I

My head ain’t so heavy with brains that I walk stooped over. But I do claim to have more sense than the most o’ them that’s gettin’ by in this league, and when I get the can it won’t be because I don’t know what I’m doin’ out there. Ask anybody in the business what kind of a ball player I am. Some o’ them will say I’m pretty fair, and some o’ them may say I’m rotten; but they’ll all say I’m smart.

I’ve made my share of errors and I’ve hit many a perpendicular home run in the pinch, but I never lost a game by peggin’ to the wrong base or by not knowin’ how many was out. They ain’t many can claim a record like that without gettin’ called on it.

Well, that record won’t buy me no round steaks when I get through here, and when I think o’ the things that’s happened to me and the things that’s happened to fellas that didn’t hardly know which was right field, I feel like I’d been better off if I’d just been born from my neck down.

Look at Jack Andrews! Bill Garwood, that batted right ahead of him, told me onct that the calves of his legs was all spike wounds, where Jack had slid into him from behind. It got so finally that every time Bill was on second and Jack on first Bill’d steal third to keep from bein’ cut down. And Bill’d try to stretch every hit he made into a double so’s to be two bases ahead o’ Jack. And now Jack’s runnin’ a halfway house outside o’ Chicago and it’s a dull night when he don’t take in a hundred bucks!

Then look at Red Burns!

Red never knowed how the game come out till he seen the paper next mornin’, and they had to page him when it was his turn to hit. And now he’s in the contractin’ business in Cleveland and the hardest work he does is addin’ up the month’s profits.

And then look at me! S’posed to be one o’ these here brainy ball players that never pulls a bone. Playin’ my seventh year in fast company. Only gettin’ forty-five hundred right now, because I never jumped a contract or spiked an umpire. And when they’re through with me I can starve to death or pick up some nice, soft snap in a foundry.

I read the other day where some doctor says everybody should ought to have their appendixes and their tonsils and their adenoids cut out when they’re still a baby yet. Well, them things didn’t never give me no trouble. But I wisht I’d of had my brains removed before I ever learned to use ’em. They’re the worst handicap a man can have in this business.

The less a guy knows, so much the sooner he can retire and live on his income.

You think I’m just talkin’ against time? No, sir; you’re listenin’ to the truth now. And if you don’t believe me ask Carey. Ask him to tell you about Skull Scoville. Or if you ain’t too sleepy I’ll tell you about him myself.

II

It takes Carey to spot these boobs, and Carey wasn’t with us on the spring trip last year. If you’ll remember he was coachin’ a college team down in Ohio and got permission to report late. Skull was with us all the wile, but I was too busy gettin’ myself in shape to pay much attention to the new ones. All as I noticed about him was that he done a lot of struttin’ and acted like he was more anxious to look pretty than to make good.

But Carey hadn’t been round more’n a day when he braced me about Skull.

“When did we sign Francis X. Bushman?” he says.

“That’s Scoville,” I told him. “Skull Scoville.”

“Some jealous cat must of gave him that nickname,” says Carey.

“It’s what they called him last year in the Carolina League,” I says.

“Is he goin’ back there?” ast Carey.

“I haven’t been watchin’ him much,” I says.

“I hope he sticks,” says Carey. “All our club needs is looks.”

“You don’t care nothin’ about his looks,” I says. “You’re scoutin’ for somebody to pick on.”

“Maybe you’re right,” says Carey. “I wisht I could stay with them college boys all year. A couple o’ them fell for all the old junk I could remember. I run out o’ stale stuff finally and was goin’ to write to you.”

“Thanks,” I says.

“But this here Skull does look promisin’,” says Carey, “and I guess we’ll have to try him out.”

So Carey went over to where the kid was warmin’ up and started in on him. After a wile he come back.

“I guess I can’t pick ’em,” he says. “When they get waivers on me I’m goin’ scoutin’⁠—not for no ball club, but for some circus that’s shy o’ clowns.”

“What did you pull on him?” I ast.

