take no harm from it, but the plan 
 will not work in baseball. On every team there 
 
 [22]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 are certain men who will take advantage of a 
 slack rein, and Joe had introduced himself to 
 the club by taking off the bridle altogether. 
 
 "I m not going to wet-nurse you fellows," 
 Pepper had remarked to the veterans of the 
 team. "I m not going to sit up nights to see 
 what time you come in. You re grown men, and 
 old enough to use your own judgment. All I 
 ask is that you keep in shape to play ball dur 
 ing the season, and as for the rest, I trust you." 
 
 The theory was all right many of Joe s 
 theories were all right but it fell down hard 
 when tested. The Daffydils were particularly 
 rich in mischievous, rattle-brained young men 
 who had very little judgment of their own on 
 which to depend, and Pepper s first season as a 
 big-league manager dusted the hair over his 
 ears and planted new wrinkles between his eyes. 
 The boys played ball for him, seldom allowing 
 pleasure to interfere with business, but they 
 might have played better ball with a few hours 
 more sleep each night. 
 
 As is common with theorists, Joe decided to 
 go to the other extreme. 
 
 "I gave em a chance," he thought, "and 
 they abused it. From now on, I m a slave 
 driver for fair. 
 
 Pepper arrived at this decision a couple of 
 weeks after the opening of the spring-training 
 season, aided thereto by the knowledge that 
 several of the club s stars were not rounding 
 into playing form as rapidly as they might have 
 done. 
 
 [23]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Angarola, Nieswanger, Cordell, Hackett, Mc- 
 Lanahan, and Sherwin were among the lag 
 gards. All-night poker parties with unlimited 
 liquid refreshments were gumming the wheels 
 of progress, and while Joe suspected the 
 cause, he had never been able to catch the mis 
 creants full-handed, as it were. Draw poker 
 is a fine game, but very few men can train 
 on it. 
 
 This was the situation when Fowler joined 
 the team. The first time the old reporter 
 walked into the dining-room, Angarola, ring 
 leader in all the deviltry afoot, and self-con 
 stituted chairman of the room committee, cocked 
 an inquiring eye at Tiny Hackett, the short 
 stop. 
 
 "Look who s here!" said Nieswanger, an 
 other of the fiery and untamed spirits. "We ll 
 have to slip him some of that welcome-to-our- 
 city stuff, won t we?" 
 
 "No hurry," said Charlie Cordell. "Give 
 the old guy a chance to unpack his things and 
 settle down. Maybe he s got some of his pets 
 with him. Let him light and run along a 
 while." 
 
 There is nothing new in the practical-joke 
 line, particularly among ball players. Away 
 back in the early days of the game, a practical 
 humourist conceived the idea of letting himself 
 into a friend s room and "stacking the furni 
 ture." Ever since then this form of humour 
 has been highly esteemed among ball players. 
 The Daffydils had a room committee second to 
 
 [24]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 none in any league, and when Angarola and 
 company were through with a man s belongings 
 nothing was left to the imagination. It was 
 the Daffydil method of initiation, signifying 
 no ill will, but rather a rough sort of a wel 
 come. 
 
 Of course, the committee honoured Fowler 
 with a call. One evening the old gentleman 
 stepped around the corner to the telegraph 
 office, and when he returned, having been 
 absent but a scant quarter of an hour, he dis 
 covered evidences of the good feeling of the 
 Daffydils. 
 
 Old Four-eyes was wise, and he was also 
 patient. After a long search in the dark he 
 located the missing electric-light bulbs, and be 
 held the extent of the damage. Four hours 
 hard work returned some sort of order out of 
 chaos. It is astonishing how much four or five 
 young men can accomplish in a short space of 
 time ; and a Saratoga trunk, emptied after the 
 fashion of a terrier digging at a rat hole, 
 creates a vast amount of confusion in a small 
 room. It was a very fine job, but the members 
 of the wrecking crew, by this time playing 
 poker in CordelPs room, with a blanket over the 
 transom, and paper stuffed into the cracks of 
 the door, were disappointed. 
 
 "I wonder," said Nieswanger, cautiously 
 "skinning" his hand for openers, "if that was 
 all the bunk about his having lizards and things. 
 He got two crates of something by express the 
 other day, but if there was any lizards or things 
 
 [25]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 in that room, I don t know where they were hid 
 ing. Hey?" 
 
 1 * Maybe he doesn t keep em in his room," 
 suggested Angarola. "I ll bet he s got em 
 somewhere at that." 
 
 "We ll have to keep tab on him and find 
 out," said Hackett. "Come on, Charlie; what 
 are you doing?" 
 
 "I ll crack it," said Cordell, shoving two 
 blues to the centre. "It ll cost you burglars a 
 dollar to draw against my little pair." 
 
 The next morning at breakfast old Four-eyes 
 favoured the assembled athletes with his usual 
 bland smile, and the members of the room com 
 mittee, watching him narrowly out of eyes red 
 der than they should have been, discovered no 
 trace of annoyance in his manner. 
 
 "Takes it like a sport," whispered Hackett 
 to Nieswanger. "Suppose he knows who did 
 it?" 
 
 "Of course he does!" said the left fielder. 
 "He s got sense enough to know that it won t 
 do him any good to make a holler. Gee, but 
 I ve got an awful headache!" 
 
 That morning Joe Pepper, surveying his war 
 riors, noted the red eyes and the extreme lassi 
 tude which marked the morning practice of the 
 wrecking crew. To these miscreants he an 
 nounced his change of policy. 
 
 "I ve stood a lot of fooling," said the man 
 ager, "but from now on, you fellows have got 
 to cut it out. You re not taking care of your- 
 
 [26]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 selves; you re not giving the club your best 
 services. After this, the very first fellow that 
 I catch out of bed at eleven o clock is going to 
 be fined enough to make it interesting. I gave 
 you boys a chance, and you played me for a 
 boob. Remember now, no more booze and no 
 more poker. If you think this is a joke, you 
 let me catch you and it ll cost you a month s 
 pay all around. Understand?" 
 
 For a few days this terrible threat held the 
 disorderly element in check. Joe Pepper, hav 
 ing changed from Jekyll to Hyde, openly 
 patrolled the corridors of the hotel at un 
 seasonable hours, listening at keyholes for 
 sounds of revelry by night, and an immediate 
 improvement in the condition of several mem 
 bers of the team was noticeable. 
 
 Their natural outlet closed, the wreckers 
 turned to other fields of entertainment, with one 
 important result. On a Friday night Angarola 
 and Nieswanger were playing pool in the bil 
 liard room at the hotel when Hackett burst in 
 upon them, breathless. 
 
 "I ve got em located!" he panted. 
 
 "Got who located?" demanded Angarola, 
 elaborately chalking his cue. "Got what 
 located?" 
 
 "The lizards!" said Hackett. "About a 
 thousand of em!" 
 
 "You don t say so!" cried Nieswanger. 
 "Then he had em here all the time?" 
 
 "Sure!" said Hackett. "He s got em up in 
 a vacant room on the top floor, the whole flock 
 
 [27]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 of em. Some of em are in cages and boxes, 
 and some of em are running around loose." 
 
 "You saw em?" asked Angarola. 
 
 "Of course I did! I spotted the old boy 
 coming down from the top floor this noon, and 
 I went nosing around up there while he was 
 writing his stuff. He must have framed up 
 some deal with the hotel folks on the strict Q. 
 T. I picked the lock of the door with a hair 
 pin and looked em over horned toads, long- 
 tail lizards, short-tail lizards, bobtail lizards, 
 and one great big fellow with a blue tongue! 
 Oh, he s got em all here, you bet!" 
 
 Angarola grinned reflectively as he dropped 
 the eighth ball in the side pocket. 
 
 "It seems a kind of a shame," sagd he, "that 
 the old man should keep all those poor things 
 penned up indoors. A lizard was meant to 
 have some pers nal liberty. I guess" and 
 here Angarola paused to beam upon his lieu 
 tenants in crime "I guess we ll have to look 
 into this thing!" 
 
 They did look into it, and the next morning, 
 old Pour-eyes, ascending soft-footedly to the 
 top floor, found the door of room thirty-seven 
 unlocked, and, with a cold premonition chilling 
 his spine, stepped over the threshold. No 
 rustle and scramble along the sanded floor 
 greeted him ; the first glance was enough to tell 
 the story. Gone were the friendly horned 
 toads, representing seven species, three years 
 of correspondence, and no small amount of 
 money. Gone were the little grey swifts, the 
 
 [28]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 blue-bellied mountain lizards of the Pacific 
 coast, and the black racers of the South all 
 gone. A wire cage, upside down in the middle 
 of the floor, was a melancholy reminder of the 
 gem of the collection, the blue-tongued Aus 
 tralian skink, worth twice his weight in gold. 
 It had taken Fowler four years to make his 
 collection, and it had been dispersed over 
 night. 
 
 Forty-seven seconds afterward, Joe Pepper, 
 attacking his grapefruit at the breakfast table, 
 was violently shaken by a wild-eyed little old 
 man, who cried: 
 
 "A joke is a joke, but where are my lizards? 
 "Where are they?" 
 
 Lefty Lucas, sitting with Sam Whelan, said : 
 
 "What did I tell you? He ain t crazy or 
 anything! Just look at him!" 
 
 Whelan shook his head. An old man in a 
 black stock and round eyeglasses, who dances, 
 and sputters, and howls, may easily be mistaken 
 for a lunatic. Joe Pepper listened with his 
 mouth open, while Angarola, Nieswanger, and 
 Hackett exhibited lively interest and curi 
 osity. 
 
 "Lizards?" said Joe Pepper. "What 
 lizards!" 
 
 "Come and see! Come and see!" cried 
 Fowler. 
 
 Pepper accompanied him to the top floor, 
 where he gazed upon the ruin wrought by the 
 unknown miscreants. 
 
 "Almost my entire collection!" chattered 
 [29]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Fowler. "One hundred and fifteen specimens; 
 fifty-eight species! It took me four years to 
 get them together; last night they were here, 
 and now they re gone! Your rowdy ball play 
 ers have stolen them! I was warned they d 
 do it! I can sue your club, sir! I can recover 
 heavy damages!" 
 
 "But what did you want the things for?" 
 demanded the sometimes practical Pepper, 
 peering into the late habitation of the blue- 
 tongued Australian skink. 
 
 "My book!" screamed the old man. " La- 
 certilia of the Western Hemisphere ! I am 
 writing a book! I ll sue 
 
 It took two hours to explain to Mr. Fowler 
 that he could not bring suit without definite 
 proof, and just as he was beginning to listen to 
 reason, a bell boy brought word that the back 
 yard of the hotel was full of lizards. It was, 
 but most of them were dead. A few of the 
 horned toads survived the fall from the top 
 floor, being hardy vertebrates, but the Aus 
 tralian skink, the swifts, the blue-bellied moun 
 tain lizards, and the black racers had passed 
 from captivity into the freedom of the great 
 beyond. Fowler s language surprised even the 
 ball players, some of whom assisted in gather 
 ing up the defunct reptiles. 
 
 Joe Pepper made an investigation, and old 
 Four-eyes cross-questioned every one in the 
 hotel, but nobody seemed to know a thing about 
 the affair. Angarola was particularly loud in 
 denouncing it as an outrage. Hackett and 
 
 [30]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 Nieswanger stood pat on an alibi, and Charlie 
 Cordell, out of it for once, depended upon the 
 plain truth. 
 
 Fowler fumed, and raved, and threatened for 
 the better part of a week before he made up his 
 mind that no redress was possible. In his heart 
 he felt certain of the identity of the culprits, 
 but lack of definite proof rendered him helpless. 
 At the end of the week his mind began to work 
 in another channel, and he sent a long telegram 
 to a curio dealer in Chicago, beginning with 
 these words: 
 
 Ship me express the three specimens Heloderma suspectum 
 left in your care. 
 
 "What s that?" asked the night operator. 
 "A cipher?" 
 
 "Well," said old Fowler, "it amounts to the 
 same thing." 
 
 The storm blew over, and the wrecking crew 
 went back to draw poker in Hackett s room 
 with a blanket over the transom and paper 
 chips, which do not rattle. Sam Whelan and 
 Lefty Lucas occupied the room next to Hack 
 ett s, with a common bathroom between. Fow 
 ler took to dropping in on Whelan late in the 
 evening, much to Lucas disgust. There were 
 times when the riffling of cards could be dis 
 tinctly heard by Whelan s guest, but he said 
 nothing until the express agent notified him of 
 the arrival of a strong wire crate. 
 
 "Come on up to my room a minute," said 
 [31]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Fowler to Whelan. "I ve got something I want 
 to show you." 
 
 "Whelan followed, wondering. Old Four-eyes 
 slipped out the top slide of the crate and bade 
 Sam look inside. Sprawling in the sand were 
 three vicious-looking reptiles, thickset and 
 stumpy in outline, covered from their flat, 
 broad heads to their heavy tails with beadlike 
 nodules in regular patterns of black, brown, 
 yellow and pink. 
 
 1 Holy cats ! gasped the ball player. What 
 are they?" 
 
 "A species of lizard from the Great Ameri 
 can Desert," said Fowler. "That one over in 
 the corner is the biggest one I have ever seen. 
 Aren t they beauties?" 
 
 "They are if you say so," said the diplo 
 matic Sam. "What do you call em?" 
 
 "Gila monsters," said Fowler. " Helo- 
 derma suspectum is the scientific name." 
 
 "I ll take your word for it," said Whelan. 
 "I d suspect em on sight. Will they bite?" 
 
 "If you give em a chance," said Fowler. 
 "They re supposed to be poisonous, but they 
 are so slow on their feet that very few people 
 have ever been bitten by them." 
 
 "They d have to do a hundred yards in nine 
 seconds flat to catch me!" announced Sam. 
 "Golly, what ugly-looking brutes!" 
 
 "They aren t handsome for a fact," said old 
 Four-eyes, beaming behind his glasses. "Just 
 for fun, I call em the National Commis 
 sion. " 
 
 [32]
 
 THE NATIONAL, COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 "Got em named, have you?" asked Whelan, 
 backing away from the crate. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Fowler. "I call the big one 
 Ban Johnson, because he s the boss. The one 
 in the middle is Garry Herrmann, and this one 
 here is Lynch." 
 
 Whelan roared at this odd conceit. 
 
 "What s the idea of bringing them down 
 here?" he asked. "This ain t no healthy place 
 for lizards. Some one might turn these babies 
 loose, and you d lose em." 
 
 "No," said Fowler. "Nobody will bother 
 these fellows. Nobody would dare get that 
 close to them. I brought them here for a cer 
 tain purpose. You know what happened to my 
 other specimens. That little joke cost me 
 about five hundred dollars to say nothing of 
 my time, and the book I intended to write. I 
 tried to get satisfaction from Pepper, and there 
 was nothing doing. Sam, what does a fellow 
 do when the manager of the club won t listen 
 to his complaint and the league won t help 
 him?" 
 
 "I dunno," said Sam blankly. "Puts it up 
 to the National Commission, I guess." 
 
 Fowler chuckled and tickled "Ban John 
 son" with the end of a pencil. The creature 
 made an odd, hissing sound, and moved pon 
 derously across the cage. 
 
 "You ve said it, Sam!" said Fowler. 
 "That s exactly what I m going to do. I m 
 going to put my case before the National Com 
 mission this commission ! 
 
 [33]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Whelan sat down on the edge of the bed and 
 regarded Fowler with unblinking eyes. 
 
 "He is crazy, after all!" thought the pitcher. 
 
 "Angarola and his bunch did it," said Fow 
 ler. "I feel sure enough of it to take an oath, 
 but I couldn t prove it. Now, then, Sam, I 
 owe those fellows something, and if I can t get 
 square with them one way, maybe I can in 
 another. 
 
 "That sounds reasonable," said Whelan, 
 "but how can you get hunk?" 
 
 "Easy. They play poker in Hackett s room, 
 don t they, next door to you with the bath 
 room in between? Pepper has gone on record 
 that he would fine the next man he caught 
 breaking training rules a month s salary. Sup 
 pose he should catch that bunch 
 
 "Nix!" said Whelan. "You wouldn t tip 
 em off to Joe, would you? That wouldn t be 
 playing the game, and besides, they d make 
 your life a hell on earth." 
 
 "You misunderstand me," said Fowler. 
 "Suppose something should happen that would 
 make them tip themselves off? Suppose 
 And here old Four-eyes departed into the realm, 
 of conjecture, while Sam rolled about on the 
 bed and laughed until the tears came. 
 
 "A grand idea!" he gurgled. "Oh, you 
 National Commish!" 
 
 The hour was very late, or very early, just 
 as you prefer. Hackett was entertaining, as 
 usual, and four members of the wrecking crew 
 
 [34]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 were seated about a small table upon which was 
 spread a thick woollen blanket, serving as a 
 silencer. The men talked in guarded whis 
 pers. 
 
 "If I d caught that spade I was looking for," 
 complained Nieswanger huskily, "I d have 
 made you put those three K-cards back in the 
 deck!" 
 
 "There you go again!" said Angarola. "I 
 came near owning a railroad once. Asked the 
 man if he d give it to me, an he hie! he 
 says No ! If he d said Yes 
 
 "Oh, shut up and deal the cards!" grumbled 
 the genial host who was losing. "I d just as 
 soon play poker with a lot of ole women as 
 with you guys! Any rye left in that bottle, 
 Charlie?" 
 
 Cordell lifted a quart bottle and shook it, 
 listening to the thin tinkle. 
 
 "Mighty little. Guess you d better switch 
 to bourbon. It s back of your chair." 
 
 Angarola riffled the cards and dealt swiftly. 
 The game proceeded. Losers sought consola 
 tion in the form of raw liquor, and winners 
 drank to continued prosperity. 
 
 "S pose ole Joe come hornin in now, 
 what?" suggested Angarola at four in the 
 morning. "Month s sala y gone jus like 
 that!" He snapped his fingers in the air. 
 
 "Forget it!" commanded Hackett. "Whose 
 do is it?" 
 
 At five o clock it was decided to play one 
 round of two-dollar jacks and break up the 
 
 [35]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 entertainment. Hackett protested feebly and 
 clamoured for the removal of the limit. 
 
 "Jus s you shay!" remarked Nieswanger. 
 "Bet em to the ceiling!" 
 
 He dealt clumsily, and Angarola, scrutinis 
 ing his cards with drunken gravity, pushed a 
 stack of blues to the centre. 
 
 "Cost you twenty bucks t sociate," he 
 mumbled. "Anybody goin stay!" 
 
 Hackett examined his hand with many grunts 
 and groans, and then, taking out his wallet, ex 
 tracted therefrom a yellow-backed bill which 
 he tossed into the pot. 
 
 "Make it fifty altogether!" he said thickly. 
 
 "Too strong for my little pair," said Cordell, 
 and Nieswanger also passed. Angarola grinned 
 at Hackett across the table. 
 
 "01 boy s tryin throw scare into me!" he 
 said. "Out on a limb. Goin try to steal my 
 stack hie! blue chips. Anybody but you, 
 Hack, an I might ic might let m get way 
 with it! Le s look see." Then Angarola 
 counted his checks and discovered that he was 
 "still pretty fat," as he expressed it. "No, 
 Hack!" he said, at length. "Can t steal 
 nothin from li l Angie!" He pushed more blue 
 chips to the centre of the table. 
 
 Just then the bathroom door creaked slightly, 
 but the players did not hear it. They were 
 wrapped up in the one big pot of the eve 
 ning. 
 
 "How many?" said Nieswanger, picking up 
 the deck. 
 
 [36]
 
 THE NATIONAL COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 "Me?" said Angarola. "Oh, I guess ic! 
 I ll jush play these!" 
 
 "If you had a pat hand," muttered Hackett 
 shrewdly, "you d have given me a back raise. 
 That being the case, I won t take any cards 
 myself. Now bet your head off!" 
 
 "Whew!" whistled Nieswanger. 
 
 There was a long silence. Angarola was be 
 ginning to wish that he had drawn to his three 
 tens. He scratched his chin and looked 
 thoughtfully about the room as if he expected 
 the furniture to give him some hint. His wan 
 dering eyes fell upon the bathroom door. It 
 was slowly opening. Angarola studied this 
 phenomenon gravely. 
 
 As he watched the widening crack, a blunt 
 pink nose appeared, followed by a flat, veno 
 mous head, covered with spotted warts. What 
 ever it was, the thing seemed to be moving. 
 Two pudgy forelegs next came into view, and 
 then a thick barrel of a body, elaborately 
 beaded in black and yellow. Angarola s eyes 
 were glassy, and his lips worked soundlessly. 
 
 "Come on there!" urged the nervous Hack 
 ett. "Your bet, Angie! Don t go into a 
 trance." 
 
 "Say!" whispered Angarola hoarsely. "Am 
 I drunk, or is that thing alive?" 
 
 The terror in his voice caused the players 
 to whirl in their chairs just as the first mem 
 ber of the "National Commission" heaved its 
 ugly shape over the threshold. Close behind 
 the slowly swaying tail came two more pink- 
 
 [37]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and-black horrors, and in the instant of para 
 lysed silence which ensued was heard a scratch 
 ing, scraping sound, as the blunt claws bit into 
 the carpet. Scientists disagree as to the deadly 
 nature of the bite of the Heloderma suspectum, 
 probably because no man with the use of his 
 legs ever allowed one to get close enough to 
 make a fair test. 
 
 Cordell has always claimed that if Hackett 
 had kept his mouth shut the most painful fea 
 tures of the incident might have been elimi 
 nated. Sam Whelan and old Four-eyes, 
 crouching in the bathroom, gave testimony that 
 four men yelled simultaneously four blood 
 curdling, ear-piercing yells, followed imme 
 diately by a sound of smashing furniture. That 
 was Nieswanger, trying to jump over the table 
 on his way to the door. 
 
 Joe Pepper, always a light sleeper, leaped 
 out of bed at the first outcry, and sprang into 
 the hall in time to see four of his hired men 
 dash wildly out of Hackett s room, yelling as 
 if their lives depended upon the amount of 
 noise they could make. 
 
 The manager, first amazed at the spectacle, 
 and then curious as to the cause of the scream 
 ing exodus, hurried to Hackett s room. He 
 saw the overturned table and the poker chips 
 upon the floor. He saw the empty bottles, and 
 he smelled of them. He saw the blanket hung 
 over the transom, and he smiled a hard smile. 
 
 Caught with the goods!" said Joe Pepper. 
 "With the goods!" 
 
 [38]
 
 THE NATIONAL, COMMISSION DECIDES 
 
 But of the "National Commission" the man 
 ager saw not so much as a single claw or tail. 
 Fowler had moved swiftly, and the recall of 
 the Commission had been extremely sudden. 
 
 "You heard what I said," remarked Pepper 
 to the victims that morning. "A month s sal 
 ary and it goes. I m as liberal as anybody. 
 I don t object to a little draw poker once in a 
 while, but I draw the line at delirium tre- 
 mens ! 
 
 "But, Joe," pleaded Hackett, "we all saw 
 em, I tell you ! They were right there in the 
 room! One of em tried to bite me!" 
 
 "Something bit you all right," said Pepper 
 unfeelingly, "but what did came out of a bottle. 
 What s the use of your lying about it?" 
 
 Old Four-eyes is still working upon his book. 
 Between times he travels with the Daffydils. 
 He could leave the door of his room wide open, 
 day or night ; no ball player would think of dis 
 turbing his possessions. 
 
 [39]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 TO begin with, we were broke. I tell you 
 this right off the reel so that those who 
 have been broke will make allowances, 
 and those who have not will use their 
 imaginations. We were broke to such an extent 
 that we were overripe for treason, anarchy, and 
 pillage, but mostly pillage. Frankie had two 
 eighty-five, I had a Columbian half-dollar with 
 a hole in it, and \ve were seven hundred miles 
 from home as the crow flies. We figured the 
 cash balance and estimated the mileage in the 
 freight caboose after the engine whistled for 
 Carson City. 
 
 This was in the summer of 04, between our 
 sophomore and junior years, and vacation was 
 drawing to a close. We had folks, of course, 
 nice respectable folks, but they had advised us 
 against spending the summer where, and how, 
 we wanted to spend it. To write home and 
 admit defeat would have damaged our pride 
 and punched holes in our future independence. 
 We had selected this little prodigal-son jaunt, 
 the far country was of our choosing, and it was 
 up to us to go the distance, husks and all. 
 
 [40]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 The reasons why we were broke don t belong 
 to this story. They had to do with our job in 
 Bullfrog, which was to work for a mining com 
 pany nearly an hour a day and play a game 
 of baseball every Sunday afternoon. They also 
 had to do with a squeeze play which went 
 wrong, and gave the Bullfroggers the notion 
 we had thrown the game. But never mind the 
 details; even now it distresses me to recall 
 them. 
 
 We found it was our move, and we moved 
 at once. After some promiscuous wanderings 
 we headed for Carson City, because Frankie 
 had once been there and claimed to have 
 wealthy and influential friends in the town. 
 We arrived in the morning, after pounding the 
 rails all night in the freight caboose. The con 
 ductor had bet against Bullfrog in our last 
 game, and felt under obligations to us. 
 
 As we were leaving the depot, Frankie let 
 out a yelp of joy and dashed across the street, 
 where he fell on the neck of a big, meaty-look 
 ing stranger. I followed, fearing that he had 
 been hit by the sun and hoping that he had 
 located one of the Carson millionaire pals that 
 he had been babbling about the night before; 
 but when I got a look at the meaty party, who 
 should it be but dear old John Holderman! 
 John graduated from college at the end of our 
 freshman year, but we had one fine large season 
 together on three varsity teams before he beat 
 it from the halls of learning. 
 
 After the first shock wore off, John conducted 
 [41]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 us to a place where they had limes and ice and 
 some other ingredients, and bade us be seated. 
 We started to tell him our troubles. 
 
 1 Coals to Newcastle!" said John. "Ossa 
 on Pelion! What would you do if they asked 
 you to make bricks without straw?" 
 
 "Your mouth is open," said I, "but you 
 haven t said anything. Cut out the simile and 
 the metaphor, and put her straight over." 
 
 * Briefly, then, and in words of one syllable, 
 said John, "I am the physical director and 
 athletic coach of the Stewart Indian School. I 
 give the noble Piute the degree of A.B.C." 
 
 "Able Bodied Citizen," said Frankie. "Old 
 stuff. Proceed with the rat-killing." 
 
 "Well, last spring," John continued, "our 
 baseball team went crazy with the heat and beat 
 the Nevada University bunch. Now the citizens 
 of Carson have put it up to me to w r ipe out a 
 long-standing grudge and lick the Reno ball- 
 club. I can t cut the mustard." 
 
 "Why not?" asked Frankie. 
 
 "Because," said John, holding up three 
 fingers to the waiter, "there is a hole in my 
 Piute infield as wide as the Washoe Valley. G. 
 Washington Delaware, my regular second-base 
 man, team captain, and brains of the outfit, if 
 any, has mopped up all the civilisation he can 
 hold and gone back to the cactus, leaving us 
 flat. The Reno people know I am up against 
 it, and are hot on my trail. If I refuse to meet 
 them, Carson will think I am a shine physical- 
 director. If I meet them and lose, they will 
 
 [42]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 say I am a rotten baseball-coach and knock me 
 out of my job. I am in a tough position." 
 
 "Haven t you got a boy you can break in?" 
 
 "You do not understand the Piute," said 
 John sadly. "This Gr. Washington Delaware, 
 aforesaid, was the only one of his kind. He 
 was almost as smart as a J. Fenimore Cooper 
 Indian. He was eighty per cent, of the team. 
 It will take the rest of my life to develop his 
 successor." 
 
 "H-m-m," said Frankie thoughtfully. "A 
 second-baseman, eh! Suppose now, John, 
 Heaven should send you a cracking good Injun 
 infielder a better man than G. Wash. Would 
 there be any dough in it for him, or is this a 
 glory job entirely?" 
 
 "If we could lick that Reno bunch," said 
 John, "there will be plenty of both. Money is 
 no object. We have a United States Mint 
 down the street, and the grateful citizens of 
 Carson would dynamite it. But why raise false 
 hopes?" 
 
 "Take a good look at me, John." Frankie 
 was away out on the edge of his chair. "Note 
 these high cheek-bones, these classic features, 
 these dark, soulful eyes, and this coat of tan. I 
 was the star of the college dramatic club last 
 season, John. Strongheart was the piece; 
 and while I do not wish to heave hyacinths 
 at myself, Bob Edeson hasn t got a thing on 
 me at the Injun stuff. And as for second- 
 basing 
 
 "You?" said John. "You?" 
 [43]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Me!" said Frankie. "Little old me! We 
 need the money, John. Dress me up in beads, 
 feathers, and moccasins if you want to. I ll 
 cover that second pillow as it hasn t been cov 
 ered in these parts for lo, these many moons !" 
 
 "By thunder!" said John. "I believe you 
 could do it!" 
 
 "I ve got to do it! We are seven hundred 
 miles from home, and the walking is bad at this 
 time of the year. Figure it out for yourself." 
 
 n 
 
 The whole thing was settled that night at 
 the Indian school. First came the dress- 
 rehearsal. John had managed to dig up a wig 
 at the Emporium, but it was a tight fit, and we 
 had to run the horse-clippers over Frankie s 
 cranium before he could get it on. Then came 
 the walnut stain and the baseball uniform. 
 When we were through we stood off and ad 
 mired our work. 
 
 "If you ll remember to stand pigeon-toed," 
 said John, "you can go down and brace the 
 Commissioner for your forty acres and reser 
 vation rights. At the very worst you ll pass 
 for a half-breed." 
 
 "Part Injun, part engineer," said I, and 
 Frankie just missed me with a right hook. 
 
 "Listen now to the scenario," said John. 
 "The money part will be all right. I have a 
 friend here named Clarke who is a betting fool. 
 His father has money. Clarke was trimmed 
 
 [44]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 once by this Reno gang, and he wants 
 r-r-revenge. He can get 2 to 1 by making a 
 trip to Reno, and if we win he will come 
 through with transportation back to that 
 dear Southern California and two hundred 
 large iron men on the side. Does that sound 
 reasonable?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, go on!" 
 
 "Henceforth," said John, "your name is 
 Running-foot. You have come in from Eureka 
 County to get a snootful of summer education, 
 which will consist largely of a study of the 
 national pastime in all its dips, spurs, and 
 angles. Bob, here, is an old college pal of mine 
 who is visiting Nevada for his family s good. 
 Having been an athlete in his day, and a ball 
 player, he will help me coach the team, pass 
 out the interviews to the newspapers, and 
 spread the salve generally. He is going to be 
 the guest of the city, but you are going to be 
 an Indian and stay out here at the school." 
 
 Frankie howled like a wolf. But these other 
 Indians will get on to me !" said he. 
 
 "They will think you are a half-breed, and 
 let you alone." 
 
 "Well, ain t that lovely?" Frankie was 
 growing sarcastic. "What am I a Shoshone 
 or a Piute?" 
 
 "You are a Piute. A Piute doesn t talk 
 much. It will help some if you are dumb as 
 possible. I can teach you a few Piute cuss 
 words to use in case of emergency." 
 
 "Begin right now!" said Frankie. 
 [45]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 The next morning we had a look at John s 
 Indian ball-team. It really wasn t half bad. 
 They were all free and healthy swingers, and 
 the pitcher had control of his fast ball. The 
 second-baseman was the fly in the gravy. 
 
 "I can t stand this!" said Frankie. "Take 
 that fellow out of there and put me in ! " 
 
 When Frankie began to play, the other Piutes 
 looked at him with their mouths open. If they 
 had any doubts about his ancestry they kept 
 them quiet; you can usually trust a Piute to 
 keep his thoughts, if any, to himself. Frankie 
 covered the middle of that infield like a carpet; 
 nothing got away from him, and he actually 
 speeded up the Piute shortstop by sheer force 
 of example. He had them all on their toes be 
 fore he got through, and, mind you, he did it 
 without opening his mouth. Clarke, the man 
 with the money, turned up during the practice 
 and all but shed tears of joy. 
 
 The week slid by nicely for me, but it was a 
 tough period for Frankie. He had to practise 
 every morning, play ball every afternoon, be 
 stared at by the multitude, and stand for a lot 
 of low-grade baseball, without talking back or 
 expressing his opinions. But what made him 
 sorest of all was to have me, an outfielder, tell 
 him in pidgin English how second base ought 
 to be played. He would stand out there and 
 look at me with a fabe like a block of wood, but 
 the things he whispered back under his breath 
 were all in pure United States. 
 
 The big day finally came, and the entire 
 [46]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 sporting population of Carson entrained for 
 Reno. Frankie wanted to ride with John and 
 me, but we wouldn t let him. 
 
 "You re a Piute now," said I. "Go travel 
 with em." 
 
 "Ungrateful swine!" said Frankie. "And 
 I m doing it all for you too ! 
 
 He was certainly a sad object. John had 
 harnessed him into a tacky blue parade uniform 
 with red stripes down the pants, and jammed 
 a soldier cap over his eyes. He looked Piute 
 enough to fool anybody. At the depot one of 
 the town sports slapped Frankie on the back 
 hard enough to make him drop his baseball 
 clothes and his batbag. 
 
 "Hi, Running- f oot ! " said this enthusiastic 
 party. "Going to skin em to-day!" 
 
 Now if there is anything that Frankie hates 
 with all the depths of his soul, it is to be wal 
 loped on the back by a total stranger. He 
 rounded on the Carson sport, and there was 
 murder in his eye. 
 
 "Ugh!" he grunted. "White man too dam 
 fresh, mebbe so git his block knocked off ! " 
 
 That was the only break he made, for a real 
 Indian wouldn t have said anything. 
 
 When we arrived in Eeno we took him to the 
 hotel and worked on him for an hour, hammer 
 ing it into him that no matter what happened 
 he was to keep his mouth shut and play ball. 
 Frankie always had a habit of bawling out the 
 bleacherites, and we laboured with him on this 
 point until we made him so sulky that he 
 
 [47]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 wouldn t even speak to us. Then we thought 
 it was safe to turn him loose on the public. 
 
 We marched out to the ball-field in a body, 
 Frankie hemmed in by a solid wall of real 
 Piute, and a mob of curious citizens swarming 
 around to get a peek at him. True merit will 
 tell, even in a horsehair wig and walnut-stain, 
 and the Eeno fans had heard that Eunning-foot 
 was a cross between Lajoie and Wagner. 
 
 I said ball-field, and field is right. Desert 
 would have been even better. The sagebrush 
 came right up to the foul lines and hovered 
 around the outfield. There was only one short 
 piece of fence and that was back of the plate. 
 A good, healthy drive wouldn t have had 
 anything to stop it but the Sierra Nevada 
 Mountains. 
 
 The Eeno boys were already on hand, and 
 our Piutes practised first. John had found a 
 suit for me, and I batted to the infield. The 
 boys looked pretty good, even to me. For the 
 sake of the moral effect on the Eeno outfit, I had 
 our players pull all the fancy stuff they knew 
 phantom doubles and plate pegs and the like 
 and while we had warned Frankie to key 
 down and not attract too much attention to 
 himself, he was the pivot on which all the fast 
 stuff was turning. The Piutes made a deep 
 impression on the Eeno fans, as Clarke found 
 out when he went hunting for more 2 to 1. 
 They laughed at him, and the best he could get 
 was 6 to 5. 
 
 When the Eeno players took the field for 
 [48]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 practice, two of the biggest, beefiest Indians in 
 the world turned up on the other side of the 
 first-base line and began heaving a new ball 
 back and forth. John went blue in the face 
 when he saw them. 
 
 "Ben Beemis and Johnny Williamson!" he 
 gasped. 
 
 "You don t mean it!" said I. 
 
 "What s the row?" asked Clarke. "They re 
 only Indians, ain t they?" 
 
 Carlisle Indians!" said John. "These are 
 the birds who starred all through the East a 
 couple of seasons ago. The last I heard of em 
 they were playing in the California State 
 League. Get the Carson committee together 
 and enter a protest quick!" 
 
 Well, we protested. We protested ourselves 
 breathless. Pete Evans did the talking for the 
 Reno outfit, and he stood pat like a brick house. 
 
 "An Injun is an Injun, ain t he?" said 
 Evans. "Well! What s the difference be 
 tween your Piutes and my Piutes ? 
 
 "Piutes hell!" Clarke butted in here. 
 "They re from Carlisle!" 
 
 "I give you my word," said Evans, "these 
 boys never saw Carlisle unless it was on a map. 
 And I ll bet you that they re real Piutes 
 and leave it to them. Upstate Piutes. They 
 come from Humboldt County. I know their 
 folks well. Now look here ; we were willing to 
 cross the colour-line and play white men against 
 Piutes, and I don t see where you Carson folks 
 can kick against a Piute battery. And look 
 
 [49]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 here again: we re going to play these boys in 
 our line-up or else there won t be any game." 
 
 And there we were. John raved and Clarke 
 talked strong he-words into his collar, but they 
 had us. It was two ringers against one. 
 Frankie had been hanging around the outskirts 
 of the argument, getting an earful and almost 
 exploding because he couldn t say anything. 
 He walked over to the bench with me. 
 
 1 It s all right," said he. "Look at that 
 Reno infield!" 
 
 I looked, and my blood began to come back 
 to the surface. It was a case of anybody s ball 
 every time it was hit, and the wonder to me 
 was that they hadn t already spiked each other 
 to death. 
 
 "They ve had forty bumping matches out 
 there already," said Frankie, "and if they do 
 that in practice, what will they do in a real 
 game! They ve got no more ongsomble than 
 a Democratic convention. They all want to be 
 stars, and all we ve got to do is hit the ball on 
 the ground and let em wrangle for it. It ll 
 be a cinch ! 
 
 "Y-e-s," said I, "but are we going to hit this 
 Beemis!" 
 
 "I am, you bet your life!" chirped Frankie. 
 "He s got more smoke than a smelter, but he is 
 beginning to notice the effect of rarefied atmos 
 phere on his curve ball. It won t break for 
 him, and he doesn t know why. If he ever slips 
 me that groover I ll knock it into the Carson 
 Sink; but I don t know about these Piutes. If 
 
 [50]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 Beemis can get his hook to working at all, they 
 will jam all the wind out of the Washoe Valley. 
 For pity s sake, Bob, go and tell that pitcher 
 of ours where to put the ball for these fellows ! 
 Make it in words of one syllable or he ll never 
 get you. 
 
 I went over and stood behind our heaver. 
 He looked about as intelligent as a second-hand 
 totem-pole, and almost as big, but he had some 
 thing and was zipping the ball squarely over 
 the middle. 
 
 "Proud son of a decaying race," said I, 
 "what is your name?" 
 
 "Jimblaine Johnson," said he, and went 
 right on pitching. 
 
 "I will call you Jimblaine for short. Listen 
 now and try to understand. Throw every ball 
 as hard as you can. Keep them high and on 
 the outside corner for the right-handers and 
 high on the inside corner for the left-handers." 
 I repeated this three times. 
 
 "Why?" One awful thing about a Piute is 
 his habit of treasuring up the English language, 
 letting go of it a syllable at a time. 
 
 "Because," said I, "if you do, most of the 
 hits will go down to Running-foot and he is a 
 baseball-player. High on the outside; high on 
 the inside. Do you think you can remember 
 that?" 
 
 "Uh-huh," said Jimblaine. 
 
 "Then go over to the bench and sit down and 
 think about it. Don t think about anything 
 else. Can you do that?" 
 
 [51]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Uh-huh." 
 
 Jimblaine put on his sweater and went to 
 the bench, trying so hard to think that I could 
 almost hear the wheels go round. 
 
 1 Rusty" Ferguson called the game. 
 Eusty had been imported from Winne- 
 mucca for three reasons. First, he was neu 
 tral; second, he was a square, competent 
 umpire; third, nobody could bluff him and get 
 away with it. He had a reputation for being 
 sudden in arguments of all kinds, and, as a 
 general thing, he went on the field heeled for 
 protection. I took a look at the old boy and, 
 sure enough, there was a bulge over either hip. 
 
 Beemis and Williamson were announced 
 under some phony Piute names, there was a 
 lot of cheering and sagebrush comedy, and the 
 Reno team took the field. John, Clarke, and 
 myself constituted ourselves a Board of Strat 
 egy, with Frankie in an advisory capacity when 
 not on the field. We thought the best thing to 
 do would be to let the boys go up there and 
 look at a few while we framed the method of 
 attack. 
 
 Blacktooth, our shortstop, led off. He swung 
 so hard at the first ball that we could hear him 
 grunt clear over on the bench. Beemis came 
 back with another curve and Blacktooth swung 
 again, missing the ball not less than two feet. 
 Then he stood still and let a straight fast one 
 cut the heart of the plate for a third strike. 
 
 What did I tell you!" said Frankie. 
 " Beemis will have all these birds blowing their 
 
 [52]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 noses to keep his smoke out of their eyes!" 
 
 The next batter fouled out, which brought 
 Frankie to the plate. Now Frankie was always 
 a tough man for a pitcher to work on. He 
 stood up there with a James Edward Britt 
 stance, as we golfers say, and it wasn t any use 
 putting them an inch inside or an inch outside ; 
 he wouldn t go after em. They had to be over 
 for him. 
 
 Beemis tried him with a hook outside, to see 
 if he would fish." Frankie stood still and 
 laughed at him. Beemis tried one inside, and 
 Frankie let it go for another ball. The next 
 one was a groover, and Frankie called the turn 
 on it ; he had been praying for that fast, straight 
 ball, and he piled into it regardless of expense. 
 The shortstop just managed to get out of the 
 way of the drive, and a good thing for him that 
 he did. Frankie reached second on the hit. 
 
 I was afraid that he would slop over as soon 
 as he got on the bases, and he did. He began 
 to yell at Beemis in perfectly good English. 
 "You a Piute? You re a Siivash, that s what 
 you are! A Siwash! Warm up another 
 pitcher ! Warm up two or three pitchers ! 
 
 It was lucky for us that the Carson fans 
 were making a lot of noise at the time. Old 
 John was coaching behind third, and finally 
 managed to flag Frankie, but he couldn t muffle 
 the boy entirely not with a possible run in 
 sight. Frankie switched to Piute, and he had 
 learned a lot of it in ten days. He gave Beemis 
 his entire vocabulary, but it was breath wasted. 
 
 [53]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 Scarface, our next batter, took three terrific 
 slams at Beemis s curve and the inning was 
 over, so far as we were concerned. 
 
 I chased Jimblaine nearly into the diamond. 
 High up on the outside for the right-handers; 
 high up on the inside for the left-handers. Can 
 you remember that? * 
 
 "Uh-huh." 
 
 I ll give Jimblaine credit. He did remember 
 it. I doubt if he remembered anything else. 
 He kept his fast ball whistling high and over 
 the corners, and the only Eeno man who hit 
 it into the diamond sent it straight at Frankie. 
 Our little bogus Piute dug it out of the dirt 
 with one hand and beat the runner a city block. 
 
 The next man fouled to the catcher, and the 
 third man struck out. We felt somewhat en 
 couraged, and the Board of Strategy held a 
 second meeting. How to get at Beemis was the 
 point under discussion. 
 
 Eight here I want to hand that big Carlisle 
 buck a nosegay and wherever he is, I hope it 
 will choke him. Counting Clarke, there were 
 four of us matching wits with Beemis, but at 
 no stage of the game did we have anything on 
 him when it came to baseball strategy. He was 
 certainly there with the immediate perception 
 and the counter-irritant. Pitching against the 
 best grey matter of the Eastern universities 
 had sharpened his low, native cunning to a 
 razor edge. 
 
 I had the first brilliant idea that is, it would 
 have been brilliant if it had worked. 
 
 [54]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 "Why not start bunting on Beemis?" said I. 
 "All the boys have got to do is meet that 
 speed and dump the ball anywhere between the 
 lines. Get that Reno infield to going after 
 bunts and they ll bump each other off the lot." 
 
 "Noble head!" said John. "Parker Jones, 
 you re elected. Go up there and bunt. Every 
 body bunt!" 
 
 Now there is another distressing thing about 
 a Piute ball-player. Start him out from the 
 bench with orders to do a certain thing and he 
 will do it, no matter what happens. He takes 
 his instructions as sacred and final, and you can 
 yell your head off at him from the bench. He 
 won t even look around. 
 
 Beemis took one look at Parker Jones, strid 
 ing up there with his bat choked short and the 
 light of a great purpose shining in his eyes. 
 Beemis knew that he had been told to bunt, and 
 what is more, he knew that Parker Jones would 
 bunt at everything high, low, Jack, and the 
 game. 
 
 Metaphorically speaking, Beemis put his 
 groove ball back in his pocket with his eating 
 tobacco and sent up a nice wide hook on the 
 outside. Parker Jones bunted at it. Beemis 
 sent up two more of em, and Parker Jones 
 bunted earnestly, stoically, and ignorantly 
 bunted at balls that he couldn t have reached 
 with a telegraph-pole. Then he came back to 
 the bench, perfectly satisfied. 
 
 Rainwater was next, and we managed to 
 make him comprehend that he was not to ad- 
 
 [55]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 vertise his intentions on the way to the plate. 
 After Rainwater had passed on, trying to 
 dump a ball that wouldn t have gone any 
 where but foul, even if he had hit it, Frankie 
 exploded. 
 
 "Why don t they switch, and take a crash at 
 that curve? Tell em to mix it up, John!" 
 
 "Never tell a Piute to mix em up," said 
 John. "Never tell a Piute but one thing at a 
 time. Give him two things to think about and 
 you short-circuit his mental dynamo. The noble 
 savage of these parts is not geared for the 
 reverse. What shall we do now?" 
 
 I ve got it ! " The idea hit Frankie so hard 
 that it almost bounced him off the bench. 
 "I ve got it! Send em up there to wait 
 Beemis out. He has just come from the sea- 
 level, and if we can make him pitch a lot of 
 balls to every man, the altitude is sure to get 
 him along about the sixth inning. He ll 
 blow up!" 
 
 "By the nine Trojan gods!" exclaimed John. 
 "Frankie, you re a wizard! From the looks of 
 that awning in front of Beemis, he s had a 
 pretty soft summer vacation. He is away out 
 of condition. He will begin to feel the alti 
 tude and that Pacific Street steam beer pretty 
 soon." 
 
 While we were talking, Wendell Phillips 
 McGee, our right-fielder, was conscientiously 
 bunting our half of the inning to a close. He 
 didn t know anything about a switch in the 
 plan of attack. It wouldn t have made any 
 
 [56]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 difference if he had. He d heard John say 
 "Everybody bunt!" 
 
 Reno didn t get a man on in her half of the 
 second, and in the third up went Franklin 
 Pierce Gonzales with orders to wait, wait, and 
 keep on waiting until the cows came home, or 
 words to that effect. The only thing we for 
 got to tell him was to take a good healthy crash 
 at the third strike. 
 
 "We ve got a mile of altitude working for 
 us," said John. "That ought to help some." 
 
 I wish it was two miles ! said Clarke. " I d 
 feel safer." 
 
 Beemis threw Franklin Pierce a hook to start 
 with. It ,was a foot outside and the Piute 
 didn t turn a hair. He stood there with his bat 
 wrapped around his fool neck, as if he didn t 
 intend to take it down all season. Beemis gave 
 him a lingering look, as if to say: "Do my eyes 
 deceive me? No bunting? Let me make sure." 
 
 He threw another hook, a little closer, but 
 still far enough away to be called ball number 
 two. Not a sign of life, and the bat didn t 
 move an inch. Right there was where Mr. 
 Beemis tumbled to the new method of attack 
 and governed, himself accordingly; but we 
 didn t realise it at the time. The next three 
 came sizzling over the middle so fast that 
 Williamson had to shove Franklin Pierce 
 away from the plate. He was still waiting. 
 
 That put it up to Jimblaine. We thought 
 well enough of our latest strategy to give the 
 Plumed Knight waiting orders, but we im- 
 
 [57]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 pressed on him the importance of swinging at 
 the big one if it came over. 
 
 "Uh-huh. I wait," said Jimblaine, as he 
 left the bench. 
 
 He planted himself in the batters box, solid 
 as the Rock of Gibraltar. Any one could have 
 told by looking at him that he expected to 
 remain there some time. If he had held a 
 bunch of wooden cigars in one hand and a toma 
 hawk in the other, nothing would have been 
 added to his general air of permanence. 
 
 Beemis wasted only one heave on Jimblaine, 
 probably to see if he was really alive. It was 
 a bean ball, with a million dollars worth of 
 speed on it, and our petrified Piute did not 
 move a muscle except to wrinkle his nose 
 slightly and smell of the smoke as it went by. 
 An inch closer and he wouldn t have had any 
 nose to wrinkle. Beemis then poured three 
 down the groove in rapid succession, and Jim 
 blaine, suddenly remembering something, took 
 an awful crash at the empty air after the third 
 one was in Williamson s mitt. 
 
 "That Beemis is a cagey brute!" said 
 Frankie. " What s the use of waiting him out 
 if he won t work on the batters? Everything 
 is a strike, now. Blacktooth, go up there and 
 swing at anything you think you can reach!" 
 
 Beemis immediately recognised the fact that 
 this Piute was out for action, not ornament, and 
 switched to his curve ball, striking out friend 
 Blacktooth with three smoky hooks, all in the 
 same place. 
 
 [58]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 While Jimblaine was holding the tail end of 
 the Eeno batting order scoreless, the Board of 
 Strategy again convened. 
 
 "Frankie bothered him with that crouch," 
 said John. "Let s send em all up there to 
 crowd the plate. Nothing gets a pitcher s goat 
 any quicker than that." 
 
 Wilsonsides, our third-baseman, and a game 
 little Indian, led off in the fourth. We told him 
 to climb on top of the plate and stay there. He 
 climbed on all right, but he didn t stay long. 
 Beemis almost knocked his head off with the 
 first ball he pitched, and immediately raised 
 an argument with Ferguson. Beemis claimed 
 that Wilsonsides wasn t entitled to his base be 
 cause he hadn t made an effort to get out of 
 the way of a pitched ball, and, after looking at 
 the book, Eusty ruled that he was correct. 
 
 That busted our Strategy Board wide open. 
 
 "We ll give every man individual orders 
 after this," said John. "In that way we ll 
 always be one guess ahead of him, at least." 
 
 Frankie scratched another hit in the fourth, 
 after Wilsonsides had fanned, but Scarface and 
 Parker Jones couldn t bring him home. 
 
 The game wagged along into the last half of 
 the fifth without a score on either side. Beemis 
 had quit using his curve ball, we noticed, and 
 was depending on speed, but keeping it high 
 and close in where our Piutes couldn t get at it 
 to advantage. Jimblaine was pitching a lot 
 better than he knew how, on account of follow 
 ing my instructions to the letter, and while he 
 
 [59]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 couldn t keep the Reno boys from connecting 
 occasionally, he was making them hit in the 
 right direction, and Frankie was doing the rest. 
 
 Running-foot was a revelation to the crowd 
 and a surprise to me. He was covering two- 
 thirds of the Carson infield, and that wasn t 
 all he was doing, as we discovered when he 
 came galloping in at the end of the fifth 
 inning. 
 
 "Beemis is having trouble with the old 
 super!" said he. "His arm hurts him, and 
 that s why he laid off with his curve ball." 
 
 "How do you know?" asked John, and 
 Frankie nearly bit him. 
 
 "How would you know!" he barked. "I ve 
 got eyes, haven t I? Williamson has been sit 
 ting next to Beemis on the bench over there 
 and kneading his elbow for the last ten 
 minutes! I m going to get classical myself. 
 Wake up, you Winged Victories, and get in the 
 game ! 
 
 It sounded almost too good to be true, but on 
 the strength of it we managed to shoot a little 
 pep into Blacktooth, going out for his third 
 smack. We told him he wouldn t get a hook 
 this time nothing but a straight ball and to 
 pick on it with all his might, mind, and soul. 
 For a wonder, he did just that thing. His 
 drive went whistling to left field a mile a 
 minute, and if Blacktooth had been built for 
 speed instead of comfort he would have made 
 the circuit instead of stopping at third. 
 
 Wilsonsides also responded to treatment, 
 [60]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 that is to say, he popped a cheap little twister 
 over Beemis s head. It struck the ground ten 
 feet in front of second base and bounded 
 slightly to the left. Riley, the Reno shortstop, 
 tore after it. It was his ball, no question about 
 that, and maybe he would have got it and made 
 a play for Blacktooth at the plate; but just as 
 he reached for it McHenry, the second-baseman, 
 ploughed into him, head on, full sail bent, and 
 carrying three hundred and fifty pounds of 
 steam to the square inch. 
 
 They both went down for the count, and 
 Beemis had to gallop back for the ball. He 
 recovered it in time to hold Wilsonsides at 
 first, but Blacktooth was receiving the congratu 
 lations of his fellow-townsmen on scoring the 
 first run of the game ! 
 
 Beemis was sore as a goat. He took time 
 out to give Riley and McHenry a combing in 
 modern Piute with some Elizabethan English 
 dropped in for spaces. Riley seemed inclined 
 to resent a call-down from an Indian, but after 
 he took a good close look at Beemis he went 
 over and picked on McHenry instead. 
 
 "They re fighting among themselves !" yelled 
 John from the coaching line. "This is where 
 we make a million runs ! 
 
 Frankie was next up. On the first ball Wil 
 sonsides was off to a flying start for a second. 
 There was nothing the matter with William 
 son s peg. It went down there like a rifle- 
 bullet and would have caught the best base- 
 runner in the world with yards to spare. Riley 
 
 [61]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and McHenry, still jawing at each other, started 
 from opposite sides for the bag started for 
 it, that was all. 
 
 At the same instant they seemed to recall 
 what had happened to them the last time they 
 met and both stopped dead in their tracks. 
 The ball didn t stop, and neither did Wilson- 
 sides. He reached third base standing up, and 
 everything that Beemis had said to Riley and 
 McHenry was sweet and soothing compared 
 with the conversational blue vitriol that boiled 
 up out of the depths of Williamson s aboriginal 
 soul. 
 
 And there w r as little Frankie, waiting at the 
 plate, in the dead storm centre, with lightning 
 striking all around him. I can t understand to 
 this day how he kept out. 
 
 Beemis finally steadied himself and sent up 
 a fast ball. Quick as a flash, Frankie short 
 ened his bat and bunted toward first. It 
 wasn t the proper play, but he said afterward 
 that he thought if he bunted down in that direc 
 tion the big truck-driver who was playing first 
 for Reno might run into Beemis and break his 
 neck. 
 
 The ball was in Beemis s territory, and he 
 went lumbering over to field it. Sure enough, 
 the truck-driver, coming head down and tail up, 
 crashed into him from the rear. The first- 
 baseman went flat on his back and Beemis was 
 staggered slightly, but he scooped up the ball 
 and turned to throw to the plate. Seeing that 
 he was too late for Wilsonsides, he whirled and 
 
 [62]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 cut loose with all he had in the direction of 
 first base. 
 
 Now, according to the way baseball is played 
 on the Atlantic seaboard, when the first-base 
 man is drawn in toward the plate the second- 
 baseman covers the bag for him. Beemis had 
 precedent on his side as well as tradition, but 
 McHenry, with troubles of his own, was stand 
 ing flat-footed fully sixty feet away and 
 Beemis s heave went sailing out into the wide, 
 wide world. Frankie heard the ball whistle 
 between his shoulder and his ear, saw it kick 
 up a puff of alkali dust in the distance, and 
 rounded first base like a scared jackrabbit. 
 
 To make a short story of it, the right-fielder 
 couldn t find the ball in the sagebrush and 
 Frankie came all the way home! 
 
