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THE SHORTSTOP (1909) [Part 1]

DEDICATION

To My Brother, Reddy Grey,

To Arthur Irwin, My Coach and Teacher,

To Roy Thomas and Ray Kellogg, Fellow-Players and Friends,

And to All the Girls and All the Boys

Who Love the…

GRAND OLD AMERICAN GAME

CHAPTER I

PERSUADING MOTHER

Chase Calloway hurried out of the factory door and bent his steps homeward. He wore a thoughtful, anxious look, as of one who expected trouble. Yet there was a briskness in his stride that showed the excitement under which he labored was not altogether unpleasant.

In truth, he had done a strange and momentous thing; he had asked the foreman for higher wages, and being peremptorily refused, had thrown up his place and was now on his way home to tell his mother.

He crossed the railroad tracks to make a short cut, and threaded his way through a maze of smoke-blackened buildings, to come into narrow street lined with frame houses. He entered a yard that could not boast of a fence, and approached a house as unprepossessing as its neighbors.

Chase hesitated on the steps, then opened the door. There was no one in the small, bare, clean kitchen. With a swing which had something of an air of finality about it, he threw his dinner-pail into a corner.

“There!” he said grimly, as if he had done with it. “Mother, where are you?”

Mrs. Alloway came in, a slight little woman, pale, with marks of care on her patient face. She greeted him with a smile, which faded quickly in surprise and dismay.

“You’re home early, Chase,” she said anxiously.

“Mother, I told you I was going to ask for more money. Well, I did. The foreman laughed at me and refused. So I threw up my job.”

“My boy! My boy!” faltered Mrs. Alloway.

Chase was the only breadwinner in their household of three. His brother, a bright, studious boy of fifteen, was a cripple. Mrs. Alloway helped all she could with her needle, but earned little enough. The winter had been a hard one, and had left them with debts that must be paid. It was no wonder she gazed up at him in distressed silence.

“I’ve been sick of this job for a long time,” went on Chase. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. There’s no chance for me in the factory. I’m not quick enough to catch the hang of mechanics. Here I am over seventeen and big and strong, and I’m making six dollars a week. Think of it! Why, if I had a chance— See here, mother, haven’t I studied nights ever since I left school to go to work? I’m no dummy. I can make something of myself. I want to get into business—business for myself, where I can buy and sell.”

“My son, it takes money to go into business. Where on earth can you get any?”

“I’ll make it,” replied Chase, eagerly. A flush reddened his cheek. He would have been handsome then, but for his one defect, a crooked eye. “I’ll make it. I need money quick—and I’ve hit on the way to make it. I—”

“How?”

The short query drew him up sharply, chilling his enthusiasm. He paced the kitchen, and then, with a visible effort, turned to his mother.

“I am going to be a baseball player.”

The murder was out now and he felt relief. His mother sat down with a little gasp. He waited quietly for her refusal, her reproach, her arguments, ready to answer them one by one.

“I won’t let you be a ball player.”

“Mother, since father left us to shift for ourselves, I’ve been the head of the house. I never disobeyed you before, but now— I’ve thought it out. I’ve made my plan.”

“Bah. Players are good-for-nothing loafers, rowdies. I won’t have my son associate with them.”

“They’ve a bad name, I’ll admit; but, mother, I don’t think it’s deserved. I’m not sure, but I believe they’re not so black as they are painted. Anyway, even if they are, it won’t hurt me. I’ve an idea that a young man can be square and successful in baseball as in anything else. I’d rather take any other chance, but there isn’t any.”

“Oh! The disgrace of it! Your father would—”

“Now, see here, mother, you’re wrong. It’s no disgrace. Why, it’s a thousand times better than being a bartender, and I’d be that to help along. As for father,” his voice grew bitter, “if he’d been the right sort, we wouldn’t be here in this hovel. You’d have what you were once used to, and I’d be in school.”

“You’re not strong enough; you would get hurt,” protested the mother.

“Why, I’m as strong as a horse. I’m not afraid of being hurt. Ever since last summer when I made such a good record with the factory nine this idea has been growing. They say I’m one of the fastest boys in Akron, and this summer the big nine at the round-house wants me. It’s opened my eyes. With a little more experience, I could get on a salaried team somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t go away?”

“I’ll have to. And, for another thing, I want to go at once.”

Mrs. Alloway felt the ground slipping from under her. She opened her lips to make further remonstrance, but Chase kissed them shut, and keeping his arm around her, led her into the sitting-room. A pale youth, slight, like his mother, sat reading by a window.

“Will,” said Chase, “I’ve some news for you. Can you get through school, say in a year or less, and prepare for college?”

The younger boy looked up with a slight smile, such as he was wont to use in warding off Chase’s persistent optimism. The smile said sadly that he knew he would never go to college. But something in Chase’s straight eye startled him, then his mother’s white, agitated face told him this was different. He rose and limped a couple of steps toward them, a warm color suddenly tingeing his cheeks.

“What do you mean?” he questioned.

Then Chase told him. In conclusion he said: “Will, there’s big money in it. Three thousand a season is common, five for a great player. Who knows? Anyway, there’s from fifty to a hundred a month even in these Ohio and Michigan teams, and that’ll do to start with. You just take this from me: there’ll be a comfortable home for mother, you’ll go to college, and later I’ll get into business. It’s all settled. What do you think of it?”

“It’s great!” exclaimed Will, slamming down his book. There was a flame in his eyes.

Mrs. Alloway dropped her hands. She was persuaded. That from Will was the last straw. Tears began to fall.

“Mother, don’t be unhappy,” said Chase. “I am suited for something better than factory work. There’s a big chance for me here. Mind you, I’m only seventeen. Suppose I play ball for a few years. I’ll save my money, and when I’m twenty-two or twenty-five I can start a business of my own. It looks good to me!”

“But, my boy—if it—ruins you!”

“I don’t like to see Chase leave us,” said Will, “but I’m not afraid of that.”

Mrs. Alloway dried her eyes, called up her smile, and told them she was not afraid of it either. Thereafter her composure did not leave her, though her sensitive lips quivered when she saw Chase packing a small grip.

“I don’t want to take much,” he mused, “and most of all I’ll want my glove and ball-shoes. Will, isn’t it lucky about the shoes that college man gave me? They’re full of spikes. I’ve never played in them, but I tried them on, and I’ll bet I can run like a streak in them.”

It was not long after that when he kissed his mother as she followed him to the doorway. Will limped after him a little way down the path and shook hands for the tenth time. His eyes were wet as his mother’s, but Chase’s were bright and had a bold look.

“Chase, I never saw anyone who could run and throw like you, and I believe you’ll make the greatest player in the whole country. Don’t forget. It’ll be hard at first. But you hang on! Hang on! There! Good luck! Good-bye!”

Chase turned at the corner of the street and waved to them. There was a lump in his throat which was difficult to swallow. But it was too late to go back, so he struck out bravely.

CHAPTER II

RIDING AWAY

The fact that Chase had no objective point in mind did not detract from the new and absorbing charm of his situation. No more would he breathe the dust-laden air nor hear the din of the factory. He was free; free to go where he listed, to see new people and places, to find his fortune. He crushed back the pain in his throat; he reconciled himself to the parting from his mother and brother by the assurance that so he could serve them best.

It was twilight when he reached the railroad tracks, where he stopped momentarily. Would he go to the left or to the right? A moment only did he tarry undecided; after all, there was only one course for him to start on and keep to, whether of direction or purpose, and that was to the right.

Darkness had settled down by the time he came to the outskirts of the town, and now secure in the belief that he would not be seen, he stopped to wait for a train. It was out of the question for him to think of riding in a passenger train. That cost money; and he must save what little he had. On Saturdays, before he left school, he had ridden on freight trains; and what he had done for fun he would now do in earnest. Some of the railroads running into town forbade riding, others did not care; and Chase took his stand by the track of one of the generous roads.

The electric lights shot up brightly, like popping stars out of the darkness, and white glow arched itself over the town. Soon the shrill screech of a locomotive split the silence, then a rumbling and puffing told of an outward bound freight. The gleam of a headlight streaked along the rails. Chase saw with satisfaction that the train was on his track, but he had an uneasy feeling that it was running too fast to be boarded.

The huge black engine, like a one-eyed demon, roared by, shaking the earth. Chase watched the cars rattle by and tried to gauge their speed. It was so dark he could scarcely see, but he knew the train was running too fast to catch with safety. Still he did not hesitate. He waited a moment for an oil-car, and as one came abreast he dashed with it down the track. Reaching up with his left hand, he grasped a handlebar. Instantly he was swung upward and slapped against the car. But Chase knew that swing, and it did not break his hold. As he dropped back to an upright position he felt for the footstep, found it, and was safe.

He climbed aboard and sat against the oil-tank, placing his grip beside him. He laughed as he wiped the sweat from his brow. That was a time when the fun of boarding a freight did not appear. The blackness was all about him now; fields and woods and hills blurring by. The wind sang in his ears and cooled his face. The stars blinked above. The rasp and creak of the cars, the rhythmic click of the rails, the roar and rumble, were music to him, for they sang of the passing miles between him and wherever he was going.

Lights of villages twinkled by like Jack-o’-lanterns. These were succeeded after a while by the blank dim level of open country, that to Chase swept by monotonously for hours. Then a whistle enlivened him. He felt the engineer put on the air-brake, then the bumping and jarring of cars, and the grinding of wheels.

As the train slowed up, Chase made ready to jump off. He did so presently, expecting to see the lights of a town, but there were none. He saw the shadow of a block-signal house against the dark sky and concluded the engineer had stopped for orders at a junction-crossing. Chase hurried along the tracks, found an open boxcar, and climbed in.

It was an empty car with a layer of hay on the floor. He groped his way in the gloom, found a corner, and lay down with his head on his grip. It was warm and comfortable there; he felt tired. A drowsiness overcame the novelty of his situation, and he was falling asleep when he heard voices. Then followed the shuffling and scrambling noise made by several men climbing into the car. They went into another corner.

For a while he could not make out the meaning of their low, hoarse whispering; but as it grew louder he caught the drift. The men were thieves; they had robbed someone and were quarrelling over the spoils. One was a negro, judging by his voice, and it was evident the other two were leagued against him.

The train started up with a rattle and clatter, gathered headway, and rolled on with steady roar. From time to time Chase heard angry voices even above the din of the wheels. He was thankful for the dark and the noise. What they might do if they discovered him caused him to grow cold with fear. He shrank into the corner and listened.

Whether it was after a few minutes or a long hour he had no idea, but when the whistle shrieked out again and the train slackened for another stop, he realized the thieves were fighting. Hoarse cries and sodden blows, curses, and a deep groan told of a deed of violence.

“Let’s beat it,” whispered one, in the sudden silence. “Here comes a brake.”

The train had stopped. Footsteps grated outside, and streaks of light flickered into the car. Chase saw two men jump from the door and heard a brake man accost them. He lay there trembling. What if the brakeman flashed his light into the car? What would be seen in the other corner? But the footsteps died away. Before he noticed it the train got in motion again; and he lay there wavering till the speed became so great that he dared not jump off.

To ride with a dead thief was not so frightful as to ride with a live one, thought Chase, but it was bad enough. His mind began to focus on one point, that he must get out of the car, and the more he thought the more fearful grew his state. While he lay there the train rolled on and the time flew by. All at once it appeared the blackness had given way to gray shadow. It grew lighter and lighter. He rose and went to the door. Day was dawning.

The train was approaching a hamlet and ran parallel with a dusty road. Without a second’s hesitation Chase leaped from the car. Through a rush of wind he alighted on his feet, bounced high, to fall heavily and roll over and over in the dust.

CHAPTER III

FAME

Chase would have sustained worse bruises than he got to rid himself of the atmosphere of that car. When he was once free of it, however, he fell to wondering if the negro were really killed. Perhaps he had only been wounded and was in need of assistance that Chase could have rendered. This thought cut him, but he dismissed it from mind, and addressed himself once more to his problem.

The village consisted of a few cottages; there was no railroad station, and on a siding stood a car marked T. & O. C.

Chase sat in the grass beside the track and did not know whether to walk on or wait for another train. Meanwhile, the sun rose warm and bright, shining on the bursting green leaves; meadowlarks sang in a field near by, and flocks of blackbirds winged irregular flight overhead.

That May morning was full of life and hope for Chase, but even so, when two hours passed by with no train or even person putting in appearance, he began to grow restless and presently made a remarkable discovery. He was hungry. He had not given a thought to such a thing as eating. It was rather discomfiting to awaken to the fact that even in quest of fortune, meals were necessary.

A column of blue smoke was curling lazily from one of the cottages, and thither Chase made his way. He knocked on the kitchen door, which was opened by a woman.

“Good-morning,” said Chase.

“May I have a bite to eat?”

“You ain’t a tramp?” queried she, eying him shrewdly.

“No, indeed. I can pay.”

“I thought not. Tramps don’t say ‘Good-mornin’. I reckon you kin hev somethin’. Sit on the bench there.”

She brought him milk, and bread and butter, and a generous slice of ham. While he was eating, a boy came out to gaze at him with round eyes, and later a lanky man with pointed beard walked up the path, his boots wet with dew.

“Mornin’,” he said cheerily, “be yew travellin’ fur?”

“Quite far, I guess,” replied Chase. “How far is Columbus, or the first big place?”

“Wal, now, Columbus is a mighty long way, much as fifty miles, I calkilate. An’ the nearest town to hum here is Jacktown, cross fields some five miles. It’s a right pert place. It’ll be lively today, by gum!”

“Why?” said Chase, with his mouth full of ham.

“Wal, Jacktown an’ Brownsville hev it out today, an’ I’ll bet it’ll be the dog-gondest ball game as ever was.”

“Ball game!”

“You bet. Jacktown ain’t ever been beat, an’ neither has Brownsville. They’ve been some time gittin’ together, but today’s the day. An’ I’ll be there.”

“I’m going, too,” said Chase, quietly. “I’m a ball player.”

After Chase had crossed this Rubicon, he felt more confident. He knew he would have to say it often, and he wanted practice. And the importance of his declaration was at once manifest in the demeanor of the man and the boy.

“Wal, I swan! You be, be you? I might hev knowed it, a strappin’ young feller like you.”

The boy’s round eyes grew rounder and took on the solemn rapture of hero worship.

“How might I find my way to Jacktown?” inquired Chase.

“You might wait an’ ride with me. Thet road leads over, ’round about. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, I shan’t wait. I’ll walk over. Good-day.”

Chase headed into the grassy lane without knowing exactly why. The word “game” had attracted him, as well as the respective merits of the two teams; but it was mostly that he wanted to play. After consideration, it struck him that he would do well to get into a few games before he made application to a salaried team.

He spent the morning lounging along the green lane, sitting under a tree, and on a mossy bank of a brook, and killing time in pretty places, so that when he reached Jacktown it was noon.

At the little tavern where he had lunch, the air was charged with the electricity of a coming storm. The place was crowded with youths and men of homely aspect; all were wildly excited over the baseball game. He was regarded with an extraordinary amount of interest; and finally, when a tall individual asked him if he were a ball player, to be answered affirmatively, there was a general outburst.

“He’s a ringer! Brownsville knowed they’d git beat with their home team, so they’ve loaded up!”

