I

The wife says that if I didn’t quit grouchin’ round the house she’d just plain leave me and go and live with her Aunt Julia. Well, the wife’s a good scout and Aunt Julia’s home is a farm twelve miles from Dayton, so I promised I’d try and cheer up.

“Yes, but you promised the same thing before,” says Ethel; that’s the wife’s name. “You promised the same thing before and that’s all the good it done,” she says. “It’s your crazy old conscience that’s botherin’ you. You’d ought to go to the hospital and have it took out.”

“Operations costs money,” I says.

“Well,” says Ethel, “I’d rather be broke than have old Sidney Gloom for a husband.”

“I’ll try and cheer up,” I says again.

“You’re the world’s greatest tryer,” says she, “but your attempts to make everybody miserable is the only ones that’s successful.”

It was at breakfast yesterday mornin’ that she was payin’ me these compliments. At supper she pointed out a piece in the evenin’ paper and told me I should read it.

Seems like some old bird about seventy, worth a couple o’ millions, had been a clerk in a grocery store when he was a kid, and one day he helped himself to twenty dollars out o’ the till, and he was scared to death they’d learn who done it and send him over, but for some reason it wasn’t never found out. So, as I say, he finally got rich and had everything that’s supposed to make a man happy, but he hadn’t been able to sleep good for several years on account o’ thinkin’ about his crime. So the minister o’ the church where he attended at preached a sermon on what a good thing confession was for sinners, and the old boy couldn’t even sleep through the sermon, so he got the drift and made up his mind to see if a confession would cure his insomnia and not bein’ able to sleep. So he wrote one out, describin’ what he’d did, and sent it to the minister to be read out loud in church, and that night he slept like a horse.

“Well,” I says, when I was through readin’, “what about it?”

“It’s worth a try,” says Ethel.

“You go in town tomorrow and find somebody that’ll listen, and tell ’em all about your horrible crime. And then see if you can’t come home to me smilin’.”

“That’ll be easy,” I says, “if you’ll leave me drink a couple o’ beers.”

“You can do that too,” she says, “if you think it’ll wash away the blues.”

I thought she was kiddin’ at first; I mean about the confessin’. But she made me understand she was serious.

“But I’d have to bring in the names of others that ain’t entirely innocent,” I says.

“Go as far as you like,” says she. “You certainly don’t think they’re worth shieldin’; ’specially Carmody.”

So here I am and she says I was to tell it all and not keep nothin’ back.

It won’t be necessary to start with where I was born and so forth. A year ago last August is where it really begins. Before that I’d been in the National League six years, and if they’d left me stick to shortstop all the time, they wouldn’t of nobody had me beat. But they found out I could play anywheres they put me and they kept shiftin’ me round like a motorcycle cop.

In the six years I’d did even worse than not save no money. I’d piled up pretty near four thousand dollars’ worth o’ debts. The biggest part of it I owed to fellas on the club that’d came through for me when I made a flivver out of a billiard hall in Brooklyn.

So, as I say, a year ago last August found me four thousand to the bad and that’s when I met Ethel. We was playin’ in Pittsburgh and she was visitin’ some people I know there. She had eye trouble and liked me the first time she seen me. But she didn’t like me nowheres near as much as I liked her. We both fell pretty hard, though, and the third evenin’ we was together we got engaged to be married.

“I wisht I had more to offer you,” I told her. “I’m flat outside o’ my salary and I owe a plain four thousand.”

“I don’t care how much or how little you’ve got,” she says. “Your salary’ll keep us all right. But I don’t want to marry you till you’re clear o’ debt.”

“We’ll do some waitin’ then,” I says. “A year from this fall is the best I can promise. I’ll live on nothin’ this winter and I won’t spend nothin’ next summer and I think I can just about get cleaned up. It’ll be somethin’ new for me to try and save, but you’re worth starvin’ for.”

“And you’re worth waitin’ for,” says she.

So we says goodbye and I went to Chicago with the club. And the second day there I slipped roundin’ first base and throwed my knee pretty near out o’ my stockin’.

It wasn’t no common sprain or strain. The old bird just simply flew out of his cage and flew out to stay. I seen two doctors there and two more back home. They all says the same thing; that I was through playin’ ball.

“After it’s had a rest,” they told me, “just walkin’ on it won’t hurt nothin’. But the minute you run you’re liable to get crippled up good and proper. And if you stooped quick or made a quick turn or if your leg got bumped into, you might serve a good long sentence on the old hair mattress.”

I didn’t want Ethel to find out how bad it was, so all that come out in the paper was that I had a Charley horse. Mac, o’ course, knowed the truth, but he couldn’t do nothin’ except feel sorry for me. He knowed about the girl too.

“I wisht I had a place for you,” he says, “but you wouldn’t be satisfied scoutin’, and with the low player limit we can’t carry no men that ain’t goin’ to do us some good. You’ll get paid, o’ course, up to the end o’ the season. But I can’t offer you no contract for next year.”

“That’s all right,” I says. “I just want it kept quiet till I find somethin’ I can do.”

And w’ile I was still half dazed over the shock of it I got a letter from the girl. She had some big news, she says. Her Aunt Julia’d been told about I and her bein’ engaged and had promised her a present o’ $2,500 on the day we was married. And we was to put this money with another $2,500 that her brother, Paul, was goin’ to save up, and I and her brother was goin’ to buy a garage in Hopsboro from a fella that’d promised Paul he’d sell it to him in a year. And it was the only garage in Hopsboro and done a whale of a business. And Paul was a swell mechanic and I’d take care o’ the business end. And I could quit playin’ ball and never be away from home. It sounded mighty good to me just then. But they was still a little trifle o’ four thousand that’d have to be took care of.

I’d just mailed back an answer, as cheerful as I could write, when a call come over the phone that Mr. A. T. Grant wanted to see me at the Kingsley Hotel. I’d saw his name mentioned in connection with a club in the new league, but I didn’t know if he’d bought it or not.

Well, I went down there in a taxi and was showed right up to his room.

He shook hands with me and then ast me if I was signed up for next year. I told him I wasn’t.

“I’ve just bought the club I was after,” he says. “I wanted to know if you’d consider an offer.”