“Just a couple o’ feelers,” says Carey. “I ast him what league he come from and he says the Carolina League. I says: ‘Oh, yes. Milwaukee won the pennant, didn’t they?’ ‘No,’ he says; ‘Columbia.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ I says. ‘I got it mixed up with the Utah League, where the women manages the teams.’ ‘Where’s that league at?’ he says. ‘The Utah League?’ I says. ‘You take a westbound Hodiamont car in St. Louis and transfer twict, and then walk a block down to the wharf and get on the steamer goin’ to Michigan City, only you get off when they come to Shreveport, and you can see it from there.’ ”

“You’re goin’ to have a good season,” I says.

“No, it can’t last,” says Carey. “Some day Cap’ll stick him in there and then it’ll be back to the Carolina you love.”

But Carey had it doped wrong. Cap give Skull a chance the second serious with the Cardinals, up home, and he got by nice. He was a little wild, but it helped him, because his fast one was fast enough to have ’em scared. They was swingin’ with one foot in the bucket. Bill handled him good and Cap was tickled to death with his showin’.

“What do you think of him?” Cap ast Carey.

“Best young pitcher I’ve looked at in a long wile,” says Carey. “You’ll make a big mistake if you leave him go.”

“I ain’t goin’ to leave him go,” says Cap.

“You’d be a sucker if you did,” says Carey. “But if I was you I wouldn’t work him too of’en for a wile. He’s nothin’ but a kid and you ought to give him time to get his bearin’s.”

You see Carey was afraid that Skull wouldn’t look as good the next time out, and he was crazy to have him stick on the club so’s we could enjoy him. They wasn’t no need of him bein’ afraid, though, because Skull kept right on mowin’ ’em down. He had everything but a noodle, and a man don’t need to know nothin’ about pitchin’ with Bill behind that bat.

III

It come along May and we was goin’ East. Brooklyn was the first place we was scheduled and we was leavin’ home on the five-thirty, right after a game.

Well, the first thing Carey done when we got on the train was to tell the dinge to make up two berths. Then he took off his coat and collar like he was gettin’ ready to undress. Some o’ the boys went right into the diner and Skull was goin’ to follow ’em when Carey nailed him.

“Where are you goin’, kid?” he says.

“To get my supper,” says Skull.

“Take a tip from me and stay where you are,” says Carey. “Them other fellas ain’t goin’ to have nothin’ to eat. They’re tryin’ to stall you.”

“What’s the idear?” says Skull.

“It’s old stuff,” says Carey, “but I’ll explain it to you. This car ain’t only got twelve lowers and they’s twenty-four of us on the trip. That means they can’t only twelve of us have lowers and the rest gets uppers. But the first twelve in bed gets the lowers.”

“Yes,” says Skull, “but the secretary give me a piece o’ paper that says I’m to have a lower.”

“Well,” says Carey, “can you knock somebody out o’ bed with that piece of paper? I’m tellin’ you, kid. The paper don’t make no difference; it’s the fellas that gets there first.”

“Are you goin’ to bed yourself?” says Skull.

“You bet I am,” says Carey.

“But you won’t get no supper,” says Skull.

“Supper!” says Carey. “I’d rather go without twenty suppers than ride in a upper through them Indiana mountains. These other birds is tryin’ to put somethin’ over. They’ll wait till the dinge gets a couple o’ berths made up and then they’ll race fer ’em. He’s makin’ up two right now and you can bet that one is goin’ to be mine.”

Pretty soon Skull was peelin’ his coat.

“Keep some loose change under your pillow,” says Carey. “You’re liable to be awake when we go through Fall River and you can send the porter out for a sandwich.”

Well, Carey hid behind the curtains of his berth and waited till Skull was all set for the night. Then he put his collar and coat back on and come into the diner and told us about it. Only o’ course he didn’t tell Cap.

I was back in our car when Cap come in. He seen the two berths made up and got curious. First he peeked into the one Carey’s been settin’ in and they wasn’t nobody there. Then he looked in at Skull.

“What’s the matter?” he says. “Sick?”

“No, I ain’t sick,” says Skull.

