The Holdout

Three people, not countin’ myself, think I’m the greatest guy in the world. One o’ them’s my first and last wife, another’s Mr. Edwards, and the other’s Bill Hagedorn.

It’d be hard to pick three that I’d rather have cordial. If a person is livin’ with their wife, it makes it kind o’ pleasant to have her like you. Mr. Edwards, o’ course, is the man I’m workin’ for, so it don’t hurt me at all to be his hero. And I’m glad to have Bill added to the list, because it means he’ll play the bag better for me this year than he’s done yet, and with a little pep on first base we’re liable to be bad news to George Stallin’s, Wilbert Robinson and John J. McGraw.

But listen: If Mr. Edwards ever got hold o’ the truth o’ the Hagedorn business, him and I’d be just as clubby as Lord George and the Kaiser. If he didn’t drop dead when he found it out, he’d slip me the tinware, contract or no contract, and I wouldn’t have the heart to fight it in the courts, because I admit I gave him a raw deal. My only alibi is that I left my feelin’s get the best o’ me, and that excuse wouldn’t be worth a dime with him; they’s no excuse that would be, where his pocketbook’s concerned, like in this case. He just simply hates money!

The worst of it is that Hagedorn didn’t deserve no consideration. I like to see a fella get all that’s comin’ to him, provided he goes after it in the right way and puts up a real fight. Hagedorn made a hog of himself and was tremblin’ all the time he did it. If he was as yellow on the ball field as when he’s makin’ a play for more dough, I’d take away his uniform and suspend him for life; he wouldn’t be no more use to me than a set of adenoids.

He’s just as game a ball player, though, as you’ll find. The minute he trots out there in the old orchard he’s a different guy, afraid o’ nothin’. All he’s lacked so far is ambish, and I figure he’ll show some o’ that this year. He’ll give me his best out o’ gratitude. If he don’t, it’ll mean his finish on the big time, family or no family.

It’s part o’ my agreement with Mr. Edwards that I stick on the job all the year round, goin’ to the league meetin’s with him in winter, helpin’ him sign up the boys, and so forth. Well, after we was through last fall, he called me up in the office and begin crabbin’ about finances.

“Frank,” he says, “we lost $18,000 this season. I pretty near wish I didn’t have no ball club.”

“You’ve pretty near got your wish,” I says. “If some o’ those bushers don’t come through next spring, or if we don’t swing a couple o’ deals between now and then, the clubs that play against us won’t even get good practice.”

“Bad as we are,” he says, “I bet we got the biggest salary list in the big leagues. It looks to me like not only one or two, but several of our men were bein’ overpaid.”

“Yes, sir,” I says; “and on their showin’ the last few months some o’ them would be overpaid if they drawed a dollar a day.”

“Well,” he says, “I’m goin’ to do some trimmin’. The boys’ll kick, I suppose, but I’m dependin’ on you to show ’em they deserve cuts.”

“That’s a nice little job for me,” I says. “It’s just as easy to convince a ball player that his pay ought to be trimmed as it is to score twelve runs off Alexander.”

“I’d just as leave pay good prices for good work,” he says, “but I’m not goin’ to maintain no pension bureau. These ridic’lous Federal League contracts have all run out, thank heavens, and from now on my ball club’ll be run on a sane basis. Look at Lefty Grant!” he says. “He got $7,000 and pitched pretty near eleven full games, winnin’ three o’ them. And look at Hagedorn! A $6,000 contract and no more life in him than a wet rag! What do you suppose ailed him?”

“Federalitis,” I says. “He was gettin’ soft money in the Federal, with no incentive to win and nobody to try and make him hustle.”

“A $6,000 salary,” says Mr. Edwards, “for a man that hit round .220 and played first base like he was bettin’ against us! Maybe we’d better just let loose of him.”

“If I was you,” I says, “I’d see what the recruits is like before gettin’ rid o’ Hagedorn. I’ll admit he’s been loafin’, but he’s a mighty good ball player when he tries.”

“Maybe it’ll wake him up to cut him,” says he. “I’m goin’ to send him a contract for $4,000.”

“Suit yourself,” says I. “He’ll holler like an Indian, but if he sees you’re in earnest I guess he’ll come round.”

“He lives here in town,” says Mr. Edwards. “I’ll have the girl call him up sometime and tell him I want to see him.”

So we discussed a few others that was gettin’ way more than they earned, and the boss says he wouldn’t play no favorites, but would cut ’em all from ten to forty percent. I knew they’d be plenty o’ trouble, but I didn’t care a whole lot. I figured that if everybody on the payroll quit the game and went to work it’d strengthen the team.

Well, Hagedorn accepted Mr. Edwards’ invitation to call and I was in the office when Bill come in.