 What with the jubilee and the grand-right- 
 and-left on the Carson side of the field and the 
 howls of the wounded and dying on the Reno 
 side, there was quite an interlude, during which 
 Benjamin Beemis gathered his infield around 
 him and delivered a brief but burning address. 
 There must have been virtue in what he said 
 or the way he said it, for Reno took a brace and 
 retired Scarface, Parker Jones, and Rainwater 
 in a row. 
 
 Our joy was soon dead. We held them in 
 the sixth, but in the seventh Jimblaine got gay 
 and tried to keep the ball too close inside for 
 the left-handers and hit two of them in a row 
 hit them with two men out, at that. This 
 gave Williamson his first chance to come up 
 
 [63]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 with men on the bases, and his worst enemy 
 cannot deny that he made the most of it. He 
 dug his spikes into the ground and hit the first 
 ball that Jimblaine offered him hit it to left 
 centre hit it at least a mile ; a nice, low drive 
 that started three feet from the ground and 
 kept climbing and climbing as if it never in 
 tended to come down. 
 
 As a matter of fact, I don t know whether 
 it did or not. The outfielders didn t find it. 
 Yes, a home run and a mighty big one; big 
 enough to tie the score and transfer the jubilee 
 to the other side of the field. Frankie rushed 
 over and tied his shoestring in the pitcher s 
 box, and after some coddling Jimblaine man 
 aged to get Beemis and end the inning. 
 
 When the team came in to the bench I hopped 
 the Plumed Knight for the good of his soul, and 
 all he could say for himself was that he had 
 hurt his arm. Frankie did most of the talking 
 for the Piutes. He ripped and ramped and 
 raved in all the languages he knew, living and 
 dead, but he couldn t prod any spirit into those 
 miserable aborigines. They sat there with 
 their heads in their laps, grunting at each 
 other. 
 
 The eighth and ninth innings saw the score 
 still tied, thanks to Frankie s desperate de 
 fence. They came within an ace of getting us 
 in the ninth when, with Swanson on third base, 
 and only one man out, McHenry hit a terrific 
 line drive a little to the right of second. I 
 could see the transportation and the two hun- 
 
 [64]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 dred bucks going out over that infield a mile a 
 minute, but Frankie shot through the air like a 
 skyrocket, made a blind stab with his bare hand 
 and the ball stuck in it. He tossed to Wil- 
 sonsides, doubling Swanson, and the yell which 
 started on the Eeno side crossed to ours and 
 stayed there. Frankie came in to the bench, 
 wabbling slightly on his feet and blowing on 
 his fingers. 
 
 "Good boy!" cried Clarke, putting his arm 
 around him. "Good boy! Win or lose, you 
 get the transportation anyway!" 
 
 "Take your hands off me! Let me alone!" 
 Frankie turned on Clarke and abused him like 
 a pickpocket. He had been carrying eight fat 
 Piutes on his back all the afternoon, and the 
 strain was telling on his nervous system. 
 
 1 1 You and your Indians ! " he raved. From 
 now on, I m white, understand! White! How 
 many positions do you think a man can play for 
 a measly two hundred dollars? Get on there, 
 one of you savages, and I ll bring you home! 
 A little pep, for pity s sake, a little pep! He 
 hasn t got a thing left but a straight ball ! Tear 
 the cover off it ! A little pep ! 
 
 But there wasn t any pep left in the entire 
 tribe. Williamson s home run had broken their 
 hearts. Our first Piute scuffled up to the plate 
 and sent a feeble little foul to the first-baseman, 
 and there being nobody handy to run into him, 
 the truck-driver caught it. The second man 
 struck out on straight balls. Frankie was 
 right: by this time Beemis was a very weary 
 
 [65]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 buck. He didn t have a thing left but his re 
 turn-trip ticket, his hope of a bright immor 
 tality, and the ghost of his fast ball. Not a 
 sign of a hook; not even a wave. 
 
 "Gee, but he s slow!" said Frankie to me, 
 before he left the bench. "I m going to take a 
 round-house wallop at the first thing I see and 
 run hog- wild on the bases. It s our only 
 chance ! 
 
 He picked out a long, heavy bat, suitable for 
 the kind of a swing technically known as a 
 Moriarity, and stepped up to the plate with his 
 teeth set. The Carson rooters cheered him, but 
 he didn t hear them. He was listening to some 
 thing that Williamson was saying to Beemis. 
 
 "Here comes that little rat again, Ben. Let s 
 kill him!" 
 
 Of course that was an attempt to get 
 Frankie s goat a dangerous game to play with 
 the little man. If ever there was a natural- 
 born herder of angoras, it was Frankie. He 
 went right back at them. 
 
 "Let the big stiff try it!" he howled, dancing 
 up and down. "Go ahead, both of you! 
 Start something! I ll make that yellow-bellied 
 pitcher quit like a dog, the same as he did 
 in the last game against the Pennsylvania 
 Varsity! Come on! Start something, if you 
 dare ! 
 
 Now after pitching all afternoon to a suc 
 cession of dumb Piutes, Beemis was entirely 
 unprepared for such a blast of news from home. 
 Frankie was in the last ditch and fighting with 
 
 [66]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 all the weapons at his command absolutely 
 and irrevocably white. Williamson saw that 
 Beemis was upset by this foul slander and, 
 fearing that Frankie would follow it up, tried 
 to distract his attention and drew a little news 
 from home on his own account. 
 
 "What are you horning in here for?" said 
 Frankie. "The reason they kicked you off the 
 Carlisle football team was because you showed 
 a streak as wide as the Mississippi Kiver! 
 Give me any more of your lip and I ll bust 
 you on the head so hard that the echo will 
 make you deaf for a week!" 
 
 Then Frankie opened up on the umpire. 
 "Tell that big quitter to begin pitching, or call 
 balls on him!" 
 
 Beemis laughed a lop-sided sort of a laugh, 
 and up came the ball, with all the speed he 
 could muster, as straight as a banjo string. 
 Frankie stepped out to meet it, swinging that 
 long bat with every ounce he had left. He 
 nailed that cripple squarely on the equator, and 
 as he swung the least little bit early, he pulled 
 it down the third-base line like a white streak. 
 The ball struck beyond the bag in fair territory, 
 skidded a few times, and jumped to the left, 
 winding up in a nest of Carson rooters and 
 sagebrush. 
 
 Well, speaking of speed! Beemis had one 
 glimpse of little old Frankie, lying down close 
 to the ground and pawing dirt in a way to make 
 Arthur Duffy resemble a ten-ton truck and 
 then that big Carlisle pitcher let out a snort 
 
 [67]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and started after the ball himself. He didn t 
 have any confidence in his third-baseman or his 
 left-fielder either, and he realised that retriev 
 ing the pill in that tangle of arms and legs was 
 going to be a job for a strong, ruthless party 
 with the instincts and training of a full 
 back. 
 
 Frankie ran and Beemis ran two bogus 
 Piutes pounding the grit for a piece of the 
 winners end, and not a nickel for second 
 money! I wouldn t have believed that Beemis 
 had as much speed as he showed. He was a 
 slow, heavy starter, but when he got going I 
 knew why he had been such a demon in the 
 scattered football field. 
 
 As Frankie took his turn for second he flashed 
 the general situation the ball in the crowd and 
 three Eeno players heading for it. He let out 
 another link or two and went around second so 
 fast that if he hadn t been doubled over he 
 wouldn t have stayed on the ground at all. 
 Just then into that bunch of fans went Beemis, 
 two hundred pounds of hard, red thunderbolt 
 with spikes on it. 
 
 Naturally, those Carsonites didn t help him 
 any. They didn t get out of his way or hand 
 him the ball, or anything like that. It was 
 the third-baseman who found it, but Beemis 
 wouldn t trust him to make the peg and grabbed 
 the ball away from him. Then he had to kick 
 himself out of the mess and jump into the open 
 to set himself for the throw. By this time 
 Frankie was straightening out for home. 
 
 [68]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 I was watching him come, and when I heard 
 the yelling suddenly die away, I knew the play 
 was going to be close. Frankie knew it too 
 and there in front of him was Williamson, 
 straddling the line, legs braced for the shock, 
 and hands out for the ball. The ball was com 
 ing too. It must have wrenched that sore arm 
 of Beemis s, but it was a Jim-dandy of a peg, 
 neither too high nor too low, but just exactly 
 right, and fairly burning the wind with its 
 speed. 
 
 "Slide, Frankie! Slide!" 
 
 Just as I yelled, he left the ground with a 
 head-first dive, straight for the gap between 
 Williamson s legs and the plate beyond. He 
 came hurtling through the air like the last 
 sinner hitting it up for the pearly gates at 
 11.59 P.M., and the ball got there at the same 
 time. As Frankie s head and shoulders shot 
 through the gap, he reached out and hooked 
 Williamson s left ankle with his right elbow, 
 wrenching the big redskin half around and jar 
 ring the ball out of his hand. Williamson made 
 a wild snatch for it as he was falling, but got 
 a Piute cap and a handful of horsehair instead 
 and came down on top of Frankie like a thou 
 sand of brick. And there was our noble hero, 
 with his wishbone jammed into the plate, safe 
 all but his scalp ! 
 
 Williamson was rather stunned at first. He 
 looked at the wig, he ran his fingers through 
 Frankie s brown bristles, he held up the wig so 
 that everybody could see it and the next thing 
 
 [69]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 I knew he was trying to crack Frankie s skull 
 by hammering his head on the ground. 
 
 That started it. John and Clarke went tear 
 ing to the rescue, backed up by about a thou 
 sand Carson rooters, and at the same time the 
 Reno fans came down with a roar. The Carson 
 people wanted blood on account of the unpro 
 voked assault upon Running-foot by an Indian 
 three times his size, and the Reno folks had seen 
 the wig and were after Frankie. I never saw 
 trouble come quicker or more unanimously. It 
 was just slam ! bang ! biff ! on all sides of us. I 
 broke through to where John and Clarke were 
 fighting on either side of Frankie, who was 
 doing some fighting himself, and there was 
 Rusty Ferguson, his nose bleeding, his hair 
 standing on end, and both arms working like 
 flails. 
 
 "Hell is coughing for fair!" he yelled. 
 "Make for the fence, boys!" 
 
 He led the way, and we fell in behind, using 
 the old straight-line buck formation and upper- 
 cuts. The Reno folks hated to see us leaving 
 and charged our rear. Put me down as agree 
 ing with General Robert E. Lee that a well- 
 fought retreat is a man s-size job. Rusty 
 Ferguson and John Holderman, on the showing 
 they made, ought to be generals in the army, 
 and not one of us would be below the rank of 
 colonel. 
 
 We got to the fence at last, put our backs up 
 against it, and for the first time I had a general 
 view of the battlefield. The two ball teams 
 
 [70]
 
 PIUTE VS. PIUTE 
 
 were having a fight of their own over by the 
 Carson bench, and every Carson man had a 
 Eeno man wrapped up with him in a true- 
 lovers knot. The Reno surplus was menacing 
 our front and getting ready to charge us again. 
 
 "I ve got to stop this!" said Rusty, hopping 
 up on a dry-goods box. 
 
 Out came his two forty-some-odds, and he 
 let drive at the sun a couple of times, just to 
 call attention to himself. 
 
 There was a sudden pause in the hostilities, 
 guns being regarded as serious. 
 
 Baseball crowds fight hard when they fight, 
 but not to kill. 
 
 "That ll be all now!" roared Rusty, in the 
 lull. I 11 let drive at the first man that swings 
 a punch ! Quit it ! " 
 
 "What you goin to do about that second- 
 baseman!" yelled Pete Evans. 
 
 " Yes ! Yes ! What about him ? " 
 
 Rusty cleared his throat and rendered a 
 decision, the like of which was never known in 
 baseball; but it was sound sense, and besides, 
 he had the hardware in his hands to back 
 it up. 
 
 "As I understand it," he bawled, "Pete 
 Evans is kicking on the Carson second-baseman 
 not bein a Piute. He s as much of a Piute as 
 that big stiff that tried to kill him." 
 
 Loud cheers from the Carsonites. 
 
 "What s more, that Reno pitcher ain t a 
 Piute either. I talked Piute to him all the 
 afternoon and he didn t understand a word of 
 
 [71]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 it. That settles the ringer question. Now 
 then, Carson scored the fourth run and scored 
 it square, and there wouldn t have been any 
 riot if the Eeno catcher hadn t pitched on to 
 a kid half his size. The game can t be finished 
 on account of some of the players bein laid out 
 cold, but that ain t my fault or it ain t the fault 
 of the Carson team, either. 
 
 "My decision is that Carson wins by a score 
 of four to three, and if I hear of anybody 
 welching on bets, that party will settle with 
 me!" 
 
 That night we were sliding down the western 
 slope of the Sierras in the drawing-room of a 
 Pullman car, and congratulating ourselves on 
 being there. 
 
 "It s a pretty lucky thing for us," said I, 
 "that Williamson lost his noodle and took a 
 crack at you. That was all that saved us. I 
 never saw an Injun act as crazy as he did." 
 
 "Huh!" said Frankie. "Any Injun will act 
 crazy if you bite a chunk out of the calf of 
 his leg!" 
 
 [72]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY 
 
 HIS back was turned to me, but the mourn 
 ful howl of as automobile siren caused 
 him to crane his neck anxiously, thus 
 furnishing me with a mental snapshot of 
 his profile. It had been three years since to 
 gether we had flicked battered trout flies across 
 the pools of the North Platte, forty miles south 
 of Fort Steele, in Wyoming. At that time he 
 had not worn the gaudy habiliments of the 
 ridiculous curbstone ornament scornfully recog 
 nised in certain portions of the West as a 
 "city cow-puncher," yet, in spite of his bizarre 
 disguise, I recognised Bud McKinstry at once. 
 Bud was the friend of a friend of a very 
 dear friend of mine, and his home, when he had 
 need of one, was in the little town of Saratoga, 
 Wyoming, high and dry among the sage of Car 
 bon County. But what he was doing in the 
 shade of the Flatiron Building on Manhattan 
 Island, and why he wore an enormous grey, 
 flop-brimmed sombrero with a snakeskin band, 
 a blue flannel shirt with a red-and-yellow ban 
 danna for a tie, high-heeled boots, and a few 
 other obsolete trinkets, were things which re 
 quired explanation, if not apology. 
 
 [73]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 So I tapped him gently upon the shoulder, 
 and, " Where is the fancy-dress ball?" I 
 asked. 
 
 Bud jumped when he felt the weight of my 
 hand, and the face which he turned to me blazed 
 with sudden suspicion. It changed immediately 
 into a mask of pleased surprise. 
 
 "Well, well!" he cried, wringing my hand. 
 "It s you, ain t it? Yes, it s you! And I 
 thought it was a bunko steerer! I sure did. 
 Well! L-o-o-ong time I no see you, eh? Why 
 ain t you ever been out fishing again?" 
 
 This, and much more, came tumbling from 
 Bud s lips, but when he caught me examining 
 his regalia with a grin, the pleased ejaculations 
 dribbled away into embarrassed silence. I must 
 say for Bud that he had the grace to seem 
 ashamed of himself. 
 
 When at home in Carbon County, Wyoming 
 Bud clerks in a dry-goods store, and wears 
 clothes which are, to quote the catalogue of the 
 Chicago mail-order house, "the last, expiring 
 sigh of fashion s latest whimsy; elegantly sim 
 ple, simply elegant, cut, fit, and texture guar 
 anteed," which is to say that the coats run to 
 phenomenally long, slender lapels, buttons in 
 unexpected places, and the trousers to three- 
 inch cuffs. 
 
 "Why the masquerade?" I demanded. "Is 
 there a warrant out for your arrest? Have 
 you done anything which you couldn t tell a 
 friend? If Baldy Sisson could see you 
 now " 
 
 [74]
 
 CHIVAJLBY IN CAKBON COUNTY 
 
 Bud s face shamed the bandanna s flaming 
 scarlet. 
 
 "Oh," said he, I guess you ain t heard the 
 news. I m in the show business now." 
 
 "And therefore can t look any one in the 
 eye," I said. "Which is it wild West, vaude 
 ville, or the moving pictures? Out with 
 it!" 
 
 "It s the movies," said Bud, with a sickly 
 grin. "Ye-eh, I m a regular actor now, riding 
 the range in New Jersey while Larry turns the 
 crank. Quite a bunch of us came over at the 
 same time under contract. Two carloads of 
 broncs. Some of em outlaws." 
 
 "Tell it to the press agent!" I said sternly. 
 "You ride an outlaw! You? Bud, I m ashamed 
 of you ! 
 
 "Shucks!" said Bud uneasily. "Of course, 
 they ain t none of em what you might call man- 
 eaters, but they re feerocious enough for New 
 Jersey." 
 
 "But I didn t know you could ride at all!" 
 I persisted cruelly. 
 
 "Aw, let go!" pleaded Bud. "What folks 
 don t know won t never keep em awake nights. 
 I can sit up in the middle of em all right; I 
 got a strap fixed through the saddle, and " 
 
 "Pulling leather, eh? I ll certainly have to 
 write a letter to Baldy Sisson!" 
 
 "Don t you do it!" cried Bud quickly. 
 "Don t you! I might want to go back to that 
 town some day. They laughed me out of it 
 once, and I wouldn t wish to have em do it 
 
 [75]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 again. And, Baldy, lie s the longest, strongest 
 laugher of the bunch. You can hear him plum 
 to Wolcott when he gets tuned up. Don t you 
 write him, if you got any humanity in you at 
 all. Besides," he continued lamely, "I don t 
 want to get my fool neck broke for a measly 
 twenty-five a week not right in front of a pic 
 ture machine, anyway. You wouldn t, either. 
 I never claimed to be a Thad Sowder, nor yet a 
 Harry Brennan, and well, anyhow, the strap 
 won t show in the films." He paused and eyed 
 me with a curious mixture of importunity and 
 defiance. "Don t you go and write Baldy!" he 
 repeated. 
 
 "I won t," I promised, "if you can give me 
 any good excuse for traipsing around New 
 York in a Pawnee Bill make-up." 
 
 "Why, sure!" said Bud hastily. "That s 
 easy! I was working over there in the jungles 
 this morning. Something went wrong, and they 
 gave us all half a day off. I didn t have no 
 time to change. That s on the level. And, 
 anyway" was there a trace of disappointment 
 in Bud s voice? "people here don t seem to 
 pay any attention to you, no matter what you 
 wear. 
 
 "Of course not," I said. "Long-haired men 
 and short-haired women create no excitement 
 in this town, Bud. These people have seen 
 everything in the freak line, and they wouldn t 
 turn around to look at you if you walked up 
 Fifth Avenue on your hands. They d think 
 you were advertising Rattlesnake Oil, or ped- 
 
 [76]
 
 CHIVALKY IN CABBON COUNTY 
 
 dling souvenirs from the Alamo. You look the 
 part." 
 
 "Aw, dry up!" said Bud weakly. "Some 
 of the boys are worse n I am. There s Charlie 
 Fothergill. He wears blue angora chaps day 
 and night. You remember Charlie. He used 
 to work in the drug store at Saratoga. The 
 bluest blue you ever saw, and a green silk shirt, 
 with a canary handkerchief. That s going too 
 far, it seems to me. Say, is there any place 
 in this town where a fellow can go and see 
 things on his afternoon off?" 
 
 "Why, yes," I said. "A fellow might go 
 down to the Aquarium and give the fish a treat 
 they ve got some Wyoming trout down there 
 that would probably be tickled to death to see 
 even an imitation cow-puncher. Or a fellow 
 might run out to the Museum of Natural His 
 tory, and see the stuffed animals. Then there s 
 the baseball game. You ought to be interested 
 in baseball; seems to me you pitched for the 
 Antelopes. Come on out to the Polo Grounds 
 and see the Giants and the Cubs; that s always 
 a fight worth the money." 
 
 "No, sir!" said Bud, shaking his head vig 
 orously. "Don t mention baseball to me. I m 
 off that game for life." He spoke bitterly and, 
 it seemed to me, with a great deal of unneces 
 sary heat. "But for a ball game I wouldn t be 
 here. I d choose the stuffed animals for mine. 
 Lead me to em!" 
 
 Bud had twice hinted at a story, but I knew 
 him better than to attempt to extract his con- 
 
 [77]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 fidence, corkscrew fashion. When time and 
 mood were ripe he would tell me, and not be 
 fore, but I believed I knew a sure way to hasten 
 the ripening process. 
 
 With this end in view, I carefully steered him 
 into that wing of the museum which contains 
 the American bird groups, each in a marvellous 
 stage setting of its own, where real earth, grass, 
 and foliage blend into painted canvas so skil 
 fully that the sharpest eye cannot trace the 
 dividing line between the real and the un 
 real, and the brain is tricked into impressions 
 of far horizons and deep vistas of open 
 country. 
 
 "This," said Bud disgustedly, "is the bunk! 
 D you believe a bird ever had a neck like that I 
 He indicated a flamingo with a jerk of his 
 thumb. "Let s go back and see old dinah-what- 
 you-may-call him again; him with the bones. 
 It says on the card that he came from Wyo 
 ming. If he did, it must have been before my 
 time. If I d ever met anything like that, ram 
 bling over them hills, I d surely have taken the 
 pledge." 
 
 "Just a minute," I said. "And don t hurry 
 so. You ve got the whole afternoon." 
 
 Then Bud, who was in front, paused with a 
 gurgle of pure delight. 
 
 "Hey!" he called. "Come here, and look at 
 these little old sage hens! Ain t they natural, 
 though? Watch that fellow strut ! Say, that s 
 what I call neat. That s just the way you see 
 em out in Carbon County." 
 
 [78]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY 
 
 "Ever seen that country before?" I inquired 
 innocently. 
 
 Bud fell back a pace, and his eyes swept the 
 canvas background. 
 
 "Moses and the prophets!" he ejaculated, 
 seizing me by the arm in his excitement. "Look! 
 Ain t that Elk Mountain over there? It is, as 
 sure as you re a foot high! There s the canon 
 where the trout creek comes down! Say, this 
 ain t no fake; this is the real thing! It s a 
 little chunk cut out of God s country. It s 
 home, that s what it is home! Carbon County 
 right here in New York ! M-m-m-m-mph ! Oh, 
 lordy!" 
 
 My moving-picture cow-puncher sat down on 
 a bench and babbled incoherently to himself, 
 while his eyes took in each faithful detail of a 
 well-remembered scene. The artist had con 
 trived to counterfeit the deep crystal atmos 
 phere of that wonderful land which lies along 
 the ridgepole of the continent, and, as one sense 
 calls to another, to see Elk Mountain lying pur 
 ple in the distance was to smell again the clean 
 wind of that mile-high country the wind and 
 the odour of the sage. 
 
 From mutterings and ejaculations, Bud 
 passed into a reverie, chin in his hands. After 
 some time he arose suddenly, shook himself like 
 a wet spaniel, and started for the exit. 
 
 "Come on!" he said thickly. "I want to get 
 out of this bird theatre as quick as I can. Your 
 blame pinny-poppy show has made me home 
 sick!" 
 
 [79]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Under the trees outside I waited for what I 
 knew must come. 
 
 "We ve still got time to go to the ball game," 
 I hinted. 
 
 Bud s language, in response to this sugges 
 tion, would not be a pretty sight in type. More 
 silence. 
 
 "Say," demanded Bud, "did you ever see a 
 female baseball club?" 
 
 I said that I understood there were such or 
 ganisations, but that I had never seen one. 
 Bud drew out a sack of tobacco and a packet 
 of brown papers. 
 
 "You re lucky!" he said. "Wisht I never 
 had!" 
 
 And then, with the spell of the sage-brush 
 upon him, and a two-thousand-miles-away look 
 in his eyes, my New Jersey roughrider opened 
 his heart. 
 
 "Speaking of baseball," said he, by way of 
 preface, "that team we had in Saratoga wasn t 
 the softest in the State by no means. "We 
 whaled the everlasting daylights out of every 
 thing between Green River and Laramie. Of 
 course, the Rawlins bunch put one over on us 
 when they hired five professionals from Chey 
 enne. They beat us three to two in eleven in 
 nings, and if it hadn t been for the ringers 
 they wouldn t have stood a show in the world. 
 
 "One day last June I met Baldy Sisson on 
 the street. He was waving an envelope, kind 
 of excitedlike. Baldy used to run the team 
 him and Comstock. 
 
 [80]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY 
 
 " Say, Bud, says Baldy, I ve got a game 
 for next Saturday! and then he opens up the 
 letter. Right across the top of the page it says, 
 in big, blue print: Baltimore Bloomer Girls 
 Baseball Club. Just like that. Well, of course, 
 I d heard about female ball clubs travelling 
 through the country, and giving a kind of a 
 burlesque on the game, but none of em ever 
 came our way. 
 
 " You ain t a-going to stack us up against 
 anything as soft as that, are you? I asks. 
 
 " How do you know they re soft? says 
 Baldy. They beat a lot of teams in Colorado. 
 And they ought to be a good attraction. 
 
 "Well, that part of it sounded reasonable. 
 But there s a lot of difference between a good 
 attraction and a good show. Ever think of 
 that! 
 
 " I m going to telegraph that manager to 
 come running, says Baldy. 
 
 "You d be surprised to know what an excite 
 ment was kicked up in that town when word 
 got around that a she-male ball team was com 
 ing. In a day or so Baldy got a big roll of ad 
 vertising posters in the mail. All colours. On 
 the top was a picture made from a photograph 
 it was of a girl in a baseball uniform. Well, 
 not a regular uniform exactly. Part of it sort 
 of looked like a skirt to me. Loose and bunched 
 up at the knee. Under the picture it said : 
 
 " Miss PANSY DEMAKR, 
 
 " The Peerless Shortstop of the Baltimore 
 
 Bloomer Girls B. B. C. 
 
 [81]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "You know how a fellow s mind will get to 
 running on photographs and things. The min 
 ute I saw Pansy s picture I was glad Baldy had 
 made the date for us. She was a bird, Pansy 
 was, young, and considerable of a looker. You 
 can t fake up an old girl so that she looks like 
 sweet sixteen; it shows through somehow, even 
 in a photograph. Yes, Pansy was young, and 
 as cute as a little sage rabbit. I wasn t the only 
 one in town that took a shine to her. Curt 
 Mahaffey stole one of the posters and took it 
 home with him. 
 
 "Well, there was other things on the poster, 
 too. A genuine scientific exhibition of inside 
 baseball, was what it said, as played by the 
 leading female exponents of the national game. 
 There was a lot of that kind of hog-wash, and 
 then came a string of newspaper write-ups, and 
 not a knock amongst em. Down at the bottom 
 was a string of scores. According to the pos 
 ters, the girls had cleaned up mostly all of 
 Kansas, and by awful one-sided figures at that. 
 It got us to thinking. 
 
 " You don t suppose this is on the level, do 
 you! says Henry Kamphefner, our first base 
 man. Did they beat all these clubs, or is this 
 just an advertising fake? And them news 
 paper accounts! Did they pay for them, or 
 how? 
 
 "Well, we talked it all over, and made up 
 our minds that we couldn t afford to have a 
 lot of bloomer ladies travelling through Wyo 
 ming, advertising that they had licked the Sara- 
 
 [82]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CAEBON COUNTY 
 
 toga Antelopes. That sort of thing would set 
 the town back ten years, and make us the laugh 
 ingstock of the State. 
 
 " Here s how we ll do it, says Jeff Blood- 
 good, our catcher. We ll play these girls, all 
 right enough, and we won t be any rougher with 
 em than we have to be. We ll hand them a 
 nice, polite, gentlemanly trimming say about 
 twenty-five to nothing and if they paste up 
 any lies about us we ll sue for libel and defalca 
 tion of character. Anyhow, we ll tell em we ll 
 sue, and that ll scare em. None of these fly-by- 
 night shows like to get mixed up with the 
 courts. 
 
 " Yes, says Fred Gilroy, the shortstop. 
 We can do that r take a poke at their man 
 ager. He s a man, ain t he? 
 
 "But we decided that wouldn t answer. 
 Jeff s idea was the best. 
 
 "Well, Saturday morning came, and most of 
 us were down at the depot to see the bloomer 
 troupe come in. I didn t hardly think they d 
 wear em in the streets, but Jeff Bloodgood 
 did. He said they d do it for the advertising. 
 
 "As soon as the train came in sight, we 
 spotted an extra coach a Pullman sleeper it 
 was. 
 
 " Humph! says Billy French, one of our 
 boys. They put on plenty of dog, don t they! 
 Private car! You lose, Dan! 
 
 "Dan McLaurin, our second baseman, was 
 pretty much peeved about that private car, and 
 I don t blame him. Dan runs the hotel, and 
 
 [83]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 he d been figuring on some transients. Had the 
 whole place cleaned up on purpose, and went 
 out at daylight to catch a mess of trout for 
 dinner. I d have been sore, too. 
 
 "Well, we stood around and watched em 
 switch the Pullman onto the siding by the 
 depot. That car was a regular rolling hotel, 
 with a cook house and everything complete, and 
 when Dan saw the smoke coming out of the 
 roof he said he didn t care how bad we d beat 
 em, but he hoped it wouldn t be less than fifty 
 to nothing. 
 
 "I got a peek at one of the bloomer ladies. 
 She was setting by a window, combing her hair 
 and fixing up a lot of yellow puffs and things, 
 and her mouth was full of hairpins. I knew 
 right away that she wouldn t answer to the 
 name of Pansy. No, there wasn t nothing deli 
 cate about that lady. Or young, either. Some 
 folks like these big preferential blondes; some 
 don t. Me, I d just as lieve their hair and eye 
 brows would be the same colour. 
 
 "While we were sort of standing around, 
 waiting for something to happen, the yellow- 
 headed lady looked out and saw us. You might 
 have thought it would embarrass her some to be 
 caught doing her hair in public that way, but 
 this lady certainly wasn t the embarrassing 
 kind. She was the sort that can look straight 
 at a fellow until he begins to wonder what there 
 is about him that s so peculiar. 
 
 "She opened the window and stuck her head 
 out. I took off my hat because I m always 
 
 [84]
 
 CHIVALRY IX CARBON COUNTY 
 
 polite, but she didn t seem to pay any attention 
 to good manners. 
 
 " What s the matter with you yaps? says 
 she, and her voice was like her face hard. 
 Kind of shrill, too, like a parrot. What are 
 you staring at, little boys? she goes on. * Ain t 
 you ever seen a lady before? Or haven t you 
 got the price to see the game? This ain t no 
 free show, so beat it while your shoes are on 
 your feet! Git! 
 
 "Some more of the bloomer ladies showed 
 up at the windows and passed out quite a line 
 of conversation. I didn t see Pansy among em, 
 so I came away. Jeff Bloodgood said after 
 ward that he stuck around and jollied em back. 
 Jeff always was a liar. He couldn t think fast 
 enough to hold up his end in a kidding match 
 with those ladies. Yes, sir, they seemed to 
 know exactly what to say that would be the 
 hardest to answer right off the reel. 
 
 "Well, we went up to Dan s place and talked 
 some more. We decided that a real licking 
 might take some of the freshness out of the 
 bloomer people. Then in came Baldy Sisson 
 with a big whale of a man that had a kind of 
 a wry neck. Baldy introduced him as the man 
 ager of the girl team. 
 
 "Of course, him being a man, we could talk 
 to him, and we started in. I don t know yet 
 who made the first break, but all at once out 
 comes a big roll of bills, and the wryneck said 
 he d take the short end of any two-to-one bet 
 ting that might be flying around. He was 
 
 [85]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 mighty near mobbed, and I suppose, all told, 
 we dug up close to two hundred dollars. Dan 
 locked the money up in the safe until after the 
 game. 
 
 "I guess everybody in Saratoga that could 
 walk turned out that afternoon. People came 
 from away down by Tilton s ranch and over on 
 Jack Creek. It was the biggest bunch I ever 
 saw at a ball game in the town. 
 
 "We were practising, along about two 
 o clock, when all at once the crowd began to 
 cheer and yell, and here came the bloomer 
 ladies, walking two by two, the big blonde out 
 in front. There was a lot of laughing mixed up 
 with the applause that I didn t quite under 
 stand at first, but I mighty soon tumbled. 
 There, at the tail end of the line, was two of 
 the biggest old battle-axes I ever saw in my 
 life, one of em with a wind-pad, a catcher s 
 mitt, and a mask; and the other one with an 
 armful of bats. I began to laugh, too, until 
 I noticed that the one with the bats had a wry 
 neck; then I got up closer. Both of em had on 
 bloomers and about forty dollars worth of 
 store hair, and they were painted and pow 
 dered and fussed up to beat the band, but a 
 blind man could have seen that those two 
 battle-axes were men dressed up in women s 
 clothes ! 
 
 "Well, there we were, up against it. For a 
 minute we didn t know whether to make a kick 
 or not. Henry Kamphefner was our team cap 
 tain, and he had bet forty bucks on the game. 
 
 [86]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CAKBON COUNTY 
 
 " Look at them ringers! says Henry. May 
 be we ought to call the bets off. 
 
 " Call off nothing! says Dan McLaurin. 
 Dan hadn t put up any two to one, you under 
 stand. We d be joshed to death about it. Let 
 em have their gentlemen friends for a battery 
 if they want em. The rest of em are women, 
 and if we can t beat seven women and two men, 
 we d ought to be arrested. 
 
 "That was reasonable again. I took a look, 
 and there wasn t any question about the rest 
 of the bloomer outfit. Most of em had been 
 women so long that there wouldn t have been 
 any excuse for mistaking em for anything else. 
 Some of those bloomer ladies must have been 
 playing baseball ever since the war. 
 
 "They knew their business all right enough. 
 First thing they did was to scatter through the 
 crowd and take up a collection. There wasn t 
 any fence around the ball grounds, but if any 
 of the folks in the crowd thought they were 
 going to see that game for nothing, they had 
 another think coming. 
 
 "I was warming up with Jeff Bloodgood 
 when I caught sight of Pansy, and forgot about 
 everything else. She was a little late getting 
 on the field. The posters hadn t flattered her 
 a little bit; they hadn t even given her all that 
 was coming. She was just about the neatest, 
 modestest little trick a man ever treated his 
 eyesight to, and nothing like the others. They 
 looked kind of loud in that foolish baseball uni 
 form, but Pansy why, to look at her, you d say 
 
 [87]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 she never ought to wear any other kind of 
 clothes ! Slim and neat and graceful as a cat. 
 The others looked big and clumsy beside her. 
 
 "The bloomer ladies went through that 
 crowd, joshing everybody right and left, and 
 bawling out the cheap ones something scan 
 dalous, but Pansy, she didn t have a word to 
 say. I know, because I went over and borrowed 
 a dollar from George Bainbridge, and when she 
 came my way I dropped it into her cap. She 
 looked up at me kind of surprisedlike, and then 
 she smiled. Gee ! It gave me a warm chill all 
 over ! I remember thinking at the time that it 
 was a privilege to give money to any lady as 
 pretty as Pansy was. Did I tell you she had 
 brown eyes? 
 
 "Well, the bloomer ladies didn t take much 
 preliminary practice, but the wryneck, he got 
 out and heaved a few to the other fat he-male, 
 and then him and Henry Kamphefner tossed a 
 coin. The wryneck called the turn, and sent us 
 to bat first. 
 
 "Pansy went skipping down to short, the 
 rest of the bloomer ladies took their places, 
 and the big, fat catcher buzzed a couple down 
 to second a mile a minute. Pansy came across 
 to the bag like a big leaguer, took the throws 
 as pretty as you would want to see, and chucked 
 em back just like a boy. My, how the crowd 
 cheered her! Pansy was the hit of the show, 
 right from the start. 
 
 "Martin Carey umpired, and Fred Gilroy, 
 our shortstop, led off for us. The wryneck 
 
 [88]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY 
 
 sort of uncoiled himself, and broke a fast one 
 across Fred s letters, and all the bloomer ladies 
 began to chirp. 
 
 " That s pitching! they yelled. You ve 
 got everything to-day, Pearl! He couldn t hit 
 you with an ironing board, girlie! 
 
 "Pearl and girlie! What do you think of 
 that for gall? 
 
 1 Well, of course, that first strike and all the 
 joshing he got from the bloomer ladies made 
 Fred mad, and he took an awful wallop at the 
 next one. It broke toward him this time, and 
 he missed it a foot. That rattled him so that 
 he stood still and let Carey call the third one 
 on him, and what the bloomer people did to 
 Fred when he walked away from the plate was 
 certainly plenty. I ve seen some pretty fair 
 single-handed joshers in my time, but the 
 bloomer ladies had it figured down to scientific 
 teamwork. 
 
 " Ain t he the cute thing? chirps the big 
 blonde over on first base. I ll bet his best 
 girl saw him stand up there like a cigar-store 
 Indian and let em call a third strike on him! 
 
 " Mother s darling boy! squawks the old 
 lady over on third. Don t let Hazel make you 
 angry, Clarence! 
 
 "There was plenty more of the same kind, 
 and the crowd laughed fit to bust. It was as 
 good as a show for them. 
 
 "Pete Townes, our third baseman, batted 
 next. Pete chopped at the first one, and poked 
 a little foul over back of first. The big blonde 
 
 [89]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 ran right into the crowd, and made a nice one- 
 handed stab. All the bloomer ladies yelled: 
 Nice work, Hazel! Then they whirled in on 
 Pete, and told him a few things about himself. 
 
 "I d been watching the wryneck, and begin 
 ning to see that we wasn t up against any 
 tapioca. That old fat boy was there! He had 
 swell curves, a dandy fast ball with a nice hop 
 to it, and a change of pace, and when you come 
 right down to it, that s all the best of em have 
 got that and control, and the wryneck didn t 
 have no trouble putting em where he wanted 
 em to go. 
 
 " While I was studying him, he pulled a 
 stunt on Charlie Kennedy, our centre fielder, 
 and the best hitter we had, that made me respect 
 the wryneck more than ever. He had a strike 
 on Charlie to begin with, and he put another 
 one right in the same place. Charlie took a 
 good toe hold, and lammed that ball over third 
 base pretty near a mile on a line. It struck 
 foul, though, and that made two strikes. The 
 wryneck saw that he couldn t afford to let 
 Charlie hit any more as hard as that, and what 
 do you think he did? He d been pitching right- 
 handed, but he faced the other way in the box, 
 and lobbed up the third strike with his left! 
 When you re all set for right-handed pitching, 
 and looking for a wide outcurve, it balls you up 
 something awful to have the next one break 
 from two feet outside the plate and come in 
 toward you. Charlie was so paralysed that he 
 stood still, and never even offered at the ball. 
 
 [90]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY 
 
 I d heard of pitchers who could do that stunt, 
 but I never saw one before. Amphibious pitch 
 ers are scarce in any man s country! 
 
 "I saw then that I was going to have to do 
 some pitching myself, and when I walked out 
 into the box I sort of timed myself to meet 
 Pansy on the way. She gave me another smile. 
 I d noticed particular that when all the other 
 bloomer people were yelling that Pansy kept 
 her mouth shut, and attended to business. That 
 made her stronger with me than ever. I like 
 the quiet ones myself. 
 
 Well, of course, I was out there to show 
 those bottle blondes that they didn t have the 
 only pitcher on earth. Up came the old third 
 baselady. Maudie, they called her. Two of 
 the women were in the coachers boxes, and as 
 soon as I got my toe on the slab they started 
 after me. I usually stand that sort of thing 
 pretty good from men. But what can you 
 think of to say to a lady that wears bloomers! 
 They opened up on me for fair. They talked 
 about my face and my feet and the way my 
 clothes fit me. It was fierce. I know my foot 
 is long, but I take a narrow last. 
 
 " Come on, Maudie! they squalled. Here s 
 Oswald, with the big feet! He s out there on 
 the hill, and he ain t got a thing in the world 
 but a chew of tobacco and a prayer! 
 
 "Now, that s a fine way for ladies to talk, 
 ain t it? 
 
 "I didn t fool much with Maudie. She 
 wanted to bunt, but I kept em too high for her, 
 
 [91]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and she never even got a foul. Then came 
 Hazel, the big blonde. I owed her something 
 for what she said down at the depot, and I put 
 the first one so close to her nose that she could 
 have smelled it when it went by. She was hug 
 ging the plate, anyway, and I wanted to drive 
 her back. Hazel didn t scare worth a cent. She 
 shook her bat at me, and danced up and down, 
 and said if I beaned her she d bust it over 
 my head. "What s more, I think she meant it. 
 
 "I fed her the old McKinstry special, the 
 wide outdrop, and she missed two of em. 
 Hazel was no piker. She d swing at anything 
 she could reach. I figured she d be looking for 
 a third one, so I banged the ball straight over, 
 she shut her eyes, and popped a fluky little 
 Texas leaguer back of first base. Pure luck. 
 Hazel wasn t built for speed, but any fat lady 
 could have made first on that hit. I was mad 
 enough to fight until I looked up and saw Pansy 
 at the plate Pansy and her cute little bat. 
 
 " Come on, girlie! squalled the coachers. 
 HereVwhere we put the rollers under Oswald ! 
 Get a hit, girlie, get a hit ! 
 
 "I hated to do it, but I slipped Pansy one 
 over the inside corner that nearly took Jeff off 
 his feet. I was going to show her that I was a 
 pitcher if I didn t do anything else. I tried it 
 again ; Pansy swung with all her might, and the 
 ball came back at me like it was shot out of a 
 gun. I just had time to get my glove up in 
 front of my face when bam ! the ball hit right 
 in the middle of it and stuck there. I chucked 
 
 [92]
 
 CHIVAUIY IN CAEBON COUNTY 
 
 it over to Henry Kamphefner on first, and wo 
 doubled Hazel by forty feet, but somehow I felt 
 kind of rotten about robbing Pansy of that 
 hit. 
 
 " Take the horseshoes out of your pockets, 
 Oswald! squalls Hazel when she finally got it 
 through her head that we d stopped em with a 
 double play. * Pretty lucky ! Pretty lucky ! 
 
 "I ran into Pansy again as we changed sides, 
 and this time she grinned when she saw me 
 coming. 
 
 " Pretty tough, little one, I says. A foot 
 on either side, and that ball would be going 
 yet. She never said a word; just trotted out 
 and picked up her glove. 
 
 "Well, that s the way it started. Skipping 
 the details, the wryneck pitched swell, elegant 
 baseball, and when he got in a hole, he d switch 
 and roll a few down the alley with his left. He 
 had us all swinging like a farmyard gate, and 
 when you ve got a team doing that, you ve got 
 the boys guessing. We put some men on the 
 bases here and there, but we didn t seem to be 
 able to hit em around, and there wasn t much 
 nourishment in trying to steal not with Pansy 
 covering the bag and handling the throw. The 
 wryneck hit me an awful soak in the ribs in the 
 third inning, and I did my level darndest to 
 steal second, because I wanted to be where I 
 could talk to Pansy. I m supposed to be a 
 pretty fast little fellow on my feet, and I was 
 up and gone with the wryneck s wing, but that 
 fat catcher slammed the ball down like a white 
 
 [93]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 streak, and when I arrived, feet first, Pansy had 
 the ball waiting for me. 
 
 "Along about the sixth we slipped a run 
 across. Pete Townes drew a base on balls, 
 Charlie Kennedy pushed him along with a sac 
 rifice bunt, and Billy French brought him home 
 with a single to centre. You bet that one run 
 looked mighty good to us. We d forgotten all 
 about beating those bloomer ladies forty to 
 nothing, and, considering the way the wryneck 
 was going, we were thankful for that ace. It 
 looked big enough to win with, but in the eighth 
 we had another guess. Old double-barrel tied 
 the score on us. 
 
 "I hadn t been worrying so much about the 
 wryneck being a hitter, because he d been 
 swinging at anything, but he came up first in 
 the eighth and tied into one good and plenty. 
 It would have been a home run if he hadn t been 
 so fat. Of course, he blamed it on the altitude. 
 He got as far as third base, and then he sat 
 down on the bag with his tongue hanging out a 
 foot. His bloomer friends certainly knew the 
 fine points of the game. Hazel broke a shoe 
 lace, and took five minutes to fix it, and then 
 Pansy had to stop to do up her hair, and 
 Maudie s belt got twisted, and between em all 
 they gave the old rascal a fine breathing spell. 
 At that I d have left him marooned on third 
 base if Fred Gilroy hadn t played ping-pong 
 with a ball that Myrtle hit straight at him. 
 Fred made a high peg to the plate, Jeff had to 
 jump for it, and he came down square on top 
 
 [94]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CAEBON COUNTY 
 
 of the wryneck. I ve never seen a hippopota 
 mus slide to the plate, but I don t need to. I 
 saw the wryneck, and there we was with the 
 score tied up and the ninth inning coming. 
 
 "By this time we was pretty much worked 
 up about them two-to-one bets, and the bloomer 
 ladies were chirping like a lot of canaries. 
 That one run put a lot of life into em. 
 
 "We didn t do any good in our half of the 
 ninth, and then here was Maudie again, leading 
 off for the ladies. Maudie was tolerable soft 
 for me. She was afraid of a fast ball, and I 
 didn t give her anything else. Three strikes 
 for Maudie. The bloomer ladies rooted hard 
 for Hazel, but I got her in a hole and made her 
 swing at a curve, and she went back. 
 
 "Pansy waltzed up to the plate. She had a 
 bigger bat this time. Pansy hadn t hit a ball 
 out of the diamond all the afternoon, and Henry 
 Kamphefner, who d been reading the maga 
 zines, and thought he knew all about inside 
 baseball, wigwagged to the outfielders to get in 
 close. 
 
 "When I saw that big bat I had to laugh. It 
 was most as big as Pansy was. 
 
 " Hey, little one, I sings out, what are you 
 going to do with that telegraph pole? 
 
 "Pansy laughed back at me, waved her hand, 
 and then I hope I may choke if she didn t throw 
 me a kiss! Honest Injun, that s just what she 
 did! You could have knocked me down with 
 a lead pencil. 
 
 "Next thing I knew there was a terrible racket 
 [95]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 over back of first base. Hazel and Maudie 
 and Mrytle and Jennie and all the rest of 
 the bloomer ladies were yelling at Martin 
 Carey: 
 
 " Mister Umpire! Oh, Mister Umpire! 
 
 " Well, what s wrong now? says Martin. 
 The crowd hushed up to listen to their kick. 
 Hazel cut loose with a howl that you could have 
 heard half a mile away. 
 
 11 You make that pitcher stop flirting with 
 Pansy! she bawls. He s been making goo-goo 
 eyes at her all through the game! You make 
 him quit it ! 
 
 "Well, she got the crowd a-going, and I sup 
 pose that s what she wanted. Laugh? They 
 laughed their heads off. First thing I knew my 
 ears were burning up, and I didn t hardly know 
 what end I was on. I ll bet if I d took off my 
 shoes and dropped my glove I d have gone 
 straight up in the air like a balloon. 
 
 " Come on there! yells Hazel. Quit stall 
 ing and pitch! Call time on him, Mister Um 
 pire! 
 
 "I must have been pretty badly rattled. 
 Wasn t that bawl-out enough to rattle any 
 body? I set myself to pitch, but I was so plum 
 full of other ideas and things that I mislaid 
 the plate entirely, and before I knew it there 
 was Hazel and Maudie and the rest of those 
 squaws doing a ghost dance along the side lines, 
 and the crowd roaring like a menagerie at din 
 ner time. 
 
 "What s the count, Martin? I says. You 
 [96]
 
 CHIVALKY IN CAEBON COUNTY 
 
 can tell how upset I must have been to ask a 
 question like that. 
 
 " Three balls and no strikes, says Martin. 
 "For the love of Heaven, Bud, take a brace! 
 Don t let those old battle-axes scare you. 
 Steady down and get em over! 
 
 "Well, I knew I had to do it. I aimed the 
 next one straight down the groove, and there 
 wasn t a thing on that ball but the cover not 
 a thing. With three and nothing, I figured that 
 Pansy would wait me out for a base on balls, 
 and I heaved that one up there as straight as 
 I knew how, looking to cut the plate where it 
 was biggest. 
 
 "Pansy saw that it was a groover, and back 
 went that big bat, and then bing! she landed 
 on it as hard as she could swing! I got one 
 flash at the ball as it went out over my head. 
 It was another one of those low line drives. I 
 whirled around, and there was Charlie Kennedy 
 and Billy French and George Perkins, all hit 
 ting the high spots in the direction of the river. 
 Kamphefner had pulled em in close, and 
 Pansy had crossed us by lamming it out over 
 their heads. 
 
 "The next thing I noticed was Pansy round 
 ing second base, and run? She could have given 
 a coyote a head start and run him breathless 
 around them bags! She was straightened out 
 for third before Charlie caught up with the ball 
 at all. Dan McLaurin had the best wing in the 
 infield, and he ran back to handle the relay. 
 Charlie let fly just as Pansy rounded third base, 
 
 [97]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and Dan made a chain-lightning peg to the 
 plate, but little Pansy hit the dirt like an 
 avalanche, and Jeff never did find her in the 
 dust she kicked up. 
 
 " Safe! yells Martin Carey, and there 
 went our old ball game, two to one, And licked 
 by the bloomer ladies ! Jeff Bloodgood heaved 
 the ball away, he was so mad. I don t blame 
 him." 
 
 Bud paused and rolled another cigarette, 
 whistling between his teeth as he did so. I 
 offered some consolatory remarks, but Bud 
 held up a restraining hand. 
 
 Wait ! " he said. The worst is yet to come. 
 I wouldn t have left home for a little thing 
 like that." 
 
 He lighted his cigarette, blew a few clouds 
 from deep down in his lungs, and resumed his 
 narrative : 
 
 "After the game the wryneck took off his 
 wig, and so did the catcher, and they went up 
 to the hotel with our bunch. The girls beat it 
 back to the private car. Dan got the money 
 out of the safe, and turned it over to the wry 
 neck. I got to say for him that he acted like 
 a true sport, and did the right thing by tho 
 gang. Then Dan said we d all have one on the 
 house and we did; and then some more of the 
 boys had a stroke of enlargement of the heart, 
 and then the wryneck started it all over again. 
 It got to be quite a party after a while. The 
 wryneck, he said we d given him the toughest 
 
 [98]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY 
 
 battle of the season so far, but then I guess he 
 was just salving us a little. Goodness knows 
 he could afford to. 
 
 "Other folks dropped in, and finally there 
 must have been fifty or sixty of us. Then some 
 one no, it wasn t me suggested that it would 
 be a right cute little idea to go down to the 
 depot and give three cheers for the bloomer 
 girls, just to show em that we were true sports, 
 and knew how to lose like gentlemen. Every 
 body thought well of the scheme, and then Luke 
 Fosdick got up on a table, and said if we were 
 going to do anything of that sort we might just 
 as well do it right. 
 
 We ll get the band boys together, and go 
 down there and give em a serenade! says 
 Luke. Luke played the E-flat cornet, and 
 thought he was quite a bunch on that solo busi 
 ness. 
 
 "Well, that wasn t any trouble, because most 
 of the band boys were with the gang. They 
 rustled out their instruments, and away we 
 went across the bridge and over toward the 
 depot, the band taking an awful fall out of that 
 Hot Time in the Old Town piece. We marched 
 up alongside of that private car, and opened 
 the celebration with three cheers. Then the 
 band played some more rotten, it was and 
 the wryneck went into the car and brought out 
 some of the bloomer ladies and introduced em. 
 They didn t look any better to me in their regu 
 lar clothes. 
 
 "I rubbered and I rubbered, but I didn t see 
 [99]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 anything of Pansy, so after a while I edged 
 over to Hazel, who had borrowed the bass drum, 
 and was leading the band, and I asked her 
 about it. 
 
 " Where s the little shortstop? I says. 
 Why don t you trot her out? This is her 
 party, and she oughtn t to run out on it this 
 way. 
 
 "Hazel threw back her head, and began to 
 laugh, and she laughed so long and so loud that 
 all the gang gathered around to find out what 
 was so funny. 
 
 " Oh, Joe! says Hazel to the wryneck. 
 Pansy has another mash! Oswald says he d 
 like to meet her. 
 
 "Of course, the boys had the laugh on me, 
 but shucks ! they was just as anxious as I was 
 to see her. They began to yell : 
 
 " Pansy! Oh, Pansy! W T e want Pansy! 
 and things like that. 
 
 " All right, boys, says the wryneck. I ll 
 go in and coax her to come out. Pansy ain t 
 very strong for the rough stuff, but I guess I 
 can persuade her. And he climbed into the 
 car. 
 
 "He was gone quite some time. We bunched 
 up around the car steps and waited, and while 
 we were waiting we made it up among ourselves 
 to give her three regular ring-tail peelers and 
 a tiger the minute she poked her nose outdoors. 
 
 "Finally the door opened, and there was the 
 wryneck. 
 
 " Gentlemen, says he, the young lady was 
 [100]
 
 CHIVALRY IN CARBON COUNTY 
 
 dressing, or she wouldn t have kept you wait 
 ing. Allow me to present to you Miss Pansy 
 DeMarr, the greatest lady shortstop in the 
 world ! 
 
 "He made a flourish with his arm like a ring 
 master in a circus, and there was Pansy, stand 
 ing in the vestibule and looking down at us. 
 She had on what looked like a long robe of some 
 sort, all embroidery and lace, and she smiled 
 when we gave her a real Wyoming send-off with 
 a tiger that started the dogs to barking for 
 miles and miles. 
 
 " Speech! Speech! yells Charlie Patter 
 son, and we all took it up like a lot of parrots. 
 
 "Pansy looked over at the wryneck and he 
 nodded at her. She put one hand up to her 
 hair, and the other one went to her throat. I 
 could see that she was fumbling with the catch 
 to that robe, and just as I was beginning to 
 wonder what was coming off next two things 
 came off at once Pansy s head of hair and her 
 dressing gown ! She kicked the robe backward, 
 and hopped down on the car steps as pretty 
 looking a boy as ever you saw in your life! 
 
 "Maybe you ve heard the sound that goes 
 through a crowd at a prize fight, when one lad 
 slips over a fluke knockout, and takes every 
 body by surprise, including himself? A sort 
 of a cross between a grunt and a sigh. I ll bet 
 there wasn t enough wind left in the whole lot 
 of us to fetch out one decent, healthy cuss word ! 
 Flabbergasted? That ain t no name for it. 
 And before we could get breath enough to say 
 
 [101]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 anything, Pansy made the speech we d been 
 asking for made it in the kind of a voice that 
 goes with pants. 
 
 " "Where s that rube pitcher? says he. I 
 want to give him a kiss! 
 
 There was a long silence, while Bud traced 
 patterns in the gravel with his boot heels. 
 
 "At that," he remarked defiantly, "I wasn t 
 fooled any worse n the rest of em. That kid 
 could have fooled anybody. Why, he used to 
 be on the stage. One of those female imper 
 sonators. But you know how it is in a small 
 town. Once they get anything on you, they 
 never let go. They just keep riding you and 
 riding you, and I got sick of it. Baldy Sisson 
 had everybody in Carbon County calling me 
 Pansy. I couldn t stand that, so I ducked, but 
 if you ve got a heart at all you won t tip it off 
 to Baldy what I m doing now." 
 
 Bud rose, stretched himself, and looked at his 
 dollar watch. 
 
 "I feel quite some better!" he said. "Come 
 on, let s go down to that fish place, and see 
 those Wyoming trout. Somebody must have 
 fooled them, too, or they wouldn t be here!" 
 