That was the burden of their refrain, and all Chase’s stout denials in no wise mitigated their suspicion. He was a “ringer.” To them he was an object of scorn and fear, for he had come from somewhere out of the vast unknown to wrest their laurels from them.

Outside little groups had congregated on corners and in the street, and suddenly, as by one impulse, they gathered in a crowd before the tavern. Ample reason there was for this, because some scout had sighted the approach of the visiting team. Chase gathered that Brownsville was an adjoining country town, and, since time out of mind, a hated rival.

Wagons and buggies, vehicles of all kinds and descriptions, filed by on the way to the ball-grounds; and a haywagon with a single layer of hay and a full load of husky young men stopped before the tavern. The crowd inspected the load of young men with an anxiety most manifest, and soon remarks were heard testifying that the opposing team had grace enough to come with but one ringer.

The excitement, enthusiasm, and hubbub were amusing to Chase. He knew nothing of the importance of a game of ball between two country towns. While he was standing there a slim, clean-faced young man came up to him.

“My name’s Hutchinson,” he said. “I’m the school-teacher over at Brownsville, and I’m here to catch the game for our fellows. Now, it appears there’s some fuss about you being a ringer. We don’t know you, and we don’t care what Jacktown thinks. But the fact is, our pitcher hurt his arm and can’t play. Either we play or forfeit the game. If you can pitch we’ll be glad to have you. How about it?”

Chase assented readily, and moved to the haywagon with Hutchinson, while the crowd hooted and yelled. Small boys kept up a running pace with the wagon, and were not above flinging pebbles along with shouts of defiance. At the end of the village opened up a broad green meadow, upon which was the playground. There was a barn to one side, where the wagon emptied its load; and here the young men went within to put on their uniforms.

The uniform handed to Chase was the one belonging to the disabled pitcher, who must have been a worthy son of Ajax. For Chase was no stripling, yet he was lost in its reach and girth. The color of it stunned him. Brightest of bright red flannel, trimmed with white stripes, with white cotton stockings, this gorgeous suit voiced the rustic lads’ enthusiasm for the great national game.

But when Chase went outside and saw the uniforms decorating the proud persons of the Jacktown nine, he could hardly suppress a wild burst of mirth. For they wore blue caps, pink shirts, green trousers, and red stockings. Most of them were minus shoes, and judging from their activity were as well off without them.

What was most striking to Chase, after the uniforms, was the deadly earnestness of the players of both teams. This attitude toward the game extended to the spectators crowding on the field. Chase did not need to be told that the whole of Jacktown was present and much of Brownsville.

Hutchinson came up to Chase then, tossed a ball to him, and said they had better have a little practice. After Chase had warmed up he began throwing the ball with greater speed and giving it a certain twist which made it curve. This was something he had recently learned. At first Hutchinson was plainly mystified; he could not get his hands on the ball. It would hit him on the fingers or wrists, and finally a swift in-shoot struck him in the stomach. Wherefore he came up to Chase and said:

“I never saw a ball jump like that. What’d you do to it?”

“I’m throwing curves.”

A light broke over the schoolmaster’s face, and it was one of pleasure. “I’ve read about it. You are throwing the new way. But these lads never heard of a curve. They’ll break their backs trying to hit the ball. Now tell me how I shall know when you are going to throw a curve.”

“You sign for what you want. When you kneel back of the batter sign to me, one finger for fastball, two fingers for a curve.”

“Good!” cried Hutchinson.

After a little more practice, he managed with the aid of his lately acquired knowledge to get in front of Chase’s curves and to stop them. Presently a pompous individual wearing the Jacktown uniform came up to Chase and Hutchinson.

“Battin’ order,” he said, waving his pencil.

Hutchinson gave the names of his players, and when he mentioned Chase’s the Jacktown man either misunderstood or was inclined to be facetious.

“Chaseaway? Is thet his name? Darn me, if he won’t chase away to the tall timber.”

He was the captain, and with a great show of authority called both teams ’round the home plate for the purpose of being admonished, lectured, and told how to play the game by the umpire. Chase had not seen this official, and when he did see him his jaw dropped. The umpire wore skin-tight velveteen knee-trousers, black stockings, and low shoes with buckles. His striped shirt was arranged in a full blouse, and on the side of his head was stuck very wonderfully a small, jaunty cap. He addressed the players as if he were the arbiter of fate, and he lifted his voice so that the audience could receive the benefit of his eloquence and understand perfectly the irrevocable nature of the decision he was about to render. In conclusion, he recited a number of baseball rules in general and ground-rules in particular, most remarkable in themselves and most glaringly designed to favor the home team.

Chase extracted from the complexity of one of these rules that on a passed ball behind the catcher, or an overthrow at first, when Jacktown was at bat the player could have all the bases he could make; and when Brownsville was at bat, for some inscrutable reason, this same rule did not hold.

Then this master of ceremonies ordered the Jacktown team into the field, tripped like a ballet-dancer to his position behind the catcher, and sang out in a veritable clarion blast: “P-l-a-y b-a-w-l!”

Chase could scarcely remove his gaze from the umpire, but as his turn to bat came in the first inning he directed his attention to the Jacktown pitcher. He remembered that someone had said this important member of the Jacktowns was the village blacksmith.

After one glance, Chase did not doubt it. The pitcher was a man of enormous build, and his bared right arm looked like a branch of a rugged oak-tree. The first ball he shot toward the home-plate resembled a thin white streak.

“O-n-e S-t r-i-k-e!” shrieked the umpire.

Two more balls similar to the first retired the batter, and three more performed the same office for the second batter. It was Chase’s turn next. He was a natural hitter, and had perfect confidence. But as the first ball zipped past him, looking about the size of a pea, he knew he had never before faced such terrific speed. Nor did he have power to see in that farmer blacksmith one of the greatest pitchers the game was ever to produce. Chase struck at the next two balls and was called out. Then the Jacktown players trooped in, to the wild clamor of their supporters.

When Chase saw some of the big Jacktown fellows swing their bats he knew he would have an easy time with them, for they stood with their feet wide apart, and held their bats with the left hand over the right, which made a clean, straight swing impossible. He struck out the first three batters on nine pitched balls.

For several innings it went on in that manner, each club blanking the other. When Brownsville came in for their fifth inning at bat, Chase got Hutchinson to call all the players ’round him in a bunch.

“Boys,” he said, “we can hit this Jacktown pitcher. He throws a straight ball, almost always waist-high. Now, you all swing too hard. Let’s choke the bat, hold it halfway up instead of by the handle, and poke at the ball. Just meet it.”

The first player up, acting on Chase’s advice, placed a stinging hit into right field. Whereupon the Brownsville contingent on the sidelines rose in a body and roared their appreciation of this feat. The second batter hit a ground ball at the shortstop, who fielded it perfectly, but threw wild to the base-man. And the third hitter sent up a very high fly.

The whole Jacktown team made a rush to try to catch the ball when it came down. It went so high that it took sometime to drop, all of which time the Brownsville runners were going like mad ’round the bases. When the ball returned to earth, so many hands were raised to clutch it that it bounced away to the ground. One runner had scored, and two were left, on second and third bases respectively.

Chase walked to the plate with determination. He allowed the first ball to go by, but watched it closely, gauging its speed and height. The next one he met squarely with a solid crack. It shot out over second base, went up and up, far beyond the fielder. Amid the delirious joy of the Brownsville partisans the two runners scored ahead of Chase, and before the ball could be found, he too reached home.

The Jacktown players went to pieces after that, and fumbled so outrageously and threw so erratically that Brownsville scored three more runs before the inning was over.

Plain it was that when Jacktown came in for their bat, nothing short of murder was impossible for them. They were wild-eyed, and hopped along the baselines like Indians on the war-path. But yell and rage and strive all they knew how, it made no difference. They simply could not get their bats to connect with Chase’s curves. They did not know what was wrong.

Chase delivered a slow, easy ball that apparently came sailing like a balloon straight for the plate, and just as the batter swung his bat, the ball suddenly swerved so that he hit nothing but the air. Some of them spun around, so viciously did they swing, but not one of them so much as touched the ball.

The giant pitcher grunted like an ox when he made his bat whistle through the air; and every time he swung at one of the slow, tantalizing balls to miss it, he frothed at the mouth in his fury. His reputation as a great hitter was undone that day, and he died hard.

In the eighth inning, with the score 11 to 0, matters were serious when the Jacktown team came in for their turn at bat. They whispered mysteriously and argued aloud, and acted altogether like persons possessed. When the first batter faced Chase the other players crowded behind the plate, where already a good part of the audience was standing.

“It’s his eye, his crooked eye,” said one player, pointing an angry finger. “See thet! You watch him, an’ you think he’s goin’ to pitch the ball one way, an’ it comes another. It’s his crooked eye, I tell you!”

A sympathetic murmur from the other players and the crowd attested to the value of this remarkable statement. The first batter struck futilely at the balls, getting slower and more exasperating, and when he had missed three he slammed his bat on the ground and actually jumped up and down in his anger. The second batter aimed at a slow coming ball and swung with all his might, only to hit a hole in the air.

With that the umpire tripped lightly before the plate, and standing on his tiptoes, waved his hand to the spectators. His eyes were staring with excitement, and on his cheek blazed the hue of righteous indignation.

“Ga-me cal-led!” he yelled in his penetrating tenor. “Game called, 9 to 0, favor Jacktown! BROWNSVILLE PITCHER THROWS A CROOKED BALL!”

Pandemonium broke loose among the spectators. They massed on the field in inextricable confusion. The noise was deafening. Hats were in the air, and coats, and everything available for throwing up.

Hutchinson fought his way through the crazy crowd, and grasping Chase pulled him with no gentle hand from the mob in the direction of the barn. Once out of the tumult, he said, “Hurry and change. I don’t like the looks of things. These Jacktown fellows are rough. I think we’d better hurry out of town.”

It was all so amusing to Chase that he could not help laughing, but soon Hutchinson’s sober aspect, and the wild anger of the other Brownsville players, who poured noisily into the barn, put a different coloring on the affair. What had been pure fun for him was plainly a life-and-death matter to these rustics. They divided their expression in mauling Chase with fervid congratulations and declarations of love, and passionate denunciations of the umpire and the whole Jacktown outfit.

Suddenly, as loud shouts sounded outside the barn, Hutchinson ran out, to return at once with a startled look.

“You’ve got to run for it!” he cried. “They’re after you; they’re in a devil of a temper. They’ll ride you on a fence-rail, or tar and feather you. Hurry! You can’t reason with them now. Run for it. You can’t wait to dress.”

One look down the field was sufficient for Chase. The Jacktown players were marching toward the barn. The blacksmith led the way, and over his shoulder hung a long fence-rail. Behind them the crowd came yelling.

“Run for it!” cried Hutchinson, greatly excited. “I’ll fetch your clothes.”

Chase had removed all his uniform except stockings and shoes, and he had put on his shirt. Grabbing up his hat, trousers, and coat, he bounded out of the door and broke down the field like a scared deer.

When the crowd saw him they let out a roar that lent wings to his feet. It frightened him so that he dropped his trousers, and he did not dare stop to recover them. Over his shoulder he saw the Jacktown players, with the huge pitcher in the lead, start after him.

The race was close only for a few moments. Chase possessed a fleetness of foot that now served him in good stead, and undoubtedly had never appeared to such advantage.

With his hair flying in the wind, with his shirt-tails standing straight out behind him, he sped down the field, drawing so rapidly away that his pursuers seemed not to be running at all.

CHAPTER IV

VICISSITUDE

Not until he had leaped fences and crossed half a dozen fields did Chase venture to look back. When he did so, he saw with immense relief that he had distanced his pursuers. Several were straggling along in front of the others, but all stopped running presently, to send after him a last threatening shout.

It made Chase as angry as a wet hornet. With all the power of his lungs he yelled back at them: “Hayseeds! Hayseeds!”

Then at sight of his bare knees he took to laughing till he nearly cried. What would his brother Will have thought of that run? What would his mother have thought? This last sobered him instantly. Whenever he remembered her, the spirit of adventure fled, leaving him with only the uncertainty of his situation.

“It won’t do to think of mother,” he soliloquized, “for then I’ll lose my nerve. Now what’ll I do if those dunder-headed hayseeds steal my pants? I’ll be in a bad fix.”

He climbed a knoll which stood about a mile from the ball-grounds, and from which he could see the surrounding country. The sun slowly sank in the west. Chase watched and watched and strained his eyes, but he could not see anyone coming. The sun went down, leaving a red glow behind the hills; twilight, like a gray shadow seemed to steal toward him from the fields.

He had noted a haystack at the foot of the knoll, and after one more hopeless glance over the darkening meadows, he went down to it. He had visited farms in the country often enough to know that haystacks left to the cattle usually had caves in them; and he found this one with a deep cavern, dry, sheltered, and sweetly odorous of musty hay.

“If things keep up the way they’ve started for me, I’m likely to find worse beds than this,” he muttered.

He discovered he was very tired, and that the soft hay was conducive to a gradual relaxing of his muscles. But his mind whirled ’round and ’round. Would Hutchinson come? What had happened to the other Brownsville players? A savage bunch of Indians, that Jacktown nine! How easy it had been to fool them with a simple, slow outcurve!

“It’s his crooked eye! He looks one way an’ pitches another!” That jaunty umpire with his dainty shoes and velvet knickerbockers—wherever on earth did he come from?

So Chase played the game over in his mind, once more ran his desperate race, to come back to his predicament and the fear that he might not recover his trousers. At length sleep put an end to his worry.

* * * *

In the night he awoke, and seeing a bright star, which only accentuated the darkness, and smelling the fragrant hay, and hearing a strange sound, he did not realize where he was, and a chill terror crept over him. This soon passed. Still the low sound bothered him. Stretching forth his hand, he encountered a furry coat and heaving warm body. A cow had sought the shelter of the haystack and lay beside him chewing her cud.

“Hello, bossy!” said Chase. “I’d certainly rather sleep with a nice, gentle cow like you than a dead man in a boxcar.”

The strangeness of it all kept him awake for a while. The night was very quiet, the silence being unbroken save for the “peep, peep,” of spring frogs and the low munch beside him. He asked himself if he were afraid, and said “No,” but was not sure. Things seemed different in the dark and loneliness of night. Then his brother’s words, “Hang on!” rang out of the silence, and repeating these in his heart, he treasured up strength for the future, and once more fell asleep.

* * * *

The sun was rosy red on the horizon when he awakened. His gentle friend stood browsing on the grass near at hand, and by way of beginning the day well, he said, “Goodmorning” to her.

“Now what to do!” he said, seriously. “There’s no use to expect anyone now, and no use to go back to look for my trousers.”

The problem seemed unsolvable, when he saw a farmer in the field, evidently come out to drive up the cows. Chase covered his nakedness as well as possible with his coat, and hailed him. The farmer came up, slapped his knee with a big hand, and guffawed.

“Gol darn my buttons, if it ain’t thet Chaseaway fellar! Say, I was over there yestiddy an’ seen the whole show. Best thing I ever seen, b’gosh! I’m a Brownsville boy, I am. Now you come along with me. I’ll git a pair of overalls fer you an’ a bite to eat. But you must light out quicker’n you’d say ‘Jack Robinson,’ fer two of my farmhands played yestiddy, an’ they’re hoppin’ mad.”