“Been drinkin’ somethin’?” says Cap.

“No,” says Skull.

“Well,” says Cap, “you go to bed nights after this and you won’t be all in in the middle o’ the afternoon.”

I snuck down to Skull’s berth.

“Just lay low in there,” I says. “He was tryin’ to get you out because he wants that berth. It’s the best spot in the car⁠—right over the front wheels. You hold on to it.”

Along about nine o’clock all the berths was made up but one, the seat where the boys was playin’ cards. I and Carey was up in the buffet car, but Smitty told us what come off.

Skull stuck his head out between the curtains and seen the card game. Smitty seen him lookin’.

“Ain’t you goin’ to bed?” says Skull.

“We can’t,” says Smitty. “All the lowers is gone.”

“I’ll set up a wile if you want to lay here,” says Skull.

“Off o’ that noise!” says Smitty. “Cap would fine us a hundred apiece if he catched us tradin’ berths.”

So Skull laid back, but pretty soon he peeked out again and ast for the porter.

“He got sore and quit at South Bend,” says Smitty.

“Have we came to Fall River yet?” ast Skull.

“No, and we ain’t goin’ to,” says Smitty.

“Why not?” says Skull.

“They’s a big storm there,” says Smitty. “So we’re goin’ round the other way, through Evanston.”

“Can a man get a sandwich there?”

“Not a sandwich,” says Smitty. “But they’s a old lady meets this train every night with a basket o’ fried chicken and mashed potatoes⁠—four bits a throw.”

“What time do we get to Evanston?”

“Can’t tell; it ain’t on the regular schedule,” says Smitty.

“But you’ll know when we’re pullin’ in⁠—the engine’ll give one long whistle.”

“They done that a wile ago,” says Skull.

“Yes,” says Smitty. “The engineer thought it was Evanston, but it wasn’t. His mistake.”

Smitty come up afterward and joined us in the buffet car. We was all back and undressin’ when we slowed up for Toledo. Carey spoke up loud.

“This must be Evanston,” he says.

Skull popped out of his berth.

“Where’ll I find that woman?” he says to Smitty.

“Up at the head end,” says Smitty. “She’s the fireman’s mother-in-law.”

Skull started up the aisle.

“Here,” I says, “you can’t go callin’ in your nightgown.”

“You won’t have time to dress,” says Smitty. “We’re only here two minutes.”

“You better forget eatin’,” says Carey. “I got hungry at Elkhart and wile I was scoutin’ I lost my berth.”

Skull turned to me.

“Go out and find her for me, will you?” he says. “Get two orders, one for you and one for me, and I’ll pay you for the both.”

“I ain’t hungry,” I says. “I had a pretty good dinner⁠—soup and lake trout and a porterhouse with mushrooms and hashed brown potatoes and poached eggs and salad and apple pie and coffee.”

“I’ll go out for you,” says Carey; “but if I get left you’ll have to pay my fare from here to New York.”

So Carey went out in the vestibule and stalled round till the train started up again. Then he come back, pantin’ like he’d ran a mile.

“That’s fine luck!” he says. “She’d just gave me the stuff when the train began to pull out. If I hadn’t ran clear back here I’d of got left; they wasn’t no other door open. And wile I was runnin’ I dropped your supper.”

Well, I don’t know how much more sleep Skull got that night, but I’ll bet he was No. 1 in the diner next mornin’. And I’ll bet when the chef seen the order he wondered where Jess Willard got on at.

IV

It rained the first two days we was East. The sun was out the third mornin’ and I and Carey was standin’ in front o’ the hotel when Skull showed up.

“Swell day,” he says.

“Yes,” says Carey, “and you know what it means, don’t you? It means we’ll have to beat it for Brooklyn as soon as we digest our breakfast. Three games.”

“Three games,” says Skull. “They won’t play ’em all today, will they?”

“They’re liable to,” says Carey. “You can’t never tell about Brooklyn.”

“I ain’t had no breakfast yet,” says Skull.

“You better hurry it up, then,” says Carey. “We was just goin’ to start.”