“Mr. Hagedorn,” says the boss, “Manager Conley and myself’s been talkin’ things over and we come to the conclusion that several o’ you boys was earnin’ less than we paid you. What do you think about it?”

“Well,” says Hagedorn, “some o’ the boys maybe deserve cuts. But I don’t see how I come in on it.”

“Why not?” says Mr. Edwards. “The unofficial averages gives you a battin’ percentage o’ .220.”

“I can’t help what them dam scorers do to me,” says Bill. “I never did get fair treatment from the reporters.”

“But when you was in the league before,” says the boss, “you always hit up round .280, and it’s a cinch the scorers didn’t cheat you out o’ sixty points.”

“They’d cheat me out o’ my shirt if they had a chance,” Bill says. “But even if I did have a bad year with the wood, that ain’t no sign I won’t do all right next season.”

“That’s true enough,” says Mr. Edwards. “Anybody’s liable to have a battin’ slump. But Manager Conley and myself wasn’t thinkin’ about your hittin’ alone. We kind o’ thought that your work all round was below the standard; that you was sort o’ layin’ down on the job.”

Hagedorn began to whine.

“Mr. Edwards,” he says, “you got me entirely wrong. I wouldn’t lay down on nobody. I’ve give you my best every minute, and if I haven’t it was because things broke bad for me.”

“What things?” I ast him.

“Well,” he says, “for one thing, I felt rotten all summer. My legs was bad.”

“Well,” I says, “you can’t expect Mr. Edwards to pay $3,000 apiece for bad legs.”

“But they’re all right now,” he says. “I haven’t had a bit o’ trouble with ’em all fall. And I’m takin’ grand care o’ myself and next spring I’ll be as good as ever.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your legs?” I ast him. “I’d of let you lay off. You certainly wasn’t helpin’ us much.”

“I’d of told you only I don’t like to quit,” he says. “And besides, my legs wasn’t the whole trouble.”

“What else was it?” I says.

“Well,” he says, “the Missus was sick and in the hospital, and I had to pay out a lot o’ money and it kept me worried.”

“When was she sick?” I ast him.

“Let’s see,” he says, “it was while we was on our last Eastern trip.”

“You never ast me to let you come home,” I says.

“No,” he says, “I didn’t know nothin’ at all about it till we got back.”

“That’s why you worried, I suppose,” says I, “and I guess your wife’s illness in September was what worried you in June and July.”

“She was sick on and off all season,” he says.

“I noticed,” says I, “that she done most of her sufferin’ in a grandstand seat. Her ailment,” I says, “was probably brought on by watchin’ you perform.”

“She’s full o’ nerve,” he says. “She wouldn’t miss a ball game if she was dyin’. And besides, her sickness wasn’t all of it.”

“Let’s hear the whole story at once,” I says. “The suspense is fierce.”

“Her folks kept botherin’ us,” says Hagedorn. “They live in Louisville, and they’re gettin’ old and they wanted that she should come down there and stay with ’em.”

“Couldn’t they come up here?” I ast him.

“No,” he says, “they got their own home and their own friends and everything down there.”

“Well,” I says, “that’d probably be the square thing for you to do, just pack up and move to Louisville and live with ’em.”

“We’d only be there in the winter,” he says.

“No,” says I, “I’ll fix it so’s you can be there all the year round.”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“I mean that if you don’t want to sign at our figures Louisville’d be the ideal spot for you,” says I.

“What’s your figures?” he ast.

“I’m willin’ to give you $4,000,” says Mr. Edwards.

Hagedorn swelled up.

“If you think I’ll take a $2,000 cut, you got me wrong,” he says.

“All right,” says I, “and I hope the Kentucky climate agrees with your legs.”

We sent Lefty Grant a contract for $5,000 and after a little crabbin’ by mail he signed. Joe Marsh stood for a $1,000 cut, and Bones McChesney, shaved from $3,500 to $3,000, refused to sign and got himself sold to Toronto. I didn’t cry over losin’ him; he’d always been fat from his neck up, and in the last two seasons the epidemic had spread all over his body.

Now it don’t often happen that a seventh-place club begins lookin’ like a pennant contender between October and February. But that’s what come off with us. Our worst weakness last year was at shortstop and third base and back o’ the bat. Well, I talked to a lot of Association men durin’ the fall, and they told me that I had a second Schalk in this young Stremmle from Indianapolis. And I got swell reports on Berner, the shortstop we drew from Dayton. Both these guys, I was told, were ready. They wouldn’t need no more seasonin’.

And then along come the league meetin’ in New York, and I happened to catch the St. Louis gang when they were thinkin’ about somethin’ else, and they traded me Johnny Gould for Hype Corliss and Jack Moran, two guys that I’d kept down in the bull pen all summer so’s the bugs couldn’t get a good look at ’em. There was my third base hole plugged up and the ball club was bound to be a hundred percent better, provided Hagedorn signed and give us his best work, or that young Lahey, the first sacker we bought from Davenport, made good. I wasn’t worryin’ much about him, as I figured right along that Hagedorn would take his $4,000 when he seen we were in earnest.