I done some tall thinkin’. I made up my mind that it wouldn’t do no harm to sign. If I found I couldn’t play nobody’d be hurt. But if the old knee wasn’t as bad as the doctors thought I’d probably get a better job here than anywheres else.

“Who’s goin’ to be your manager?” I ast him.

“Billy Carmody,” he says. “He was the shortstop on the club this year.”

“I never met him, but o’ course I’ve heard of him,” I says.

Then I done some more thinkin’.

“What’s your offer?” I says.

“Five thousand,” says Mr. Grant.

“Where would you want me to play?” I ast him.

“Where would you want to play?” says he.

That give me a hunch. I’d heard they was one or two short fences in the league. Maybe I could play an outfield position even if my legs wouldn’t stand the infield strain.

“In the outfield,” I told him.

“Which field?” he says, and then I knowed he was a bug.

“Right field,” says I.

“That suits me,” he says, and he sent for his secretary to fix up a contract.

So I signed to play right field, and nowheres else, for Mr. Grant’s club for one year at $5,000.

“This business is new to me,” he says, “but I believe I’ll get a lot o’ pleasure out of it.”

“What other men have you got signed?” I ast him.

“I’m not at liberty to tell you,” he says. “But I may tell you that most o’ them is young men that’s as new to professional ball as I am. I believe in gettin’ young fellas, for enthusiasm’s more valuable than experience in a sport o’ this kind.”

“Oh, easy,” I says.

Then we shook hands again and I beat it to a train for Dayton, where the girl was stayin’. And when I seen her I give her the whole story. It looked now like they was a little bit o’ hope.

II

The papers I’d saw durin’ the winter hadn’t wasted no space on our club and I didn’t know exactly who was my teammates till I blowed into Dixie Springs, the first week in March.

I landed in the forenoon. The clerk at the hotel told me the gang was all out to the grounds, practicin’. So I planted my baggage and washed up, and then set out on the porch, waitin’ for the boys to come back. The beanery was on the main street, but from the number o’ people that went past you’d of thought our trainin’ camp had been picked out by Robinson Caruso. About one bell I got sick o’ lookin’ at mud puddles and woke up the clerk again.

“What do you s’pose is keepin’ ’em so long?” I ast him.

“They don’t never show up till after four,” he says.

“Don’t they come back for lunch?” I ast.

“No,” he says. “You see the ball grounds is over a quarter of a mile from here and Mr. Grant, who’s the proprietor o’ the nine, figured it would wear his men out to make the trip four times a day.”

“So they don’t eat at noon?” I says.

“Oh, yes,” says the clerk. “We put up a nice lunch here and send it to ’em.”

“I hope you don’t send ’em nothin’ that’s hard to chew,” I says. After a w’ile I got up nerve enough to attemp’ the killin’ journey to the orchard.

It was an old fairgrounds or somethin’, just on the edge o’ what you’d call the town if you was good-natured. Waivers had been ast on a lot o’ the boards on the fence and they was plenty o’ places where a brewer could of walked through sideways. I was goin’ in at the gate because it was handiest, but I found it locked. I give it a kick and it was opened from inside by a barber hater.

“You can’t come in,” he says through the shrubbery.

“Why not?” says I.

“I’ve got orders,” he says.

“I don’t wonder,” I says. “You’re liable to get anything in them dragnets.”

“I’ll fix you if you try to come in,” he says.

“What’ll you do?” says I. “Tickle me to death with them plumes?”

“Mr. Grant don’t want no spies hangin’ round,” says Whiskers.

“O’ course not,” says I. “But I’m one of his ball players.”

“Oh, no, you ain’t,” says the Old Fox. “If you was you’d be wearin’ one o’ them get-ups with the knee pants and the spellin’ on the blouse.”

“Look here,” I says. “I don’t want to cut my way through the undergrowth; they’s too much danger of infection. You run along and tell Mr. Grant his star performer has arrived, and when you come back I’ll give you thirty-five cents to’rds a shave.”

So the old boy slammed the gate shut and locked her again and the minute it was locked I went to the nearest gap in the fence and eased in.

They was a game o’ ball goin’ on and I started over to where they was playin’ to see if I recognized anybody. But I hadn’t went more’n a step or two when Whiskers come dashin’ up to me with Mr. Grant followin’.

“This is the man!” yells Whiskers.

“And my suspicions was right or he wouldn’t of snuck in.”

Mr. Grant was gaspin’ too hard to talk at first; when he catched his breath he lit into me. “A spy, eh!” he says. “Tryin’ to learn our secrets, eh! That’s a fine job for a big man like you! Whose stool pigeon are you?” he says. “Stop the game!” he says to Whiskers. “Don’t let ’em show nothin’ in front o’ this sneak!”

But they wasn’t no need of him givin’ that order, because when the boys heard the rumpus they quit o’ their own accord and come runnin’ over to be in on it.

Leadin’ the pack was Jimmy Boyle, that I’d busted into the game with, out in Des Moines. I’d noticed from the box scores the summer before that they was a Boyle in this league, but I hadn’t never thought of it bein’ Jimmy. In fac’, till I seen him sprintin’ to’rds me, I’d forgot they was such a guy. It was nine years since I’d saw him.

“Hello, Buck!” he hollers.

“Buck!” says Mr. Grant. “You ain’t Buck Warner, are you?”

“That’s me,” I says, “and I guess if it hadn’t been for Jimmy recognizin’ me you’d of had me shot for a spy.”

The Old Boy looked like he was gettin’ ready to cry.

“I certainly owe you my apologies,” he says. “I don’t remember faces as good as I used to and besides, you’re dressed different than when you and me met.”

“Yes,” I says, “I’ve changed my clo’es twice since September.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” says Mr. Grant.

“I’ll think it over,” I says.

By this time the whole bunch was gathered round and I had a chance to see who was who. Outside o’ Jimmy Boyle they wasn’t only four out o’ more’n two dozen that I knowed by sight. One o’ the four, o’ course, was Billy Carmody. Him and I hadn’t never met; he’d always been in the American till he jumped. But I’d saw his picture of’en enough to spot him. Then they was Hi Boles that I’d knew in the Association. And they was Charley Wade that the Boston club had for w’ile, and Red Fulton, that had been with Philly. The rest o’ them was all strangers to me and most o’ them looked about as much like ball players as Mary Pickford.