 [102]
 
 "fT^HEEE ain t no use beating around the 
 bush," said Manager Burgess to 
 pitcher Wicks, otherwise "Wicksey" 
 or "the Squirrel." Having thus 
 pointed out the futility in skirting the edges 
 of an unpleasant subject, the speaker pro 
 ceeded to do the very thing which he had con 
 demned as useless. It was in the manager s 
 mind and heavy upon his conscience to tell the 
 Squirrel that after nine years faithful and con 
 tinuous service he was out of a job, but as 
 Burgess looked upon the appealing countenance 
 of his veteran pitcher, he found it hard to put 
 his message into words. It is just as difficult 
 for a bush-league baseball manager to tell an 
 unpleasant truth as it is for any one else. 
 
 "You know the fix I m in," temporised 
 Burgess. "They look to me to get two hun 
 dred cents out of every dollar I spend, and I 
 can t carry any dead wood on the pay roll. 
 Every man that draws salary has got to be able 
 to work. Particularly the pitchers. Now this 
 new kid, McSherry, looks middling good. He s 
 got as much smoke as a steamboat, and if I 
 
 [103]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 can ever learn him to think, he ll be quite a 
 heaver some day. You see, Wicksey, Mc- 
 Sherry s coming and you re going. There s 
 a whole lot of people in this town that think 
 you re already gone." 
 
 "Aw, say," said Squirrel Wicks, and there 
 he stopped. Words always troubled Wicks. 
 He did not know what to do with them, so for 
 the most part he remained silent. Vaguely he 
 realised that he had arrived at a serious crisis 
 in his affairs, and he knew from the manager s 
 manner that something unpleasant was in store. 
 He sat on a bench in the dirty, unswept dress 
 ing-room underneath the grand stand with its 
 litter of cast-off garments, cigar butts, and 
 playing cards, and for lack of something better 
 to do, he scraped at a knot hole in the floor with 
 the toe of his spiked shoe. That knot hole was 
 an old friend; it had been there during the 
 entire period of the Squirrel s service. 
 
 "Aw, say !" he repeated helplessly. 
 
 "Well, I m saying it," continued Burgess. 
 "You know yourself that you haven t been 
 much use to the team so far this season. Last 
 year you got away with it on your control, but 
 since you ve lost that, it s first-degree murder 
 to ask you to work. I slipped you in there 
 this afternoon just to see if you couldn t find 
 the plate once in a while, and what did you do ? 
 Walked three men, hit two, and laid one right in 
 the groove for Feeney ! What kind of pitching 
 is that?" 
 
 "Aw, say!" This was still all that the 
 [104]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 Squirrel could manage under the circum 
 stances, which were beginning to be acutely 
 painful. 
 
 "And, of course," said Burgess, "you can t 
 expect to go on pitching forever. Even old Cy 
 Young had to go back to the farm, you know. 
 That bird had the greatest soup bone ever built 
 onto a man, but he kept on pitching, and by and 
 by he worked it out. You got just so many 
 games up your sleeve, Wicksey, and when 
 you ve flung em all bang!" 
 
 Wicks did not look up. He continued to 
 scrape the knot hole gently with his left toe. 
 His little world was crashing to atoms about 
 his ears, but he could not find words in which 
 to express his misery. The Maroons were not 
 much of a ball club by any standard you choose ; 
 the D. L. D. League was not much of a league 
 "Darn Little Dough" was what the players 
 called it and Bowlegs Burgess was not much 
 of a manager, but poor as they were, these 
 things were the best that Squirrel Wicks had 
 ever known, and the news that he was to be 
 separated from them after so many years came 
 as a numbing shock, temporarily paralysing his 
 limited powers of reflection. 
 
 "It s tough, I know," said Burgess, with the 
 blundering kindness of a dentist who attempts 
 to soothe the jumping nerve with conversation 
 when cocaine is needed. "It s tough, but it 
 might be worse. You ain t married, and 
 there s only yourself to look out for. Just 
 the other day McCulley was saying that he 
 
 [105]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 wisht he could get a steady man in the bowling 
 alley nights. You better drop in and see 
 McCulley." 
 
 There was an uncomfortable silence. Wicks 
 sat motionless, save for the slight scraping 
 motion of his left foot, now purely mechanical. 
 He had ceased to study the knot hole, and was 
 staring straight in front of him; but for the 
 expression in his wavering blue eyes, Burgess 
 might have thought that Wicks had neither 
 heard nor understood. 
 
 "Well, I got to be going!" said Burgess 
 suddenly. 
 
 He jumped to his feet with a great deal of 
 unnecessary clatter, and moving over to the 
 broken, fly-specked mirror sole outward evi 
 dence that vanity still lived among the Maroons 
 proceeded to knot the scarf which had been 
 hanging about his neck. This task completed 
 to his satisfaction, he pierced the cheap, knitted 
 fabric with a long, brass pin, at the end of 
 which was an imitation pink pearl not much 
 larger or more valuable than a gumdrop. Eeal 
 pearls of any size or colour were not known in 
 the D. L. D. League. 
 
 Burgess consumed a great deal of time in 
 the operation, for he hoped that the Squirrel 
 would say something, and give a hint of what 
 was passing behind those troubled eyes. Thus 
 the conscientious dentist listens for the patient 
 to groan in order that he may assure his victim 
 that the pain is trifling and will pass. Kind 
 ness is the compelling motive; well meant but 
 
 [106]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 useless. Some hurts of nerve and heart lie 
 deeper than words. Burgess made a last at 
 tempt with his hand on the doorknob. 
 
 "There s nothing pers nal in this, Wicksey," 
 said he. "If you was able to take your turn 
 in the box and win a game once in a while, you 
 could stick on the pay roll till hell freezes over 
 for all o me, but it ain t my money. It s Joe 
 Darnell s, and you know Joe; two for one 
 always is his motto. I like you first rate, 
 Wicksey. We all like you first rate. You re 
 a good feller and all that, but your arm is 
 pitched out see? Ausgespielt! I ll tell Mc- 
 Culley that you ll be around to see him; 
 shall If" 
 
 The Squirrel did not answer. He had re 
 turned to an intimate scrutiny of the knot hole. 
 After giving him a liberal interval in which to 
 respond, Burgess slammed the dressing-room 
 door, and went away, his rapid steps echoing 
 hollowly under the deserted grand stand. 
 
 The rays of the setting sun, filtering through 
 the cracks, saw Wicks still upon the bench in 
 front of his locker, a slouching figure in his 
 dingy, stained uniform. When he could no 
 longer see the knot hole, he scraped it with his 
 toe. Not all the tragedies of the national game 
 are played out before an audience. 
 
 In addition to owning the Maroon franchise, 
 n doubtful asset at best, Joe Darnell owned the 
 Silver Star Saloon, and it was there that Bur 
 gess sought his superior. Darnell was mopping 
 
 [107]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 the bar, but he paused long enough to ask a 
 question. 
 
 * Well ! Did you tell him ! 
 
 "Yes," said Burgess. "I told him and I d 
 rather have been licked." 
 
 "Uh-huh," said Darnell. "What did he 
 say?" 
 
 * * That s the worst of it, said Burgess. * He 
 never opened his mouth just sat there and 
 looked at the floor." 
 
 "He always was a nut, anyway," remarked 
 Darnell. "Most left-handers are a little 
 touched in the head. So long as he could pitch, 
 I stood for him, but now He left the sen 
 
 tence unfinished, and continued to swab the 
 mahogany. 
 
 "Poor devil!" said Burgess. "If he d put 
 up any sort of a holler asked for another 
 chance anything it wouldn t have been so 
 tough. He didn t act natural like a man 
 would act when he was getting a can tied to 
 him. You know, Joe, it wouldn t surprise me 
 at all if he went clean off his nut any time. 
 He s the kind that ll sit around and sit around 
 and chew on his trouble till some day bang! 
 and down comes the whole upper story. Yes, 
 sir, that s just about what 11 happen to 
 him." 
 
 "Well," said Darnell, "there s one good 
 thing; he won t ever be violent. He ain t the 
 violent kind." 
 
 "You can t never tell what a left-hander will 
 do," said Burgess sagely. "Anyway, I m 
 
 [108]
 
 THE SQUIRKEL 
 
 sorry for Wicksey. I m going over and ask 
 McCulley to give him a job." 
 
 "What doing?" asked Darnell, with slight 
 interest. 
 
 * You think any feller that s played baseball 
 for you nine years for the dough you pay is 
 going to be particular?" sneered Burgess. 
 "Any old job would be a boost after that." 
 
 "Oh, I don t know!" said the owner of the 
 Maroons. "Them that ain t satisfied can quit. 
 There s no strings on em, my son. 
 
 n 
 
 The Squirrel s public record was an open 
 book; his private record was blank. He drifted 
 into Booneville from nowhere, found the 
 Maroons at practise, and, climbing over the 
 bleacher fence, asked for a job, in the manner 
 of a harvest hand accosting a farmer. 
 
 "What are you?" asked Burgess. "An out 
 fielder?" 
 
 "I ve pitched some," said the stranger. 
 
 "Where at?" demanded Burgess. 
 
 The abruptness of the question seemed to 
 startle Wicks. 
 
 "All around the bushes," said he at length. 
 "I m pretty good." 
 
 "Oh, you are, are you?" said Burgess. 
 Show me something. 
 
 Wicks was allowed to practise with the 
 Maroons, and it did not take him long to dem 
 onstrate that it was as he had stated. He was 
 
 [109]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 pretty good; very good, in fact, for the D. L. 
 D. League. 
 
 "He s a nut of some kind," Burgess reported 
 to Darnell, "but there s nothing the matter 
 with his left wing. Got speed, control, nice 
 curves, and he fields pretty well for such a big, 
 gangling feller. Says he s never been in a real 
 league before." 
 
 "Ask him how much he wants if he makes 
 good, said the thrifty Darnell. " If he s a nut 
 we ought to get him cheap. 
 
 "I asked him already," said Burgess. "He 
 says he don t care." 
 
 "He s a nut all right," said Darnell. "Tell 
 him we ll give him twelve a week to start 
 with." 
 
 Darnell was prepared to offer as much as 
 fifteen in case the stranger protested, but Wicks 
 accepted the pitiful stipend without comment. 
 Thirty dollars a week was the top figure in that 
 league, twenty was the average, for the D. L. 
 D. was the very bottom of the baseball ladder 
 fit only to climb out of or fall into. 
 
 Wicks made good and forgot to ask for more 
 money; a second reason for questioning his 
 sanity. The players found him a silent, colour 
 less individual, who kept his mouth shut at all 
 times, and attended strictly to his own business, 
 having no business outside the pitcher s box. 
 Attempts to draw confidences from him were 
 useless; he met such advances with a nervous, 
 deprecating grin. Past experience was a thing 
 which he would discuss with nobody, and grad- 
 
 [110]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 ually the impression grew that Wicks had some 
 thing to hide. 
 
 It was Bogart Ledbetter, the town humourist, 
 who fastened the name of Squirrel upon Wicks. 
 Bogart, who owned a pool parlour, and main 
 tained a private menagerie for the edification 
 of his customers, discovered Wicks endeavour 
 ing to establish friendly relations with a caged 
 squirrel. 
 
 "Don t get your fingers too close to that 
 feller," said Bogart. 
 
 "Why?" asked Wicks. "He s tame, ain t 
 he?" 
 
 "He s tame all right, but he s a squirrel, and 
 squirrels eat nuts," said the local funny man. 
 
 It was humour of too subtle a brand for 
 Wicks, and thereafter he became the Squirrel. 
 He accepted the name as he had accepted the 
 twelve dollars a week without question or 
 argument. 
 
 "A little bit touched in the upper story, but 
 harmless," was the popular verdict. "Base 
 ball sense is the only kind of sense he s got, and 
 it s all he needs. Gee, how he can hop that pill 
 over the plate ! 
 
 Other left-handers, better known to fame, 
 might have been described in the same terms. 
 
 Time passed on, and Squirrel Wicks became 
 one of the veterans of the Maroon team. 
 Almost any man who could play baseball a 
 little and would play it for a little money had 
 a chance to become a veteran in the D. L. D. 
 League. Youngsters flashed for a season, and 
 
 [111]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 then went higher to their rewards, for they did 
 not belong at the bottom of the ladder, but 
 neither ambition nor envy touched Squirrel 
 Wicks. He had found the spot where he be 
 longed, and seemed satisfied with it. Scouts, 
 beating the bushes in search of promising ma 
 terial, never looked twice at Wicks. 
 
 "He s good enough for Booneville," said 
 they, which meant that he was not good enough 
 for anywhere else. 
 
 Wicks had heard of cities where ball players 
 wore real diamonds, and earned real money, 
 but to him these cities were nothing but names 
 New York, Chicago, and Pittsburgh. He had 
 also heard of the organisation known as the big 
 league, but the words possessed no especial sig 
 nificance for him. 
 
 "How d you like to go up there some day!" 
 Tacks Murphy once asked Wicks this question. 
 Minor leaguers usually refer to the big league 
 as "up there." 
 
 "Wouldn t like it," said Wicks, who was in 
 a rarely communicative mood. 
 
 "You wouldn t! Why, say, do you know 
 what some of them fellers get for playing six 
 months?" 
 
 "Huh-uh!" 
 
 "Ten thousand dollars! And they live on 
 the fat of the land they don t ride in no 
 cabooses, you bet." 
 
 "That s too much money just for playing 
 ball, said the Squirrel mildly. 
 
 "It wouldn t be too much for me if I could 
 [112]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 get it," said Tacks hungrily. "And think of 
 all the fun a feller could have in a town like 
 Chicago or Saint Looey." 
 
 The Squirrel shook his head. 
 
 1 1 don t like them big towns, said he. Too 
 much going on." 
 
 "I ll bet you never saw a big town!" scoffed 
 Tacks. 
 
 "I have so. The biggest town in loway." 
 
 Later, having had time to think, Wicks added 
 an illuminating sentence or two the key to his 
 queer character, had Tacks but known it. 
 
 1 It ain t the money that I care about," said 
 he. "Money is nothing, but I certainly do love 
 to play ball. Seems as if the only real fun I 
 get is when I m in there pitching. I like to see 
 em swing their heads off at the third one." 
 
 Though Wicks had never explained his point 
 of view to the manager, Bowlegs Burgess fur 
 nished the Squirrel with plenty of pleasure. 
 Steady, consistent pitchers, eager to work in 
 turn and out of turn, are as rare in the D. L. 
 D. as any other league, and Burgess worked the 
 uncomplaining Wicks like a horse. Under the 
 circumstances, it was marvellous that his arm 
 lasted as long as it did. It must have been an 
 unusual arm to begin with, for it was later 
 ascertained that the Squirrel had been pitching 
 here, there, and everywhere for six years, when 
 he drifted into Booneville. Six and nine are 
 fifteen, and fifteen years in the pitcher s box 
 will send most of the iron men to the scrap 
 heap. 
 
 [113]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 The breakdown of a pitcher is seldom a sud 
 den affair; the wearing out of one is a gradual 
 process which never varies. First the Squir 
 rel s speed deserted him, and he was no longer 
 able to hop the third one across the corner of 
 the plate. Dismayed at his failing power, 
 Wicks fell back upon his control, of which he 
 had been gifted with rather more than a left 
 hander s share. Control carried him through 
 three seasons, but when the curves began to 
 go wide, and the ghost of the fast one" re 
 fused to break at all, even a half-wit like Wicks 
 knew that the end was in sight. 
 
 rn 
 
 On the night of his dismissal, Wicks pre 
 sented himself at McCulley s bowling alley. 
 Utter dejection struck at every line of his tall, 
 awkward figure. His shoulders sagged hope 
 lessly, and he shuffled his feet in an apologetic 
 manner as he stood in front of the cigar coun 
 ter. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but 
 no words would come. 
 
 "Hello, Squirrel!" said McCulley cheerfully. 
 "Do you want that job?" 
 
 Wicks gulped, and nodded his head. 
 
 "All right. Take off your coat, and hop to 
 it. Put up the ducks on number three." 
 
 So the Squirrel became a pin sticker at a 
 dollar and a quarter a night a mighty fall 
 for one who had been a baseball pitcher, but 
 even a squirrel must eat. Tony, the nimble 
 
 [114]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 little Italian pin sticker, was paid a dollar and 
 a half a night, and the three negroes received 
 a dollar apiece. The extra twenty-five cents 
 paid to Wicks may be credited to a trace of pity 
 in the McCulley make-up. As a pin sticker, 
 the Squirrel was not worth a bonus. 
 
 "I could have got a kid for a dollar a night 
 that \vould stick pins all around him," ex 
 plained McCulley to his customers, "but it 
 seemed to me it was kind of tough to can him 
 off the team after all the years he s been here. 
 He s a nut, I know, but he s quiet, and he 
 tends to business. Don t bawl him out so 
 much for being slow, boys. He s doing the 
 best he can, and when he hoists those long legs 
 of his out of the pit, you can bet that every 
 pin is on the spot. How does he like his new 
 job? The Lord knows. He hasn t opened his 
 mouth to me." 
 
 Wicks opened his mouth to no one. Night 
 after night he sweated in the padded pits, bend 
 ing his back over the splintery tenpins and 
 dodging the flying "ducks" when small-ball 
 games were in order. It was not a merry life, 
 but between the hours of six and twelve it was 
 a busy one, which is the next best thing. 
 
 At the end of the third week, Wicks moved 
 his few possessions from the boarding house 
 to the bowling alley, and thereafter he slept in 
 the storeroom with Tony, the three negroes, the 
 worn-out pins, and the superannuated pool 
 tables. McCulley had provided half a dozen 
 cots for his hired men, which enabled him to 
 
 [115]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 pay them a lower wage by saving them the item 
 of room rent. When one earns a dollar and a 
 quarter a night, room rent becomes an item 
 worthy of serious consideration. 
 
 Under Wicks cot, and guarded carefully, 
 was a battered old pasteboard suitcase, which, 
 when new, had almost resembled alligator skin. 
 The three negroes, noting the Squirrel s furtive 
 manner, made up their minds that the suitcase 
 contained something of value. They discussed 
 the matter among themselves. 
 
 "Whut you reckon the ol Squi l got in that 
 box?" asked Ephraim Ballou. "Las night I 
 wakes up, an there he sets on the aidge of his 
 bed. Kind of scairt me at first because I 
 couldn t make out whut he s up to, but bimeby 
 the light gets better, an I sees that he s got 
 that box open in his lap, an is kind of feelih 
 round inside it with his hands. He set there 
 the longes while, never makin a sound. Look 
 to me like he was kind of pettin something. 
 Whut you reckon he got in there?" 
 
 " Tain t no dough, else he wouldn t be 
 yere," said Zeke Johnson. "And you-all hears 
 me say it, I ain gwine messin round with no 
 junk whut belong to a lunatic. No indeedy! 
 S posin he d ketch you monkeyin with that 
 box? They ain no telling whut he d do." 
 
 "If he ketches me," said Ephraim, "but I 
 don t low to let him do that." 
 
 "You look out, Eph," said the third negro. 
 "Them half -wise, half- nutty people is terrible 
 foxy!" 
 
 [116]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 The time came when Ephraim got a chance 
 to satisfy his curiosity, and the result was a 
 complete surprise. He relates his experience 
 as follows: 
 
 The Squi l he goes out to git a bite to eat, 
 an I bulges in an drags out that suitcase. He 
 ain t even got it locked, maybe, because the 
 lock s busted. I opens her up, and whut you 
 think I found? Nothin but that ratty oP 
 Maroon uniform of his, some baseball shoes, 
 an a glove full o holes. Thass every single 
 thing they was. You don t reckon he thinks 
 he s gwine to pitch some mo !" 
 
 "Pore ol devil!" said Zeke Johnson. 
 " Pears like he jus nachelly hates to let go. 
 Fightehs is jus the same way. They alwuz 
 thinks they s one mo battle in em. Look at 
 Gawge Dixon an the Old Marster ! Could any 
 body tell them they was through? Even afteh 
 they was licked, they didn t believe it. The 
 Squi l s the same way, an bein sort o loony 
 makes it worse." 
 
 Wicks did not relinquish his interest in base 
 ball. When the Maroons were playing at home, 
 they were always sure of one deeply interested 
 spectator who came in through the deadhead 
 gate and took up a lonely position at the far 
 end of the right-field bleachers. Elbows on his 
 knees, and chin in his hands, he followed every 
 move of the game from beginning to end, a 
 silent, impassive figure in whom was neither 
 praise nor blame. His old teammates often 
 waved their hands at him, or shouted rough 
 
 [117]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 greetings ; he responded with the slightest nod. 
 He had never been in the clubhouse since the 
 night he packed his suitcase. 
 
 The motionless figure on the bleachers often 
 betrayed Burgess into prophecy. 
 
 "You mark my words," the manager would 
 say, " Wicks is going violently bug one of these 
 days. Take a born nut like he is, and give him 
 a grievance to brood over, and if he stays with 
 it long enough, look out for him. I hope the 
 old boy ain t got anything against me." 
 
 If the Squirrel had nothing against Burgess 
 he was hopelessly in the minority in Booneville, 
 for the Maroons were having a bad season, and, 
 as is always the case, the manager came in for 
 the lion s share of the blame. Poor Bowlegs 
 was doing the best he could with the material 
 provided, for Joe Darnell absolutely refused to 
 throw good money after bad, as he expressed it. 
 
 "The club is all right," insisted the owner 
 stubbornly, "the trouble is in the handling." 
 
 "I d like to see you or anybody else handle 
 that bunch of sand letters ! responded Burgess 
 with bitterness. "Connie Mack himself can t 
 take swill and make champagne. If you d only 
 loosen up and let me spend a little money I 
 could stiffen up that infield, get a hitting out 
 field, and a real pitcher or two. Then we could 
 make some sort of a race out of it. I know 
 where I can get a whale of a pitcher, and all 
 he wants is twenty-five a week and his 
 board." 
 
 "Yes," said Darnell, "and I could get Ty 
 [118]
 
 THE SQUIKREL 
 
 Cobb and Walter Johnson if there wasn t any 
 thing to it but spending money. You must 
 think I m in this business for my health!" 
 
 "It s about all you ll get out of it unless you 
 come through," said the harassed manager. 
 "The crowds are getting smaller and smaller, 
 we don t draw flies on the road, we 11 be in last 
 place in another week, and that s where we ll 
 finish. The only way to make money out of 
 baseball is to put money into it, and you won t 
 let go of a cent ! 
 
 * You bet I won t ! " said Darnell. * And I m 
 going to throw up this franchise if the crowds 
 don t pick up. I ve got a family, I have, and 
 I don t propose to sink a lot of good dough in 
 a bum ball team." 
 
 This was the condition of affairs when 
 Martin Bowling, the postmaster of Booneville, 
 discovered in the mail a letter addressed to 
 Elmer Wicks. It spent a week in the W box 
 of the general delivery before Dowling had an 
 inspiration. 
 
 "Mary," said he to his clerk, "what s Squir 
 rel Wicks first name ? 
 
 "I never heard him called anything but 
 Squirrel," said Mary. 
 
 "Well, I wish you d ring up McCulley at 
 the bowling alley, and ask him if the Squirrel s 
 first name is Elmer. If it is, there s a letter 
 here for him." 
 
 1 Humph ! sniffed Mary. Who d write to 
 that simpleton!" 
 
 But she telephoned, and half an hour later 1 
 [119]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 the Squirrel, shabby, unshaven, and apologetic, 
 appeared at the general-delivery window. 
 
 * Wicks, ma am, said he, blushing. * Elmer 
 Wicks." 
 
 "And I shouldn t be surprised," said Mary, 
 later, "if it was the only letter he ever got in 
 his life. Addressed with a typewriter, it was, 
 and from Waterloo, Iowa. There wasn t any 
 name on the come-back; only a post-office box. 
 No, it wasn t from a girl; it was in a business 
 envelope. 
 
 The next morning the Squirrel s cot in the 
 storeroom was empty, and his pasteboard suit 
 case was missing. The disappearance of a 
 prominent citizen is never more than a nine 
 days wonder; the Squirrel was forgotten in 
 three. 
 
 IV 
 
 The league season in Booneville limped on to 
 a disastrous finish. In last place since the end 
 of July, the club had not been able to pay 
 expenses, and Joe Darnell, loudly proclaiming 
 his willingness to sell the franchise, was greeted 
 with ironical mirth. 
 
 "Sell it!" said Bogart Ledbetter. "You ll 
 have to pay somebody to take the darned thing 
 off your hands! You don t think anybody is 
 going to be fool enough to buy a dead horse, 
 do you?" 
 
 "I ll sell it or throw it up," said Darnell 
 savagely. "I m not sucker enough to hold the 
 
 [120]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 bag. The folks in this town make me sick! 
 Here I ve given em league baseball all these 
 years, and the first time the team has a streak 
 of bad luck, what do they do? Quit me cold. 
 A fine lot of sports, they are! But they won t 
 hook me, Bogey. I ll get rid of this old fran 
 chise some way ! 
 
 1 Put it in a basket with a bottle of milk, and 
 leave it on somebody s doorstep overnight," 
 suggested Ledbetter. "That s the way they do 
 with foundlings. If you quit, Joe, what s go 
 ing to become of Burgess, and all the boys on 
 the club? They re such rotten ball players that 
 they can t get a job anywhere else. This is 
 the worst team in the worst league in the whole 
 world. Where do they go from here?" 
 
 "Let em go to work!" snapped Darnell. 
 "It ll do em good!" 
 
 "Fine!" said Ledbetter. "As ball players, 
 they re a swell lot of farm hands. Your 
 pitchers ought to be pitching hay, and they 
 would be, but they haven t got control enough 
 to heave alfalfa through a barn door. Your 
 infielders would make good short-order cooks, 
 the way they scramble the eggs, and spill the 
 beans. As for Burgess, he ought to make a 
 fair mule driver, the experience he s had. Yes, 
 let em go back to work, by all means." 
 
 "They won t work me!" said Darnell. 
 
 The Booneville season was to close on a Sun 
 day, the Maroons playing a home engagement 
 with the Piketown Reds. It was a six-club 
 league, and the Reds were safely intrenched in 
 
 [121]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 fifth place. The outlook was a dreary one, and 
 the final harvest of quarters and halves prom 
 ised to be small. 
 
 On Saturday morning, Bowlegs Burgess was 
 on his way to the Silver Star Saloon for a last 
 conference with Joe Darnell. The manager of 
 the Maroons wore his hat tilted down over his 
 eyes, and his hands deep in his trousers pockets, 
 and, as he walked, he muttered under his 
 breath. This habit is common with managers 
 of tail-end teams, and the reason is not hard 
 to find. Human misery seeks an outlet in 
 words, the manager has much to explain, and, 
 as nobody will listen to the unfortunate whose 
 team is in last place, he talks to himself, certain 
 of a sympathetic listener. 
 
 1 1 It s all off," said Burgess. "If I didn t 
 have a wife and two kids, it wouldn t be so 
 tough, but 
 
 A familiar figure approached, coming from 
 the direction of the railroad station. Burgess 
 spied it, and a startled exclamation burst from 
 him: 
 
 "Wiclcseyl" 
 
 It was indeed the Squirrel, but he had under 
 gone a transformation. He was dressed in a 
 cheap black suit, which draped his angular form 
 in straight, ungraceful lines. He wore a black 
 satin tie of the sort which fastens with an 
 elastic band, and on his head was perched a 
 black derby hat of an almost forgotten shape 
 such as may be encountered on the rural free 
 delivery routes. He resembled a cross between 
 
 [122]
 
 THE SQUIRKEL 
 
 an undertaker and a scarecrow, and, as he 
 drew near, his heavy, black shoes squeaked 
 dolorously. 
 
 "Well, you old rascal!" said Burgess. 
 "Where have you been all this time?" 
 
 "Up in loway," said Wicks, solemnly shak 
 ing hands. 
 
 "The devil you have!" said Burgess. 
 "Where did you get all the clothes? You 
 look like a dude." 
 
 "I bought em," said Wicks, and, taking 
 out a large handkerchief, he proceeded to mop 
 his face with great vigour. 
 
 "Must have a job somewhere?" suggested 
 Burgess. 
 
 Wicks shook his head. 
 
 "No," said he. "I ain t been working." 
 
 "Come back to stay a while?" 
 
 "Dunno. I might." 
 
 Extracting information from the Squirrel 
 was like drawing the cork from a bottle with 
 out a corkscrew. The men stood facing each 
 other for some seconds, and then Wicks picked 
 up his ancient suitcase, and fell into step beside 
 Burgess. 
 
 I wasn t going no place in particular, said 
 he, "so I ll walk along with you. How s 
 things?" 
 
 "Rotten!" said Burgess. "I guess you ve 
 got here in time to see the finish of a league 
 team in this town." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, things have been going from bad to 
 [123]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 worse all season, and now Joe wants to sell out 
 or throw up the franchise and quit. I ve been 
 trying to get some of the sports to chip in and 
 buy the club from Darnell, but they can t see 
 it." Burgess had found his sympathetic lis 
 tener at last, and floodgates were opened. 
 "You know me, Wicksey. I m no John Mc- 
 Graw, but I can win ball games if I ve got any 
 thing to win em with. A winning ball club 
 in this town would be a good investment, but 
 I can t get anybody to touch it because Joe let 
 the team go all to seed wouldn t spend a nickel 
 on it. I told him how it would be. I wanted 
 to go out and grab a few live ones; I wanted 
 to pay better salaries, and get the money back 
 out of increased attendance, but Joe couldn t 
 see it that way. He was all for picking up kids 
 and tramp ball players that he could get for 
 nothing. I tell you, Wicksey, you can t draw 
 money less you ve got a winning club, and you 
 can t have a winning club without players 
 good players and they won t work for noth 
 ing. Joe has let the property deteriorate, and 
 now when he wants to sell, they all give him 
 the laugh. I don t know what we re going to 
 do. Joe hasn t paid us for the last three weeks 
 he says he s waiting to see how he comes out 
 at the end of the season. That s the bunk. 
 He s going to try to beat us out of three weeks 
 dough. Joe Darnell has had this club for 
 twelve years, and the first season he loses 
 money, he wants to throw up his hands and 
 quit. Lord ! I wish I could get hold of a man 
 
 [124]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 with some sporting blood and a bank roll! If 
 I could find somebody to buy that ball club, and 
 spend a little money strengthening it, I d build 
 him up a pennant winner, sure ! 
 
 "I ll buy it," said the Squirrel. 
 
 Burgess halted in his tracks. 
 
 "Huh? You ll what?" 
 
 "I ll buy the ball club," repeated Wicks 
 calmly. 
 
 Burgess stared hard into the Squirrel s 
 placid countenance, in which was no sign of 
 emotion of any sort; he strove to hold the 
 wavering blue eyes, but they slipped beyond 
 him. A sudden suspicion flashed into the 
 manager s brain. He laid his hand on Wicks 
 arm with the cautious gesture of one establish 
 ing relations with a dangerous horse, and 
 when he spoke his voice was soothing in the 
 extreme. 
 
 "Why why, of course, you ll buy the ball 
 club!" said he. "Sure you will! Ain t it 
 funny I never thought of you before! You d 
 be the very man. Buy the whole darn league 
 if you want to ! " 
 
 "I could do that, too," said the Squirrel, 
 "but it would be syndicate baseball. I think 
 I d rather own just one club." 
 
 "Of course! Of course!" said Burgess 
 hastily. "You re right about that, Wicksey. 
 And when you get ready to buy, I ll manage 
 the club for you." 
 
 "I d rather have you for a manager than 
 anybody else," said Wicks. 
 
 [125]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Now you re shouting, old boy ! Yes, indeed, 
 and I d manage it right for you!" Burgess 
 eyes were darting up and down both sides of 
 the street, as if seeking for something, but he 
 continued to babble reassuringly, as fast as his 
 tongue could wag: "We always got along first 
 rate, didn t we, Wicksey? Always the best of 
 friends! And that time I let you out that 
 was all Darnell s fault. I wanted to keep you. 
 Sure I did. Ask anybody. Don t you remem 
 ber, I told you that, so far as I was concerned, 
 you could stay till hell froze over if you never 
 won a game ? Don t you remember that ? 
 
 "No, I don t remember that," said Wicks. 
 
 Sure you do ! Sure you do ! " Burgess 
 was still clawing at the Squirrel s arm. "Nine 
 years you pitched for me, and we never had a 
 cross word! Gimme another pitcher like you, 
 and this club wouldn t be in last place to-day! 
 Not on your life! I ve always said that. I 
 told Joe Darnell so. You chump, I says, you 
 went and canned the only pitcher I had. You 
 wouldn t lemme keep Wicksey, and now you ll 
 see where we finish. That s what I told him. 
 You can ask anybody if I didn t." 
 
 "I can pitch yet," said Wicks, with immense 
 conviction. 
 
 "I ll bet you can!" cried Burgess, slapping 
 him on the back. "Remember how you used 
 to shoot that third strike over? None of em 
 could touch that fast ball, could they? Yes, 
 and it would have made a sucker out of Ty 
 Cobb, or the German!" 
 
 [126]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 Light flickered behind the wavering blue 
 eyes. 
 
 "I can shoot the third one over just as good 
 as I ever could," said the Squirrel. "I ain t 
 had any real fun since I quit pitching. Seems 
 like I never did have any real fun except when 
 I was in there working. There s a lot of games 
 left in me yet. 
 
 You re good for ten years more, said Bur 
 gess recklessly. "And you re going to pitch 
 again, that s what you re going to do! Leave 
 it to me, and I ll fix it all up. You can pitch 
 as often as you want to." 
 
 "When I buy this club," said Wicks, with 
 terrible distinctness, "I d like to see anybody 
 stop me from pitching. Come on; let s go up 
 to Joe s place, and buy it now." 
 
 Whatever you say, agreed Burgess. " I m 
 the best friend you ve got. You know that, 
 don t you, Wickseyf " 
 
 Burgess left the Squirrel standing in front 
 of the bar in the Silver Star Saloon, and hur 
 ried into the back room, where he found Joe 
 Darnell moodily contemplating a pile of unpaid 
 bills. 
 
 "Telephone for a cop!" whispered Burgess. 
 "Squirrel Wicks is out there, plumb crazy! 
 Clean off his nut! I told you it would come 
 some day!" 
 
 "Wicks!" ejaculated Darnell. "That loon 
 back again? Why, he wouldn t hurt a fly!" 
 
 "He s raving, I tell you!" urged Burgess. 
 [127]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 "I ve had a terrible time stalling him along! 
 Hurry up ! Get the cop ! " 
 
 "Pshaw! He ain t violent, is he? What 
 does he want?" 
 
 "He says he wants to buy the ball club." 
 
 "Good night!" gasped Darnell, reaching for 
 the telephone. "I ll tell the chief to send over 
 a man on the run. You go out and keep him 
 pacified stall with him agree to everything. 
 I ll be there in a minute with a sap in my 
 pocket. We ll string him along until the bull 
 comes. Hello ! Hello ! Police station, quick ! 
 
 A moment later the proprietor of the Silver 
 Star Saloon strolled out of the back room, eight 
 inches of rubber hose stuffed with duckshot in 
 his hip pocket. He smiled across the bar at 
 Wicks, who was leaning his elbows upon the 
 mahogany in a well-remembered pose. 
 
 "Well, Squirrel!" said Darnell pleasantly, 
 "it looks like old times to see you back. 
 How ve you been? Have a drink?" 
 
 "I m pretty well, I thank you," said Wicks, 
 "and I don t drink. You know that." 
 
 There was an awkward pause. 
 
 "Burgess tells me," said Darnell, "that you 
 want to buy the ball club." 
 
 "I was thinking of it," said Wicks. 
 
 "I don t know anybody I d rather sell it to 
 than you," said Darnell, winking at Burgess. 
 
 "Yes," said Wicks, "lots of people wouldn t 
 want to buy a ball club. I do. " 
 
 "Sure you do!" prompted Burgess. "And 
 Joe wants to sell it to you. Don t you, Joe?" 
 
 [128]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 "He s the one fellow around this country 
 that I would pick out," said Darnell. "You 
 see, Squirrel, I m a little particular about who 
 I sell this club to. There s some people " 
 
 "How much?" asked Wicks suddenly. 
 
 His direct method was rather disconcerting 
 to Darnell. 
 
 "Well, you see," said the owner of the fran 
 chise, beaming upon Wicks, "I ve got two 
 prices. One price would be for a fellow I liked, 
 and that would be a low price. The other price 
 would be for a fellow I didn t like, and that 
 would be pretty high. Now, I like you fine, 
 Squirrel, and I always did. You can have that 
 ball club for a song and sing it yourself. 
 Words and music. I m an easy man to do 
 business with if I like a fellow. You could 
 have that ball club for a lot less money cash, 
 you understand than anybody I know. That s 
 because I m a friend of yours." He thrust 
 his thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and 
 rocked back and forth upon the balls of his 
 feet. "That s how strong I am for you, 
 Squirrel ! 
 
 "How much?" repeated Wicks, striking the 
 bar with the flat of his hand. 
 
 Darnell glanced anxiously toward the door. 
 
 "Cash?" he asked. 
 
 "Cash," answered Wicks. "Eight here on 
 the bar." 
 
 Darnell s eyes left the door, and his right 
 hand crept back to his hip pocket. It was at 
 this point that Burgess began to realise that he 
 
 [129]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 was on the same side of the bar with Wicks; 
 Darnell could afford to smile ; he was protected 
 by breastwork of brass and mahogany. 
 
 "Well," Joe began slowly, "seeing that it s 
 you, and that you re a friend of mine, I d say 
 three thousand dollars right here on the bar. 
 That s dirt cheap for a real ball club, Squirrel, 
 and if you wanted time I I sa-a-y! What 
 
 the " Darnell paused, with his mouth 
 
 open, and not without cause. At the words 
 "three thousand dollars," Wicks had plunged 
 his hand into the inner pocket of his coat. The 
 hand reappeared in an instant, grasping a roll 
 of currency about the circumference of a strong 
 man s arm. 
 
 "Wha-what is this?" gasped Darnell. "A 
 frame-up ? Whose money is this ? 
 
 "Mine," said Wicks. "All mine. One 
 hundred two hundred three hundred four 
 hun 
 
 "Everything is off!" squalled Darnell, his 
 piggish eyes upon the roll of bills. "I don t 
 want to sell! I ve changed my mind. It was 
 all a joke ! 
 
 "It s no joke," said Wicks. "Burgess is a 
 witness." 
 
 The manager of the Maroons recovered his 
 staggered faculties with a whoop of delight. 
 
 1 You bet I m a witness ! " he shouted. You 
 made him a price, Joe, and he accepted it! 
 You ve sold a ball club!" 
 
 Wicks continued counting calmly until a 
 great ragged pile of currency lay upon the bar. 
 
 [130]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 Then he put the roll, slightly but not appre 
 ciably reduced by the transaction, back into his 
 pocket, and pushed the ragged pile toward 
 Darnell. 
 
 "Three thousand dollars on the bar," said 
 he. "There it is." 
 
 Darnell gazed at the money with bulging 
 eyes. Then he picked up one of the gold cer 
 tificates, and held it to the light. 
 
 By golly, it looks good ! said he. Where 
 did you get it?" 
 
 "From a lawyer," explained Wicks. "My 
 father got mad at me for wanting to be a ball 
 player, and I ran away from home. When he 
 died, there was nobody to leave this to but me, 
 and I got it. That s all. 
 
 "Suf-fer-ing mackerel!" breathed Burgess. 
 "How much was it, Wlcksey?" 
 
 "One hundred and thirty-two thousand 
 dollars in cash," said the Squirrel. 
 
 Joe Darnell gave up a groan, which came 
 from the soles of his shoes. 
 
 "And I could have grabbed him for ten thou 
 sand as easy as not," said he. 
 
 "If you wanted more money you should have 
 asked for it," said Wicks. "Three thousand 
 on the bar was what you said." 
 
 "I won t sell!" howled Darnell, with a sud 
 den burst of fury. "I won t! I won t!" 
 
 "All right, Joe. You won t." Bowlegs 
 Burgess suddenly thrust himself into prom 
 inence. He scooped the pile of currency from 
 the bar, and placed it in Wicks hands. 
 
 [131]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 "What are you butting in for?" snarled 
 Darnell. "Keep out of this!" 
 
 "I m butting in because I m Wicksey s man 
 ager," said Burgess quietly. Then to Wicks, 
 who was showing signs of impatience : " It s all 
 right, old boy! let me deal with this stiff." 
 Burgess moved down toward the end of the 
 bar, and Darnell followed him, whispering ex 
 citedly : 
 
 "What s the matter with you, Burgess? 
 Get onto yourself! Here s the softest thing 
 that ever lit in this town ! I can get the whole 
 bundle away from him, and I 11 give you a split 
 of it! Take a tumble, and help me push it 
 along!" 
 
 Burgess smiled a nasty smile. 
 
 "Taking candy from babies is the best thing 
 you do, ain t it?" he sneered. "You ain t go 
 ing to rob this poor nut because I won t stand 
 for it, see? He s offered you three thousand 
 dollars in regular money for a ball club that 
 ain t worth three thousand cents. You ve been 
 trying to sell out for fifteen hundred, and every 
 sensible man in town has been giving you the 
 laugh. Now, here s something that you can 
 write in your little brown hat; it s three thou 
 sand dollars or nothing. Take it or leave 
 it!" 
 
 "But won t you listen to reason?" pleaded 
 Darnell. 
 
 Burgess turned on his heel, and walked away. 
 
 "Come on, Wicksey," said he. "We ll go 
 and buy the Piketown club." 
 
 [132]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 1 Hold on a minute ! said Darnell. What s 
 the hurry?" 
 
 A policeman dodged in at the door, and 
 looked around the room. 
 
 " What s coming off here?" asked the 
 officer. 
 
 Darnell looked at the money in the Squirrel s 
 hands, and then he looked at the obstinate angle 
 of Burgess chin. 
 
 "All right," he grunted. "You ve bought a 
 ball club, Wicks. Gimme the money!" 
 
 Officer Shea stuffed the handcuffs back into 
 his pocket, and looked foolish. 
 
 "I I thought there was some trouble here," 
 he stammered. "The chief said " 
 
 "No trouble at all," said Burgess. "Shea, 
 meet Mr. Wicks here. He s just bought the 
 baseball club." 
 
 "Yes, and I m going to pitch to-morrow," 
 said Wicks. 
 
 News of any sort wears wings in a small 
 town. Before nightfall it was truly amazing 
 how many of the citizens of Booneville had 
 placed themselves on record as believing that 
 Sq Elmer Wicks had never been anything but 
 er eccentric. 
 
 On the closing Sunday afternoon, the Maroon 
 park held the banner crowd of the season, and 
 when Owner Wicks, in his faded and patched 
 uniform, stood forth to warm up with his sorry 
 
 [133]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 pitching staff, the cheers rattled the shingles on 
 the grand-stand roof. 
 
 Bowlegs Burgess, who had the germ of di 
 plomacy concealed somewhere upon his person, 
 held an intimate conference with Lawrence 
 McGuigan, chief of the Piketown Reds. 
 
 "Now, here s the way she stands," said 
 Burgess. "The Squirrel is just as much of a 
 nut as he ever was, but he s got money now, 
 and people with money have to be humoured. 
 All these rich guys have their hobbies. John 
 D. plays golf; Andy Carnegie gives away 
 libraries. Wicksey s hobby is wanting to see 
 em swing their heads off at that third strike. 
 What do you say?" 
 
 Lawrence McGuigan needed no brick house 
 to fall upon him. He grinned from ear to 
 ear. 
 
 "What s the closing game of the season 
 between friends?" said he. "It wouldn t sur 
 prise me a bit if the Squirrel got the season s 
 strike-out record this afternoon." 
 
 "Fine!" said Burgess. "But don t bur 
 lesque it too strong. Sometimes I think this 
 guy ain t all crazy at that, and remember he 
 always did have baseball sense. Make it look 
 as good as you can, Larry, and the Lord bless 
 you for an understanding mick ! 
 
 That game is still a joyous memory in Boone- 
 ville. For nine innings the Squirrel hurled the 
 ball in the general direction of the plate, and 
 no less than eighteen of Piketown s noble 
 athletes fanned the air with giant swings. No 
 
 [134]
 
 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 third strike was called that afternoon. The 
 final score was eleven to nothing, in favour of 
 the Maroons. 
 
 The rays of the setting sun, filtering through 
 the cracks in the dressing-room, gilded the new 
 owner of the Booneville franchise, as he sat on 
 the bench in front of his old locker, and 
 thoughtfully explored a knot hole in the floor 
 with the toe of his left shoe. Bowlegs Burgess, 
 half in and half out of his other shirt, grinned 
 across the litter at the familiar picture. 
 
 "Does it seem like home to you I" he asked. 
 
 "You bet!" said Wicks fervently. "Say, 
 Burgess!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "How how did I look in there to-day? 
 Pretty good?" 
 
 "Great!" said Burgess enthusiastically. 
 "You had everything, Wicksey! Speed and 
 control, and a lot of stuff on the third one 
 always. Nothing to it, you re some southpaw 
 yet!" 
 
 The Squirrel heaved a long sigh, and sought 
 the knot hole again. 
 
 "Well," said he, "I m glad I looked all 
 right, because I felt rotten. Seemed to me they 
 swung at a lot of bad ones. I don t think I ll 
 take a regular turn in the box next season. 
 I ll just pitch on my birthday and the Fourth 
 of July, eh?" 
 
 "Whatever you say, Wicksey. You re the 
 boss." 
 
 "I don t want to pitch myself out," said the 
 [135]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Squirrel gravely. "I want to last as long as 
 I can. 
 
 Squirrel Wicks is still the owner of the 
 Booneville franchise in the D. L. D. League, 
 and Bowlegs Burgess is his manager. Salaries 
 have been raised, and the Maroons are on their 
 way to a pennant. In spite of the fact that 
 the owner has been beaten by overwhelming 
 scores in his last three starts, Burgess insists 
 that he is still "some southpaw." 
 
 [136]
 
 I U 
 
 BELIEVE me or not, it wasn t the seventy- 
 five fish that hurt. I have often been 
 touched for that much money without 
 bleeding internally, and if I have luck I 
 expect to be touched for a lot more. I have had 
 enough bees put on me to stock an apiary; one 
 stinging more or less is nothing whatever in my 
 young life, but I liked Dudley W. Fowler 
 liked him a whole lot; and it was finding out 
 that Dudley wasn t real folks that hurt me. 
 He was welcome to the money, but I hated to 
 change my opinion of him. Did you ever feel 
 that way about a fellow? 
 
 Then, again, I owed Dudley something; the 
 town of Brownsville owed him something; and, 
 though his method of collecting wasn t exactly 
 what it should have been, we were disposed to 
 let him get away with it, until but that s the 
 story. 
 
 Brownsville has always been baseball crazy. 
 We have never had a league of our own to cheer 
 for; so we have adopted the whole bunch, 
 majors and minors. Every time a World s 
 Series comes along there is a riot outside the 
 
 [137]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 office of the Sentinel, with arguments and fist 
 fights, and everything that they have in New 
 York and Chicago. We read the sporting 
 papers, and we feel as much interest in the big 
 fellows as if we lived in their towns and saw 
 their games. 
 
 In the fall of 1912 we were pretty well stirred 
 up over the approaching World s Series be 
 tween the Eed Sox and the Giants. One after 
 noon late in September, when we were figuring 
 what McGraw ought to do to win, Archie Mc- 
 Nutt came rolling in from Pleasanton. 
 
 Pleasanton is the cool summer nest of the 
 idle rich, north of here, in the mountains. It 
 hasn t a daily paper or a Chamber of Com 
 merce, but it has nine garages and two country 
 clubs, and golf is about as far as Pleasanton 
 goes in the sporting line. Archie McNutt is 
 one of their leading citizens, on the links and 
 elsewhere, and he hasn t been entirely spoiled 
 by the money his father left him. 
 
 He listened to our conversation for a while, 
 humped down behind the wheel of a long, nar 
 row roadster, and then he said he didn t see 
 how we could milk so much excitement off the 
 end of a telegraph wire. 
 
 "I would rather," says he, " watch two scrub 
 teams battling on a sand-lot for a keg of beer 
 than read the returns on the hottest World s 
 Series ever staged. . . . Why don t you or 
 ganise a team of your own and have something 
 to get excited about?" 
 
 "Oh, we got plenty of players," says Harley 
 [138]
 
 I O U 
 
 Freeman, "but they ain t any teams to play 
 with, less we go outside the county." 
 
 "Is that so?" says Archie. "I ll get up a 
 team and go against you." 
 
 "You forget we ain t got any golf clubs," 
 says Old Man Sherwood. Archie overlooked 
 the sarcasm. 
 
 "Tell you what let s do," says he: "Let s 
 have a little World s Series of our own, the first 
 team winning four games to claim the cham 
 pionship of the county. Donate the gate re 
 ceipts to charity." 
 
 * * Hold on ! " says I. "If Pleasant on wins you 
 can do anything you like with the gate receipts. 
 If we win the boys can split up the dough. 
 They ain t squeamish about their amateur 
 standings." 
 
 "Any way you like," says Archie. "All I 
 want is two weeks time to get my men in 
 shape." 
 
 They voted me the manager of the Browns 
 ville team, with authority to go ahead and get 
 one together. Jack Jamieson helped me a lot. 
 He was in the American Association for two 
 years before he decided to quit baseball and 
 go into business. He was still a cracking good 
 man behind the bat, though not so fast on his 
 feet as he used to be. Jack looked over the 
 volunteers for the different positions and 
 picked the best of the talent that offered. We 
 had outfielders galore, and infielders all over 
 the place, but we seemed to be up against it for 
 first-class pitching. Plenty of the Brownsville 
 
 [139]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 boys thought they could pitch, when all they 
 had was a roundhouse curve or a fast straight 
 ball. Jack tried out all the candidates before 
 he made a report. 
 
 1 I guess we ll have to take Charlie Nobles," 
 says he. "He s got more than any of the 
 others, which ain t saying a whole lot; but he 
 may be able to put it over on a team of re 
 formed golf players." 
 
 The first game of the championship series 
 was played on our home grounds and was a 
 painful surprise to Brownsville. Archie Mc- 
 Nutt pulled a lot of rah-rah boys on us ; includ 
 ing a young pitcher that would have been trying 
 out with Detroit if his dad hadn t owned an 
 automobile factory. This pitcher s name was 
 Sassman; he was wrynecked and knock-kneed 
 and left-handed, and he pitched baseball as hard 
 as if he depended on it for his daily bread. We 
 only got two runs off him, while the Pleasanton 
 boys were walloping Charlie Nobles all over 
 Recreation Park. The final score was eleven 
 to two, which made us feel pretty sick. 
 
 That night Jack came over to my place the 
 De Luxe Billiard and Pool Parlours and we 
 held a council of war in the private office. 
 
 "Nothing to it!" says he. "Nobles ain t 
 good enough for these college athletes. All 
 he s got is a groover, and they laid for it and 
 murdered it. If we don t pick up a real pitcher 
 somewhere they ll take four straight from us." 
 
 Well, that wasn t any news to me; but where 
 were we going to get this twirler? I didn t 
 
 [140]
 
 I O U 
 
 know; Jack didn t know and just then there 
 was a knock at the door and in walked Dudley 
 W. Fowler. He was a tall, slim, good-looking 
 chap in those days, not more than twenty-three 
 or twenty-four, with the nerve of a burglar and 
 a smile that warmed you in spite of yourself. 
 
 "Ah, gentlemen," says he, taking off his 
 hat, "something tells me that I m the man 
 you re looking for." 
 
 "What told you we would be looking for 
 anybody?" asks Jack, short and snappy. 
 
 "My friend," says Dudley, "it was the sama 
 thing that told me you ve been some catcher in 
 your time. I never laid eyes on you before, 
 this afternoon, but I know a real ball player 
 when I see one. You loomed up in that com 
 pany believe me!" 
 
 "Well?" says Jack. "What of it?" 
 
 "If you had a pitcher to work with you," 
 says Dudley, "you could beat these dudes from 
 Pleasanton. A good curve ball would make 
 suckers of em." 
 
 "Well?" says Jack. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," says Dudley, "only I ve got 
 a good curve ball among other things. I hate 
 to talk about myself, says he, reaching into his 
 inside pocket, "but you might glance over these 
 newspaper clippings. Fowler, that s me Dud 
 ley W. Fowler. I could use a job in my busi 
 ness right now, and you could use a winning 
 pitcher. How about it ? " 
 
 "Sit down," says Jack, "till I look these 
 over." 
 
 [141]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 That was how Dudley W. Fowler came to 
 Brownsville. 
 
 n 
 
 The newspaper clippings said that Dudley 
 was considerable pitcher, and they didn t give 
 him any the best of it at that. Jack took him 
 out to the park the first thing in the morning 
 to see what he had in stock, and by eleven 
 o clock the old boy was back again, all lathered 
 up with good news and enthusiasm. 
 
 * He s a wiz ! says Jack to me. * Got every 
 thing a pitcher ought to have a grand curve 
 ball, a swell fast one with a hop on it, and con 
 trol till you can t rest. Darned if I can figure 
 how he s managed to keep out of the Big 
 Leagues with all that stuff. I m going to cover 
 a bunch of that Pleasanton money they were 
 shoving under our noses yesterday that s how 
 good I think he is!" 
 
 The schedule called for two games a week- 
 Tuesdays and Saturdays alternating between 
 the towns. The second game was played in 
 Pleasanton, and the automobile crowd un 
 belted their idle bank rolls and bet us to a stand 
 still, giving us odds of seven to five. That was 
 because they saw poor old Nobles out there, 
 pretending to warm up. I left Charlie on ex 
 hibition until Harley Freeman flashed me the 
 signal that all our money was down ; and then 
 Nobles came back to the bench and Dudley went 
 out to unlimber a few. A chill came over the 
 
 [142]
 
 I O U 
 
 aristocrats as they watched the stranger warm 
 up. They seemed to feel that we had taken a 
 mean advantage of them. Archie, who was 
 playing second base for his team, tried to start 
 an argument. 
 
 "Of course," says he, "nothing was said 
 about barring professionals, but we understood 
 this was to be confined to the townspeople." 
 
 "Yes," says I; "and, of course, it ain t any 
 crime to spring a crack college battery on us, 
 is it? This knock-kneed pitcher of yours turned 
 down some Big League offers. Want some 
 thing soft?" 
 
 "But you had Nobles warming up." 
 
 "Well, what of it? Since when has a man 
 ager had to pitch a man just because he warms 
 him up?" 
 
 "It s sharp practice," says Archie. 
 
 "But it s going to sharpen the competition 
 a whole lot," says I. "This won t be any 
 eleven-to-two slaughter take it from me!" 
 
 It wasn t. Young Mr. Sassman straightened 
 out his wry neck and pitched all the ball he 
 knew how, which was a lot, but the team behind 
 him was about as much help as a sore thumb. 
 They fielded well enough, but they couldn t do 
 a thing with Dudley. His curve ball had them 
 all guessing; and when they thought they had 
 solved it he switched to his fast one and kept 
 the ball high up and too close for comfort. 
 Early in the game old Jack got hold of the pill 
 with the bases full, and the three runs he drove 
 home were the only ones scored in the contest. 
 
 [143]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 That night there was a celebration in 
 Brownsville, with Dudley W. Fowler the guest 
 of honour. Another youngster might have 
 puffed up a bit under all the kind words and 
 compliments, but he only grinned in a modest 
 way and handed a lot of the credit to Jack 
 Jamieson. He said a man couldn t help but 
 pitch winning ball to such a catcher; and nat 
 urally this made a big hit with our folks, and 
 didn t hurt Jack s feelings any, either. 
 
 Late that night Dudley showed up at the pool 
 room and went into the private office. When 
 I opened the door he was sitting at the table 
 with his head in his hands. 
 
 "What s the matter?" says I. "Sick?" 
 
 No, says he, looking up and sighing. * * No. 
 Just worried that s all. Don t you care. It 
 ain t any of your trouble." 
 