O’ course he had a little bit the best of us in the argument⁠—that is, he would of had if he’d knew enough. Him and Lahey was the only candidates for first base, and no matter if he played the position in a hammock, he’d be better than an inexperienced kid from the Three Eye. Even if he wasn’t never worth a nickel over $4,000, here was a grand chance for him to hold us up. All he had to do was lay quiet at home, and when it come time for us to go South we’d of looked him up and met his demands. But no, he didn’t have the nerve or sense to go at it the right way.

Instead o’ keepin’ us guessin’, what does he do but hunt up excuses to come and hang round the office and try and get a hint o’ whether we were goin’ to stand pat or back down. I was alone the first time he showed.

“Hello, Bill,” I says. “Did you bring your fountain pen?”

“What for?” he says.

“To sign that $4,000 contract,” says I.

“Oh, no,” he says, “I wasn’t thinkin’ nothin’ about the contract. I come up to see if they was any mail for me.”

“Not now,” I says, “but you may be hearin’ from the Louisville club in a few days.”

“What would they be writin’ me about?” he says.

“Maybe they’ll hear about you wantin’ to move there,” I says, “and they’ll probably be askin’ you if you’d care to take a job with ’em.”

“Well,” says Bill, “you won’t catch me playin’ ball with Louisville.”

“Who was you thinkin’ about playin’ with?” I ast him.

“Nobody,” he says. “I’ve decided to quit.”

“That’s fine, Bill!” I says. “Somebody left you money?”

“No,” he says, “but I got some o’ my own saved up.”

“How much?” I ast him.

“Close to $2,000,” says Bill.

“Fine work!” says I. “You must of lived pretty simple to save $2,000 in seven years.”

“I never skimped,” says Bill.

“Well,” I says, “I don’t know how you managed. But it’s nice to feel that you won’t never have to skimp again. If you can get six percent for your money, that’ll mean $120 a year or $10 a month. That puts you on Easy Street. All you’ll have to get along without is food, clothes, heat and a place to live.”

He paid us another visit Christmas week, thinkin’, maybe, that Mr. Edwards would be runnin’ over with holiday spirits.

This was a bum guess. The old man’s got more relatives than a perch, and when he was through buyin’ presents for all o’ them he wouldn’t of paid a telephone slug for the release o’ Ty Cobb.

“No mail yet,” I says to Bill when he come in.

“I wasn’t expectin’ no mail,” he says. “I was just wonderin’ if I left a pair o’ gloves here last time.”

“A pair o’ tan gloves?” I says.

“Yes,” says Hagedorn.

“I didn’t see ’em,” I says. “I found some gray ones.”

“How is everything?” he says.

“Fine!” says I. “It looks like we’re goin’ to have a regular ball club.”

“Well, I hope you do,” Bill says.

“Gould’s goin’ to help us a lot,” says I, “and they tell me Stremmle and Berner’s both good enough for anybody’s team. And then, o’ course, we got young Lahey.”

“Who’s young Lahey?” ast Bill.

“Can’t be you never heard of him,” I says. “He’s the first sacker from Davenport that everybody was after. They say you can’t hardly tell him from Hal Chase when he’s in action. And he cracked the marble for about .340 last season.”

“Hittin’ .340 in the sticks and hittin’ it up here is two different things,” says Hagedorn.

“Not so different,” I says. “A bird that can hit .340 anywhere can hit pretty good.”

That’s right, too. But the truth was that Lahey’s figure had been eighty points shy o’ what I credited him with. And from what I’d learned from some o’ the Three Eye boys, Lahey was the eighth best first baseman in their league.

“Well,” says Hagedorn, “if he makes good, you won’t have no use for me.”

“No,” I says, “but I’d hate to see you go back in the bushes.”

“Don’t worry!” he says. “I’m goin’ to stick right here in town.”

“And live on your savin’s?” I says.

“No,” says Bill. “I’m just about signed up to play with the Acmes in the semipro league.”

“How much are they givin’ you?” I ast him.

“Fifty a game, and they only play Sundays,” he says.

“Yes,” says I, “and they’re doin’ well if they play twenty games a season. That nets you $1,000, and you’ll have somethin’ like six days a week to spend it in.”

“I can work at somethin’ durin’ the week,” he says. “Maybe sell automobiles or somethin’.”

“You could do that in the winter, too,” I says, “if you didn’t waste so much o’ your time comin’ for your mail and lookin’ for your gloves.”

“How’s Mr. Edwards?” says Bill.

“Fine and dandy!” I says. “Want to see him?”

“What would I want to see him about?” says Bill.

