Sick ’Em

This is just between I and you. I don’t want it to go no further. In the first place a feller that’s had rotten luck as long as Red is entitled to the credit when his club fin’lly comes through and cops. In the second place if I was to tell the newspapers or the public that I was the one that really done it they’d laugh at me. They’d say: “How could you of did it when you was sittin’ on the bench all summer?”

But you know I wouldn’t lie to you, Jake, and you know I don’t care nothin’ about the honor or that bunk.

The little old World’s Serious check is honor enough for me. So let ’em say that it was Red’s managin’ and them two guys’ pitchin’ that won for us, and let it go at that. I’m just tellin’ you this to get it offen my chest.

Well, you must of read about Lefty Smith last fall, after we’d grabbed him. He’s a wop and Smith ain’t his real name, but it’s the one he’s went under ever since he started pitchin’. I heard his right name oncet, but I ain’t got time to tell it to you today. It’s longer’n Eppa Rixey. Anyway, the papers was full o’ what him and Fogarty had did at Fort Wayne; how they’d worked a hundred games between ’em and copped the Central League pennant, and how all the scouts had went after ’em.

Pat had stopped off there when we was goin’ West one trip and had saw ’em both work, and they’d looked so good to him that he’d advised Red to buy the both o’ them. Well, Red told the big boss and he bought Smitty; paid five thousand for him, they say. They wanted even more for Fogarty; so we just put in a draft for him. But pretty near all the other clubs done the same and the Cubs got him.

Red thought Smitty’d fit in nice with our bunch. We needed all the pitchers we could get after what the Feds done to us. Most o’ these guys with all the toutin’ turns out to be dubs; but Smitty had a whale of a record, full o’ no-hit games and shutouts. He’d whiffed more guys than Rube Waddell or Johnson, and had tooken part in fifty games. Besides, he had some pitchin’ sense, which is more’n you can say for most o’ them bushers. Fogarty’s record was just as good as Smitty’s; but, o’ course we wasn’t so much interested in him. We figured from what Smitty’d did and from what Pat said about him that he’d come right through from the jump and show enough to make Red stick him in there in his reg’lar turn.

Well, we got down South and had a chancet to look him over. You could spot him right off the reel for a wop, but he was a handsome devil, big as a house, and with black eyes and black hair.

He didn’t show nothin’ for a couple o’ weeks, but nobody lost no sleep over that; we thought he was takin’ it easy and was one o’ them careful birds that comes slow. Along in the third week we had some practice games between ourselves and Red starts Smitty agin the second club in one o’ them. Say, he had a fast one like Waddell’s and a cross fire like Sallee’s! But he seemed to be afraid he’d show too much. He’d begin an innin’ by puttin’ more stuff on the ball than I ever seen, but after he’d threw two or three he’d ease up and lob ’em over. Them goofs couldn’t see ’em when he was tryin’; but, say, they hit ’em acrost the state line when he let up. That didn’t bother us none, neither, for we figured that he had the stuff when he wanted to use it, and when he got in shape he’d burn up the league.

We played a few games with them Southern clubs and Smitty kept on the same way. Maybe he’d pitch hard to one guy in a innin’, but then he’d quit workin’ and just float ’em up there like a balloon. Red told him one day to cut loose and see if he could go the route. He might just as well of told him to shave himself with a dish o’ prunes. He went right along the way he’d been doin’, pitchin’ like a bear cat oncet in a while and sloppin’ ’em over the rest o’ the time. We was playin’ the Richmond Club and they scored eleven runs, but Red wouldn’t take him out.

After the game Red give him a bawlin’ and ast him what was the matter. He said, Nothin’; he was doin’ the best he knowed how. Red says: “You ain’t doin’ no such a thing. You’ve got the stuff, but you won’t let go of it. Are you lazy or what?” Smitty didn’t say a word. Then Red ast him if he wasn’t in shape, and he said, Yes, he guessed he was. “Well,” says Red, “you’ll have to cut out the monkey business or I’ll put the rollers under you!”

We stopped off in Washin’ton for a couple of exhibition games and broke even with ’em. Then we went home and tackled the Athaletics in the spring serious. Alexander trimmed ’em and they licked Mayer. Red sent Smitty at ’em in the third game and he was worse’n ever. I thought he’d be massacreed.

For two innin’s they couldn’t touch him and then he pulled the old stuff. Cy Young could of run to the plate as fast as the balls this bird throwed. It was just like hittin’ fungoes for them Athaletics. A slow ball’s all right in its place, but it’s got to be mixed up with somethin’ else. The way Smitty mixed ’em up was to throw one slow, and then one slower, and then one slower yet. Along in the fourth, before Red took him out, you could of went on one o’ them street cars from the hotel to the ball park in St. Louis between the time he let go o’ the pill and when one o’ them Mackmen kissed it. Pat was crazy. He says:

“I’d give my glove to know what’s the matter with him. He was the best pitcher in the world when I looked him over, and now he couldn’t hold a job with a high school. He must of been full o’ dope at Fort Wayne.”

Meantime I got a hold o’ one o’ the Chi papers and seen where they was pannin’ Fogarty. They said he seemed to be as fast as Johnson and to have a lot o’ stuff, but he didn’t show no more ambish than a horse car. I read the piece to Smitty.

“Your old sidekick don’t seem to be cuttin’ up much,” I says.

“He ain’t no sidekick o’ mine,” Smitty says.

“You and him was together at Fort Wayne, wasn’t you?” says I.

“Yes,” says Smitty; “and he’s a false alarm.”

I thought I’d bruise him.

“He ain’t got nothin’ on you,” I says.

But he took it just as calm as though I’d told him his collar was dirty. Then I says:

“You and Fogarty must of pawned your pepper when you left Fort Wayne. Or maybe you can’t get along without your Hoosier hops. Somethin’s wrong. You couldn’t of won all them games if you worked there like you’re doin’ here. What’s the matter?”

“Matter with who?” he says.

“Both o’ you⁠—you and Fogarty,” I says.

“They’s nothin’ the matter with me,” says Smitty. “I’m all right; but that slob never had no business tryin’ to pitch.”

“How did he win them games?” I ast.