The kind-hearted farmer hid Chase in a woodshed near his house and presently brought him a pair of overalls and some breakfast. Chase right gladly covered his chilly legs. Once more he felt his spirits rise. Fortunately his pocketbook had been in his coat, so it a was not lost. When he offered to pay the farmer, that worthy refused to accept any money and said he and everybody who was ever born in Brownsville were everlastingly bound to be grateful to a lad called Chaseaway.

Then, under direction from the farmer, Chase started cross-country with the intention of finding the railroad and making for Columbus. When he reached the railroad, he had to take the spikes off his baseball shoes, for they hurt his feet. He started westward along the track. Freight trains passed him going too fast for him to board, so he walked all day. Nightfall found him at a village, where after waiting an hour he caught a westbound freight and reached Columbus at ten o’clock. He stumbled ’round over the tracks in the yards, climbed over trains, and made his way into the city. He secured a room in a cheap lodging-house and went to bed.

In the morning he got up bright and early, had breakfast, and bought a copy of the Ohio State Journal. He knew Columbus had a baseball team in the Tri-State League, and he wanted to read the news. The very first column he saw on the baseball page contained in flaring headlines, the words:

“CHASEAWAY, THE CROOKED-EYE WONDER, HOODOOS THE GREAT JACKTOWN NINE”

He could not believe his eyes. But the words were there, and they must have reference to him. With feverish haste he read the detailed account that followed the headlines. He gathered that the game had been telephoned to the baseball editor of the journal, who, entirely overlooking Jacktown’s tragical point of view, had written the game up in a spirit of fun. He had written it so well, and had drawn such a vivid picture of the Jacktown players, and especially of his own “chase away” with his shirttails flying, that Chase laughed despite his mortification and chagrin.

He gloomily tore out the notice, put it in his pocket, and started off to put Columbus far behind him. The allusion to his crooked eye hurt his feelings, and he resolved never to pitch another game of ball. There were other positions he could play better. It was Chase’s destiny to learn that wherever he went, his fame had preceded him.

In Black Lick he was told he might get a rail ride there; at Newark the wise-boy fans recognized him at once and hooted him off the ground before he could see the manager of the team; the Mansfield captain yelled for him to take himself and his hoodoo off into the woods; Galion players laughed in his face; Upper Sandusky wags advised him to go back to scaring crows in the cornfields.

Every small town in Ohio, as well as every large one, supported a baseball club, and Chase dragged himself and the hoodoo that haunted him from place to place.

The Niles team played him in right field one day, and, losing the game, promptly set him adrift. He got a chance on the Warren nine, and here again his hoodoo worked. Lima had a weak aggregation and readily gave him opportunity to make good. He was nervous and overstrained, and made five errors, losing the game.

He drifted to Toledo, to Cleveland, thence back to Toledo and over into Michigan. It seemed that fortune favored him with opportunities that he could not grasp. Adrian, Jackson, Lansing, Owosso, Flint—all the clubs that took him on for a game lost it, and further spread the fame of his hoodoo.

Chase’s money had long since departed from him. His clothes became ragged and unclean. Small boys called him “Hobo,” and indeed in all except heart he was that. For he rode on coal-trains and cattle-trains, and begged his few and scanty meals at the back doors of farmhouses.

In every town he came to, he would search out the baseball grounds, waylay the manager or captain, say that he was a player and ask for a chance. Toward the end of this time of vicissitude no one had interest enough in him to admit him to the grounds.

Back he worked into Ohio, growing more weary, more downhearted, till black despair fixed on his heart. One morning he awoke stiff and sore in a fence-corner outside of a town. He asked a woman who gave him bread to eat what the name of the town was, and she said Findlay.

Chase thought bitterly of how useless it would be to approach the manager of that team, for Findlay was in the league, and moreover, had been for two years the crack team of Ohio. He did not even have any intention of trying. There was nothing left for him but to go back home and beg to be taken into the factory at his old job and poor wages. They did not seem so bad now, after all his experience. Alas for his dreams!

It occurred to him in wonder that he had persisted for a long time in the face of adverse circumstances. It was now June, though he did not know the date, and he had started out in May. Why had he kept on? For weeks he had not thought of his mother and brother, and now, quite suddenly, they both flashed into his mind. Then he knew why he had persisted, and he knew more, that he would never give up.

He saw her smile, and the warm light of faith in Will’s eyes, and he heard his brother’s last words: “Hang on, Chase. Hang on!”

CHAPTER V

THE CRACK TEAM OF OHIO

In the afternoon of that day Chase, was one of the forerunners of the crowd making towards the Findlay ballpark.

Most ball-parks were situated in the outskirts of towns; Findlay, however, being a red-hot baseball centre, had its grounds right in town on a prominent street. They were inclosed with a high board fence, above which the roof of a fine grandstand was to be seen. Before the gates the irrepressible small boy was much in evidence.

As Chase came up he saw a ball fly over the stand fall to the street and bound away, with the small boys in a wild scramble after it. To secure the ball meant admission to the grounds. Quick as a flash Chase saw his opportunity and dashed across the street. He got the ball, to the infinite disgust of the small boys. The gatekeeper took it and passed Chase in.

Players in gray uniforms marked “Kenton” were practising, some out in the field, others on the diamond. Chase had never seen such a smooth baseball ground. The diamond was bare; all the rest of the field was green, level sward, closely cropped. Chase thought a fellow who could not play well there was not worth much. As the noisy crowd poured in, filling the bleachers, and more slowly the grandstand, he thrilled to think what it would mean to him to play there.

Then when the thought came of what little chance he had, the old heartsickness weighed him down again. By and by he would ask to see the manager, but for the moment he wanted to put off the inevitable.

He stood in the aisle between the grandstand and bleachers, leaning over the fence to watch the players. A loud voice attracted him. He turned to see a very large, florid man, wearing a big diamond, addressing a small man whose suit of clothes was as loud as the other fellow’s voice.

“Hey, Mac, what’s the matter with this bunch of dead ones you’ve got? Eleven straight games lost! You’re now in third place and dropping fast, after starting out to set the pace. Findlay won’t stand for it.”

The little man bit savagely at the cigar, tilting it up in line with his stub nose; and the way he frowned lowered the brim of his hat. “Sure, it’s a slump, Mr. Beekman,” he said, in conciliating tones. “Now, you know the game; you’re up; you’re up on the fine points. You ain’t like most of them wooden-headed directors. The boys ain’t been hittin’. Castorious is my only pitcher whose arm ain’t gone lame this cold spell. I’ve been weak at shortstop all this spring. But we’ll come ’round, now you just take that from me, Mr. Beekman.”

The pompous director growled something and went on up to the grandstand steps. Then a very tall fellow with wide, sloping shoulders and red hair accosted the little man.

“Say Mac, what was he beefing about? I heard him speak my name. Did he have his hammer out?”

“Hello, Cas. No, Beekman ain’t knockin’ you. He was knockin’ me. Sore on me, because we’re losin’.”

“If some of those stiffs would stay away from the grounds and stop telling us how to play the game, we’d sooner break our bad streak. Are you going to work me today?”

“How’s your arm?”

“Good. It’s getting strong. What I need is work. When I get my speed, I’ll make these puff-hitters lay down their bats.”

With that Castorious swaggered into the dressing-room under the grandstand, followed by the little manager. Chase left his post, went to the door, hesitated when he saw the place full of ball players in the various stages of dressing, and then entered and walked straight up to the manager.

“I heard you say you needed a shortstop. Will you give me a chance?”

He spoke distinctly, so that everyone in the room heard him. The manager looked up to speak when Castorious bawled out:

“Fellows, here he is! He’s been camping on our trail. I said somebody had Jonahed us. It’s the crooked-eyed hoodoo!”

Ball players are superstitious and are like sheep, inasmuch that they follow one another. The uproar that succeeded upon Castorious’s discovery showed two characteristic traits—the unfailing propensity of the players to make game of anyone, and the real anxiety with which they regarded any of the signs or omens traditionally disastrous. How well they recognized Chase showed the manner in which they followed anything written about baseball.

“Hello, there, Chaseaway!”

“Where’s your pants?”

“Hoodoo!”

“Jonah!”

“Don’t look at me with that eye.”

“To the woods for yours!”

Chase stood there bravely, with the red mantling his face, waiting for the manager to speak. Once or twice Mac attempted to make himself heard, and failing, turned on his gibing players and ordered them to shut up. Then he said:

“Are you really the fellow they’re guyin’?”

“Yes.”

“But he was a pitcher. You said you could play short.”

“I can play anywhere.”

“Let me see your mitts; stick out your hands.”

Chase’s hands were broad, heavy, with long, powerful fingers. “You’re pretty young, ain’t you? Where have you played?”

Chase told his age and briefly outlined his late experience.

“Name ‘Hoodoo’ followed you, eh? Been up against it hard?”

“Yes.”

Mac laughed and said he knew how that was, then thoughtfully pulled on his cigar. Now it chanced that he was not only an astute manager, but a born trainer of ball players as well. He never overlooked an opportunity. He had seen seedier-looking fellows than Chase develop into stars that set the baseball world afire. Nevertheless, having played the game himself, he was not exempt from its little peculiarities and superstitions. If his team had been winning, he certainly would have thrown any slant-eyed applicant out of the grounds.

His small, shrewd eyes studied Chase intently.

“I’ll play you at short today. Barnes, get this fellow a suit.”

Barnes, the groundkeeper, opened a locker and threw a uniform on the floor at Chase’s feet. His surly action was significant of how thoroughly he had assimilated his baseball education. But he did not say anything, nor did the players, for at that moment there was a stern decision about the little manager which brooked no interference.

Ordinarily Mac was the easiest-going fellow in the world, overrun and ruled by his players; sometimes, however, he showed an iron hand. But when he had left the dressing-room, a storm burst over poor Chase’s head.

“You blank-eyed idiot! What do you want to queer the team for?”

“This is a championship club, sonny.”

“Don’t look at me with your bum lamp!”

“I want my notice. I’m through with Findlay.”

“Now for the toboggan! Last place for ours!”

Used as Chase had become to the manner of badinage directed at him, he had never encountered it like this. The players spoke good-naturedly, and a laugh followed each particular sally; nevertheless they were in deadly earnest and seemed to consider his advent a calamity which he could have spared them. He dressed in silence, and avoided looking at them, as if indeed their conviction was becoming truth to him, and went out on the grounds.

He got through the few moments of practice creditably, but when the gong rang calling the players in for the game to begin, a sudden nervousness and nausea made him weak, blind, trembling. The crowded grandstand blurred indistinctly in his sight. The players moved in a sort of haze, and what he heard sounded far off.

Chase started into that game with a nightmare. When at the bat he scarcely saw the ball, and was utterly at the mercy of the Kenton pitcher. In the field he wobbled when the ball came toward him; it bounded at him like a rabbit; it was illusive and teasing, and seemed to lure him to where it was not; it popped out of his hands, and slipped like oil between his legs; it had a fiendish propensity for his shins, and though it struck sharply, seemed to leave no pain.

On the solitary occasion when he did get his hands squarely on the ball he threw it far over the first-baseman’s head, far over the right-field bleachers.

He was dimly conscious that the game was a rout; that the Findlay players, rattled by his presence, sore at his misplays, went to pieces and let Kenton make a farce out of it. He heard the growls of disapproval from the grandstand, the roar from the bleachers—the hooting and tin-canning from the small boys.

And when the game ended, he sneaked off the field, glad it was all over, and entered the dressing-room in a sick and settled hopelessness.

Roar on roar greeted him. He fell on a bench and bowed his head in his hands. The scorn, invective, anger, and caustic wit broke about his deadened ears.

Presently Castorious stalked into the room, followed by Mac and several directors of the club. Cas was frothing at the mouth; big brown freckles shone through his pale skin; his jaw set like a bulldog’s. With the demeanor of a haughty chieftain approaching a captive bound to the stake, he went up to Chase and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Say! Did anybody, did anybody, did anybody ever tell you you could play ball?”

Chase lifted his face from his hands and looked at Cas. “Yes,” he said, with a wan smile, “but I guess they were mistaken.”

Cas opened his lips to say something further, but the words never came. He took a long look at Chase, then went to his locker, sat down, and with serious, thoughtful brow began changing his clothes.

Mac’s sharp voice suddenly stilled the babel in the room. “Gentlemen, either I run this team my own way, or not at all. That’s it. I’m ready to resign now.”

“Here, here, Mac, cool down!” said one. “We’re perfectly satisfied with you. We know we couldn’t fill your place. Beekman was a little hasty. He’s a hard loser, you know. So never mind what’s been said. Pull the team out of this rut, that’s all we want. We’ve got confidence in you, and whatever you say goes. If you want money to get a new player or two to strengthen up, why speak out. Findlay must be in front.”

“Gentlemen, I don’t need any money. I’m carryin’ sixteen players now, an’ I’ve got the best team in this league. All I want is a little luck.”

“Well, here’s hoping you get it.”

The directors shook hands with Mac and filed out of the dressing-room. When they were out of hearing, the little manager turned to his players. He seemed to expand, to grow tall; his face went white, his small eyes snapped.

“Morris, go to the office an’ get your money,” he said. “Stanhope, you’ve got ten days’ notice. Ziegler, the bench for yours without pay till you can hold your tongue. Now, if any of the rest of you fellows have some ideas about runnin’ this team, sing ’em out!”

He stamped up and down the room before them, waiting with blazing eyes for their replies, but none came.

“Cas!” he shouted, confronting that individual. “Are you a liar?”

“Wha-at?” demanded Cas, throwing his head forward like a striking hawk.

“Are you a liar?”

“No, I’m not. Who says so? I’ll take a punch—”

“Did you try to pitch today?”

“I had no steam; couldn’t break a pane of glass,” replied Cas, evasively.

“Stow that talk. Did you try?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Cas, sullenly.

“Now, ain’t that a fine thing for you to do? You, the best pitcher in this league, with more ’n one big manager watchin’ your work! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

Cas did not say so, but he looked it.

“I’ve got somethin’ to say to the rest of you muckers. Of all the rotten quitters you are the worst I ever seen. That exhibition you gave today would have made a dead one out of a five thousand-volt storage battery. Here you are, a bunch of stickers that the likes of ain’t in the rest of the league—and you fall down before a measly little slow ball, a floater that babies could hit! You put the boots on every grounder in sight! You let fly balls bounce off your head! You pegged the ball in the air or at some body’s shins! It just takes a bad spell of luck to show some fellows’ yellow streaks. Saffron ain’t nothing to the color of some of you.”

As Mac paused for breath, someone grumbled: “Hoodooed!”

“Bah, You make me sick,” cried Mac. “Suppose we’ve been hoodooed? Suppose we’ve fallen into a losin’ streak? It’s time to bust somethin’, ain’t it?” Then his manner altered, his voice became soft and persuasive.