“You might be able to sell him a car,” says I. “He’s right in the spendin’ mood now. His nieces and nephews and Mr. Wilson’s peace note has relieved him o’ the few hundreds he had left after last season. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d reconsider cuttin’ your contract⁠—maybe give you a bonus just for the devil of it.”

While we was talkin’ Mr. Edwards come out from his private office.

“Hello, Hagedorn,” he says. “Ready to sign?”

“At my own figure,” says Bill.

“That’s good,” says Mr. Edwards. “Conley and myself was afraid you might accept the cut, and we couldn’t hardly afford to keep an extra first baseman at $4,000 a year.”

“It’s best all round,” I says. “Bill’s goin’ to make more dough than we could possibly give him; he’s goin’ to sell cars durin’ the week and play semipro ball Sundays. And maybe he can master the barber trade and pick up a few extra hundreds Saturday nights. But even if he don’t make a nickel, he’s got $2,000 hoarded up.”

“That’s fine!” says the boss. “I like to see thrift in a young man. And it always seems like a pity that so many boys squander their earnin’s and have to keep on slavin’ as ball players till they’re thirty years old and past the prime o’ life.”

For three or four days early in January they was an epidemic o’ lockjaw in Washin’ton, and the market come up enough for Mr. Edwards to take a trip to New Orleans. He left me in charge o’ things, and my job consisted o’ makin’ up stories for the newspaper boys and entertainin’ Hagedorn about once a week.

Once he dropped in to find out Joe Marsh’s address; it’d of been impossible, o’ course, to inquire by telephone. Another time he just happened to be passin’, and happened to remember that he was carryin’ a letter that his wife had ast him to mail, and wanted to know if I had a stamp.

I entertained him every time with dope on Lahey and what a whale of a man he was goin’ to make us. But one day he come up loaded with some real facts about the guy I’d been boostin’.

“I thought you told me Lahey hit .340 with Davenport,” he says.

“I did tell you that,” says I.

“Well,” says Bill, “somebody was stringin’ you. I seen the Three Eye records the other day and they give Lahey .262.”

“That don’t mean nothin’,” I says. “The scorers probably had it in for him.”

“And he made more boots than any first baseman in the league,” says Bill.

“That shows he was hustlin’,” I says. “The more ground you cover, the more you’re liable to kick ’em round. Besides,” I says, “he was so perfect that the scorers probably thought he’d ought to make plays that would be impossible for a common first sacker.”

“Another thing,” says Hagedorn: “I happened to run acrost Jack Wells that played in the league with him, and he tells me Lahey’s a left-hand hitter. Well, Gould’s a left-hand hitter and so’s young Berner, and you already had two left-hand hitters amongst the regulars. Your club’s goin’ to be balanced like a stew on a wild bronco. McGraw and them’ll left-hand you to death.”

“What do you care!” I says.

“It’s nothin’ to me,” says Bill.

“Well, what do you suppose we better do about it?” I ast him.

“If I was you,” he says, “I’d try and get myself a first baseman that hits right-handed.”

“It’s too late to get anybody,” says I. “I guess we’re just plain up against it. I wisht you hadn’t made up your mind to retire.”

“I’d play for you,” says Bill, “if you’d meet my price.”

“That’s up to the old man,” I says, “but I know he won’t back down. He wouldn’t give in to one man when he’s stood pat on all the rest o’ them.”

“It won’t be just one man,” says Bill.

“What do you mean?” I ast him.

“He’ll be lucky if he’s got anybody when the showdown comes,” says Bill. “The fraternity’s give orders that nobody’s to sign till you hear from them, and you won’t hear from them till the leagues meets its demands.”

“That don’t affect our club,” I says. “We got every man already signed up except yourself.”

“Yes,” says Hagedorn, “but signed up or not signed up, they won’t report till the fraternity tells ’em to.”

“You’ve been playin’ long enough to know better’n that,” says I. “If you think any ball player’s goin’ without his prunes to help out some other ball player, you got even less brains than I figured.”

“They’ll have to strike if the fraternity says so,” says Bill. “They’re goin’ into the Federation o’ Labor and be like any other union. And if they don’t strike when they’re ordered to they’ll be canned out o’ the fraternity.”

“Well,” I says, “suppose you was Ty Cobb, draggin’ down a measly $16,000 a year, or whatever he’s gettin’. Which would you do if the choice come up, go without the $16,000 or go without the fraternity?”

“I’d certainly stick with the fraternity,” says Hagedorn. “If I didn’t, I’d be a traitor.”

“If I make you out a contract for $6,000, will you sign it?” I ast him.

“Sure,” he says. “I always told you I’d sign for my price.”

“Well, Bill,” I says, “I won’t give you the contract. I’d hate to think I’d made a traitor out o’ you.”

“I don’t want no contract anyway,” says Bill. “I’m through. I’m goin’ into business.”