I shook hands with Red and Charley and Jimmy and Hi Boles, and Mr. Grant introduced me to the gang.

“Now,” he says, “I wisht you’d shake with me to show you don’t bear no grudge. I wouldn’t of had this thing happen for the world.”

“I don’t blame you at all, sir,” I says. “A club owner’s got to be careful these days, because if other owners will go as far as stealin’ your ball players, they certainly wouldn’t hesitate at hirin’ spies to try and cop your club’s hit-and-run signs. But,” I says, “I think you’re foolish not to plug them holes in the fence. A scout with a strong glass could stand way out there behind center field and find out how many fingers your catchers used to signal for a curve ball.”

“Yes,” he says, winkin’, “but the signals we use now and the signals we’re goin’ to use when the season opens up is two different things.”

“Oh! Deep stuff, eh!” says I. “Well, if that’s the way you’re workin’ it you’d ought not to be scared of outsiders swipin’ information. Leave as many of ’em as wants to come and look us over, and the more bum dope they take back home, the easier we’ll beat ’em when we meet ’em.”

“But I don’t want nobody to even know my lineup,” says Mr. Grant, “not till the boys runs out on the field for the openin’ game. If they don’t know who we got or what we got or our battin’ order or nothin’, they can’t prepare for us, can they?”

“Ain’t they no reporters along?” I ast him.

“I wouldn’t have ’em,” says Mr. Grant. “I don’t want to have no advance news get out about this club. Takin’ your enemies by su’prise is more’n half the battle.”

“Yes,” says I, “but after the first day they won’t be no more su’prise. The whole country’ll know who we are.”

“But we’ll be leadin’ the league,” he says. “They can’t take that away from us.”

“Not for twenty-four hours,” says I.

By this time, Carmody’d took his men back to their practice. I wanted to see ’em in action and made a move to go over to where they was at, but the Old Boy flagged me.

“They’ll be through in five minutes,” he says. “You must be wore out with your long trip, so let’s you and I walk back to the hotel and set and rest till the boys comes in. I want you to be fresh tomorrow.”

So we come away together and the last thing I seen at the grounds was Whiskers. He had the gate open far enough so’s his head could stick out and he could see the whole length o’ the main street. They wasn’t a chance for a spy to catch him off guard, unless the spy used unfair tactics and snuck up from some other direction.

“What do you think of our club?” says Mr. Grant.

“I don’t know nothin’ about it,” I says. “Most o’ them boys is strangers to me.”

“But ain’t they nice lookin’ boys?” he says.

“Sure,” says I, “but some o’ the best ball players I ever seen was homelier than muskrats.”

“But their bein’ homely didn’t make ’em good ball players,” says he.

“No,” I says, “but it helped ’em keep in the pink. They couldn’t go girl-crazy and stay out all hours o’ the night dancin’; they wasn’t no girls that’d dance with ’em or be seen with ’em. And they couldn’t lay against the mahogany all evenin’, because all bars has got mirrors back o’ them, and if a man didn’t never open his eyes they’d think you’d fell asleep and throw you out.”

“Your arguments may be all right for some teams,” says Mr. Grant, “but they don’t hold as far as we’re concerned. Bein’ handsome won’t hurt my boys, because they can’t run round nights or drink neither one.”

“Why not?” I ast him.

“Because they’s a club rule against it,” he says.

“Oh!” I says. “O’ course that makes it different. How’d you ever happen to think o’ makin’ a rule like that? I bet when the other club owners hears about it, they’ll follow suit and thank you for originatin’ the idear.”

“I hope they do follow suit,” he says. “It’s one o’ my ambitions to perjure baseball of its evils.”

“I wish you luck,” says I.

“And another one,” he says, “is to win the pennant, and between you and I, I believe I’m goin’ to realize it.”

“What year?” I says.

“This year,” says my boss.

“Well,” I says, “I’m new in the league and I don’t know what it takes to win. But from what I seen of your club and from what I read about Chicago and St. Louis and some o’ the rest, I’d say you had to strengthen some.”

“I’m afraid you’re pessimistical, Warner,” he says. “I’ve got the winnin’ combination⁠—yourself and Carmody and Fulton and Wade and Boles and Boyle for experience and balance, and those youngsters o’ mine for speed and spirit. We’ll take the League off’n their feet.”

“What does Carmody think about it?”

“The same as me,” he says. “And he’s a great manager.”

“He must be,” says I.

Well, when the crowd come in, Jimmy Boyle chased up to the clerk o’ the hotel and had it fixed for me to room with him.

“They had me paired with one o’ the kids,” he says, “but I got to have somebody to laugh with. This is goin’ to be the greatest season you ever went through. I don’t know what I’ll hit, but I bet I giggle .380.”

“What is they to laugh at?” I says.

“What ain’t they to laugh at?” says Jimmy. “Wait till you get acquainted with the old man! Wait till you’ve saw our gang in action! Wait till you watch Carmody managin’! Dutch Schaefer couldn’t of got up a better club than this.”

“What have we got, outside o’ you and the other fellas I know?” I ast him.

“Say, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it,” says Jimmy. “In the first place, there’s old Grant. If he ain’t got no relatives the county’d ought to look after him. He’s goin’ to keep us a secret till the season opens and then we’re goin’ to win the first game by su’prise. And somebody tipped him off that the club that wins the first game has got the best chance for the pennant. O’ course they’s eight clubs in the league and four o’ them’ll prob’ly win their first games, but he never thought o’ that. And besides, the only chance we got o’ winnin’ the first game or any other game is to have the other club look at us and die laughin’.”

“Ain’t they no stuff in them kids?” I ast.

“Just one o’ them,” says Boyle. “They’s a boy named Steele that must of took his name from his right arm. He can whizz ’em through there faster’n Johnson. He could win with any club in the world but our’n.”

“Who’s the other pitchers?” I ast him.

“They ain’t none,” says Boyle, “none that counts. All told, we got three right-handers and three cockeyes, but outside o’ Steele, I’d go up there and catch any one o’ them without a mask or glove or protector or nothin’. When the balls they throw don’t hit the screen on the fly they’ll hit the fence on the first hop.”