“Wait for me, will you?” says Skull.

“Not a chancet,” says Carey. “I got to be there early to help direct the practice.”

“You’ll have to go alone,” I says. “All the rest o’ the boys will be gone before you’re through your breakfast.”

“How do I get there?” says Skull.

“They’ll be a taxi to take you,” says Carey. “You just come out here and look round and when you see a driver lookin’ at you, hop in his car and tell him where you want to go. The club’ll settle for it.”

Well, as soon as Skull had went in to breakfast, Carey tipped off the rest o’ the gang to keep out o’ sight for a wile. I and him went over in the park acrost the street and watched for Skull to come out. Finally he come and they was two taxis standin’ there. He hopped into the nearest one, told the driver to take him to the Brooklyn ball park, and off they went. It wasn’t much of a trip⁠—only from Eighty-first and Columbus to hellangone.

I s’pose he landed there about ten or ten thirty. When we come, at a quarter to two, he was out in a suit, practicin’ with the Brooklyn bunch.

Robbie seen us and came over.

“What are you fellas pullin’?” he says. “Tryin’ to get our signs? This bird’s been here all day; landed in a taxi this mornin’. And he had a big brawl with the chauffeur about who was goin’ to settle. Finally the chauffeur said he’d have him pinched and then the guy come acrost. But he told me that your club was payin’ for the rig and he’d collect back from your secretary. Then he ast me if we was goin’ to play three games today and I says, No, the first two had been called off. So he’s been out monkeyin’ with my crowd ever since. I thought at first he was lit up, but afterward I seen he wasn’t.”

“We was tryin’ to do you a favor,” says Carey. “A fella that’s managin’ a club in Brooklyn deserves a treat oncet in a wile. We’re doin’ the best we can for you, and we’ll call it square if you don’t pitch Rucker against us.”

“But what’s this bird’s name?” says Robbie.

“That’s Scoville,” I says, “the boy that’s been doin’ all our winnin’.”

“I’m too old to be kidded,” says Robbie. “That fella’s too handsome to be a good pitcher.”

“If you think he can’t pitch, you ain’t too old to make a mistake,” I says.

“It’s a part of his system,” says Carey, “to visit all mornin’ with the club he’s goin’ to work against. He figures he’ll do better if he knows the batters.”

Well, sir, Skull pitched the game and Rucker pitched against him. Rucker outpitched him about two to one, but Skull copped.

“What do you think o’ the visitin’ system?” I says to Robbie, goin’ out.

But he didn’t have no comeback.

I and Carey and Skull rode back to the hotel together.

“Too bad you went over this mornin’ for nothin’,” says Carey. “As soon as we got there and found out they wasn’t only goin’ to play one game, we called you up to tell you about it, but you’d already left.”

“I didn’t go over for nothin’,” says Skull. “It was eight dollars and seventy-five cents. But o’ course the club’ll give it back to me.”

Carey seen where he was liable to get into trouble.

“Don’t say nothin’ to them about it,” he says. “I’ll go to the front for you. I know the sec. better’n you do and I can handle him.”

So after supper, Carey found Skull again and broke the news to him.

“I seen the sec.,” he says, “but they was nothin’ doin’. If you’ll remember, two taxis was settin’ out there when you got ready to go, and you took the wrong one. The other one was already paid for. So you’ll have to stand for it. That’s what you get for bein’ with a cheap club.”

Skull swallowed his medicine without a whimper. But after that you couldn’t get him into a taxi, not if he seen you pay for it in advance.

V

The mornin’ o’ the first day o’ the New York serious he set with us at breakfast.

“You want to get up to the Polo Grounds early,” says Carey.

“Maybe you’ll see part o’ the polo game.”

“Are you fellas goin’ early?” he says.

“No,” says Carey, “we’ve saw polo played already, and they won’t let a man in twicet. They’re afraid he’d learn the secrets o’ the game.”

“How do you get there without goin’ in no taxi?” ast Skull.

I guess I already told you where we was stoppin’⁠—Eighty-first and Columbus. I was just goin’ to tell him to jump on the Elevated and stay on to the end o’ the line, but Carey flagged me.