“What business?” I says.

“Somethin’ pretty good,” he says. “I and a friend o’ mine’s goin’ in partners in a garage.”

“That’s a great idear!” says I. “You won’t have no competition, and it won’t cost nothin’ to start, and besides that, it’s a game you know more about than any other, unless it’s dressmakin’.”

“My friend knows all about it,” says Bill, “and I can pick it up from him.”

“You better stick to pickin’ up low throws,” I says. “It takes years to learn the mechanism of a car when you don’t know nothin’ to start, not even what makes the front wheels run. But o’ course you won’t be the only one in the garage business that has to learn, and so long as it’s other people’s cars you wreck while you’re learnin’, why what’s the difference!”

“They’s good money in a garage,” says Bill.

“I know it, and a whole lot of it’s mine,” I says. “They’s good money in any business like that⁠—smugglin’ or counterfeitin’ or snatchin’ purses. But it must be hell on a man’s conscience, even worse’n drawin’ $6,000 per annum for takin’ a six months’ nap on the old ball field.”

The first thing Mr. Edwards ast me when he got back from the South was what was the latest dope on Hagedorn.

“He’s surprised me,” I says. “I thought he’d give in long before this. But nothin’ doin’.”

“What will we do about it?” says the boss.

“Mr. Edwards,” I says, “you’re the man that’s payin’ me my money, and it’s my business to look out for your interests. If Hagedorn had of kept away from here all winter, if we hadn’t heard nothin’ from him from the day he first turned down the contract, I’d say give him his $6,000. But him comin’ round here once a week shows that he needs us as much as we need him, and that he’ll stand for the cut if he’s got to. Besides, he’s showed a mighty poor opinion o’ me by expectin’ me to believe all that junk about him goin’ into business, and so on⁠—stuff that was old in the Noah’s Ark League. He couldn’t earn a dime a day in anything outside o’ baseball. If he had a factory that made shells out o’ lake water, he’d be bankrupt in a month. Now they’s probably four better first basemen than him in the league, but I doubt if more’n one o’ them’s drawin’ $6,000. O’ course with him on the ball club it looks like we’d be somewheres up in the race, and we ain’t got a chance with a busher playin’ the position.

“If it was a case o’ givin’ him his dough or gettin’ along without him, I’d rather see him get the money even if it’s a holdup. But if I’m any judge of a ball player, he’ll come round here on his hands and knees the day before we start for the Springs, and he’ll sign at whatever price you offer him.”

“It’s a shame,” says Mr. Edwards, “when everything else looks so good for us, to have to be worryin’ about a man like him, that loafed on us all last summer and that I’d get rid of in a minute if I had somebody in his place. I suppose they’s no chance o’ tradin’ for a first baseman at this stage.”

“Oh, yes, they’s a chance,” I says. “I suppose Matty’d let us have Chase if we’d give up our pitchin’ staff and half a dozen infielders and $40,000 or $50,000 in cash. Then we’d have Chase and nothin’ with him.”

“Maybe young Lahey’ll surprise us,” says the boss.

“It won’t hurt us to hope,” I says, “but from what I can learn Bill Doyle was mad at you when he recommended him. And besides,” I says, “Lahey’s a left-hand hitter, and that’d mean five o’ them in the game every day. We’d be a setup for fellas like Schupp and Smith and Tyler. Take Hagedorn, and he can murder a left-hander even when he ain’t hittin’ his weight against a regular pitcher.”

“Well, all we can do is wait,” says Mr. Edwards.

“And I don’t think it’ll be long,” I says.

But when the night come for us to start South, Hagedorn was still a holdout, though he did show one more sign o’ weakenin’. He was down to the station to shake hands with the boys and see us off, and he looked like he was ready to cry. I called him off to one side.

“Would you like to be goin’ along, Bill?” I ast him.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says.

“Why don’t you take your medicine and hop aboard?” I says. “Your missus can pack up your stuff and send it after you.”

“I’ll go if you say the word,” he says.

“You’re the one that must do the talkin’,” says I.

“Why couldn’t I go along without signin’?” he says. “Maybe the old man would meet my figure when he seen how hard I’d work to get in shape.”

“No,” says I; “this ain’t no charity excursion we’re runnin’. We pay nobody’s fare that ain’t signed up and a member o’ this ball club. If you want to sign at $4,000, they’s a contract right there in my grip. If you don’t, why you can spend the rest o’ the winter countin’ snowflakes and cursin’ the coal trust.”

“Well,” he says, “I’ll freeze to death before I’ll be robbed; starve to death, too, before I’ll let old Edwards bull me out o’ what’s comin’ to me.”

“I’m sorry, Bill,” I says. “But anyway, good luck to you.”

“Good luck to you too,” says Bill. “You’ll need it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I says. “I got a hunch that it’s goin’ to be a great year for everybody in baseball.”