“Boys, we’ve got to break our slump. Now, there’s Cas, you all know what a great twirler he is. An’ he throwed us down. Look at the outfield. Where’s one outside of the big leagues thet can rank with mine? An’ they played today with two wooden legs. Look at Benny an’ Meade—why, today they were tied to posts. Look at reliable old Hicks behind the plate—today he missed third strikes, overthrew the bases, an’ had eight passed balls. An’ say, did any of you steady up this youngster I was givin’ a chance? Did any of you remember when you was makin’ your first bid for fast company? Now, I ain’t got no more to say to you, except we’re goin’ to brace an’ we’re goin’ through this league like sand through a sieve!”

With that he turned to Chase, who had listened and now was ready to get his summary dismissal.

“Didn’t make nothin’ of the chance you asked for, did you?” he said, brusquely.

Chase shook his head.

“Lost your nerve at the critical time, when you had a chance to make good. Here I need a shortstop who is fast, an can hit an’ throw; an’ you come along trailin’ a hoodoo an’ muss up the game. Put my team on the bum!”

Then there was a silence, in which Mac walked to and fro before Chase, who still sat with head bowed.

“Now you see what losin’ your nerve means. You’re fast as lightnin’ on your feet, you’ve got a great arm, an’ you stand up like a hitter. But you lost your nerve. A ball player mustn’t never lose his nerve. See what a chance you had? I’m weak at short. Now, after I turn you down you won’t never get such a chance again.”

He kept pacing slowly before Chase, watching him narrowly; and when Chase at last lifted his pale, sombre face from his hands, Mac came to a sudden stop. With some deliberation he put his hand into his coat pocket and brought forth a book and papers. Then in a different voice, in the same soft tones with which he had ended his talk to the other players, he said to Chase:

“Here’s twenty-five dollars advance, an’ your contract. It’s made out, so all you need to do is sign it. A hundred per month for yours! Don’t stare at me like thet. Take your contract. You’re on! An’ as sure as my name’s Mac Sandy, I’ll make a star of you!”

CHAPTER VI

FIRST INNINGS

When Chase left the grounds, his eyesight was still as blurred as it had been during the game, only now from a different source. His misery fell from him like a discarded cloak. He kept his hand deep in his right trousers’ pocket, clutching the twenty-five dollars as if it were the only solid substance to give actuality to his dream of bliss. First he thought he would send all the money to his mother; then he reflected that as he resembled the most ragged species of tramp he must spend something for at least respectable clothing. He entered a second-hand store, where he purchased for the sum of five dollars a complete outfit, even down to shoes and hat.

It was not much on style, Chase thought, but clean and without a rip or hole. With this precious bundle under his arm, he set out to find the address given him by Mac, where he could obtain board and lodging at a reasonable rate. After some inquiry he found the street and eventually the house, which, because of a much more pretentious appearance than he had supposed it would have, made him hesitate.

But following a blindly grateful resolve to do anything and everything that Mac had told him, he knocked on the door. It opened at once to show a stout matron of kindly aspect, who started somewhat as she saw him.

Chase said he had been sent there by Mac, and told his errand, whereupon the woman looked relieved.

“Exkoose me,” she replied, “come righdt in. I haf one rooms, a putty nice one, four thalers a weeg.”

She showed Chase a large room with four windows, a big white bed, a table and bureau, and chairs and a lounge; and with some difficulty managed to convey to him that he might have it and board for the sum of four dollars weekly. When he was certain she had not made a mistake he lost no time in paying her for a week is advance. Good fortune was still such a stranger to him that he wanted to insure himself against moments of doubt.

He washed and dressed himself with pleasure that had not been his for many a day. Quite diligently did he apply the comb and brush Mrs. Obenwasser had so kindly procured. His hair was long and a mass of tangles, and it was full of cinders, which reminded him grimly of his dearly earned proficiency as a nightrider on fast mail trains and slow freights.

“That’s all over, thank Heaven!” breathed Chase. “I hope I can forget it.”

But he knew he never would. When he backed away from the mirror and surveyed his clean face and neat suit, and saw therein a new Chase, the last vanishing gleam of his doubt and unhappiness left him. The supper bell, ringing at that moment, seemed to have a music of hope; and he went downstairs hungry and happy. Several young men at the table made themselves agreeable to him, introduced themselves as clerks employed downtown, and incidentally dyed-in-the-wool baseball fans. Chase gathered that Mrs. Obenwasser was a widow of some means and kept boarders more out of the goodness of her heart and pride in her table than from any real necessity.

Chase ate like a famished wolf. Never had meat and biscuits and milk and pie been so good. And it was shame that made him finally desist, not satisfied appetite.

After supper he got paper, pen, and ink from his landlady and went to his room to write home. It came to him with a sudden shock that he had never written since he left. What could they have thought? But he hastened to write, for he had good news. He told Will everything, though he skimmed over it lightly, as if his vicissitudes were but incidents in the rise of a ball player. He wrote to his mother, telling her of his good fortune, of the promise of the future, of his good health and spirits. Then he enclosed all his money, except a dollar or so in silver, in the letter and sealed it. Try as hard as he might, Chase could not prevent his tears from falling on that letter and they were sealed up with it.

Then he sallied forth to look for the post-office and incidentally to see something of Findlay. He was surprised to find it a larger and more prosperous place than he had supposed. Main Street was broad and had many handsome buildings. The avenues leading from it were macadamized and lined with maple-trees. Chase strolled ’round a block and saw many fine brick residences and substantial frame houses with vine-covered, roomy porches and large lawns. Back on Main Street again, he walked along without aim. There was a hotel on the next corner, and a number of young men were sitting outside with chairs tilted back against the window, and also on the edge of the sidewalk.

Chase had sauntered into the ken of his fellow players. “Say, fellars, will you get onto thet!”

“It’s Chaseaway!”

“Hello, Chase, old sport, come an’ have a drink.”

“Dude Thatches; we can see your finish. Our new shortstop is some on the dress himself. He’ll show you up!”

“Would you mind droppin’ your lid over thet lame blinker? I don’t want to have the willies tonight.”

Then an incident diverted their attack on Chase. Someone kicked a leg of Enoch Winter’s chair, and being already tipped far back, it overbalanced and let Enoch sprawl in the gutter. Whereupon the group howled in glee.

“Cap’n, wasser masser?” inquired Benny, trying to help Enoch to his feet and falling over him instead. Benny was drunk. Slowly Enoch separated himself from Benny and righted his chair and seated himself.

“Now, ain’t it funny?” said he.

His slow, easy manner of speaking, without a trace of resentment, made Chase look at him. Enoch was captain of the team and a man long past his boyhood. Yet there remained something boyish about him. He had a round face and a round bullet head, cropped close; round gray eyes, wise as an owl’s, and he had a round lump on his right cheek. As this lump moved up and down, Chase presently divined that it was only a puffed-out cheek over a quid of tobacco. He instinctively liked his captain and when asked to sit down in a vacant chair near at hand, he did so with the pleasant thought that at last he was one of them.

Chase sat there for over an hour, intensely interested in all of them, in what they said and did. He felt sorry for Benny, for the second-baseman was much under the influence of liquor, had a haggard face and unkempt appearance. The fellow called Dude Thatcher was a tall youth, good looking, very quiet, and very well dressed. Chase saw him flick dust off his shiny shoes, and more than once adjust his spotless cuffs. Meade was a typical ball player, under twenty, a rugged and bronzed fellow of jovial aspect. Hicks would never see thirty again; there was gray hair over his temples; he was robust of build and his hands resembled eagles’ claws. He was a catcher, and many a jammed and broken finger had been his lot.

What surprised Chase more than anything was the fact that baseball was not once mentioned by this group. They were extremely voluble, too, and talked on every subject under the sun except the one that concerned their occupation. Under every remark lay a subtle inflection of humor. Mild sarcasm and sharp retort and ready wit flashed back and forth.

The left-fielder of the team, Frank Havil by name, a tall, thin fellow with a pale, sanctimonious face, strolled out of the hotel lobby and seated himself near Chase. And with his arrival came a series of most peculiar happenings to Chase. At first he thought mosquitoes or flies were bothering him; then he imagined a wasp or hornet was butting into his ear; next he made sure of one thing only, that something was hitting the side of his face and head. Whatever it was he had no idea. It came at regular intervals and began to sting more and more. He took a sidelong glance at Havil, but that young man’s calm, serious face disarmed any suspicion. But when Havil got up and moved away the strange fact that the stinging sensation ceased to come caused Chase to associate it somehow with the quiet left fielder.

“Chase, did you feel anythin’ queer when Havil was sittin’ alongside of you?” asked Winters.

“I certainly did. What was it?”

“Havil is a queer duck. He goes ’round with his mouth full of number ten shot, an’ he works one out on the end of his tongue, an’ flips it off his front teeth. Why, the blame fool can knock your eye out. I’ve seen him make old baldheaded men crazy by sittin’ behind them en’ shootin’ shot onto the bald spots. An’ he never cracks a smile. He can look anybody in the eye, an’ they can’t tell he’s doin’ it, but they can feel it blamed well. He sure is a queer duck, an’—you look out for your one good eye.”

“Thank you, I will. But I have two good eyes. I can see very well out—out of the twisted one.”

Chase went to his room and to bed. Sleep did not soon come. His mind was too full; too much had happened; the bed was too soft. He dozed off, to start suddenly up with the bump of a freight train in his ears. But when he did get to sleep, it was in a deep, dreamless slumber that lasted until ten o’clock the next morning.

After breakfast, which Mrs. Obenwasser had kept waiting for him, he walked out to the ball-grounds to find the gates locked. So with morning practice out of the question he returned to Main Street and walked toward the hotel.

He saw Castorious sitting in the lobby.

“Hello, Chase, now wouldn’t this jar you?” Castorius said in friendly tones, offering a copy of the Findlay Chronicle.

Could this be the stalking monster that had roared at him yesterday, and scared about the last bit of courage out of him? Cas laid a big freckled hand on the newspaper and pointed out a column.

BASEBALL NOTES

“Mac gave Morris his walking-papers yesterday and Stanhope his notice. This is a good move, as these players caused dissension in the club. Now we can look for the brace. Findlay has been laying down lately. Castorious’s work yesterday is an example. We would advise him not to play that dodge any more.

“The new shortstop, Chaseaway, put the boots on everything that came his way, but for all that we like his style. He is fast as lightning and has a grand whip. He stands up like Brouthers, and if we’re any judge of ball players—here we want to say we’ve always called the turn—this new youngster will put the kibosh on a few and ‘chase’ the Dude for batting honors”

Chase read it over twice, and it brought the hot blood to his face. After that miserable showing of his in the game—how kind of the reporter to speak well of him! Chase’s heart swelled. He had been wrong—there were lots of good fellows in the world.

“Make a fellow sick, wouldn’t it?” said Cas, in disgust. “Accused me of laying down! Say, come and walk over to the hotel where the Kenton fellows are staying.”

Chase felt very proud to be seen with the great pitcher, for whom all passersby had a nod or a word. They stopped at another hotel, in the lobby of which lounged a dozen broad-shouldered, red-faced young men.

“Say,” said Cas, with a swing of his head, “I just dropped in to tell you guys that I’m going to pitch today, and I’m going to let you down with two hits. See!” A variety of answers were flung at him, but he made no reply and walked out. All the way up the street Chase heard him growling to himself.

* * * *

The afternoon could not come soon enough for Chase. He went out to the grounds in high spirits. When he entered the dressing-room, he encountered the same derisive clamor that had characterized the players’ manner toward him the day before. And it stunned him. He looked at them aghast. Every one of them, except Cas, had a scowl and hard word for him. Benny, not quite sober yet, was brutal, and Meade made himself particularly offensive. Even Winters, who had been so friendly the night before, now said he would put out Chase’s other lamp if he played poorly today. They were totally different from what they had been off the field. A frenzy of some kind possessed them. Roars of laughter following attacks on him, and for that matter on each other, detracted little, in Chase’s mind, from the impression of unnatural sarcasm.

He hurriedly put on his uniform and got out of the room. He did not want to lose his nerve again. Cas sat on the end of the bleachers, pounding the boards with his bat.

“Say, I was waiting for you,” he said in a whisper to Chase. “I’m going to put you wise when I get a chance to talk. All I want to say now is, I’ll show up this Kenton outfit today. They can’t hit my speed, and they always hit my slow ball to left-field, through short. Now you lay for them. Play deep and get the ball away quick. You’ve got the arm for it.”

This was Cas’s way of showing his friendship, and it surprised Chase as much as it pleased him. Mac came along then, and at once said, “Howdy, boys. Cas, what are you dressed for?”

“I want to work today.”

“You do? What for?”

“Well, I’m sore about yesterday, and I’m sore on—Kenton. If you’ll work me today, I’ll shut them out.”

“You’re on, Cas, you’re on,” said Mac, rubbing his hands in delight. “Thet’s the way I want to hear you talk. We’ll break our losin’ streak today.

Then Mac pulled Chase aside, out of earshot of the players pouring from the dressing-room, and said, “Lad, are you goin’ to take coachin’?”

“I’ll try to do everything you tell me,” replied Chase.

“Sure, thet’s good. Listen. I’m goin’ to teach you the game. Don’t ever lose your nerve again. Got thet?”

“Yes.”

“When you’re in the field with a runner on any base make up your mind before the ball’s hit what to do with it if it should happen to come to you. Got thet?”

“Yes.”

“Play a deep short unless you’re called in. Come in fast on slow hit balls; use a underhand snap throw to second or first base when you haven’t lots of time. Got thet?”

“Yes.”

“When the ball is hit or thrown to any base-man, run with it to back up the player. Got thet?”

“Yes.”

“All right. So far so good. Now as to hittin’. I like the way you stand up. You’re a natural-born hitter, so stand your own way. Don’t budge an inch for the speediest pitcher as ever threw a ball. Learn to dodge wild pitches. Wait, watch the ball. Let him pitch. Don’t be anxious. Always take a strike if you’re first up. Try to draw a base on balls. If there’s runners on the bases, look for a sign from me on the bench. If you see my scorecard stickin’ anywhere in sight, hit the first ball pitched. If you don’t see it—wait. Turn ’round, easy like, you know, an’ take a glance my way after every pitched ball, an’ when you get the sign—hit. We play the hit-an’-run game. If you’re on first or any base, look for the same sign from me. Then you’ll know what the batter is up to, an’ you’ll be ready. Hit an’ run. Got thet?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, don’t get rattled even if you do make a mistake, an’ never, never mind errors. Go after everythin’ an’ dig it out of the dust if you can, but never mind errors! An’ Chase, wait,” called Mac, as the eager youngster made for the field. Then in a whisper, as if he were half afraid some of the other players would hear, he went on: “Don’t sass the umpire. Don’t ever speak to no umpire. If you get a rotten deal on strikes, slam your bat down, puff up, look mad, do anythin’ to make a bluff, but don’t sass the umpire. See!”

“I never will,” declared Chase.

* * * *

The Findlay team came on the grounds showing the effects of the shakeup. They were an aggressive, stormy aggregation. Epithets the farthest remove from complimentary flew thick and fast as the passing balls. A spirit of rivalry pervaded every action. In batting practice, he who failed to send out a clean, hard hit received a volley of abuse. In fielding practice, he who fumbled a ball or threw too high or too low was scornfully told to go out on the lots and play with the kids. It was a merciless warfare, every player for himself, no quarter asked or given!