“I guess they felt sorry for him,” says Smitty.

“They’ll be feelin’ sorry for you if you don’t go and get some ginger,” says I.

The season opened and we started off like we always do, playin’ ’em off their feet and lookin’ like champs. Alexander and Rixey was better’n I’d ever saw ’em, and the boys was all hittin’. It was a rotten day when Cravath or Magee or Luderus, or some o’ them, didn’t pole a couple out o’ the park. We didn’t get excited about it, though: We’d been May champions too often. We was wonderin’ when the Old Jinx was goin’ to hit us in the eye, and whether we’d get smashed up in a railroad wreck or have a epidemic o’ lepersy. The papers was sayin’ that we was up to our old tricks and that we’d blow higher’n a kite when the annual cyclone struck us.

Red had started Smitty just oncet. That was agin the Boston bunch, and he’d tooken him out in the first innin’ so’s we could finish the game that day. The first ball he throwed made a noise like a cannon when it hit Bill’s glove. The rest o’ them never got that far. One was all he had the strength to pitch. The first seven guys that come up was expresses⁠—they didn’t stop at first or second base. Paskert ast Red to send him a taxi. Smitty fin’lly was invited to the bench and sat there blinkin’ while Red sprung a monologue.

“You’re layin’ down on me,” says Red, “and it’s goin’ to cost you a month’s pay. If you’re playin’ for your release you’re wastin’ time. I’d get rid o’ you if I could, but nobody’ll take you. I’ve ast for waivers and I know what I’m talkin’ about. You’re wished on to us for the summer, but you ain’t goin’ to do no more pitchin’. I wouldn’t even let you work in battin’ practice, ’cause the fellers couldn’t see a real pitcher’s stuff after lookin’ at your’n. You can help the clubhouse boy, and you can hustle out the canvas when it rains, and you can stand and hold the bottle while the real ball players is gettin’ rubbed. And you can stick round after the games and hang up the undershirts.

“We’d ought to sue the Fort Wayne club for swindlin’ us! I’d like to manage a team in that league if fellers like you can win a pennant there. I’d give the ground keeper a dollar a day extra to do the pitchin’ for me, and I’d go in myself when he was too busy. They give you a salary for playin’ ball, but they pinch a man for stealin’ a loaf o’ bread! If you’re the best pitcher in the Central League the rest o’ them is paralytics. If we’d spent five thousand for the middle of a doughnut we’d have a better chancet o’ realizin’ on our investment. If pepper was worth a million dollars a ounce you’d be rated at ten cents!”

“Can I go in and dress?” says Smitty.

“I doubt it,” says Red. “You better take somebody along to help you.” Well, that might of been the end o’ the bird if he was with any club but our’n. Red had the waivers all right, but couldn’t make no deal that’d bring us within four thousand bucks of even. Still, we wasn’t gettin’ no service out of him and was payin’ him salary all the time.

So Red was just about to sell him to a old-clo’es man when the old hoodoo hit us. Alexander strained his souper and Rixey got a pair o’ busted fingers, all in the same serious. We was left with one fair pitcher and a gang o’ kids that’d never saw no big-league games till last spring. The bust-up didn’t surprise nobody. We figured that we’d been lucky to go till the first o’ June without none o’ the boys gettin’ killed. It was the same old gag with us: Right up near the top and happy for a couple o’ months. Then, Blooie!⁠—and the club all shot to pieces.

It wouldn’t of been sensible to turn even a rotten pitcher loose at that stage. We had to keep a hold of all o’ them, so’s when some got their bumps they’d be plenty to take their place. That’s how Smitty happened to hang on. Red didn’t start him, but he let him finish for some o’ the others that wasn’t much better. And he kept lookin’ worse all the while.

Well, it was the second week in June when Red sent me from Cincy to Dayton to look at a big spitter.

“I ain’t strong for the Central League after what they handed me,” he says; “but maybe this guy’s better’n most o’ them, and you can see where we’re up agin it. We got to get somebody or we’ll go to the bottom so fast they’ll pinch us for speedin’. If he’s got anything at all and looks like as if he was alive we can use him; but if he’s a dope, like this other boob, we don’t need him. I don’t want to run no lodgin’ house for vagrants.”

So I beat it over there and seen a doubleheader between the home club and Evansville. The guy I was sent after worked one game and had about as much action as a soft drink. I voted No! before he’d went two innin’s. Evansville had a left-hander who knowed how to pitch, but they told me he’d been in the league six years; and, besides, he was a little feller.

Well, I spotted old Jack Barnett on the Evansville bench, so I waited to shake hands with him when the game was over. You know him and me broke in together at Utica. I found out while we rode downtown that he’d been with the Fort Wayne Club the last year and was traded to Evansville durin’ the winter. I’d sort o’ lost track of old Jack ’cause he hadn’t been playin’ enough in recent years to get his name in the book.

“I see your club’s still lucky,” he says. “We all thought you had a grand chancet till them two fellers got hurt.”

“Yes,” I says, “but we’re gone now. The young guys we got ought to of been dressmakers instead o’ pitchers.” Then I happened to think o’ Smitty. “Maybe you can tell me somethin’,” says I. “How did this here Smitty ever win all them games for you?”

Barnett started to laugh.

“What’s the matter?” he ast. “Ain’t the big wop worth five thousand?”

“He ain’t worth a cigar coupon,” I says. “He’s a big, lazy tramp.”

Barnett kept on laughin’.

“I knowed what’d come off,” he says. “I told the fellers what’d happen. I bet Punch Knoll fifty bucks that Smitty wouldn’t last the season. You guys can talk about McGraw and Mack, and them other big-league managers, all you want to, but it’s us fellers down here in the sticks that knows how to get the work out of a man.”

I ast him what he meant.

“Well,” he says, “we had Smitty two years ago and he was a bum. He was sloppin’ along with us like he’s doin’ with you now. At that time the Grand Rapids Club had Fogarty, the guy the Cubs got now. Fogarty’s a big right-hander, with a spitter and a good hook and just as good a fast ball as Smitty. He’s a big, handsome brute, too, and maybe he don’t know it! Up to Grand Rapids he was doin’ nothin’ but look pretty and draw his pay. He was just as valuable to them as Smitty was to us; but we used to have all kinds o’ fun with ’em both, kiddin’ ’em about their looks. We’d say to Smitty: ‘You’d be the handsomest guy in this league if it wasn’t for Fogarty.’ And we’d pull the same stuff on Fogarty when we was playin’ Grand Rapids. And the both o’ them would get as sore as a boil. I never seen nothin’ like it.