“Go out here on the corner,” he says, “and take a car goin’ south. If the motorman don’t make no mistake, it’ll keep goin’ till it gets way down to the Battery⁠—that’s where the pitchers and catchers all starts from. But if you don’t see no pitchers and catchers that you know, ask a policeman where the Sixth Avenue Elevated is, and then get on a Harlem train. Ride forward and hold on round the curves. Set near a window if you can, only don’t catch cold in your arm. Better be readin’ a paper, if you can find one in the train; then they won’t no girls talk to you. They’s a couple o’ girls here in New York that’d pick your pockets if they got a chancet. Your looks wouldn’t save you. And get off when you get to the Polo Grounds.”

“How’ll I know when I’m there?” ast Skull.

“You’ll hear a lot o’ yellin’,” says Carey, “the Giants practicin’ what they’re goin’ to say to Klem.”

Skull got lost somewheres, way downtown; he couldn’t tell us just where. It was afternoon when he finally got to the Polo Grounds, and o’ course the polo game was all over.

“You seen the town, though, didn’t you?” says Carey.

“What town?” says Skull.

“Ishpeming,” says Carey.

“No,” says Skull, “I was right here in New York all the wile.”

He made earlier starts the next two mornin’s, but he never did manage to get there in time for polo. He was to pitch the third game and he was restin’ in the clubhouse when I and Carey come in.

“You work today, don’t you?” says Carey.

“Yes,” he says.

“I got a message for you from Cap,” says Carey. “He had to go back to the hotel after the bag o’ close decisions, and he wanted me to be sure and tell you to have a long talk with McGraw before the game.”

“What should I talk to him about?” says Skull.

“Ask him a lot o’ questions,” says Carey. “He’s a grand fella for a young pitcher to talk to. He’ll help you a lot. Ask him what his men can hit and what they can’t hit, and who’s goin’ to work for them. Ask him anything you can think of, and try and remember everything he tells you.”

Skull got right up and went out to look for McGraw. When we was dressed and come on the field, he was over by their bench, obeyin’ instructions. I don’t know what Mac thought of him; probably didn’t think much of anything. Mac’s saw so many nuts that they don’t excite him no more.

Pretty soon Skull come struttin’ back to where we was.

“What’d you learn?” I ast him.

“He told me Mathewson or Marquard or Tesreau was goin’ to pitch,” says Skull. “Then I ast him what his men could hit and he says they can’t hit nothin’. So I ast him what they couldn’t hit and he says everythin’. Then he ast me what I done for my complexion and I told him I didn’t do nothin’ for it. And I couldn’t think o’ nothin’ more to ask him, so I come away.”

Well, after a wile, Cap showed up and Carey stuck round to change the subject if Skull begun tellin’ about his interview with McGraw. They wasn’t nothin’ said till it was time for their fieldin’ practice.

“You work, Scoville,” says Cap.

“All right,” says Skull.

“Well, warm up with somebody,” says Cap.

“I won’t need much warmin’ up,” says Skull.

“Why not?” says Cap.

“These fellas can’t hit nothin’,” says Skull.

“Who told you so?” ast Cap.

“McGraw,” says Skull. “He’s their manager.”

“Is he?” says Cap. “I thought it was George Cohan.”

“No,” says Skull. “It’s McGraw.”

“When was you talkin’ with him?” ast Cap.

Then Carey horned in. “Mac was kiddin’ you,” he says. “He’s got a good hittin’ club.”

“You bet he has!” says Cap. “You get that other idear out o’ your head.”

“What would he kid me for?” says Skull.

“Get out there and warm up!” says Cap. “McGraw’s got three of ’em doin’ it.”

“Yes,” says Skull. “He’s goin’ to work Mathewson or Marquard or Tesreau.”

“I don’t see how you can guess so good,” says Cap.

“No,” says Skull. “It’s one o’ them three.”

Well, McGraw’d either been kiddin’ him or he was mistaken about his own ball club. Skull didn’t know which. But he knowed before he went to the shower that they could hit.