 "What s on your mind, son!" 
 
 "Nothing much," says he, and sighs again. 
 
 "You better tell me about it. Maybe I can 
 help you." 
 
 "Thank you just the same. It s mighty fine 
 of you, but I ll get through somehow. I can 
 ask my folks to wait a few days." 
 
 "Ask em to wait for what?" 
 
 He lit a cigarette and began to walk up and 
 down the room. 
 
 "Well, you see," says he, "it s like this: 
 My old man is in the hospital out in Denver, 
 and he s got to have an operation. My sister 
 wrote me about it last week, and I sent her all 
 the dough I had all I could spare, anyway 
 
 [144]
 
 I O U 
 
 and I thought they could get along on that until 
 I could pick up some more. It seems it wasn t 
 enough. Now you ve guaranteed me two hun 
 dred dollars if we win this series, and you ve 
 told me I won t lose anything even if we get 
 beat; but we won t know for two weeks how 
 we come out 
 
 " Don t let that worry you for a minute!" 
 says I, reaching into my pocket. "I won quite 
 a little chunk on the game to-day, and you re 
 welcome to any part of it." 
 
 Thank you just the same," says he, "but 
 I d rather not borrow. I have a kind of a dread 
 of getting into debt. Maybe I can struggle 
 through some other way hock my watch, or 
 something. 
 
 "Rats!" says I, pulling out my roll. "How 
 much?" 
 
 "You re an awful good guy!" says Dudley. 
 "Got a heart like an ox, and well, if you in 
 sist, say seventy-five. It s a life-saver to me 
 that s what it is and I ll slip it to you after 
 the series is over." 
 
 "Then or any other time is all the same to 
 me. You re as welcome as the flowers in 
 spring. 
 
 And I wouldn t have said it if I hadn t meant 
 it. He could have tacked a century onto that 
 seventy-five just as well as not. 
 
 "I ll give you my I U," says he, fishing 
 out an envelope and a pencil. 
 
 "Oh, never mind that! Forget it!" 
 
 "I don t want to forget it," says he, writing 
 [145]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 on the back of the envelope. "There! I U 
 seventy-five dollars. Dudley W. Fowler. Sep 
 tember, 1912. That s just the same as a prom 
 issory note, ain t it? " He signed his name with 
 a lot of curlicues and flourishes, and handed 
 the envelope to me. "Keep that as a record," 
 says he, pouching the seventy-five fish like a 
 hungry pelican. "Gee, you don t know what 
 a load that takes off my mind! There s only 
 one thing tougher than being broke, and that s 
 having to let people know about it. The folks 
 here have treated me so well that I d kind of 
 
 hate to have them find out that I I " He 
 
 stopped and looked at me. 
 
 "I ain t going to tell anybody," says I. 
 "This is a private matter between us two." 
 
 "You are a good guy!" says he, dropping his 
 arm across my shoulders. "I guess I m sensi 
 tive, because I ve never had to do this before." 
 
 "When you ve borrowed as much money as 
 I have," I says, "you won t think any more 
 of it than you do of taking a drink of water. 
 . . . What did you say ailed your old man?" 
 
 To cut our own little World s Series to a 
 composite box score, Dudley pitched four 
 games for us and won them all. Archie Mc- 
 Nutt said he d rather lose with a team of gen 
 tlemen than import any muckers, and he had 
 his wish. Sassman stuck to the bitter end and 
 took his trimmings like a little man, and Dud 
 ley became more and more of an idol in Browns 
 ville. 
 
 [146]
 
 I O U 
 
 The last game was played on our grounds; 
 and that night Old Man Sherwood gave the 
 boys a banquet at the Palace Hotel and al 
 lowed several of the fans to buy in at two 
 dollars a plate. Old Man Sherwood runs the 
 hotel; and, as he served the regular seventy- 
 five-cent dinner to the banqueters, he didn t 
 lose anything by letting the players in free. 
 
 Jack Jamieson and I had a little confidential 
 talk before we went over to the hotel. We had 
 just finished figuring up the total gate receipts. 
 They ran almost double what we had counted on. 
 
 " Let s see: We promised Fowler two hun 
 dred in case we w T on?" says Jack. 
 
 "That was the agreement yes." 
 
 "And he won the series single-handed, you 
 might say. What s the matter with showing 
 our appreciation in the shape of a cash bonus? 
 We ve all won money on the side, betting on 
 the games." 
 
 The proposition sounded good to me on 
 account of my liking Dudley so well ; so we put 
 three hundred dollars in an envelope and took 
 it over to the hotel the two hundred we owed 
 the boy and another hundred as a bonus. Jack 
 was for having Old Man Sherwood present 
 the dough after making a speech, but I vetoed 
 the suggestion. 
 
 "Old Man Sherwood always gets balled up 
 when he makes a speech," says I, "and rings 
 in Gettysburg and the Battle of the Wilder 
 ness. Chances are he d want to count the 
 money out on the table before everybody, and 
 
 [147]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 make Dudley feel like a pauper. I ll pass him 
 the envelope on the strict Q. T., and tell him 
 there s a little something extra in it to show 
 our appreciation." 
 
 The banquet, outside of the food, was a great 
 success; and everybody made speeches. Even 
 Jack Jamieson said a few words, to the effect 
 that he had seen em come and he had seen 
 em go, and that he had caught some pretty 
 fair pitchers in his day, but never one like 
 little old Dud, who was there a million, be 
 sides being the best of good fellers, and ought 
 to be pitching for Mack or McGraw instead of 
 wasting his time in the bushes. 
 
 We finally got Dudley on his feet; but he 
 couldn t say much, except that he had done 
 his best, and that wherever he went or what 
 ever happened to him he should always re 
 member Brownsville and the best crowd ,of 
 real, true sports in the world which, we took 
 it, was us. When it was all over I took Dudley 
 aside and slipped him the envelope. 
 
 "Here s what we agreed to give you," says 
 I, "and a little present from the boys, on the 
 side." 
 
 Now an ordinary roughneck ball player 
 would have counted his dough then and there, 
 to see how much that little present amounted 
 to ; but Dudley handled all money matters with 
 delicacy and taste. He stuffed the envelope 
 into his pocket without even looking at it, and 
 kind of choked up. 
 
 "I ll bet you told em to do it," says he, 
 [148]
 
 I O U 
 
 putting his arm across my shoulders. "You 
 are a good guy ! You knew how much I needed 
 it, didn t you?" 
 
 4 Yes; but Jamieson didn t," says I, "and 
 he was the one who suggested it." 
 
 Now if you ll believe me and what s the 
 use of your reading this little piece unless you 
 do? I never once thought of that I U in 
 my pocket; and if I had thought of it I 
 wouldn t have fished it out for the world. It 
 might have hurt his feelings given him the 
 idea that I was Johnny-on-the-spot like a bill 
 collector on Saturday night on hand when I 
 knew he had the coin, and taking no chances. 
 I wouldn t choose him to think I was that kind 
 of a man. 
 
 About noon the next day Old Man Sherwood 
 came toddling into my place, all excited and 
 breathless. 
 
 "He s gone!" says he. 
 
 "Gone? Who s gone?" says I. 
 
 "Why, young Fowler Dudley." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Yes, I tell you: yes! I didn t disturb him 
 for breakfast, knowin he was up late last 
 night; but at eleven o clock I give him a bell 
 or two. He didn t answer and good reason 
 why! He wasn t there. Bed hadn t been 
 slept in nor nothin ! The station agent saw 
 him hop onto the through Western Express at 
 three this mornin " 
 
 "And you re worried about his bill?" 
 says I. 
 
 [149]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Hell, no!" says Old Man Sherwood. "I 
 was goin to make him a complimentary guest 
 anyway, count of winnin some money on his 
 pitchin . Been a long time since I took such 
 a shine to a youngster. Dog-gone it, I liked 
 him, Bill, and I m sorry he didn t say good 
 byethat s all." 
 
 "You ve got nothing on me," says I. "He 
 likely had his reasons for ducking out in a 
 hurry. He ll write, or telegraph or some 
 thing; see if he doesn t." 
 
 I got my letter the next day, mailed from 
 the train. Dudley said he was sorry he had 
 to leave in such a hurry, on account of start 
 ing West to see how his father was making it ; 
 and as for that little business matter he would 
 take care of it as soon as convenient. The 
 letter was signed: "Yours affectionately." 
 
 Well, that was all right. Seventy-five one 
 way or the other wouldn t make or break me; 
 the boy was welcome to it as long as he needed 
 it. Jack Jamieson got a note from him too; 
 and so did Harley Freeman, and Old Man 
 Sherwood, and some of the others. 
 
 Evidently Dudley didn t find it convenient 
 to take care of the little business matter, be 
 cause he didn t write again. I supposed it 
 was on account of his not being able to do 
 much pitching in the wintertime, and let it 
 go at that. 
 
 The weeks slipped into months and gradually 
 we forgot him out of sight, out of mind, like 
 the saying goes. Whenever I opened up my 
 
 [150]
 
 I O U 
 
 pocketbook the I U would remind me of him, 
 and I d wonder where he was and how he was 
 making it. I had confidence in Dudley, and I 
 didn t count that seventy-five as gone entirely. 
 I expected to hear from him some day when it 
 was convenient. 
 
 We all got news of him the next spring- 
 news that tore up the town of Brownsville like 
 a forty-two-centimetre shell. We found it in 
 the weekly sporting papers a paragraph say 
 ing that the Orphans had picked up a promis 
 ing recruit pitcher in the person of one Dudley 
 W. Fowler, a semiprofessional star of the first 
 magnitude. That was all it said, but it was 
 enough to set us running round in circles and 
 throwing our hats in the air. 
 
 We were just as proud of Dudley as if he had 
 been born and raised in Brownsville, and it 
 tickled us to think that, after all these years, we 
 were going to have a real Big League represen 
 tative some one in whom we could feel a per 
 sonal interest. We wouldn t have to take a 
 back seat any more when the cigar drummers 
 told us how well they knew Ty Cobb and Christy 
 Mathewson. We could lay back and wait for 
 an opening in the conversation, and then spring 
 it, sort of casual-like : 
 
 " Speaking of pitchers, when Dud Fowler 
 was on our team " 
 
 Before we saw that paragraph in the paper 
 we had never been able to crank up much in 
 terest in the Orphans, the general opinion being 
 
 [151]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 that they were just in there to round out an 
 eight-club circuit and didn t amount to much, 
 anyhow; but it was remarkable how sentiment 
 changed overnight. We hadn t been able to see 
 the Orphans as a pennant possibility, but now 
 we couldn t see anything else; we knew that 
 all they needed to put them in the running was 
 one more good right-hander like Dudley. We 
 forgot all about the Giants and the Cubs and 
 the Pirates, and became Orphan fans through 
 and through we might have been a suburb of 
 their home town, the way we carried on. 
 
 We subscribed to a lot of newspapers, so we 
 could get full reports from their training camp, 
 and not a word about Fowler escaped us. They 
 were mostly good words too they usually are 
 before the season opens and when the report 
 ers spoke of him as a comer and praised his 
 curve ball, we were as delighted as if they had 
 said something complimentary about us. 
 
 I wrote Dudley a letter a long one, telling 
 him all the news of the gang, and how glad we 
 were that he had made the grade and got in 
 where he belonged; but he never answered it. 
 It was mailed about the time the Orphans broke 
 up their training camp and started North; so 
 I figured it might not have been forwarded 
 properly. 
 
 When the season opened we could hardly wait 
 for Dudley to pitch his first game. Seeing that 
 there was so much interest, the editor of the 
 Sentinel arranged to get a telegraphic bulletin 
 on the Orphan games, inning by inning, with 
 
 [152]
 
 I O U 
 
 the batteries; and the first time Dudley s name 
 went up on the board the whole town closed up 
 to watch the returns. 
 
 * Hey ! Come on over to the Sentinel office. 
 He s goin to pitch!" 
 
 That was the word which rallied the Browns 
 ville fans to a man. The Orphans were play 
 ing at the Polo Grounds, and Dudley was up 
 against big Jeff Tesreau and the Giants; but 
 that didn t make any difference to us. We 
 stood there in the street and rooted for him 
 while the ciphers kept going up, and when the 
 Orphans scored three runs in the seventh in 
 ning I ll bet they could have heard us in 
 Pleasanton. 
 
 The Giants got to Dudley for a run in the 
 eighth, but that was all; and there was a hot 
 time in Brownsville that night believe me! 
 We sent Dudley a telegram congratulating him 
 and telling him to keep up the good work; and 
 the Sentinel ordered a full account of the game 
 from one of the New York papers and smeared 
 it all over the front page under the heading: 
 " Local Boy Makes Good!" 
 
 That was the beginning of Dudley s winning 
 streak. He went right down the line, taking his 
 regular turn in the box, and all teams looked 
 alike to him. The wise Eastern critics said he 
 was another Alexander, and the greatest dis 
 covery of the season; and every time he added 
 a victory to his string there was a riot in 
 Brownsville. You couldn t have told us that 
 Dudley wasn t the greatest right-hander that 
 
 [153]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 ever lived not without taking desperate 
 chances. 
 
 It was after he won his ninth game that we 
 began to talk about getting up a party to go 
 over to Chicago and watch him hang it on the 
 Cubs. I don t know who proposed it in the first 
 place the idea seemed to hit us all about the 
 same time. We dug up the National League 
 schedule and did some figuring on dates and 
 things, and then Jack Jamieson took the floor. 
 
 "If he pitches in his regular turn they ll 
 stick him in Monday to open the series," says 
 he. "We could leave here Sunday night and 
 get into Chicago in time for the game, visit 
 round with Dudley afterward, and get 
 back here Wednesday or Thursday. All in 
 favour 
 
 The motion carried, with a whoop and a yell. 
 The loudest whooper in the lot was Old Man 
 Sherwood. He said the Palace Hotel could run 
 itself while he was gone. There were nine of 
 us in all Jamieson, Harley, Freeman, Old 
 Man Sherwood, Dutch Coffman, Frank Sper- 
 lock, Eddie McManus, Joe Parker, Marty 
 Leach and me. 
 
 Some of the boys had to pretend they had 
 important business in Chicago in order to 
 square it with their wives ; but the whole town 
 knew better than that, and quite a mob turned 
 up at the depot to see us off. Every man, 
 woman and child wanted to send a message to 
 Dudley, telling him they were pulling for him 
 to get into the World s Series and win it. We 
 
 [154]
 
 I O U 
 
 carried enough good wishes to make us all 
 hump-shouldered. 
 
 When we got to Chicago there was just time 
 to send our grips to a hotel Old Man Sherwood 
 recommended as swell, but reasonable, and pile 
 into a couple of taxicabs. Joe Parker, who won 
 all the money in the poker game coming over, 
 thought a street car was plenty good enough; 
 but the rest of us felt we might as well do the 
 thing right while we were at it. 
 
 We don t want Dudley to be ashamed of his 
 friends," says Old Man Sherwood, "and we 
 can Dutch-treat the ride, so t nobody will be 
 hurt." 
 
 "No use in throwing money away," says Joe. 
 "However, I m with the gang. Let 7 er roll!" 
 
 We reached the park just in time to see the 
 beginning of the game, and there was such a 
 crowd that we couldn t get anywhere near the 
 visitors bench. This was an awful disappoint 
 ment, because we d planned to be where Dudley 
 could chat with us when he wasn t working. 
 Instead of that we had to sit where we couldn t 
 even see the players on the bench. The next 
 disappointment came when the Orphans took 
 the field behind a pitcher that we had never 
 seen before a big left-hander. 
 
 "Dudley s skipped his turn," says Jamieson; 
 "but they ll surely pitch him to-morrow. We ll 
 just have to wait that s all." 
 
 Well, we made the best of it, and rooted our 
 heads off for the Orphans. There were only 
 
 [155]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 nine of us, but what we lacked in numbers we 
 tried to make up in noise and enthusiasm. The 
 Chicago fans who sat near us got sore and 
 bawled us out especially when the Cubs began 
 to score their runs; but we didn t quit. We 
 yelled just as loud when we were four runs be 
 hind as we did when the score was tied. When 
 the game was over Jamieson fought his way 
 down the aisle, hoping to get a chance to speak 
 with Dudley ; but he missed him. 
 
 "It s all right, though," says he when he 
 came back to us. "It s all right. I found out 
 what hotel they re stopping at, and we ll drop 
 in there after dinner and spend the evening 
 with Dudley take him to a show, or some 
 thing." 
 
 "Maybe he ll take us to a show," says Joe 
 Parker. "He ought to when we ve come all 
 this way just to see him." 
 
 We had dinner and slicked ourselves up a 
 bit, and then started out to find Dudley. The 
 clerk behind the desk said that he was in the 
 dining-room, and did we want to send in our 
 cards? 
 
 "Let s not do that," says Old Man Sher 
 wood. "Let s sit down outside the dining-room 
 and let him bump into us when he comes out. 
 Surprise him that s the stuff! Wait till he 
 gets a flash at this bunch he ll keel right over 
 and yell!" 
 
 "Good idea!" says Jamieson. "We ll sur 
 prise him!" 
 
 Well, we got some chairs and lined up just 
 [156]
 
 I O U 
 
 outside the door, where any one coming from 
 the dining-room would almost have to walk 
 over us. Then everybody lit a cigar and waited. 
 Pretty soon a crowd of young fellows came out, 
 laughing and chatting; and the chattiest one in 
 the bunch was Dudley, the bell cow of the herd ! 
 
 He was just as slim and handsome as ever 
 maybe a little better dressed than when we had 
 seen him last ; but he was the same old "boy, and 
 as much at home in a five-dollar-a-day hotel as 
 if he d been born in one. He had the same 
 old tricks too ; we could see that. He was tell 
 ing a funny story to a short, black-haired fel 
 low that we found out afterwards was Potts, 
 the outfielder, and his arm was laid along 
 Potts shoulders in a way that I remembered. 
 It was all I could do to keep from jumping up 
 and grabbing him ! 
 
 We sat perfectly still and waited for him to 
 see us and be surprised; but he sailed by the 
 entire Brownsville delegation without knowing 
 it was there breezed along so close that we 
 could have touched him, and went on out into 
 the lobby, leaving us feeling like a lot of parlour 
 ornaments. 
 
 "He never saw us!" says Old Man Sher 
 wood. "Is the boy blind, or what?" 
 
 I couldn t wait any longer, and I was the 
 first man to reach Dudley. He was standing 
 by the street door, pulling on his gloves, and 
 chatting with Potts. He looked at me when I 
 came running up, with my hand out just 
 looked at me, that was all ; and there wasn t any 
 
 [157]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 more light of welcome in his eye than you ll 
 discover in the eye of a dried herring. That 
 was what took all the tuck out of me his per 
 fectly blank, expressionless stare ! It paralysed 
 my tongue too. I couldn t think of a thing to 
 say but "Hello there!" 
 
 "Hello yourself!" says Dudley, giving me 
 the up and down. "You ve got the advantage 
 of me, sir. "What s the name, please?" 
 
 Well, sir, if he had hit me in the face it 
 wouldn t have jarred me any more. While I 
 was trying to get my wits to working and my 
 mouth open, up came the rest of the boys. 
 
 "Howdy, Dud!" says Jamieson. "How s 
 the ole boy?" 
 
 "Never better, thanks!" says Dudley, cool as 
 an icicle. "But what s the idea of the mob 
 scene? Haven t you got me mixed up with 
 somebody else or is this a joke?" 
 
 "Joke!" says Jamieson. "Don t you know 
 
 "Joke!" says Old Man Sherwood. "When 
 we came all the way from Brownsville just to 
 see you? Joke?" 
 
 "Brownsville?" says Dudley, rubbing his 
 chin. "Brownsville. . . . Oh, you must be 
 mistaken. I never heard of the place in my 
 life." 
 
 That was a knockout for fair; it landed on 
 every man in our party. 
 
 "Never heard of it!" says Harley Freeman. 
 "Say, didn t you pitch for our club last fall, 
 
 and " 
 
 [158]
 
 I O U 
 
 Dudley shook his head. 
 
 "Not me," says he. "Must have been some 
 one that looked like me." 
 
 "And you don t remember us?" About six 
 of the boys spoke at once. 
 
 * How can I remember you when I never saw 
 you before!" says he. 
 
 Then he turned to his new friend. 
 
 "I don t know what this is all about, Pottsey ; 
 but if we want to catch the first act of that 
 show we 11 have to be moving. These birds are 
 playing hooky from their keeper; let s go be 
 fore they get violent." 
 
 Before anybody could lift a finger, he was 
 through the doorway and out on the street, with 
 Potts after him. We stood and looked at each 
 other, with our mouths open. I suppose there 
 was a funny side to it, but it didn t appeal to 
 us just then. 
 
 "Well, I m damned!" says Old Man Sher 
 wood. "Come on, boys! Let s be gettin out 
 of here. I got to have room to say what s in 
 my mind!" 
 
 We made our escape from the place somehow 
 and stood on the street corner, blinking at the 
 electric lights. Some of the boys began to rave 
 and tell what they d do to Dudley if they ever 
 met him in a dark alley, but all the talk was 
 knocked clean out of my system. I was sick 
 downright sick. I d wasted a lot of friendly 
 feelings on a rat, and it was a shock to find out 
 how much rat he was. 
 
 "Listen!" says Joe Parker when the con- 
 [159]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 versation calmed down a bit. "I bet I know 
 what ailed him. I kept kind of in the back 
 ground, but I think he got a flash at me when 
 he came out of the dining-room. That s why 
 he said he didn t know us." 
 
 "A flash at you? Why, what s he got against 
 you, Joe?" 
 
 " Nothing," says Parker, taking out his 
 pocketbook; "I ve got something against him. 
 A little matter of fifty bones. I guess he 
 thought I d come to collect it. ... Here s his 
 I U. Want to see it?" 
 
 "Fifty dollars!" says Eddie McManus. 
 "Huh! You re only a piker! I got one of 
 them things in my pocket that calls for a 
 hundred ! 
 
 "Oh, well," says Jamieson; "since we re all 
 going to tell secrets, he got into me for a hun 
 dred and fifty." 
 
 "My soul!" says Old Man Sherwood, be 
 ginning to laugh. "And me thinking I was the 
 only fool in the bunch! . . . Did he give you 
 that hard luck story bout his father bein in 
 the hospital at Syracuse?" 
 
 "It was Denver when he sung the song to 
 me," says I. 
 
 "Appendicitis, wasn t it?" asks Dutch Coff- 
 man. "I paid for one of them operations my 
 self. He put his arm round my neck and told 
 me I was a good guy. I fell. Two hundred 
 fish it cost me. Oh, what a bunch of suckers!" 
 
 I guess we should have stayed on that cor 
 ner all night, comparing notes, if a policeman 
 
 [160]
 
 I O U 
 
 hadn t invited us to move on and not block the 
 traffic. We went back to our hotel and held a 
 council of war. Every man who had an I U 
 dug it up and spread it on the table. There 
 were eight of em he had somehow managed 
 to overlook Frank Sperlock eight of em, all 
 dated and signed with curlicues and flourishes 
 Dudley W. Fowler. In all, they footed up to 
 nine hundred and twenty-five dollars. 
 
 Seven of us had kept quiet on account of lik 
 ing the boy and believing that he would make 
 good some day. Joe Parker said that was his 
 notion, too, but I ll always believe he kept his 
 mouth shut because he thought he was the only 
 one stung and didn t want to own up to it. 
 
 Dudley had what some women have got the 
 faculty of making each victim believe himself 
 the only friend that really counted. Speaking 
 for myself I just happened to have that I U 
 in my pocketbook; I wasn t on a collecting tour. 
 Of course if he had offered to come across I 
 wouldn t have stopped him, but I never would 
 have broached the subject. I can t answer for 
 the others. 
 
 "Now, then," says Jamieson, scooping the 
 I U s all up in a pile, "the question before 
 the house is this : What are we going to do with 
 this jack pot? What s the sense of the meet 
 ing?" 
 
 Joe Parker was for taking the evidence back 
 to Dudley s hotel and raising a row. 
 
 "Maybe his boss will do something about it," 
 says Joe. 
 
 [161]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 4 And we d look like a lot of cheap sports," 
 says Dutch Coffman. " Joe, you re in this plot 
 on a short ante; so keep quiet. Personally I ve 
 kissed my two hundred good-bye already. It 
 was only part of the dough I won on his games 
 last fall; so I m nothing out by knowing him. 
 "We re all in the same boat, and it s no use to 
 squeal; but darned if I don t hate to let Dudley 
 get away with the raw deal he handed us to 
 night! I d like to go back at him somehow. 
 Any suggestion for the good of the order?" 
 
 Well, there were plenty of em, but mostly 
 leaning toward personal violence. That 
 wouldn t do. We gabbed for an hour or more, 
 and finally Jamieson said if we d leave it to 
 him he d find a way to make Dudley regret his 
 loss of memory. 
 
 "With the permission of the gang," says he, 
 "I ll take possession of these 10 U s. Under 
 stand me you won t recover a nickel of em. 
 You ll have to be satisfied with getting Dud 
 ley s angora. . . . No; I won t answer any 
 questions, but we d better reserve a front box 
 at the ball park to-morrow." 
 
 "Seeing that we re turning the assets over 
 to you," says Parker, always looking for some 
 thing soft, "you might buy a drink." 
 
 "I ll do that little thing," says Jamieson 
 "and I ll also give you a toast: Friend Dudley 
 here s hoping they pitch him to-morrow ! 
 
 Our hope came true. The box we rented for 
 the occasion was over close to the Chicago bench, 
 
 [162]
 
 I O U 
 
 but this wasn t the reason we didn t cheer when 
 the umpire announced that Fowler would pitch 
 for the Orphans. We were a little bit worried 
 about Jamieson. He had left the hotel imme 
 diately after breakfast and we hadn t seen him 
 since. The Chicago fans didn t cheer the an 
 nouncement, because they were nervous about 
 this new phenomenon and his unbroken string 
 of victories. We overheard some talk in the 
 box next to us. 
 
 "Who? Fowler? Say, if this kid has got a 
 goat John McGraw couldn t locate it! You 
 know what that means. . . . Yep cool as a 
 cucumber? . . . Another Alexander, sure! 
 . . . Impossible to rattle him." 
 
 I half suspected that something might hap 
 pen before the game started; but I was wrong 
 and there was no sign of Jamieson. 
 
 Dudley opened up on the Cubs with a lovely 
 assortment of curves, and for two innings he 
 had them eating out of his hand; they didn t 
 get anything that looked like a hit. 
 
 "He ll make it ten straight! You listen to 
 me!" says the man in the next box. "How 
 about that control, hey? Steady as clockwork! 
 Oh, he s a sweet pitcher!" 
 
 Dudley came to bat in the third inning and 
 there was a faint ripple of applause in the 
 stands White Sox rooters, maybe, or visitors, 
 like ourselves. Just as he stepped up to the 
 pan and knocked the dirt off his spikes an at 
 tendant in uniform ducked round the corner of 
 the Chicago bench and started for the plate. 
 
 [163]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 He was carrying a package under his arm 
 something big and flat and square, done up 
 in paper and tied with a red ribbon. The 
 attendant handed the package to the umpire, 
 pointed at Dudley, and ran back toward the 
 stand. 
 
 All at once the Chicago infielders flocked to 
 the plate, the rest of the Cub players boiled up 
 out of the pit, and the Orphans left their bench 
 and gathered round close. 
 
 Hello!" says the man in the next box. 
 "They re going to present Fowler with some 
 thing. . . . Must have friends here to-day. 
 Old-home-town stuff what? Ball players are 
 just like kids, ain t they? See em all trying 
 to horn in on it!" 
 
 The umpire took off his mask and cap and 
 make a little speech before he handed the 
 package to Dudley, who didn t seem to know 
 what to do with it. A few people began to 
 cheer. 
 
 "Open it! Open it!" 
 
 One man yelled that, away up in the back of 
 the stand ; and right there I stopped breathing, 
 for I knew the voice. It was Jamieson s. The 
 crowd took it up: 
 
 "Open it! Open it!" 
 
 Dudley hesitated for a second; then he 
 stripped off the paper and held the thing up 
 in front of him. From where I sat it looked 
 like a picture in a frame but I knew it wasn t 
 any lithograph that was under the glass. The 
 other players crowded in close, with their heads 
 
 [1641
 
 I O U 
 
 together ; there was a puzzled silence that lasted 
 maybe a couple of seconds, but seemed longer 
 and then a whoop went up from the Chicago 
 boys. They threw their caps in the air, and 
 hugged one another, and laid down on the grass 
 and rolled every which way, like lunatics. Even 
 the sour old umpire had to smile. 
 
 Dudley couldn t see the joke at all. He 
 slammed his present on the ground and would 
 have jumped on it if one of the Cubs hadn t 
 snatched it just in time and ran with it to the 
 grand stand, with Dudley after him. The 
 Chicago player tossed it up into the crowd, 
 where Dudley couldn t follow it; and then the 
 fun began. About this time Jamieson dropped 
 into the box, sweating a little, but otherwise 
 calm and cool. 
 
 "I guess I m a poor stage manager!" says 
 he. 
 
 "For pity s sake!" says Dutch Coffman. 
 "What is it? What did they hand to 
 Dudley?" 
 
 "A Brownsville souvenir, under glass," says 
 Jamieson. "Eight little I U s in a frame, 
 with the motto Should auld acquaintance be 
 forgot ? I tipped some of the lads on the Chi 
 cago Club that Dudley s present would be 
 worth seeing, but I wasn t counting on letting 
 the whole crowd in on the joke. They re get 
 ting it, though." 
 
 Yes; they were getting it. The Brownsville 
 souvenir was travelling from row to row creat 
 ing a riot as it went. I never saw people laugh 
 
 [165]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 so hard in my life. They nearly went into 
 convulsions. 
 
 It must have been five minutes before the 
 game was resumed, and Dudley had to stand 
 there at the plate and wait. He took three wild 
 swings at three bad ones and ran for shelter; 
 but there wasn t any such thing as getting away 
 from the advertising that the Brownsville 
 souvenir was giving him. It was priming the 
 crowd for his next appearance in the pitcher s 
 box. 
 
 I don t really need to tell you the rest. You 
 can guess that when Dudley walked out into 
 the middle of the diamond a red-neck fan, with 
 a voice like a foghorn, stood up and made a 
 megaphone of his hands and asked him why he 
 didn t pay his debts. You can guess that when 
 Dudley began his graceful wind-up about a 
 thousand people were struck with the same idea 
 all at once, and started a sort of chant, taking 
 the time of it from his motions so : 
 
 "I! ... Oh! ... You!" 
 
 That was what found his goat any set it 
 bleating and running in circles. You ve seen 
 a player change step to fool the fans when they 
 were whistling the Rogues March at him? 
 Well, Dudley tried to hurry his wind-up to 
 throw the chanters out of time, and succeeded 
 in throwing away his control, instead. They 
 I U d him into such a state of mind that he 
 couldn t have thrown a basbeall over a freight 
 car, broadside on. He filled the bases, walked 
 
 [166]
 
 I O U 
 
 in one run, and then stuck a groover where Zim 
 merman could find it and away went the old 
 ball game. 
 
 The manager yanked him out of the box ; and 
 as he started for the bench, with his chin on 
 his chest, about fifteen thousand people stood 
 up and gave it to him all together : 
 
 "I! ... Oh! ... You! Oh, you! Oh, 
 you! Oh-h-h, you!" 
 
 1 1 That s his finish ! says the man in the next 
 box. "Yes; you can kiss him good-bye right 
 now. They ve found out where he stables his 
 goat, and this I U stuff will be all over the 
 league in no time. He 11 never hear the last of 
 it. ... Lord, what a dog s trick! I wonder 
 who pulled it on him?" 
 
 If the man bothers to read this yarn he will 
 at least find out that there was provocation. 
 He won t need to read it to find out that he 
 was right about one thing: The fans and the 
 players on the other clubs simply I U d Dud 
 ley out of the Big League I U d him out 
 of baseball. 
 
 It was coming to him, of course; but there 
 are times when I feel ashamed of the part I 
 had in it times when I wish Jamieson hadn t 
 been so hard on the boy. Dudley was no good, 
 and all that; but well, I m just soft enough to 
 be sorry. 
 
 [167]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 CHRISTY MATHEWSON can afford to 
 be modest, whether he feels like it or 
 not, because it s a cinch that he ll get 
 plenty of credit and public recognition 
 anyway; but the party who makes me tired is 
 the swelled-up bush pitcher who hasn t done 
 anything yet and ain t sure that he can, but is 
 proud of it just the same. It has been my 
 experience that the bigger a man is, the less 
 he thinks about his own importance and the 
 less liable he is to get the swelled head. It s 
 the little fellow who is likely to run away with 
 the notion that he is there with a million, as 
 we say. This goes for a lot of things besides 
 baseball too. 
 
 It ain t any trouble for me to be modest. I 
 know my strong points and I know my weak 
 ones, too, even if I don t admit em in the 
 clubhouse after we lose a tight game. Some 
 shortstops are better than I am and a lot more 
 are worse. I never broke up any leagues with 
 my hitting or stole the shoes off Jimmy 
 Archer s feet, but the boss keeps on mailing 
 me my contract every year and he ought to 
 know. 
 
 [168]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 I don t make any claim for myself, except 
 that I m always trying. I go after everything 
 that comes down my side of the diamond, 
 whether I think I can handle it or not. You d 
 be surprised to see how many of those tough 
 chances I get away with, as the fellow said who 
 tried to kiss every pretty girl he met. 
 
 But about Jones : he got in bad with me from 
 the jump. Big leagues know pretty much what 
 is going on in the International, the American 
 Association and the Coast League, because it 
 is only a step from those organisations to the 
 majors; but the bird with the Class D League 
 reputation has no license to break into fast 
 company wearing his tail in the air. A minor- 
 league record is a poor thing to pull on real 
 ball players. They have to be shown, and some 
 times they don t believe it even then. 
 
 The first time I got a look at Jones was 
 down in Texas, where we do our spring train 
 ing. I was sitting on a bench outside the hotel 
 with old Murphy. Murph used to be the best 
 catcher in the National League, but he s so fat 
 now that all he can do is waddle, and he coaches 
 the young pitchers. None of Murph s fat is 
 above his shoulders, though, and he can get 
 more out of a kid pitcher than anybody would 
 think was there. Whenever the boss gets 
 chased off the field for climbing an umpire s 
 family tree Murph takes charge of the team, 
 and he can think faster than any fat man I 
 ever saw. 
 
 The regulars had just got into town and we 
 [169]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 hadn t done any real work yet or seen any of 
 the new stock. While we were sitting there, 
 talking scandal and chewing over the winter s 
 news, along came a big, good-looking chap 
 dressed in a gambler s plaid that you could 
 play checkers on, and carrying a cane. He was 
 all diked up with a lot of cheap jewelry, and 
 he looked like a cross between a small-time 
 vaudeville actor and a hick hotel clerk. You 
 could tell right away that he d never sit up 
 nights hating himself. 
 
 "Hello, leaf lard!" says he to Murph, and 
 passed on. 
 
 "Who s the fresh party?" says I. 
 
 "Oh, him?" says Murph, kind of laughing. 
 "That s a recruit pitcher. He ll stiffen up our 
 heaving staff quite a considerable." 
 
 "Huh! Who says so?" 
 
 "Why, he does. His name is Jones and he 
 hails from some little town in Ohio. He tells 
 me he was a curly wolf in the K. K. B. League 
 last season." 
 
 I said what I thought about Jones and the 
 K. K. B. League; and I didn t put the soft 
 pedal on, either. There are people who rub me 
 the wrong way on sight and Jones is one of em. 
 
 "Ye-es," says Murph; "he s all of that and 
 then some. You stick here a minute, Jim, and 
 I ll go get him. He ll hand you a-many a 
 laugh. 
 
 "Oh, yes," says Jones, nodding kind of care 
 less when he was introduced. "Jim Garrett, 
 hey? Garrett? Seems to me I ve heard the 
 
 [170]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 name. Let s see; you re an outfielder, ain t 
 you?" 
 
 I ve seen bushers licked for a lot less than 
 that; and I would have gone back at Jones 
 strong, only I couldn t think of anything to 
 say. I m not very handy with that quick 
 repartee stuff. 
 
 "Jones, here," says Murph, helping the play 
 along, "had a pretty good season last year." 
 
 "Oh, I don t know s I d say good," says 
 Jones, shooting his cuffs down over his fingers. 
 "I worked in forty games and they beat me 
 five times; but the team laid down behind me. 
 Pitcher can t do it all, you know." 
 
 "Of course not," says Murph, stepping on 
 my toe. 
 
 "With decent support," says Jones, "I 
 should have gone through the season with a 
 clean record." 
 
 "Tough luck!" says I, meaning to be 
 sarcastic. 
 
 "Yeh," says Jones, not getting me at all. 
 "Oh, I suppose I oughtn t to kick. It might 
 have been worse. I got the season s strike-out 
 record eighteen men in nine innings pitched 
 one no-hit game, was lucked out of another by 
 a scratch single, and put over nine shut-outs. 
 With a regular team behind me I might have 
 hung up something for em to shoot at for years 
 to come." 
 
 "Uh-huh," I says "in the Class D 
 Leagues." 
 
 Even that didn t fetch him. 
 [171]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," says Jones. "Base 
 ball s the same wherever you find it the same 
 situations; the same plays. There ain t such 
 an awful difference between the major leagues 
 and the minors. Little more speed that s 
 about all." 
 
 "Yes," I says, "a little more speed, a little 
 more brains, and a few other things like that." 
 
 "They play brainy ball in the K. K. B.," 
 says he. "They pull all that inside stuff that 
 you read about in the magazines. When it 
 comes down to hitting there s mighty little dif 
 ference. I don t know but what we had more 
 .300 batters last season than there was in the 
 National." 
 
 "But look what they was hitting against!" 
 I thought that one would set him back on his 
 heels, but it didn t. He went right along. 
 
 "Batters are pretty much the same anywhere 
 you find em," says he. "They either hit you 
 or they don t. You let me get one of em in 
 the hole and I don t care how good he is. He 
 should worry, not me ! A whole lot is in hav 
 ing confidence." 
 
 "Yes confidence, control, a change of pace, 
 and a few more trifles," says I. 
 
 "I m there with all that stuff ain t I, 
 Murph?" asks Jones. 
 
 "Well," says the old boy, cautiouslike, 
 "you re certainly there with the confidence!" 
 
 "That s half the battle. Lots of ball teams 
 may be able to lick me, but you bet none of 
 em are going to scare me. Well, I ll see you 
 [172] i
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 later. I got a date to play Kelly pool with 
 the newspaper boys. I m giving em some good 
 stuff. Glad I met you, Garrett. So long!" 
 He went inside the hotel, whistling. 
 
 "What do you think of him, Jim?" asks 
 Murph. 
 
 I guess I was explicit enough. I may have 
 overlooked a little language here and there, but 
 I don t believe I did. Murph grinned. 
 
 "The joke of it is," says he, "that this bird 
 has really got something in him besides conceit. 
 He s got an arm there like braided rawhide and 
 he s the makings of a swell pitcher." 
 
 "Don t swell him up no more than he is 
 now," says I, "or he ll bust on your hands." 
 
 "Well," says Murph, "we ve got to get him 
 over that. We ve got to cure him. I m hoping 
 that the regulars will be able to take him down 
 a peg or two." 
 
 "Leave it to us," I says. "I m going to 
 pass the word to the gang." 
 
 ii 
 
 It wasn t any time at all before everybody 
 at the camp had Jonesy s number. Some 
 people are puffed up in a quiet sort of way and 
 take it out in thinking about how good they are. 
 The soft pedal was left out of Jones s make-up 
 entirely. He made more noise about himself 
 than a minstrel band. The boys w r ere pretty 
 rough with him in a conversational way, and 
 some of the cracks they made at Jones would 
 
 [173]
 
 SCOBE BY INNINGS 
 
 have knocked the paint off a cigar-store Indian ; 
 but, bless you, the fellow had a rind like a 
 rhinoceros! Shooting at him with anything 
 less than a sixteen-inch gun was simply wasting 
 ammunition. He was armour-plated with con 
 ceit from end to end. 
 
 Jones had chances to make himself popular 
 with the gang, but he booted every one of em.v 
 He wasn t satisfied with doing a good thing and 
 leaving it there for folks to look at and admire; 
 he had to turn the spotlight on it and start a 
 ballyhoo. He wouldn t wait for people to give 
 him credit he took it. 
 
 For instance, one night we got to talking 
 about fights and fighters, and Jones horned into 
 the discussion. He was in every gab-fest that 
 started, right up to the ears. Jones began 
 three-cheering himself as a fighter. To hear 
 him tell it, he was the White Hope of the dia 
 mond nothing less. 
 
 Joe Duffy was sitting there, with his hat 
 pulled down over his eyes, taking it all in. Joe 
 is our prize scrapper. He s licked nearly all 
 the fighters in the league. When he was a kid 
 he started out to be the middleweight champion, 
 but something delayed him. If his war record 
 is ever compiled there will be a string of knock 
 outs on it from here to Timbuktu, mostly cab 
 drivers and all-night waiters. The ball players 
 have got so they won t fight with Joe any more. 
 He hits too hard. 
 
 "Well," says Jones, "this big lumberjack 
 came at me with his head down, roaring like 
 
 [174]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 a bull and swinging both hands. I can always 
 take care of a slugger. I feinted a couple of 
 times, straightened him up and then nailed him 
 on the chin with a right cross. They thought 
 he never was going to come to again." 
 
 There was considerable silence after that and 
 then Joe Duffy took the cigar out of his mouth. 
 
 "Where do you bury your dead?" says he. 
 
 It wasn t so much what he said as the way 
 he said it. A man who couldn t understand 
 English would have caught the insult in every 
 word. Jones looked at Duffy and grinned. 
 
 "The same place you bury yours, old top," 
 says he. 
 
 * Huh ! sneers Joe. * * You re a great fighter 
 with your mouth." 
 
 "Una well," says Jones, "maybe I can 
 fight some with my hands too. It s no trouble 
 to show goods." 
 
 He d said enough. The preliminaries were 
 arranged on the spot. Duffy had some five- 
 ounce gloves in his trunk, and the word was 
 quietly passed round for the gang to meet in 
 the big bare sample room on the third floor of 
 the hotel. Jones picked me and Murph to go 
 in his corner and second him. He didn t seem 
 the least bit worried while he was taking off 
 his things and getting ready. 
 
 "Can this fellow fight some?" he asks. 
 
 Well, we told him about Duffy. 
 
 "You want to look out for that right hand," 
 says Murph. "Joe hits like the kick of a 
 mule." 
 
 [175]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "So do I," says Jones. 
 
 Stackpole, the outfielder, volunteered to act 
 as referee and the hotel clerk held the stop 
 watch. 
 
 "You won t need that," says Duffy when 
 he saw the watch. "This won t last a full 
 round." 
 
 Jones was prancing round the room on his 
 toes, shadow boxing a little. He heard what 
 Duffy said. 
 
 "You never can tell," says Jones. "Any of 
 you gentlemen want to bet on Duffy ? 
 
 "Cheese!" whispers Murph. "Don t be 
 foolish!" 
 
 "All the same," says Jones, "I ve got two 
 hundred beans down in the hotel safe. You 
 can get aboard at even money as long as the 
 bank roll lasts." 
 
 "I ll take fifty of it," says Duffy. 
 
 The two hundred lasted less than a minute. 
 Everybody wanted a piece of it. I would have 
 taken some myself only, being in Jones 
 corner, it would have looked bad. 
 
 "Time!" says Stackpole. 
 
 "You can always take care of a slugger, can 
 you?" says Joe. "Well, look out for your 
 self!" 
 
 He came in with a rush, timing a right swing 
 for the jaw, and the fight would have been over 
 but for one thing Jones jaw wasn t there. 
 He jerked his head backward without moving 
 his feet, which is a trick that mighty few boxers 
 ever learn. Joe whirled round like a top and 
 
 [176]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 before he could set again Jones jabbed him all 
 the way across the room with a straight left. 
 Duffy snorted and rushed and Jones clinched 
 and blocked. 
 
 Leggo and fight ! grunts Duffy. 
 
 "Take your time," says Jones, and save 
 your wind. You re going to need it." 
 
 All through the first round Duffy rushed and 
 swung his right, but he couldn t land it. Jones 
 never stopped popping him with a straight 
 left. 
 
 "What do you think you re doing sparring 
 for points?" That was what Joe said when he 
 went to his corner at the end of the first round. 
 "Why don t you come on and fight?" 
 
 Jones only laughed at him. 
 
 "That s a neat left you ve got there," says 
 Murph to Jones; "but you can t any more than 
 smear him up a little with it. Don t you ever 
 use your right at all, son?" 
 
 "I m saving that as a surprise," says Jones. 
 
 The second round was pretty much like the 
 first. Joe was beginning to grunt when he 
 missed his crazy haymakers, and Jones 
 straight left was plunging in and out like a 
 piston, landing clean every time, but not doing 
 much damage. 
 
 "Ten seconds more!" says the hotel clerk. 
 
 Oh, well, if that s the case - says Jones ; 
 and he quit jabbing and began to feint. Duffy 
 dropped his left shoulder and Jones cut loose 
 with a right cross for the jaw, the first he d 
 used in the fight. It came so fast that Duffy 
 
 [177]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 never had a chance to duck and he hit the floor 
 with a bump that cracked the plastering below. 
 
 "Time!" says the clerk. 
 
 I ll never forget the expression on Duffy s 
 face as he sat in his chair and looked at Jones. 
 He wasn t hurt so much as he was dazed. A 
 knockdown was a novelty to him. 
 
 "Keno!" says Jones to us. "I ve got him 
 loaded on my little wagon. No use in boxing 
 with this bird any more. From now on I ll 
 trade wallops with him." 
 
 And that is what he did only it wasn t really 
 a trade, because Jones was landing and Duffy 
 was missing. Before the third round was half 
 over even the men who had bet on Duffy were 
 yelling at Stackpole to stop the slaughter. 
 Jones was simply tearing him to pieces with 
 a right cross. 
 
 "Be reasonable, old horse," says Jones to 
 Duffy when Duffy was on the floor for the 
 sixth time. "You re licked. Why don t you 
 quit?" 
 
 But Joe only cussed him and climbed up 
 again. 
 
 "I like your spirit," says Jones, "but your 
 judgment is sort of mildewed. Well, of course, 
 if you will have it there ! 
 
 The seventh time Duffy didn t get up. It 
 was a clean knockout. He never so much as 
 wiggled an ear until after he d been carried to 
 his corner and propped up in a chair. Jones 
 went over and patted him on the back and com 
 plimented him on his gameness, but Duffy 
 
 [178]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 didn t know what it was all about. He was 
 still groggy and couldn t do anything but 
 mumble. It was the first time he d ever been 
 knocked out. He told me afterward that he 
 had an idea that somebody sneaked up behind 
 him and lammed him with a ball bat. 
 
 You can imagine how surprised everybody 
 was. We had expected to see some of the con 
 ceit knocked out of Jones; but instead of that 
 he had made a monkey out of the toughest 
 fighter in the league and put up a fight that 
 would have been a credit to a cracking good 
 professional. We all got round him and told 
 him that he was a bear and a curly wolf with 
 long claws. 
 
 That was the time when modesty would have 
 helped him a lot with the boys, but the chump 
 puffed up like a pouter pigeon. He not only 
 admitted that all we said was true, but he 
 called our attention to a few good points about 
 his fighting we had overlooked. 
 
 "Kid McCoy used to slip a punch with his 
 head," says he, "and Joe Gans could do it too. 
 It sort of comes natural to me." 
 
 Well, what can you do with a fool like that? 
 We went away and left him, still talking loudly 
 about himself. 
 
 "He sure is a fighter," says Stackpole; "but 
 the dickens of it is that he knows it better 
 than we do." 
 
 It was old Murph who sized up the situation 
 to a whisper. 
 
 "Paying Jones a compliment to his face," 
 [179]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 says he, "is just like carrying a poor little 
 faded wild flower into a conservatory!" 
 
 ni 
 
 Well, it didn t take us long to find out that 
 Jones wasn t going to be a temporary incon 
 venience, but a permanent pest. No matter 
 what we thought of him personally, we had to 
 admit that as a pitcher he was almost as good 
 as he thought he was, and that meant he d be 
 with us for the season. 
 
 Usually a bush pitcher who is trying to get 
 a toehold on a big league pay roll is sort of 
 scared and humble, and willing to take advice 
 from anybody, from the bat boy up to the man 
 ager. "How did I look in there to-day?" is 
 what they always ask. 
 
 Jones was different. He told us how good 
 he looked in there; he called the manager by 
 the first name; and he took it for granted that 
 he d be with us when the season opened. By 
 the middle of March he was talking about the 
 high old times he d have at Coney Island when 
 the club was playing in New York. 
 
 "I wouldn t worry about Coney Island if I 
 was you," says Pete Bogan, our star left 
 hander. "Coney doesn t open until the summer 
 and by that time you may be in Shreveport 
 or Great Falls, or some other whistling sta 
 tion." 
 
 "Think so?" says Jones. "At any rate, I 
 haven t got to the point where I m experiment- 
 
 [180]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 ing with a spitter. I m still satisfied with what 
 I ve got." 
 
 Well, that was one for Bogan right over the 
 middle. Pete s speed isn t what it used to be 
 and he had been trying to get control of a 
 spitter to use in emergencies. 
 
 On the way North, playing exhibition games 
 every day, Jones laid it on thick. He was in his 
 element, and Solomon in all his glory couldn t 
 have carried his uniform roll for him. 
 
 You can imagine how it is in the little towns. 
 The sports and the loafers are always anxious 
 to catch a glimpse of the real big leaguers, and 
 they meet the train at the depot and hang round 
 the hotel afterward. Jonesy was the boy who 
 knew what they expected and he gave em a 
 treat. He never failed to be the first man off 
 the Pullman. He ordered porters round, shoved 
 the yokels out of the way, and hung round hotel 
 lobbies, with his thumbs in the armholes of his 
 vest. To see him walk across a bush-league 
 diamond and turn up his nose at the ram 
 shackle grandstand you d have thought he had 
 never seen one before and was used to nothing 
 but steel and concrete. 
 
 Then the season opened and everything that 
 had gone before wasn t a marker to the way 
 Jones bloated up when he won his first game. 
 To be perfectly fair it was a hard battle and 
 Jones showed considerable class; but he raved 
 about it as though nobody had ever licked a 
 first-division club before. He patronised the 
 veteran pitchers, he lorded it over the recruits, 
 
 [181]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and lie talked back to the manager and called 
 him Jerry. 
 
 "I guess I didn t make suckers of those birds 
 to-day ! says Jones under the shower bath. I 
 had em reaching into the next county for that 
 slow hook and jumping back from my fast one. 
 If you fellows had been alive behind me they 
 wouldn t have had but two scratch singles." 
 
 We make it a rule never to quarrel with a 
 winning pitcher, so we let Jones alone. It was 
 a waste of breath to compliment him or to knock 
 him either. There was only one opinion that 
 counted with Jones, and that was his own. 
 After he had won his third game Murph had 
 a conference with a few of us, sitting round the 
 hotel lobby in St. Louis. 
 
 "Far be it from me to discourage talent," 
 says Murph; "but something has got to be done 
 or Mrs. Jones little boy will explode one of 
 these days. Yesterday he was giving me the 
 low-down on what ails our catching staff, and 
 he thinks we ought to ship all our veteran 
 pitchers to the Old Soldiers Home. And he 
 says we could spare a couple of infielders too." 
 
 I knew what Murph was driving at. In Jones 
 last game I went away over back of third base 
 and got two fingers on a line drive that no short 
 stop in the league could have handled. 
 
 "It stands to reason," says Murph, "that 
 this terrible swelling of the bean will be fatal 
 unless we reduce it in some way. What is the 
 sense of the gathering, boys I How shall we 
 apply the treatment?" 
 
 [182]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 Well, we argued it, but we couldn t come to 
 a conclusion of any sort. Talking to Jones 
 wouldn t help matters in the least. We had 
 tried that. Arthur Powers, the first-string 
 catcher, suggested that it might be a good thing 
 to heave in a few runs behind him the next 
 time he pitched; but that was out of the ques 
 tion. We figured to have a burglar s chance to 
 break into the first division that season and we 
 couldn t toss any games away. Joe Duffy said 
 that a licking might do him good, but nobody 
 seemed anxious to take the contract. In the 
 middle of the discussion along came Freddy 
 Bullard, our club secretary, with a letter in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Ah, noble athletes!" says he. "Here s 
 some good news for you. The Chamber of 
 Commerce of Verbena, Ohio, invites us to come 
 over there and play an exhibition game. That 
 fills the open date a week from next Tuesday." 
 
 Of course there was a general roar from all 
 hands. We get enough baseball in the playing 
 season without barn-storming round the coun 
 try on our open dates. Asking a lot of big 
 leaguers to play an exhibition game is like invit 
 ing street-car conductors to go for a trolley 
 ride. 
 
 "But listen!" says Freddy. "Verbena is 
 Jones home town." 
 
 "That doesn t boost it any with me!" says 
 Hit Shields, the pitcher. 
 
 "Yes; but they say they ll close all the stores 
 and declare it a holiday," says Bullard. "They 
 
 [183]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 want to see Jones pitch against their home 
 team. They want to give us a banquet. I 
 suppose they ll present Jones with a gold watch 
 or a diamond ring. They ll guarantee us a 
 thousand bucks ! It ought to be worth while. 
 
 "I m agin it!" says Bug Bellows, the first- 
 baseman. "Jones can t hardly keep his hat on 
 his head now. After these rubes hand him that 
 Verbena s favourite-son stuff, there won t be 
 any living with him ! 
 
 "Eight you are!" says Joe Duffy. 
 
 All of a sudden Murph began to laugh. He 
 laughed until the tears ran down his face. 
 
 "What s the matter with you?" says I. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," says Murph. "I think I ll 
 hunt up the boss and have a little chat with 
 him, that s all." 
 
 He went away, still laughing, and he was 
 laughing when he came back. 
 
 "Every little thing is all right, boys," says 
 Murph. * The boss is going to spare me enough 
 ball players to make a mess and we ll fill that 
 Verbena date." 
 
 "It strikes me," says Arthur Powers, the 
 catcher, "that you ve got an awful gall ribbing 
 up exhibition games for this team! Don t we 
 work hard enough to suit you?" 
 
 "Calm yourself, my boy; calm yourself," 
 says Murph. "If you ll promise to be good 
 I ll let you go along and see the fun, but you 
 won t do any work. The battery will be Jones 
 and Murphy." 
 
 "Why, you old tub of lard," says Powers, 
 [184]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 "you haven t caught a game since Hughey Jen 
 nings played short ! 
 
 "Even so," says Murph, "I may be good 
 enough for Verbena ! 
 
 Just then Jones came strolling across the 
 lobby, a cane under his arm, and pulling on his 
 gloves like the villain in a melodrama. 
 
 "Did you hear the news, Jonesy?" asks 
 Murph. "We re going to play an exhibition 
 game in your home town a week from 
 Tuesday." 
 
 "I ve had a letter from the Chamber of Com 
 merce," says Jones. "I suppose they won t be 
 satisfied unless I pitch, eh?" 
 
 Then he went out into the street, switching 
 his cane. Old Murph looked after him with a 
 grin. 
 
 "An exhibition game," says he, "does not 
 count in the season s averages." He rolled his 
 eye round the circle, looking at every one of us 
 while he let that remark sink in. "It s just 
 possible," says Murph, "that our friend Jones 
 has overlooked that point, eh?" 
 
 "I don t know what you ve got up your 
 sleeve," says Joe Duffy, "but I m going to 
 Verbena, Ohio, if I have to pay my own car 
 fare!" 
 