“At the schedule meetin’ a year ago last winter, our club and Grand Rapids pulled off a trade, Bill Peck comin’ to us for Joe Hammond and Bull Harper, a couple of infielders. Jack Burke, our manager, told the owner o’ the Grand Rapids Club that it didn’t look fair, givin’ up two men for one. So he says: ‘All right; I’ll throw in Fogarty and then you’ll have the two handsomest ball players in the business.’ Jack thought he was jokin’; but, sure enough, he turned Fogarty over to us.

“We started in on the pair o’ them right off the reel, tryin’ to make their life miserable. When Smitty was round we’d talk about Fogarty’s pretty red hair; and when Fogarty was with us we’d be wishin’ we had big black eyes like Smitty’s. I done the most of it, but I didn’t have no idea what’d happen.

“Well, to make it short, Smitty come up to Jack a week before the season opened and ast if he could pitch the first game. Jack pretty near dropped dead, ’cause it’d been all he could do the year before to get him to put on his uniform. Mind you, we all knowed then that Smitty had the stuff if he’d only use it. Burke told him he’d think it over and was wonderin’ whether to turn him down or not, when up come Fogarty and ast the same thing. Burke decided to take a chancet, so he had the two o’ them toss a coin, and Smitty won the toss. He opened up for us and shut Terre Haute out with two hits. And the next day Fogarty worked and shut ’em out again, but give ’em one more hit than Smitty. They was nothin’ to it after that. We kept up the good work, gettin’ ’em madder and madder at each other. And the madder they got the harder they worked. Either one o’ them would of pitched every day if Burke had of let ’em. While Fogarty was workin’ Smitty’d slide up and down the bench cussin’ to himself and pullin’ his head off for the other club. And Fogarty’d do the same thing when Smitty was in there.

“Both o’ them was strong for the skirts; and, o’ course, a pair o’ fine-lookin’ slobs like them could cop one out in every town. We took up that end of it, too, tellin’ Smitty that Fogarty’s Marie was prettier than his Julia, and that kind o’ stuff.

“You know what they done for us. We’d of finished about sixth without ’em. I never seen such pitchin’ in my life, and I never seen two fellers hate each other the way them two done. When you guys bought Smitty and didn’t get Fogarty I called the turn. Some o’ the boys figured they both might of got the habit o’ workin’ and might keep it up when they was separated; but I knowed different. And that’s why I made the bet with Punch Knoll. Looks like I’ll win it easy, don’t it?”

“Looks like it,” I says. “Alexander and Rixey’d both ought to be ready again in a month and then Smitty’ll lose his home sure. And we’ll be absolutely last by that time.”

We was goin’ to Chi that night and I didn’t see no use o’ stickin’ in Dayton when I hadn’t had no orders to look at no one else but that one guy. Besides, Barnett told me they wasn’t nobody else on neither club worth lampin’. I’d of liked to of listened to some more o’ the stuff about the two jealous cats, but I had to beat it back to Cincy.

Well, on the way I done some thinkin’; but I was afraid to spring anything on Red for fear he’d laugh at me. We’ve all knew o’ cases where jealousy’d helped a ball club, and a lot more cases where it’d hurt ’em; but I hadn’t never heard o’ no case like this here one.

We got to Chi and the Cubs proceeded to murder us. Red was desp’rate and so was the rest o’ the gang. We dropped the first three and didn’t have no hopes o’ winnin’ the fourth unless Hank lost his mind and pitched the bat boy agin us.

I hadn’t never saw Fogarty. He’d been left to home when the Cubs come East in May. But I spotted him the first day out there to the Cubs’ park. He sure was a nice-lookin’ devil and big enough to pitch every afternoon and twicet on Sundays. He wasn’t doin’ no pitchin’ for them, though. They was lucky enough to have their reg’lars in shape and wasn’t obliged to fill up the box score with ornaments.

Well, I went up to Schulte durin’ battin’ practice and ast him what was the matter with Fogarty.

“Nothin’ at all,” says Frank. “I don’t figure they can be nothin’ the matter with a guy that draws his pay for sittin’ on the bench and lookin’ beautiful. I wisht I could get away with it.”

“Don’t he work none?” I ast.

“He pitches to the batters about oncet in two weeks,” says Frank. “He does it when Hank can get his consent. And on the days he pitches to us I manage to hide somewheres till the practice is over.”

“Why?” I ast.

“ ’Cause,” says Frank, “I figure that, barrin’ accidents, I got many happy years before me. If he was to happen to put all his stuff on the ball oncet and hit me in the head, they wouldn’t be nobody to drive the mules on my peach ranch in Georgia.”

“He’s got a lot o’ stuff, then?” I says.

“Yes,” says Frank; “and he’s savin’ it up for somethin’⁠—maybe to give it away for a birthday present. All he does now is sit and wait for everybody to look away from him, so’s he can pull out his pocket mirror and enjoy himself.”

This dope fit in perfect with what Jack Barnett had been tellin’ me. I made up my mind right there that the thing was worth tryin’; but it took all the nerve I had to spring it on Red. My chancet soon come. He was put off the field in the second innin’ and I got myself chased right afterward. He was sittin’ in the clubhouse with his head in his hands when I come in.

“Red,” I says, “we couldn’t be worse off’n we are, could we?” He didn’t pay no attention. “We’d be better off if we had somebody that could pitch, wouldn’t we?” I says.

“What are you drivin’ at?” he ast.

“I want you to try a experiment,” I says. “It may not do no good, and then again it might. It might pull us through OK if you was willin’ to take a chancet.”

“Shoot,” says Red. “I’ll try anything oncet.”

“Do you think you could get Fogarty offen the Cubs?” I says.