VI

Skull pitched a one-hit game over in Philly. But he wasn’t in there a whole innin’. He pitched to six men and the other five got bases on balls.

He went better up in Boston. He had two men out before Cap yanked him.

“What time can you get a train for Carolina?” says Carey.

“You goin’ down there?” ast Skull.

“No,” says Carey. “I thought maybe you was goin’.”

“Oh, no,” says Skull. “I’m gettin’ more money up here.”

“Did you get your pockets picked in New York?” says Carey.

“I guess not,” says Skull.

“Just plain lost it, huh?” says Carey.

“Lost what?” asts Skull.

“Your control,” says Carey.

“What’s that?” says Skull.

“You had swell control in New York,” says Carey. “You was hittin’ their bats right in the middle. But the way you’ve went the last two games, you’ve got us all guessin’. We don’t know whether you’re goin’ to hit the coacher at third base or kill a reporter. Pretty soon you’ll have the field umpire wearin’ a mask and protector. Is your arm sore?”

“No,” says Skull.

“I didn’t think it could be,” says Carey, “on account o’ the distance you get. But if your arm ain’t sore, what’s the matter?”

“Matter with who?” says Skull.

“You,” says Carey. “You don’t think the umpire’s missin’ ’em all, do you?”

“I’m wild,” says Skull.

“Oh, that’s it!” says Carey. “I’ve been puzzlin’ my brains to find out what it was. But I see now; you’re wild. And what do you s’pose makes you wild?”

“I can’t pitch where I’m aimin’,” says Skull. “I can’t pitch no strikes. I keep givin’ bases on balls.”

“Funny I didn’t think of that,” says Carey. “I knowed they was somethin’ the matter, but I couldn’t put my finger right on it. I’ll tell Cap and maybe we can get them to enlarge the plate.”

“They wouldn’t do that, would they?” says Skull.

“Well,” says Carey, “they probably wouldn’t in most o’ the towns. But they can’t stop us from doin’ it on our own grounds. It’s our own plate there, and I guess we can have any size we want to.”

“But if I kept pitchin’ too high or too low, the size o’ the plate wouldn’t make no difference,” says Skull.

When we was through at Boston we made the cute little jump to St. Louis, and Carey was ridin’ him all the way.

“This line,” he told him, “is the one the James Boys works on. You see one o’ the Jameses pitches for Boston and another pitches for St. Louis in the other league. And the ones that ain’t ball players works back and forth between the two towns. Somebody has to set up all night and keep watch. I’ve been picked to set up the first night because I can shoot so good. Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll draw lots to see who sets up tomorrow night. But if you got somethin’ you don’t want to lose you better sleep with one eye open and keep your suitcase right in the berth with you. O’ course it’s too late for ’em to steal your control, but they might get your fast ball and then you wouldn’t have nothin’ but your complexion.”

“Oh, yes, I would,” says Skull. “I got a little money and a watch and some clo’es.”

“Shut up!” says Carey. “Don’t be boastin’ o’ what you got. Maybe one o’ them Jameses is right in this car now. You can’t never tell where they’re hidin’.”

Well, the next mornin’ we all ast Carey what kind of a night he had and did he see anything suspicious, and so forth. He told us he had one bad scare. Somebody come through the car with a mask on. But as soon as he seen the mask he knowed it wasn’t one o’ the James Boys, because they wasn’t none of them catchers.

“Who was it?” I says.

“Some society fella,” he says, “goin’ to the masquerade ball up in the day coach.”

We drawed lots right after we was through breakfast. They was supposed to be all our names wrote on pieces o’ paper and dropped into a hat. Then the fella that drawed his own name was to keep watch the second night.

Skull was the baby. All the rest of us drawed his name, too, only o’ course he didn’t know that.