“Where’d he get ’em all?” says I.

“He must of bought ’em off’n Pawnee Bill,” says Jimmy.

“We seem to be long on catchers,” I says.

“Wade and Fulton and myself,” says Jimmy, “but some of us is goin’ to get switched before the season’s a week old. As I say, when Steele ain’t pitchin’ the club don’t need no catcher, and it sure does need other things. Carmody’s playin’ short and Boles is the first sacker and you’ll be somewheres in the outfield. That only leaves four positions without nobody to fill ’em. So I and Red and Charley’s wonderin’ which one of us’ll be elected first. I wouldn’t mind tacklin’ right field; they’s some short fences in the league. But Carmody’s just crazy enough to stick me at third base where a man don’t have time to duck.”

“You lay off’n right field,” I says. “I got a lien on that bird.”

“You’ll play where Carmody puts you,” says Jimmy.

“You’re delirious,” says I. “You ain’t seen my contract. I signed to play right field and nowheres else, and you couldn’t get me out o’ there with a habeas corpus.”

“Mr. Fox, eh?” says Boyle.

“You know it,” I says, “and between you and I, they’s a reason. I’d just as soon tell you because they ain’t no danger o’ you spillin’ it. My right knee slipped out on me last August, and when it went, it went for good. All the doctors I seen give me the same advice⁠—to get out o’ baseball. And I had my mind all made up to quit when old Grant stepped in with his offer. I took it, knowin’ all the w’ile that it was grand larceny.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” says Jimmy. “They’ll be only one guy on this club that ain’t a burglar. That’s young Steele. The rest of us, includin’ the M.G.R., is a bunch o’ bandits. But I’m not frettin’ over it. I figure that if he wasn’t givin’ me this dough somebody else’d be gettin’ it, maybe somebody without as much license to it as me. If they wasn’t nobody dependin’ on me I might feel ashamed. But when you got a wife and two kids, and an old bug comes along and slips you a contract for three times what you’re worth, it’d be cheatin’ your folks to not take it.”

“I ain’t got no folks,” I says.

“But you can’t never tell,” says Boyle.

“I can tell,” I says, “if you’ll listen. I met a little lady the middle o’ last July. The first week in August we got engaged. And the second week in August Mr. Knee blowed out. So when Grant come after me, along in September, I begin to believe in angels. But I ain’t never felt right about it.”

“How bad is the old dog?” says Jimmy. “Can you run on it at all?”

“I can run on it,” I says, “but I can’t get up no speed. And I don’t know when she’s goin’ to slip again. I can’t start quick. And I’m scared to stoop.”

“You won’t need to stoop; not with our pitchers,” says Jimmy. “All that’ll come out your way is line drives or high boys over the wall.”

“And if I turn sudden, I’m gone,” says I.

“That’s easy,” says Boyle. “Rest your spine against them boards and do all your runnin’ to’rds the infield. You won’t be the first outfielder that played that system.”

“Carmody’ll wise up to me,” I says.

“You should worry your head off about Carmody,” says Boyle. “He’s pretendin’ to take his job serious, but down in his heart he knows he’s a thief. He’s got just as much right to manage a ball club as that girl o’ yours. You just stick it out and draw the old check every first and fifteenth, and remember that you got plenty o’ company. Even if your two legs was cut off at the waist you’d be worth five times as much as some of us.”

“Careful there, Jim,” I says.

“You can hit, can’t you?” he says. “And you can catch fly balls, and you can throw. There’s three things you can do, and that’s three more things than most of our gang can do. No, I’ll take that back. They’s one thing they can all do.”

“What’s that?” I ast him.

“Eat,” says Jimmy, “and if you don’t believe it come down in the dinin’ room. The doors is supposed to open for supper at five thirty, but after the first day we was here, the manager seen that the only way to save the doors was to keep ’em open all the w’ile. All the other ball clubs I was ever with talked about their hittin’ and their bad luck, and all that. But this bunch don’t talk nothin’ but meats and groceries, and when they ain’t talkin’ about ’em it’s because they got so many o’ them in their mouth that they can’t talk. The kid that was roomin’ with me put what he couldn’t eat in his pockets or inside his shirt, and after every meal he’d come straight to the room and unload on top o’ the bureau. And if I went near his storehouse to brush my hair or look in the glass, he’d growl like a dog. He had himself trained so’s he wouldn’t sleep more’n three hours in a row. He’d go to bed at nine and get up at twelve and three for refreshments. But no matter how hungry he was at three, he always managed to save a piece o’ cold hamburger or a little fricasseed veal for when he woke up in the mornin’, so’s he wouldn’t have to go down to breakfast in his nightgown. Our second day here it was rainin’ when I rolled out o’ bed. Griffin, the kid I’m tellin’ you about, was puttin’ on his clo’es with one hand and feedin’ himself with the other. ‘Well, boy,’ I says to him, ‘it looks like we’d loaf today.’ He must of thought I’d mentioned veal loaf or a loaf o’ bread, because all the answer I got was more things to eat. ‘Fruit and cereal,’ he says, ‘prunes and oranges and oatmeal, bacon and eggs straight up, small tenderloin medium, sausage and cakes, buttered toast, some o’ them rolls, and a pot o’ coffee.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘your dress rehearsal goes off all right; if you don’t get scared and forget your lines in front o’ the waiter, you’ll be the hit o’ the show.’ But I might as well of been talkin’ to a post hole. He didn’t know I was speakin’ unless I spoke like a bill o’ fare.”

“What position does he play?” I ast.

“Third base,” says Jimmy, “and for the fear everybody won’t know it, he always keeps one foot on the bag. But don’t get the idear that he’s a bigger eater than the rest o’ them. They ain’t no more difference in their appetites than in their ball playin’. When they got their noses in the feed-trough, though, they look like they was at home. And when they’re out there on the field, you’d think they was It for blindman’s buff.”

I ast him about the Old Man havin’ their lunch sent out.

“Even Carmody laughed at that,” he says; “but Carmody’s figured that the way to get along with old Grant is to agree with him in everything. So we’re relieved from two changes o’ clo’es, and a half mile walk that might help some of us get down to weight.”