 IV 
 
 Jones pretended to be bored at the idea of 
 visiting Verbena, but his stall didn t fool any 
 body. We could all see that he was tickled to 
 death at the chance of showing off before his 
 
 [185]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 old friends and neighbours. While we were in 
 Chicago he touched Freddy Bullard for forty 
 bucks and blew himself to a full-dress suit- 
 hand-me-downs, of course and one of those 
 wrinkly, soft-boiled shirts that the head waiters 
 are wearing this season. In Cincinnati he got 
 up nerve enough to give the suit a work-out and 
 wore it into the dining-room at the hotel. As 
 he passed our table, all swelled up and not 
 knowing whether to notice us or not, we began 
 to snap our fingers and yell : 
 
 "Garsong! Oh, garsong!" 
 
 Waiter, where s that soup?" 
 
 "A little service here, Emil !" 
 
 Jones never turned his head, but his ears 
 went pink and stayed pink for the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 Mit Shields, who roomed with him on the 
 road, said that Jones had been sitting up 
 nights, writing a speech to deliver at the Ver 
 bena banquet. 
 
 "Honest Injun, fellows," says Mit, "I 
 emptied the wastebasket and it was full of 
 pages beginning like this: Mr. Toastmaster, 
 ladies and gentlemen: Unaccustomed as I am 
 
 to public speaking And right there he 
 
 broke every time!" 
 
 We went over to Verbena on the morning 
 accommodation train, about fifteen of us. The 
 boss passed it up and that left Murph in charge. 
 The last ten miles Jones couldn t sit still in his 
 seat. He was all over the car looking out the 
 windows, asking the conductor whether the train 
 
 [186]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 was on time, and generally behaving himself 
 like a kid on a holiday. 
 
 There was an awful mob at the depot, which 
 was decorated with flags and bunting, and we 
 tumbled down into the hands of the Reception 
 Committee a flock of rubes wearing white 
 satin badges with gold letters on em Jones 
 Day. The crowd began to yell : 
 
 Where is he ? Where s Jones ? Fetch him 
 out!" 
 
 Well, that was Jonesy s cue. He didn t have 
 any idea of getting off with the crowd; he was 
 going to wait until there wasn t anybody in the 
 spotlight but him. Jones let em yell for a 
 while and then he hopped down on the plat 
 form, his hat in his hand, bowing first to one 
 side and then to the other. An actor couldn t 
 have done it any better. The brass band busted 
 loose, the crowd cheered, and the women waved 
 their handkerchiefs. Jones handed his suitcase 
 to a member of the Reception Committee and 
 away we went for the carriages. 
 
 It was only three blocks to the hotel, but 
 those Verbena folks did the job up in style. 
 First went the brass band, whanging away for 
 dear life ; and behind it was an open-faced hack 
 drawn by four black horses, with pink ribbons 
 in their tails. In the hack, leaning back like the 
 lord of all creation, was Jonesy, smoking a 
 cigar with the president of the Verbena 
 Chamber of Commerce and pretending not to 
 notice the common people on the sidewalks. 
 
 The rest of us piled into the hacks any old 
 [187]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 way. Just before the procession started, a 
 lanky, freckle-faced young fellow eased himself 
 into the carriage with Murph, Joe Duffy 
 and me. 
 
 "My name s Cassidy," says he, "Mike Cas- 
 sidy. I m the manager, first baseman and team 
 captain of the Verbena Stars. I guess I know 
 who you are from the pictures in the Guide. 
 Murphy and Garrett and Joe Duffy, eh ? Oh, I 
 keep posted on the big leaguers, you bet!" 
 
 "What kind of a ball club have you got?" 
 asks Murph after shaking hands with Cassidy. 
 
 "It ain t so rotten," says Cassidy. "The 
 boys may not have all the fine points, but 
 they re fence-busters from away back. We ll 
 give you a battle! Don t worry!" 
 
 "You re giving Jones a grand blowout," 
 says I. 
 
 "Huh!" says Cassidy. "I m the man that 
 taught him all he knows. You ought to seen 
 how raw he was when I first got hold of him! 
 He used to telegraph his fast ball with his foot, 
 and he couldn t hold a runner on the bag to save 
 his life ! It took me the best part of one whole 
 season; but I stayed with him morning, noon 
 and night until I made a pitcher out of him. 
 Jones! Huh!" 
 
 "You did a good job," says Murph. 
 
 "I don t know whether I did or not," says 
 Cassidy. "Look at him up there in the front 
 hack, pulling the conquering-hero stuff on old 
 man Sherwood, that never knew Jones was on 
 earth when he used to live here!" 
 
 [188]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 "Well," says Murph, "a fine reception like 
 this is liable to swell anybody." And he 
 winked at the rest of us. 
 
 "It oughtn t to make a man forget his old 
 friends," says Cassidy. "And who s he got to 
 thank for this whole business? Nobody but 
 me! Who was it looked up the schedule and 
 found that open date ? Me ! Who tipped it to 
 the Chamber of Commerce to invite the club 
 over to Verbena? Me! I m responsible for 
 the entire shooting match ; and now what gets 
 my goat is that Jonesy don t hardly know me 
 any more. When he was climbing into the hack 
 I busted through the crowd to shake hands, and 
 what does he do but nod his head at me kind 
 of careless and go right on chinning with that 
 old mummy of a banker! Never even said 
 Hello, Mike! On the level, he passed me up 
 like a white chip, in front of all the crowd too ! 
 
 "You don t say!" 
 
 "If I had been trying to borrow money from 
 him he couldn t have slipped it to me any 
 stronger. I suppose he thinks that because I 
 run a poolroom I ain t good enough for him. I 
 always knew Jones was a swelled-up pup, but 
 I didn t think he d have the nerve to pull that 
 high-and-mighty stuff on me ! 
 
 "He ought to be ashamed," says Murph; 
 "and I m ashamed of him. By the way, Cas 
 sidy, you ll have lunch with me, won t you!" 
 
 "I d be proud to," says Cassidy. 
 
 "All right. Bring along some of those fence- 
 busters of yours. I d like to meet em." 
 
 [189]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Well, it made me sick to see the way Jones 
 acted round the hotel ! He didn t have a minute 
 to spare for any one but the bigbugs of the 
 town; and when the local ball players began 
 to drift in he gave em the fishy handshake and 
 the frozen eye. They got together and held an 
 indignation meeting over in a corner, and what 
 they said about Jones was surely plenty. 
 
 1 And we re the suckers," says Cassidy, 
 1 1 that went round town collecting money to buy 
 him a gold watch! Old Sherwood is going to 
 present it to him to-night at the banquet. I 
 chipped in two bucks. Say, what do you think 
 of that guy anyway? Ain t he a fright?" 
 
 We dressed at the hotel ; and, just before we 
 left to go to the park, Murph got the bunch to 
 gether and gave us a little talk. Jones wasn t 
 there. He had a party of doctors and lawyers 
 and bankers up in his room, telling em all 
 about the Great White Way and life in the big 
 league. I heard him through the transom and 
 he was surely laying it on thick. 
 
 "Now, boys," says Murph, "the time to jab 
 a hole in a balloon is when it s so swelled up 
 that a little more air will bust it. It s the only 
 chance to save the balloon. Do you get me?" 
 
 "We got you two weeks ago, in St. Louis," 
 says Bug Bellows; "but what I want to know 
 is, how we re going to throw this game without 
 the crowd getting wise ! If we make a flock of 
 errors everybody will be on in a minute. And 
 suppose these farmers can t hit Jones! How 
 are they going to get their runs ? 
 
 [190]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 Murph shook his head kind of sorrowful. 
 
 "Bug," says he, "you are a grand ball player 
 from the neck down! Your arms and legs are 
 all right. What do you suppose I persuaded 
 the boss to let us play this date for? I m going 
 to be in there catching, ain t I! Well!" 
 
 "Huh ! W T hat s that got to do with it ? " says 
 Bug. "It s the pitching that these yaps have 
 got to hit not the catching! We can keep 
 from making runs without much trouble, but 
 how are we going to force em on these 
 farmers ? 
 
 Old Murph can be sarcastic when he tries. 
 
 "Mister Bellows," says he, "I don t think 
 we ll make many errors to-day. I ve got a 
 little plan of my own an arrangement between 
 myself and me that ought to do the work. I 
 feel as though I d like to try it. It ought to 
 help these Verbena fence-busters quite a con 
 siderable. It s just possible that it may make 
 Mrs. Jones little boy look like an awful bad 
 pitcher. I designed it with that notion in view. 
 I 11 try it out ; the rest of you go ahead and play 
 ball. If it doesn t get results I ll confer with 
 the rest of you strategists and we ll switch the 
 system. 
 
 "I would give you all the details, Bug, only 
 I left my brace, bit and cold chisel at home. 
 Nothing softer than steel will ever drive an 
 idea into reinforced concrete. We will now 
 adjourn to the ball yard, and while I try 
 my little bone-shrinking experiment I want the 
 rest of you to play the game. Understand?" 
 
 [191]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Well," says Bug, "I don t see how you are 
 going to pull it single-handed." 
 For that matter, neither did I. 
 
 Maybe a few bedridden people missed that 
 ball game, but the rest of Verbena and the 
 surrounding country was on hand. Talk about 
 your big-league baseball fans ! If you want to 
 meet the real red-hot article pick a town of 
 about three thousand inhabitants, where every 
 body knows everybody else, and a baseball game 
 is a personal matter. When it comes to rooting 
 for the home boys the small-town fans can trim 
 a big-league crowd to a hoarse whisper. 
 
 In this case, of course, there wasn t any feel 
 ing of rivalry not at first. The Verbena Stars 
 were going out of their class. The crowd hoped 
 they would make some sort of a showing and 
 not be disgraced, but the real attraction was 
 Jones. The home folks wanted to see him in 
 action, now that he was a big leaguer and, as 
 they figured it, a national celebrity. 
 
 Of course Jones had to make another grand 
 stand entry, so there couldn t be any question 
 about whom they were applauding. It wasn t 
 possible for him to come in with the rest of us. 
 We were all on the field before he came in 
 sight, and marching beside him was a tall, long 
 haired man in a shiny frock coat and a slouch 
 hat. I never saw him before in my life, but 
 I recognised him right away would have 
 
 [192]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 recognised him anywhere. He was the local 
 orator, the official bazoo of the village. Every 
 little town has to have a man like that to read 
 the Declaration of Independence on the Fourth 
 of July and do odd jobs of talking in between, 
 which is about all the man is good for, as a rule. 
 Usually these silver tongues get started wrong 
 when they are kids and are named the Boy 
 Orator of the Something-or-other, and it ruins 
 em for life. This long-haired, limber-jawed 
 specimen was called the Boy Orator of the 
 Scioto, and he was Verbena s best bet in the 
 wind jamming stakes. To hand him all that is 
 coming to him, I must say that when he got the 
 eight parts of speech against the ropes he gave 
 em an awful belting. 
 
 There w r as considerable cheering when Jones 
 appeared, and the Boy Orator of the Scioto 
 marched him out to the home plate and stopped. 
 Of course we all gathered round in a half circle, 
 the way ball players do when anything is com 
 ing off. The silver-tongue waited for the 
 cheering to die out you never saw one of em 
 that really wanted it to stop and then he 
 passed his slouch hat to the bat boy, laid his 
 right hand on Jones shoulder, hoisted his left 
 hand in the air, as though he was going to make 
 a catch, and let fly with both barrels. 
 
 A stranger listening to that address would 
 have got the idea that Jones was Mathewson, 
 Ty Cobb, Theodore Roosevelt and Napoleon 
 Bonaparte all rolled into one. In between 
 flowery references to Jones yes, he called him 
 
 [1931
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Verbena s favourite son he gave us the his 
 tory of baseball from the Garden of Eden down 
 to date; and every little while he would slap 
 Jones on the back and the cheering would bust 
 loose again. The tough part of it was that 
 the rest of us had to stand there and listen until 
 the Boy Orator ran out of language, which he 
 did about half an hour after he ran out of ideas. 
 Jones took nine bows I counted em and we 
 went back to practice, thankful that it was 
 over. 
 
 The Verbena Stars were a rawboned, husky 
 lot, and what they lacked in style they made 
 up in main strength and awkwardness fair 
 fielders, but tremendous hitters. When they 
 swung at a ball and landed they nailed a fence 
 ticket on it. 
 
 When the game began I was still wondering 
 what Murph had up his sleeve. Of course we 
 all understood that some way or other Jones 
 had to be trimmed for the good of his soul ; but 
 it bothered me to figure out how we were going 
 to double-cross him without playing a rotten 
 fielding game, and that would give him the best 
 pitcher s alibi in the world poor support. 
 You can t say a whole lot to a losing pitcher 
 when he starts telling you about the errors you 
 made behind him. He s got the box score on 
 his side and a box score is a powerful 
 argument. 
 
 We went first to bat and the Verbena pitcher 
 was good enough to make a goose egg look 
 natural. He was a big, flat-footed, left-handed 
 
 [194]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 farmer s boy, with a neck about a foot long ; but 
 I ve seen worse than him in the big league. He 
 pitched more with his arm than his head; but 
 he mixed em up pretty well, didn t tip his fast 
 one, and had sense enough to keep it inside and 
 across the letters. He fanned me in the first 
 inning fanned me on the level too. I went 
 after the third one just to see what I could do 
 with it, and the break fooled me. 
 
 When we went out one-two-three I thought 
 the crowd would go crazy! They expected a 
 slaughter from the start and the goose egg set 
 em to rooting for the home team as well as 
 cheering for Jones. Up to that time they had 
 regarded the game as a walk-over for us ; now 
 they could see that we were just ordinary 
 human beings. 
 
 Well, Jones strutted into the box, cheered to 
 the echo ; and every move was a picture. Pose ! 
 He posed all over the place. Everything had 
 to be fancy. He couldn t even catch a ball with 
 out slapping it into his glove, a trick he learned 
 from Pete Bogan, who is something of a grand- 
 stander himself. He laughed at the batters, 
 joshed the umpire and kidded the crowd, 
 and otherwise made a fool of himself. 
 Along with everything else he had a sort of 
 high and mighty air superciliousness, I think 
 they call it. I can t describe it any other way 
 than to say that Jones looked at those Verbena 
 batters as though he was just about to yawn 
 and sort of blamed em for keeping him up. 
 It s a trick that can be done with the nose and 
 
 [1951
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 one eyebrow, and it s more insulting than a slap 
 in the face. 
 
 Two of the Verbena Stars twinkled out in 
 succession and then Mike Cassidy came up to 
 the plate, lugging a thick black bat behind him. 
 
 "Please, mister," says he to Jones, taking 
 off his cap, "pitch to me, if you ll be so kind 
 and condescending. I ll try not to show you 
 up." 
 
 The crowd couldn t hear what he said, but 
 they laughed and that made Jones sore. He 
 got the sign from Murph and then shook his 
 head. You understand that the catcher signals 
 the pitcher whether it shall be a fast ball or a 
 curve. Murph called for the curve, but Jones 
 shook his head. He was stuck on his fast one, 
 anyway, and he wanted to use it to make Cas 
 sidy look cheap. 
 
 Well, Jones started to wind up and Cassidy 
 was setting himself for his swing almost before 
 the ball left Jones hand. Cassidy didn t 
 exactly tear the cover off that ball, but he did 
 the next best thing he hit the centre-field fence 
 with a line drive ; and if it had been three feet 
 higher it would have been a home run. He 
 took a triple on it, but didn t score, for Jones 
 fanned the next man. 
 
 "Murph," says Jones, when we got back to 
 the bench, "it s been so long since you caught a 
 game that you ve forgot how to cover up your 
 signs." 
 
 "Gwan!" says Murph. "I was covering up 
 battery signs before you was born." 
 
 [196]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 "That s just the point. It was so long ago 
 that you ve forgot how." 
 
 "What makes you think so, son!" 
 
 "I don t think. I know! Cassidy was set 
 for that fast one before I let go of it. He knew 
 it was coming and he hit it a mile." 
 
 "Rats! These rubes ain t smart enough to 
 steal battery signs." 
 
 "Well, be more careful, will you!" 
 
 "Sure!" says Murph. 
 
 I ll have to explain about this sign-tipping 
 business and why it s important. 
 
 The main advantage that the pitcher has 
 over the batter isn t in his speed or in the 
 break he can put on the ball. It s in the fact 
 that the batter doesn t know until the ball has 
 left the pitcher s hand whether it s a fast one 
 or a curve; and that leaves him mighty little 
 time for thought and action. He s got to judge 
 the speed of the ball and figure whether it will 
 break or not before he dares to swing at all. 
 
 Any time the batter knows in advance what 
 sort of a ball the pitcher intends to throw him 
 the advantage is on the other side. The best 
 pitcher in the world can t beat a lot of men 
 who know when to step in on a curve and 
 what s more important when to dig their 
 spikes in and set for the fast one. This is why 
 we use coachers who have the knack of getting 
 battery signals from the opposing catcher and 
 flashing em to the hitters. A pitcher always 
 knows by the way the batters act whether his 
 signs are being tipped off or not; and when 
 
 [197]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 they are it s customary to switch to another 
 code in the middle of an inning. 
 
 Give me a coacher who can steal battery signs 
 and I ll beat a good pitcher with a weak-hitting 
 club. It s the biggest advantage a team can 
 have. 
 
 I didn t pay much attention to the argument 
 between Murph and Jones. It sounded to me 
 like the usual pitcher s alibi for Cassidy s long 
 hit and I didn t take much stock in the theory 
 that the rubes were getting the signs, but in 
 the third inning I saw something that opened 
 my eyes. We hadn t made any runs thus far 
 and neither had the Stars. Jones had set em 
 down one-two-three in the second inning and 
 was pitching like a wild man. 
 
 The Verbena catcher led off in the third with 
 a fluke bounder of the sort that looks bad but is 
 really as good as a better one. He reached first 
 base on it and Jones gave me a bawl-out for 
 letting it jump over my head. Then up came 
 the flat-footed farmer-boy pitcher with the 
 turkey neck and a bat like a telegraph pole: 
 One strike. (Curve.) One ball. (Curve.) 
 Two balls. (Curve.) 
 
 At this point the catcher started to steal. 
 Murph juggled the ball just long enough to 
 make it close and then whizzed it down to me. 
 The umpire called the runner safe, which he 
 was. I saw to that. Jones crabbed some 
 more, and the crowd began to stamp and yell 
 to the pitcher to win his own game. Up to 
 this time Turkey-neck hadn t offered at a ball, 
 
 [198]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 Murph gave the sign for the fast one, and 
 that turkey-necked rube was winding up for his 
 wallop before Jones ever let go of the ball ! He 
 hit it, too, with everything he had, freckles and 
 all. I heard it buzz as it went over my head to 
 centre field ; and but for the fence it would have 
 been going yet. The Verbena catcher went 
 tearing home with the first run, and pretty soon 
 Turkey-neck came lumbering in to second, 
 where he stopped. He couldn t run any better 
 than most pitchers. 
 
 1 That was some hit, boy," says I; "but how 
 did you know the fast one was coming?" 
 
 Turkey-neck looked at me and pulled up his 
 pants. Then he winked. 
 
 "A little bird told me," says he. 
 
 Jones and Murph had their heads together in 
 the middle of the diamond and I strolled up to 
 see what it was about. 
 
 "They re tipping the signs, I tell you!" says 
 Jones. "You don t half cover em up!" 
 
 "We ll switch, then," says Murph. "Give 
 em yourself after this; but, for heaven s sake, 
 don t cross me! I ain t got but two good 
 fingers on all my hands. 
 
 Well, they changed the code, Murph making 
 a bluff at giving signs, but really taking em 
 from Jones. The next hitter crawled up on top 
 of the plate and flattened a curve ball ; and the 
 man following him set for the fast one and 
 nearly knocked a leg off Bug Bellows with a 
 drive down the first-base line. 
 
 A blind man could see that they were getting 
 
 [199]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 the signs and Jones stopped the game again 
 while he told his troubles to Murph. The 
 crowd jumped the floor out of the grandstand 
 and asked him why he didn t get a tele 
 phone. 
 
 "Three runs! Three runs!" they yelled. 
 
 Then, when it was finally fixed up and a third 
 set of signals was in operation, along came 
 Cassidy to the bat. The switch in the signal 
 code didn t bother him a bit. He let the curves 
 go by, but he nailed the first fast ball for a 
 double, scoring another run. Cassidy arrived 
 at second base feet first and grinning. 
 
 "You d better gag your catcher," says he, 
 "or we ll run ourselves to death!" 
 
 Well, of course I knew Murph was mixed up 
 in it somewhere, but I never thought he would 
 use a method so simple and direct as that one. 
 The old rascal had been squatting there in the 
 very shade of the bats and telling those fellows 
 what to wait for and what to take a slam at! 
 No wonder he wanted to make the Verbena 
 trip ! No wonder he insisted on catching the 
 game! No wonder he had been so chummy 
 with the Verbena players at lunch! 
 
 The rest of the game was a joke to everybody 
 but Jones. He nearly went into hysterics on 
 the bench after the third inning; and in the 
 fourth, with the bases full and two runs home, 
 he swallowed the little lump which was all 
 that was left of his pride and begged Murph 
 to take him out of the box yes, begged ! 
 
 "This is Jones Day," says Murph; "and it 
 [200]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 looks like they re going to make it one that 
 you ll remember. The big show is not yet half 
 over." 
 
 "But what s the use?" wiiined Jonesy. 
 "They ve got the signs again!" 
 
 "Stay in and take it, my son!" says Murph. 
 "It s bitter medicine, but it s good for what 
 ails you. I wouldn t look round for an alibi 
 if I was you. Stay and take it!" 
 
 And the crowd! You know what baseball 
 fans are like. They re with you and for you 
 just so long as you re winning, but the minute 
 you hit the toboggan it s thumbs down and the 
 sole of the foot for yours; and the more fuss 
 they ve made over you as a winner, the harder 
 they hand it to you when you lose. 
 
 In the sixth inning, when the Stars had 
 enough runs corded up to win a whole World s 
 Series, the fans began to go after Jones, booing 
 and hooting and yelling : 
 
 "Take him out! Give us a regular pitcher! 
 He s rotten! Take him out! Phew!" 
 
 Just to make it more binding, the Boy Orator 
 of the Scioto was standing on a chair shaking 
 the wire netting and making more noise than 
 anybody else, which goes to show you how far 
 a public idol can fall in an hour and twenty 
 minutes. 
 
 It was the last straw. The hostile demon 
 stration against him upset Jones to such an 
 extent that he couldn t have found the plate 
 with a lantern; and after two bases on balls 
 and one of the wildest of wild pitches ever seen 
 
 [201]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 in this world Murph sent him to the bench 
 and did it in such a way that the crowd hooted 
 louder that ever. As a bone doctor Murph 
 was certainly an allopath ; no stingy little doses 
 for him ! 
 
 Oh, but it was a beautiful sight to see Jonesy 
 leaving the diamond with his chest caved in 
 against his backbone and his lower lip hanging 
 like a red undershirt on a line! Everything 
 about him seemed to have shrunk. He was a 
 foot shorter; his shoulders sagged; his spikes 
 dragged in the dirt; and if it hadn t been for 
 his ears his cap would have fallen down over 
 his eyes. He was the most pitiable-looking 
 wreck I ever saw, and there wasn t pride 
 enough left in him to stock a flea a favourite 
 son without a relation left in town ! 
 
 Pete Bogan went in and struck out the next 
 three men it wouldn t do to let those farmers 
 get too chesty; and when Jones saw that he 
 slid off the bench and sort of faded out of sight, 
 just evaporated, and nobody knew when or 
 which way he went. 
 
 We gave the Stars a battle in the last three 
 innings and the final score was eighteen to thir 
 teen in favour of Verbena. They didn t make 
 any runs after Jones was taken out. We rather 
 thought the crowd would draw some conclu 
 sions from that. 
 
 When we left the park the open-faced hack 
 with the four black horses was still waiting for 
 Jones; but as he didn t show up and nobody 
 knew where he was, and even the driver didn t 
 
 [202]
 
 THE BONE DOCTOR 
 
 seem to care, Cassidy, Murph and me rode back 
 to the hotel in it. 
 
 We agreed that it was too good a joke to 
 tell to common people. 
 
 We found Jones later, locked in his room, 
 with the transom down ; and it took Murph and 
 seven members of the Reception Committee to 
 persuade him that he really ought to attend the 
 banquet in his honour. 
 
 He appeared at last, a little pale round the 
 gills, but perfectly tame. A child could have 
 handled him without any trouble. He didn t 
 wear the full-dress suit and he acted as though 
 he wanted to make himself as inconspicuous as 
 possible. There was a lot of speech-making, of 
 course mostly collar-and-elbow stuff in glori 
 fication of the home team. The Boy Orator of 
 the Scioto had to scratch his entry; he was so 
 hoarse he could barely croak and that helped 
 some. 
 
 I didn t really feel sorry for Jones until old 
 Sherwood got up to present the gold watch. 
 He sympathised with Jones and slobbered over 
 him considerable, and told him not to be down 
 hearted about his licking. He said it ought to 
 be a comfort to Jones to remember that he came 
 from a town where real ball players were de 
 veloped; and that if he persevered And 
 so on. Anybody can pour vinegar on a raw 
 spot, but it takes a well-meaning fool to rub 
 it in. 
 
 Poor Jones had to respond. He swallowed 
 hard and began to mumble something about 
 
 [203]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 every pitcher having a bad day once in a while. 
 
 "Yeh," says Mike Cassidy, who was pretty 
 well illuminated by this time; "we know this 
 was going to be yours, so we named it after 
 you ! 
 
 Everybody roared, and Jones turned red and 
 sat down without thanking em for the watch, 
 which they noticed and commented on after 
 ward. 
 
 We can t tell yet, of course; but we think that 
 Doc Murph s bone-shrinking treatment will be 
 a success. There is a wonderful improvement 
 in Jonesy. He has a relapse now and then ; but 
 if he gets going too strong somebody is sure to 
 ask him the time of day. That stops him. 
 
 [204]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 IT s a mighty fine thing for a man to know 
 when he s had enough, but there s a piece 
 of knowledge which beats it all hollow. 
 That s for him to know when his friends 
 have had too much. 
 
 This is no temperance sermon, so you needn t 
 quit reading. It s the story of a baseball player 
 who thought he was funny and didn t know 
 when to quit the rough-and-tumble comedy that 
 some idiot has named practical joking. 
 
 Before I tell you what happened to Tom 
 O Connor because he didn t know when to quit 
 being funny, I want to put myself on record. I 
 don t believe that there is any such a thing as a 
 practical joke. As I understand the word, a 
 thing in order to be practical must have some 
 sense to it and be of some use to people. To 
 play it safe I looked up the dictionary defini 
 tion of the word to see if I could stretch it far 
 enough to cover the sort of stuff that Tom 
 O Connor pulled on us at the training camp last 
 season. I couldn t make it answer. Here s 
 what I found in the dictionary : 
 
 [205]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 " PRACTICAL pertaining to or governed by 
 actual use or experience, as contrasted with 
 ideals, speculations and theories." 
 
 That s what the big book says it means, and 
 I string with the definition whether I under 
 stand all of it or not. Show me anything in 
 there that applies to sawing out half the slats 
 in a man s bed or mixing up all the shoes in a 
 Pullman car at three o clock in the morning! 
 
 You can call it practical joking if you want 
 to, but it won t go with me. I claim there s 
 nothing practical about it, or sensible either. 
 Practical joking is just another name for plain, 
 ordinary foolishness with a mean streak in it. 
 The main thing about a practical joke is that 
 somebody always gets hurt usually an inno 
 cent party. 
 
 I m strong for a good clever joke. I get as 
 much fun out of one as anybody and I can laugh 
 when the joke is on me; but when it comes to 
 the rough stuff I pass. 
 
 Take em as a whole, baseball players are a 
 jolly bunch. They ve got youth and health and 
 vitality. They call us the Old Guard, but we re 
 really nothing but a lot of young fellows and 
 we have the reputation of being the liveliest 
 outfit in the league ; but even so, we got sick of 
 the sort of stunts that Tom O Connor handed 
 us at the training camp and in the early part 
 of the season. 
 
 We didn t have much of a line on Tom when 
 he joined the club. He d been in the big league 
 
 [206]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 only part of the season previously, and he came 
 to the Old Guard as the result of a winter trade. 
 We needed a first-baseman the worst way, and 
 Uncle Billy he s our manager gave up a 
 pitcher, an infielder and an outfielder to get 
 Tom O Connor away from the Blues. The 
 newspapers made an awful roar about that 
 trade, and so did the fans. They said Uncle 
 Billy was out of his head and was trying to 
 wreck the team by letting three good men go. 
 The noise they made wasn t a whisper to the 
 howl that when up from the other manager 
 when the time came to get some work out of 
 those three good men. 
 
 When it comes to a swap, Uncle Billy is a 
 tougher proposition than a Connecticut Yank, 
 and a Connecticut Yank can take an Armenian 
 pawnbroker s false teeth away from him and 
 give him Brazil nuts in exchange for em. 
 Uncle Billy always hands the other managers 
 three or four men for one. He s so liberal and 
 open-hearted that they feel sorry for him, and 
 they keep right on feeling sorry after they see 
 what he s slipped them in the trade. 
 
 In this case the pitcher had a strained liga 
 ment that even the bone-setter couldn t fix, the 
 infielder s eyes were giving out on him and the 
 outfielder had a permanent charley-horse in his 
 left leg. As big-league ballplayers they were 
 all through, but as benchwarmers and salary- 
 grabbers they were immense. 
 
 Even if they had been in condition I think 
 that Tom Connor would have been worth the 
 
 [207]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 three, for he is a cracking good first-baseman, 
 and now that he has settled down to business 
 and quit being the team comedian he 11 be even 
 better than he was last year. 
 
 He joined us at the spring training camp in 
 Louisiana. We ve been going to the same place 
 for years. It s a sort of health resort with 
 rotten water to drink and baths; and the hotel 
 is always full of broken-down old men with 
 whiskers and fat wives to look after em. 
 
 Connor turned up in the main dining-room 
 the first night with a big box of marshmallows 
 in his hand. He is a tall, handsome chap with 
 a tremendous head of hair and a smile that sort 
 of warms you to him even after you know him. 
 He stopped at every table and invited folks to 
 help themselves. 
 
 "These are very choice, madam; something 
 new in confectionery. Prepared by a friend of 
 mine. Won t you try one?" 
 
 That was his spiel, but the smile and the little 
 twinkle of the eye that went with it was what 
 did the business. The fat ladies didn t stop to 
 think that it was rather unusual for a strange 
 young man to be offering them candy. They 
 smiled back at Tom and helped themselves to 
 the marshmallows, and some of them insisted 
 that their husbands should try one too. 
 
 Tom was a smooth, rapid worker and he kept 
 moving, not stopping long at a table and never 
 looking back. Perhaps that was just as well, 
 for the marshmallow had been dipped in 
 powdered quinine instead of powdered sugar. 
 
 [208]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 Quinine ain t so bad when you expect it, but 
 when your mouth is all fixed for marshmallow 
 the disappointment and the quinine together 
 make a strong combination. The fat ladies 
 went out of the dining-room on the run, choking 
 into their handkerchiefs, and the old men sent 
 C. Q. D.s for the proprietor. He came in and 
 Tom met him at the door and handed him one 
 of the marshmallows, and then of course every 
 body laughed. 
 
 I admit that we might have begun discourag 
 ing his comedy right there. We would have 
 done it if he d been a minor-leaguer trying to 
 break in, but he wasn t. He d been five months 
 with the Blues a bad ball club, but still in the 
 big league. That made him one of us. We 
 knew and he knew that he was going to be our 
 first-baseman and he settled down with as much 
 assurance as if he had been with us ten years 
 instead of ten hours. 
 
 He saw right away that we were going to be 
 a good audience for him. Not all of his stuff 
 was on the rough-house order. Some of us 
 were not long in finding that out. 
 
 A couple of nights afterward we were having 
 a nice, quiet little game of draw poker in my 
 room on the third floor of the hotel. Any 
 poker game running after ten o clock in the 
 same hotel with Uncle Billy has got to be a 
 quiet one or it s a case of a fifty-dollar fine 
 all round. 
 
 Uncle Billy is a great baseball manager but 
 he s awfully narrow-gauge on certain subjects, 
 
 [209]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and one of em is the American indoor national 
 pastime of draw poker. He doesn t like the 
 game for seven hundred different reasons, buc 
 mainly because he says it sets a bad example to 
 the kid players, who get to gambling among 
 themselves and lose more than they can afford. 
 That s true of course, but if a kid is born with 
 the gambling bug in his system you can t fine 
 it out of him, not even at fifty a smash. One 
 season Uncle Billy tried to shut down on poker 
 altogether, and there was more poker played 
 that year than ever before. Then he took off 
 the lid, and now we re allowed to play twenty- 
 five-cent limit until ten o clock at night. Think 
 of it! Why, if a man had all the luck in the 
 world and filled everything he drew to he might 
 win as much as four dollars ! 
 
 I m not saying that the rule isn t a good one 
 for recruits and kids, but it comes hard on the 
 veterans, especially at the training camp where 
 there isn t a thing to do after dark. We used 
 to sneak a real game once in a while with a 
 blanket over the transom and paper stuffed in 
 the cracks and the keyhole. We had to do that 
 because we couldn t trust Uncle Billy. He was 
 just underhanded enough to listen outside of 
 door, and to make it worse the poor old coot 
 has insomnia and we never know when he s 
 asleep and when he s not. 
 
 Well, this poker party in my room was the 
 real thing: Pat Dunphy, Holliday, Satterfield, 
 Meadows, Daly and myself all deep-sea 
 pirates. It was table-stakes of course, every 
 
 [210]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 man declaring fifty or a hundred behind his 
 stack in case he should pick up something heavy 
 and want action on it. 
 
 It got to be about two in the morning, and 
 Dunphy was yawning his head off and looking 
 at his watch every few minutes. He was two 
 hundred ahead. The rest of us were up and 
 down, seesawing along and waiting for a set of 
 fours or something. The elevators had quit 
 running long ago and there wasn t a sound in 
 the hotel anywhere. What talking we did was 
 in whispers because we never knew when Uncle 
 Billy might take it into his head to go for a 
 walk. I ve known him to bust up a poker game 
 at four in the morning. 
 
 Dunphy was just scooping in another nice 
 pot like a fool I played my pat straight 
 against his one-card draw when all of a 
 sudden a board creaked in the hall outside, and 
 then came a dry, raspy little cough that we 
 knew mighty well. 
 
 * Holy Moses ! whispered Dunphy. * * Uncle 
 Billy! Don t move!" 
 
 Then somebody pounded on the door. We 
 were sure there wasn t any light showing 
 through the cracks, so we sat quiet a few 
 seconds trying to think what to do. The pound 
 ing began again, louder than before bangety- 
 bang-bang ! 
 
 Well, our only chance was to keep Uncle 
 Billy out of the room, so I motioned to the boys 
 and they picked up their money and chips and 
 tiptoed into the alcove in the corner. I whipped 
 
 [211]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 off my shirt, kicked off my pants, put on a bath 
 robe, tousled up my hair to make it look as if 
 I d been asleep a week, switched out the light 
 and opened the door a few inches. Then I 
 stepped out into the hall. 
 
 It was empty from end to end. There wasn t 
 a soul in sight. 
 
 We had a long discussion about it. "We all 
 agreed that it was Uncle Billy s cough we 
 heard; but why had he hammered on the door 
 so hard and then gone away? That wasn t like 
 him. Had he been round to the otuer rooms 
 checking up on us? Was he so sure of us that 
 he didn t need the actual evidence? Perhaps 
 he was going to switch his system and begin 
 fining people fifty dollars apiece on circum 
 stantial evidence. It began to have all the ear 
 marks of an expensive evening for the six of us. 
 
 "Did anybody else know about this party?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "O Connor knew," Holliday spoke up. "I 
 asked him if he didn t want to play a little 
 poker. He said he couldn t take a chance of 
 getting in Dutch with the boss so soon. That 
 was his excuse, but maybe he was a little light 
 in the vest pocket. He already knew about the 
 ten o clock rule and the fifty-dollar fine." 
 
 "Did he know we were going to play in this 
 room!" 
 
 "Sure, but I don t see where you figure him. 
 He wouldn t have tipped it off to anybody. 
 Probably Uncle Billy couldn t sleep and was 
 prowling round. You can t get away from that 
 
 [212]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 cough. And he s got us dead to rights or he 
 wouldn t have gone away. I ll bet he s had a 
 pass-key and been in every one of our rooms. 
 We 11 hear from him in the morning. 
 
 It did look that way. We settled up and the 
 boys slipped out one at a time, carrying their 
 shoes in their hands. I don t know about the 
 rest of em, but I didn t sleep much. The fifty- 
 dollar fine didn t bother me, but Uncle Billy has 
 got a way of throwing in a roast along with it. 
 
 I dreaded to go down to breakfast in the 
 morning. Uncle Billy usually has a table with 
 his wife and kids close to the door, so he can 
 give us the once-over as we come in. 
 
 " Morning, Bob!." says Uncle Billy, smiling 
 over his hotcakes. "How do you feel this 
 morning ! 
 
 II Finer n split silk!" says I, and went on 
 over to the main table with the gang. That 
 started me to wondering, because if Uncle Billy 
 had anything on me he wouldn t have smiled. 
 The best I could have expected was a black look 
 and a grunt. Uncle Billy was a poor hand at 
 hiding his feelings. If he was peeved with you 
 it showed in everything he did. I didn t know 
 what to make of that smile, and that s what had 
 me worried. 
 
 Dunphy and Holliday and the others were 
 puzzled too, and the suspense was eating us up. 
 We sat there, looking silly and fooling with our 
 knives and forks, every little while stealing a 
 peek at each other. We couldn t figure it at 
 all. Tom Connor was at one end of the table 
 
 [213]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 eating like a longshoreman and saying nothing. 
 Dunphy stood the strain as long as he could 
 and then he cracked. 
 
 "Did Uncle Billy call on any of you fellows 
 last night!" said he. 
 
 "No! Was he sleep-walking again, the old 
 rascal?" 
 
 "Was anything doing!" 
 
 "He never came near the fourth floor. If he 
 had he d a busted up a hot little crap game." 
 
 "What was he looking for poker!" 
 
 None of the boys had seen him. It was plain 
 that if Uncle Billy had been night-prowling we 
 were the only ones that he had bothered. 
 Peachy Parsons spoke up. 
 
 "Did you see him, Pat!" says he. 
 
 "Why, no," says Dunphy. "I I heard 
 him." 
 
 For a few seconds there was dead silence. 
 Then Tom O Connor shoved his chair back, 
 stood up, looked all round the table with a 
 queer grin on his face and coughed once that 
 same dry, raspy little cough. It sounded so 
 much like Uncle Billy that we all jumped. 
 
 O Connor didn t wait for the laugh. He 
 walked out of the dining-room and left us look 
 ing at each other with our mouths open. 
 
 ii 
 
 I knew a busher once who tore off a home run 
 the first time he came to bat in the big league, 
 and it would have been a lot better for him if 
 
 [214]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 he had struck out. The fans got to calling him 
 Home-Eun Slattery and he got to thinking he 
 was all of that. He wouldn t have a base on 
 balls as a gift and he wouldn t bunt. He 
 wanted to knock the cover off every ball he 
 saw. Uncle Billy shipped him back to Texas in 
 June, and he s there yet. In a way O Connor 
 reminded me of that busher. 
 
 He had made a great start as a comedian. 
 The stuff that he put over on the poker players 
 was clever and legitimate; there was real fun 
 in it. His reputation as a two-handed kidder 
 was established then and there, and he might 
 have rested on it until he thought of something 
 else as good. He might have; but we laughed 
 at him, and then of course he wanted to put 
 the next one over the fence too. 
 
 I can see now looking back at it, that we 
 were partly responsible. You know how it is 
 with a comedian the more you laugh at him, 
 the worse he gets. Pretty soon he wants laughs 
 all the time, and if they re not written into his 
 part he tries to make em up as he goes along. 
 If he hasn t got any new, clever ideas he pulls 
 old stuff or rough stuff in other words he gets 
 to be a slapstick comedian. A good hiss or two 
 or a few rotten eggs at the right time would 
 teach him to stay with legitimate work. 
 
 It didn t take Tom long to run out of clever 
 comedy and get down to the rough stuff. 
 Rough stuff is the backbone of practical joking. 
 Things began to happen round the training 
 camp. We couldn t actually prove em on 
 
 [215]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Tom at the time and we haven t proved em 
 on him yet but the circumstantial evidence is 
 all against him. He wouldn t have a chance 
 with a jury of his peers whatever they are. 
 
 Tom began easy and worked up his speed by 
 degrees. His first stunts were mild ones, such 
 as leaving a lot of bogus calls with the night 
 clerk and getting a lot of people rung out of 
 bed at four in the morning; but of course that 
 wasn t funny enough to suit him. 
 
 There was a girl from Memphis stopping at 
 the hotel, and Joe Holliday the pitcher thought 
 pretty well of her. He borrowed an automo 
 bile one Sunday to take her for a ride. After 
 they were about twenty miles from town the 
 engine sneezed a few times and laid down cold. 
 
 " Don t worry," says Holliday, "I know all 
 about automobiles. I ll have this bird flying 
 again in a minute." 
 
 "It sounded to me as if you d run out of 
 gas," said the girl, who knew something about 
 cars herself. 
 
 "Impossible!" says Holliday. "I had the 
 tank filled this morning and you can see there s 
 no leak." 
 
 "Well, I don t know all about automobiles," 
 says the girl, "but you d better take a look in 
 that tank." 
 
 That made Holliday a little sore, because 
 he d bought twenty gallons of gasoline and paid 
 for it. They stayed there all day and Holliday 
 messed round in the bowels of the beast and 
 got full of oil and grease and dirt. I ll bet he 
 
 [216]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 stored up enough profanity inside of him to 
 last for the rest of his natural life. And all 
 the time the girl kept fussing about the gaso 
 line tank. Finally, after Joe had done every 
 thing else that he could think of, he unscrewed 
 the cap and the gas tank was dry as a bone. 
 
 Somebody with a rare sense of humour had 
 drawn off about seventeen gallons of gasoline. 
 
 1 I told you so ! " said the girl which is just 
 about what a girl would say under the circum 
 stances. 
 
 They got back to the hotel late that night. 
 Love s young dream had run out with the gaso 
 line, and from what I could gather they must 
 have quarrelled all the way home. Joe went 
 down and got into a fight with the man at the 
 garage and was hit over the head with a 
 monkey-wrench. From now on you ll notice 
 that Tom s comedy was mostly physical and 
 people were getting hurt every time. 
 
 Joe s troubles lasted O Connor for a couple 
 of days and then he hired a darky boy to get 
 him a water snake. I think he wrote it in the 
 boy s contract that the snake had to be harm 
 less or there was nothing doing. He put the 
 snake, a whopping big striped one, between the 
 sheets in Al Jorgenson s bed, which is my no 
 tion of no place in the world to put a snake. 
 Jorgenson is our club secretary a middle-aged 
 fellow who never has much to say and attends 
 strictly to business. 
 
 Al rolled on to the snake in the dark, but it 
 seems he knew what it was right away. He 
 
 [217]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 wrecked half the furniture, tore the door off 
 the hinges and came fluttering down into the 
 lobby, yelling murder at every jump. It was 
 just his luck that the old ladies were all pres 
 ent. They were pulling off a whist tournament 
 that night, but they don t know yet who won. 
 Al practically spoiled the whole evening for 
 em. 
 
 The charitable way to look at it is that Tom 
 didn t know that Jorgenson was hitting the 
 booze pretty hard and kept a quart bottle in 
 his room. If he had known that, maybe he 
 would have wished the snake on to a teetotaler, 
 like Uncle Billy. To make it a little more 
 abundant Tom slipped in and copped the snake 
 while Al was doing his shirt-tail specialty, and 
 when we got him back to the room there wasn t 
 any snake there. Tom circulated round among 
 the old ladies and told em not to be alarmed 
 in the least because maybe it wasn t a real 
 snake that Jorgenson saw. 
 
 But Tom had his good points after all. The 
 next morning Al found the snake tied to his 
 door-knob, which relieved his mind a whole 
 lot; but he was so mortified and ashamed that 
 he had all his meals in his room after that and 
 used to come and go by the kitchen entrance. 
 
 Tom s next stunt which he didn t make any 
 secret of put four of the kid recruits out of 
 business. He framed up a midnight hunt for 
 killyloo birds. It s the old snipe trick. I 
 didn t believe that there were four people left 
 in the world who would fall for that stunt. It 
 
 [218]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 was invented by one of old man Pharaoh s boys 
 in the days of the Nile Valley League. It is 
 hard to find one man in the whole town who will 
 fall for it, because it has been so well adver 
 tised, but Tom grabbed four in a bunch. It 
 just goes to show how much solid ivory a base 
 ball scout can dig up when his travelling ex 
 penses are paid. 
 
 The idea is very simple. First you catch a 
 sucker and take him out in the woods at night. 
 You give him a sack and a candle. He s to 
 keep the candle lighted and hold the mouth of 
 the sack open so that you can drive the killyloo 
 birds into it. The main point is to make it per 
 fectly clear to the sucker that a killyloo bird 
 when waked out of a sound sleep always walks 
 straight to the nearest light to get his feet 
 warm. After the sucker understands that 
 thoroughly you can leave him and go home 
 to bed. He sits there with his candle, fighting 
 mosquitoes and wondering what has become of 
 you and why the killyloo birds don t show up. 
 
 Tom staged his production in fine style. He 
 rented a livery rig and drove those poor kids 
 eleven miles into a swamp. If you have ever 
 seen a Louisiana swamp you can begin laugh 
 ing now. He got em planted so far apart 
 that they couldn t do much talking, explained 
 all about the peculiar habits of the sleepy killy- 
 loos, saw that their candles were burning nicely 
 and then went away to herd in the game. He 
 was back at the hotel by eleven o clock. 
 
 About midnight the boys held a conference 
 [219]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and decided that maybe it was a bad time of 
 the year for killyloo birds but that the sucker 
 crop hadn t been cut down any. They started 
 back for the hotel on foot and got lost in mud 
 clear up to their necks. They stayed in the 
 swamp all night and it s a wonder that they 
 got out alive. And that wasn t all : Uncle Billy 
 listened to their tales of woe and said if they 
 didn t have any more sense than that they 
 wouldn t make ballplayers, so he sent em home. 
 
 The night before we were to leave for the 
 North there was a little informal dance at the 
 hotel and the town folks came in to meet the 
 ballplayers and learn the tango and the hesita 
 tion waltz. 
 
 It was a perfectly bully party and everything 
 went along fine until the punch was brought 
 in. We d decided not to have any liquor in it 
 on account of the strong prohibition sentiment 
 in the community, so we had a kind of a fruit 
 lemonade with grape juice in it. 
 
 Well, those fat old ladies crowded round the 
 bowl as if they were perishing of thirst. They 
 took one swig of the punch and went sailing 
 for the elevators like full-rigged ships in a gale 
 of wind. 
 
 Of course I thought I knew what was wrong. 
 It s always considered quite a joke to slip 
 something into the punch. I d been dancing 
 with a swell little girl and as we started for 
 the punch-bowl I said: 
 
 "You won t mind if this punch has got a wee 
 bit of a kick in it, will you ! 
 
 [220]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 "Not in the least," said she. "Father al 
 ways puts a little brandy in ours." 
 
 So that was all right and I ladled her out 
 a sample. I would have got mine at the same 
 time, but an old lady behind me started to 
 choke and I turned round to see what was the 
 matter. When I turned back to the girl again 
 there were tears in her eyes and she was 
 sputtering about rowdy ballplayers. She 
 said that she had a brother at college who 
 could lick all the big-leaguers in the world, 
 and she hoped he d begin on me. Then she 
 went out of the room with her nose in the 
 air. 
 
 I was terribly upset about it because I 
 couldn t think what I had done that was wrong, 
 and just because I had the glass in my hand 
 I began drinking the punch. Then I went out 
 and climbed a telegraph pole and yelled for the 
 fire department. Talk about going crazy with 
 the heat. It can be done, believe me! I felt 
 like a general-alarm fire for the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 There was an awful fuss about that, and 
 some of us held a council of war. We decided 
 to put it up to O Connor. He stood pat in a 
 very dignified way and said that he must posi 
 tively refuse to take the blame for anything 
 unless there was proof that he did it. About 
 that time the cook found two empty tabasco- 
 sauce bottles under the kitchen sink. That 
 didn t prove anything. We already knew what 
 the stuff was and that too much of it had been 
 
 [221]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 used. One bottle would have been a great 
 plenty. 
 
 That was the situation when we started 
 North. Everybody felt that it was dangerous 
 to be safe with a physical humourist like 
 O Connor on the payroll. We hoped that 
 he d quit playing horse and begin to play 
 ball. 
 
 We went so far as to hint that the next rough 
 stuff he put over on the bunch would bring him 
 before the Kangaroo Court and it wouldn t 
 make any difference whether we had any evi 
 dence or not. The Kangaroo Court is the last 
 word in physical humour. It s even rougher 
 than taking the Imperial Callithumpian Degree 
 in the Order of the Ornery and Worthless Men 
 of the World. 
 
 The last straw fell on us in the home town. 
 Jorgenson came into the dressing room one 
 afternoon with a handful of big square en 
 velopes. There was one for every man on 
 the team. 
 
 I opened mine and there was a stiff sheet of 
 cardboard inside of it printed in script. I 
 didn t save mine, but it read something like 
 this: 
 
 Mr. Augustus P. Stringer requests the hon 
 our of your company at dinner, at the Algon 
 quin Club, 643 - - Avenue, at seven-thirty 
 on the evening of May the Twelfth, Nineteen 
 
 Hundred and . Formal. 
 
 [222]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 Well, there was quite a buzz of excitement 
 over it. 
 
 "Who is this Mr. Stringer?" asks Uncle 
 Billy. "Any of you boys know him?" 
 
 Nobody seemed to, but that wasn t remark 
 able. All sorts of people give dinners to ball 
 players during the playing season. I ve seen 
 some winters when a good feed would come 
 in handy, but a ballplayer is only strong with 
 the public between April and October. The 
 rest of the year nobody cares very much 
 whether he eats or not. 
 
 He s probably some young sport who wants 
 to show us a good time and brag about what 
 a whale of a ballplayer he used to be in col 
 lege," says Pat Dunphy. 
 
 "You re wrong!" says Peachy Parsons. 
 "Ten to one you re wrong! I never saw this 
 Mr. Stringer, but I ll bet I ve got him pegged 
 to a whisper. In the first place I know about 
 this Algonquin Club. It s the oldest and the 
 most exclusive club in the city. Nothing but 
 rich men belong to it. You can go by there 
 any night and see em sitting in the windows, 
 holding their stomachs in their laps. Now this 
 Mr. Stringer is probably a nice old man with 
 a sneaking liking for baseball. He wants to 
 entertain us, but at the same time he s afraid 
 that we re a lot of lowbrows and that we ll 
 show him up before the other club members." 
 
 "What makes you think that?" asks Dunphy. 
 
 "Simple enough. He s got an idea that we 
 don t know what to wear to a banquet, so he 
 
 [223]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 tips us off. He puts formal down in one 
 corner. 
 
 "What does that mean!" 
 
 "It s not usually put on an invitation. It 
 means the old thirteen-and-the-odd. Claw 
 hammer, white tie, silk hat and all the rest 
 of it." 
 
 "How about a <tux ?" 
 
 * Absolutely barred. A tuxedo isn t formal. 
 
 "That settles it!" says Dunphy. "I don t 
 go. If this bird don t want to see me in my 
 street clothes he don t need to see me at all. 
 I never bought one of those beetle-backed coats 
 and I never will!" 
 
 "Come now," says Uncle Billy, "don t get 
 excited. I know a place where you can rent 
 an entire outfit for two bucks, shoes and 
 all." 
 
 "Oh, well," says Dunphy, "in that case 
 
 The more we talked about it, the stronger we 
 were taken with the idea. It would be some 
 thing to say that we d had dinner at the Algon 
 quin Club. We warned Tom O Connor that 
 none of his rough comedy would go. He got 
 awfully sore about it. One word led to an 
 other and finally he said if we felt that way 
 about it he wouldn t go. We tried to persuade 
 him that it wasn t quite the thing to turn down 
 an invitation, but he wouldn t listen. 
 
 You never saw such a hustling round or such 
 a run on the gents furnishing goods. Every 
 body was buying white shirts, white ties and 
 silk socks. If we were going to do it at all we 
 
 [224]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 felt that it might as well be done right, and of 
 course we wanted to show Mr. Stringer that 
 we knew what was what. Those who didn t 
 own evening clothes hired em for the occasion, 
 accordion hats and all. We met a couple of 
 blocks away from the club and marched over in 
 a body like a lot of honourary pall-bearers. 
 
 We got by the outer door all right and into 
 the main room where some old gentlemen were 
 sitting round, smoking cigars and reading the 
 newspapers. They seemed kind of annoyed 
 about something and looked at us as if they 
 took us for burglars in disguise, which they 
 probably did. Up comes a flunky in uniform, 
 knee-breeches and mutton-chop whiskers. Uncle 
 Billy did the talking for the bunch. 
 
 Tell Mr. Stringer that we re here, says he. 
 
 "I beg your pardon!" says the flunky. 
 
 "You don t need to do that," says Uncle 
 Billy. "Just run along and tell Mr. Stringer 
 that his guests are here." 
 
 The flunky seemed puzzled for a minute, and 
 then he almost smiled. 
 
 "Ah!" says he. "The Democratic Club is 
 on the opposite corner, sir. Possibly there 
 has been some mistake." 
 
 Uncle Billy began to get sore. He flashed 
 his invitation and waved it under the flunky s 
 nose. 
 
 "It says here the Algonquin Club. You 
 don t look it, but maybe you can read." 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir," says the flunky. He exam 
 ined the invitation carefully and then he shook 
 
 [225]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 his head. "Very, very sorry, sir," says he, 
 "but there is some mistake." 
 
 "How can there be any mistake!" roars 
 Uncle Billy. "Where is Mr. Stringer!" 
 
 "That is what I do not know, sir," says the 
 flunky. "We have no such member, sir." 
 
 Well, that was a knock-out. Even Uncle 
 Billy didn t know what to say to that. The 
 rest of us stood round on one foot and then on 
 the other like a lot of clothing-store dummies. 
 One of the old gentlemen motioned to the 
 flunky, who left us, but not without looking 
 back every few seconds as if he expected us 
 to start something. 
 
 "James," pipes up the old gentleman, "per 
 haps they have been drinking. Have you tele 
 phoned for the police!" 
 
 "They don t seem to be violent yet, sir," 
 says James. Then he came back to us and 
 explained again that he was very, very sorry, 
 but there must be some mistake. No Mr. 
 Stringer was known at the Algonquin Club. 
 
 "This way out, gentlemen," says James. 
 
 I think I was the first one that tumbled to it. 
 We were going down the steps when it struck 
 me like a thousand of brick. 
 
 "Stringer!" says I. "We ve been strung 
 all right. Tom O Connor has gone back to the 
 legitimate ! 
 
 "No wonder he didn t want to come!" says 
 everybody at once. 
 
 We stood on the corner under the lamppost 
 and held an indignation meeting, the old gentle- 
 
 [226]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 men looking down at us from the windows as 
 if they couldn t make up their minds whether 
 we were dangerous or not. We hadn t decided 
 what we ought to do with Tom when the re 
 porters began to arrive. That cinched it. 
 Every paper had been tipped off by telephone 
 that there was a good josh story at the Algon 
 quin Club, and the funny men had been turned 
 loose on it. Uncle Billy grabbed me by the 
 arm. 
 