“Well,” says Carey, “it looks like it’s up to you. And you don’t want to take it as a joke. Whether we get by or not depends on how you work. You’ll have to take my gun; I’ll show you how it handles. If you see some stranger come into the car, shoot! Don’t throw a baseball at him or you might wound the engineer. You better set up in the washroom all night with the porter, and if he asks you to help him shine shoes you go ahead and help him. Some o’ these here porters is in with the James Boys and if they get sore it’s good night. And be sure and don’t let the robbers get the first shot.”

Skull tried to sleep a little durin’ the day. But he was too nervous.

“Who’s keepin’ watch now?” he ast Carey.

“Nobody, in the daytime,” says Carey. “They’re afraid of bein’ seen by scouts, because, as I say, one o’ them’s with the Braves and another with the Browns, and the next one that gets caught might be hung or sent to the Carolina League.”

Carey had to borry a gun off’n the conductor.

“I’ll be sure it’s empty before I leave the bird have it,” he says. “He’s dangerous enough with a baseball in his hand, let alone a loaded gat.”

Well, sir, I wisht you’d saw the porter when Skull and the gun went on watch at eleven that night. We had to call him out and put him wise or he’d of dove off the train. He told us he never seen a guy as restless as Skull. All night long he was movin’ round⁠—out on the platform, then back in the washroom, then through to the other end o’ the car and then out on the platform again. And jumpin’ sideways at every noise.

“Nothin’ doin’, eh?” says Carey in the mornin’. “Not a sign o’ ’em?”

“Not a sign,” says Skull.

“And ain’t you sleepy?” says Carey.

“Yes, I am,” says Skull. “I hope I don’t have to work this afternoon.”

“What if you do?” says Carey. “It won’t keep you up more’n ten minutes.”

VII

Skull didn’t pitch that afternoon. He didn’t pitch the next day neither, but he was in there tryin’. Rigler could of umpired with his right arm cut off. They wasn’t no strikes to call.

When he’d throwed fourteen without gettin’ one clost, Cap took him out.

“I’d leave you go through with it,” says Cap, “only the public likes to see some hittin’. Did you think just because this is a bad ball town you couldn’t pitch nothin’ but bad balls?”

“I’m wild,” says Skull. “I can’t get ’em over.”

“I’d of guessed it in a few more minutes,” says Cap. “Did you ever try pitchin’ left-handed?”

“Left-handed?” says Skull. “Why, I wouldn’t know where a ball was goin’ if I throwed it left-handed.”

“Then you must be equally good with both hands,” says Cap.

Waivers was ast on Skull before we left St. Louis.

“They’s no use foolin’ along with him,” Cap told us. “He don’t look like he’d ever get a man out, and even if his control come back you couldn’t never learn him nothin’.”

“I knowed it,” says Carey. “I knowed we’d never have him the whole year.”

“It’s better for you this way,” I says. “Your brains would be wore out before fall.”

We went back home and the third day we was there Cap told us that everybody’d waived.

“The next thing’s placin’ him,” he says. “The newspaper boys has advertised him so good that every hick town in the country is wise to him. If I can’t make no deal within a couple o’ weeks I’ll leave him go outright.”

The two weeks was pretty near up when Carey put over his last one on the poor simp. I and Carey was throwin’ in front o’ the stand when a couple o’ girls was showed into a box right clost to us. They was in black from head to foot; pretty as a picture too. But their clo’es was the kind that you don’t see no city-broke dames wearin’ in a ball orchard.

“Come to town just for the day?” says Carey, but they didn’t pay no attention.

Carey come over to me.

“Uncle Zeke died and left ’em three hundred iron men,” he says, “and they’re goin’ to blow it all in one grand good time. I bet they’ll be dancin’ in Dreamland tonight; they’re dressed for it already.”

“The blonde’s a bearcat,” I says.

“Yes,” says Carey, “and you can figure the other one’s the class o’ the pair. That’s the way it always breaks.”

Skull had been shaggin’ in the outfield. Carey spotted him as he was struttin’ back to the bench, and it was all off.

“You lucky stiff!” says Carey.

“What do you mean?” says Skull.

“I guess you know what I mean,” says Carey. “What did you come in for?”

“I’m tired,” says Skull.