“Could I get him?” says Red. “Sure I could get him! They just give me notice that they’d ast waivers. But what do I want with Fogarty? He’s another one just like this Smitty we got. I give him the oncet over today on their bench, and if they’s anybody in the world that’s lazier’n Smitty, he’s him. Don’t you think we’re carryin’ enough excess baggage?”

Then I told him what Barnett’d told me, only I made it even stronger. At first he called me a nut, and it took me pretty near till the game was over to coax him into it. He’d just gave up when the gang come in.

“How bad did they trim us?” ast Red.

“I don’t know,” says Magee; “but I know I chased back to that fence a hundred and sixteen times.”

“Better go see Hank,” says I to Red.

I had to pretty near drag him to get him out o’ the clubhouse. Hank was just goin’ in their door.

“Wait a minute, Hank,” I says. “Red wants to see you.”

“Just heard you was askin’ waivers on Fogarty,” says Red. “What do want for him?”

“I guess you can get him for the waiver price,” says Hank; “but you’ll have to see the boss.”

So me and Red went up to the office and sprung it on ’em. They seemed surprised, but said Red could have him. So Red wired home and got the deal OK’d. And Fogarty went with us to St. Louis.

Before we got on the train, Red told me I’d have to do the funny work. I said I’d tackle it, and then I went to Pat and explained the thing to him and ast for help. He was willin’ and we fixed it up that I was to room with Fogarty and Pat with Smitty.

Smitty was in his berth, gettin’ his beauty sleep, when Fogarty clumb aboard that night. So they didn’t see each other till next mornin’. Smitty nailed me comin’ out o’ the Union Station in St. Louis.

“What’s that guy doin’ with us?” he says.

“Who do you mean?” I says.

“That big, ugly Mick,” says he.

“Ugly!” I says. “If I was you I wouldn’t call him ugly. He’s a big, handsome boy, and he looks handsomer’n ever alongside a homely wop like you.”

He never said a word. He turned away from me like as if I’d ast him for a hundred bucks. Red told me afterward that he come and sat with him in the dinin’ room at the hotel and ast if Fogarty was goin’ to be with us.

“Sure!” says Red. “I thought it was about time we was gettin’ a pitcher.”

“A pitcher!” says Smitty. “If they sold him to you for a pitcher you got cheated. He’s only a swell-headed pup that don’t think about nothin’ but the part in his hair.”

“Well,” says Red, “if I had hair as pretty as his’n I’d be proud of it too.”

That shut up Smitty and he left the table without finishin’ his Java; but he come to Red in the lobby an hour later and ast if he could work that afternoon! It took Red five minutes to come to. He hadn’t had no such request as that from nobody for pretty near three weeks, and Smitty was the last guy on earth he expected it from. You can bet he give his consent.

When our grips come I went to my room to take a nap and a shave; but I didn’t get no nap. My new roomy, Fogarty, followed me in and begin talkin’ right away.

“What kind o’ burg is Philly?” he says.

“Swell!” says I. “You can get anything you want there.”

“How about the female population?” he ast. “Lots o’ good lookers?”

“Well,” I says, “I guess there’s plenty o’ pretty girls; but I’m a married man and I ain’t got no time for ’em. If you’re after information on that subject you better ast Smitty.”

“Smitty!” he says. “What does he know about girls?”

“He must know how to grab ’em,” says I. “All the real dolls in the burg is bugs over him.”

“They must be a fine bunch!” says Fogarty. “It must be they never seen nobody.”

“Well,” I says, “they ain’t looked at nobody since they seen him.”

“I can’t figure it out,” he says.

“That’s easy,” says I. “In the first place he’s a fine-lookin’ boy, and in the second place he’s a swell pitcher.”

“Where do you get that stuff?” says Fogarty. “Don’t you think I know nothin’? If he’s fine-lookin’ I’m a snake. And if he’s a swell pitcher, why don’t they never start him?”

“He’s had a sore arm,” I says; “but he’s all OK now and Red’s goin’ to work him today.”

He left the room right after that and I didn’t see no more of him till we got out to the park; but Red tipped me that he’d came to him and ast if he could work the game. Red told him he was goin’ to start Smitty.

“Good night!” says Fogarty. “They’ll get a hundred runs.”

But, say, I never seen such a change in a man as they was in Smitty that afternoon. He warmed up with Pat first and was so fast that Pat couldn’t hardly keep his glove on. Then Red took him a while and was so pleased that he forgot to get sore when he catched one right on the meat hand.

Well, he didn’t shut ’em out⁠—he hadn’t had no real work for a long time and he was hog wild; but, say, they couldn’t hit him with a shovel! Two blows was what they got, an’ we licked ’em, five to two. It was the first game we’d win since we left home; and all through it Fogarty was frothin’ at the mouth. Every little while he’d say: “He can’t keep it up⁠—the lucky bum! He’s slippin’. Better let me warm up!” But Red didn’t pay no attention to him.

Maybe you think we didn’t feel good in that clubhouse⁠—’specially me and Pat and Red! We was the only ones in on the secret. We’d decided not to ask no help from the other boys for fear they’d make it too raw. I felt the best of anybody, ’cause it was my scheme and I’d been scared that it wouldn’t work. It made me look good to myself and to Red too. Before we was dressed, Fogarty’d drew Red aside and got him to promise to pitch him next day.

I wasn’t sure yet that success was goin’ to be permanent. Still, it was up to I and Pat to go through with our end of it, and my job was to stick close to Fogarty all that evenin’ and keep goadin’ him. I braced him outside o’ the hotel after supper and ast him to take a walk.

“Grand game Smitty pitched today!” I says.

“What was grand about it?” says he. “Who couldn’t beat that bunch? He’d ought to of been ashamed of himself for lettin’ ’em score.”

“He only give ’em two hits,” says I.

“Sure!” says Fogarty. “And how was they goin’ to get hits when he didn’t throw nothin’ near the plate?”

“Well,” I says, “I don’t see no harm in a few walks so long’s a feller can get ’em over when he has to. It’s pretty hard for a guy with all that smoke to control it right along.”