“Is it a regular lunch?” I ast him.

“All but the tools,” says Jimmy. “And that makes it the favorite meal with Griffin and them. They can throw it in faster and without near as much risk. And all you have to do to start a riot is drop a bone or part of a potato on the grass.”

“How is the grounds?” I says.

“Just as good as the club,” says Boyle.

“Who picked out this joint?” says I.

“The same old bug that picked up these ball players,” says Jimmy. “He was lookin’ for a quiet place and he got it. The burg’s supposed to have a population o’ twelve hundred, but I haven’t even saw the twelve. Dixie Springs they call it, but the only springs is in Carmody’s bed. The town and the grounds is both jokes. The hotel’s all right outside o’ the rooms. I’ll own up the eatin’s good, but that’s the one thing that don’t make no difference to this bunch of our’n. They’d go to it just the same if it was raw mule chops.”

“How much longer do we stick?” I ast him.

“Plain five weeks,” says Jimmy. “We don’t play no exhibitions nowheres because they might be spies from the other clubs watchin’ us. We stay right here and do all our practicin’ in a park that was laid out by a steeplechase fan, and then we go straight home and win the openin’ game and the pennant by su’prise. You’re lucky you come a week late. If I’d knew the dope in advance I wouldn’t of never reported till the day o’ the big su’prise party. But leave us hurry downstairs or it’ll be too late for you to get a look at a fine piece of American scenery.”

“What’s that?” I ast.

“The Royal Gorge,” says Jimmy.

Well, he hadn’t lied when he told me about their eatin’. It was just like as if they knowed the league wasn’t only goin’ to last this one more season, and they all o’ them expected to live to be over ninety, and was tryin’ to get fixed up in a year for the next sixty-five. You remember how them waiters down South come one-steppin’ in with their trays balanced on their thumb a mile over their head? Well, they didn’t pull that stunt with the orders these here boys give ’em. Each fella’s meal took two pallbearers, with a couple o’ mourners followin’ along behind to pick up whatever floral pieces fell off when the casket listed.

I and Boyle and Fulton and Hi Boles had a table to ourself, and you ought to saw them Ephs quarrel over who’d wait on us. Besides our four orders together not bein’ as big as one o’ them other guys’, we wasn’t so exhausted at the end o’ the meal that we couldn’t dig down in our pocket and get a dime. Mr. Grant and Carmody and the secretary set next to our table and it seemed to worry the Old Boy that our appetites was so poor. He’d say:

“Warner, I’m afraid you ain’t feelin’ good. You don’t eat hardly nothin’.”

“I’m all right,” I’d tell him; “but eatin’ ain’t no new experience for me. I ett for several years before I broke into baseball and I been gettin’ regular meals ever since.”

The lunch served out to the grounds was worth travelin’ south just to look at it. It always come prompt at twelve, and for a half hour before that time every ground ball was a base hit because the fielders was all lookin’ up at the sun. And when the baskets full o’ nourishment was drug in, no matter if we was right in the middle of an innin’, everybody’d throw away their bats and gloves and race for the front. Carmody’d follow along smilin’, like it was a good joke.

I was hungry my first day out. I told Jimmy I felt like eatin’ a big meal.

“Well,” he says, “I bet you don’t eat it when you see it.”

He win his bet. I was the last fella up to the baskets. They was a couple o’ sandwiches and one or two pieces o’ fried chicken left, but it’d all been pawed over by the early birds, and amongst the other things the grounds was shy of was a place to wash your hands. Even if they’d been one, nobody’d of had time to use it.

So that day and the rest o’ the time we was there I set out on the sidelines with Hi and Jimmy and Red durin’ the noon hour, and watched the performance.

“This mayn’t be a big league,” says Jimmy, “but our club’ll be big if they don’t all get lockjaw.”

“It’ll take two engines to pull us home,” says Red.

“If them boys could hit, they’d be heavy hitters,” says Hi.

Well, they couldn’t hit or they couldn’t field; that is, the most o’ them couldn’t. They was a couple that had the stuff to make pretty fair ball players if they’d knew anything. Carmody couldn’t learn ’em because he didn’t know nothin’ himself. I done what I could to help ’em, partly because I’m kindhearted and partly so’s I’d be doin’ somethin’ else besides riskin’ my life in that outfield. It was rough enough so’s a fella with two good legs would be scared to take a chance, and it wasn’t no place for a cripple to frolic round in.

We put on two ball games a day between the regulars and yannigans. The only reason for callin’ our team the regulars was on account o’ Carmody playin’ with us. We was licked most o’ the time because young Steele done most o’ the pitchin’ against us. He sure could buzz ’em through and he had as good control as I ever seen in a kid. He was workin’ the day that I and Carmody had our first and last argument. Carmody’s whole idear o’ baseball was “take two strikes.” That was his instructions to everybody that went up to hit. It was all right when the other fellas was pitchin’ because they was all o’ them pretty near sure to walk you. But I couldn’t see no sense doin’ it against Steele; it just helped him get you in a hole.

This day it come up to the seventh innin’ and Steele had us beat four to nothin’. We was all ordered to take two strikes and most of us was addin’ one onto the order. But in the seventh, one o’ the kids happened to get a base hit and they was a couple o’ boots, and when it was my turn to go up there, the bases was choked and two out.

“Take two strikes,” yells Carmody.

“Yes,” I says to myself, “I’ll take two strikes.”

So Steele, thinkin’ I’d obey orders, laid the first one right over in my groove and I busted it out o’ the ball park.

When I come in to the bench Carmody was layin’ for me.

“What kind o’ baseball is that?” he says.

“It’s real baseball,” I says. “If you think it ain’t you’re crazy. When a pitcher’s got as good control as him, and we’re four runs behind and the bases is full, I’m goin’ to crack the first ball I can reach.”

He called me over away from the gang.

“It’s a bad example,” he says, “for you to not follow instructions.”

“Maybe it is,” says I, “but when the instructions is ridic’lous I’m goin’ to forget ’em.”

“I’m managin’ this ball club,” he says.

“You’re doin’ a grand job,” says I. “When you take money for managin’, it’s plain highway robbery.”