“Oh, yes,” says Carey. “I s’pose you didn’t see them dolls lookin’ you over.”

“What dolls?” ast Skull.

“Them two in the box,” says Carey.

Skull give ’em the double-o.

“Who are they?” he says.

“You don’t know who they are?” says Carey. “That’s Lizzie Carnegie and her sister-in-law, and they’s a movin’ van outside with their pocketbooks in it.”

“Well,” says Skull, “that don’t get me nothin’.”

“Don’t get you nothin’ when the richest girl in the country wants to meet you?” says Carey.

“How do you know she wants to meet me?” says Skull.

“Didn’t she call me over and tell me?” says Carey. “She says: ‘Who’s that handsome bird shaggin’ fungoes in the outfield?’ So I told her who you was. Then she ast if you was married and I says you wasn’t. Then she ast how she could get to talk to you, and I told her I’d find out if you was engaged after the game, and if you wasn’t you’d probably be glad to give her a minute’s time. So all as you have to do now is go over there and make the date.”

“Which is Lizzie?” ast Skull.

“The one with the earrings,” says Carey. They both was wearin’ ’em.

Well, sir, Skull started over toward the box.

“He’s liable to get pinched,” I says.

“If he does I’ll fix it,” says Carey.

Skull didn’t get pinched. He got two nice smiles, and Cap had to send me over to drag him away when the game started. And I and Carey came out o’ the clubhouse after the game just in time to see Skull and the pair o’ them hikin’ for the exit.

When we got to mornin’ practice next day, Skull had been let out already.

“I told him he was free to sign wherever he wanted to go,” says Cap. “I told him to get a catcher somewheres and practice till he could pitch one or two strikes per innin’. I told him maybe he could land in the Federal. He says he guessed he would try the Utah League, where the women manages the clubs. He says women almost always gen’ally took a fancy to him.”

“Yes,” says Carey, “most o’ them likes a good-lookin’ fella all the better if he’s a little wild.”

We didn’t see no more o’ Skull till we got in from Cincinnati, the day before the Fourth o’ July. He was standin’ in the station, holdin’ two suit cases.

“Hello there, boy,” says Carey. “Where are you headin’?”

“Just downstate a ways,” he says.

“Joinin’ some club?” says Carey.

“No,” says Skull. “I’m goin’ to get married.”

“Good night!” says Carey. “And who’s the defendant?”

“That there blond girl,” says Skull. “The girl that was out to the park that day with the other girl. Only you had her name wrong. Her name’s Conahan⁠—Mary Conahan. And the other one ain’t her sister-in-law, but just a friend o’ her’n.”

“I must of had ’em mixed up,” says Carey. “Yes,” says Skull, “you mistook ’em for somebody else. But you had one thing right: She’s got the old kale.”

“A lot of it?” says Carey.

“A plenty,” says Skull. “Her old man makes this here Silver Tip beer; maybe you’ve drank it already.”

“And I s’pose you’re goin’ to drive a wagon,” says Carey.

“No,” says Skull. “The old man’s been feelin’ bad for the last year and I’m goin’ to kinda look after the business.”

“And,” I says, “I bet you know just as much about brewin’ beer as you do about pitchin’.”

“Oh, no,” says Skull. “Nowheres near.”

“But you pick things up quick,” says Carey. Skull’s train was gettin’ ready to start.

“Well,” he says, “good luck to you, and tell the boys I hope they win the pennant.”

“No chancet now,” says Carey.

We went over to the gate with him.

“Where to?” says the guy. “Show your ticket!”

“By cracky, I forgot about a ticket.”

“I s’pose you thought the secretary’d tend to that,” says Carey.

“Too late now,” I says. “You’ll have to pay on the train.”

“You won’t have no trouble,” says Carey. “They’s lady conductors on this road.”

We persuaded the gateman to leave him through.

“Now,” says Carey, “let’s I and you get good and drunk.”

“Yes,” I says; “but let’s go to a place where they keep Silver Tip, so’s to help out old Skull.”

“Help him out!” says Carey. “We’re the ones that need help⁠—us smart Alecks!”