“Yes,” he says; “but I claim it takes a lucky bird to give eight bases on balls and get away with the ball game. It don’t show no pitchin’ on his part; all it shows is that the other club’d ought to try some easier game than baseball. All they had to do was go up there without their bats and they’d of trimmed us; but they didn’t even make him pitch. It looked to me like as if their manager’d offered a prize to the one that could miss ’em the furthest. They looked like a vaudeville team rehearsin’ a club-swingin’ act. At that, Smitty’s got a big advantage over most pitchers. He’s so dam’ homely that it scares a feller to look at him.”

“If that’s a advantage,” I says, “nobody’d never even bunt one safe off o’ you.”

“You’re kiddin’ me now,” he says. “I ain’t stuck on my looks, but they wouldn’t be no sense in me pretendin’ that I didn’t have him beat. I and him was together in the Central, y’know; and I was one o’ the most pop’lar if not the pop’larest feller that ever played ball in Fort Wayne. It takes the skirts to judge if a man’s good-lookin’ or not; and I’m here to tell you without no boastin’ that I could of married any dame in that burg. So far’s Smitty was concerned, he couldn’t get no girl to look at him.”

“Fort Wayne girls ain’t like the ones in Philly, then,” says I.

“Girls is the same everywheres,” says Fogarty. “You can’t never make me believe that they’d chase him, unless it’s out o’ curiosity. You’ll often see a crowd round a monkey cage, but it ain’t ’cause the monkeys is handsome.”

“Some girls likes them big, dark fellers,” I says.

“Yes,” he says, “and some people likes the smell o’ garlic.”

“I s’pose we’ll get a lickin’ tomorrow,” I says. “Red ain’t got nobody left to work, outside of a few bushers.”

“This busher right here works tomorrow,” says Fogarty; “and you can bet a month’s pay that he won’t give no eight bases on balls.”

“Maybe you won’t be in there long enough,” I says.

“I’ll be in there just nine innin’s,” says he; “and at the end o’ that time the St. Louis Club won’t have nothin’ to show they been in a ball game.”

“All you need to do,” says I, “is to work as good as Smitty done today; but that’s too much to look for from most bushers.”

That stung him.

“They ain’t no homely wop got nothin’ on me!” he says. “If I can’t do no better’n he done I’ll quit pitchin’ and peddle bananas, which is what he’d ought to be doin’.”

Well, I kept him goin’ till bedtime and all the next forenoon. He was out to the park and dressed before anybody, and he warmed up enough for three games. Red ast him oncet if he wasn’t workin’ too hard.

“Not me,” he says. “I ain’t delicate like some o’ these here pitchers. Work’s my middle name and you’ll find it out before I get through.”

Say, they wasn’t no kick comin’ on the way he done the job! One o’ the St. Louis guys got as far as second base and was so surprised that Bill caught him off o’ there flatfooted. Three little singles he give ’em and not a man did he walk. Bill told me afterward that it was fast one, fast one, fast one, and hardly three hooks or spitters all through the game. Bill said them fast ones stung right through his big mitt like he’d been barehanded.

And Smitty, on the bench, acted just like Fogarty’d did the day before. He called them St. Louis hitters everything he could think of. When the big Turk whiffed the hull side in the seventh Smitty was so sore he kicked a hole in the ball bag and throwed away his chew.

The rest o’ the bunch couldn’t help noticin’ the way he acted, and I seen where they’d be wise to the whole game before long.

That night Pat took Smitty to a bunch o’ nickel shows and entertained him with conversation about Fogarty’s grand performance. The result was that the wop got Red out o’ bed at seven the next mornin’ and ast him whether he could pitch the game. Red stalled him, ’cause he didn’t know then how strong the both o’ them was⁠—him and Fogarty.

Anyway, it rained, so Smitty’d had two days’ rest before we played again, and Red sent him in to wind up the serious. Gavvy saved St. Louis another whitewashin’ by droppin’ a fly ball with a guy on; but that run was all they got. Fogarty’s game wasn’t a bit better’n this second one o’ Smitty’s, and I kept rubbin’ that into Fogarty all the way back to Philly.

They ain’t no use goin’ on and tellin’ you about all the rest o’ the games they pitched. They was both beat a few times, but it wasn’t ’cause they didn’t try. Every pitcher with a arm and a glove’d cop more’n two-thirds of his games if he’d work as hard as these babies done. Some o’ the papers come out and said that Red was overworkin’ ’em, but the reporters that wrote that didn’t know what they was talkin’ about. It was all Red could do to keep either o’ them on the bench. If they’d of had their way about it they’d of both been out there in the middle o’ the diamond every day, fightin’ for possession o’ the ball.

When Red sent Mayer or one o’ the other boys in, the pair o’ them’d sit on the bench growlin’ and makin’ remarks about each other. The minute the feller in there workin’ showed any signs o’ weakenin’, Fogarty and Smitty’d both jump up and race down to the bullpen. And when Red got ready to take the guy out and sent for one or the other o’ the two handsome birds the one he didn’t pick would slam his glove on the ground and start kickin’ it. Everybody on the ball club kept at ’em on the bench; but Red, figurin’ they might get suspicious, give orders that nobody but I and Pat was to ride ’em in private.

We was right up on the Giants’ heels by the first of August. Then Rixey and Alexander joined us, but all they was ast to do was fill in when Red could persuade Fogarty and Smitty to take a rest. We was about the only club that was beatin’ New York, or else we’d of had the flag cinched long before we did. We was runnin’ through the rest o’ the league like soup through a sieve.

One day Smitty held the Brooklyn Club to six hits in a doubleheader and beat ’em both games. Fogarty ast me a hundred times in the next few days when we was goin’ to have another doubleheader. And a week before it come off he made Red promise to let him tackle it alone. It was agin the Cubs and he beat ’em clean as a whistle; but they got a couple more hits than Brooklyn’d made agin Smitty. So the big Turk was just as discontented as though he hadn’t did nothin’ at all. You ought to of heard Hank rave, though! He couldn’t figure how Red could get so much work out of a guy who’d been on his bench two or three months and hadn’t did nothin’ but sleep.