 "Tip the wink to Dunphy and Parsons and 
 let s get out of this," says he. "I don t often 
 dude myself up and it seems a shame to waste 
 it. We will have dinner at the Casino and 
 frame up a come-back on O Connor." 
 
 I ve always said that, in spite of his queer 
 notions about certain things, Uncle Billy is a 
 regular human being. The dinner that he 
 bought us that night proved it, and the idea 
 that he got, along with the coffee, made it even 
 stronger. 
 
 "Do you boys know any actresses?" said he. 
 "I mean any that are working in town now?" 
 
 "I know Hazel Harrington," says Parsons. 
 
 "Ah-hah," says Uncle Billy. "That s the 
 pretty one in Paris Up to Date, eh?" Why, 
 the old rascal even had a line on the musical 
 comedy stars! "Is she a good fellow?" 
 
 "Best in the world!" says Parsons. "And 
 a strong baseball fan." 
 
 "Fine!" says Uncle Billy and he snapped 
 his fingers at a waiter. "Pencil and paper and 
 messenger boy quick! Now then, Peachy, 
 
 [227]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 write this lady a note and say that we will be 
 highly honoured if she will join us here after 
 the show to discuss a matter of grave impor 
 tance to the Old Guard. Say that you will call 
 in a taxi to get her." 
 
 When the note had gone Uncle Billy lighted 
 a fresh cigar and chuckled to himself. 
 
 "If she ll go through with it," says he, "I ll 
 guarantee to knock all the funny business out 
 of Tom O Connor for the rest of his natural 
 life." 
 
 Miss Harrington turned up about eleven- 
 thirty, even prettier off the stage than on it, 
 which is going some. She said that she had 
 side-stepped a date with a Pittsburgh million 
 aire because we were real people. That was 
 a promising start. She ordered a light supper 
 of creamed lobster and champagne and then 
 Uncle Billy began to talk. 
 
 He told her that as a manager he was in a 
 bad fix. He said he had a new man on the 
 payroll who was promoting civil war. He ex 
 plained that unless he was able to tame this 
 fellow the team would be crippled. Miss Har 
 rington said that would be a pity, for she had 
 bet on us to win the pennant. She wanted to 
 know what was the matter. Uncle Billy told 
 her all about Tom O Connor and his practical 
 jokes. Miss Harrington said it would be a 
 good thing to give him a dose of his own medi 
 cine. It was like Uncle Billy to let her think 
 that the idea belonged to her. 
 
 "Suppose," says Uncle Billy, "you should 
 [228]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 get a note from him, asking you to meet him 
 at the stage door some night next week. For 
 the sake of the ball club, would you say 
 Yes !" 
 
 "But what would happen after that?" 
 asked Miss Harrington. "I don t know the 
 man at all and 
 
 Uncle Billy told her what would happen after 
 that, and as it dawned on the rest of us we 
 nearly rolled out of our chairs. Miss Harring 
 ton laughed too. 
 
 1 It w r ould be terribly funny, said she, * and 
 I suppose it would serve him right; but it 
 might get into the papers and 
 
 Uncle Billy shook his head. 
 
 "My dear young lady," says he, "the only 
 publicity that you get in this town is the pub 
 licity that you go after. I am well and fa 
 vourably known to the police. A lot of em 
 get annual passes from me. Captain Murray 
 at the Montmorency Street Station is my pal. 
 He can see a joke without plans and specifica 
 tions. I promise you that the whole thing will 
 go off like clockwork. We ll suppose that you 
 have attracted the young man s attention dur 
 ing the performance. You would attract any 
 man s attention, my dear." 
 
 I would stand up and bow for that compli 
 ment," said Miss Harrington, "but the waiter 
 is looking. Go on." 
 
 "We will suppose that you have received a 
 note from him," said Uncle Billy. "He is to 
 meet you at the stage door. . . . One tiny 
 
 [229]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 little scream just one. . . . Would you do 
 that for the sake of the ball club!" 
 
 Miss Harrington giggled. 
 
 "If you re sure that you can keep me out 
 of it," said she, "I ll do it for the sake of the 
 joke!" 
 
 Uncle Billy was a busy man for a few days, 
 but he found time to state that he didn t be 
 lieve that Tom O Connor had anything to do 
 with the Algonquin Club thing. He said it was 
 so clever that Tom couldn t have thought of it, 
 and he said it in the dressing room so loud that 
 everybody heard him. Maybe that was the 
 reason why Tom didn t suspect anything when 
 he was asked to fill out a box party. 
 
 Pat Dunphy, Peachy Parsons and some of 
 the rest of us were in on the box party, playing 
 thinking parts mostly. Uncle Billy and Tom 
 O Connor had the front seats right up against 
 the stage. 
 
 Miss Harrington was immense. If she d had 
 forty rehearsals she couldn t have done it any 
 better. Before she d been on the stage three 
 minutes Tom was fumbling round for his pro 
 gramme trying to find her name. Pretty soon 
 he began to squirm in his chair. 
 
 "By golly, that girl is looking at me all the 
 time!" says he. 
 
 "Don t kid yourself!" said Uncle Billy. 
 
 "But I tell you she is! There did you see 
 that?" 
 
 "Maybe she wants to meet you," says Uncle 
 [230]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 Billy. "I ve seen her at the ball park a lot 
 of times." 
 
 "You think she knows who I am!" asks Tom. 
 
 "Shouldn t wonder. You re right, Tom. 
 She s after you, that s a fact." 
 
 "Oh, rats!" says O Connor. "Maybe I just 
 think so. No, there it is again! Do you sup 
 pose, if I sent my card back 
 
 "I m a married man," says Uncle Billy. "I 
 don t suppose anything. But if a girl as pretty 
 as that -" 
 
 Tom went out at the end of the first act. I 
 saw him write something on a card and slip it 
 to an usher along with a dollar bill. 
 
 When the second act opened Tom was so 
 nervous he couldn t sit still. It was easy to 
 see that he hadn t received any answer to his 
 note and was worrying about it. Pretty soon 
 Miss Harrington came on to sing her song 
 about the moon they ve always got to have a 
 moon song in musical comedy or it doesn t go 
 and just as the lights went down she looked 
 over toward our box and smiled, the least little 
 bit of a smile, and then she nodded her head. 
 The breath went out of Tom Connor in a long 
 sigh. 
 
 "Somebody lend me twenty dollars," says 
 he. 
 
 "I m going to meet her at the stage door 
 after the show," says Tom, "and she won t 
 think I m a sport unless I open wine." 
 
 Well, he met her all right enough. The 
 [231]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 whole bunch of us can swear to that because 
 we were across the street, hiding in a doorway. 
 When she came out Tom stepped up, chipper 
 as a canary bird, with his hat in his hand. We 
 couldn t hear what he said, but there was no 
 trouble in hearing Miss Harrington. 
 
 "How dare you, sir!" she screams. "Help! 
 Police! Help!" 
 
 Two men, who had been loafing round on 
 the edge of the sidewalk, jumped over and 
 grabbed Tom by the arms. He started in to 
 explain matters to em, but the men dragged 
 him away down the street and Miss Harring 
 ton went in the other direction. 
 
 "So far, so good," says Uncle Billy. "Gen 
 tlemen, the rest of the comedy will be played 
 out at the Montmorency Street Police Station. 
 Reserved seats are waiting for us. Follow 
 me." 
 
 You can say anything you like, but it s a 
 pretty fine thing to be in right with the police. 
 You never know when you may need em, and 
 Uncle Billy certainly was an ace at the Mont 
 morency Street Station. We went in by the 
 side door and were shown into a little narrow 
 room with a lot of chairs in it, just like a mov 
 ing-picture theatre, except that instead of a 
 curtain at the far end there was a tall Japan 
 ese screen. What was more, most of the chairs 
 were occupied. Every member of the Old 
 Guard ball club was there, and so was Al Jor- 
 genson and Lije, the rubber. 
 
 "Boys," says Uncle Billy, "we are about to 
 [232]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 have the last act of the thrilling drama entitled 
 The Kidder Kidded, or The Old Guard s Re 
 venge. The first and second acts went off fine. 
 Be as quiet as you can and don t laugh until 
 the blow-off. Not a whisper not a sound 
 s-s-sh! They re bringing him in now!" 
 
 There was a scuffling of feet and a scraping 
 of chair-legs on the other side of the screen. 
 We couldn t see O Connor and he couldn t see 
 us, but we could hear every word he said. He 
 was still trying to explain matters. 
 
 "But I tell you," says Tom, "I had a date 
 with her." 
 
 "Yeh," says a gruff voice, "she acted like 
 it! Don t tell us your troubles. Tell em to 
 Captain Murray. Here he comes now." 
 
 A door opened and closed and another voice 
 cut in: 
 
 "Well, boys, what luck?" 
 
 "We got one, cap," says the gruff party. 
 "Caught him with the goods on " 
 
 "It s all a mistake, sir captain!" Tom 
 breaks in. "I give you my word of honour 
 as a gentleman 
 
 "Shut up!" says Captain Murray. "Your 
 word of honour as a gentleman! That s rich, 
 that is ! You keep your trap closed for the 
 present understand! Now, boys, where did 
 you get him?" 
 
 "At the stage door of the Royal Theatre," 
 says the plain-clothes man, who did the talking 
 for the two who made the pinch. "Duffy and 
 me, we saw this bird kind of slinking round, 
 
 [233]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 and we remembered that order about bringing 
 in all mashers, so we watched him. A girl 
 came out of the stage door and he braced her. 
 She hollered for help and we grabbed him. 
 Oh, there ain t any question about it, cap; 
 we ve got him dead to rights. We don t even 
 need the woman s testimony." 
 
 "Good work, boys!" says the captain. 
 "We ll make an example of this guy!" 
 
 "Captain," says Tom, "listen to reason! I 
 tell you this girl was flirting with me all 
 through the show 
 
 "That s what they all say! If she was flirt 
 ing with you, why did she make a holler when 
 you braced her?" 
 
 "I I don t know," says Tom. "Maybe she 
 didn t recognise me." 
 
 "No, I ll bet she didn t!" 
 
 "But, captain, I sent her my card and she 
 sent back word 
 
 "Oh, shut up! What s your name?" Mur 
 ray shot that one at him quick and Tom took 
 a good long time to answer it. 
 
 "Smith," says he at last. "John Smith." 
 That raised a laugh on the other side of the 
 screen. 
 
 "Well," says the captain, "unless we can 
 get him identified he can do his bit on the rock 
 pile under the name of Smith as well as any 
 other, eh, boys?" 
 
 "Sure thing!" said the plain-clothes men. 
 
 "The rock pile!" says Tom. 
 
 "That s what I said rock pile! Kind of 
 [234]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 scares you, don t it? There won t be any bail 
 for you to jump or any fine for you to pay. 
 We ve had a lot of complaints about mashers 
 lately and some squeals in the newspapers. 
 You ll be made an example of. Chickens are 
 protected by the game laws of this state, and 
 it s time some of the lady-killers found it out." 
 
 Tom began to plead, but he might just as 
 well have kept quiet. They whirled in and 
 gave him the third degree asked him what he 
 had been pinched for the last time and a whole 
 lot of stuff. We expected he d tell his name 
 and send for Uncle Billy to get him out, but 
 for some reason or other he fought shy of that. 
 We couldn t understand his play at first, but 
 we knew why soon enough. The door back of 
 the screen opened again. 
 
 "Cap n," says a strange voice, " there s 
 some newspaper men here." 
 
 Well, that was all a stall, of course. We 
 didn t let the newspaper men in on it because 
 we wanted them for a whip to hold over Tom s 
 head in the future. 
 
 "What do they want?" asks Murray. 
 
 "They re after this masher story," says the 
 stranger. "I don t know who tipped it off to 
 em, but they ve seen the woman and got a 
 statement from her. She says she thinks this 
 fellow is a baseball player." 
 
 "I wouldn t care if he was the president of 
 the League!" says the captain. "You know 
 the orders we got to break up mashing and 
 bring em in, no matter who they are. Here 
 
 [235]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 we ve got one of em dead to rights; and it s 
 the rock pile for him, you can bet your life 
 on it!" 
 
 "And serve him right," says the stranger. 
 "But, cap n, wouldn t it be a good thing to 
 identify him? These newspapermen say they 
 know all the ballplayers. Shall we have em 
 in to give him the once-over?" 
 
 "I ll send for em in a minute," says 
 Murray. 
 
 That was the shot that brought Tom off his 
 perch with a yell. 
 
 "Captain," he begs, "anything but that! 
 I d rather you sent me up for six months yes, 
 or shot me! If this gets into the papers 
 it ll -! Oh, say, if you have any heart at 
 all please please Oh, you don t under 
 stand!" 
 
 We didn t understand either, but Tom made 
 it plain. I m not going to write all he said; 
 it made my face burn to sit there and listen to 
 it. It took all the fun out of the joke for me. 
 It seems that this rough kidder this practical 
 joker who never cared a rap how much he hurt 
 anybody else s feelings had some pretty ten 
 der feelings of his own. He opened up his 
 heart and told that police captain something 
 that he never had told us told him about the 
 little girl back in the home town who was wait 
 ing for him, and how she wouldn t ever be able 
 to hold up her head again if the story got into 
 the papers and he was disgraced. 
 
 "It ain t for me, captain," he begs; "it s for 
 [236]
 
 HIS OWN STUFF 
 
 her. You wouldn t want her shamed just be 
 cause I ve acted like a fool, would you? Think 
 what it means to the girl, captain! Oh, if 
 there s anything you can do 
 
 Uncle Billy beat me to it. I was already on 
 my feet when he took two jumps and knocked 
 the screen flat on the floor. 
 
 " That s enough!" says Uncle Billy. We 
 had planned to give Tom the horse-laugh when 
 the screen came down, but somehow none of us 
 could laugh just then. If I live to be as old 
 as Hans Wagner I ll never forget the ex 
 pression on Tom O Connor s face as he blinked 
 across the room and saw us all sitting there, 
 like an audience in a theatre. 
 
 "Tom," says Uncle Billy, "I m sorry, but 
 this is what always happens with a practical 
 joke. It starts out to be funny, but it gets 
 away from you and then the first thing you 
 know somebody is hurt. You ve had a lot of 
 fun with this ball club, my boy, and some of it 
 was pretty rough fun, but I guess we ll all 
 agree to call it square." 
 
 Tom got on his feet, shaking a little and 
 white to the lips. He couldn t seem to find his 
 voice for a minute and he ran his fingers across 
 his mouth before he spoke. 
 
 "Is is this a joke?" says he. 
 
 "It started out to be," says Uncle Billy. 
 "I m sorry." 
 
 Tom didn t say another word and he didn t 
 look at any of us. He went out of the room 
 alone and left us there. I wanted to go after 
 
 [237]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 him and tell him not to take it so hard; but I 
 thought of the way he had shamed Al Jorgen- 
 son, I thought of the girl who wouldn t even 
 speak to Holliday again, I thought of the four 
 kids who went home broken-hearted, all on 
 Tom s account and I changed my mind. It 
 was a bitter dose, but I decided not to sweeten 
 it any for him. 
 
 Tom O Connor isn t funny any more, and I 
 think he is slowly making up his mind that 
 we re not such a bad outfit after all. To this 
 day the mention of the name of Smith makes 
 him blush, so I guess that in spite of the fact 
 that he s never opened his mouth about it since, 
 he hasn t forgotten what his own stuff feels 
 like. 
 
 [238]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 I NEVER even knew that Chick Dorsey had 
 a sister-in-law until just before we left for 
 the last Western trip. 
 
 "Chief," he says, "my wife s sister has 
 wished herself on to me for a while and I can t 
 do a thing about it. She has got some sort of 
 a bug about seeing America first, whatever that 
 means, and she thinks that travelling with a 
 ball club would help. How about it? Can she 
 make the Western trip with us?" 
 "Why, sure!" 
 
 That was what I said. Any manager would 
 have done the same. An ounce of prevention 
 is worth a ton of argument in the clubhouse 
 afterward. A stitch in time sews up the game. 
 Look before you leap and then use the hook 
 slide. Those are proverbs and supposed to be 
 full of wisdom. A post-mortem is full of wis 
 dom too ; but the patient is always dead by that 
 time. 
 
 It s my bet that proverbs were invented by 
 some charley-horsed old infielder who couldn t 
 play the game any more himself, but sat round 
 back of third base telling the boys what they 
 should have done. Any fool can do that if he 
 [239]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 waits long enough for the returns to come in. 
 Proverbs may be all right; but what I claim 
 is that there ain t ever any real news in em 
 at least nothing that you didn t know before or 
 couldn t have guessed if you had only taken 
 time to study the proposition. I answered right 
 off the bat. 
 
 1 Why, sure!" just like that. 
 
 I m not trying to alibi myself before we start, 
 but it ought to be understood that I draw my 
 pay check for managing a ball club. I dare any 
 body to find a line in my contract that says I 
 have to be a fortune teller on the side ! 
 
 And here s another point: All the women 
 that ever travelled with the club before Chick s 
 sister-in-law came along were married and sort 
 of partial to their husbands not that I m 
 prejudiced against women. I like em fine and 
 always did especially when they re married to 
 some one else and reconciled to it. I never took 
 a chance in the Big Lottery myself, but mar 
 riage as an institution for other folks is all 
 right. I m a strong booster for it. 
 
 Speaking as the skipper of a ball club, I d 
 rather have married players than single ones, 
 provided they ve got over the googoo stage and 
 don t hold hands in public. I like to have the 
 boys take their wives with em on the road, be 
 cause having the womenfolks along saves me a 
 lot of sleep that otherwise I wouldn t get. 
 
 You may not know it, but when a team is 
 travelling the manager has to be a sort of a 
 cross between a night watchman and a house 
 [240]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 detective. Ballplayers are mostly young and 
 full of life and devilment; and if the manager 
 doesn t watch em close they ll be doing their 
 playing on a green table and their sleeping on 
 the bases. I m no fussy old hen, but I do like 
 to know what time the boys turn in at night and 
 how much table-stakes poker is being pulled off 
 with blankets over the transoms and the kind 
 of chips that don t make any noise. 
 
 It was different when I broke into the Big 
 League. In those days every club was a joy 
 club and a keg of beer after the game was the 
 usual thing. Sometimes we had one before. 
 The pace is faster now; there s more competi 
 tion and more new blood, and the man who 
 won t take reasonable care of himself goes back 
 to the minors. 
 
 Getting back to the woman question you 
 can see that having them along divides up the 
 detective work and helps to keep the men in 
 line. I know some ballplayers who don t care 
 a hoot for Ban Johnson or the National Com- 
 mish; but they wouldn t presume to talk back 
 to their wives. You bet matrimony is a good 
 thing! 
 
 I can see now that I should have done some 
 thinking when Chick put the proposition up to 
 me; but, even if I had, I don t know that it 
 would have made any difference. She was Mrs. 
 Dorsey s sister, and Chick s wife is a quiet 
 little soul with spectacles and freckles. Her 
 idea of a pleasant afternoon is to get a lapful 
 of Chick s socks and darn em. You naturally 
 
 [241]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 expect sisters to have some sort of a family 
 resemblance, don t you? 
 
 There s one fine thing about marriage the 
 law ties a woman up so that she can only in 
 fluence one man at a time. An unmarried 
 woman ain t limited by the law or anything 
 else. She scatters her hits all over the field 
 and you never know where to play for her or 
 whether to play for her at all. 
 
 Somebody ought to turn that into a proverb. 
 
 When we packed up for that last Western 
 trip we were as full of brotherly love as a 
 campmeeting. A ball club is like a big family, 
 and if it s a happy family so much the better 
 for everybody; because when a family starts 
 to scrapping internally a common ordinary bat 
 tle among strangers ain t to be compared with 
 it for meanness. And for a real rough-and- 
 tumble slaughter-house rules and no holds 
 barred set a pair of brothers to mixing it. 
 They don t seem to care what they do to each 
 other and that comes from being too well 
 acquainted. 
 
 Men who eat and work and travel in the 
 same Pullman car for a few seasons usually 
 wind up liking each other a whole lot or not 
 at all. As a general proposition it isn t best 
 to get too intimate with a man if you want to 
 think well of him; but I ve got a Golden Rule 
 that I hammer into the recruits as fast as they 
 join and it works too : "You keep off the other 
 fellow s corns and he ll leave yours alone!" 
 
 [242]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 Any chump can find a man s sore spots. Know 
 ing that they re there and then keeping off of 
 em that s the true secret of friendship. 
 
 Well, as I said, we packed up, happy as a 
 lot of canary birds. We had good reason to 
 be. For the first time in several seasons it 
 looked like our year to win. We had only to 
 hold our lead to split up that nice fat World s 
 Series check. For two seasons we had finished 
 in third place, behind the Blues and the Pink 
 Sox. The other teams hadn t been able to 
 trouble us much; but the Blue and the Pinks 
 had a trifle too much class for us luck, we 
 called it at the time ; but it was really class. 
 
 This season the Blue pitching staff was in a 
 bad way with sore arms, and the Pink infield 
 was shot as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, in 
 addition to the team being shy a first-string 
 catcher. A ball club is like a machine it will 
 run at top speed for just about so long and 
 then the parts wear out and have to be replaced. 
 The Pinks and the Blues were veteran outfits, 
 overdue for a slump. They began to slip in 
 June, we caught them in July, and by the end 
 of August we had what looked like a safe lead. 
 The boys had even been pricing runabouts. 
 They didn t even knock wood when they did 
 it, either, which shows how sure they felt of 
 that World s Series money. 
 
 We left for the West on a night train. I 
 stayed at the gate until most of the boys got 
 aboard, and when I hoisted myself into the 
 Pullman there was a poker party in one cor- 
 
 [243]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 ner, a crap game going in the smoking com 
 partment, and the married men were playing 
 bridge with their wives. It had all the ear 
 marks of a pleasant evening. 
 
 I looked in at the smoking compartment to 
 make sure that the boys weren t rolling the 
 bones too high. You can set a limit on a poker 
 game, but craps is liable to get away from you. 
 
 Fatty Cutts, the catcher, was wedged into the 
 corner seat, where he could see out. " Hello," 
 says he. "As I live, here comes Chick and Mrs. 
 Chick and a chicken." 
 
 "Whadd ye mean a chicken?" asks Billy 
 Eunkle, climbing all over the bunch to get a 
 peek outside. "You re no judge of poultry, 
 you big, fat dub ! That ain t no chicken that s 
 a bird!" 
 
 "A bird of paradise!" says Artie MacVicar, 
 the right fielder, with his nose flattened against 
 the glass. "And what s more she s going to 
 fly with us. The porter is helping her into this 
 car." 
 
 "No such luck!" says Billy Eunkle. 
 
 Well, you know, until then Chick s sister-in- 
 law had completely slipped my mind. I hadn t 
 given her a thought. 
 
 "That s Mrs. Dorsey s sister," I says. 
 "She s going to make the Western trip with 
 the club." 
 
 Fatty Cutts got up and threw his cigar away. 
 "Let me out of here!" he said. "The air is 
 
 frightful!" 
 
 "Anybody who wants my seat can have it," 
 [244]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 says Artie MacVicar, pulling down his sleeves 
 so that his diamond cuff buttons would show. 
 
 "This game is only fit for stable hands any 
 way, says Billy Runkle, and out he went after 
 the other two. 
 
 "That s right!" growls Sam Horgan, who 
 was down on the floor with the dice. "Quit 
 while you re ahead, you cheap skates! Any 
 more ladykillers in the party? . . . All right! 
 Get your dough down. I m coming out again." 
 
 Naturally I wanted to see the cause of all 
 this excitement. The first thing I noticed was 
 that the poker game had struck a snag. The 
 hands were lying dead on the table; two or 
 three of the boys were looking down the aisle 
 and the others had their heads together. 
 
 "Say, chief, for Heaven s sake who is she?" 
 Four of em asked me the same question. 
 
 "She who!" I wanted to hear what they d 
 say. 
 
 "Why, the queen with Chick and his wife," 
 says Ben Maddox, the first baseman. "Haven t 
 you seen her?" 
 
 I shook my head. I d only seen the top of 
 her hat. 
 
 "Well," says Ben, "slip down to the other 
 end of the car and give your eyes a treatment. 
 The idea of a beautiful doll like that being seen 
 with a lop-eared, sawed-off married man like 
 Chick Dorsey!" 
 
 "Easy! Easy!" I says. "That ain t no 
 doll; that s Chick s sister-in-law." 
 
 Ben pushed his stack across to Wheatley 
 [245]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 who was banking. "Here, Sliver," he says, 
 "cash me in!" 
 
 "And me!" says George Steck. 
 
 "I ll cash myself in first," says Sliver. 
 
 This is the place where I ought to hunt up 
 a dictionary and smoke out words enough to 
 tell you what that girl looked like. I ought to, 
 but I won t. It couldn t be done not even by 
 the man who invented language. I can only 
 give you a few specifications to work on: She 
 was tall, with yellow hair and blue eyes the 
 sort of a blonde that can make a man forget 
 that he s always been partial to small brunettes. 
 As for the rest of it, write your own ticket ; you 
 can t go too far. Eemember what she did to 
 the poker and crap games some of em losers 
 at that ! 
 
 Irma Lacey that was her name. Chick in 
 troduced her to everybody as fast as he could 
 get round to it, and before the train was out 
 of the railroad yards there was a mass meet 
 ing at her end of the car. Fatty Cutts he al 
 ways did have the nerve of a burglar was 
 planted in the seat beside her and a derrick 
 wouldn t have budged him. Artie Mac Vicar 
 was sitting opposite, with Mrs. Dorsey, talking 
 a blue streak. Maddox, Steck and Eunkle were 
 hanging over from the section behind. Ed Kil 
 mer, Butch Willard and Mike Green had the 
 section in front. Sliver Wheatley had the aisle 
 completely blocked with his long legs and the 
 others were as close as they could get. 
 
 It was Miss Lacey this and Miss Lacey that 
 [246]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 all over the place, and she was right there with 
 the smile and the quick comeback for every 
 thing. And her laugh ! That girl could wrinkle 
 up her nose and shut her eyes and make a noise 
 that would convince any man that he was a 
 born comedian. She sprang it once on Fatty 
 Cutts and he immediately started to tell her 
 all his stale old minstrel jokes that we ve lis 
 tened to for years. He d have fed her the 
 entire monologue if we hadn t choked him off. 
 
 "Do you know," says she, "I m ashamed to 
 confess it in such company, but really I don t 
 understand the first thing about baseball! 
 Shocking, isn t it! But I think I can learn. 
 You ll all be patient and teach me, won t you? * 
 
 Well, you should have heard the chorus! 
 About a dozen spoke for the job. 
 
 "I am one of the best little teachers in the 
 world," said Fatty Cutts. "If there is any 
 thing you want to know, Miss Lacey 
 
 "Huh!" says Artie MacVicar. "Tell her 
 about the time you thought there were three 
 out and threw the ball away." 
 
 "Yes, please do!" says the girl. 
 
 Now if there is anything that will get a rise 
 out of Fatty it s mention of that incident. I ve 
 seen Cutts climb into the grandstand after a 
 fan for just yelling: "Oh, Fat! How many 
 out?" Everybody makes at least one frightful 
 bone play that he hates to have thrown up to 
 him and this one was Cutts prize bloomer. He 
 looked at MacVicar a long time, and I could see 
 his neck swelling and his wattles turning pink. 
 
 [247]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Oh, all right!" he says at last in a kind of 
 a sneering tone. "I m game! I ll tell it if 
 little Arthur here will tell about the time he 
 started in to chase the bush-league umpire off 
 the field and found out afterward that he 
 was the amateur middle-weight champion of 
 Texas." 
 
 "Oh, how interesting!" says Miss Lacey. 
 "And did you chase the man, Mr. MacVicarf " 
 
 Everybody laughed and Artie began to splut 
 ter like a man usually does when he has his 
 own medicine handed back to him; for nobody 
 takes a kidding harder than a kidder. There 
 was the makings of a fine little fuss when Sliver 
 Wheatley cut in. Sliver has a good head on his 
 shoulders and sometimes he uses it. 
 
 "It s a lovely evening, Miss Lacey," says 
 he. "Suppose we go out on the observation 
 platform for a while?" 
 
 Miss Lacey said she would be delighted and 
 there was a stampede for the tail end of the 
 train. In half a minute the car was all but 
 deserted, except for the married people and the 
 crap shooters. Mrs. Dorsey went along with 
 the bunch as a chaperon, I guess. 
 
 I drifted out that way myself along about 
 ten o clock and what do you think they were 
 doing? Singing, every last one of em! And 
 Sweet Adeline at that! They were piled up 
 round that girl three deep, with the overflow 
 roosting on the guardrail. The barber-shop 
 minors sort of disgusted me and I went back to 
 the car. 
 
 [248]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 Bob Aiken s wife stopped me in the aisle. 
 
 1 I see you re carrying some excess baggage 
 this trip," says she. Somehow a woman seems 
 to think that she can take the curse off a mean 
 remark by smiling when she makes it. A man 
 crosses his fingers, but a woman smiles. 
 
 "Oh," I says, "I don t know as I would put 
 the accent on the baggage." 
 
 "Did I?" says she. "Well, maybe I should 
 have said perishable freight." 
 
 "Maybe so; but quite a looker!" 
 
 I couldn t help shooting that one at her. She 
 had a face that wouldn t get her much in a 
 beauty show. 
 
 "Ye-es" like it hurt her to admit it "but 
 only in a stagy sort of way. You look out, 
 chief! There s such a thing as a girl s being 
 too popular." 
 
 "That s right!" I says. "Better keep an 
 eye on Bob! He s out there singing second 
 tenor." 
 
 * You keep an eye on your ball club ! 
 
 And this time she forgot to smile. So did I 
 later. 
 
 The next morning the men s dressing room 
 was all cluttered up with conversation, clean 
 shirts, safety razors and talcum powder. I 
 never saw such a wholesale dolling-up in my 
 life. Artie MacVicar had his clothes pressed 
 over night and spent half an hour warming up 
 his entire string of neckties before he found 
 one that suited him. All the diamond stickpins 
 were fished out of the pocketbooks every big 
 
 [249]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 leaguer has got at least one of those things 
 and Sliver Wheatley put on both his rings. 
 Maddox and Runkle nearly had a battle over 
 which one of em should take Miss Lacey to 
 breakfast. They might have saved a lot of 
 breath because George Steck beat em to it. 
 
 Fresh mushrooms on toast that s what he 
 bought for her; and they re my notion of noth 
 ing whatever in the way of breakfast food, but 
 I suppose George felt it was up to him to show 
 that he was no penny-pincher. She looked just 
 as good in the daylight as she did the night 
 before, which is a test that stops a lot of em. 
 I met Dorsey and his wife coming out of the 
 dining car. 
 
 " Pretty easy for me!" says Chick with a 
 wink. "I thought I was going to be set back 
 a few bones for extra meals, but it seems I m 
 going to have cooperation eh? What?" 
 
 " Ain t you ashamed to talk that way!" says 
 Mrs. Dorsey, giving him a slap on the arm. 
 "Irma can t help it if she s attractive. You 
 used to think that I " 
 
 "And I do yet, old lady!" says Chick. 
 
 I was glad he choked her off. If I was a 
 married man I d hate to have my wife rake 
 up all the mushy things I said in my courting 
 days. Women always do it, and I never saw a 
 husband yet that could stand it without getting 
 red. 
 
 Well, after breakfast it was the same thing 
 over again, only more so. If George thought 
 he was buying a monopoly along with those 
 
 [250]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 mushrooms he had another think coming. They 
 flocked round that girl s section like flies and 
 some chump proposed a penny-ante poker game. 
 She didn t know poker either which made her 
 ignorant of two of the most national pastimes 
 there are but that didn t make much differ 
 ence. She had six or eight confidential advisers 
 looking over her shoulder and telling her what 
 to do after taking a peek at the other fellows 
 hands. 
 
 It wasn t poker and it wasn t exactly petty 
 larceny, but it had elements of both. She won 
 seven dollars and forty cents on a ten-cent 
 limit, mind you and she would have had more 
 if the game hadn t broken up. "Better and 
 better!" said Chick to me. "If they teach her 
 many more games I ll make her pay her own 
 transportation." 
 
 I ve read somewhere that the way of a man 
 with a maid is queer. Maybe it is ; but for the 
 pure quill in queerness it ain t one-two-three 
 with the way of a maid and a dozen men. 
 
 I will say for Miss Irma that she didn t play 
 any favourites. There were no handicap men ; 
 every fellow started at scratch and went as 
 fast and as far as he could. They all looked 
 alike to her even grouchy old Sam Horgan, 
 who wouldn t pay any attention to her for a 
 day or two, but busted into the race like a stake 
 horse when he did start. 
 
 At first I had a notion that I could pick the 
 winner. She went to the theatre with Artie 
 
 [251]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 MacVicar. Artie is a smooth and willing 
 worker, and he s loaded with the sort of talk 
 that seems to make a hit with women. I 
 thought he would have the inside track, but the 
 next night she went to a bowling match with 
 Billy Runkle. In between she had lunches with 
 Sliver Wheatley and Ben Maddox. Fatty Cutts 
 took her to the park the first day we played, 
 but Butch Willard brought her back to the 
 hotel; and she seemed just as happy with 
 George Steck and Ed Kilmer as with the others. 
 I gave it up. Her system was too complicated 
 for me. If I had been making a book on it the 
 price would have been ten, four and two and 
 take your pick. 
 
 "Your sister," says I to Mrs. Dorsey, "has 
 made a big hit with my ball club." 
 
 "Oh, well," says she, "there s safety in 
 numbers." 
 
 "For the girl yes," Mrs. Aiken puts in; 
 "but how about the numbers?" 
 
 It was wonderful how soon the symptoms 
 of girlitis began to develop. In the first town 
 we had four games with the Grays, a weak 
 second-division outfit that had always been easy 
 picking for us. 
 
 While we were dressing for the opening game 
 Sliver Wheatley came over and told me how 
 good his arm felt ; and then along came George 
 Steck, with the same song and dance. Both of 
 em wanted to work. I must have been pretty 
 thick, because I didn t tumble at first; and then 
 it hit me that they wanted to do a little grand- 
 
 [252]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 standing for the girl s benefit. That made me 
 sore and I sent Pete McCorkle in to pitch not 
 because he was married and immune, but be 
 cause it was his turn and he warmed up in good 
 shape. It just happened that the Grays had on 
 their batting clothes and in the seventh inning 
 they slammed Pete all over the lot. We lost 
 the game five to three. 
 
 1 Aha!" says Sliver on the bench. You 
 wouldn t let a good man work to-day, eh?" 
 
 "Huh!" says George Steck. "If you d been 
 in there with your morning practice pitching 
 they d a had forty runs off you by this time. 
 A good man ! Where do you get that stuff? 
 
 "Even so," Sliver comes back, "you never 
 heard me beg to be taken out because I had a 
 cramp!" 
 
 That was one right where George lived, and 
 there s no telling how far they would have gone 
 with the argument if I hadn t shut em up. I 
 don t like to hear men beefing at each other on 
 the bench. It s a bad sign. 
 
 A couple of nights afterward I got a real 
 eye-opener. I was eating a sandwich with Ben 
 Maddox in one of the wall compartments of 
 the grill room at the hotel. Billy Runkle was 
 in the next one he couldn t see us of course 
 and he was telling Miss Lacey the story of his 
 life, and not giving himself any the worst of it. 
 
 "You know, Miss Irma you won t mind if 
 I call you that? The other sounds so formal! 
 I don t have to play baseball for a living. No, 
 indeed ! My father has a big business in Day- 
 
 [253]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 ton and he wants me to come home and run it 
 for him. I play baseball for the love of the 
 sport and not because the money cuts any 
 figure. My father 
 
 Ben Maddox looked at me and we both 
 grinned. Billy s old man owns a candy store 
 about the size of a drygoods box and the only 
 time he sees Billy is in the winter when his 
 money runs out. 
 
 "This is going to be good," whispers Ben to 
 me. " Don t crab it! Let s see how far he ll 
 go." 
 
 Well, according to Billy, he was the little 
 bottle of liquid glue that was holding our ball 
 club together. Without him we wouldn t amount 
 to much. Second base was the most important 
 position on the team; and, though he didn t like 
 to talk about himself, good second basemen 
 were scarce. All the other ones in the league 
 were running for Sweeney. He raved along, 
 hurrahing for himself every little while, with 
 the girl saying: "Yes, I understand." And in 
 between he did some reverse-English boosting 
 for the other boys. 
 
 Fatty Cutts, Sliver Wheatley, Artie Mac- 
 Vicar and Ed Kilmer they all got theirs, and 
 got it good. He even told her about Spud 
 Pomeroy s divorce, and how George Steck owed 
 everybody in the world and had to borrow 
 money to last him over the winters. 
 
 "And there s Ben Maddox," says he "Ben 
 is all right. He s a fine fellow and my pal, and 
 nobody will ever call him yellow wheri I m 
 
 [254]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 round. Of course it s true that once in 
 Chicago " 
 
 He put the knife into Ben clear up to the hilt. 
 It was done in a nice sort of way, but just the 
 same I had to hold Ben in his seat. He wanted 
 to climb over and start something. 
 
 "Forget it!" I says. "Every knock is a 
 boost!" 
 
 Then I heard something that made me sit up 
 and take notice. 
 
 "Who, the chief? . . . Yes, he ain t so bad; 
 but he can t think fast enough to run a modern 
 ball club! He s too old for the job. . . . He 
 doesn t look it? Why, say, if he d wash the 
 shoeblacking out of his moustache and eye 
 brows he d look a million! Old? That poor 
 wreck was playing baseball when Cap Anson 
 was in short pants!" 
 
 Now I ask you: Was there any excuse for 
 that? I could understand why Billy was swing 
 ing the mallet on the other fellows, but why take 
 a crack at me? I hadn t been making eyes at 
 the girl. Shoeblacking! 
 
 "Easy, chief!" says Ben. "Every knock is 
 a boost!" 
 
 "It is if it ain t too personal, but there s a 
 limit to everything." 
 
 "Never mind," says Ben. "I ll get hunk 
 with Billy, see if I don t !" 
 
 He did, the very next day, but it was the ball 
 club that suffered. In the fourth inning Runkle 
 led off at bat and got a single. Ben, who fol 
 lowed him in the batting order, gave Billy the 
 
 [255]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 sign for the hit-and-run that is, he signalled 
 Billy to be moving with the pitcher s arm be 
 cause he intended to take a wallop at the next 
 ball. 
 
 In a case of the hit-and-run the man on first 
 doesn t take as long a lead as he does when 
 he tries to steal. He depends upon the batter 
 hitting the ball somewhere. If he misses the 
 runner is almost certain to be thrown out at 
 second. I was coaching off third and I saw the 
 sign given two taps on the heel of the left 
 shoe with the end of the bat. 
 
 Billy started down all right and the ball a 
 fast one cut the plate in two. Ben never even 
 took his bat from round his neck and, of course, 
 Billy was thrown out by such a wide margin 
 that it made him look foolish. 
 
 "He crossed me, chief!" says Billy as he 
 went by on his way to the bench. "The big 
 lobster gimme the sign as plain as the nose on 
 your face and then stood still on a groover. 
 What do you think of that, eh?" 
 
 I thought a lot more than I said then and 
 afterward. Ben slammed the next ball for a 
 triple and the run he tossed away cost us the 
 game because it went to extra innings, and the 
 Grays pulled out five to four. I jumped all 
 over Ben, but he denied everything said he 
 hadn t given any sign that he was only knock 
 ing the dirt out of his spikes but he didn t ex 
 plain why he hadn t taken a smash at the ball 
 when he saw Billy moving. It looked mighty 
 bad to me, for it was just the sort of thing a 
 
 [256]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 man would do if he wanted to make the other 
 fellow look cheap. 
 
 That was only the beginning of the real 
 trouble. Ben was responsible. He gave things 
 a fine running start by spilling the news that 
 Billy Eunkle had set everybody on the club in 
 bad with Miss Lacey. At first they thought 
 they d give Billy a session of the Kangaroo 
 Court, which is a little worse than simple as 
 sault and not quite so bad as murder in the 
 second degree. Then they decided that kan- 
 garooing Billy wouldn t do them any good with 
 the girl; and the third idea they got was to 
 fight fire with fire. 
 
 All the hammers came out at once and the 
 anvil chorus was a dying whisper beside the 
 knocking that came off in the next few days. 
 It was strictly a case of self-defence. Nobody 
 knew what the girl had been told about him per 
 sonally, but everybody felt sure that it was 
 something bad; and as each fellow got his 
 chance with the girl he tried to paint the other 
 fellows so black that he would look white by 
 comparison. 
 
 You ll need a long pencil to figure out how 
 many private fights that sort of thing will start. 
 I tried it once, but gave it up, not being strong 
 on multiplication. The boys weren t battling 
 for a pennant any more ; they were fighting for 
 that tall, willowy blonde, and the ball games 
 were only a sideshow for the main attrac 
 tion. 
 
 Everybody was looking sidewise at every- 
 
 [257]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 body else, and even some of the married men 
 had chips on their shoulders. If they got 
 chances to show each other up on the diamond 
 they did it, and we lost games that should have 
 been locked up in the grip before they started. 
 There was jawing in the clubhouse, crabbing on 
 the bench and beefing on the field. 
 
 Kound the hotel it was like a bear garden 
 and every bear with the earache. And, as if 
 that wasn t enough to turn my hair grey, the 
 Pink Sox took a brace and came tearing after 
 us, hand over fist. 
 
 The hammer campaign eliminated some of 
 the entries and simplified matters a little. 
 Fatty Cutts was the first to go. Then Irma quit 
 speaking to Artie MacVicar and got so she 
 couldn t see George Steck with the naked eye. 
 Sliver "Wheatley was the next to have his cue 
 set out of the game; and then Ed Kilmer and 
 Butch Willard passed away side by side. They 
 didn t know who to blame for getting em in 
 bad, so they blamed everybody. It was a lovely 
 little mess. 
 
 By-and-by it narrowed down to a hammer- 
 throwing contest among the infielders. She 
 was still on speaking terms with Ben Maddox, 
 Billy Runkle and Sam Horgan all the base 
 men. There was only one left in the infield that 
 wasn t girl-struck Chick Dorsey. It s a good 
 thing he was her brother-in-law or he d a been 
 mixed up too. 
 
 I hoped the losers would be satisfied to let 
 it go at that ; but no, sir ! Nix ! Being dropped 
 
 [258]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 out of the running seemed to make them sorer 
 than ever. 
 
 When we got to St. Louis I was a desperate 
 man. We were just half a game in front of 
 the Pinks and the ball club was all shot to 
 small pieces. Something had to be done; so I 
 took Chick Dorsey off in a corner and talked 
 to him like a Dutch uncle. 
 
 "Far be it from me," I says, "to hurt any 
 body s feelings; but you ve got eyes. You 
 know what s the matter with this ball club as 
 well as I do. Your sister-in-law has 
 
 "Now wait !" says Chick. "Is it Irma s fault 
 if these roughnecks take a shine to her? Can 
 a pretty girl help it if fellows get stuck on her? 
 And I ll swear she hasn t encouraged a single 
 one of em, chief." 
 
 "I ain t claiming she has," says I; "but 
 she s too good a listener to suit me. She s 
 encouraged a lot of knocking, that s what she s 
 done and it s got to stop. She s put this ball 
 club on the bum!" 
 
 "Even if that was so," says Chick "and I 
 don t for a minute admit it what can you do 
 about it?" 
 
 "Do?" I says. "Why, ship her home and 
 give these lunatics a chance to forget her!" 
 
 "By golly, I never thought of that!" Chick 
 says. "It might be done." 
 
 "There s ain t any might about it. It s got 
 to be done if we want any part of that World s 
 Series dough. With her out of the way these 
 fools will get back on their feet again. Keep 
 
 [259]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 her with the club another week and they ll be 
 murdering each other." 
 
 "I ll speak to my wife about it," says Chick 
 in a mild tone. 
 
 "Speak to nobody!" says I. "Buy her a 
 ticket on to-night s train. Here s your hat! 
 What s your hurry? Tell her any old lie that 
 comes handy, but get her away from this ball 
 club!" 
 
 "I ll do it if you say so," says Chick; "but I 
 still think it ain t her fault." 
 
 "Nothing was ever a woman s fault," I says, 
 "and never will be. You ought to know that. 
 Go get that ticket!" 
 
 This was early in the morning. At noon 
 Miss Irma came sailing down to lunch, and by 
 the look she gave me I saw that Chick hadn t 
 been able to think of a good convenient lie and 
 had passed the buck to the man higher up. 
 Pretty soon Mrs. Aiken came buzzing along 
 all excited and so full of talk that she couldn t 
 take time to draw a full breath. 
 
 "Isn t it too bad?" she says to me. "We re 
 going to lose our excess baggage ! Miss Lacey 
 is starting home to-night." 
 
 "You don t say so!" I looked her square 
 in the eye too. "What s the matter? Sickness 
 at home, or something?" 
 
 "That s what I can t find out. It will be an 
 awful blow to some of the boys, won t it?" 
 
 "Worse than that!" I says. "I don t know 
 how we re going to struggle along without her. 
 Awful nice little girl ! 
 
 [260]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 "Humph!" Mrs. Aiken snorted and went 
 away. 
 
 Well, of course, it was all over the hotel in 
 no time. Give a woman a piece of news and 
 trust her to peddle it. After Mrs. Aiken had 
 scattered it pretty well she went into the dining- 
 room and sat down with the Dorseys and Miss 
 Lacey looking for information, I 11 bet. 
 
 About the same time Ben Maddox came fly 
 ing in from the billiard parlour, looked all 
 over the place and then sat down in the pas 
 sageway, as close to the dining-room door as 
 he could get. Then along came Billy Runkle, 
 with a wild look in his eye. He calmed down 
 as soon as he spotted Ben, and, after trying two 
 or three chairs without finding one that suited 
 him, he camped across the way from Maddox. 
 Sam Horgan clattered in from the street, sweat 
 ing a little. Where he got the news I don t 
 know, but he looked as if he had been run 
 ning. 
 
 It was as good as a play to watch those 
 three rascals pretending to read newspapers 
 and trying to act as if they had just happened 
 to pick out the same place to sit down. A blind 
 man could have seen that each one of em 
 thought he was the only fellow who knew that 
 the girl was going away and didn t want to tip 
 it off to the others. When she came out they 
 made a rush for her. 
 
 "No, thank you!" I heard her say. "I m 
 not going to the game this afternoon. I think 
 I ll stay here at the hotel." 
 
 [261]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 They followed her to the elevator, all talking 
 at once and of course saying nothing about her 
 going away. 
 
 "Will you take dinner with me, Miss 
 Irma?" 
 
 "How about a little auto ride after the 
 game?" 
 
 "Are you going to be here all the after 
 noon?" 
 
 She waited until the elevator door was half 
 shut. 
 
 "Maybe!" 
 
 That was every word she said. It answered 
 all three questions without saying yes or no 
 to anybody and it left all three of em in a 
 position to do some guessing. That s what I 
 call generalship. If you fix it so that a man 
 can draw his own conclusions from what a 
 woman says he ll usually pick the cards he 
 needs to fill a strong hand. 
 
 "There ll be quite a race back to the hotel 
 after the game." It was Mrs. Aiken again, still 
 looking for information. 
 
 "Race for what?" says I. 
 
 "Why, to check the excess baggage!" says 
 she. "Look here, chief! You needn t pretend 
 to be so innocent." 
 
 I didn t say a word. I didn t dare to. I was 
 expecting some telegrams; so I waited at the 
 hotel until all the boys had started for the park. 
 As I was standing at the desk in came a big 
 whale of a man a square-shouldered, light- 
 haired young fellow, with a couple of suitcases 
 
 [262]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 marked: A. J. 0., S. F. About nine bellhops 
 made a run at him. He looked like money. 
 
 "Can you tell me," says he to the clerk, 
 whether Miss Irma Lacey is in her room? 
 . . . She is? Put me on the phone, please. 
 . . . Hello! . . . Yes, this is Al; I m down 
 stairs . . . just got in! . . . You ll be right 
 down? Fine!" 
 
 He turned round and snapped his fingers. 
 
 "Boy!" he says. " Call me a taxi !" 
 
 I read the riot act in the clubhouse before 
 the game. 
 
 "Here we are," I says, "just hanging in the 
 lead by an eyelash, when by rights we ought 
 to have this pennant cinched to a f are-ye-well ! 
 You haven t been beaten by better clubs or out- 
 lucked either. The games you lost were thrown 
 away because you ve been too busy fighting 
 among yourselves. You ve been using this ball 
 club as a clearing house for your troubles ; and 
 there s going to be an end to that foolishness 
 right here and now ! You dig in and play base 
 ball from now on and forget that there s any 
 thing, or anybody, on earth but just the folks 
 that we ve got to beat to get into the World s 
 Series. There ain t going to be any girl in the 
 grandstand to-day!" 
 
 Well, it worked like a charm. 
 
 At the end of the fifth inning we had em 
 licked to the tune of four to nothing. Old 
 Sliver was putting a lot of stuff on every ball 
 and working as hard as if he was pitching in a 
 World s Series. The St. Louis batters were 
 [263]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 chopping at his fast one after Fatty Cutts had 
 it folded in his mitt, and missing his slow 
 curves by six inches. Ben Maddox had made a 
 couple of healthy-looking hits; Sam Horgan 
 was cavorting round the difficult corner like a 
 two-year-old; and Billy Runkle was playing 
 second like a wild man. 
 
 In the sixth inning Maddox got his third long 
 hit a double and he had to slide to second in 
 order to make it. It was an easy hook slide. I 
 was where I could see and I ll swear that Ben 
 didn t hit anything but the dirt; but instead of 
 getting up he rolled round and groaned so loud 
 I could hear him away over back of third base. 
 I ran out to him. 
 
 "Hurt, Ben?" I says. 
 
 "I think I ve sprained my ankle," he says, 
 gritting his teeth and sucking in his breath. 
 "Get a couple of the boys to help me off the 
 field." 
 
 Billy Runkle had come over with the others 
 to have a look at Maddox. 
 
 "Get up, you big tramp!" says Billy. "You 
 ain t hurt any more than I am. Get up and 
 quit stalling!" 
 
 Ben pretended he didn t hear him. 
 
 "I can feel it swelling," says he. "I don t 
 believe I can walk. Maybe I d better be 
 carried." 
 
 Ben gave a dying-gladiator look, rolled over 
 twice, sat up and took his ankle in both hands 
 his right ankle, as I noticed. 
 
 "Let it alone !" says he, groaning louder than 
 [264]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 ever. "I ve had enough sprains to know what 
 one feels like. What I need is hot water and 
 liniment. Golly, but it hurts! Whee-ee!" 
 
 Well, what could I do? I had to give him 
 the benefit of the doubt, of course. He went off 
 the field, with one arm round the neck of the 
 negro rubber, Doctor Bones; and by the way 
 he limped he might have had anything from a 
 sprain to a compound fracture. 
 
 "Say, chief," says Sam Horgan, "wouldn t 
 it be a good thing to have Ben stay in the club 
 house until after the game? You want to see 
 how bad he s hurt, don t you?" 
 
 1 1 Huh ! says Billy Eunkle. He thinks he s 
 got a date outside of that he s all right. 
 Don t let him put one over on you, chief. 
 Make him wait in the clubhouse." 
 
 I could see their point of view. They figured 
 that Ben had stolen a march on em and was 
 going to beat em to the hotel. I didn t know 
 whether he had or not, but I made up my mind 
 that I d have a good look at that sprained ankle. 
 Eunkle and Horgan hung round me and crabbed 
 and peeved until I had to remind em of that 
 fine. They were still growling when they went 
 on the field for the seventh inning. I had to 
 put Eddie Reeves at first base in Ben s place. 
 I hated to do it because Eddie is weak on a low 
 ball and a bad throw bothers him. 
 
 Caley, the St. Louis shortstop, beat out a 
 bunt and started to steal on the first ball pitched 
 to the next batter. Caley is a streak of fire 
 on the bases, but Fatty Cutts made a perfect 
 
 [265]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 peg to second and from where I sat it looked 
 as if Billy Runkle got the ball on Caley as he 
 slid. Tom McGinn, the umpire, didn t think so. 
 He squatted and spread both hands. 
 
 The next thing I knew, Billy was jumping up 
 and down in front of McGinn and calling him 
 pet names. 
 
 "Why, you blind burglar!" yells Billy. 
 "You poor old petty-larceny crook! I had him 
 a mile a mile ! The ball was here waiting for 
 him and he slid into it ! Safe 1 You re crazy ! 
 
 McGinn backed away, shaking his head, with 
 Billy after him. Tom is a little man, but pep 
 pery an umpire who won t stand for anything 
 in the way of rough stuff on the diamond. 
 
 Every ballplayer in the league knows that to 
 lay the weight of a finger on Tom McGinn is 
 just the same as wishing himself out of the 
 game with a fine and maybe a suspension on 
 top of it. 
 
 I smelled it coming and started on the run 
 for Billy, but I was too late. He walked up to 
 McGinn and grabbed him by the collar. He 
 didn t do it like a man acting on a sudden im 
 pulse either. It was cold and deliberate, and 
 done in such a manner that McGinn couldn t 
 overlook it and right there was where the 
 light flashed on me. I could have cussed myself 
 for not seeing it before and warning Tom. 
 Billy wasn t kicking on account of the decision 
 at second base ; he was kicking to get himself 
 chased off the field. Ben had a little head-start 
 on him, but Billy had found a way to give him 
 
 [266]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 a race and he was using Tom McGinn to help 
 him do it. 
 
 Sam Horgan must have tumbled to it about 
 the same time I did. He couldn t see Billy and 
 Ben both on their way and him left out in the 
 cold; so he came tearing over and grabbed 
 Mac too. 
 
 "A little home umpiring, eh?" roars Sam. 
 Robber!" 
 
 Between em they shook that little man like 
 a woman shakes a blanket. They jounced him 
 up and down until his teeth rattled; they spun 
 him round like a dancing bear. I made a dive 
 for Horgan to drag him away, but my hand 
 slipped and struck McGinn in the face. 
 
 "You too!" he gasps. "To the clubhouse 
 all three of you!" 
 
 That was what they were waiting for. The 
 words were no sooner out of McGinn s mouth 
 than they let go of him, picked up their gloves 
 and away they went, neck and neck in a sprint 
 for the clubhouse gate. Tom stared after em 
 with his mouth open; and no wonder! 
 
 Now everybody knows that when a ballplayer 
 is ordered off the field it takes him a long time 
 to get started. First he has to talk with the 
 umpire about it. "Who, me? What for?" 
 When he finally gets it through his head that 
 he is the party the ump is after, he chucks 
 away his glove and has to walk over and pick 
 it up. 
 
 Then he heads for the bench, turning round 
 every two steps to tell the umpire something 
 
 [267]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 that has just occurred to him. On the bench 
 he has to pick out his sweater usually tries 
 on two or three before he finds the right one. 
 After that he must have a drink of water and 
 borrow a chew of tobacco and attend to a few 
 other little matters. 
 
 At last he marches off the field, slow and 
 dignified, like a pallbearer at a funeral. Hurry? 
 He wouldn t hurry for a farm. You know 
 what the old Irishwoman said: "I ll go but 
 the likes of ye can t put me out!" That s it 
 exactly. It s tradition for the ballplayer to use 
 up every second of the time the rules give him. 
 It s a kiddish trick and there s no sense in it; 
 but they were doing it when I broke into the 
 league and they ll be doing it so long as base 
 ball lasts. 
 