“Well,” says Hagedorn, “I know some fellas that’ll have a great year.”

“Who do you mean, Bill?” I ast him.

“All the left-handers that pitches against your ball club,” he says.

About half the baseball reporters on our papers know somethin’ about the game. The other half’s kids that can write cute stories, but don’t know a wild pitch from a hit and run sign. This was the half that went on the spring trip with us. The old heads was sent with the Americans, because they’d made a fight for the pennant last year and the public was strong for ’em.

Well, I took advantage of our gang bein’ green and made ’em perjure themself to their papers every day. When they’d come to me for the dope, I’d rave to ’em about what a world-beater young Lahey was, and how he’d burn up the league as soon as I’d learned him a few o’ the fine points o’ first-base play. If they’d been wise they could of told with one look that Mr. Lahey wouldn’t do. But they were just kids and they ate it up. I bet if any o’ the fellas that had played with Lahey read what I was sayin’ about him in the papers they must of thought I was crazy.

My idear, o’ course, was to worry Hagedorn. I knew he’d be readin’ everything he could find about us, and I didn’t want him to get the impression that the ball club was goin’ to bust up without him.

I thought Mr. Edwards would have sense enough to get this. But no; he fell just as hard as the reporters. And when he joined us after we’d been at the Springs two weeks, he was all smiles.

“Well,” he says, “I been readin’ some mighty encouragin’ news.”

“What news?” I says.

“About Lahey,” says he. “I told you he might surprise us.”

“He’s surprised me in one way,” I says. “I’m surprised that he ever had the nerve to come on this trainin’ trip. I always thought pretty well o’ the Three Eye League till I seen him,” I says.

“You’re jokin’,” says Mr. Edwards. “I’ve read nothin’ but good reports of him.”

“I’m responsible for the reports,” I says, “but I thought you’d guess that I was fakin’ for Hagedorn’s benefit.”

“Well, if you’ve fooled Hagedorn, he’s got company,” says Mr. Edwards. “I thought our troubles was all over.”

“Our troubles won’t never be over if Hagedorn don’t give in,” I says.

“But Lahey must be some good, the way he was recommended,” says the boss.

“Doyle probably seen him just once,” I says, “and that must of been the one good day he had. But even at that, Doyle couldn’t of never watched him handle his feet and thought he was a ball player.”

“Is it just his feet that’s the trouble?” ast Mr. Edwards.

“No,” I says, “but they’d be plenty without outside help. We’ve had infield practice about nine times since we been here, and that means he’s got nine hundred self-inflicted spike wounds. And they must of kept first base in a different place down to Davenport. Anyway he can’t find it here. And when he does happen to stumble onto it, it’s always with the wrong foot. Besides that, every time Gould or Berner makes a low peg Lahey loses a tooth. Gould ast him one day why he didn’t wear a mask. But you ought to see him field bunts! If experience counts for anything, he’d ought to be the most accurate thrower in the world, from a sittin’ posture.”

“How about his hittin’?” the boss ast me.

“He’s a consistent hitter,” I says. “They’s a party from Kansas City stoppin’ at the hotel. They come out to every practice and always set in the same place, right back o’ the plate, behind the grandstand screen. Well, every ball Lahey’s hit so far has made ’em duck.”

“Does he act like he had stage fright?” says the boss.

“Not him!” says I. “Nobody but the gamest guy in the world could cut off a few toes every day and come out the next day for more. And nobody without a whole lot o’ nerve could keep diggin’ after low throws when he knows that they’re goin’ to uppercut him in the jaw. No, sir! You can’t scare Charley!”

“Charley!” says Mr. Edwards. “I thought his name was Mike.”

“Gould’s nicknamed him Charley,” I says, “after Charley Chaplin.”

Well, the boss wasn’t what you could call tickled to death with my dope on Lahey, but he cheered up a little when I told him about Gould and the rest o’ them. Gould was goin’ even better than when he was with St. Louis. He was hustlin’ like a colt and hittin’ everything they throwed up there. And he kept coachin’ young Berner like he’d been hired for that job. He put real pep in the infield, and I knew it was tough for him to keep it up when Lahey gummed pretty near every play that was pulled.

Berner cinched his job the first day out. He’s the kind of a kid that just won’t stay on the bench, as lively and full o’ fight as little Bush, at Detroit, or Buck Weaver, or Rabbit Maranville. And Stremmle come up to everything they said about him. Then Joe Marsh seemed to of got over the Federal League and acted five years younger than he is. And our outfield was workin’ hard. O’ course this young Sheppard showin’ up so good helped a lot and made the rest o’ them hustle.

I told Mr. Edwards, I says:

“Outside o’ first base, I wouldn’t trade this ball club for McGraw’s. These boys have got more spirit than any team I ever managed. They’re the kind that’s liable to upset the whole league. If we only just had a good reliable man on that bag, I’d almost guarantee to finish one-two-three.”