“I suppose you’re earnin’ yourn,” says Carmody. “I suppose you got two good legs.”

That kind o’ shook me up.

“Listen,” he says, “I got just as much license to draw a manager’s salary as you have for takin’ a ball player’s. You’re liable to be on crutches before the middle of April. But if I don’t make no crack to Grant he won’t know you was crippled when you signed; he’ll think, when your knee goes back on you, that it’s the first time and just an accident. So,” he says, “if I was you I’d play the way the manager told me and not make no fuss.”

“You win,” says I. “But have a heart and forget once in a w’ile to give me orders. I don’t mind if the rest o’ the league knows I got a bum leg, but I don’t want ’em to think my head’s cut off.”

They wasn’t never such a long five weeks as I put in down to this excuse for a trainin’ camp. After the first few days I got sick o’ laughin’ and sleepin’ and everything else. I’d promised the girl I wouldn’t take a drink, but all that kept me from breakin’ the promise was lack of opportunity. The burg didn’t even have a soda foundry.

Nights after supper I’d write a long letter to the future Missus and then I and Boyle’d set up in the room and wish we was somewheres else. Once or twice old Grant called on us and raved about our chances to win the pennant.

“If you boys finish on top,” he says, “and if the European war’s over by that time, I might give you all a trip acrost the pond next fall.”

When he’d went out and left us after spillin’ that great piece o’ news, we was as excited as a couple o’ draft horses.

“I wonder what they soak a man for a steamer trunk,” says Jimmy. “It’d be a grand honeymoon for you,” he says. “The lady’ll love you better’n ever when she knows you’re goin’ to take her to see the Tower o’ London and the Plaster o’ Paris.”

“I hope,” says I, “that they’ll be sure and have all the dead removed before we get there.”

“We’ll be right to home in the trenches after practicin’ all spring on these grounds,” says Jimmy.

Well, the time went by one way and another and the happiest day o’ my life, bar one, was when us Wellfeds clumb aboard a rattler headed north. Our trainin’ season was over and we was in every bit as good shape as if we’d just left the operatin’ table. Our team was picked and they was ball players in every position except two, but Carmody and Wade was the only ones in the lot that was playin’ where they belonged. The two kids that acted like they had a little ability was in the outfield with me. Jimmy Boyle’d been tried at second base and third base, but he was lost both places, so they’d stuck him on first and shifted Hi Boles, a first sacker, to third. Red Fulton, another catcher, was pretendin’ to play second base. Carmody was at shortstop and it looked like Charley Wade was elected to catch whenever it didn’t rain. That was the club that was goin’ to take the pennant by su’prise and spend the winter in Monte Carlo.

But I was too happy over leavin’ Dixie Springs to be worryin’ about how rotten we looked.

“Lord!” I says to Charley Wade, “I guess it won’t seem great to be in a real town!”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m afraid I’ll be nervous when I get where they’s people.”

III

They wasn’t enough people in the park the day we opened to bother Charley Wade or anybody else. Old Grant had made such a success o’ keepin’ us a secret that only about eight hundred knowed we was goin’ to perform; anyway, that’s all that come out to watch us, and in his great, big new stands, they looked like a dozen fleas on a flat car.

It was a crime, too, that we didn’t have a crowd, because we win the ball game. The records will show that; you don’t have to take my word. The Old Boy had predicted a su’prise and his prophecy come true. And the ones that was most su’prised was us and the fellas we beat.

When that Buffalo bunch first come out and seen our lineup in battin’ practice, they laughed themself hoarse. But they didn’t do no laughin’ after the game started and they got a sample o’ Steele’s stuff. The weather was twice as cold as any we’d ran into down South, but it didn’t seem to make no difference to him. He was lightnin’ fast and steady as Matty. He didn’t give ’em one real chance to score.

We trimmed ’em two to nothin’ and I drove in the both of our runs. Along with that I was lucky enough to make quite a catch o’ the only ball they hit hard off o’ Steele.

When we got in the clubhouse afterwards, Mr. Grant was there, actually cryin’ for joy. He throwed his arms round Steele and was goin’ to do the same to me, but I backed off and told him I was engaged.

O’ course they was reporters lookin’ us over this time and the next mornin’ the population was informed that Grant and Carmody’d made quite a ball club out of a bunch of misfits. So when she started that afternoon, the stands was pretty near filled.

Our whole pitchin’ staff, except Steele, was in there at one time or another. The Buffalo club hadn’t been able to hit Steele. They didn’t have to hit these other babies. I don’t know how many bases on balls was gave, but I bet it was a world’s record. Charley Wade, back o’ the bat, did more shaggin’ than all the outfielders. When Buffalo was battin’ the umps could of left his right arm in the checkroom. Fourteen to nothin’ it wound up and they was no spoonin’ in the clubhouse after the game.

Steele was beat his next time out, but win his third start. And one o’ the cockeyes come acrost with a win in the second series, gettin’ some valuable help from an umpire that’d been let out o’ the Association for bein’ stone blind. I think altogether we copped four games in April. Along the last part o’ May or the first o’ June we grabbed two in succession, but the streak was broke up when Jimmy dropped three pegs in the eighth and ninth innin’s o’ the third game.

Durin’ the home series in May, four or five hundred people that was fond o’ low comedy come out every afternoon to get our stuff. But we pulled the same gags so often that they quit us after a w’ile. We went round the western half o’ the circuit in June and our split o’ the gate wouldn’t of tipped the porters. Then we come home again and was welcomed by thirty-seven paid admissions, five ushers and two newspaper men.

The Old Boy cut the price to a dime for the bleachers. The ticket takers slept peaceful all afternoon. Then he hired a band to give a concert every day, so for a w’ile we was sure of an attendance o’ thirty, except when the piccolo player got piccoloed.

When August come I was leadin’ the league in hittin’ and Mr. Grant thought I was the most valuable man he had. He overlooked a few things about my record that would of wised up any real baseball man. For instance, though I was battin’ .420, my total o’ stolen bases was three, and all three o’ them was steals o’ second that’d been made in double steals with Hi Boles goin’ from second to third. And I didn’t only have about ten extra base hits, o’ which five was home run drives out o’ the park. In other words, I wasn’t doin’ no more runnin’ than I had to, and I didn’t try to get nowheres where they was a chance that I’d have to slide. And under this kind o’ treatment, Mr. Leggo had held up good. I’d felt him wabble two different times when I was chasin’ fly balls, but he’d popped back into place without me even coaxin’ him.