 "Holy cats!" says McGinn. "First time I 
 ever saw that ! Look at those birds fly ! Did 
 they want to get out of the game?" 
 
 "They did," says I, "and you gave em 
 their wish!" Hopping mad as he was, Tom 
 had to smile. 
 
 "Mac," I says, "be reasonable! I was only 
 trying to pull Horgan off and my hand slipped. 
 It did honest!" 
 
 "All right!" says McGinn. "It was an acci 
 dent if you say so. Why didn t you tip me off? 
 I wouldn t have let em out of the game. Get 
 back on the bench." 
 
 You can imagine the fix that left us in three 
 substitutes playing the infield, one shortstop 
 with a brainstorm, and the whole team a mile 
 
 [268]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 in the air! I put Lannon at second and Ed 
 Kilmer at third and prayed for luck. 
 
 Up came the St. Louis batters and began to 
 bunt the very best way to go after a nervous 
 infield. Kilmer heaved one over Reeves head 
 into right field; Lannon booted away an easy 
 chance; Sliver Wheatley got rattled and lost 
 control and in no time at all they had two 
 runs home, the bases were loaded and nobody 
 was out. 
 
 I benched Wheatley and sent Bob Aiken in, 
 but there was no stopping em ; they had us on 
 the run and they knew it. They scored seven 
 times before we got em out and we dropped 
 into second place in the percentage table with 
 a crash that jarred the entire league. 
 
 It was a savage bunch that headed for the 
 clubhouse after the agony was over final 
 score, eleven to five ! Everybody knew that 
 Sam and Billy had kicked themselves out of the 
 game on purpose and everybody knew why. 
 There was a lot of loose talk about what ought 
 to be done to em for it. In the general ex 
 citement I came near forgetting about Ben s 
 ankle. Doctor Bones reminded me. 
 
 "Good land, chief," says he, "I nevah did 
 git no chance to doctah that man s ankle none 
 a-a-at all! He comes in yere, busts into his 
 things like he s goin to a fire an beats it, sing- 
 in : Every Day ll be Sunday By and By! I 
 reckon he ain t as bad hu t as he thought. . . . 
 No, suh ! Don t ast me nuthin bout that ankle ! 
 He wouldn t lemme see it even. He says I ain t 
 
 [269]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 a reg lah practishner nohow. Mist Ho gan an 
 Mist Runkle they come boilin in and seem 
 quite peeved to fin Mist Maddox gone a ready. 
 Mist Runkle he sent me out to hire a taxi a 
 fast one an a man whut know how to drive! 
 Look to me like they s some rasmustidiousness 
 goin on round yere, chief!" 
 
 I made a beeline for the desk as soon as I 
 got to the hotel. 
 
 II Tough game to lose, chief!" says Shaun 
 Ryan, the clerk. 
 
 You bet it was!" says I. "Maddox been 
 here?" 
 
 Ryan grinned. You can t fool the Irish about 
 some things. 
 
 "All three of em got here about the same 
 time," says he. "They were looking for a 
 certain party, but she wasn t in. She went out 
 about two and hasn t come back yet. They re 
 sticking round, waiting. Maddox is in the bar, 
 Runkle is in the grill and Horgan is in the writ 
 ing-room. I m to send word to all of em the 
 minute she shows up." 
 
 I went into the bar first. Ben was there and 
 when he saw me he began to limp pitifully. 
 
 "How s the ankle, Ben?" says I. 
 
 "Pretty bad, chief," he says; "but I think 
 it ll be better to-morrow." 
 
 "I hope so," I says. "It s the first time I 
 ever saw a man slide hard enough to bung up 
 both ankles at once." 
 
 "What d ye mean both ankles at once?" 
 
 growls Ben. 
 
 [270]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 "Why," says I, "you limped with the right 
 one at the ball park, but I see the left one is 
 troubling you now. 
 
 He tried to change step, but he couldn t get 
 away with it. His face turned red as a beet 
 and he began to splutter. 
 
 "Never mind the alibi!" I says. "Save it 
 for Sweeney he s collecting em. I m not a 
 regular practitioner, Ben, but I know of a 
 remedy that cures that sort of sprains you re 
 troubled with. I m going to plaster each one 
 of your ankles with a fifty-dollar fine one hun 
 dred large iron men out of your next pay 
 check! I ll teach you to play horse with my 
 ball club!" 
 
 I called on Sam in the writing-room and 
 handed him the same dose. He couldn t think 
 of a word to say. Billy Runkle did a little 
 better. He said he thought we had a safe lead 
 or he wouldn t have done it. He never even 
 peeped about the hundred-dollar fine just 
 swallowed hard a couple of times and let it go 
 at that. As I was telling him what I thought 
 of a fellow who would throw down his ball club 
 on account of a girl, in came a bellhop. 
 
 "Mr. Ryan says Miss Lacey is here!" 
 
 Billy bolted like a shot and I trailed along 
 to see the fun. Shaun had allowed for distance 
 and handicapped em nicely; all three of em 
 arrived on the spot at the same time and then 
 backed up, looking foolish for there was the 
 girl, hanging on the arm of the big light-haired 
 chap. Both of em were smiling. 
 
 [271]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 " Introduce me to your friends, Irma," says 
 he. 
 
 * Certainly!" She stepped forward as cool 
 as a cucumber not a blush not a tremour in 
 her voice. "Gentlemen, let me present Mr. 
 Olson of San Francisco. We were married this 
 afternoon ! Dear, this is Mr. Maddox and Mr. 
 Eunkle and Mr. Horgan 
 
 Generalship again, you see! She didn t even 
 give em time to recover from the blow, for as 
 each man s name was called he had to step up 
 and make a bluff at saying something pleasant. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you, I m sure!" says Ben. 
 "A a little sudden, wasn t it?" 
 
 "How d ye do?" says Billy. "Wish you 
 luck and well, you know! Many happy re 
 turns of the day." 
 
 "Married!" says Sam. "Well, wouldn t 
 that kill you!" 
 
 "I m sure I hope not!" says the big fellow, 
 and everybody had a chance to laugh. That 
 broke the tension. 
 
 Well, you can imagine what a sensation it 
 kicked up round the hotel; but the man who 
 roared the loudest and the longest was Chick 
 Dorsey. 
 
 "Did I know about it!" says he. "I should 
 say not ! She put one over on me too. Had it 
 all framed up with this Olson party and worked 
 me for the carfare. So this is what she meant 
 by seeing America first, eh? Well, I was right 
 about one thing, chief: She never encouraged 
 any of these fellows ! 
 
 [272]
 
 EXCESS BAGGAGE 
 
 Of course Mrs. Aiken had to get busy im 
 mediately. 
 
 1 Isn t it lovely and romantic!" she says. 
 " Chief, don t you think the club ought to give 
 her a wedding present?" 
 
 "I don t know about the club," says I; "but 
 I m going to give her one no, three!" 
 
 I sent her duplicate receipts for the three 
 fines, at one hundred dollars apiece; but I 
 guess she didn t understand what they meant. 
 Maybe her husband did. 
 
 Later on I had a chance to send her a bill 
 for excess baggage amounting to $86,497.23. 
 That was the Pinks share of the World s 
 Series money, which would have been ours but 
 for Mrs. Al. J. Olson. 
 
 I ve traded Bob Aiken to the Grays just to 
 keep his wife from saying "I told you so!" 
 We ve got a happy family again; but if any 
 body else on my ball club has a sister-in-law 
 who wants to see America first she ll never 
 look at it through the windows of our Pullman. 
 From now on this outfit flies light and I ll 
 shoot the man who says Excess Baggage to me. 
 
 [273]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 THOSE dry historians, the keepers of the 
 official box score, say it cannot be done. 
 
 They will tell you that it is not baseball ; 
 
 and that the sacred rules of the same, as 
 ratified by the National Commission, may not 
 be trifled with to such an extent as to charge 
 two errors against a middle-aged man who sits 
 on the bench, chews plug tobacco and takes no 
 active part in the game. They may also call 
 attention to the physical impossibility of credit 
 ing nine men with an assist apiece upon the 
 person of a single player and no put-out regis 
 tered. 
 
 Away with these figure-mongers ! They are 
 more to be pitied than censured; and if they 
 are lacking in imagination, delicate sentiment 
 and the true spirit of romance, they owe it to 
 long association with the box score. Figures 
 are honest things, but dust dry and painfully 
 prosaic. This is the story of Shamus Kehoe 
 and the Sentimental Harps ; Shamus made the 
 errors and the Harps made the assists; and, 
 for fear the scorekeepers may miss something, 
 each point will be ticked off for their especial 
 benefit. 
 
 [274]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 Shamus Kehoe, known wherever baseballs fly 
 as Shameless Kehoe, the bench manager of the 
 brilliant ball team called the Harps, was the last 
 sturdy bulwark against what he was pleased to 
 term "the foreign ilimint in baseball." 
 
 By foreigners Shamus meant all Germans, 
 Scandinavians, Italians, native New England- 
 ers and college men. 
 
 Kehoe \vas a relic of the lively days when 
 umpires went into hiding after every game, 
 sleeping in their boots to make sure of a flying 
 start. When his playing days were over and 
 he found himself a bench manager, with a per 
 manent charley-horse in his left leg, and power 
 to act as he saw fit, he spoke his mind to Man- 
 nie Freiberger, the young owner of the club. 
 
 "It s a winnin ball team ye want, I take it!" 
 said Kehoe. 
 
 "I do that!" said Freiberger. "On paper 
 the team looks all right; but 
 
 "Ye ve said enough!" interrupted the new 
 manager sternly. "All right on paper, is it? 
 Listen Schwartz ! Olson ! Lagomarsino ! 
 Rosenbaum! Schneider! "Whitcomb! Tallia- 
 ferro! Steinmitz! That s a fine bunch av 
 bir-rds to be chasin pennants with! There 
 ain t a natural ballplayer in the lot!" 
 
 "I don t see how you figure that out," pro 
 tested the owner. "Those men are all good 
 players every one of them." 
 
 "Pinocle? Yes. Baseball? No!" 
 
 Thus in four words did Shamus Kehoe fore 
 shadow his future policy as manager. He 
 
 [275]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 stepped out into the baseball mart and traded 
 the Schneiders and the Lagomarsinos and the 
 Steinmitzes with a lavish hand, gathering 
 about him a collection of names that smote 
 pleasantly upon his ear. A camel might pass 
 through the eye of a needle with less difficulty 
 than a foreigner would experience in planting 
 his name upon Shameless Kehoe s payroll. 
 
 Other managers, lacking in sentiment and 
 proper feeling, threw down the bars to tow- 
 headed Norwegians with batting averages, 
 stolid but talented Teutons, and perfumed col 
 lege boys; but Shamus Kehoe, believing with 
 heart and soul that all the great players of his 
 tory were Irish, stood firm against the invad 
 ing horde, preserving upon his payroll the an 
 cient traditions of the national pastime. The 
 first question he asked about a recruit was often 
 the last: "What is the name av him?" 
 
 It needed three years to assemble a new ball 
 club a more difficult feat than most people 
 imagine. Big-league performers are scarce at 
 best and Kehoe s choice was restricted; but at 
 last he looked upon a finished work and told 
 Mannie Freiberger that the time had come to 
 enlarge the grandstand and bleachers. 
 
 For instance, there was the Harp outfield: 
 Aloysius Gilligan in left; John Tyrone Galle- 
 gher in centre, and Wolfe Tone Finnigan in 
 right. No one will ever know how much time, 
 money and thought were spent in collecting that 
 precious trio. Gilligan came first Shamus 
 gave two Germans and a Swede for him, and 
 
 [276]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 would have thrown in an Italian if necessary. 
 Then Gallegher was discovered upon the sand- 
 lots of Boston. Lastly, and the crowning stroke 
 of fortune, Wolfe Tone Finnigan dropped, a 
 gift from Heaven, off the back end of an ice- 
 wagon in Chicago. Finnigan was a small, 
 wizen-faced young man, who was never known 
 to miss a fly ball or an early morning mass ; and 
 in some quarters it was believed that he had 
 once entertained hopes of becoming a Christian 
 Brother. 
 
 The infield was no less a notable achieve 
 ment with Tad Costigan at first; Mixed-ale 
 Mulligan at second; little Malachy Dugan at 
 short, and Francis X. Shea at third all nat 
 ural ballplayers, as their names would indi 
 cate. 
 
 The best team is no stronger than its catch 
 ing staff. Dan l O C. O Malley; Bartholomew 
 Burke, better known as Barking Bart, and 
 Windy Jawnny O Brien these were the first, 
 second and third string catchers. 
 
 The pitchers were also handpicked, with a 
 careful eye to specifications. 
 
 4 The best pitchin staff in the world!" Ke- 
 hoe used to boast. "Hark to the names av 
 thim: Flannel Halloran; Brick Donovan; Bed 
 Timothy Tierney; Robert Immit Mclnerney; 
 Philip Casey; Black Peter P. Prenderghast, an 
 Judge Jimmy Houlihan kin to the kings av 
 Ireland. It might be stronger had we a Kelly, 
 a Sullivan or a Dooley to fall back upon; but 
 let it go at that. Show me the team av square- 
 
 [277]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 headed Swedes or downhearted Dutchmen that 
 can drive thim from the box!" 
 
 In January Shamus Kehoe received an offi 
 cial communication from Mannie Freiberger, 
 which read as follows : 
 
 My dear Mr. Kehoe: Yours of the tenth in 
 stant, in regard to reservations for yourself 
 and family at spring training camp, received 
 and contents noted. Same shall have prompt 
 attention. 
 
 Kindly arrange to give a thorough trial to 
 a recruit pitcher named Martin L. McCall, who 
 has been recommended to me. He will join 
 the team at Roseville. I have a personal in 
 terest in McCall and hope that you will be 
 able to make something out of him. Trusting 
 that yourself and family are enjoying the best 
 of health, I am 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 I. FREIBERGER. 
 
 Shamus Kehoe read the letter to his wife, 
 who had been a Miss Veronica Shaughnessy be 
 fore she decided to spend the greater part of 
 a ballplayer s paycheck. Shamus read all the 
 business letters to her and it was persistently 
 rumoured about the clubhouse that Mrs. Kehoe, 
 sitting at the last court of appeal, cast the de 
 ciding vote in many minor matters affecting the 
 team. 
 
 "That s the worst av these absentee own 
 ers!" growled Kehoe, crushing Freiberger s 
 
 [278]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 letter in his hand. "They hire a man to run 
 the ball club accordin to his own ideas an 
 fancies, and then they want to jog his elbow 
 every little while. Martin L. McCall! Where 
 did he ever tend bar? The name has the right 
 sound, but I never heard tell av him not even 
 as a bush pitcher." 
 
 " Don t be grumblin , Shamus," said Veron 
 ica. "Dear heart alive! Supposin now he d 
 asked ye to try out a pitcher named Cohen?" 
 
 "Glory!" shouted Kehoe. "Mannie is no 
 Solomon, but he knows better than that. Mar 
 tin L.? I ll bet ye, ma am, McCall s middle 
 name is Luke; an f r that he ll get his chance 
 in spite av Freiberger s pers nal interest in 
 him." 
 
 Mannie Freiberger s interest in the recruit 
 pitcher had a flavour of business about it. His 
 father, Abraham Freiberger, had extensive 
 dealings with the J. J. McCall Shoe Company, 
 of Boston, Massachusetts. Mr. J. J. McCall 
 had mentioned to Mr. A. Freiberger that his 
 son Martin, just out of college, was desirous 
 of "pitching a little professional baseball for 
 the fun of the thing." Mr. A. Freiberger 
 knew nothing whatever about the national 
 pastime save what he had been able to gather 
 from glancing over the yearly financial state 
 ment, but he was a competent business man 
 and he reflected that the McCall account was 
 a large one and worth keeping at a price. He 
 mentioned the matter to his son, Mr. I. Frei 
 berger, also a competent business man, who 
 
 [279]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 touched a button and dictated the letter to 
 Shamus Kehoe that established a benevolent 
 protectorate over the person of the unknown 
 McCall. Thus do commercial interests en 
 croach upon science and art. 
 
 In the hurry and bustle attending the South 
 ern training trip Shamus forgot all about Mr. 
 Freiberger s friend. He was more interested in 
 some sponsorless recruits a Daly, a Callahan, 
 two Murphys, and a scattering of McCaffertys, 
 Delaneys and Shanahans. He had high hopes 
 of Daly as soon as he learned that the young 
 man s first name was Ignatius. 
 
 Mr. Kehoe s immediate family also claimed 
 a share of his attention for the girls, Cor 
 nelia and Patricia, were to accompany their 
 parents. 
 
 Cornelia Kehoe, aged nineteen, was a shy, 
 dark-haired slip of a girl, in whose blue eyes 
 dwelt the romance that is born in every true 
 Irish heart. Cornelia was a dreamer, an 
 idealist a reader of romantic fiction, to whom 
 life was an adventure, an expedition into senti 
 mental byways. In Cornelia s eyes the most 
 commonplace individuals were apt to assume 
 strange disguises and noble attributes. She 
 was fond of Sir Walter Scott and Marie Corelli ; 
 and her father, who confined his reading to the 
 annual Guide, often said he wished Corney 
 would read less and eat more. Romance and 
 corned beef do not go well together. 
 
 Patricia Kehoe was a tomboy freckled- 
 faced, fifteen and frank to an amazing degree. 
 
 [280]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 Since babyhood ballplayers had been her 
 friends; they were now her idols. The one 
 great sorrow of her life was that her father 
 would not allow her to wear a uniform and sit 
 on the bench. 
 
 "Shame on ye, Patsy!" chided Kehoe. 
 "Ye re gettin to be a great big girl now, an* 
 ye must wear skirts like other females. And, 
 annyway, the bench is no place f r the young 
 an innicint. Sometimes, when we re havin 
 our troubles to beat a gang av Swede long 
 shoremen an the language is runnin high an 
 wild, I question if tis a fit place f r me." 
 
 So Patricia watched the games from the 
 grandstand, and woe to the Harp who made 
 an error for Patricia kept her own score. She 
 exulted fiercely over a victory and mourned 
 over a defeat, and Shamus Kehoe often looked 
 after her with a wistful shake of his head. 
 
 "Powers above!" he would mutter. "What 
 a shortstop she d have made if she d only 
 been a boy!" 
 
 Three days after the recruits arrived in 
 Boseville, Kehoe, sitting in the hotel lobby 
 after the day s work, gazed upon a strange 
 apparition. It took the form of a tall, thin 
 youth, clad in advertising-section clothes, which 
 gave him the appearance of having no shoul 
 ders, stomach or hips. He wore snub-nosed 
 tan shoes and a shaggy cloth hat with no more 
 than the barest suspicion of a brim somewhat 
 resembling an inverted bowl. A great deal of 
 yellow hair was pushed sternly away from his 
 
 [281]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 forehead in the general direction of the nape 
 of his neck, and about his three-inch collar was 
 a knitted scarf of a violent hue. Behind the 
 stranger staggered two bellboys, laden with 
 suitcases and satchels, to say nothing of a bag 
 of golf clubs, a lawn-tennis racquet or two and 
 a mandolin in a leather box. 
 
 "All dhressed up like a broken arm!" mur 
 mured Shamus Kehoe. "An tis plain to be 
 seen that the young man hates himself bitterly. 
 Fr m the look av him he s ayther the Duke av 
 Flatbush or the Earl av Fifth Avenay." 
 
 After the young man had inscribed his name 
 upon the hotel register and the elevator had 
 snatched him upward Kehoe strolled over to 
 the desk, seeking to gratify an idle curiosity. 
 There, upon the page, staring at him in bold, 
 round script, were these words : Martin L. Mc- 
 Call, Boston, Massachusetts. 
 
 Shamus Kehoe made noises in his throat and 
 waggled his fingers at the clerk. 
 
 "Had ye speech with this party?" he de 
 manded, placing his finger upon the signature. 
 
 "Why, no," said the clerk. "He waltzed 
 up to the desk and said he wanted the best suite 
 in the house. I gave it to him and that s all 
 there was to it. Flossy-looking boy eh!" 
 
 "Ye gave him the best in the house?" howled 
 Kehoe. " Then take it away fr m him ! Chase 
 him over in the Annex, along with the other 
 bushers ! The best in the house, says he ! Who 
 does he think he is Chris Matchewson or Ty 
 Cobb? Roust him!" 
 
 [282]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO EEROES 
 
 "I m awfully sorry," apologised the clerk. 
 "I didn t know he was one of the team." 
 
 " He ain t ! " sputtered Kehoe. * He ain t ; an 
 ye can win a swell bet f r yerself that he won t 
 never be! He s a friend av Freiberger s is 
 what he is bad luck to Mannie f r wishin him 
 on to me! But the club is payin his ixpinses 
 the little while he s here; so hump yerself an 
 evict him fr m the bridal suite before he takes 
 root an grows fast to the furniture. Poke him 
 away in a hall bedroom somewhere s an leave 
 him have McCafferty f r company. Mac s 
 grandfather come fr m Donegal, an I took a 
 dislike to that North-av-Ireland gossoon the 
 first time I laid eyes on him." 
 
 In ten minutes the clerk was back again, 
 nervous and more apologetic than ever. 
 
 "He he says he won t move." 
 
 "What s that?" shouted Shamus Kehoe. 
 "Lead me to him! I ll move him so quick twill 
 make his head swim ! 
 
 The manager of the Harps burst into Mc- 
 Call s room just as that young man was emerg 
 ing from the bathtub. Under the circumstances 
 his self-possession was remarkable. 
 
 "G wan! Get out av here!" barked Kehoe. 
 "What d ye think a trainin camp is the 
 Waldorf -Asthoriaf" 
 
 "Judging by the appearance of the best 
 rooms in the house, no, said Martin L. McCall, 
 continuing to polish his shoulders with a bath 
 towel. "And who are you? The fireman or 
 the head porter?" 
 
 [283]
 
 SCOEE BY INNINGS 
 
 Shamus choked. 
 
 "My name is Kehoe," said he with a power 
 ful effort at self-control that made the veins 
 of his neck stand out prominently. Martin L. 
 McCall whistled. Then he dropped the towel 
 and held out his hand. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Kehoe," said he. 
 "I didn t mean to be fresh; I simply didn t 
 know who you were. I apologise to you, sir, 
 for a rudeness I assure you was unintentional." 
 
 Shamus Kehoe gulped a few times and then 
 took the proffered hand which met his with a 
 quick, firm pressure. Kehoe liked men who 
 shook hands as if they meant it; and, preju 
 diced as he was, there was that about this lean, 
 trim, smiling lad which disarmed Shamus and 
 left him fumbling for w r ords. 
 
 "I understand," said McCall, "that there is 
 a question about these rooms. If you don t 
 mind I ll keep them, and I expect to pay my 
 own bills while I am here. It s like this, sir," 
 and the boy slipped into the vernacular: "I 
 may turn out to be quite a pitcher and then 
 again I may be a piece of cheese. I wouldn t 
 have the crust to ask any ball club to gamble 
 my hotel bill on the result. That s fair enough, 
 isn t it, Mr. Kehoe?" Again the brilliant 
 smile. 
 
 "Fair an well spoken," said Shamus Kehoe. 
 "Say no more about it. Twas an unfortunate 
 mistake I made. It ain t exactly customary f r 
 a bush ballplayer to have money, ye under 
 stand. I ll bid ye good evenin ." And Sha- 
 
 [284]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO EKRORS 
 
 mus went down in the elevator, shaking his 
 head in a dazed manner. 
 
 "The young diwil has a nice way with him, * 
 thought Kehoe, "and I ll bet he s a bear among 
 the women!" 
 
 Later, when the Kehoe family were at din 
 ner, Martin L. McCall made a conspicuous en 
 trance. He wore a dinner jacket of the very 
 latest cut; his waistcoat was the newest thing 
 devised by a Fifth Avenue tailor to afflict the 
 sons of men ; and from his collar to the tips of 
 his patent leathers he was groomed within an 
 inch of his life flawless. 
 
 "Oh, look, ma!" said Patricia. "I guess 
 there s class to that!" 
 
 "Humph!" said Mrs. Kehoe. "Ain t he the 
 pretty boy, though?" 
 
 "Not handsome, but distinguished," said 
 Cornelia. "Pa, why don t you look like that 
 when you dress up?" 
 
 "The yanigans are all laughing at him," said 
 Patricia. "Why, pa, he s bowing to you!" 
 
 "So he is, Patsy," said Shamus, nodding. 
 "Ma, d ye mind the letter we had fr m Frei- 
 berger about a pitcher?" 
 
 "That s never him!" exclaimed Veronica. 
 
 " It is though, said Shamus. That s Mar 
 tin L. McCall." 
 
 "Is he a ballplayer, pa?" demanded Patricia. 
 
 "The jury is still out," said Mr. Kehoe 
 drily. "He blew in this evenin like a min- 
 sthrel parade, with a tennis bat, some golfin 
 tools an a mandoleen. I d say the evidence 
 
 [285]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 was all ag in him bein a ballplayer; but ye 
 never can tell, Patsy. He says himself he 
 dunno if he is or not." 
 
 "Oh, pa!" squealed Patricia. "Introduce 
 him to us ! " 
 
 "Yes, do!" said Cornelia. "I love a man 
 dolin!" 
 
 "In good time," grunted the father. "Leave 
 me finish my dinner in peace." 
 
 "It must be that some of the Irish have 
 money!" sighed Mrs. Kehoe. 
 
 After dinner Mr. McCall was presented to 
 the Kehoe family, and the hit he made was 
 instantaneous. He talked well, but not too 
 much. He told some good stories of college 
 life, spoke understandingly of baseball and 
 other sports and pastimes, and actually elicited 
 a promise from Shamus to take a trip round 
 the links some morning. 
 
 When Mrs. Kehoe insisted that Cornelia dis 
 play her talent for music, McCall complimented 
 her highly upon her rendition of Silvery 
 Waves; then qualified as a critic by playing 
 the piano a bit himself, and singing a stein 
 song in a very fair barytone voice. 
 
 Just before sleep claimed her that evening, 
 Patricia summed up her first impression of the 
 charming stranger. 
 
 "He s the real thing, Corney!" she said 
 drowsily. "And did you notice how he called 
 me Miss Patricia? These rough-neck ball 
 players have got to quit this Pat and Paddy 
 business. I won t stand for it!" 
 
 [286]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 In the other room Shanms and his wife were 
 also discussing the latest addition to the yani- 
 gan squad. 
 
 "He has lovely manners," said Veronica; 
 "and, annyway, tis nbthin against the boy 
 that he has been to college." 
 
 "Well," said Kehoe with a yawn, "he ain t 
 a tenor singer. That counts him nine points 
 right off the reel!" 
 
 On the next day, which was Friday, rain fell 
 and the ballplayers were kept indoors. McCall 
 appeared in a complete change of costume and 
 spent most of his time getting acquainted with 
 the other recruits. The McCaffertys and the 
 Murphys and the Dalys looked upon him with 
 suspicion at first, but he found his way to their 
 hearts; and before night it was Martin and 
 Denny and Mike with them all. Ignatius Daly 
 was the undisputed polo champion of the 
 squad, but McCall took him into camp with 
 ridiculous ease; and at three-cushion billiards 
 which is a grown man s game he gave Sha- 
 mus Kehoe the worst beating the veteran had 
 suffered in years. 
 
 "If ye can handle a leather ball as well as 
 ye can an ivory wan, said Kehoe, there 11 be 
 nothing to it at all." 
 
 That evening, as a special mark of esteem, 
 McCall was invited to dine with the Kehoes; 
 and in honour of the occasion he put on what 
 Patricia called "the soup and fish" and Sha- 
 mus referred to as a "full-dhress suit." 
 
 The Kehoes ordered fish; but there was an 
 [287]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 embarrassing pause when McCall made his 
 selection. Shamus looked at Veronica. 
 
 "Ye said beefsteak, did ye not!" inquired 
 Kehoe at last in the same tone he would have 
 used in asking the boy whether it was true he 
 had robbed a bank or burned down an orphan 
 asylum. 
 
 "A tenderloin rare, please," said McCall. 
 
 "An to-day Friday!" whispered Veronica. 
 "Dear, dear!" 
 
 Thereafter the burden of the conversation 
 fell upon young shoulders, but Kehoe recovered 
 sufficiently to ask a question or two. 
 
 "Ye have a middle initial," said he. "Not 
 to be inquisitive but would the L stand for 
 Luke!" 
 
 " No, " said McCall. It stands for Luther. 
 
 "Mar-rtin Luther!" breathed Kehoe softly, 
 and spoke no more. 
 
 "McCall is an Irish name," suggested Ve 
 ronica, stepping upon Shamus foot to bring 
 him out of his trance. 
 
 " It s Scotch too, said McCall. * My people 
 have been in this country for over two hundred 
 years ; but they came originally from Scotland, 
 I believe." 
 
 "Presbyterian!" asked Veronica, willing to 
 know the worst. 
 
 "Yes, ma am," said Martin. 
 
 After the young people had gone into the 
 music room Kehoe found his tongue. 
 
 "Ah, be aisy!" said the charitable Veronica. 
 "Dear heart alive, tis not the lad s fault at 
 
 [288]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO EKROKS 
 
 all! Could he help it if they brought him up 
 wrong?" 
 
 "Martin Luther!" groaned Kehoe. " Tis 
 enough to jinx the club these ten years to come. 
 An I made certain his middle name would be 
 Luke!"* 
 
 m 
 
 Martin Luther McCall set about conditioning 
 his pitching arm with exquisite deliberation. 
 No ten-thousand-dollar-a-year star ever sub 
 jected a lame "wing" to a more leisurely 
 course of training. Concerning his pitching 
 ability there were varying opinions, but every 
 one agreed upon one point he dressed the part 
 to perfection. The other recruits appeared in 
 stained and disreputable garments the cast- 
 off gear of many a minor league; but the uni 
 form Martin Luther brought with him was new 
 and it bore the evidences of careful tailoring. 
 It was a neat affair of the softest white flannel, 
 with a tiny crimson stripe running through it. 
 His stockings, cap and belt were of solid crim 
 son, as was his sweater which bore a great 
 white letter upon the breast. His shoes were 
 the best that money could buy and he drew 
 them snugly about his slim ankles with broad 
 silk laces. 
 
 When Martin Luther took the field there was 
 a noticeable flutter in the grandstand, where 
 
 * Note to the scorekeepers Give Kehoe an error on 
 McCall s middle initial. 
 
 [289]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 the young women of Eoseville congregated 
 daily to watch the antics of the embryo big 
 leaguers. It was noticed and commented upon 
 that Martin did most of his warming up as 
 close to the grandstand as possible, and every 
 move he made was a picture. 
 
 Shamus Kehoe watched McCall for the first 
 few days and thereafter ignored him com 
 pletely during working hours. When the other 
 yanigans were beating out bunts or diving into 
 the sliding pit, Martin Luther toiled gracefully 
 in the shade of the grandstand. He was quite 
 willing to plough through the dirt and sprint 
 to first base with the best of them, but the 
 manager seemed satisfied to worry along with 
 the Delaneys and the Dalys. 
 
 Shamus did unbend so far as to question 
 Patrick Henry O Meara, the veteran catcher, 
 whose duty it was to develop the young pitchers. 
 
 1 Has he got anything at all, Pat?" de 
 manded Shamus. 
 
 "If he has," said the gruff old fellow, " tis 
 safely concealed from me. Maybe he s holdin 
 
 back to give us a surprise ; but up to date 
 
 O Meara closed the sentence by taking his nose 
 firmly between thumb and finger. 
 
 "As bad as that?" asked Kehoe cheerfully. 
 
 "Even worse," said O Meara. "He has no 
 curves save a wandherin roundhouse thing that 
 is sad to watch, an never comes near the plate 
 but by accident. He has less conthrol than a 
 blind henna wk; an when he cuts loose wid what 
 he calls the fast wan he never knows whether 
 
 [290]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 twill go up, down or sideways. He wears rib 
 bons in his shoes an makes soft eyes at all the 
 females; an he is the grandest little grand- 
 stander since Arlie Latham s time. To-day, 
 when he should have been wor-rkin in the hot 
 sun an loosenin up that dead arm of his, he 
 was up in the last row av the shed, murmurin 
 kind words to a dizzy blonde. Outside av these 
 small failin s, Shamus, the lad is a great pitcher 
 an intirely all right in every respect. Wid 
 all his faults I love him still. I did not think 
 I would, but I do. The rascal has the instincts 
 of a gintleman." 
 
 When the regulars arrived in camp they took 
 a deep interest in Martin Luther, but were civil 
 to him because Patricia introduced him as a 
 friend and bade them behave. On the next 
 evening Bartholomew Burke, Mixed-ale Mulli 
 gan, Windy Jawnny O Brien and Francis X. 
 Shea paid a visit to Martin Luther s rooms 
 while he was absent. By way of reminding 
 him that the real ballplayers were in town they 
 rearranged the furniture to a certain extent, 
 unpacked three trunks and scattered the con 
 tents lavishly, put the golf clubs to bed in the 
 bathtub, hung the mandolin on the fire-escape 
 and departed, leaving ruin and desolation be 
 hind them. This is one of the oldest and best 
 training-camp jokes in the world. 
 
 Martin Luther went to his rooms at ten 
 o clock and the Harps waited patiently in the 
 lobby, expecting to hear from him. They were 
 disappointed. McCall worked like a beaver 
 
 [291]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 until three in the morning, restoring order and 
 collecting his effects, and thereafter he never 
 so much as breathed a word about the ex 
 perience. 
 
 This was the first test, and he passed it with 
 a rating of one hundred per cent. Had he 
 summoned bellboys to his aid his marking 
 would have been less. Had he squealed zero 
 would have been his portion. 
 
 The next night he was invited to sit in a 
 friendly little poker game with Costigan, Shea, 
 Tierney, Prendergast and O Malley all ex 
 perts of note and distinction, and recognised 
 as such from Boston to St. Louis. Martin 
 Luther played a very stiff game for one so 
 young and inexperienced, and displayed re 
 markable judgment in the values of the hands 
 he held. The evening s entertainment cost him 
 exactly eighty-five dollars and forty cents. At 
 eleven o clock he rose and stretched his arms 
 over his head. 
 
 "Some rainy day, when you fellows haven t 
 got anything to do, said he, * I wish you would 
 teach me this game. I learned something at 
 college that they told me was poker. They 
 must have been kidding me. Good night, all! 
 We bushers have to be in the hay by eleven." 
 
 "Well!" said Red Timothy Tierney as the 
 door closed behind the neophyte. 
 
 "He s there like a duck!" said four Harps, 
 speaking as one. 
 
 "He is so!" chuckled Red Timothy. "If 
 you want to know what s in a guy get him off 
 
 [292]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO EKRORS 
 
 a big loser in a poker game when the car-rds 
 are runnin agin him. Hands that a man can 
 only call on will make the best of em crab 
 sometimes. This lad never had the smile 
 wiped off his face all the evenin . He s a 
 nice loser an a dead game sport. I m for 
 him." 
 
 Thus Martin Luther passed a second acid 
 test, and after that a third and a fourth. The 
 Harps liked him; they could not help them 
 selves. They were inclined to laugh at him 
 for his too evident interest in "skirts," and 
 as a pitcher they voted him the best-dressed 
 actor in any league; but when it came to the 
 boy himself there were no dissenting votes. 
 Martin Luther was absolutely and emphatically 
 all right ! 
 
 Veronica Kehoe took a motherly interest in 
 him and found herself able at times to forget 
 his Scotch Presbyterian ancestry. Patricia 
 clung to him loyally, even after watching him 
 work for several days in itself a fine tribute 
 to a winning personality. She would not allow 
 even her father to say a word against his 
 pitching. 
 
 Cornelia was often seen in his company after 
 she learned that he thought Kenilworth was 
 the greatest novel ever written; and between 
 times he taught her to play tennis and golf and 
 gave her lessons on the mandolin. 
 
 He also won a silk hat from Shamus Kehoe 
 who claimed that no man living could drive 
 any sort of ball over the centre-field fence at 
 
 [293]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 the park a distance of almost six hundred feet. 
 Martin took a brassy and, dropping three golf 
 balls in the grass by the home plate, won the 
 bet, with yards to spare. But golf and tennis 
 do not qualify a man for the big league ; and as 
 training progressed Shamus Kehoe began to 
 weed out the least promising recruits. 
 
 "Old lady," said he one evening to the wife 
 of his bosom, "I m thinkin I should be sayin 
 something to Martin. Tis not fair to the lad 
 to be keep in him hangin on here, spendin his 
 money an wastin his time. He d much better 
 be makin shoes than monkeyin with pro 
 fessional baseball." 
 
 "Break it to him gently, dear heart," said 
 Veronica. "Remember he s as sensitive as a 
 girl." 
 
 "I will that," said Shamus. 
 
 Following out this charitable impulse Mr. 
 Kehoe found Martin Luther sitting upon the 
 porch alone, looking at the rising moon. 
 
 "Well, me boy," said Shamus, dropping into 
 a chair, "I m afraid I have bad news f r ye. 
 As a pitcher ye re an awful thing." 
 
 Martin s response to this delicate opening 
 was unexpected. "Right you are!" said he. 
 "And it s because of that I m sitting here 
 looking at the moon. I ve got the blues, Mr. 
 Kehoe and I ve got em bad!" 
 
 "Don t take it so hard, lad," said Shamus, 
 laying his big, red hand upon Martin s arm. 
 "Ballplayin is a bad business f r the best av 
 thim. A few years an ye re done. Better a 
 
 [294]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 boy should be learnin something that ll be av 
 use to him all his life." 
 
 Martin Luther laughed the hollow ghost of 
 a laugh. 
 
 "I never expected to make a business out of 
 baseball," said he. "I just wanted to see 
 whether I had the goods or not that was all. 
 I wish that was the worst of my troubles." 
 
 "Maybe I could offer ye some advice," said 
 Shamus, regarding him kindly. 
 
 "I ve had a lot to do with young men, first 
 an last; an I ve given some av thim the right 
 steer. What s eatin ye, Martin? Ye say ye re 
 grievin f r that ye re such a bad pitcher, an 
 the next minute ye say ye don t care whether 
 ye pitch or not. Tis queer talk, son." 
 
 "It s a queer situation too," said Martin 
 Luther, and lapsed into silence. 
 
 "Put all the cards on the table," said Sha 
 mus. "Ye re a good lad, an if I can help ye 
 it shall be done." 
 
 Martin Luther McCall drew a long, deep 
 breath. 
 
 "Mr. Kehoe," said he, "I m in love." 
 
 "Glory be!" ejaculated the manager. "An 
 that s the way the cat hops! I m afraid I can 
 do nothin f r ye, Martin." 
 
 "Nobody can," said the boy. "But if I was 
 a pitcher I could do something for myself." 
 
 "What s that!" demanded Shamus, taking 
 his feet from the railing and throwing away 
 his cigar. "How would pitchin have anything 
 to do with it"? I don t follow ye." 
 
 [295]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Well, it s like this," said Martin: "This 
 girl is queer." 
 
 God be good to us ! " said Shamus piously. 
 " They re all that way, Martin, lad." 
 
 "She s queer," repeated Martin. "She ad 
 mires baseball players." 
 
 "There s nothin queer about that at all," 
 said Kehoe, thinking of his younger days and 
 the lovely creature who refused a cigar drum 
 mer, an engineer and three brakemen for love 
 of a dashing shortstop. 
 
 "I mean that she s got a sort of a bug about 
 it, said Martin Luther patiently. * She makes 
 heroes out of em." 
 
 "Humph!" said Shamus. "Have I seen 
 the lady, maybe?" 
 
 "It s quite likely," said Martin Luther. 
 "She s here in town on a visit comes to the 
 ball park sometimes. When I saw how she felt 
 about ballplayers I sort of stalled along. She 
 got the idea that I was quite a pitcher and I 
 well, I didn t deny it I didn t have the nerve 
 to tell her the truth; and now it s got to the 
 point where she expects me to make good and 
 I m not there!" 
 
 "She knows little about the game, I take it," 
 said Shamus, "else ye wouldn t have got away 
 with your bluff thus far." 
 
 Martin winced. 
 
 "On the level," he asked, n am I as bad as 
 that!" 
 
 Kehoe nodded. 
 
 "Patsy has had your number fr m the first 
 [296]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 day," said he. " Tis as plain as the nose on 
 your face that ye will never be a pitcher." 
 
 Martin Luther sighed heavily. 
 
 "This girl knows the practice games begin 
 to-morrow," said he, "and she expects me to 
 go in there and pitch. If I could get away with 
 it only once only once!" 
 
 Shamus Kehoe shifted his chair and stared 
 into the boy s face incredulously. 
 
 "Ye think it would make a difference?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "All the difference in the world!" said Mar 
 tin. "But what s the use of talking about it? 
 If I went in there they d hammer me all over 
 the lot." 
 
 "Yes," said Kehoe. "They would. They 
 would so." 
 
 There was a long silence. Sentiment, the 
 birthright of the Irish, was stirring in the 
 depths of Shamus Kehoe s heart. It brought 
 his youth back to him and the memories of the 
 days when he walked with Veronica Shaugh- 
 nessy the light in her eyes. 
 
 "She s a good girl, me son?" asked Shamus 
 softly. 
 
 "So good that it seems strange she 
 should care for me at all," said Martin 
 humbly. 
 
 " Tis not like ye to be so meek," said Sha 
 mus. "What makes ye think tis love an not 
 a mere passin fancy?" 
 
 "When you met Mrs. Kehoe," countered 
 Martin Luther, "did you have to stop and ask 
 
 [297]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 yourself any questions ? You knew, didn t 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, me son I knew." For the feeling in 
 the boy s voice Shamus could have forgiven 
 him everything even his middle name, had he 
 thought of it. He thought of other things in 
 stead the moon, for instance ; and remem 
 bered that it was the same one which shone 
 down on his own lovemaking. And when an 
 Irishman stares at that calm silver face long 
 enough and recalls all that it has seen of the 
 best of him the joy and the sorrow his calm 
 judgment is apt to suffer a severe moonstroke. 
 
 "But what s the use?" mourned Martin 
 Luther. She thinks I m a great pitcher and 
 I m a piece of cheese!" 
 
 Shamus Kehoe spoke suddenly, his voice 
 thick with moonbeams and gruff with newborn 
 resolution. 
 
 "Ar-re ye game?" he demanded. "Ye 11 
 take a chance?" 
 
 "On what?" 
 
 "On the girl!" said Kehoe. "Suppose ye 
 had a chance to pitch agin the reg lars to-mor 
 row would ye be willin to try?" 
 
 "I m not afraid if that s what you mean," 
 said Martin slowly. "She ll have to know 
 sometime. Yes, I m game." 
 
 "Glory!" exclaimed Kehoe. "I ll send ye 
 in to-morrow. Six innin s is all we play the 
 first week. And, Martin?" 
 
 "What, sir?" 
 
 "Don t leave it get yer goat. Often I ve 
 [298]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 seen em this early in the season when they 
 could not hit a mess av balloons." 
 
 Long after Martin Luther had gone indoors 
 Shamus Kehoe sat on the porch and looked at 
 the moon. 
 
 "Ah, tis a grand thing to be young!" he 
 mused. "It is so! If he wins the game he 
 wins the gir-rl. God forgive me f r a sinti- 
 mintal old fool, but it runs in me mind that the 
 lad will win to-morrow, even if we have to crowd 
 the game on to him unbeknownst. Glory! All 
 me life have I been readin mushy tales about 
 the heroic young pitcher an the lovely girl in 
 the grandstand. I was almost believin there 
 wasn t anny such animal, an here I run into it 
 in real life ! . . . I wonder now, is it the 
 blonde or the wan in the red hat?" 
 
 rv 
 
 The first practice game of the season is al 
 ways more or less of a joke to the seasoned 
 veterans. Almost anything may happen that 
 early in the spring, and almost everything does ; 
 but the word Kehoe passed along to his hired 
 men convinced them there was still something 
 new under the sun. 
 
 " Tis like this, boys," Shamus said: "The 
 lad is goin back home to make shoes. He is 
 bar none the worst pitcher in the world. His 
 heart is set on winnin wan game; an , speakin 
 strictly in confidence, there is a girl tangled up 
 in it. I look to ye, as true Irishmin, to see 
 
 [299]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 that the lad gets away with it. An I ll fine the 
 man wan hundhred bones who blabs after 
 ward ! 
 
 To a man the Harps entered enthusiastically 
 into the spirit of the thing. To be ordered to 
 throw a game was a novelty and, under the 
 circumstances, a joke though Patrick Henry 
 O Meara, selected to catch for the yanigans be 
 cause of his familiarity with Martin s erratic 
 delivery, expressed grave doubts and drooled 
 pessimistically all the way from the hotel to 
 the baseball park. 
 
 "It will be no cinch, I warn ye," said that 
 honest man to Messrs. Gilligan, Finnigan and 
 Costigan. "Do not think tis a mere matter 
 of strikin out in a pinch. He will not get 
 more than seven or nine balls over the plate 
 all day. His conthrol this mor-rnin was un 
 usual wide an promiscuous. Whoever catches 
 f r ye had better heave wan to hell-an -gone 
 occasionally an let in a mess av runs. Martin 
 will need thim." 
 
 "Nix!" said Gilligan. "If we hippodrome 
 it he ll tumble an so will everybody else. It s 
 got to be a close score. Since we re out to toss 
 a game, let s do it right!" 
 
 Shamus Kehoe sat on the bench and scanned 
 the crowd in the grandstand with deep interest. 
 
 "Pickin wan girl out av that flock is a tough 
 job," said he to Francis X. Shea. "Yer eyes 
 are better than mine. Do ye see annything av 
 a nervous blonde who looks as if her future 
 happiness is thremblin in the balance!" 
 
 [300]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 Patrick Henry O Meara, catching McCall s 
 practice shoots, offered encouragement and 
 advice. 
 
 "All ye need is conthrol," said he. "Their 
 battin eyes are ba-ad, an their legs are stiff 
 an sore. Ye can beat thim by keepin the ball 
 over the plate. ConthroPll do it." 
 
 Whereupon Martin Luther proceeded to 
 heave a few that caused O Meara to groan. 
 
 Windy Jawnny O Brien was selected as um 
 pire and privately instructed to call everything 
 a strike that came within reaching distance of 
 the plate. 
 
 Kehoe gave the signal and the yanigans 
 trotted to their places alert, overanxious and 
 firmly convinced that their future careers de 
 pended upon making a favourable showing 
 against the veterans. Contrary to his custom, 
 Martin Luther did not make a theatrical en 
 trance. He was the first man on the diamond 
 pale, nervous to a pitiable degree, but plainly 
 determined to give the veterans the best that 
 was in him. If he heard the pattering of 
 gloves in the grandstand he gave no sign. 
 
 Little Malachy Dugan was first at bat. Mar 
 tin Luther, observing O Meara sign for a fast 
 ball, whirled his arm like a dervish and threw 
 the fastest one in stock. Malachy Dugan 
 leaped nimbly away from the plate; but, even 
 so, the ball grazed the tip of his nose. This 
 so unnerved Martin that, in spite of all Jawnny 
 O Brien could do, Malachy had a base on balls 
 forced upon him. 
 
 [301]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Tell him to catch me off first," whispered 
 Dugan to O Meara as he left the plate. "I ll 
 take an awful lead." 
 
 Patrick Henry strolled into the diamond, 
 mask in hand. 
 
 "F r the love av Heaven," he pleaded, 
 "more conthrol an less speed! Take y r time 
 an t row em on the side where ye see the bat 
 stickin out. Try a peg to first ; Dugan is often 
 caught napping." 
 
 Martin Luther cuddled the ball under his 
 chin ; out of the corner of his eye he saw Malachy 
 creeping down the baseline. There was a shrill 
 chorus of feminine squeals and twitterings as 
 Martin whirled and threw the ball toward Mc- 
 Cafferty, the recruit first baseman. It was 
 Dugan he hoped to catch napping, but it was 
 McCafferty who was sound asleep and the ball 
 whizzed on into right field. There was nothing 
 for Dugan to do but to continue on his way, 
 which he did, calling down the black curse upon 
 all the McCaffertys, their heirs and assigns 
 forever. He stopped at third base. 
 
 "Mulligan," breathed O Meara into the ear 
 of the next batter, "do ye shpill wan down to 
 Martin an leave him t row Dugan out at the 
 plate. Twill make a gran play f r him an* 
 may cheer him up." 
 
 Mixed-ale Mulligan s great specialty was 
 pushing a ball through a gap in the infield ; and 
 it was no trouble for him to shorten the grip 
 on his bat and send the sphere hopping di 
 rectly at Martin. 
 
 [302]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 "Home wid it! Home wid it!" howled 
 O Meara. 
 
 Martin Luther rushed forward to meet the 
 ball, juggled it for an instant and then hurled 
 it at Meara with all his strength. The throw 
 was high and wide, but Patrick Henry swept it 
 into his capacious mitt and stooped to tag the 
 sliding Dugan. He missed him by at least 
 eighteen inches. 
 
 "Ye re out!" snapped Umpire O Brien 
 sternly; and for the first time in his life Mala- 
 chy Dugan took the worst of a decision at the 
 home plate without trying to pull the buttons 
 off the umpire s coat. 
 
 "What kind of baseball is that?" demanded 
 Patricia Kehoe of her sister Cornelia. "That 
 lobster bunted bunted with a man on third 
 base and nobody out! Of course it s only a 
 practice game, but a man ought to be fined for 
 pulling a bone like that." 
 
 Finnigan, the next batter, stood still while 
 two atrocious strikes were called on him, and 
 then swung brazenly at one a foot over his 
 head. He missed it as far as possible. 
 
 "A-a-ah!" scolded Patricia. "What s the 
 matter with Wolfe Tone ? He went after a wild 
 pitch!" 
 
 Gallegher, next up, contrived to end the 
 inning with a weak infield fly and the grand 
 stand cheered Martin Luther hysterically as he 
 went to the yanigan bench. 
 
 "Make it a close score!" ordered Kehoe as 
 the Harps took the field. 
 
 [303]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Eed Timothy Tierney, whose left arm is 
 famed in song and story, mowed down the re 
 cruits with slow, tantalising drops and wide 
 curve balls, and three men fell before him in 
 order. 
 
 In the second inning Martin Luther essayed 
 a few curves on his own account, which caused 
 O Meara to leap about like an agitated bull 
 frog, cursing wildly under his breath. 
 
 One of these random shots smote Aloysius 
 Gilligan, the first batter, a resounding trump 
 in the ribs and he went to first base. Tad 
 Costigan did his honest best to force Aloysius 
 at second base and would surely have succeeded 
 had not Ignatius Daly, the shortstop, fumbled 
 the ball, both men being safe. 
 
 "Now then," said Shamus to Francis Xavier 
 Shea, "help him out av the hole poor lad!" 
 
 Shea, first ascertaining the exact position of 
 Dominick Murphy, the recruit third baseman, 
 hit the ball as straight to him as he knew how. 
 
 Dominick made a nice pickup, rushed to third 
 ahead of Gilligan and then whizzed the ball 
 across the diamond to McCafferty in time to 
 .double Shea. 
 
 "Aw, what are those fool women clapping 
 about?" sniffed the keen-eyed Patricia. "The 
 play at third was all right, but Shea stumbled 
 getting away from the plate and it took him 
 twenty minutes to get started again! They re 
 playing like a lot of apple-women." 
 
 Bartholomew Burke, the catcher, who had 
 some of the instincts of a dramatist, took three 
 
 [304]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO EREOES 
 
 terrific swings at three pitched balls and closed 
 the second inning. 
 
 Easy there!" cautioned O Meara. "That 
 looked pretty raw." 
 
 "Aw, what t hell!" growled Burke. "I 
 ribbed up a swell exit f r him, didn t I!" 
 
 The Harps deserve no credit for holding the 
 recruits runless for five innings ; but in holding 
 themselves in like case for the same length of 
 time they performed a feat seldom if ever 
 equalled in baseball history. Martin Luther, 
 instead of settling down, grew worse with each 
 inning, and seemed determined to lose the game 
 in spite of the stern opposition of nine experi 
 enced and resourceful men. 
 
 It was in the fourth session that Patricia 
 Kehoe marched out of the grandstand and left 
 the park, with fire in her eyes. 
 
 "I m as game as anybody," said she to 
 Cornelia; "but I can t stand for this! Think 
 of that fool of a Shea trying to steal second 
 with the bases full ! A Swede did that once in 
 the National League and they laughed him out 
 of baseball ! 
 
 "Martin is in there without a thing in the 
 world but a glove and a lovely disposition, 
 and they ought to be hitting him all over the 
 place. You can stay if you want to, but I m 
 going. I think they re all crazy with the 
 heat." 
 
 By inventing miracles upon the spur of the 
 moment, and contriving errors of omission and 
 commission, the Harps managed to struggle to 
 
 [305]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 the end of the fifth inning without a run; and 
 Shamus Kehoe offered himself a fresh chew 
 of tobacco and summed up the situation 
 tersely : 
 
 " Glory be!" said he. "I had no notion 
 twould be so raw. Hurry an get it over tis 
 makin me ill." 
 
 Gallegher and Gilligan hastened to retire 
 themselves, but Tad Costigan made an un 
 pardonable blunder and was forced to do some 
 quick thinking in order to redeem himself. 
 
 Tad took a careless swing at the first ball 
 pitched and accidentally connected with it. It 
 rolled to the centre-field fence an honest home 
 run ; but Tad was thinking hard as he galloped 
 down to first base. 
 
 "The miserable fool!" grunted Umpire 
 O Brien. "No tis all right, O Meara! He 
 cut first base by ten feet an McCafferty seen 
 him do it." 
 
 When the ball came back into the diamond 
 McCafferty yelled for it and Jawnny O Brien 
 soberly declared Costigan out for failing to 
 touch first base. Tad howled like a wounded 
 wolf, and Dugan, Finnigan and Shea had their 
 hands full to keep him from assaulting the 
 umpire. It was all very realistic and thrilling ; 
 but, even as he struggled, Costigan was 
 saying : 
 
 "I took no chance. I missed em all on the 
 trip round. Did ye notice?" 
 
 The recruits swarmed to the bench to take 
 their last turn at bat. 
 
 [306]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 "Let s have a run, fellows," pleaded Martin 
 Luther. "Who hits first?" 
 
 "Little me," said O Meara. "An if I get 
 on, Martin, bust wan a mile d ye hear?" 
 
 Judge Jimmy Houlihan had succeeded 
 Tierney in the box for the regulars. The 
 descendant of Irish kings winked openly at 
 Patrick Henry and threw him a straight ball, 
 waist-high and on the outside in the very spot 
 where O Meara always liked them best. 
 
 The fat old catcher sent a humming grounder 
 down toward Dugan at short, who dashed for 
 ward, made a snatch at the ball and, missing 
 it by a hair s-breadth, executed something very 
 like a drop kick, which gave the slow-moving 
 O Meara time to reach second base. 
 
 "Fine wor-rk, Malachy, me son!" wheezed 
 the old gentleman. " Tis a gran stage set- 
 tin f r Martin. If he can hit the ball at all 
 he s a hero an he wins his own game." 
 
 Martin Luther advanced to the plate, clutch 
 ing a long, heavy bat. The grandstand broke 
 into applause, with here and there a flutter of a 
 handkerchief. The boy did not hear it. His 
 face was white, his jaw was set at a pugnacious 
 angle, and his eyes glittered with stern de 
 termination. He knocked the dirt from his 
 spikes, rubbed dust on his palms and crouched, 
 every muscle tense, the bat jerking in short, 
 nervous circles. 
 