Chase fielded everything that came his way and threw perfectly to the bases, but even so, the players, especially Meade, vented their peculiar spleen on him as well as on others who made misplays. All of which did not affect Chase in the least. He was on his mettle; his blood was up.

The faith Mac had shown in him would be justified; that he vowed with all the intensity of feeling of which he was capable. The gong sounded for the game to start, and Castorious held forth in this wise:

“Fellows, I’ve got everything today. Speed—well say! It’s come back. And my floater—why, you can count the stitches! You stiffs get in the game. If you’re not a lot of cigar-signs, there won’t be anything to it.”

Big and awkward as Cas was in citizen dress, in baseball harness he made an admirable figure. The crowds in the stands had heard of his threat to the Kentons—for of all gossip, that in baseball circles flies the swiftest—and were out in force and loud in enthusiasm. The bleachers idolized him.

As the players went for their positions, Cas whispered a parting word to Chase: “When you see my floater go up, get on your toes!”

The umpire called play, threw out a white ball, and stood in expectant posture.

As Cas faced the first Kenton player he said in low voice: “Look out for your coco!” Then he doubled up like a contortionist and undoubled to finish his motion with an easy, graceful swing. With wonderful swiftness the white ball travelled straight for the batter’s head. Down he fell flat, jumped up with red face and yelled at Cas. The big pitcher smiled derisively, received the ball from the catcher, and with the same violent effort delivered another ball, but with not half the speed of the first. The batter had instinctively stepped back. The umpire called the ball a strike.

“’Fraid to stand up, hey?” inquired Cas, in the same low, tantalizing voice. When he got the ball again, he faced the batter, slowly lifted his long left leg, and seemed to turn with a prodigious step toward third base, at the same instant delivering the ball to the plate. The ball evidently wanted to do anything but reach its destination. Slowly it sailed, soared, floated, for it was one of Cas’s floaters.

The batter half swung his bat, pulled it back, then poked at the ball helplessly. The result was an easy grounder to Chase, who threw the runner out.

It was soon manifest to Chase that Cas worked differently from any pitcher he had ever seen. Instead of trying to strike out any batters, Cas made them hit the ball. He never threw the same kind of a ball twice. He seemed to have a hundred different ways for the ball to go. But always he vented his scorn on his opponents in the low sarcasm which may have been heard by the umpire, but was inaudible to the audience.

* * * *

At the commencement of the third inning, neither side had yet scored. It was Chase’s first time up, and as he bent over the bats trying to pick out a suitable one, Cas said to him:

“Say, Kid, this guy’ll be easy for you. Wait him out now. Let his curve ball go.

Chase felt perfectly cool when he went up. The crowd gave him a great hand, which surprised but did not disconcert him. He stood square up to the plate, his left foot a little in advance. He watched the Kenton pitcher with keen eyes; he watched the motion, and he watched the ball as it sped towards him rather high and close to his face. He watched another, a wide curve, go by. The next was a strike, the next a ball, and then following, another strike. Chase had not moved a muscle.

The bleachers yelled: “Good eye, old man! Hit her out now!”

With three and two Chase lay back and hit the next one squarely. It rang off the bat, a beautiful liner that struck the right-field fence a few feet from the top. Chase reached third base, overran it, to be flung back by Cas.

The crowd roared. Winters, the captain, came running out and sent Cas to the bench. Then he began to coach.

“Look out, Chase! Hold your base on an infield hit! Play it safe! Play it safe! Here’s where we make a run, here’s where we make a run! Here’s where we make a run! Hey, there, pitcher, you’re up in the air already! Oh! What we won’t do to you! Steady, Chase, now you’re off. Hit it out, old man! That’s the eye! Make it good! Mugg’s Landing! Irish stew! Lace curtains! Ras-pa-tas! Oh my—” Bawling at the top of his voice, spitting tobacco juice everywhere, with wild eyes and sweaty face, Winters hopped up and down the coaching line. When Benny put up a little fly back of second, Winters started Chase for the plate and ran with him. The ball dropped safe and the run scored easily.

When Chase went panting to the bench, Mac screwed up his stubby cigar and gazed at his new find with enraptured eyes. “I guess maybe thet hit didn’t bust our losin’ streak!”

Whatever Chase’s triple had to do with it, the fact was that the Findlay players suddenly recovered their batting form. For two weeks they had been hitting atrociously, as Mac said, and now every player seemed to find hits in his bat. Thatcher tore off three singles; Cas got two and a double; and the others hit in proportion.

Chase rapped another against the rightfield fence, hitting a painted advertisement that gave a pair of shoes to every player performing the feat; and to the delirious joy of the bleachers and stands, at his last time up, he put the ball over the fence for a home run.

It was a happy custom of the oil-men of Findlay, who devoted themselves to the game, to throw silver dollars out of the stand at the player making a home run. A bright shower of this kind completely bewildered Chase. He picked up ten, and Cas handed him seven more that had rolled in the dust.

“A suit of clothes goes with that hit, me boy,” sang out Cas.

It was plainly a day for Chase and Cas. The Kenton players were at the mercy of the growling pitcher. When they did connect with the ball, sharp fielding prevented safe hits. Chase had eleven chances, some difficult, one particularly being a hard bounder over second base, all of which he fielded perfectly. But on two occasions fast, tricky base-runners deceived him, bewildered him, so that instead of throwing the ball he held it. These plays gave Kenton the two lonely runs chalked up to their credit against seventeen for Findlay.

“Well, we’ll give you those tallies,” said Cas, swaggering off the field. He had more than kept his threat, for Kenton made but one safe hit.

“Wheeling tomorrow, boys,” he yelled in the dressing-room. “We’ll take three straight. Say! Did any of you cheapskates see my friend Chase hit today? Did you see him? Oh! I guess he didn’t put the wood on a few! I guess not! Over the fence and far away! That one is going yet!”

Chase was dumfounded to hear every player speak to him in glowing terms. He thought they had bitterly resented his arrival, and they had; yet here was each one warmly praising his work. And in the next breath they were fighting among themselves. Truly these young men were puzzles to Chase. He gave up trying to understand them.

A loud uproar caused him to turn. The players were holding their sides with laughter, and Cas was doing a Highland fling in the middle of the floor. Mac looked rather white and sick. This struck Chase as remarkable after the decisive victory, and he asked the nearest player what was wrong.

“Oh! Nuthin’ much! Mac only swallowed his cigar stub!”

It was true, as could be plainly seen from Mac’s expression. When the noise subsided he said:

“Sure, I did. Was it any wonder? Seein’ this dead bunch come back to life was enough to make me swallow my umbrella. Boys,” here a smile lighted up his smug face, “now we’ve got thet hole plugged at short, the pennant is ours. We’ve got ’em skinned to a frazzle!”

CHAPTER VII

MITTIE-MARU

“Chase, you hung bells on ’em yestiddy.”

Among the many greetings Chase received from the youngsters swarming out to the grounds to see their heroes whip Wheeling, this one struck him as most original and amusing. It was given him by Mittie-Maru, the diminutive hunchback who had constituted himself mascot of the team. Chase had heard of the boy and had seen him on the day before, but not to take any particular notice.

“Let me carry yer bat.”

Chase looked down upon a sad and strange little figure. Mittie-Maru did not much exceed a yard in height; he was all misshapen and twisted, with a large head, which was set deep into the hump on his shoulders. He was only a boy, yet he had an almost useless body and the face of an old man.

Chase hurriedly lifted his gaze, thinking with a pang of self-reproach how trifling was his crooked eye compared to the hideous deformity of this lad.

“Three straight from Wheelin’ is all we want,” went on Mittie-Maru. “We’ll skin the coal diggers all right, all right. An’ we’ll be out in front trailin’ a merry ‘Ha! Ha!’ fer Columbus. They’re leadin’ now, an’ of all the swelled bunches I ever seen! Put it to us fer three straight when they was here last. But we got a bad start. There I got sick an’ couldn’t report, an’ somehow the team can’t win without me. Yestiddy was my first day fer—I don’t know how long—since Columbus trimmed us.”

“What was the matter with you?” asked Chase.

“Aw! Nuthin’. Jest didn’t feel good,” replied the boy. “But I got out yestiddy, an’ see what you done to Kenton! Say, Chase, you takes mighty long steps. It ain’t much wonder you can cover ground.”

Chase modified his pace to suit that of his companion, and he wanted to take the bat, but Mittie-Maru carried it with such pride and conscious superiority over the envious small boys who trooped along with them that Chase could not bring himself to ask for it. As they entered the grounds and approached the door of the clubhouse, Mac came out. He wore a troubled look.

“Howdy, Mittie; howdy, Chase,” he said, in a loud voice. Then as he hurried by he whispered close to Chase’s ear, “Look out for yourself!”

This surprised Chase so that he hesitated. Mittie-Maru reached the dressing room first and turning to Chase he said; “Somethin’ doin’, all right, all right!” This was soon manifest, for as Chase crossed the threshold a chorus of yells met him.

“Here he is—now say it to his face!”

“Salver!”

“Jollier!”

“You mushy soft-soaper!”

Then terms of opprobrium fell about his ears so thickly that he could scarcely distinguish them. And he certainly could not understand why they were made. He went to his locker, opened it, took out his uniform, and began to undress. Mittie-Maru came and sat beside him. Chase looked about him to see Winters lacing up his shoes and taking no part in the vilification. Benny was drunk. Meade’s flushed face and thick speech showed that he, too, had been drinking. Even Havil made a sneering remark in Chase’s direction. Chase made note of the fact that Thatcher, Cas, and Speer—Speer was one of the pitchers—were not present.

“You’re a Molly!” yelled Meade. “Been makin’ up to the reporters, haven’t you? Fixin’ it all right for yourself, eh? Playin’ for the newspapers? Well you’ll last about a week with Findlay.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Chase.

“Go wan!” shouted the first base man.

“As if you hadn’t seen the Chronicle!”

“I haven’t,” said Chase.

“Flash it on him,” cried Meade.

Someone threw a newspaper at Chase, and upon opening it to the baseball page, he discovered his name in large letters. And he read an account of yesterday’s game, which, excepting to mention Cas’s fine pitching, made it seem that Chase had played the whole game himself. It was extravagant praise. Chase felt himself grew warm under it, and then guilty at the absence of mention of other players who were worthy of credit. “I don’t deserve all that,” said he to Meade, “and I don’t know how it came to be there.”

“You’ve been salvin’ the reporter, jollyin’ him.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You’re a liar!”

A hot flame leaped to life inside Chase. He had never been called that name. Quickly he sprang up, feeling the blood in his face. Then as he looked at Meade, he remembered the fellow’s condition, and what he owed to Mac, and others far away, with the quieting affect that he sat down without a word.

A moment later, Benny swaggered up to him and shook a fist in his face.

“I’m a-goin’ t’ take a bing at yer one skylight an’ shut ’t for ye.”

Chase easily evaded the blow and arose to his feet. “Benny, you’re drunk.”

Matters might have become serious then, for Chase, undecided for the moment what to do, would not have overlooked a blow, but the gong ringing for practice put an end to the trouble. The players filed out.

Mittie-Maru plucked at Chase’s trousers and whispered, “You ought to’ve handed ’em one!”

* * * *

Chase’s work that afternoon was characterized by the same snap and dash which had won him the applause of the audience in the Kenton games. And he capped it with two timely hits that had much to do with Findlay’s victory. But three times during the game, to his consternation, Mac took him to task about certain plays. Chase ran hard back of second and knocked down a base-hit, but which he could not recover in time to throw the runner out. It was a splendid play, for which the stands gave him thundering applause. Nevertheless, as he came in to the bench Mac severely reprimanded him for not getting his man. “You’ve got to move faster ’n thet,” said the little manager testily. “You’re slow as an ice-wagon.”

And after the game Mac came into the dressing-room, where Chase received a good share of his displeasure.

“Didn’t you say you knew the game? Well, you’re very much on the pazaz today. Now the next time you hit up a fly-ball, don’t look to see where it’s goin’, but run! Keep on runnin’. Fielders muff flies occasionally, an’ someday runnin’ one out will win a game. An’ when you make a base-hit, don’t keep on runnin’ out to the foul-flag just because it’s a single. Always turn for second base, an’ take advantage of any little chance to get there. If you make any more dumb plays like thet, they’ll cost you five each. Got thet?”

Chase was mystified, and in no happy frame of mind when he left the grounds. Evidently what the crowd thought good playing was quite removed from the manager’s consideration of such.

“Hol’ on, Chase,” called Mittie-Maru from behind.

Chase turned to see the little mascot trying to catch up with him. It suddenly dawned on Chase that the popular idol of the players had taken a fancy to him.

“Say, Cas tol’ me to tell you to come to his room at the hotel after supper.”

“I wonder what he wants. Did he say?”

“No. But it’s to put you wise, all right, all right. Cas is a good feller. Me an’ him has been friends. I heard him say to Mac not to roast you the way he did. An’ I wants to put you wise to somethin’ myself. Mac’s stuck on you. He can’t keep a smile off his face when you walk up to the plate, an’ when you cut loose to peg one acrost, he just stutters. Oh! He’s stuck on you, all right, all right! ‘Boys, will you look at thet wing?’ he keeps sayin’. An’ when you come in he says you’re rotten to yer face. Don’t mind Mac’s roasts.”

All of which bewildered Chase only the more. Mittie-Maru chattered about baseball and the players, but he was extremely reticent in regard to himself. This latter fact, in conjunction with his shabby appearance, made Chase think that all was not so well with the lad as it might have been. He found himself returning Mittie-Maru’s regard.

“Good-bye,” said Mittie-Maru at a cross street. “I go down here. See you tomorrer.”

* * * *

After supper, Chase went to the hotel, and seeing that Cas was not among the players in the lobby, he found his room number and with no little curiosity mounted the stairs.

“Come in,” said Cas, in answer to his knock.

The big pitcher sat in his shirt sleeves blowing rings of smoke out of the open window.

“Hello, Chase; was waiting for you. Have a cigar. Don’t smoke? Throw yourself ’round comfortable—but say, lock the door first. I don’t want anyone butting in.”

Chase found considerable relief and pleasure in the friendly manner of Findlay’s star pitcher.

“I want to have a talk with you, Chase. First, you won’t mind a couple of questions.”

“Not at all. Fire away.”

“You’re in dead earnest about this baseball business?”

“I should say I am.”

“You are dead set on making it a success?”

“I’ve got to.”

Chase told Cas briefly what depended on his efforts.

“I thought as much. Well, you’ll find more than one fellow trying the same. Baseball is full of fellows taking care of mothers and fathers and orphans, too. People who pay to see the game and keep us fellows going don’t know just how much good they are doing. Well, Chase, it takes more than speed, a good eye, and a good arm and head to make success.”

“How so?”

“It’s learning how to get along with managers and players. I’ve been in the game ten years. Most every player who has been through the mill will let the youngster find out for himself, let him sink or swim. Even managers will not tell you everything. It’s baseball ethics. I’m overstepping it because—well, because I want to. I don’t mind saying that you’re the most promising youngster I ever saw. Mac is crazy about you. All the same, you won’t last two weeks on the Findlay team, or a season in fast company, unless you change.”

“Change? How?”