Then, in the middle of August, everything happened at once. Charley Wade broke an ankle, Carmody’s right arm went dead, and the girl had a brawl with Aunt Julia.

We was in Indianapolis. We’d just got through carryin’ Charley into the clubhouse when a boy come down to the bench and handed me a telegram. It says I was to come at once; she must see me.

“Carmody,” I says, “I got to run down to Dayton tonight.”

“What for?” he says.

“Somebody wants me,” I told him.

“Not as bad as I do,” he says.

“Well,” says I, “it’s somebody that makes more difference than you do.”

“I’ll talk to you after the game,” he says. It was our last bats and it didn’t take ’em long to get us out.

“Now,” says Carmody, “you can go to Dayton tonight if you’ll promise to be back in time to play tomorrow.”

“I can’t make no promise,” I says.

“Then you can’t go,” says Carmody.

“What’s the matter with you?” I says. “Can’t you stick a pitcher or one o’ them kids in right field for one day?”

“You ain’t goin’ to play right field no more,” he says.

“I ain’t goin’ to play nowheres else,” says I. “Do you think I’m goin’ to catch in Charley’s place?”

“No,” he says. “I’m goin’ to put Boyle back there.”

“And me go to first?” I says.

“No,” says Carmody. “I’m goin’ there nyself and you’re goin’ to take my place at shortstop.”

“You’re maudlin,” I says. “I signed a contract to play right field and that’s where I’m goin’ to stick. I’m awkward enough out there; I’d be a holy show on the infield. Besides, you never played first base in your life and one o’ the pitchers or that big Griffin kid could do as good as you. What’s the use o’ breakin’ up your whole combination just because one fella’s hurt?”

“We couldn’t make no change that’d be for the worse,” says Carmody. “But I’ll come clean with you and tell you where I’m at. I’m gettin’ $1,800 a month for this job. But my contract says I got to play the whole season out or he can cut $2,500 off’n my year’s salary.”

“Well,” I says, “what’s the difference if you play first base or stay where you’re at?”

“I can’t stay where I’m at,” he says. “My souper’s deader’n that place we trained. She quit on me in the seventh innin’ today. I couldn’t stand on the foul line and throw to fair ground.”

“You hurt it in action, didn’t you?” I says.

“Yes, but he’s sore at me,” says Carmody, “on account of our swell showin’. And the way my contract reads, he could keep my dough if he wanted to.”

“But you’ll have to throw when you’re playin’ first base,” says I.

“No, I won’t,” he says. “You watch me and see. If I’ve got the ball and they’s a play to make anywheres, you’ll see the old pill slip right out o’ my hand and lay there on the ground.”

“But I don’t see why you should pick on me,” I says. “Boles or Red Fulton or one o’ them kids could do a whole lot better job o’ shortstoppin’ than me.”

“Boles and Fulton is bad enough where they’re at,” he says, “without wishin’ a new bunch o’ trouble on ’em. You’ve played there and you’d know what you was doin’ even if you couldn’t stoop over or cover no ground. Besides,” he says, “old Grant wants you to tackle it.”

“When was you talkin’ to him?” I says. “You ain’t seen him since Charley got hurt and your arm went.”

“That’s more secrets,” says Carmody. “Between you and I, my arm’s been bad a long w’ile and I had the hunch it was goin’ to do just what it done. So I told him a little story a couple o’ weeks ago. I told him I wasn’t satisfied with the way Boyle was playin’ first base and I told him I was a pretty good first sacker myself and thought I’d move over there. So he ast me who’d play shortstop and I told him you’d make the best man and he says he thought so, too, but your contract read that you’d only play right field. So I told him maybe he could coax you to switch.”

“It must be hard for you to shave with all that cheek,” I says. “You can go and tell him now that you ast me would I play shortstop and I told you No, I wouldn’t. So that’s settled, and now I’m goin’ to catch a train. If I can get back tomorrow I will. And if I do get back, I’ll be in right field.”

I left him bawlin’ me out, but I knowed he couldn’t do nothin’ to me. I had as much on him as he had on me.

I run into a flood in Dayton, but it was salt water this time. The girl cried for two hours after I got there and couldn’t quit long enough to tell me what it was about. I finally made like I was goin’ away disgusted. Then she come through.

They wasn’t goin’ to be no $2,500 from Aunt Julia. Aunt Julia’d fell in love with a G.A.R. that hadn’t did nothin’ since ’65 but celebrate his team’s victory. So Ethel, instead o’ usin’ her head, lost it, and ast Aunt Julia what she meant by tyin’ up with a bird twenty years older than herself that hadn’t shaved since Grant took Richmond. So they broke up in a riot and all bets was off.

“Well,” I says, “maybe she’ll get over it.”

“No, she won’t,” says Ethel, “and even if she did, I wouldn’t take her old money.”

“Any high-class bank would give you new money for it,” I says.

“It ain’t no time for jokin’,” she says. “Everything’s all over. We can’t get married this year; maybe not for ten years; maybe never.”

“I don’t have to pay all them debts right away,” I says. “I can hold out $2,500 and give it to Paul. The boys have waited this long for their dough; I guess they can wait a w’ile longer.”

“You know what I’ve told you,” she says. “We won’t be married one minute before you’re out o’ debt.”

“Well,” I says, “it looks like they was no hurry about gettin’ a license. They ain’t goin’ to be no post-season money for us guys.”

“We’ll just have to wait then,” says the girl. “You’ll have to save every cent o’ your next year’s pay.”

“They ain’t goin’ to be no next year’s pay,” says I. “This league’ll be past history in another season. And I couldn’t carry bats anywheres else.”

The more we talked the bluer things looked and I guess I’d of been cryin’ myself in another minute if the big idear hadn’t came to me.

“Wait a minute!” I says. “They’s a chance that we can get out o’ this all right.”

“What’s the dope?” she ast me.