But you know what they done. What I set out to tell you was how I and Pat kept ’em goin’. We soon found out that they wasn’t only jealous of each other’s looks and their pitchin’. Neither one o’ them would let the other have anything on him at all. If I’d make a remark about what a classy necktie Smitty was wearin’, Fogarty’d go out and buy the loudest one he could find. If Pat mentioned to Smitty that Fogarty always kept his shoes shined up nice, Smitty’d sneak away to a shine parlor and make the boy work his fool head off for a hour. They just naturally hated each other and acted like a pair o’ grand opery stars or a couple o’ schoolgirls that was both tryin’ to be teacher’s pet.

I and Pat would get together and figure out different things to rile ’em up with. Pat was singin’ “The River Shannon” in the clubhouse one day. Fogarty was standin’ right by me.

“Pat’s got a good voice,” he says.

“Fair,” says I; “but the best singer on the club is Smitty.”

Now I hadn’t heard Smitty sing⁠—didn’t know whether he could or not. Fogarty’d ought to of knew somethin’ about it, as they’d been at Fort Wayne together a hull season; but, regardless o’ the fact that neither one o’ the two had a voice⁠—as we soon learned⁠—the Turk joined right in with Pat, and it wasn’t two seconds before Smitty was whinin’ too. Pat quit when he seen he had competition. Everybody stopped talkin’ and listened.

I wisht you could of heard it! It was like as though all the ferryboats in East River had got into trouble at once. Their idea o’ singin’ was to see how many sour notes they could hit and how loud they could hit ’em. The bunch give ’em a hand when they got through, and each o’ them figured it was on the square and was for him personally. Well, that was a big laugh with us for a while; but it got so’s it was no joke when they done it every day and yelled different songs at the same time.

Another thing we done was to write letters to both o’ them and sign a girl’s name. The letters was just the same, and they said that she was a great fan and was pullin’ for our club, and just loved to see them two pitch. We wound them up somethin’ like this:

“I think you’re so handsome and I would love to meet you. I’ve already met Mr. Smith.” We said Mr. Smith in one and Mr. Fogarty in the other. “I think he’s the handsomest man I ever seen, but maybe you’re just as handsome when a person sees you up close. I sit in the third or fourth row o’ the stand, right back o’ your bench, every afternoon.”

Say, you’d ought to of seen them birds fall for that! They rubbered for that dame every day we played at home for the last two months o’ the season. Sometimes, when neither o’ them was workin’, they’d both get up and lean on the roof o’ the bench and try to get a smile from every skirt in the place, thinkin’ one o’ them must be the girl who’d wrote.

On the road we’d get the telephone girls in the hotels to call up Smitty and ask him if he was Mr. Fogarty. When he’d say no she’d ring off; but she’d call him up again in about ten minutes and ask him the same question. We worked this on Fogarty, too, and both o’ them pretty near went nuts ’cause the other was gettin’ so many calls.

Pat pulled a hot one in Pittsburgh. He told Smitty that Fogarty was the most generous guy he’d ever met.

“Why?” says Smitty.

“He’s so good to the waiters and bellhops,” says Pat. “He gives the waiters a quarter tip at every meal and slips the boys two bits when they bring him ice water.”

That started a battle that was pretty costly to the both o’ them, but mighty sweet for the hops and waiters. If I’d of been Pat I’d of made ’em slip me a commission.

We had ’em both ridin’ in taxis to and from all the parks on the last trip West. We had ’em gettin’ their clo’es pressed every night, and buyin’ new shirts and collars in every burg we blowed into, and gettin’ shaved twicet a day, till Red made us cut some of it out, sayin’ they was touchin’ the club for too much dough. And all season I never seen ’em speak to each other, though neither one couldn’t talk about nothin’ else but the other when they was separated.

The pennant race was settled when we won a doubleheader in Cincy on the fifteenth o’ September. When we got back to the hotel Red told us the lid was off for that night⁠—that we could do anything we wanted to and stay out until breakfast. So they can’t blame neither Pat nor I for what come off. One o’ the other boys⁠—I never found out who⁠—told Fogarty that Smitty could hold more wine than a barrel. Then he pulled the same thing on Smitty about Fogarty.

I and Pat went to a show. When we blowed back, about eleven, they was a noise like New Year’s Eve in the café. We went in to see what it was. They was a gang o’ fellers at one table with Smitty, and another bunch at another table with Fogarty. They was four or five empty quart bottles in front o’ each o’ them. They’d had five or six more pints than they could carry comfortable and was hollerin’ for more, but was broke. We got ’em both at one table and ast ’em to sing. Before they was halfway through the first verse o’ whatever it was, the night clerk horned in and stopped ’em. Then we took ’em out in the street and told ’em to finish it, but they was too many coppers round.

Most of us was roomin’ on the tenth floor and one o’ the boys talked the pair into racin’ upstairs instead of usin’ the elevator. They both fell down at the first landin’ and when they hit the floor they was all in. They’d of slept there for a week if we hadn’t of carried ’em to the elevator and got ’em up the rest o’ the way. Then what did we do but steer ’em both into Pat’s room and put ’em to bed together. They was no danger o’ them gettin’ wise till the next day; they was dead to the world. I and Pat slept in my room and we was up bright and early so’s not to miss nothin’. We walked in and found ’em both poundin’ their ear. It must of tooken us fifteen minutes to get ’em roused.

“Well, boys,” says Pat, “I’m glad to see you so friendly and lookin’ so fresh.”

They looked about as fresh as a old dray horse.

“How did you happen to be roomin’ together?” I says.

It wasn’t till then that they wised up. Smitty jumped out o’ bed like the hotel was afire.

“I’ll murder the guy that done this!” he hollered.

“What do you mean?” says Pat. “Don’t you know who you went to bed with?”

“You must of been in bad shape,” I says. “Fogarty was all right; he knowed what he was doin’.”

Fogarty wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t, ’cause if he had of he’d be admittin’ that the wine was too much for him. So he just had to shut up and take it.

“I was all right too,” says Smitty.

“Then what are you crabbin’ about?” says Pat.

They wasn’t no answer to that.

“I’m goin’ to ring for some ice water,” says Fogarty.

“Nobody never wants ice water at this time o’ the mornin’ unless they had a bad night,” I says. “You don’t hear Smitty askin’ for no ice water.”

Smitty’d of gave his right eye for a barrel of it, but he didn’t have the nerve to say so.