“Now, Chase, don’t get sore. You’re a little too soft for this business. You’re too nice. Lots of boys are that way, but they don’t keep so and stay in baseball. Do you understand me?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, baseball is a funny game. It’s like nothing else. You’ve noticed how different the players are off the field. They’ll treat you white away from the grounds, but once in uniform, lookout! When a professional puts on his uniform, he puts on his armor. And it’s got to be bulletproof and spike-proof. The players on your own team will get after you, abuse you, roast you, blame you for everything, make you miserable, and finally put you off the team. This may seem to you a mean thing. But it’s a way of the game. When a new player is signed, everybody gets after him, and if he makes a hit with the crowd, and particularly with the newspapers, the players get after him all the harder. In a way, that’s a kind of professional jealousy. But the main point I want to make clear to you is the aggressive spirit of the players who hold their own. On the field, ball-playing is a fight all the time. It’s good-natured and it’s bitter-earnest. Every man for himself! Survival of the fittest! Dog eat dog!”

“Then I must talk back, strike back, fight back?”

“Exactly. Else you will never succeed in this business. Now, don’t take a bad view of it. Baseball is all right; so are the players. The best thing is that the game is square—absolutely square. Once on the inside, you’ll find it peculiar, and you’ve got to adapt yourself.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“You must show your teeth, my boy, that’s all. The team is after your scalp. Apart from this peculiarity of the players to be eternally after someone, I’m sure they like you. Winters said you’d make a star if you had any sand. Thatcher said if you lasted you’d make his batting average look sick. One of them, I think, has it in for you just because he’s that sort of a guy. But I mention no names. I’m not a knocker, and let me tell you this—never knock any lad in the business. The thing for you to do, the sooner the better, is to walk into the dressing-room and take a punch at somebody. And then declare yourself strong. Say you’ll punch the block off who opens his trap to you again.”

“And after that?”

“You’ll find it different. They’ll all respect you; you’ll get on better for it. Then you’ll be one of us. Play hard, learn the game, keep sober—and return word for word, name for name, blow for blow. After a little, this chewing the rag becomes no more to you than the putting on of your uniform. It’s part of the game. It keeps the life and ginger in you.”

“All right. If I must—I must,” replied Chase, and as he spoke the set of his jaw boded ill to someone.

“Good. I knew you had the right stuff in you. Now, one thing more. Look out for the players on the other teams. They’ll spike you, knee you, put you out, if they can. Don’t ever slide to a base head first, as you did today. Some second-baseman will jump up and come down on you with both feet, and break something, or cut you all up. Don’t let any player think you are afraid of him, either.”

“I’m much obliged to you, Cas. What you’ve told me explains a lot. I suppose every business has something about it a fellow don’t like. I’ll do the best I can, and hope I’ll make good, as Mittie-Maru says.”

“There’s a kid with nerve!” exclaimed Cas, enthusiastically. “Best fan I ever knew. He knows the game, too. Poor little beggar!”

“Tell me about him,” said Chase.

“I don’t know much. He turned up here last season and cottoned to the team at once. Someone found out that he ran off from a poorhouse, or home for incurables or bad boys or something. There was a fellow here from Columbus looking for Mittie, but never found him. He has no home, and I don’t know where he lives. I’ll bet it’s in a garret somewhere. He sells papers and shines shoes. And he’s as proud as he’s game—you can’t give him anything. Baseball he’s crazy over.”

“So is my brother, and he’s a cripple too.”

“Every boy likes baseball, and if he doesn’t, he’s not a boy.”

Chase left Castorious then and went downstairs, for he expected to meet several of the young men who boarded with him and who had invited him to spend the evening with them. They came presently and carried him off to an entertainment in one of the halls. Here his new friends, Harris, Drake, and Mandle, led him from one group of boys and girls to another, and introduced him with evident pride in their opportunity. It was a church fair and well attended. Chase had never seen so many pretty girls.

Being rather backward, he did not very soon notice what was patent to all—that he was the young man of the hour—and when he did see, he felt as if he wanted to run away. Facing Mac and the players was easier than trying to talk to these gracious ladies and whispering, arch-eyed girls. Ice-cream was the order of the evening, and as long as Chase could eat, he managed to conceal his poverty of speech; but when he absolutely could not swallow another spoonful, he made certain he must get away.

When four girls in white vivaciously appropriated him and whirled him off somewhere, his confusion knew no bounds. His young men friends basely deserted him and went to different parts of the hall. He was lost, and he gave up. From booth to booth they paraded with him, all chattering at once. He became vaguely aware that he was spending money, and attaching to himself various articles; he caught himself saying he would like very much to have this and that, which he did not want at all.

The evening passed very quickly and like a dream. Chase found himself out of the bright lights in the cool darkness of the night. He walked two blocks past his corner. He reached his room at length, struck a light, and saw that he had an armful of small bundles and papers. He made the startling discovery that he had purchased four lace-fringed pincushions, a number of hand-painted doilies, one sewing-basket, one apron, two match-scratchers, one gorgeous necktie, and one other article that he could not name.

Discomfited as he was, Chase had to laugh. It was too utterly ridiculous. Then more soberly he began to count the money he had, in order to find out what he had spent. The sum total of his rash expenditures amounted to a little over five dollars.

“Five dollars!” ejaculated Chase. “For this truck and about a gallon of ice-cream. That’s how I save my money. Confound those girls!”

But Chase did not mean that about the girls. He knew the evening had been the pleasantest one he would remember. He tried to recollect the names of the girls and how they looked. This was impossible. Nothing of that wonderful night stood out clearly: as a whole, it left a confused impression of music and laughter, bright eyes and golden hair, smiles and white dresses.

* * * *

Next morning he wrote to his mother and told her all about it, adding that she must not take the expenditure of his money so much as an instance of reckless extravagance as it was a case of highway robbery.

In the afternoon on the way to the ball-park, he met Mittie-Maru and relating last night’s adventure, asked him if he could use a pincushion or two.

“Not on yer life!” cried Mittie-Maru. “Sorry I didn’t put you wise to them church sociables. They jobbed you, Chase. Sold you a lot of bricks. You want to fight shy of thet bunch, all right, all right.”

“Don’t you ever go to church?”

“I went to Sunday school last fall. Miss Marjory, she was in the school, got me to come. She’s a peach. Sweeter ’n a basket of red monkeys. She was all right, all right, but I couldn’t stand fer the preacher, an’ some others, so I quit. An’ every time I see Miss Marjory, I dodge or hit it up out of sight.”

“What was wrong with the preacher?”

“He’s young, an’ I think preachers oughter be old. He fusses the wimmen folks too hard. He speaks soft an’ prays to beat the band, an’ everybody thinks he’s an angel. But—oh, I ain’t a knocker.”

“Wait for me after the game.”

“Sure. An’ say, Chase, are you goin’ to stand fer the things Meade calls you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t stand it much longer.”

* * * *

If anything, Chase’s reception in the dressing-room was more violent than it had been the day before. Nevertheless, he dressed without exchanging a word with anyone. This time, however, he was keenly alert to all that was said and to who said it. All sense of personal affront or injustice, such as had pained him yesterday, was now absent. He felt himself immeasurably older; he coolly weighed this harangue at him with the stern necessity of his success and found it added up to nothing.

And when he went out upon the field, he was conscious of a difference in his feelings. The mist that had bothered him did not now come to his eyes; nor did the contraction bind his throat; nor did the nameless uncertainty and dread oppress his breast. He felt a rigidity of muscle, a deadliness of determination, a sharp, cold confidence.

The joy of playing the game, as he had played it ever since he was big enough to throw a ball, had gone. It was not fun, not play for him, but work—work that called for strength, courage, endurance.

Chase gritted his teeth when the umpire called: “Play ball!” and he gritted them throughout the game. He staked himself and all he hoped to do for those he loved, against his own team, the opposing team, and the baseball world. He saw his one chance, a fighting chance, and he meant to fight.

When the ball got into action he ran all over the field like a flash. He was everywhere. He anticipated every hit near him, and scooped up the ball and shot it from him, with the speed of a bullet. He threw with a straight, powerful overhand motion, and the ball sailed low, with terrific swiftness, and held its speed. He grabbed up a hit that caromed off Winter’s leg, and though far back of third base, threw the runner out with time to spare. He caught a foul fly against the left-field bleachers. He threw two runners out at the plate, and that from deep short field.

He beat out an infield hit; he got a clean single into right field; and for the third time in three days he sent out a liner that by fast running he stretched into a three-bagger. Findlay had clinched the game before this hit, which sent in two runners, but for all that, the stands and bleachers rose in a body and cheered. The day before Chase had doffed his cap in appreciation of their applause. Today he did not look at them. He put the audience out of his mind.

But with all his effort, speed, and good luck he made an unfortunate play. It came at the close of the eighth inning. Wheeling got runners on second and third, with only one out. The next man hit a sharp bouncer to Chase. He fielded the ball, and expecting the runner on third to dash for home he made ready to throw him out. But this runner held his base. Chase turned to try to get the batter going down to first, when the runner on second ran right before him toward third. Chase closed in behind him, and as the fellow slowed up tried to catch him. Then the runner on third bolted for home. Chase saw him and threw to head him off, but was too late.

In the dressing-room after the game the players howled about this one run that Chase’s stupidity had given Wheeling. They called him “wooden head,” “sap-head,” “sponge-head,” “dead-head.” Then Mac came in and delivered himself.

“Put the ball in your pocket! Put the ball in your pocket, didn’t you? Countin’ your money, wasn’t you? Thinkin’ about the girls you was with last night, hey? Thet play costs you five. See! Got thet? You’re fined. After this, when you get the ball an’ some runner is hittin’ up the dust, throw it. Got thet? Throw the ball! Don’t keep it! Throw it!”

When the players’ shout of delight died away, Chase turned on the little manager.

“What d’you want for fifteen cents—canary birds?” he yelled, in a voice that rattled the windows. He flung his bat down with a crash, and as it skipped along the bench more than one player fell over himself to get out of its way. “Didn’t I say I had to learn the game? Didn’t you say you’d show me? I never had that play before. I didn’t know what to do with the ball. What d’ you want, I say? Didn’t I accept nine chances today?”

Mac looked dumfounded. This young lamb of his had suddenly roused into a lion.

“Sure you needn’t holler about it. I was only tellin’ you.”

Then he strode out amid a silence that showed the surprise of his players. Winters recovered first, and turned his round red face and began to bob and shake with laughter.

“What—did he—want for fifteen cents—canary birds? Haw! Haw! Haw!” In another moment the other players were roaring with him.

CHAPTER VIII

ALONG THE RIVER

Castorious blanked the Wheeling club next day, and the following day Speer won his game. Findlay players had returned to their old form and were getting into a fast stride, so the Chronicle said. “Three straight from Columbus” was the slogan! Mac had signed a new pitcher, a left-hander named Poke, from a nearby country village, and was going to develop him. He was also trying out a popular player from the high-school team.

Mac had ordered morning practice for the Columbus series of games. The players hated morning practice, “drill” they called it, and presented themselves with visible displeasure. And when they were all on the grounds, Mac appeared with a bat over his shoulder and with his two new players in tow.

Poke was long and lanky, a sunburned rustic who did not know what to do with his hands and feet.

“Battin’ practice,” called out Mac, sharply, ordering Poke to the pitcher’s box.

Poke peeled off his sweater, showing bare arms that must have had a long and intimate acquaintance with axe and rail-pile.

“Better warm up first,” said Mac. It developed that Poke did not need any warming. When he got ready he wound himself up, and going through some remarkable twist that made him resemble a cartwheel, delivered the ball towards the plate. Thatcher just dodged in time to save his head.

“Speed! Whew! Wow!” exclaimed the players.

“Speed!” echoed Thatcher. “Wait till you, get up there!”

Poke drove Thatcher away from the plate and struck Meade out. “Put ’em over,” said Benny, as he came up.

The first ball delivered hit Benny on the foot, and roaring, he threw down his bat. “You Rube! You wild Indian! I’ll git you fer thet!”

Enoch Winters was the next batter. “Say, you lean, hungry-lookin’ rubberneck, if you hit me!” warned Enoch, in his soft voice.

Poke struck Enoch out and retired Chase on a little pop-up fly. Then Cas sauntered up with his wagon-tongue bat and a black scowl on his face.

“Steady up, steady up,” said he. “Put ’em over. Don’t use all your steam.”

“Mister, I ain’t commenced yit to throw hard,” replied Poke.

“Wha-at?” yelled Cas. “Are you kidding me? Slam the ball! Break your arm, then!”

The rustic whirled a little farther ’round, unwound himself a little quicker, and swung his arm. Cas made an ineffectual attempt to hit what looked like a white cord stretched between him and the pitcher. The next ball started the same way, but took an upward jump and shot under Cas’s chin.

Cas, who had a mortal dread of being hit, fell back from the plate and glared at Poke.

“You’ve got his alley, Poke!” cried the amiable players. “Keep ’em under his chin!” Cas retired in disgust as Mac came trotting up from the field, where he had been coaching the high-school player.

“What’s he got?” asked Mac, eagerly.

“What’s he got!” yelled nine voices in unison. “Oh! Nothing!”

“Step up an’ take a turn,” said Mac to his new player. “No, don’t stand so far back. Here, let me show you. Gimme the bat.”

Mac took a position well up to the plate and began illustrating his idea of the act of hitting.

“You see, I get well back on my right foot, ready to step forward with my left. I’ll step just before he delivers the ball. I’ll keep my bat over my shoulder an’ hit a little late, so as to hit to right field. Thet’s best for the hit-an’-run game. Now, watch. See. Step an’ set; step an’ set. The advantage of gettin’ set this way is the pitcher can’t fool you, can’t hit you. You needn’t never be afraid of bein’ hit after you learn how to get set. No pitcher could hit me.” Then raising his voice, Mac shouted to Poke, “Hey, poke up a couple. Speed em over, now!”

Poke evidently recognized the cardinal necessity of making an impression, for he went through more wonderful gyrations than ever. Then he lunged forward with the swing he used in getting the ball away. Nobody saw the ball.

BUMB! A sound not unlike a suddenly struck base-drum electrified the watching players. Then the ball appeared rolling down from Mac’s shrinking person. The little manager seemed to be slowly settling to the ground. He turned an agonized face and uttered a long moan.

“My ribs—I—my ribs!—he hit me,” gasped Mac.

Chase, Poke, and the new man were the only persons who did not roll over and over on the ground. That incident put an end to the morning “drill.”

After dressing, Chase decided to try to find Mittie-Maru. The mascot had not been at the last two games, and this fact determined him to seek the lad. So he passed down the street where he had often left Mittie, and asked questions on the way. Everybody knew the hunchback, but nobody knew where he lived.

Chase went on until he passed the line of houses and got into the outskirts of the town, where carpenter-shops, oil refineries, and brick-yards abounded. Several workmen he questioned said they saw the boy almost every day, and that he kept on down the street toward the open country. Chase had about decided to give up his quest, when he came to the meadows and saw across them the green of a line of willows. This he knew marked a brook or river, along which a stroll would be pleasant.

When he reached the river, he saw Mittie-Maru sitting on a log patiently holding a long crooked fishing pole. “Any luck?” he shouted.

Mittie-Maru turned with a start, and seeing Chase cried out, “You ole son-of-a-gun! Trailed me, didn’t you? What yer doin’ out here?”