But I wouldn’t tell her; it wasn’t clear in my own mind yet and I didn’t want to say nothin’ till I’d schemed it out.

“I’m goin’ right back, back, back to Indiana,” I says. “You’ll get a wire from me tomorrow night. Maybe it’ll be good news and maybe it won’t. But you’ll know pretty near as soon as I do.”

I was up in Carmody’s room at seven o’clock the next mornin’. I ast him if he’d said anything to Mr. Grant about me refusin’ to play shortstop.

“No,” he says. “I was hopin’ you’d change your mind.”

“Maybe I will,” I says, “but not without he coaxes me.”

Carmody didn’t ask me what I was gettin’ at. He dressed and went downstairs to find the Old Boy. And at half-past eight, in the dinin’ room, the coaxin’ commenced.

“Warner,” says Mr. Grant, “Carmody’s thinkin’ about makin’ a few changes in the team.”

“Is that so?” I says. “What are they?”

“Well,” he says, “he ain’t satisfied with the way Boyle plays first base. And besides, now that Wade’s hurt, he thinks Boyle should ought to go back and catch again. And he wants to try first base himself. So that would leave shortstop open.”

“Maybe you could get a hold o’ some semipro shortstopper,” I says.

“I don’t want none,” he says. “I want a man that’s had big league experience. I believe that with Carmody on first base and a good man at shortstop we could finish seventh yet. What do you think?”

“Very likely,” I says, knowin’ that they wasn’t a chance in the world.

“I’d give a good deal to pull out o’ last place,” says he.

“Well,” I says, “I’ll see if I can’t think o’ some good shortstop that ain’t tied up.”

“You don’t have to try and think o’ one,” says Mr. Grant. “I’ve got one in mind.”

“Who’s that?” I says.

“Yourself,” he says. I pretended like I was too su’prised to speak.

“You can play the position, can’t you?” he ast.

“Sure,” says I. “That’s where I was born and brought up.”

“Well, then,” he says, rubbin’ his hands.

“Well, nothin’,” I says. “I’m signed as a right fielder.”

“We could make a new contract,” he says.

“But listen, Mr. Grant,” I says. “W’ile I know shortstop like a book, I don’t want to play it. It’s too hard. It keeps a man thinkin’ and workin’ every minute. One season at shortstop is pretty near as wearin’ as two in the outfield. That’s why I insisted on right field. I wanted to take things a little easier this year. That’s why I was willin’ to sign with $5,000.”

“What would you of wanted to play short?” he ast me.

“Oh,” I says, “I wouldn’t of thought of it for less than $9,000.”

He didn’t say nothin’ for a minute; a good long minute too. Finally he says:

“Well, Warner, they’s only about six more weeks to go. But I’m wild to get out o’ last place and I’ll spend some money to do it, though spendin’ money has been my chief business all season. I want to be fair with you, so if you’ll finish out the season at shortstop I’ll give you $2,500 extra.”

This time it was me that wanted to hug him. But I played safe. I considered and considered and considered and finally I give in.

“I’ll do it, Mr. Grant,” I says. “As a favor to you, I’ll do it.”

Out in the lobby Carmody was waitin’ for me.

“It’s fixed,” I says. “He’s a pretty good coaxer.”

“What did you get?” he ast me.

“A November weddin’,” says I.

I’d promised to wire Ethel by night, but the thing had been pulled a whole lot quicker’n I’d hoped for. I run right from Carmody to the telegraph office.

“All fixed,” I says in my message. “I got $2,500 extra.”

At lunch time her answer come back:

Good old boy. Did you hold somebody up?

Well, sir, believe me or not, I hadn’t thought of it that way before. But when I read her wire I had to admit to myself that she’d pretty near called the turn.

The less said about them last six weeks the better. I don’t know how many games we was beat, but five was what we win. I felt worst about poor Steele. There he was, workin’ his head off two to four games a week, worth four times as much as all the rest of us together, and drawin’ a salary o’ $400 a month. He’s with a real club this year and you watch him go!

They’ll always be a question in my mind about which was the biggest flivver, me at shortstop or Carmody at first base. I covered just as much ground as was under my shoes and if a ground ball didn’t hop up waist high when it come to me, it kept right on travelin’.

I didn’t take many plays at second base for the fear I’d get slid into. If I tagged anybody it was because they stuck out their hand and insisted on it. And I was so nervous all the w’ile that I couldn’t hardly foul one up at that plate.

Carmody’s dead arm wasn’t half his troubles. Findin’ first base with his feet was what bothered him most. Everybody in the league was ridin’ him.

“Tie a bell on the bag!” they’d holler. “Look out! You’ll spike yourself! Get a compass! Who hid first base?”

It was lucky for me that the Old Boy’s box was on the first base side and that he couldn’t see far. He could take in a lot more o’ Carmody’s fox trottin’ than he could o’ my still life posin’. He knowed, though, that I wasn’t a howlin’ success as a shortstopper. When he give me my extra money, he says:

“Warner, you didn’t come up to my expectations.”

“Mr. Grant,” I says, “playin’ that outfield spoiled me for an infield job. I won’t never tackle it again.”

And for once I was tellin’ him the truth.

I ast him what his plans was for another season.

“I ain’t only got the one plan,” he says. “That’s to get out o’ baseball.”

“Well,” I says, “I hope you can find somebody to buy the club.”

“I ain’t goin’ to sell it,” he says. “The next man that does me a dirty trick, I’m goin’ to give it to him.”

IV

Well, sir, I paid my debts first and then I sent the girl’s brother a check for my share o’ the dandy little garage. The marriage nuptials come off on schedule and I guess we wasn’t su’prised when Aunt Julia showed up with a forgivin’ smile and a check for $2,500.

“You can’t tell if it’s old money or not,” I says to Ethel.

“I guess we’ll keep it anyway,” she says.

“Maybe,” I says, “I’ll send it back to old Grant.”

“Maybe you won’t too,” says she. “This money happens to belong to me and I never pretended I could play shortstop.”

I feel better now that’s off’n my chest. I know it was wrong, but as Jimmy Boyle pointed out, if one fella didn’t take it some other fella would. And I think I got a better excuse than anybody else. Come out to the house sometime and see for yourself.