“And do you still think Hagedorn’s goin’ to join us?” the boss ast me.

“I certainly do,” I says. “I wouldn’t be surprised to get a wire from him any day.”

But we went along another week without hearin’ from Bill. Mr. Edwards kept gettin’ more and more nervous. And I guess I was beginnin’ to get nervous too.

About the second day o’ the third week down there, a letter come to me from Hagedorn’s wife. It hit me right in the eye.

Bill, she told me, didn’t know she was writin’ and would probably kill her if he found it out. She’d been beggin’ and beggin’ him all winter to take what we offered, and she’d just about had him coaxed when the papers begin printin’ the swell reports about Lahey. Those reports had took all the zip out o’ Bill. Instead o’ frightenin’ him into signin’ at our figure, they’d convinced him that he wasn’t wanted on our club. And Bill was worse than broke. He was over three months behind with the rent and the meat bill and so forth, and coal was a hundred dollars a ton, and they wasn’t no coal even at that price, and she was afraid he’d do somethin’ desperate. And she thought if I’d just send Bill a wire and tell him that we’d carry him as an extra man, or if I’d try and trade him somewheres where he could make some kind of a salary, he’d be so tickled that he’d come to us or go wherever we sent him at whatever price he could get. And she begged me to not tell anybody that she’d wrote.

Mr. Edwards had just left us to run down to Dallas for a few days. O’ course I wouldn’t of let him know about the letter anyway. But him bein’ away give me the idear o’ keepin’ Bill’s comin’ a secret. I was goin’ to surprise him by havin’ Bill blow in unexpected, because it was a cinch the old man’d be back before Bill could get there. So I didn’t wire Dallas, but just sent a telegram to Bill, sayin’, If you’ll sign for $4,000, first-base job is yours. Answer.

The answer come the same night. It said all right, that he’d join us the followin’ Thursday.

On Wednesday Mr. Edwards come back to the Springs. And that afternoon Charles C. Lahey give the funniest exhibition I ever seen on a ball field. The whole practice was a joke, because Gould and Berner and Marsh and the rest o’ them was laughin’ so hard they couldn’t do nothin’. But the windup come near not bein’ a joke. It’d of been a tragedy if Lahey wasn’t the awkwardest guy in the world.

We was tryin’ the double play, first base to second base and back. I hit a ball pretty close to the bag and it took a nice hop, so they wasn’t no chance for Charley to boot it. He pegged down to Berner, and then turned round and started lookin’ for his own bag. Berner took the throw and sent it back as fast as I ever seen a ball pegged. Well, sir, Lahey found out where first base was by trippin’ over it. But just before he tripped he turned his head to look for the throw. If he hadn’t tripped and went sprawlin’, that ball would of cracked him right in the temple, and if it had, good night! To show you how much Berner had on it, it hit the grandstand on the short hop and made a noise like somewheres in France.

“That’ll do, boys!” I hollered to them.

“We’ll quit. The express rates on caskets between here and Davenport is somethin’ fierce.”

I walked back to the hotel with Mr. Edwards. I never seen a guy so blue.

“He’s impossible,” he says.

“Never mind,” says I. “He won’t be with us long. One o’ these days his luck’ll desert him and he’ll get killed.”

“I think we’d better send for Hagedorn,” says the boss.

“Oh, no,” I says. “He’ll show up before long.”

“Yes,” says Mr. Edwards; “but he’d ought to be here right now to get used to playin’ with Gould and Berner. And I ain’t so sure he’ll show up, neither.”

“I’d like to make you a little bet,” I says. “I’d like to bet you five that we hear from him before the end o’ the week.”

“I’ll just take that bet,” says Mr. Edwards, “and I’ll be glad to pay if I lose.”

Well, knowin’ him pretty well, I didn’t hardly believe that. But I told him the bet was on.

The first train into the Springs from the North is supposed to arrive at nine in the mornin’ and it don’t hardly ever get in later than 3 p.m. On this Thursday it come at one thirty. I snuck down alone to meet it, and there was Bill. “Mighty glad to see you, Hagedorn,” I says.

“I’m glad to get here,” says Bill.

“You don’t need to work today if you don’t want to,” says I, “but we want you out there as soon as you feel like it.”

“Why, what’s happened to this wonderful Lahey?” says Bill.

“Not a thing,” I says; “but, as you pointed out, he’s a left-hand hitter, and we’re overloaded with ’em.”

“I suppose you’ll play him when they’s right-hand pitchin’ against us,” says Hagedorn.

“No,” I says, “I don’t believe in switchin’ on the infield. Still, you’ll have to keep hustlin’ to hold him on the bench. He’s one o’ the most remarkable first sackers in baseball.”