“I’m looking for you, Mittie.”

“What fer?”

Chase leaped down the bank and seated himself on the log beside the boy. “Well, you haven’t been out to the grounds lately. Why?”

“Aw! Nuthin’,” replied Mittie savagely.

“See here, you can’t string me,” said Chase, earnestly. “Things aren’t right with you, Mittie, and you can’t bluff it out on me. So I’ve been hunting you. We’re going to be pards, you know.”

“Are we?”

Chase then saw Mittie’s eyes for the first time and learned they were bright, soft, and beautiful, giving his face an entirely different look.

“Sure. And that’s why I wanted to find you—where you lived—and if you were sick again.”

“It’s my back, Chase,” replied Mittie, reluctantly. “Sometimes it—hurts worse.”

“Then it pains you all the time?” asked Chase, voicing a suspicion that had come to him from watching the boy.

“Yes. But it ain’t bad today. Sometimes—hol’ on! I got a bite. See! It’s a whopper—Thunder! I missed him!”

Mittie-Maru rebaited his hook and cast it into the stream. “Fishin’ fer mine, when I can’t git to the ball-grounds. Do you like fishin’, Chase?”

“Love it. You must let me come out and fish with you.”

“Sure. There’s good fishin’ fer catfish an’ suckers, an’ once in a while a bass. I never fished any before I came here, an’ I missed a lot. You see, movin’ ’round ain’t easy fer me. Gee! I can walk, but I mean playin’ ball or any games the kids play ain’t fer me. So I take mine out in fishin’. I’ve got so I like sittin’ in the sun with it all lonely aroun’, ’cept the birds an’ ripples. I used to be sore—about—about my back an’ things, but fishin’ has showed me I could be worse off. I can see an’ hear as well as anybody. There! I got bite again!”

Mittie-Maru pulled out a sunfish that wriggled and shone like gold in the sunlight. “Thet’s enough fer today. I ain’t no fish-hog. Chase, if I show you where I live, you won’t squeal? Of course you won’t.”

Chase assured him he would observe absolute secrecy; and together they mounted the bank and walked up stream. The meadows were bright with early June daisies and buttercups; the dew had not yet dried from the clover; blackbirds alighted in the willows and larks fluttered up from the grass. They came presently to an abandoned brickyard, where piles of broken brick lay scattered ’round, and two mound-like kilns stood amid the ruins of some frame structures.

“Here we are,” said Mittie-Maru, marching up to one of the kilns and throwing open a rudely contrived door. A dark aperture revealed the entrance to this singular abode.

“You don’t mean you live in this oven?” ejaculated Chase.

“Sure. An’ I’ve lived in worse places. Come in, an’ make yourself to home.”

Mittie-Maru crawled into the hole, and Chase followed him. It was roomy inside. Light came in from the chimney hole in the roof, and also on one side where there was a crack in the bricks. The floor was clean and of smooth sand. A pile of straw and some blankets made MittieMaru’s bed. A fireplace of bricks, a few cooking utensils, and a box cupboard told that he was his own housekeeper.

“This’s not bad. How long have you lived in here?”

“Aw, I fooled ’round town fer a while last summer, spendin’ my money fer swell lodgin’s, an’ then I found this place. Makes a hit with me.”

“But when you’re sick, Mittie, what do you—how do you manage?”

“Out of sight, an’ I ain’t no bother to no one.”

And that was all Mittie-Maru would vouchsafe concerning himself. They came out after a while and Chase wanted to walk farther on up the river. Rolling meadows stretched away to the hills; there was a grove of maples not far off.

“It’s so pretty up that way. Can’t we go farther on and strike another road into town?”

“Sure. But them meadows an’ groves is private property,” said Mittie dubiously. “I used to fish up thet way, till I threw Miss Marjory down, then I quit. She lives in one of them grove houses. We ain’t likely to meet no one, though, so come on.”

They crossed several fields to enter the grove. The river was narrow there and shaded by big trees. Violets peeped out of the grass. A white house gleamed in the distance.

Suddenly they came ’round a huge spreading tree to a green embankment. A boat rode in the water, one end lightly touching the sand. And in the boat was a girl. Her eyes were closed; her head rested on her arm, which hung over the side. A mass of violets lay in her lap. All about the boat was deep shade, but a gleam of sunshine, filtering through the leaves, turned the girl’s hair to gold.

Mittie-Maru uttered a suppressed exclamation and bolted behind some bushes. Chase took a step to follow suit, when the girl opened her eyes and saw him. She gave a little cry, which rooted Chase to the spot.

Then because of the movement of the girl, the boat left the sand and drifted into the stream. Whereupon Mittie-Maru returned valiantly to the scene.

“Miss Marjory! Don’t be scairt. It’s all right. We’ll get you pulled in. Where’s the oars? Chase, you’ll hev to wade out. The water ain’t deep. Come here, the boat’s goin’ close to this sandbar.”

Chase became animated at Mittie’s words, and hurriedly slipping off his shoes and stockings, he jumped to the sand below and waded out. Deeper and deeper the water grew, till he was far over his knees. Still the boat was out of reach. He could tell by feeling with his foot that another step would plunge him over his head, and he was about to swim, when Mittie came to the rescue. He threw a long pole down to Chase.

“There! Let her grab that, an’ pull her in.”

Chase extended the pole, and as the girl caught it, he saw her eyes. They were dark blue and smiled into his.

“Careful!” shouted the pilot above. “Don’t pull so hard, Chase, this ain’t no tug-o’-war. There! All right.”

When Chase moored the boat, Miss Marjory gathered up the violets and lightly stepped ashore. Then an obvious constraint affected the three. She murmured a low, “Thank you,” and stood, picking the flowers; Chase bent over his shoes and stockings with a very flushed face, and Mittie-Maru labored with sudden and painful emotions.

“Miss Marjory, it ’peared like we pushed the boat out, me an’ Chase, but thet ain’t so. We was walkin’ this way—he wanted to go in the grove—an’ all to once we spied you, an’ I ducked behind the bushes.”

“Why? Are you afraid of me, Mittie-Maru?” she asked.

“Yes—no—it ain’t thet, Miss Marjory. Well, no use lyin’. I’ve been keepin’ out of your way fer a long time now, ’cause I know you’d have me in Sunday school.”

“Now you will come back, won’t you?”

“I s’pose so,” he said with resignation, then looked at Chase. “Miss Marjory, this’s my friend Chase, Findlay’s new shortstop.”

“I met the—new shortstop last week,” was the demure reply.

“Miss Marjory, you didn’t sell Chase none of them gold bricks at the church sociable?”

“No, Mittie, but I sold him five plates of ice-cream,” she answered with a merry laugh. “Your friend has forgotten me.”

Mittie-Maru regarded Chase with a fine contempt. Chase was tongue-tied. Somewhere he had indeed seen those deep blue eyes; they were like the memory of a dream. “Miss—Miss—” stammered Chase.

“Miss Dean, Marjory Dean.”

“I met—so many girls—I didn’t really have time to get to know anybody well”

Mittie-Maru watched them with bright, sharp eyes, and laughed when Chase broke into embarrassed speech again. “—finest time I ever had. I told Mittie about it, how they sold me a lot of old maid’s things. I sent some of them to my mother. And I asked Mittie if he could use a pincushion or two. I’ve been hunting Mittie all morning. Found him fishing down here. He’s got the cutest little den in a kiln at the old brickyard below. He lives there. It’s the cosiest place”

Mittie had administered to Chase a series of violent kicks, the last of which had brought him to his senses.

“Chase, you peached on me. You give me away, an’ you said you wouldn’t!”

“Oh! Mittie, I’m sorry—I didn’t think,” cried Chase in contrition.

“Is it true?” asked Marjory, with grave eyes.

“Sure. An’ I don’t mind yer knowin’. Really I don’t, if you’ll promise not to tell a soul.”

“I promise. Will you let me come to see you?”

“I’d be tickled to death. You an’ Chase come to call on me. I’ll ketch you a mess of fish. Won’t thet be fine?”

Marjory’s long lashes fell. The sound of a bell came ringing through the grove.

“That’s for me. I must be going. Good-bye.”

Chase and Mittie watched the slight blue-clad figure flit along the path, in and out among the trees, to disappear in the green.

“An I promised to go to Sunday school again,” muttered Mittie-Maru.

CHAPTER IX

ON THE ROAD

At six o’clock on the twelfth of June, the Findlay baseball club, fifteen strong, was assembled at the railroad station to begin a two weeks’ trip on the road. Having taken three games from Columbus, and being now but a few points behind that team, they were an exceedingly lively company of young men. They were so exuberant with joy that they made life a burden for everybody, particularly for Mac. The little manager had trouble enough at home, but it was on the road that he got his gray hairs.

“Sure, Cas, you ain’t after takin’ thet dog again?” asked Mac.

Castorious had a vicious-looking beast, all head and jaws, under his arm.

“Dog!” roared Cas, insulted. “This’s a blooded bull-terrier pup. ’Course I’m going to take him. We can’t win the pennant without Algy.”

“Algy? Is thet his name?” burst out Mac, who had already exhausted his patience. “Thet’s a fine name for a mongrel brute. He’s uglier than a mud fence.”

As Mac concluded, a rat ran across the platform. Algy saw it, and with a howl wriggled out of his master’s arms and gave chase. The platform was crowded with people, of whom ladies made up the greater part. Algy chased the rat from under the trucks and between the trunks right into the crowd. Instantly a scene of great excitement prevailed. Women screamed and rushed frantically into each others’ arms; some fell over their grips; several climbed upon trunks; all of them evinced a terror that must have had its origin in the movements of the escaping rat, not the pursuing pup. And the course of both animals could be marked by a zigzag line of violent commotion in the crowd.

Presently a woman shrieked and seemed to sit down upon a moving object only to slip to the floor. Algy appeared then with the rat between his jaws.

“It was a cinch he’d get it,” yelled Cas. He gathered up the pup and hid him under his coat.

“Line up! Line up!” shouted Mac, as the train whistled.

The players stepped into a compact, wedge-shaped formation; and when the train stopped in the station, they moved in orderly mass through the jostling mob. Ball players value a rest to tired legs too much to risk standing up, and even in the most crowded stations always board the train first.

“Through to the Pullman!” yelled Mac.

Chase was in the seventh heaven of delight. He had long been looking forward to what the players called “on the road.” and the luxurious Pullman suited his dreams of travel. He and Winters took a seat opposite a very stout old lady who gazed somewhat sourly at them. Havil and Thatcher were on the other side of the aisle; Cas had a seat in the forward end; Mac was behind; and the others were scattered about. There were some half-dozen passengers besides, notable among whom was a very tall, thin, bald-headed man sitting in front of Havil. Chase knew his fellow-players too well by this time to expect them to settle down calmly. “On the road” was luxury for ball players. Fast trains, the best hotels, all expenses paid—these for a winning baseball team were things to appreciate. Chase settled back in the soft cushioned seat to watch, to see, to enjoy every move and word of his companions.

“Where will we sleep?” he asked Winters.

“Never on a sleeper?”

Chase smiled and shook his head. Then Enoch began to elaborate on the beds that were let down from the ceiling of the car, and how difficult they were to get into and out of, especially the latter in case of fire, which broke out very frequently on Pullmans.

“An’ if anybody yells ‘Fire!’ you skedaddle to the fire-escape,” concluded Enoch.

“Fire-escape? On a train? Where is it?” queried Chase, wonderingly.

“Don’t you know where the fire-escape is?” asked Enoch, in innocent surprise. His round owl eyes regarded Chase in a most kindly light. “Well, you ask the porter. He’ll take an’ show you.”

Straightway Chase forgot it in the interest of other things. The train was now in smooth, rapid motion; the fields and groves and farms flashed by. He saw the conductor enter the car and stand by Cas. Cas looked up, and then went on calmly reading his paper.

“Tickets,” said the conductor, sharply. Cas paid not the slightest attention to him.

“Tickets,” repeated the conductor, getting red in the face. He tapped Cas not lightly on the shoulder.

“Wha-at?” demanded Cas.

“Your ticket! I don’t wish to be kept waiting. Produce your ticket.”

“I don’t need a ticket to ride on this bum road.”

The conductor looked apoplectic. He reached up to grasp the bell-cord. “Your ticket, or I’ll stop the train and put you off.”

“Put me off! I’d like to have a tintype of your whole crew trying to put me off this train.”

Mac came into the car, and divining how matters stood, hurried forward to produce his party ticket. The conductor, still in high dudgeon, passed on down the aisle.

“Good-evenin’, Mr. Conductor, this’s fine weather for travellin’,” said Enoch, in his soft voice. The conductor glanced keenly at him, but evidently disarmed by the placid round face and kind round eyes, replied in gracious affirmation.

Enoch whispered in Chase’s ear, “Wait till the crew finds Cas’s bulldog. Don’t miss thet!”

* * * *

Some thirty miles out of Findlay, the train stopped at a junction. A number of farmers were lounging ’round the small station. Enoch raised the window and called one of them.

“Hey! What’s the name of this place?” he asked of the one who approached, an angular, stolid rustic in overalls and top boots.

“Brookville, mister,” was the civil reply.

“Brookville! Wal, I swan! You don’t say! Fellow named Perkins live here?”

“Yep. Hiram Perkins.”

“Hiram—Hiram Perkins, my ole friend.” Enoch’s round face beamed with an expression of benign gratitude, as if he would, were it possible, reward the fellow for his information. “Tell Hiram his ole friend Si Hayrick was passin’ through an’ sends regards. Wal, how’s things? Ploughin’ all done? You don’t say! An’ corn all planted? Do tell! An’ the ham-trees grown’ all right?”

“Whet?” questioned the farmer, plainly mystified, leaning forward.

“How’s yer ham-trees?”

“Never heerd of sich.”

“Wal, dog-gone me! Why, over in Indianer our ham-trees is sproutin’ powerful. An’ how about bee’s knees? Got any bee’s knees this spring?”

The rustic stretched his long neck. Then as the train started off Enoch put his head out of the window and called: “Rubber-neck! Rubber-neck!”

The stout lady in the opposite seat plainly sniffed her disgust at these proceedings on the part of a grown man. His innocent round stare in no wise deceived her. She gave him one withering glance, adjusted her eyeglass, and went on reading. Several times following that, she raised a hand to her face, as if to brush off a fly. But there was no fly. She became restless, laid aside her magazine, and rang for the porter.

“Porter, close the window above. Cinders are flying in on me.”

“Window’s closed, ma’am,” returned the porter.

“Something is most annoying. I am being stung in the face by something sharp,” she declared testily.

“Beggin’ yo pardon, ma’am, you are mistaken. There’s no flies or muskeeters in my car.”

“Don’t I know when I’m stung?”

The porter, tired and crushed, wearily went his way. The stout lady fumed and fussed, and fanned herself with a magazine. Chase knew what was going on and was at great pains to contain himself. Enoch’s solemn owl face was blank, and Havil, who was shooting shot and causing the lady’s distress, bent a pale, ministerial countenance over his paper. Chase watched him closely, saw him raise his head at intervals when he turned a leaf of his paper, but could see no movement of his lips. He became aware, presently, when Havil changed his position, that the attack was now to be directed upon the bald-headed man in the forward seat.