Well, we made Fogarty get up and we stuck in there while they was dressin’. Fogarty had to go to his own room to get a clean shirt and collar, and we could hear him ringin’ for water the minute he got in there. Fin’lly we took pity on Smitty and got him some too. He complained o’ headache, and I says:

“That’s a funny thing about Fogarty⁠—no matter how much wine he laps up he don’t never have no headache the next mornin’.”

We didn’t hear no more complaints from Smitty. They both went down to breakfast and tried to eat somethin’, but it was hard work. And I noticed that neither o’ them bothered Red with requests to pitch that day.

They went to bed⁠—separated⁠—right after supper and was as good as ever the followin’ mornin’. I don’t s’pose neither o’ them had never drank no wine before, and, so far as I know, they didn’t tackle it again. They both wanted to pitch in Chi, but Red was anxious to try out some kids; so he told both o’ them, on the quiet, that they was the ones he was dependin’ on for the World’s Serious and he didn’t want to risk gettin’ ’em hurt.

Well, we wound up the season in Boston, and it was the next to the last day that we got into a awful jam! You remember readin’ about Davis, the infielder Red bought from the New England League? Well, he’d got married the week before he joined us⁠—married a Boston girl. He’d left her with her folks while he went West with us and she stuck to home till we hit Boston on that last trip. She was goin’ to Philly with us to take in the serious.

Davis was a fast little cuss, not much bigger’n Maranville. Red had tried him out at short agin Pittsburgh and he’d looked good; but he was usin’ the reg’lars most o’ the time to keep ’em in shape for the big show. Davis had more nerve than any little feller I ever seen. He wouldn’t break ground for none o’ them Pittsburgh guys when they come into second base. In one o’ the games there big Honus had told him to keep out o’ the way or he’d get killed.

“It won’t be no big slob like you that’ll kill me!” says Davis.

Honus had a license to get sore at that, ’cause he was just slippin’ the kid a friendly warnin’; but it shows you what a game little devil Davis was.

Well, as I was sayin’, it was the next to the last day up in Boston that somethin’ come off that pretty near cost us the big money. Mayer was pitchin’ the game and we had the reg’lar club in agin ’em.

In one o’ the boxes, right down next to the field, they was the prettiest girl I ever looked at. She was all alone and she was dressed up like a million bucks. She was sittin’ where we could lamp her from our bench and all the boys had gave her the oncet over before the game ever started. Fogarty and Smitty wiped the dirt offen their faces and smoothed their hair the minute they piped her.

She was a lot more interestin’ than the national pastime and I guess we was all gettin’ a eyeful when, all of a sudden, she smiled right at us. Our club was in the field and they was only a few of us on the bench⁠—me and Pat and Davis and the pitchers, and one or two others. Well, I was one of a number that returned the salute; but after doin’ it oncet I remembered I was a old married man and cut it out. But Fogarty and Smitty give a correct imitation of a toothpaste advertisement all the rest o’ the time they sat there. Every three or four minutes she’d smile and then they’d smile back. They was wise to each other and it was a battle to see which one could give her the prettiest grin.

Just before the last half o’ the eighth Fogarty ast Red whether he could go in and dress. He hadn’t no more’n got permissionwhen Smitty wanted to go too. I had ’em guessed right, and I and Pat was wonderin’ which one’d cop. They raced to the clubhouse and Smitty beat him in. Now them two birds was usually awful slow about gettin’ their clo’es changed, ’cause they was so partic’lar; but they beat the world’s record this time. They was in their street clo’es and down in front o’ that box just as the game ended.

Smitty was there first, but lots o’ good it done him! He tipped his hat to the girl and got a cold stare. Then Fogarty come up and spoke to her. He was gave just as much encouragement as Smitty.

I begin to laugh, but I stopped quick. Before I knowed what was comin’ off, little Davis grabbed a bat and started for the stand. Smitty was leanin’ agin the box, with his left hand flat on the rail. Without a word o’ warnin’ Davis swung the bat overhand and it come down on poor Smitty’s hand like a ton o’ brick. Smitty yelled and fell over on the ground. Fogarty tried to duck, but he was too late. The little busher aimed the bat at his bean and catched him square on the right arm as he throwed it up to protect himself.

That’s all they was to the bout. The first punch is a lot⁠—’specially if you use a baseball bat. Neither o’ them showed signs o’ fightin’ back. Besides, we was all on the job by that time and grabbed Davis. Little as he was, it took three of us to hold him. But, say, they was the devil to pay in the clubhouse! Red was goin’ to shoot Davis till the truth come out.

“They went too far with it,” says Davis. “They ain’t no man can go up and talk to my wife without a introduction! I seen ’em tryin’ to flirt with her. Them big bugs is so swell-headed that they think no girl could smile at nobody but them.”

“You’d ought to of tipped ’em off,” says Red.

“I hadn’t ought to of did no sucha thing,” says Davis. “They’d ought to of knew by lookin’ that she wasn’t the kind o’ girl that’d flirt. But I didn’t feel in no danger o’ havin’ my home broke up, so I let ’em go.”

Then Red jumped on me.

“That’s what you get for eggin’ ’em on,” he says. “Where’s our chancet in the World’s Serious now?”

“Have some sense!” I says. “You wouldn’t be thinkin’ o’ no World’s Serious if I hadn’t of egged ’em on.”

We called a doctor for Smitty and Fogarty, and the news he give us didn’t cheer us up none. He said he thought Smitty’s hand was broke, but he’d have to take a X ray. The mitt was swole up as big as a ham. Fogarty’s souper was hangin’ limp as a rag, and the doc didn’t believe he’d be able to raise it for a month. Afterward he found out that they was no bones busted in Smitty’s hand, but it was in such shape that he couldn’t hold a han’kerchief, let alone a baseball. There we was, three days before the start o’ the serious, and our pitchin’ staff shot to hellangone!

Red sent me and Pat and the trainer home that night with the pair o’ cripples. We was to report up to the club’s offices next mornin’ and have all the doctors in Philly called in. Me and Pat was so sore that we couldn’t talk to each other, and I don’t think they was a word said on the trip. Yes, they was too; just before Smitty went to sleep he ast me a question:

“Who was that girl?”