“I’m just as good as he is,” says Bill.

“You’ll have to show me,” I says.

“That’s just what I’m goin’ to do,” says Hagedorn.

“And how’s everything at home?” I ast him.

“Well, Frank,” he says, “it’s been a tough winter⁠—the toughest I ever put in. I’m in debt so far that it scares me to think of it.”

“Where was that $2,000 you had saved?” I says.

“I was just stringin’ you about that,” says Bill. “I never had a nickel saved. But $2,000 is just about what I’m behind.”

“Good lord, Bill!” I says to him. “What have you done, bought a limousine?”

“No, sir,” he says. “I ain’t bought nothin’ only clothes and food and not much o’ that. But I was way in the hole before, and just this week they’ve ran up about $200 more on me.”

“What for?” I ast him.

“Well, Frank,” he says, “the wife presented me with a little boy last Sunday mornin’. If it hadn’t been for that, and the way she worried about things, I’d of never been down here to sign for $4,000. It was a case of have to, that’s all.”

I’d left orders for the boys to be out for practice at a quarter to two, and I knew Mr. Edwards would be out there with ’em. I and Bill was pretty near to the hotel by this time, but I stopped him short.

“Bill,” I says, “you ain’t givin’ me no bull like that $2,000 fortune, are you?”

“No, Frank,” he says, “I’m tellin’ you the truth.”

“All right, Bill,” I says; “I’m takin’ your word. They’s a northbound local train leavin’ here at three bells. You go down and get aboard it and ride to Silver Creek. That’s a station about twenty miles up the line. They’s a hotel there, and that’s about all. You go there and stay till I send for you.”

“What’s the idear?” he says.

“You’ll find out later,” I says. “I just tell you now that it’s to your interest to do what I say.”

“I can’t go nowheres,” he says. “I’ve got just forty cents.”

“I’ll stake you,” says I, “and you’ll hear from me in three or four days.”

“But I want to get out there and see this here Lahey,” says Bill. “I want to get busy showin’ him up.”

“He’ll tend to that end of it himself,” I says. “But you’re on this ball club and I’m manager of it, and if you want to stick on this ball club you’ll obey the manager’s orders.”

So Bill took the local for Silver Creek and I beat it out to the orchard to see that nobody got killed.

I set down with the boss at supper that night.

“Mr. Edwards,” I says, “I’ve changed my mind about Hagedorn.”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“I mean that I think he’s through with us,” I says.

“But good lord!” says the boss. “We can’t get along without him.”

“Well,” says I, “we can get him by givin’ him $6,000.”

Mr. Edwards shook like he had a chill.

“Give in to him now!” he says. “When he’s tried to hold us up! And I thought you was so sure he’d come round.”

“I did think he would,” says I, “but I’m sure now that he won’t. He’s stuck this long, and he’ll stick forever. He’s gamer’n I figured.”

“But I’d rather lose another $18,000 than let him hold us up,” says the boss.

“Well,” I says, “that’s up to you. But you’ll lose the $18,000 all right, and maybe then some, if you don’t get him. Because without him on first base we’ll be the worst ball club in the league.”

Mr. Edwards didn’t say nothin’ more for maybe five minutes. Then he give up.

“I got a lot o’ confidence in you, Frank,” he says. “I’ll go by what you tell me. If you want to you can wire Hagedorn. Tell him we’ll meet his terms, and tell him to get here on the first train.”

“I think it’s the best thing to do,” I says. And I went out and pretended to send Bill a wire.

It takes two days and a half to get to the Springs from home. So I called Bill up at Silver Creek and had him blow into camp on the Sunday train. I met him and tipped him off. He fell all over himself thankin’ me and says he was goin’ to name the boy Frank. And then he made a request.

“Keep this a secret from my missus,” he says. “I want her to think that I got what I was after because I insisted on it. Because she kept tellin’ me all winter that I wouldn’t never get it and was a sucker to try.”

“Don’t worry,” I says; “I want it to be kept a secret from certain people myself, and I certainly ain’t goin’ to spill it to no woman.”

Mr. Edwards was on the walk in front o’ the hotel when I and Bill showed up.

“Well, Hagedorn,” he says, “you got what you wanted and I hope you’ll try and earn it.”

“I’ll earn it all right, Mr. Edwards,” he says, “and I’m mighty grateful to you for comin’ acrost.”

The boss turned to me.

“How about our little bet?” he says.

“What bet?” says I.

“You bet me five,” he says, “that we’d hear from Hagedorn before the week was over. And this is another week.”

“So you want me to pay you that five?” I ast him.

“I certainly do,” he says.

Well, I give him the five, and afterwards Bill told me he’d make that up to me as soon as he could. But I can’t accept it from him. I’d feel like I was takin’ candy from a baby, a baby named Frankie Hagedorn.