 Judge Jimmy tied himself in a knot and 
 stood on one leg, flinging the other one high 
 in the air; but the ball that was born of such 
 
 [307]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 cataclasmic effort wabbled feebly up to the 
 plate a fair, fat mark for any but a blind man. 
 Martin Luther whipped the bat back round his 
 neck and stepped briskly forward, swinging 
 with every ounce of his eager young strength. 
 There was a solid crash; a streak of white be 
 tween short and third ; a puff of dust on the far 
 green; a swirl of outfielders flying legs and, 
 in the midst of a cackling ovation from the 
 stand and joyful whoops from the yanigans, 
 Patrick Henry O Meara came trundling home 
 with the run that won the game. And nobody 
 seemed to notice that Aloysius Gilligan ran in 
 the wrong direction. 
 
 " Glory be!" chuckled Shamus Kehoe. 
 " "Tis exactly the way it always happens in 
 the magazines the hero wins his own game in 
 the last innin . I ll believe anny thing after 
 this."* 
 
 Of course it was too good to keep. That 
 evening after dinner Shamus Kehoe sat on the 
 porch with Veronica and they looked at the 
 moon. 
 
 "My, but Patreeshy was mad as a hornet 
 when she came home from the park this after 
 noon!" said Mrs. Kehoe. "By what she says, 
 the boys played an awful game. What ailed 
 thim?" 
 
 * Note to the scorekeepers This is the place to divide the 
 nine assists. 
 
 [308]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 "Ah, that s a secret!" said Shamus; and be 
 cause it was he told Veronica the whole story 
 from beginning to end. 
 
 " Twas a fearful struggle," said he in con 
 clusion; "but we finally forced it upon him. 
 That poor misbeguidsd girl of his thinks he s a 
 pitcher; an it ain t our fault if he didn t have 
 all the earmarks av a Chris Matchewson. The 
 boys certainly done noble!" 
 
 Being a woman, Veronica noticed that 
 Shamus had overlooked the most important 
 point in the narrative. 
 
 "Who is this girl?" she demanded. 
 
 "He did not say," said Shamus; "but I have 
 an idea tis the large blonde who s at the park 
 so reg lar. O Meara see him talkin with 
 her." 
 
 "Humph!" said Veronica scornfully. "If 
 she s the same girl I see traipsin about the 
 streets with a poodle dog, she s not good enough 
 f rhim." 
 
 "Martin is no child!" argued Shamus. 
 "He s seen plenty av girls. I d trust the boy 
 to know which wan he wants." 
 
 "All men are fools about women," said 
 Veronica sternly; "an I ll have ye to know, 
 Shamus, that ye re no fit figure f r a Cupid! 
 Ye should have kept out av it. Hush! Here 
 comes the lad now, with the girls." 
 
 "What do you think of him, ma getting 
 away with his own game in the last inning ?" 
 asked Patricia. 
 
 "I ve just been hearin about it, Martin," 
 
 [309]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 said Mrs. Kehoe. When are we to congratu 
 late ye?" 
 
 "Begin now!" said Martin Luther; and 
 stooping quickly he imprinted a rousing kiss 
 upon the plump cheek of that astounded 
 lady. 
 
 "Bless the boy!" sputtered Veronica, blush 
 ing furiously. "I sh d box your ears f r that, 
 Martin! Where s the girl?" 
 
 "Here she is," said Martin, taking Cornelia s 
 hand. We re engaged ! 
 
 "Ye re what?" shouted Shamus, leaping to 
 his feet. 
 
 Dear heart alive ! gasped Veronica. * * My 
 Cornelia ingaged ! 
 
 "Well, what do you know about that?" 
 squealed Patricia, launching herself upon 
 Martin Luther like a young thunderbolt. 
 "Now I can never be anything but a sister to 
 you, Martin! You may kiss me too!" 
 
 "Will you give her to me, sir?" asked Martin 
 anxiously. 
 
 Shamus Kehoe glared and swallowed hard. 
 
 "Do ye want him, Corney!" he asked at 
 length. 
 
 The girl moved closer to Martin Luther and 
 leaned her head upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Take her!" exploded Shamus, and under 
 his breath he said: 
 
 " Tis the second time I ve given her to him 
 the rascal!" 
 
 Patricia stood on tiptoe and whispered in 
 Martin s ear. 
 
 [310]
 
 NINE ASSISTS AND TWO ERRORS 
 
 "I hope you ll be a better husband than you 
 are a pitcher," she said. 
 
 "I hope so too," said Martin Luther. 
 
 Shamus Kehoe sat down heavily and stared 
 at the moon. "Glory be!" he murmured. 
 "An I thought it was the blonde!" f 
 
 t Note to the acorekeepers Give Kehoe an error on the 
 colour of the lady s hair. 
 
 [311]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 A NICKNAME is like a porous plaster 
 you slap one on a fellow to cure him of 
 something and it takes hold easy enough, 
 but it fetches the hair with it when it 
 comes off. 
 
 Mister Conley was what we called him, with 
 the accent on the Mister. We wished the title 
 on him to cure him of freshness, and it stuck 
 so tight that we came near making a stranger 
 out of the best third baseman in the league. 
 
 Most ballplayers are christened by the news 
 paper men, but Conley wasn t. We named him 
 ourselves and we gave him a monaker that was 
 meant to hurt. Sarcasm is the stuff that gets 
 under the skin. It s harder to bear than down 
 right abuse ; but, even so, I claim that he might 
 better have been Mister Conley than just plain 
 Conley, 3b. 
 
 Did you ever stop to think that it s a bad sign 
 when a ballplayer hasn t a nickname of any 
 sort? Take the Guide and pick out the boys 
 who are known simply by their last names, and 
 you ll find you haven t many stars in your col 
 lection. They ll be just good enough to get by. 
 No bats or gloves will ever be named after eao. 
 
 [312]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 It takes an exception to make a rule. For 
 some reason or other they never say Walt when 
 they talk about Johnson. He s always Walter ; 
 but, shucks! that fellow doesn t need a nick 
 name! He s got everything else. 
 
 We tacked the Mister on Conley at the spring 
 training camp, and it was his own fault. You 
 know how it is down South in March espe 
 cially when the ivory-hunters have been beat 
 ing the jungles the season before. The place 
 is all gummed up with infielders and outfielders 
 and pitchers minor leaguers and sandlotters 
 and semi-pro s until you don t dare to turn 
 round quick for fear of stepping on one of em. 
 
 We regulars don t pay much attention to re 
 cruits, as a general thing we see so many of 
 em. If a youngster shows a lot of class we look 
 him over, but that s as far as we go with him. 
 We don t present him with the keys of the city 
 on suspicion. 
 
 It isn t that we re swelled up or stuck on 
 ourselves; we re only particular. Some clubs 
 are different, but we have always been clan 
 nish. When the boss picks out a new man we 
 give him the third degree ; and if he stands the 
 acid and comes out ninety-nine per cent human 
 being we let him in when we get good and 
 ready. We re never in a hurry about it and 
 we don t like to be rushed. It s easier for a 
 St. Louis woman to break into Chicago society 
 than it is for a busher to land a front seat in 
 our family circle. 
 
 We d been hearing a few things about Conley 
 [313]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 from Gagus, the chief scout. Gagus found him 
 out West somewhere during the boy s first year 
 as a professional ballplayer. Before that he 
 had been at some jerkwater college or other. 
 
 The trouble with him was that he expected 
 too much of us in the welcome-to-our-city line 
 and expected it too soon. There wasn t any 
 body to give him a quiet tip to lie back and 
 wait; so he came tearing into our midst as 
 frisky as a fox-terrier pup he wanted to paw 
 everybody and slobber over em. The kid 
 meant it all right he just didn t understand 
 our system. He was loaded to the guards with 
 college notions, and I think he joined out with 
 us under the impression that a big-league ball 
 club is a cross between a college fraternity and 
 a six months joy ride. 
 
 Lots of bushers have that idea; but after 
 they ve been farmed out and traded round a 
 while they get over it. That sort of experience 
 would have been the best thing in the world for 
 Conley; but he missed it. Conley took a run 
 ning jump and landed square on third base, 
 owing to Ranee Murdock s coming down with 
 matrimony and emotional insanity at the same 
 time. I ll explain about him: 
 
 Most of us regulars met at St. Louis and 
 started South from there, that being a sort of 
 shipping point for ballplayers in the spring of 
 the year. Our party was complete all but 
 Ranee Murdock, who was to join us there after 
 wintering in Kansas City. Ranee had been our 
 third baseman for five years and a corking 
 
 [314]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 good one he was. It was a treat to play beside 
 him; and if a shortstop doesn t know a third 
 baseman when he sees one, who does? 
 
 Billy Howard, the club secretary, was with 
 us, representing the Bald Eagle, who was al 
 ready at the training camp sizing up the re 
 cruits and trying to get a pitcher or two out of 
 the mess. We were all sitting in the lobby of 
 the hotel and Billy was scuttling round like a 
 wet hen, fussing about Ranee, the baggage and 
 a lot of other things the way club secretaries 
 always do. 
 
 "I wired him a week ago to meet us here 
 to-day," says Billy. "Come to think of it, he 
 never answered oh, here he is now ! 
 
 It was Ranee, sure enough, all dressed up 
 like a horse, with a flower in his buttonhole. I 
 knew the minute I laid eyes on him that some 
 thing was wrong. He was nervous and it 
 showed in the way he laughed and slapped us 
 on the back. That wasn t like Ranee and it 
 wasn t like him to carry a dinky little cane 
 either. 
 
 "Well, stranger," says Billy, "I was begin 
 ning to think I d have to leave your transporta 
 tion here and let you follow us. We re hitting 
 the rattler at seven-thirty. Where is your 
 trunk?" 
 
 "I didn t bring one," says Ranee and then 
 he pulled it on us as unexpected as a triple 
 play. 
 
 He had gone and eloped with a Kansas City 
 girl a couple of days before; and her father, 
 
 [315]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 after he recovered from the shock and cooled 
 off, had offered him an interest in the retail 
 clothing business to quit playing baseball. 
 
 "So I guess I won t need that transporta 
 tion," says Ranee; he didn t have the nerve to 
 come out flatfooted and say he was going to 
 quit. 
 
 "Why, man alive," says Billy, "you ain t 
 a-going to run out on the club, are you?" 
 
 "Well, no-o," says Ranee "not exactly run 
 out; but I m a married man now, and " 
 
 "G-o-o-d night!" says Smokeless Solly 
 Jones, the pitcher, putting in his oar. "Any 
 time they begin to pull that I m-a-married-man- 
 now stuff you don t have to ask for waivers. 
 You can hand em an unconditional release on 
 the spot. They may look all right and they may 
 talk all right, but they ll never be the same 
 again! If I was a manager I wouldn t give a 
 nickel for a whole carload of bridegrooms. It s 
 a form of insanity, sure!" 
 
 "Wait!" says Howard, dancing up and 
 down. "Wait a minute, Solly! You re hitting 
 out of your turn. Let me talk to him: Now, 
 Ranee, you wouldn t want to leave the boss flat 
 on his back, would you?" 
 
 "No," says Ranee, stalling, "I wouldn t want 
 to do it, Billy; but my wife s old man has made 
 a sweet business proposition and I don t see 
 how I can overlook it. A third interest in the 
 best clothing store in Kansas City is pretty 
 soft. There s no future in baseball you know 
 that as well as I do. In a few years I ll be all 
 
 [316]
 
 MISTER COXLEY 
 
 through, and then what have I got? Nothing 
 but a lot of jammed-up fingers and inflamma 
 tory rheumatism. I talked it all over with my 
 wife, and she thinks " 
 
 Police!" howls Smokeless, breaking in 
 again. "That s the tip-off, fellers! His wife 
 thinks! Those wishing to take a last view of 
 the remains kindly pass to the right! Why, 
 you poor deluded simp, have you quit thinking 
 for yourself? Did it strike you that it was 
 going to ruin this ball club to have a gap at 
 third base? I ll bet no such notion ever 
 knocked a splinter off that granite dome! 
 You ve got an elegant gall haven t you com 
 ing round here, shaved nine days under the 
 skin and all disguised up with cologne and 
 chrysanthemums ! 
 
 "And so you re going to peddle hand-me- 
 downs to the yokels because your wife thinks 
 you hadn t better play baseball any more ! It s 
 a wonder she d let you out alone this evening, 
 for fear you d catch cold ! Great Cupid ! You 
 didn t marry a suffragette, did you? You ve 
 still got a vote, I hope ! Ju3t because you let 
 a girl take you by the arm and drag you down 
 the aisle -" 
 
 "Here!" says Bance, red as a beet, and 
 pretty mad; "this is the second time you ve 
 stuck your cue into a private game, and if you 
 do it again I ll knock all the chalk off of it for 
 you. Do you get me?" 
 
 "You never saw the day!" bawls Solly. 
 "You and all your wife s counter jumper rela- 
 
 [317]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 tions ! You couldn t do it if you were in your 
 right mind ! Did she have to tell the preacher 
 I will for you?" 
 
 Well, that was pretty raw, and for a few 
 seconds it looked like war right there in the 
 lobby; but some of the boys got hold of Solly 
 and herded him into the bar, and the rest of us 
 closed in on Ranee and argued with him. It 
 wasn t any use though. It never is any use to 
 argue with a bridegroom; he glories in his 
 shame. Whenever we got Ranee treed and out 
 on a limb he d tell us what his wife thought. 
 That benched us every time didn t even leave 
 us a comeback. 
 
 Pretty soon Solly came back and said he was 
 sorry. Old Smokeless has his faults, but he s 
 always willing to apologise when he sees he s 
 wrong. Sometimes he has to be licked before 
 he can see it; but in this case it wasn t neces 
 sary. 
 
 "Ranee, old hoss," says he, "I went a little 
 too strong with that bawl-out and I m sorry. 
 Of course I don t really think that she kid- 
 happed you, even if 
 
 "Let it go at that," says Ranee, and they 
 shook hands. 
 
 "This is on the level?" says Solly. "You 
 ain t trying to stick the Bald Eagle for more 
 dough, are you? You re really going to quit?" 
 
 "Yes, I m going to quit, Solly." 
 
 "Too bad!" says Smokeless, shaking his 
 head. "Too bad! I m going to miss you 
 when I m in there working especially on the 
 
 [318]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 bunts. We ll all miss you ; and don t fool your 
 self, Ranee you ll miss us. The afternoons 
 will be awful long, with nothing to do but carry 
 a tape measure round your neck. You ll get 
 to thinking how good it feels to hook a fast one 
 on the nose and watch her sail." 
 
 1 Oh, I don t kno /, sa/s Ranee ; but he 
 couldn t look Solly in the "ye. 
 
 "Some day," sa.yr Smokeless, "you ll run 
 across a big-league ball club on the road. 
 You ll see men who have been like brothers to 
 you looking out of the Pullman windows, and 
 you d give all the clothing stores in Missouri to 
 be with them again just for one game; but 
 you ll be fat and out of shape, and you won t 
 be able to get your hands below your knees. 
 You re selling out awful cheap, Ranee, old boy 
 awful cheap ! 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," says Ranee, doing his 
 best to smile and not getting it across very 
 strong. "I don t think it will be as bad as 
 that, Solly." 
 
 "You just wait!" says Smokeless. "It ll be 
 worse." 
 
 Ranee went to the depot to see us off and 
 somewhere on the way he lost the fat, self- 
 satisfied look of an amateur married man. I 
 was on the observation platform as the train 
 started to pull out and I got a good look at 
 him. He was shy all the earmarks of a bride 
 groom. 
 
 Have you ever seen a kid outside a circus tent 
 a kid who knows that he s not going to get 
 [319]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 in to see the show, but can t quite bring him 
 self to the point where he ll give up hope and 
 go home? Well, that was Ranee. He was 
 standing there in the gateway, all alone, look 
 ing through at us; and, believe me or not, I 
 wouldn t have traded places with him for the 
 entire state of Missouri. 
 
 By golly, a man ought to pick out a regular 
 wife to break even for the loss of all his old 
 pals, and I hoped Ranee had been lucky in the 
 draw. Well, that s how we came to be shy a 
 third baseman, and it explains why Mister 
 Conley got his running jump into the regular 
 line-up. 
 
 The Bald Eagle shed a few tail-feathers when 
 he heard that Ranee had signed a life contract 
 in the Matrimonial League and left a hole at 
 third base you could drive a furniture van 
 through. 
 
 It s no joke to lose a third baseman, because 
 those fellows are born, not made; and they 
 don t grow on every bush. I m supposed to be 
 a fair sort of shortstop, which is my regular 
 position, and I ve done some second-basing 
 that wasn t so rotten; but put me on third and 
 I ll kick away a dozen games a season. Real 
 third basemen are like black pearls worth 
 anything you can get for em ; and there s never 
 enough to go round. 
 
 What made it particularly bad was that the 
 boss didn t have a word of warning. He d been 
 counting on Ranee as good for five years more 
 and he didn t have a spare third sacker in sight 
 
 [320]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 or under cover. The Bald Eagle we call him 
 Jimmy Patten to his face had to get a third 
 baseman in a hurry, and there were only three 
 ways to do it two of em hard and the third 
 a miracle : he could trade, buy outright, or find 
 the sort of man he wanted among the recruits. 
 
 You can figure what sort of terms you get 
 on a trade when the other fellow knows you ve 
 simply got to do business with him. The boss 
 knew that if he traded he d have to give his 
 right eye and a piece of his immortal soul to 
 boot; and if he bought an established star it 
 would be a five-figure deal. It was good horse- 
 sense to look for the miracle first; so the Bald 
 Eagle took another quick slant at the recruit 
 infielders. And there was young Conley right 
 under his nose a born third baseman; I will 
 say that for him. 
 
 The first day at the practice park I sized up 
 the bushers carefully, for I was interested in 
 seeing the third-base gap plugged. There was 
 one redhead in the bunch who loomed up like 
 a twenty-dollar goldpiece on a collection plate 
 and it was Conley. He was a sure-enough 
 ballplayer and it showed in every move he 
 made. 
 
 There is such a thing as baseball instinct. 
 Almost any man who is fast on his feet and has 
 good eyesight can be taught to field grounders 
 and handle throws; but it s what a man does 
 after he gets the ball in his hands that counts. 
 Up to that point the work is mechanical. 
 
 Conley knew what to do with the ball and he 
 [321]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 didn t have to stop to think. He had nice 
 hands; he went after the ball the right way, 
 handled it clean, and got it away from him like 
 a streak. In the batting practice he stood up 
 to the plate as though he d seen one before and 
 took a good, snappy jolt at the ball. I saw the 
 Bald Eagle watching him, grinning like he 
 does when he picks up a pair of aces on the 
 draw. It didn t take half an eye to see the boss 
 was sweet on the redhead. 
 
 That night at dinner some of us were talking 
 about Conley. We weren t boosting him, you 
 understand it was a little early for that. We 
 were just mentioning that we d noticed him as 
 among those present. About the middle of the 
 discussion in walked the bird himself, looked 
 all round, and then came over and sat down at 
 our table. 
 
 Well, it wasn t exactly a crime; but it wasn t 
 the right thing either. In our camp the re 
 cruits have tables of their own and do their 
 sword-swallowing in a bunch. There was a 
 dead silence for a few seconds; and I guess 
 Conley felt the drop in the temperature, for 
 he fished out a little leather case and handed his 
 card to Solly Jones. It was just his luck to 
 pick out the strongest kidder in the club. 
 Smokeless looked at the card for some time. 
 
 "Conley Mister Marshall P. Conley. H m! 
 Don t recognise the name. Are you stopping 
 in the city, Mister Conley?" 
 
 Conley started to laugh, but it fizzled out on 
 him, for nobody laughed with him. 
 
 [322]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 Why, yes," says the redhead. "I I m 
 with the ball club. Conley from the D. P. D. 
 League, you know." 
 
 "Huh!" says Smokeless, and went on eating. 
 
 Conley didn t quite know what to make of 
 it; he sat there looking foolish and turning the 
 cardcase over and over in his hands. More 
 silence. "Pretty nice weather for spring train 
 ing," says he at last. 
 
 Solly began to talk across the table to Husky 
 Mathews. 
 
 "No, sir; I tell you you re wrong!" says he, 
 as if he were getting back to an old argument. 
 "I claim there s a better way than sawing em 
 off short or knocking em off with a club. 
 That s a quick way, but it s likely to fracture 
 the skull." 
 
 "If I m wrong show me," says Husky, with 
 out the least notion of what it was all about, 
 but willing to help it along. 
 
 "I use a kind of salve," says Smokeless. "If 
 anybody is troubled that way rub a little dab 
 into the scalp and in a few days they drop off 
 by themselves. And it don t damage the horns 
 either." 
 
 "Horns!" says Conley, trying to shoulder 
 in on the play and leaving himself wide open 
 for the comeback. "Horns on a human 
 being?" 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn t go so far as to say a human 
 being." And Smokeless took another look at 
 the card. "It s used on goats, Mister Conley 
 and bi.sh leaguers. It keeps em from butting 
 
 [323]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 in. I ve got a box of it in my trunk if you d 
 like to try it." 
 
 That was about all for Conley. It spoiled 
 the meal for him; but the redhead was too 
 proud to push back his chair and quit. He sat 
 there, going through the motions of eating, and 
 now and then trying to edge in on the conversa 
 tion; but somebody crossed in front and took 
 the ball away from him every time. The best 
 he got was a chance to look interested and nod 
 his head once in a while. It was a pretty rough 
 deal on a beginner; but if he had played his 
 proper position he would have missed it. 
 
 Smokeless was responsible for the nickname. 
 He carried that card round with him even when 
 he was in uniform, and every time the redhead 
 opened his mouth Smokeless would begin to 
 look through his pockets. He d dig up the card, 
 take a slant at it and then pull the Mister Con- 
 ley on him. 
 
 In a few days we were all doing it. The 
 newspaper men took it up next, and after Con- 
 ley saw his press notices he began eating by 
 himself over in a far corner. 
 
 "It s like this," Smokeless explained: "When 
 they were dealing out the humility this young 
 third-basing demon didn t draw to his hand. 
 It s a cinch he s going to be one of us, but it 
 won t hurt him to be reminded once in a while 
 that he s only related to this ball club by mar 
 riage. When he s tame we can let up on him." 
 
 Conley took his taming like a little man and 
 didn t talk back to any of the regulars; but it 
 
 [324]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 wasn t exactly nutritious for any of the other 
 bushers to call him Mister. 
 
 There was a big, rawboned recruit pitcher 
 named Hendricks from out West somewhere 
 and he made it his business to ride Conley 
 every chance he got. He Mistered him all over 
 the place for a few days and then the redhead 
 invited him over behind the grandstand. The 
 Bald Eagle refereed it Jim Patten wouldn t 
 give a nickel for a ballplayer who won t fight 
 and Conley gave that big rube thirty pounds 
 and as swell a licking as you could wish to see. 
 
 " That s a plenty!" says Hendricks as he was 
 getting up the last time. * I m no hog ! I know 
 when I m satisfied. I ll call you anything you 
 like if you ll only teach me to use my left hand 
 like that. I never saw her coming once." 
 
 11 Don t call me anything. Just keep away 
 from me," says Conley. He went back on the 
 diamond and after that he was cock-of-the-walk 
 with the recruits. The Bald Eagle was tickled 
 to death with him. 
 
 "He can lick any man on the team," says the 
 boss. "It s a treat to see a good straight left 
 again." 
 
 "Yeah," says Smokeless; "but his footwork 
 is coarse and he telegraphs that right hand 
 every time he cuts it loose. He d be a chop- 
 ping-block for a man who would step in and 
 beat him to it." 
 
 Solly is a wonder at picking out a boxer s 
 weak points, but nobody ever saw him find any 
 of em with his fists. 
 
 [325]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 "Take a tip from me, Jones," says the boss, 
 "and lay off of this sorrel-top. Some day he ll 
 weary of your comedy and eat you alive." 
 
 "Well," says Solly, "in that case I have a 
 ticket that I won t go hungry entirely. I ll 
 gather a toothful here and there while he s 
 making a meal." 
 
 "All right," says the Bald Eagle, hitching 
 up his belt, "if that s the way you feel about 
 it; but don t forget that the real comedians 
 are the ones who know when to get off the stage, 
 and the best thing about a joke is knowing 
 when it s played out." 
 
 We didn t ease up on Conley, and Solly 
 worked that cardstuff on him until he wore the 
 card out ; but the kid never said a word. I can 
 see now that the college-frat idea must have 
 been strong in his head. A fraternity candi 
 date gets an awful rough ride before he s finally 
 taken in as a brother, and the better he stands 
 the ragging the more they think of him, as a 
 rule. 
 
 Conley must have had a notion that he was 
 being initiated; and when the boss told him to 
 pack up his junk and get ready to start North 
 with the regulars it was natural for the boy to 
 figure that he d passed his examinations and 
 been elected a blood brother. 
 
 That was the time when he should have held 
 back a little and let us make the advances; but 
 I suppose he d kept himself bottled up so long 
 that he just couldn t stand it another minute. 
 And he was a friendly kid by nature. That 
 [326]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 night he came swarming into the Pullman with 
 his bags; and the first crack out of the box he 
 jammed my derby down over my eyes and 
 slapped Husky Mathews on the back. 
 
 "Well, by golly, we re all here, fellers !" says 
 he. 
 
 "Mister Conley is crowding the mourners a 
 trifle," says Solly to me. "Somebody ought 
 to tell him that it s a long time till October and 
 the averages ain t quite figured up yet. Look 
 at him jab Dugan in the slats! Ain t he fresh- 
 like, all at once!" 
 
 Well, it probably wasn t all freshness at that. 
 A lot of it was excitement and sheer happiness 
 at getting what every young ballplayer dreams 
 of a chance in the big league. I remember I 
 was as daffy as a canary bird the first few days 
 myself; and when a kid is happy he s simply 
 got to talk and laugh and make a noise, or he ll 
 bust. After all that silence and dignity the re 
 action had got Conley, and his tongue was loose 
 at both ends. 
 
 Even then I think he would have made the 
 riffle if he had used ordinary judgment. Every 
 body was feeling lively and cheerful, what with 
 the training season being over and the salaries 
 going to start in a couple of weeks, and so on: 
 It wasn t any time to be carrying grouches and 
 picking flaws, and Conley s little burst of fresh 
 ness might have got by in the general wave of 
 good feeling if he hadn t put himself in line for 
 a bawl-out. It was his second bad break. 
 
 Of course there was a poker game, and Eddie 
 [327]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Pine, our first baseman, dropped thirty bucks 
 right off the reel. Then, like a fellow will do 
 sometimes when he s a loser, Eddie began try 
 ing to run everybody out of the good pots 
 and, of course, he got trimmed some more. 
 Conley was leaning over from the seat behind 
 making a lot of comments about the different 
 plays and the pots, and so on. That was toler 
 able rank judgment, to begin with. 
 
 I saw Eddie look at him once or twice, a little 
 sour; but there wasn t any real clash until Con- 
 ley tried to tell Pine how he should have played 
 his three queens against Dugan s one-card 
 draw. That was bad enough; but, to make it 
 worse, Dugan caught his man and back-raised 
 Eddie clear to the roof. It really wasn t any 
 time for conversation let alone advice from an 
 outsider. 
 
 "You should have laid back with em, Ed 
 die," says Conley. "If Joe hadn t hooked up 
 that other tenspot he wouldn t have bet into 
 your two-card draw, and " 
 
 "Say, who is this guy?" asks Pine, turn 
 ing round and taking a good long look at 
 Conley. 
 
 "Oh, you mean Little Bright Eyes here?" 
 says Smokeless, who was in the game. "Wait; 
 I think I can place him." Solly rummaged 
 round a while and fished out what was left of 
 the card. "Why, this is Mister Marshall P. 
 Conley from the D. P. D. League. His horns 
 have grown out again makes him look dif 
 ferent. 
 
 [328]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 "Is he a friend of yours?" asks Pine. 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn t go so far as to say a friend; 
 but he introduced himself to me once. * 
 
 "Well, you tell him," says Pine, "that if he 
 sticks his lip in this poker game again I ll take 
 him over my knee and spank him." 
 
 It isn t necessary to kick a good dog when 
 all he wants to do is jump on you to show you 
 he s friendly. Conley drew back as if he d 
 been hit in the face. 
 
 "Why, I didn t mean " he began, sort 
 
 of stuttering. 
 
 "Ain t that pest gone yet!" snaps Eddie 
 without even looking over his shoulder. 
 "Whose deal?" 
 
 "Excuse me, gentlemen and Mister Pine!" 
 says the boy; but nobody paid any attention 
 to him. 
 
 Pretty soon he went back to the other end 
 of the car and sat down alone. He looked out 
 the window for about three hours, which was 
 a stall and didn t fool anybody, because it was 
 so dark he couldn t see a thing but his own re 
 flection in the glass. I could imagine how he 
 felt. 
 
 According to his way of thinking he d served 
 his time and worked out his probation; and just 
 when he was bursting with happiness because 
 he was going to be a real big leaguer and one 
 of us zingo! he was back where he started: 
 Mister Conley, from the D. P. D. League. 
 
 He d been running his head oif on a foul tip. 
 
 [329]
 
 SCOKE BY INNINGS 
 
 IV 
 
 Well, sir, from that night on, Conley 
 Mistered every one of us. I suppose that was 
 his notion of getting even a typical kid s trick. 
 It was funny at first and we thought we d see 
 how far he would go with it; so we Mistered 
 him back whenever we got a chance, which 
 wasn t often, for he never opened his mouth 
 except on business that is to say, something 
 about baseball. 
 
 While we were travelling North he spent 
 
 most of his time up ahead in the smoker; he 
 
 never came back to our car except to sleep. 
 
 In the towns where we played spring exhibition 
 
 games the only place we saw him was at the 
 
 ball orchard. I had an idea that it would last 
 
 only a few days; but Conley fooled me he 
 
 never forgot to Mister us, even on the bench. 
 
 "Mister Daly, what was that one you hit?" 
 
 "That was a spitter, Mister Conley." 
 
 Can you imagine that kind of talk on the 
 
 bench? 
 
 After the season opened and Conley began 
 to break up games with that long pole of his, 
 and show so much class that the fans quit yell 
 ing for Ranee Murdock, we judged the thing 
 had gone far enough and tried to make a few 
 advances; but Conley wouldn t have it. He 
 froze us stiff and then crawled farther back 
 into his shell. A grown man with a grievance 
 can t be near as nasty as a half-baked kid, and 
 Conley was a fright. He peddled out insults 
 
 [330]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 right and left and did it so darned politely 
 too! 
 
 The Bald Eagle, being a strategist, thought 
 a battle might clear the atmosphere; so he 
 rigged up a little trouble one night in the club 
 house. Conley knocked out eighty-five dollars 
 worth of crown and bridge work for Eddie Pine 
 and put an awful head on Solly Jones ; and the 
 worst of it was he refused to shake hands 
 afterward. 
 
 "The storybook dope is wrong," says the 
 Bald Eagle. " Peace ought to come after war, 
 but this is a reversal of all previous form. The 
 boy has got a screw loose somewhere; but, so 
 long as he s hitting .325 and third-basing all 
 over the shop, he can be as upstage as he likes. 
 If he begins to show politeness in his hitting 
 I ll climb on to his collar. . . . Solly, I 
 thought you said that he d be a sucker for 
 any man who d step in and beat him to the 
 punch?" 
 
 Smokeless was over in the corner, and 
 Absalom, our black rubber, was working on his 
 face. 
 
 "Well, didn t you see me step in?" mumbles 
 Solly. "Trouble was that I forgot to step out 
 again. . . . Ouch! Easy there, Absalom! 
 You re getting that stuff in my eye!" 
 
 The newspapers got hold of the Mister busi 
 ness ; but, of course, they took the wrong slant. 
 The plain truth might have done Conley good, 
 but I suppose they figured it made a better 
 story the other way. A woman reporter came 
 
 [331]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 to the hotel in Chicago, took one peek at Conley 
 I ll swear the kid never said ten words to 
 her and tore off a whole page of slush. 
 
 The Chesterfield of the Big League was the 
 heading, and there were pen-and-ink drawings 
 of Conley in a claw-hammer; Conley playing 
 polo; Conley turkey-trotting with a blonde 
 heiress and I don t know what all; but the 
 write-up that went with em had the drawings 
 skinned a mile. 
 
 The woman said Conley was a member of 
 the younger set she didn t mention what set 
 his old folks belonged to ; so we re still guessing 
 on that point and she pulled a fierce line of 
 bunk, accusing Conley of being rich and hand 
 some, and playing ball for the love of the sport ! 
 It made a lively little article ; but it would have 
 been better for Conley if she had said he was 
 a pin-feathered kid, with a sour disposition and 
 eighteen hundred a year. 
 
 "Even on the field," raved this literary 
 female, "in the rush of conflict, surrounded by 
 the rougher element, mingling with men of 
 lower standards, this young Chesterfield of the 
 diamond maintains his lofty ideals, command 
 ing the respectful admiration of his teammates, 
 who see in him everything a professional 
 athlete should be but too often alas! is 
 not." 
 
 "Help!" says Smokeless Solly when he read 
 it. "The rougher element that s us, fellers. 
 We re the men of lower standards. She s been 
 opening our mail. . . . And who in Sam Hill 
 
 [332]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 is this Chesterfield person? I don t seem to 
 make him at all. Chesterfield! Where did he 
 ever tend bar?" 
 
 Conley was mighty sore about that write-up. 
 He told the hotel clerk he had a girl in Dexter, 
 Iowa, who wouldn t care for that turkey-trot 
 ting picture at all. It would make her think 
 that he was leading a double life. 
 
 That was a fair sample of the guff that got 
 into the papers and the baseball writers knew 
 the truth, but wouldn t print it. The fans 
 Mistered the kid from Boston to St. Louis, so 
 that he never had a chance to forget his grouch 
 and be human. 
 
 In spite of his faults Conley was popular 
 with the crowds. Anybody who plays the diffi 
 cult corner the way that kid played it, with a 
 fancy line of extra-base knocks on the side, can 
 have plenty of people cheering for him; but 
 popularity didn t make Conley happy. He was 
 the saddest and the lonesomest big-league star 
 in the business; and I ll bet there were times 
 when he d have given twenty points off his 
 batting average for a heart-to-heart talk with 
 a real pal. There wasn t a man in the club he 
 could call his friend and the ballplayer who 
 hasn t at least one chum on the payroll is in 
 hard luck. 
 
 Well, it went along that way until the end of 
 the season, Conley getting crustier and crustier, 
 but playing like a wild man and breaking up 
 many a game with that fifty-five-ounce bat of 
 his. He never loosened up with us for a 
 
 [333]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 minute not even after the game that cinched 
 the pennant and made us sure of the World s 
 Series; and, believe me, there was some cele 
 bration that night too ! 
 
 After every Big Series it is customary for 
 the long-range critics to get in their fine work. 
 In the corner groceries and cigar stands from 
 Maine to California you can meet fellows who 
 know more about baseball strategy than the 
 men who get twenty thousand a year for 
 handling a pennant-winning club. These wise 
 Ikes, who never saw a regular game, can tell 
 you just where the mistakes were made and 
 how each game might have been won. 
 
 I m not in the class with these experts, so 
 you needn t expect me to tip off any real low- 
 down stuff on the series we played with the 
 Grizzlies for the World s Championship. It s 
 enough to say that at the end of the fifth game 
 the score stood three games to two in our 
 favour. We needed another to win the long 
 end of the money. 
 
 It never should have gone beyond five games ; 
 but Scotty MacPherson, pitching the fifth 
 game, laid a fast one across the outside corner 
 of the plate for Shag Robinson, the Grizzly 
 first-baseman, and Shag hit it a mile, with two 
 on the bases. Scotty had em licked 2 to at 
 the time, but Shag s home run beat us. Any 
 pitcher who gives that dynamiter a fast one, 
 
 [334]
 
 MISTEE CONLEY 
 
 outside, ought to have his roof examined by 
 the nut commissioners. 
 
 Before the series began we were all a little 
 bit nervous about Conley. It was practically 
 certain that the Grizzlies would centre the at 
 tack on him as much as possible, figuring that 
 on account of his inexperience they might be 
 able to rattle him. Nobody knows how a re 
 cruit is going to act in his first World s Series; 
 and, for that matter, I ve seen many a veteran 
 choke up and kick away easy chances when he 
 was in there playing for the difference between 
 sixty and forty per cent. 
 
 It is good baseball tactics to shoot at the 
 weakest spot on a team, and it was good judg 
 ment for the Grizzlies to figure that the soft 
 place in our lineup would be at third. If they 
 could make Conley nervous or get him to fight 
 ing the ball they would have just that much 
 advantage. 
 
 Sure enough, they went after the kid from 
 the tap of the gong. The players kidded him, 
 the coachers yelled at him, and the pitchers 
 gave him the old beanball. In the very first 
 game and Conley s first time at bat, Buzz Gaff- 
 ney, the big Grizzly righthander, whistled a 
 wicked one right at Conley s head. That sort 
 of thing is calculated to worry a hitter and get 
 him to thinking about what would happen if 
 his head got in the way of one of those bean- 
 balls. Conley ducked, of course and Gaffney 
 laughed. 
 
 "Take your foot out of the water-bucket, 
 [335]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Mister Conley," says Buzz, which is about as 
 insulting a remark as a pitcher can make. 
 * Stand up there if you ain t afraid ! 
 
 I forgot to say that Conley never Mistered 
 any opposition players or umpires. 
 
 1 I m standing right here!" he pipes, thump 
 ing the rubber with the end of his bat. Shoot 
 another one like that and I ll let it hit me and 
 take a base. Why, you poor miserable old has- 
 been, you haven t got enough speed to dent a 
 derby hat ! Come on ! Show me ! " 
 
 Then Conley hogged the plate. Buzz 
 switched to a curve and the kid lined it out 
 for two bases. That should have been enough 
 to convince em that Conley wasn t the scaring 
 kind; but they kept right after him, trying to 
 find out where his goat was pastured. They 
 were still looking for the animal when the sixth 
 game opened on their home grounds. 
 
 Old Smokeless Solly was selected to pitch 
 the sixth game; he had already trimmed the 
 Grizzlies once with his slow ball. I claim that 
 Solly Jones has the slowest ball in the major 
 leagues which is where he gets the name of 
 Smokeless. It floats up to the plate like a toy 
 balloon and a man can read the signature of 
 the league president on it before he takes a 
 swing. It looks easy to hit and it is easy to 
 hit in the air. Solly had let the Grizzlies 
 down with nine goose-eggs in his first game; 
 so we felt reasonably comfortable behind 
 him. 
 
 The Grizzlies sent Swede Olson after us a 
 
 {336]
 
 MISTEE CONLEY 
 
 six-foot lumberjack, with a nasty hop on his 
 fast ball. They were fighting uphill for the 
 sixty per cent and it was a real battle from the 
 opening inning. 
 
 In the second, Mike Mullaney, their shortstop 
 an aggressive little mick tried to steal third 
 base. Danny Daly, our catcher, juggled the 
 ball the least fraction of a second and then had 
 to make a chain-lightning peg to Conley. I 
 was close to the baseline and I can swear that 
 Mullaney had a clear path to the bag. 
 
 He went in like a thunderbolt, spikes first, 
 sliding low to get away from the tag; and I 
 saw him throw his right foot a bit wide. It 
 caught Conley on the shin and the kid went 
 down in a heap; but he held on to the ball. 
 The umpire called Mullaney safe. As Conley 
 got up he said something to Mullaney, and as 
 I ran over I heard Mike s answer : 
 
 "Keep off the baseline if you don t want to 
 be spiked! You ll get your legs cut off trying 
 to block people." 
 
 "He wasn t on the baseline," I says, "and 
 he never even came close to blocking you. I 
 saw you slam that right foot out to get him 
 and I ve got a notion to punch you in the eye! 
 Are you hurt bad, Conley!" 
 
 The kid took a few steps, trying out his left 
 ankle. His red stocking was torn a little six 
 inches above the shoetop, so it was a cinch that 
 the spikes had hit him. 
 
 * No, Mister Hines, says he. "I m all right, 
 thank you. 
 
 [337]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 He didn t forget to Mister me even then! 
 Well, I gave Mullaney a bawling-out on general 
 principles, because I didn t want him to think 
 he was getting away with anything. Smoke 
 less came over and joined in. 
 
 "We keep a file on our bench for fellers like 
 you," says Solly "a file to sharpen spikes 
 with. You d better stay away from second the 
 rest of this game, because every man that slides 
 in there will have a razor-edge aimed at your 
 knee-cap. And that ain t all the next time I 
 get you up there at the plate I m going to hit 
 you right in the ear. In the ear ! Do you get 
 me?" 
 
 Mike showed his teeth. 
 
 "You couldn t hit the ground with your 
 hat!" says he. "And as for this bush third 
 baseman he ll be on crutches the rest of his life 
 if he tries to block me again. 
 
 "You re a liar! I didn t block you," says 
 Conley. 
 
 All this time the fans were yelling and those 
 who rooted for us howled : Dirty ball ! Dirty 
 ball!" And the home contingent cheered 
 Mullaney. The noise lasted until Solly, back 
 in the box but still jawing at Mike, snapped the 
 ball over to third and caught Mullaney flat- 
 footed as a cigar-store Indian, six feet off the 
 bag. 
 
 Conley ran him down on the line and when 
 he tagged him out he brought the ball from his 
 hip, knocking Mullaney flat on his face. I heard 
 him grunt twenty feet away. 
 
 [338]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 "How bad did he nick you?" asks the Bald 
 Eagle when Conley limped to the bench. 
 
 "Just broke the skin, Mister Patten. It 
 stings a little that s all." 
 
 "Let s have a look at it." 
 
 "It s not worth skinning down the stocking 
 for. It 11 be all right in a minute. 
 
 Conley went over and sat down on the far 
 end of the bench, and I saw him twisting his 
 stocking so that the torn place would come on 
 the side instead of over the shin. 
 
 "There s one game rooster!" says Patten. 
 "Did you see him slam the ball into Mul- 
 laney s ribs? They ll find out pretty soon 
 that they re wasting time trying to get this 
 kid s goat." 
 
 Mind you, I don t say that Mullaney or any 
 other ballplayer would deliberately spike a 
 man. I ve played ball for nine years and I 
 never saw but one case where I felt sure the 
 spiking had been done on purpose. This was 
 probably an accident ; but after it had happened 
 and couldn t he helped it was baseball sense 
 for Mullaney to put all the blame on Conley and 
 threaten to cut him in two the next chance he 
 got. 
 
 And then Mullaney, being an infielder him 
 self, knew that nothing in the world shakes a 
 man s nerves like a spiking. I ve been cut 
 pretty badly a few times; and to this day I 
 never see a man coming at me feet first without 
 wondering whether I m going to get it again, 
 and remembering just how those steels hurt 
 
 [339]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 when they rip through the flesh and scrape the 
 bone. 
 
 Yes, Mullaney had the right system, but his 
 threats didn t seem to work on Conley. The 
 kid was all over the place like a circus tent, 
 pulling off sensational stops and going back 
 into the shadow of the grandstand after fouls. 
 He knocked down one cannon-ball drive along 
 the third-base line that was a daisy. That 
 wallop was ticketed clear through to the fence, 
 and Conley saved us one run right there and 
 possibly two. 
 
 In the fifth inning Butch Dillon, the Grizzly 
 rightfielder, went whirling into third base 
 spikes first and yelling: "Look out! Look 
 out!" But Conley didn t flinch a muscle. He 
 took the throw and put the ball on Butch as 
 clean as you would wish. 
 
 Then, in the first of the sixth just to make 
 it more binding Conley got hold of one of 
 Olson s fast shoots and hammered it over 
 Dillon s head, scoring me from second with the 
 first run of the game. 
 
 The kid was spry enough on the field, but I 
 noticed that he limped badly coming and going 
 between innings; and once he poured some 
 water on his stocking and let it soak in. I was 
 sitting beside him when he did it and heard 
 him suck in his breath the way my little boy 
 does when he cuts his finger. That tipped it 
 to me that his shin was hurting him more than 
 he would admit and I gave him credit for 
 gameness. 
 
 [340]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 Well, the game boomed along into the ninth 
 inning, still 1 to 0; so we had an edge of one 
 run when they went to bat in the last half. All 
 we had to do was blank em again and the long 
 end of the money was ours. I was already 
 reading the figures on my check. 
 
 It was the pitcher s turn to hit; and Neville, 
 the Grizzly manager, yanked Olson and sent 
 Bradner up to bat for him. At the same time 
 he switched the system of attack. For eight 
 innings they had been waiting Solly out and 
 letting the first ball go by; but Bradner came 
 up with orders to clout the first one that was 
 over the plate. We hadn t seen much of Brad 
 ner in the series, but we knew he was a dan 
 gerous man with the stick. 
 
 "Hello, little one!" says Solly to Bradner. 
 "When did they let you out of the cage?" 
 
 Then he floated up a slow one on the inside. 
 Bradner stepped back, clubbed his bat short and 
 whaled the ball down at me a mile a minute on 
 the barehand side. I got two fingers on it, 
 but it ran up my arm and down my back like 
 a squirrel and Bradner was safe. The scorer 
 gave me an error on it the cross-eyed dub ! I 
 think I was lucky to stop it at all. 
 
 Butch Dillon was the next man up and he hit 
 the first ball a measly little pop-up back of 
 first base, just far enough to be mighty unhandy 
 to reach. Eddie Pine, who is a big, leggy fellow, 
 went tearing back after it and Joe Dugan came 
 tearing in from right field. We saw it was 
 Pine s ball and we all yelled: "Eddie! 
 
 [341]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Eddie!" But Joe came bulling along like a 
 steam engine, with his nose in the air; and he 
 smashed into Pine full tilt. Eddie turned a 
 complete somersault, Dugan was knocked flat 
 on his back and, of course, the ball fell as safe 
 as a government bond. 
 
 Bradner, waiting halfway between first and 
 second in case the ball should be caught, 
 reached third and Dillon sprinted to second. 
 It was all Dugan s fault for not letting Pine 
 take the ball, but his alibi was that there was 
 so much noise in the stands he didn t hear us. 
 If Joe has a weakness it s a little tendency 
 toward solid ivory. 
 
 Well, there we were, up against one of the 
 sudden switches in the luck that make baseball 
 such an uncertain proposition. A minute be 
 fore and those fans wouldn t have given a 
 smooth dime for their chances; now they were 
 all up, jumping and dancing and yelling like 
 Comanches. A minute before we thought we 
 had a cinch; now we were drawn in on the 
 grass, fighting to cut off the tying run, with a 
 possible winning run on second base and no 
 body out. 
 
 It was a desperate situation, for Dugan s 
 boneplay had unsettled us and shaken our 
 nerves. Old Solly was cackling at the next 
 batter, but it wasn t on the level with him. He 
 didn t feel any more like laughing than the rest 
 of us, but he didn t think it was policy to let 
 Shag Eobinson know it. 
 
 Shag was the next hitter the fencebuster; 
 [342]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 and we knew to a moral certainty that if the 
 first one came over he would take a crash at it. 
 I remember sort of praying that he would hit 
 it on the ground and give us a gambling chance 
 for our white alley and then Solly let fly, 
 waist high and inside. It was a slow ball, and 
 that gave Shag a chance to pull back from the 
 plate and set himself. He timed it beautifully, 
 swinging as if it were the last act of his life 
 and he wanted to use all his steam before he 
 went. 
 
 Shag put everything between his spikes and 
 his shoulders into one terrific swipe, and he 
 caught that slow ball square on the end of his 
 bat wham ! It came down toward third base, 
 level as a sunbeam and buzzing like a bee. I 
 didn t have time to untrack myself or turn my 
 head just time to think, "There goes the ball 
 game!" when out of the corner of my eye I 
 saw Conley make a lunge into the air with his 
 glove. The crack of the bat and the spat of 
 the ball against leather were like two hand 
 clasps they were that close together and 
 there was Conley, scrambling along the grass 
 after the ball ! One chance in a million and he 
 got away with it ; he had actually knocked that 
 lightning drive out of the air with a blind, one- 
 handed stab ! 
 
 Bradner was tearing for the plate, Dillon was 
 between second and third, and the tremendous 
 roar from the stands died out all at once, as if 
 a muffler had been put on it which meant that 
 every man inside the turnstiles realised that 
 
 [343]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Conley had better than an even chance to cut 
 off that tying run at the plate. The boy came 
 up from the grass with a jerk, throwing the 
 ball underhand without taking time to set him 
 self fairly on his feet. 
 
 Danny Daly, our catcher, jumped high in the 
 air and the next thing I knew Bradner had 
 scored and Dillon was pounding over the plate 
 with the run that won the game for the 
 Grizzlies. After making a stop that was noth 
 ing short of a baseball miracle, Conley had 
 thrown the ball away and the World s Series 
 stood a tie three games apiece. 
 
 VI 
 
 We were dressing at the hotel and after the 
 game was over it was every man for himself. 
 W T e had to fight our way through a solid mob 
 of lunatics, all singing and dancing and yelling 
 that the Grizzlies would get us the next day. I 
 finally got to one of the exits and Solly Jones 
 reached out of a taxicab and pulled me in, along 
 with Joe Dugan and Eddie Pine four of the 
 sorest people in the whole world. 
 
 "Well, the yellow showed at last!" says 
 Dugan. "I ve been expecting it would. These 
 kids ain t there in a pinch and that s why 
 they re no good in a big series. Now 
 Conley " 
 
 "Oh, shut up!" snaps Pine. "He heaved 
 one away, yes and he blew the game for us; 
 but he never should have had the chance to do 
 
 [344]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 it. Who was the fool that put those runs on 
 the bases! Who knocked me on my ear when 
 I was just going to grab Dillon s fly? You 
 make me sick!" 
 
 "Well, at that, there was no excuse for 
 Conley chucking that ball away!" says Solly. 
 "He had plenty of time to get Bradner; but 
 he lost his head completely. That bum heave 
 of his is likely to cost us the series; these 
 fellows are going to be a tough bunch to beat 
 to-morrow, coming from behind and grabbing 
 us this way ! Gee ! That was a hard game to 
 blow!" 
 
 Between us we gave Conley quite a panning 
 though Pine wouldn t let Dugan open his 
 mouth once. We were pretty well shaken up 
 and we didn t relish the idea of going against 
 a club that had beaten us out twice in whirl 
 wind finishes. Somebody had to be the goat 
 and Conley was elected. We didn t give him 
 any credit for the good plays he d made. That 
 is never done after a losing game. You can 
 save one nine times by sensational fielding ; but 
 lose it and you re first cousin to a yellow dog. 
 
 We dressed in our rooms and met in the lobby 
 afterward. Conley wasn t there and neither 
 was Husky Mathews, who shared his room with 
 him. We were all sitting round, with our hats 
 pulled down over our eyes, talking out of the 
 sides of our mouths and roasting Conley to a 
 fare-ye-well, when Husky Mathews stepped out 
 of the elevator. He listened to the anvil chorus 
 for a few minutes and there was a queer look 
 
 [345]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 on his face. Joe Dugan was expressing him 
 self pretty freely and all at once Mathews broke 
 out, short and savage: 
 
 "Conley s yellow, is he? I wish some of you 
 game fellows that never quit in your lives 
 would go up to Number Four-twenty-two and 
 take a look at the leg that kid has been playing 
 on all the afternoon! Yellow! I don t like a 
 bone in his head, but I can lick anybody who 
 says he s yellow!" 
 
 There was silence after that, because Husky 
 looked as if he meant it. 
 
 "Was he hurt bad!" asks Solly Jones. 
 
 "Go and look, you soreheads!" says Husky, 
 heading for the bar. 
 
 Half a dozen of us went upstairs. The tran 
 som of Conley s room was open and we heard 
 voices. Old Absalom was in there with him. 
 The darky was almost crying. 
 
 "Boy, fo heaven s saik," he says, "why 
 didn t yo tell me? Dis laig oughta been 
 tended to as soon as it was hurt ! Yo wanter 
 ruin yo self fo life? Misteh Patten he sho 
 will be wild when he sees how bad yo is cut 
 up! Whyn t yo say something?" 
 
 "Say something!" says Conley, shrill and 
 excited. "Who did they have to put in my 
 place? Nobody that knows how to work with 
 that infield like I do. If I had peeled that 
 stocking down Patten would have taken me out 
 of the game you know he would! I couldn t 
 quit, Absalom; I had to stick and do the best 
 I could. When I jumped after that ball it felt 
 
 [346]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 as if my leg was coming off, and the pain sort 
 of turned me sick all over and dizzy. I just 
 had to throw blind it hunt so I couldn t 
 see!" 
 
 "Dere now, honey! Dere now!" says 
 Absalom. "I wouldn t be frettin myself if 
 Ise yo . Dey all throw em away bes playehs 
 in the land do it sometimes; but dey don t all 
 have so good a excuse as yo got, an dey ain t 
 a-many of em game enough to go seven innin s 
 on a laig hurt like dis one is. No, suh!" 
 
 But I lost the game ! says Conley. * I lost 
 the game! And think of what that means to 
 the other fellows! I know I don t get along 
 very well with em, but I d rather have had my 
 leg cut clear off than give em a chance to say 
 that I threw em down! And now I can t play 
 to-morrow; and " 
 
 I heard something that made me back away 
 from the door. We went out to the elevator 
 and Solly Jones took charge of affairs. 
 
 "Hines," says he, "go downstairs and bring 
 up every man on the team every one of em. 
 You can tell em what you ve heard. This 
 Conley business has got to be fixed up now!" 
 
 We didn t give him a chance to say he 
 wouldn t see us. We opened the door and 
 marched in. Conley was sitting on the edge 
 of the bed with his foot in a basin of warm 
 water; and Absalom, on his knees, was working 
 over the nastiest spike cut I ever saw and I 
 hope I ll never see another one like it a deep, 
 ragged cut five inches long, clear to the bone. 
 
 [347]
 
 SCORE BY INNINGS 
 
 Knowing how spikes feel, it made me ache all 
 over just to look at it. 
 
 Conley s face hardened as we came crowding 
 into the room, but he couldn t hide the tear 
 marks on his cheeks. For a few seconds there 
 wasn t a sound in the place except hard breath 
 ing; the fellows hadn t expected that it would 
 be so bad and it sort of took em by surprise. 
 Solly Jones got down on the floor and examined 
 the cut, whistling a little between his teeth. 
 
 "You played all the afternoon with that!" 
 says he. 
 
 Conley nodded. I don t think he could have 
 said anything just then, even if he had wanted 
 to. Solly looked up at the rest of us ; and then 
 he turned to Conley. 
 
 "If you don t mind," said he, "I ll shake you 
 by the hand and we ll take twenty minutes for 
 a new book. I ve always wanted to meet the 
 gamest guy in this business. I m for you, 
 Conley win, lose or draw! Put her there, 
 kid!" 
 
 Conley looked at him for a minute and then 
 he held out his hand. 
 
 "All right, Solly," said he. "All right. 
 You pitched a swell game and I m sorry I 
 threw it away for you " 
 
 Then he choked. Well, I guess there were 
 others of us that choked too. It might have 
 been damp round there in a minute but for 
 Solly Jones. 
 
 "Gentlemen and roughnecks," says he, 
 "allow me to present Spike Conley!" 
 
 [348]
 
 MISTER CONLEY 
 
 So he s Spike Conley now and the Mister 
 thing is a joke with all of us. We call him the 
 best third baseman in the world. We may be 
 shading it a little at that but he s surely the 
 gamest. 
 
 Oh, you want to know about that seventh 
 game ? We won it in a walk, thank you Spike 
 sitting on the bench all done up in bandages. 
 And I d be ashamed to tell you what Joe 
 Dugan did to Mike Mullaney after the series 
 was over. 
 
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 LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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