“You’d ought to know by this time,” I says. “That wasn’t nobody but Davis’ wife.”

“Then what was she smilin’ at me for?” he says.

Well, the Philly doctors told us they was absolutely no chancet o’ havin’ either o’ them in shape for the serious and we was gettin’ ready to count the losers’ share. Red’d been figurin’ on alternatin’ the two, cause none o’ the rest was in real shape; but now we didn’t have nothin’ that you could call a airtight pitcher.

Rixey and Alexander and Mayer would of made ’em step some if they’d been right, but they wasn’t.

I says to Pat:

“Looks like as though I and you and the bat boy would have to work.”

“Looks that way,” he says, “unless we can bring them two fellers round.”

“How can we do that?” I says. “You heard what them doctors said.”

“Yes,” says Pat; “but they’re the only hope we got, and I ain’t goin’ to give up till I have to.”

Red and the bunch got in the next mornin’, which was a Sunday. Most o’ the gang went to church, and if the Lord’d never heard o’ Fogarty and Smitty before I bet He knowed who they was when we got through prayin’. We practiced Monday and went over to Washin’ton that night.

Well, you know what come off. Johnson beat us there and Boehling beat us Wednesday in Philly. With Johnson to come back, twicet if necessary, it looked like a short serious.

And then it begin to rain. It’s a wonder the District o’ Columbia wasn’t washed away. Four straight days of it, includin’ Sunday; and I never seen it come down so hard. A cleanin’ like that might do Pittsburgh or Chi some good, but it looked like wastin’ it in Washin’ton. We was anxious to get the serious over with; and the more it rained, the worse we hated it. We never figured that it was the best thing that could of happened to us!

I’m the guy they’d ought to thank for coppin’ the league pennant. And the rain and me together was what saved us from a awful lickin’ for the big dough. On Sunday night, while we was still layin’ round the hotel in Washin’ton, where we’d been stalled since Thursday, I got my hunch. I went to Red with it.

“Maybe one o’ them fellers could help us out now,” I says.

“What makes you think so?” says Red.

“Well,” I says, “they’ve had time to get back in shape.”

“No use,” says Red. “I was just talkin’ to Smitty in the dinin’ room. He couldn’t even hold his knife. He says his mitt feels just as bad as it did the first day.”

“How about Fogarty?” I ast.

“He ain’t no better off,” says Red. “The worst of it is that neither one o’ them seems to care.”

“Maybe I can wake ’em up,” I says.

“You got my permission to try,” says Red.

Me and Fogarty wasn’t roomin’ together. The trainer was doubled up with him and they had another guy lookin’ out for Smitty. Neither o’ them had put on a suit, but they’d saw us get our two beatin’s from the stand. I found Smitty first and took him into the bar.

“How does it look to you?” I says.

“We’re licked,” says he.

“Don’t be too sure!” I says.

“What do you mean?” he ast me. “What chancet have we got with nobody to pitch?”

“We got somebody to pitch now,” I says.

“Who?” says Smitty.

“Fogarty,” says I. “The doctor says he’s all right and Red’s goin’ to start him tomorrow.”

“You’re crazy!” says Smitty. “The doctor said he wouldn’t be no good till next year.”

“That was pretty near a week ago,” I says. “Besides, that doctor didn’t know nothin’. We had the best doctor in Washin’ton up to see him tonight⁠—the doctor that looks after the President and all the congressmen. He says they’s nothin’ at all the matter with him.”

I left Smitty then and went lookin’ for Fogarty.

I found him in his room gettin’ his poor souper rubbed. I spoke my piece over again. I told him Smitty’d been pronounced cured by the President’s special surgeon and that he was goin’ to start the next day’s game.

An hour later I run into Red, and he was smilin’ like Davis’ wife.

“You’ve did it, old boy!” he says. “They both been after me till I had to duck out in the wet to get away from ’em. They both insist on workin’ tomorrow, and I told ’em I wasn’t goin’ to decide on my pitcher till mornin’.”

“I guess I don’t know nothin’!” I says. “Which one are you goin’ to start?”

“The one that can throw a ball with the least pain,” says Red.

You know the rest of it. The sun shined on us next day, and Smitty shut ’em out and beat Johnson on the wettest grounds I ever seen! I don’t know yet how he gripped a wet ball with that hand, but he done it. And Fogarty’s game Tuesday was even better. If his arm hurt he kept it to himself.

Smitty come back agin Johnson Wednesday and pitched the prettiest game that was ever pitched. Milan and Gandil and them might just as well of used jackstraws as bats, for all the good their swingin’ done. He whiffed plain sixteen men and Johnson’s two-bagger was their only wallop. Nobody didn’t grudge Walter that one, ’cause he pitched a grand game too.

Well, the honor o’ coppin’ the final pastime and winnin’ the title went to Fogarty; and it pleased him about as much as a toothache. Do you know why? ’Cause the papers was full o’ Smitty’s two victories over Johnson and didn’t say much about nothin’ else. Fogarty told me afterward that if he’d thought at the time he’d of refused to pitch Thursday and made Red work him agin the big blond in the seventh game.

“But,” I says, “s’pose Red had pitched Smitty right back and he’d of trimmed ’em and they hadn’t been no seventh game anyway. Then where’d you of been at?”

“That’s right!” he says. “That wop is just lucky enough to of did it, too, even if he can’t pitch up an alley.”

Well, I made a little speech in the clubhouse and collected a purse of a hundred and fifty bucks. I’m goin’ to send it to Jack Barnett as soon as I can get his address. That’ll fix him up on that bet he made with Punch Knoll and give him a little spendin’ money besides. If he hadn’t of told me that stuff in Dayton we’d of been fightin’ the Cardinals for seventh place. And if he’d of told it to some guys they wouldn’t of had sense enough to of token advantage of it.

One o’ the Philly doctors told Red, and Red told me, that we’d prob’ly ruined both o’ them guys for the next season by workin’ ’em in the shape they was in. But I should worry! Between me and you, I ain’t goin’ to be with the Phillies next year. I’m goin’ to manage the Mobile Club; and maybe I can play some in that climate. And I guess I don’t know nothin’ about managin’ a ball club. No; I guess not!