That individual three times caressed the white spot on his head, and then looking in the air all about him, rang for the porter.

“Porter, drive the flies out of the car.”

“There ain’t no flies, sir.”

“Don’t talk back to me.”

“You might be from a hotter place than Georgia, sir, fer all I care,” replied the porter.

“I am annoyed, annoyed. Something has been dropping on my head. Maybe it’s water. It comes dot, dot, like that.”

“I expect you’re dotty, sir!” said the porter, moving off. “An’ you sure ain’t the only dotty passenger this trip.”

The bald-headed man resumed his seat. Unfortunately, he was so tall that his head reached above the seat, affording a most alluring target for Havil. Chase, watching closely, saw the muscle along Havil’s jaw contract, and then he heard a tiny thump as the shot struck much harder than usual. The gentleman from Georgia jumped up, purple in the face, and trembled so that his newspaper rustled in his hand.

“You hit me with something,” he shouted, looking at Thatcher, for the reason, no doubt, that no one could associate Havil’s sanctimonious expression with an untoward act.

Thatcher looked up in great astonishment from the book in which he had been deeply interested. The byplay had passed unnoticed so far as he was concerned. Besides, he was ignorant of Havil’s genius in the shot-shooting line, and he was a quiet fellow, anyway, but quick in temper.

“No, I didn’t,” he replied.

The Southerner repeated his accusation.

“No, I didn’t, but I will jolt you one,” returned Thatcher, with some heat.

“Gentlemen, this is unseemly, especially in the presence of ladies,” interposed Havil, rising with the dignity of one whose calling he appeared to represent. “Most unseemly! My dear sir, calm yourself. No one is throwing things at you. It is only your imagination. I have heard of such cases, and fortunately my study of medicine enables me to explain. Sometimes on a heated car a person’s blood will rise to the brain and, probably because of the motion, beat so as to produce the effect of being lightly struck. This is most often the case in persons whose hirsute decoration is slightly worn off—er, in the middle, you know.”

The gentleman from the South sputtered in impotent rage and stamped off toward the smoking-car.

“Dinner served in the dining-car ahead,” called out a white-clad waiter; and this announcement hurried off the passengers, leaving the car to the players, who had dined before boarding the train.

Time lagged then. The porter lit the lights, for it was growing dark; four of the boys went into the smoker to play cards, and the others quieted down. After a while the passengers returned from the diner, and with them the porter, who began making up the berths. Chase watched him with interest.

“Let’s turn in,” said Enoch. “It’s a long ride and we’ll be tired enough. Some of us must double up, an’ I’m glad we’re skinny.”

Enoch boosted Chase into the upper berth and swung himself up.

“Take off your outer clothes,” said Enoch, “an’ be comfortable.”

Chase found it very snug up there, and he lay back listening to the smooth rush of the train as it sped on into the night. And before long he fell asleep. When he awakened the car was dark, though a faint gray light came through the window above him. He heard somebody walking softly down the aisle and wondered who it could be. The steps stopped.

Chase heard a sound at his feet, and rose to see an arm withdrawn between the curtains. He promptly punched Enoch in the side. Enoch groaned and rolled over.

“Some of the boys stealing our shoes,” whispered Chase.

“It’s the porter wantin’ ’em to shine,” said Enoch sleepily. Then he raised his head and listened. “Yep, it’s the porter. I’m glad you woke me. Now, listen an’ you’ll hear somethin’ funny. Cas always smuggles his bull-pup into the car, an’ hides him from the porter, an’ then puts him to sleep at the foot of the berth. Thet porter will be after Cas’s shoes pretty soon.”

At intervals of every few moments the porter’s soft slipshod footsteps could be plainly heard. He was making toward the upper end of the car.

“It’s comin’ to him,” whispered Enoch, tensely.

A loud, savage, gurgling growl burst out in the stillness, and then yells of terror. A terrific uproar followed. Bumpings and bangings of a heavy body in the aisle; sharp whacks and blows; steady, persistent growling; screams of fright from the awakened women; wild peals of delight from the ball players; above all, the yelling of the porter, these sounds united to make a din that would have put a good-sized menagerie to the blush.

It ended with the unlucky porter making his escape, and Cas coaxing his determined protector back into the berth. By and by, silence once more reigned in the Pullman.

Chase, having had his sleep, lay there as long as he could, and seeing it was broad daylight, decided he would crawl over Enoch and get out of the berth. By dint of some extraordinary exertions he got into his clothes and shoes. Climbing over Enoch was no difficult matter, though he did not accomplish it without awakening him. Then Chase parted the curtains, put his feet out, turned and grasped the curtain-pole, and balanced himself momentarily, preparatory to leaping down. The position was awkward for him, and as he loosened his kneehold he slipped and fell. One of his feet went down hard into a very large, soft substance that suddenly heaved like a swelling wave. As Chase rolled into the aisle screams rent the air.

“Help! Help! Thieves! Murder! Murder! Murder!”

He had fallen on the fat woman in the lower berth. Chase saw a string of heads bobbing out of the curtains above and below, and he heard a mighty clamour that made the former one shrink by comparison.

The conductor, brakeman, and porter rushed in. Chase tried to explain, but what with the wails of the outraged lady and the howls of the players it was impossible to make himself heard. He went away and hid in the smoking-car till the train stopped near Stubenville, where they were to change for Wheeling. When the Findlay team had all stepped off the Pullman, leaving the porter enriched and smiling his surprise, it was plain to Chase that he had risen in the regard of his fellow-players.

“Say, Chase, you’re coming on!”

“You’ll do, old man!”

“It was the best ever!”

“The fire-escape, my lad, is not in a lady’s berth!”

“Go wan! What you giving us? You kicked her in the stomach just by accident? Go wan!”

Chase found it impossible to make the boys believe that he had fallen from the upper berth and had stepped on the poor lady unintentionally.

* * * *

The run along the Ohio to Wheeling was a beautiful one, which Chase thoroughly enjoyed. It was his first sight of a majestic river. During the ride Mac sat beside him and decanted on baseball in general and base-running in particular.

“Chase, a lad as fast as you ought to make all these catchers crawl under the bench. Now, listen to me. To get away quick is the secret. It’s all in the start. Of course, depend some on coachin’, but use your head. Don’t take too big a lead off the base. Fool the pitcher an’ catcher. Make ’em think you ain’t goin’ down. Watch the pitcher an’ learn his motion. Then get your start just as he begins to move. Before he moves is the time, but it takes practice. Run like a deer, watch the baseman, an’ hit the dirt feet first an’ twist out of his way. But pick out the right time. Of course when you get the hit-an’-run sign you’ve got to go. Don’t take chances in a close game. I say, don’t as a rule. Sometimes a darin’ steal wins a game. But there’s time to take chances an’ times not to. Got thet?”

“Mac, where’s the bat-sack?” asked one of the players, when they arrived at Wheeling.

“Sure, I forgot it,” said Mac, blankly. “I’ll have to buy some bats.”

“You ought to be in a bush-league,” said one.

“How do you expect us to hit without our bats?” asked another.

“Did you forget my sticks?” cried Thatcher, champion-hitter, utterly lost without his favorite bats.

Player after player loomed up over the little manager and threatened him in a way that would have convinced outsiders he had actually stolen the bats. Mac threw up his hands and in wordless disgust climbed into the waiting bus.

To Chase, riding to the hotel, having dinner, dressing for the game, and then a long bus-ride out to the island grounds were details of further enjoyment. Findlay was a great drawing-card, and the stands were crowded. Chase was surprised to hear players spoken of familiarly, as if they were members of the home team. “That’s Castorious, the great pitcher.” “There’s old man Hicks, but say! He can catch some.” “See, that’s good old Enoch, the coacher.” “Where’s the new shortstop? The papers say he’s a wonder.” Chase moved out of hearing then and began picking over the new bats Mac had bought. Enoch came up and looked them over, too.

“Bum lot of sticks,” he commented. “Say, Chase, Wheeling is a swell town to play in. The fans here like a good game an’ don’t care who wins. The kids are bad, though. Look out for them. This’s a good ground to hit on. You ought to lambaste a couple today. If Finnegan pitches, you wait for his slow ball and hit it over the fence.”

Findlay won the game 6 to 1. Castorious was invincible. Dude Thatcher hit one over the right-field fence, and Chase hit one over the left-field fence. The crowd cheered lustily after each of these long drives.

When the players piled into the bus to ride back to the hotel, Chase saw them bundling up their heads in sweaters, and soon divined the cause. His enlightenment came in the shape of a swiftly flying pebble that struck his head and made him see stars. As the bus rolled out of the grounds Chase saw a long lane lined with small boys.

“Whip up your horses, you yahoo!” yelled Cas.

“We’re off!” shouted another. “Duck yer nuts! Low bridge! Down with yer noodles!”

Then a shower of stones, mud, apples, and tin cans flew from all sides at the bus. The players fell on the floor and piled upon one another, in every way trying to hide their faces. Chase fell with them and squeezed down as well as he could to avoid the missiles. It was a veritable running of the gantlet and lasted till the plunging bus had passed the lines and distanced the pursuers. Then came the strenuous efforts imperative to untangle a dozen or more youths of supple bodies. Only the fortunate players who had been quick enough to throw themselves to the floor first had escaped bruises or splotched uniforms, and they were hardly better off because of the mashing they had received.

“Gee! I got a lump on my head, all right,” said Chase.

“Thet was sweet as ridin’ to slow music. Wait, wait till we strike Kenton.”

* * * *

That evening after supper, while Chase was sitting in front of the hotel, Cas whispered to him to look out for tricks. He spent the evening in and around the lobby and kept his eyes open. Nothing happened, and at ten o’clock he went upstairs to find his room. He unlocked the door and opened it, to be deluged by a flood of water from overhead. Next a bucket fell on him and almost knocked him down. Shivering and thoroughly drenched, he fumbled on the bureau, finally found matches and struck a light. A bucket, two sticks, and a string lay on the floor in a great pool of water.

“One of the t-tricks,” muttered Chase, with chattering teeth.

He locked his door, closed and fastened his transom, plugged the keyhole and then felt reasonably safe. For a long time there were mysterious goings on in that part of the hotel. Soft steps and subdued voices, snickerings, with occasionally a loud, angry noise, attested to the activity of those who were playing the tricks.

Chase finally got to sleep and had a good night’s rest. In the morning as he came out from breakfast, he found most of his team assembled as usual in the lobby.

“Hev a good night, Chase?” asked several.

“Fine. Little wet, though, early in the evening,” replied Chase, joining in the general laugh.

“Watch for Brill. Don’t miss it,” said somebody.

Brill was one of the pitchers, a good player, quiet in his demeanor, and rather an unknown quantity. He was a slow, easy-going Virginian. Presently he appeared on the stairs, came down, and with pale face and deliberate steps he approached the players.

“Mawnin’, boys,” he said, in his Southern drawl. “I shore hev somethin’ to say to yo’ all. I don’t mind about the ice-water, an’ I don’t mind about the piller somebody hit me with, but I tell yo’ all right hyar, the fellar who put thet there leap-frog in mah bed is goin’ to git licked!”

But Brill never found out who put the leap-frog in his bed. Wild horses could not have dragged the secret from his comrades.

* * * *

That evening, when the players were sitting in front of the hotel with their chairs tipped back, a slight, shabbily dressed woman with a dark shawl over her head approached and timidly asked for Mr. Castorious.

“Here I am, ma’am. What can I do for you?” replied the pitcher, rising.

“My husband sent me, sir. Jim Ayers he is, sir, an’ used to work in Findlay, where he knew you,” she said in a low voice. “He wants to know if you’ll help him—lend him a little money. We’re bad in need, sir—an’ I’ve a baby. Jim, he’s been out of work an’ only got a job last week, an’ the second day he was run over by a team—”

“I read it in the paper,” interrupted Cas. “Yes, I remember Jim.”

“He said you’d remember him,” she went on eagerly. “Jim, he had friends in Ohio. He oughtn’t never to have left there. He hasn’t done well here—but Jim’s the best fellow—he’s been good to me—an’ never drinks except when he’s down on his luck.”

Cas gently turned her toward the light. She was only a girl, pale, worn, sad.

“Sure, I remember Jim,” said Cas, hurriedly. “Fine fellow, Jim was, when he left off drinking. I’ll lend Jim some money, Mrs. Ayers, if you’ll promise to spend it on yourself and your baby.”

The young woman hesitated, then with a wan, grateful smile murmured, “Thank you, sir, I will.”

“Now, you just go around the corner and wait.” Castorious led her a few steps toward the corner.

When she had gotten out of sight he took a roll of bills from his pocket, and detaching one, put it in his hat. “Dig up,” he said, thrusting the hat under Mac’s snub nose.

“Cas, you’re easy. You remember Ayers, don’t you?” replied Mac.

“I do. He was strictly N.G., a booze fighter, an all-around scamp. I wouldn’t give him the price of a drink. But that girl, his wife—did you see her face?”

“I did,” growled Mac, with his hand moving slowly toward his pocket.

“Dig up, then.”

Mac dug, and generously. The tall pitcher loomed over Thatcher. “Can you spare the price of a few neckties to aid a poor woman?” he asked, sarcastically.

“I can,” instantly replied the Dude, throwing a bill into Cas’s hat.

Ball players fight out rivalries even in their charities. Cas glanced grandly down on the Dude, and then passed to Havil.

“The pot’s opened for five,” he said to Havil. Next to shooting shot, Havil liked best a game of poker. In a flash he had contributed to the growing fund.

“I’m in, and it costs two more to play,” he replied. “Hicks, come on.”

“Cas, I’m broke, an’ Mac won’t give me a cent till Saturday night,” answered Hicks.

“Borrow, then,” rejoined Cas curtly. He threw his roll of bills into the catcher’s lap.

Chase and several of the other players were ready for Cas, and so escaped calumny. Enoch mildly expostulated. “I’m gettin’ tired of bein’ buncoed this way,” he remarked.

“Produce. Ain’t you the captain? Don’t you draw the biggest salary? Produce,” went on the inexorable Cas.

“But, Cas, you’re always helpin’ some beggar or other.”

“Wha-at!” demanded Cas hotly. “It was only last week you touched the team for a hobo. Produce!”

Enoch meekly produced.

“Wha’s the matter?” inquired Benny, lounging out of the hotel door. As usual he was under the influence of drink.

“Hol’ on, Cas—gee! Wha’s all the dough for? Lemme in.”

“Never mind, Benny,” replied Cas.” Just raising a little collection for Jim Ayers’ wife. Remember Jim?”

“Got drunk with Jim many a time—hol’ on there. Wha’s the matter? Is my money counterfeit?”

Benny was the most improvident of fellows. He seldom had any money. And his bad habit excluded him from many of the plans and pleasures of his comrades.

“Say, Benny, this isn’t a matter of the price of a beer,” replied Cas, moving toward the corner.

Benny straightened up. “You’re only kiddin’ me—if I thought you meant that for an insult—say! I’m just as much a sport an’ gennelman as you, any day.”

Thereupon Benny soberly thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out a bill and some silver, soberly turned the pocket inside out to get the small change, and with great dignity dropped all the money into Cas’s hat.